Mental Case.

Well, friends.

I survived. (barely).

The Meat Grinder weekend came. And went. And I hit about 95% of the miles I needed to cover.

An alarm clock debacle on Saturday started my 21 miler about 3 hours later than I had anticipated...which meant the time slot for open swim at the pool slipped by. So I've still got a 2 hour pool swim to make up. Note to self: In the future, quadruple check that any alarm is set for AM and not PM.

The long run went well. It was a rainy morning and it started with a trip to the Garmin flagship store since every time I hit the mode button the damn watch would turn off. Miraculously, the chick was able to fix it for me with a little bit of time and before I knew it, I was calibrated and ready to roll.

Three bad omens in a row. Oversleep. Stormy Weather. Temperamental watch.
One strike from stupid human error. One from Mother Nature. And one from the Technological Gods (I'm convinced they hate me, anyway).

I pushed it all behind me and hit the ground running. The fear of striking out shouldn't keep me from playing the game.

Now I know I'm not fast when it comes to longer distances (or heck, even short distances...though I did lay down my fastest mile split since high school on the track this week, yay for holding a sub-8:30 pace!)...but I'm at least consistent. "Steady as she goes," if you will. I was running even splits in the 12:15-12:30 range up until mile 16 or so while nailing my target heart rate. And then my IT band started protesting (extreme understatement). For a while there, I was reduced to hobbles and walks to constant stretching. Those last 3 miles required a massively huge "Rally Up B*tch" effort on my part. I'm not sure what it is about those three words, but I've recently found myself drawing into them whenever I'm hitting THE SUCK. The Rally Up sentiment somehow pulls me through. No idea why. I don't question it. I just go with it. It works.

The last 8k was pretty emotional. One minute I'd start tearing up because I was amazed at how strong I felt and how far I've come with my running over the past few seasons. Then I'd get it together. And then I'd start to welt up because the pain in my IT band would push me to the edge. Then I'd be okay. And then I'd feel so overwhelmed and proud of this entire journey and turn to mush. Then I'd remember I'm still in public and people were shooting strange glances at 'that crying girl' on the running path. And then I'd envision crossing the finish line into Mike and Robyn's arms and a sensation of relief and joy would come into my mind. These kind of head games are the ones that both drive me insane and keep me moving forward. Conflicting magnetic forces. Blah.

In the end, I ultimately covered 21.4 miles (give or take a tenth and not including the run to the Garmin store). Not bad for a day's work. Still not enough with missing the swim, but I wasn't about to beat myself up over it.

Cold bath. Chocolate milk. Foam roller. Recovery socks. And a pair of Christmas pajama pants later led to a relaxing evening of couch surfing.

All in all, Saturday was a very good day. Minus the omens. Minus the missed long swim (which I *will* get in! I promise!!). Minus all of the guilt I've been starting to feel about doing this race.


Sunday was a different story. It was the day I'd been dreading ever since I saw it on the schedule. A 120 mile bike with a 90 minute run tacked on the backside. I can't do this...can I!?!

I rolled out of bed shortly after seven after an hour of hitting snooze. Went through the motions for fueling. Dressing. Pre-workout Facebooking. You know...the normal stuff.

And then somewhere in the process my brain turned on and started doing the awful monkey talk.

The kind that just won't.shut.up.

I was drowning in self-doubt. Absolutely drowning. And I could not get moving to save my life.

I went into the bedroom and sat on the bed all teary-eyed. Mike was still passed out and tried to offer up encouragement in his drowsiness.

I moved to the couch and sobbed. In my mind I was convinced that I couldn't do it. I made myself sick over the impending brick. Tossed up some Gatorade. Nearly hyperventilated. That kind of sick. It was quite lovely, really.

I texted Molly. She reminded me that everyone feels overwhelmed when facing their toughest workouts. Finding comfort in someone who is so strong and awesome and knowing that they felt the exact same fear the week before actually helped.

And then as if someone had sent a memo over the AP Wire that I was freaking out...text messages started pouring in from my virtual cheerleaders, if you will. I started receiving happy, cheerful texts from friends, both near and far. Images of pink frosted donuts. Jokes. Happy little weather updates (it was supposed to rain all day...and I only had 5 minutes of drizzle late in the ride). Offers to keep me company while riding.

