The Unpublished Post

Know that as I sit here writing this, I’m in Chicago and we’re still a few days out from this fantastically crazy not-so-little race called Ironman Louisville. This post will remain unpublished until after the race has begun and Mike is far removed from a computer.

I cannot fathom being in Mike’s shoes this week. Seriously. He’s handling this taper madness like a champ. That’s not to say we haven’t almost strangled each other this week…because we have. When monthly crazy lady hormones take over and meet the panic, stress and excitement of someone in Ironman taper…well…let’s just say the week had some rough patches.

I imagine he feels the way a first-time base jumper does before taking the initial leap off the side the cliff (or building or bridge or whatever). You collect your thoughts, hear your heart pounding inside your chest and you stare down into the belly of the beast and hope for the best. Then, without hesitation…you jump.

He’s done everything he can to prepare for this day. And there is absolutely nothing I can do from this point on except for cheer on the sidelines as best I can.

I can’t swim next to him in the Ohio River (or subsequently yell encourage him to keep moving forward). Or ride behind him on those hills that may as well be mountains. And I can’t pace him during the marathon.

It’s all on him.

And that’s a little hard to grasp when you’re an extension of one another.

Sure, he was the one in training for the big bad mamma jamma…but we both lived through it.

What it boils down to is…

I’m scared.

I’m not scared about him not finishing…because he’s got a will and drive of Iron. He’ll finish, no doubt. He’s the type of guy that will claw his way to the finish line and would only be removed by forces above and beyond himself (remember Mother Nature in Kansas, anyone?).

But me being scared simply stems from the fact that I hate seeing him in pain. (And really, what this race boils down to is pain management…for him, not me. For me, it’s all about emotion management).

Just ask Shore Turtle. Last year during the NY Marathon we saw Mike at mile 25 and a half hobbling in pain. And I lost it. I was that crazy blubbering mess of a woman on the sidelines who wasn’t even doing the race! Seriously…could I be any more pathetic!?

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. You find a way to push past every last cell in your body that is screaming at you. You ignore it. You keep moving on. You persevere. And at the end of the day, you conquer 140.6 grueling miles.

I know I’ll shed many a tear on IronDay. Tears of pride…tears of hating seeing him in pain…tears for the last 10 months of sacrifices that he made…tears of inspiration. And probably tears for the sake of tears. I’m an emotional person. Would you expect anything less?

But I’m just scared of this big, great, unknown.

In the end, you just don’t know what this day will bring. You can’t predict the cards you’ll be dealt during the race. You can be the reigning champion of the race and your body may reject everything you put into it, forcing you to withdraw (remember Stadler at Kona last year). Or, you could be the most under-trained athlete out there having a remarkable day and ultimately come in 3 hours earlier than estimated.

You just don’t know.

Hopefully Mike is dealt all the right cards during the race. And hopefully, in the event he’s given a bad hand, he’ll figure out a way to play it to his advantage and overcome whatever obstacle he may face (as if 140.6 miles wasn’t challenging enough).

I know that as I stand there cheering on the sidelines, my eyes will be frantically scanning the oncoming athletes around each and every bend as I search for him. I worry. It’s what I do. And to be frank, I do it pretty damn well. From the moment he enters the water, I’ll be waiting--minute by minute…hour by hour--with baited breath until I see him again and watch him run across that finish line…

…and I’ll wait with baited breath for seventeen hours if I have to.