You Are Ready.

I ran across this on my favorite triathlon message board and knew I needed to keep this one in the books. I'm putting it on my blog, partly so I can draw upon it whenever I need to, but also for anyone else out there who has been on this insane 140.6 journey with me. The original writer has hit the nail on the head...grab a box of tissues...I definitely needed it...

Right now you've all entered the taper. Perhaps you've been at this a few months, perhaps you've been at this a few years. For some of you this is your first IM, for others, a long-overdue welcome back to a race that few can match.

You've been following your schedule to the letter. You've been piling on the mileage, piling up the laundry, and getting a set of tan lines that will take until next year to erase. Long rides were followed by long runs, which both were preceded by long swims, all of which were followed by recovery naps that were longer than you slept for any given night during college.

You ran in the dark.
You rode in the rain.
You ran in the heat.
You ran in the cold.

You went out when others stayed home.
You rode the trainer when others pulled the covers over their heads.

You have survived the Darwinian progression that is an Ironman summer, and now the hardest days are behind you. Like a climber in the Tour de France coming over the summit of the penultimate climb on an alpine stage, you've already covered so much ground...there's just one more climb to go. You shift up, you take a drink, you zip up the jersey; the descent lies before you...and it will be a fast one.

Time that used to be filled with never-ending work will now be filling with silent muscles, taking their final, well-earned rest. While this taper is something your body desperately needs, your mind cast off to the background for so very long, will start to speak to you.

It won't be pretty.

It will bring up thoughts of doubt, pain, hunger, thirst, failure, and loss. It will give you reasons why you aren't ready. It will try and make one last stand to stop you, because your brain doesn't know what the body already does. Your body knows the truth:

You are ready.

Your brain won't believe it. It will use the taper to convince you that this is foolish - that there is too much that can go wrong.

You are ready.

Finishing an Ironman is never an accident. It's the result of dedication, focus, hard work, and belief that all the long runs in January, long rides in March, and long swims every damn weekend will be worth it. It comes from getting on the bike, day in, day out. It comes from long, solo runs. From that first long run where you wondered, "How will I ever be ready?" to the last long run where you smiled to yourself with one mile to go...knowing that you'd found the answer.

It is worth it. Now that you're at the taper, you know it will be worth it. The workload becomes less. The body winds up and prepares, and you just need to quiet your worried mind. Not easy, but you can do it.

You are ready.


You will walk into the water with 2500 other wide-open sets of eyes. You will look upon the sea of humanity, and know that you belong. You'll feel the chill of the water crawl into your wetsuit, and shiver like everyone else, but smile because the day you have waited for so VERY long is finally here.

You will tear up in your goggles. Everyone does.

The helicopters will roar overhead.
The splashing will surround you.

You'll stop thinking about Ironman, because you're now racing one.

The swim will be long - it's long for everyone, but you'll make it. You'll watch as the shoreline grows and grows, and soon you'll hear the end. You'll come up the beach and head for the wetsuit strippers. Three people will get that sucker off before you know what happening, then you’ll head for the bike.

The voices, the cowbells, and the curb-to-curb chalk giving you a hero's sendoff can't wipe the smile off your face.

You'll settle down to your race. The crowds will spread out on the road. You'll soon be on your bike, eating your food on your schedule, controlling your Ironman.

You'll start to feel that morning sun turn to afternoon sun. It's warmer now. Maybe it's hot. Maybe you're not feeling so good now. You'll keep riding. You'll keep drinking. You'll keep moving. After all, this is just a long training day with valet parking and catering, right?

You'll put on your game face, fighting the urge to feel down as you ride for what seems like hours. You reach special needs, fuel up, and head out.


By now it'll be hot. You'll be tired. Doubts will fight for your focus. Everyone struggles here. You've been on that bike for a few hours, and stopping would be nice, but you won't - not here. Not today.


You'll grind the false flats to the climb. You'll know you're almost there. You'll fight for every inch of road. The crowd will come back to you here. Let their energy push you. Let them see your eyes. Smile when they cheer for you - your body will get just that little bit lighter.

Grind.
Fight.
Suffer.
Persevere.

You'll plunge down the road, swooping from corner to corner, chaining together the turns, tucking on the straights, letting your legs recover for the run to come - soon! You'll roll back - you'll see people running out. You'll think to yourself, "Wasn't I just here?" The noise
will grow. The chalk dust will hang in the air - you're back, with only 26.2 miles to go. You'll relax a little bit, knowing that even if you get a flat tire or something breaks here, you can run the damn bike into T2.

You'll roll into transition. 100 volunteers will fight for your bike. You'll give it up and not look back. You'll have your bag handed to you, and into the tent you'll go. You'll change. You'll load up your pockets, and open the door to the last long run of your Ironman summer - the one that counts.

You'll take that first step of a thousand...and you'll smile. You'll know that the bike won't let you down now - the race is down to your own two feet. The same crowd that cheered for you in the shadows of the morning will cheer for you in the brilliant sunshine of a summer Sunday. High-five people on the way out. Smile. Enjoy it. This is what you've worked for all year long.

That first mile will feel great. So will the second. By mile 3, you probably won't feel so good.

That's okay. You knew it couldn't all be that easy. You'll settle down just like you did on the bike, and get down to your pace. You'll see the leaders coming back the other way. Some will look great - some won't. You might feel great, you might not. No matter how you feel, don't panic - this is the part of the day where whatever you're feeling, you can be sure it won't last.