Somehow, even when I doubt myself...nobody else doubts my ability to go out and get it done. I may be slow, but I'm persistent...and don't quit.

I dried the tears and made the decision to either let fear overcome me or pull myself together and get my ass out the door.

After a few deep breaths and I convinced myself to stop thinking about it and just shut up and do it.

It was after 9am.
I allowed myself to freak out for nearly two hours.

Not good.

(We should really address this mental game I play with myself sometime between now and November 22nd. But we'll have a separate post for the Iron Toolbox during taper...)

Once on the lakefront path, I was still mentally struggling. Usually once I get moving, everything falls into place and I snap out of it. But the first two dozen miles crawled by. My legs were shot from the long run the previous day. I wasn't at mile 25...I was at a place where I still have 95 miles to bike. And it was awful. I realized that if I didn't get my poop in a group, I was going to be biking until midnight.

Slowly, but surely, I started to push out the "I Can'ts" and zoned out with a nice long rendition of 99 bottles of beer on the wall.

Somewhere around 63 bottles of beer...Tony and I cross paths. He's doing Beach to Battleship full in a few weeks and had a 3 hour ride on tap. Nevermind the fact he had a long night of drinking under his belt and was slightly hungover...or that he typically rides close in the 18-20mph range. He still came out and kept me company at my pace. Offered up heaps of encouragement to just keep pedaling, no matter how fast or slow I'd be moving...reminding me that every headwind comes with an eventual tail wind (no matter how short lived). His presence pulled me out of a massive funk with talks of Sesame Street...people we don't like from Lake Zurich...the NYT article on slow marathoners...and even a rendition of the Brady Bunch's "Sunshine Day."

By mile 65, we parted ways...and a meltdown soon ensued. When left to just me and my thoughts, I focused on the pain and negativity again. Curse the demons.

Mile 69. I called Mike hoping for a chipper cheerleader and arrangements to meet in an hour to get some bottles and fuel switched up.

I called. And tough love answered.

It wasn't pretty.

Don't get me wrong, I love my husband. But at the moment, I wanted to go home and slug him. That tough love got me angry and ultimately sparked the "Rally Up B*tch" sentiment. Paired with a tailwind, I flew back up to the north side, weaving my way through runners, tourists and idiot pedestrians alike. That's the worst part about being on the lakefront path...it's not an open road. It's a path. Full of stupid people. Stupid skateboarders. Stupid rollerbladers. Stupid bike/car rental things that fit the cast of "Eight Is Enough" as they gleefully go gallivanting along the lake. It was probably a stupid decision to attempt 120 miles on a stretch of cement that only goes on for 18.

I was finally starting to feel better but still sour on the whole. It was around mile 84-85 when I found him. A brief stop brought some much-needed relief. Seeing Mike was the recharge that I needed. Pretzel sticks and fig newtons and fresh water proved to be the elixir of champions.

And then I broke the cardinal rule of cycling. I put on my iPod to help me zone out (only one bud in my right ear). After the pow wow with Mike, we agreed that I needed to get in 100 miles on the day no matter what. If I could just make it to 100...I'd be happy with the workout.

100 miles came right as I was passing the exit to head back home. I pulled a hairpin turn and headed back north. I wanted those 120 miles deposited in the piggy bank. Those extra 20 miles may be just what I needed when it comes to making a withdrawl on race day.

The sun was starting to descend quickly and I convinced myself to just keep riding...see how far I can get before all daylight was lost.

I managed 114.5 miles before I deemed it too dangerous to ride (I didn't even think to have Mike bring me any night riding things earlier).

Not quite 120.
But more than 112.
And ensured that in the black of night I didn't crash into a pothole or, heaven forbid, ride off the ledge and into the lake.

I packed it up and went home.

I was spent. Mike welcomed me back and informed me of the awesome dinner he was making. I took a minute to collect myself, and then changed into my run clothes.

Apparently he didn't think I'd be running.

But I was feeling okay...and wanted to see what my body would give me at that moment. Sure, I was tired and was convinced there'd be no way I could make it 90 minutes...but I wanted to just see what I could give.

Mile 1 ticks off at a strong pace...10:45. Whoaaaa...

I back it off a little bit for an 11:30ish the next mile...or rather .6 miles.

Then I find myself doubled over nearly heaving Gu into the sand at Oak Street Beach.

So this is what they mean when they say low points will appear and disappear without warning...

