They say that when you suffer any kind of loss you endure a grieving process; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
Last weekend was the Half Ironman that I'd been training for for over 3 months, and let's not kid ourselves - I could have, should have done more. Regardless, this was the most I'd trained for an event before. Let's not forget the Nike Women's Half Marathon in Novemeber 2008, my first event, where I "tapered" during the entire "training" period and woke up on race day and with a pair of shoes with 0 miles on them, logged a sweet 13.1 through the classic Nike Women's track in 2 hours 35 minutes, a time I am not proud of but again - that's what you get when you tapper for 6 months (aka don't train).
Regardless of training regimes prior, all things equal this race was the most challenging race I had ever done, and not because of the effort the distance required, but because of the mental real estate the race had taken up in my head before, during and AFTER the event. It took more out of me mentally than I had anticipated and has escalated ten fold since the inception of my training. Today I am mentally more exhausted than I was during the race or before the race/during my training period. Am I having post-traumatic stress from 70.3?
The night before, Brett and I (and our fan club) drove up to Napa, which is about halfway to Berryessa, and stayed the night to shed an hour off of our drive.
Race day morning started off ok. We woke up and our nerves (or at least mine) were on edge. We sun-screened up - how I wish it was for sunbathing purposes at this point, but the tight bike shorts with awkward butt padding and full body wetsuit told me I was in for a workout quite different than a two piece bikini and a cocktail in hand requires. I finished force feeding myself half a bagel/banana, downed a few sips of coffee and headed out the door with bike and gear.
When we showed up, unpacked our things and set out to the transition area, the weather appears perfect - not too hot, and not too cold and from a far the water looked like glass. The environmental elements of the race are aspects you can't prepare for, only anticipate. After putting on our wetsuits, we headed down to the water with 400 other participants. We listened to the national anthem and at the last minute, got word of a new swim course and heat/wave instructions. Conditions were apparently too tumultuous, it would be too dangerous to have 4 heats of 100 starters and now we would all be starting at the same time. How this is more safe I'm not sure, but I think they wanted to get people in sooner rather than wait until conditions changed for the worse.
The buoys looked far - too far! I mentally began to freak. Scared of being trampled, I said goodbye and good luck to Brett and waited for for about 399 people to pass me before I entered the water. The temperature of the water was not too bad and I remembered Brett telling me start out breast stroking, to better spot where I was headed. Lake Berryessa promised pristine glass like conditions and upon entering the water, conditions were anything BUT. I was immediately slammed with the byproduct of high winds - swells. I never calmed down enough to figure out how to time my breathing against the 1 foot swells and between slaps of water in the face and being sucked under, I was just worrying about surviving. It was terrible. Every time I would come up to breathe, I'd get a mouth full of water and when I tried to breast stroke, my googles would fog up and I couldn't anticipate the next wave that would slap me square in the face. So, patiently, I trudged through the water, more like a water polo player rather than an esteemed triathlete. Goggles off on top of my head, I painstakingly made my way through the first leg. This would be my life for the next 70 minutes (pathetic) and I wondered how Brett made it through.
Transitioning to the next leg of the race - I wanted to quit. 56 Mile on a bike, really, I signed up for this? I couldn't imagine how Brett did 112 miles after swimming double the distance in his Ironman last year - my hero and my inspiration when I wanted to quit right then and there. Brett's Mom was there too - telling me to just take my time and keep going, and so I did - reluctantly. This is insanity and all I could think about was the 4 hours I'd spend on the bike and wishing that this was an olympic distance... I passed Brett twice - or shall I say, he passed me twice - out on the first "out and back" (which I thought was the only out-and-back we had) and out on the second (unknown & unplanned) "out and back." When I saw Brett the second time, I yelled to ask him if I was almost there... the look on his face was full of an expression - hard to explain, but something along the lines of "oh no, you are nowhere near close, not even half way yet...." but all but all I received as a response was "Keep going babe - you're doing great!" No answer to the question posed, I knew this was far from over - and I still had a 13.1 mile run ahead of me.
During the bike, I had convinced myself that I was not going to do the run. Really, a half marathon after a 1.2 mile swim and 56 mile bike - I think I'd be here until dark, and I didn't want Brett's family or Brett to have to wait for my turtle like speed. The reasons to quit were endless. I had seen several people quit the swim and bike throughout the duration of the day... I could quit the run.
After I got off the bike, I was convinced I was going to stop. But after I mounted my bike on the rack at the transition area - there was Brett's Mom again - urging me to go on. Angela and Hurley were there too - and Hurley was so excited to see me, he ran under the orange netted fence and jumped on my lap and gave me some kisses while I laced up my tennies. It didn't even feel like I just rode 56 Miles. I felt good.
The run was uneventful, aside from it ending. Passing Brett - actually Brett passing me again and us complaining to each other in a brief moment of how terrible the swim was and how hilly the bike was and laughing at how far I still had to go on the bike when I asked if I was almost there... we finished.
Sometimes I catch myself taking myself too seriously. For example, racing, or shall I say participating in a race where you can't race sucks. Looking on the brightside, I tell myself, "Gina be honest, you wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't for your car accident, this is your path." But, it is hard not to wonder what I could accomplish with 100% of my airway because participating with 40% makes the option to race obsolete.
Today, as I write this, I am with mixed emotions. I look at Brett with eyes of envy. He's such an inspiration and SO incredible. As we speak, he's out on a 56 Mile ride, the distance we did on race day, to train for his Ironman 112 that he's racing in July. But in all honesty, coming off this event has been depressing and I'm not 100% sure why.
Maybe this is just my path and a part of my grieving process over the loss of my ability to compete athletically secondary to my stenosed airway (fancy nursing jargon for can't run faster than 6 miles an hour because some moron hit me going 100 miles per hour, oh the irony). Maybe I'm just pissed off because I know I could have swam faster, biked harder and run quicker pre-accident. Maybe my eyes of envy have me bargaining for more. Or maybe I am just withdrawing from the massive amounts of endorphins released on event day. Either way, 70.3 was more mentally taxing than physically (is this good or bad?) and I am hoping this sort of post-race depression is a part of the path to acceptance, where "more" isn't internally measured by my race time and I can genuinely appreciate what my heart has motivated me to accomplish.