I thought I was going to die. My stomach was revolting and was making its disdain known. Legs? Tired...but fine. Head? Finally in the game. Heart Rate? Cooperating like never before. But my stomach...wanted nothing to do with running. nothing to do with moving. nothing to do with anything but sitting on a bench, taking a few deep breaths.

I worked hard to keep my fuel in my system (though in retrospect, I may have felt better if I had just allowed myself to yak it up?), and pulled it together to just crawl. Then if I could just walk with a purpose to the next light post...the next mile marker...the next major street...then I can turn around and head home.

I didn't turn around until I hit 45 minutes...on target for a 90 minute transition "run." I scoffed at myself. I wasn't running. I was whining. And babying myself. I'd barely made it 3 miles while trying to appease my stomach...and I had started off so strong.

It was frustrating. But I started walking home. Even if I had to walk it all back in, at least I was out there for 90 minutes, I reasoned with myself.

By the time I hit the hour mark, I started feeling like Barbara again.

And I had to remind myself that this is what it will be like during Ironman.

Michelle vomited for 20 miles of the Marathon in Madison. Brian was forced to walk the majority of the run. In Louisville Mike started off rough and put on his rally cap to run a negative split. Robyn started off brilliantly with a smile and then unraveled in the middle You don't know what the day is going to give you. There will be highs...and lows...and everything in between.

This horrendous feeling, like the awful mind games on the bike earlier that day, would pass.

Before I knew it, I was shuffling...

...and then jogging...

...and then running at a relatively speedy clip (for me) again.

Sometimes I'd make it a block before my stomach caved...other times I'd feel great for 10-15 minutes straight.

In the end, my transition run ended up being 1:27 for 6.4 miles of covered distance. I was over a mile off my desired mark.

...and I didn't care. Normally, I'd be angry and hard on myself. But not today...

Because with stupid distances you have to learn to roll with the punches. Not every mile can be awesome and pain-free, puke-free and mind-f*ck-free.

You have to embrace THE SUCK and find a way to push through it. Stay in forward motion and get through to the other side. And then once you're there...enjoy every damn second of it and milk it for all it's worth because before you know it, THE SUCK will return and you'll be reduced to a crawl again.


Monday was spent with me turning pro in couch surfing. I lived in my totally awesome skull and crossbones christmas jammies (these pj pants = happiness to me). There was not enough food in the world to keep my appetite at bay. And I felt like I had been plowed down by a bulldozer...

...like my body had been pushed through a meat grinder with only blistered shreds of muscle and sinew to show for a weekend of hard work.

It was tough. I was tough.

Tough.
Not impossible.
But tough.

And to misquote one of my favorite quotes...
What do you take out of impossible to make it possible?
IM.


This weekend proved two things to me...

First, I am one big freakin' head case. Like a mental basketcase. My brain is my biggest weakness and I let it constantly overwhelm me on monster training days and race day. This isn't a good thing (thank you capitan obvious).

To my Iron Crew in Arizona next month...come with an arsenal of things to keep my mind at ease. You'll likely see it all on race morning. The culmination of git foul iron moodswings at its finest...excitement, hysterics, ill-feelings, anger, vomiting, shaking, stupidity, hate, awesomeness and every emotion and physical being in between. And that's probably before we even make it down to the race site. I'd like to apologize in advance...I'm sorry.

Secondly, I realize that I'm going to be cutting that bike cutoff RIDICULOUSLY CLOSE. Like fraction of a second close. So I need to make every moment out there count (the footage from Kona where the chick misses the bike to run cutoff by 5 seconds keeps replaying in my mind). Make every mile I've ever logged to date count. Make those hours I missed during our family vacation so I could ride my bike count. Make the 102 I rode on my birthday when I would've rather been off with friends I haven't seen in months count.

I have to make every one of those 61,200 seconds of those 17 hours count. Because let's be honest...I'm going to need each and every one of those seconds on the course.


So it is with open arms that I find myself standing on the edge, on the verge of embracing this little thing we call taper. Sure, my body may be scaling back...but this is the time where I really need to focus on fine tuning my mind. Getting myself mentally, emotionally, spiritually ready for this challenge that is practically days away.

Is this really happening in less than 4 weeks? Am I really ready for this?

Pardon me while I have that my God, what have I gotten myself into!? moment...