You'll keep moving. You'll keep drinking. You'll keep eating. Maybe you'll be right on plan - maybe you won't. If you're ahead of schedule, don't worry - believe. If you're behind, don't panic - roll with it. Everyone comes up with a brilliant race plan for Ironman, and then everyone has to deal with the reality that planning for something like Ironman is like trying to land a man on the moon. By remote control. Blindfolded.

How you react to the changes in your plan will dictate your day. Don't waste energy worrying about things - just do what you have to when you have to, and keep moving. Keep eating. Keep drinking. Just don't sit down - don't EVER sit down.

You'll make it to the halfway point. You'll load up on special needs. Some of what you packed will look good, some won't. Eat what looks good, toss the rest. Keep moving. Start looking for people you know. Cheer for people you don't. You're headed in - they're not. They want to be
where you are, just like you wanted to be when you saw all those fast people headed into town. Share some energy - you'll get it right back.

Run if you can.
Walk if you have to.
Just keep moving.

The miles will drag on. The brilliant sunshine will yawn. You'll be coming up to those aid stations fully alive with people, music, and chicken soup. TAKE THE SOUP. Keep moving.

You'll soon only have a few miles to go. You'll start to believe that you're going to make it. You'll start to imagine how good it's going to feel when you get there. Let those feelings drive you on. When your legs just don't want to move anymore, think about what it's going to be like when someone catches you…and puts a medal over your head... all you have to do is get there.

You'll start to hear the people in town. People you can't see in the twilight will cheer for you. They'll call out your name. Smile and thank them. They were there when you left on the bike, and when you came back, and when you left on the run, and now when you've come back.

You'll enter town. You'll start to realize that the day is almost over. You'll be exhausted, wiped out, barely able to run a 10-minute mile (if you're lucky), but you'll ask yourself, "Where did the whole day go?" You'll be standing on the edge of two feelings - the desire to finally stop, and the desire to take these last moments and make them last as long as possible.

You'll hit mile 25. Your Ironman will have 1.2 miles - just 2KM left in it.

You'll run. You'll find your legs. You'll fly. You won't know how, but you will run. The lights will grow brighter, brighter, and brighter. Soon you'll be able to hear the music again. This time, it'll be for keeps.

Soon they'll see you. Soon, everyone will see you. You'll run towards the lights, between the fences, and into the night sun made just for you.

They'll say your name.
You'll keep running.
Nothing will hurt.

The moment will be yours - for one moment, the entire world will be looking at you and only you.

You'll break the tape at the finish line, 140.6 miles after starting your journey. The flash will go off.

You'll stop. You'll finally stop. Your legs will wobble their last, and suddenly...be capable of nothing more.

Someone will catch you.
You'll lean into them.

It will suddenly hit you.

YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!

You are ready.

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...

Ironman Training Is.

Ironman training is...painful.

You get blisters. Lose toenails. Body parts that you previously didn't know existed ache, chafe, throb, swell. It's like being stuck in an ultimate cage fight with an irritable grizzly just out of hibernation each and every weekend. It chews you up, spits you out, and yet you come back a few days later and go at it again. It doesn't care how tired and hurting you are, you have to dig deep, find a way to press on, suck it up, get out of that freakin' cage fight in one piece...then line right back up to do it again. It's very much in the Thank you, sir, may I please have another? camp. It sucks. It's awesome. It hurts.

Ironman training is...for masochists.

Suffice to say, you have to enjoy pain to make it through a full Ironman training plan. Feel the high as your legs are screaming at you during the tempo run. Savor the fire in your lungs after you've completed 10x100 sprints in the pool. Smile at that God awful pain in your low back after you've put 80...90...100+ miles on the bike. The pain gets you off (no, not in that way...or maybe it does, whatever your fancy)...it lets you know you're alive. Pain pulses through your veins and you thrive on it. This shit is not for the faint of heart. If you ever sign up for one of these beasts and think it's as simple as following a plan, you are sorely mistaken. Be prepared for world of hurt. The more you sweat in training. The less you'll bleed in war. So you best be working up enough sweat to fill an olympic pool.

Ironman training is...lonely.

You really have to enjoy hanging out with yourself to win the Ironman training battle. Sure you can have training partners and riding buddies and friends who will run with you once in a while, but even when you're with them, you're still alone. Most of the time it's you, your thoughts, your demons and the open road. You'll sing songs to yourself to get you through the long ride. Perfect the fine art of snot rockets, peeing on the bike (please note: I do not do this!), and belching--you know, the kind that comes deep from your toes, repulses civilians, and impresses the pants off of runners, cyclists and triathletes alike. You have to be willing to get in your own head...get a little mental...allow yourself to cry when you don't think you can take another step...bribe yourself...know how to give yourself a pep talk when you're on the verge of throwing in the towel...celebrate tiny victories on your own because there isn't another sole in sight to share your pride. It isn't pretty...but you really find out exactly what you're made of when you're on your own for 6...7...8...or in my case 12+ hours.

Ironman training is...stupid.

Not stupid in the sense following a plan is stupid. That's actually really smart. But stupid as in you get to do a lot of stupid things. Like a bike-run-bike-run-bike-run brick from hell in 105 degree heat with 100% humidity. Or like a night-time open water swim when the water temps are topping out at 52 degrees (if you're lucky) and the air temps start with the number 4. There are all sorts of cruel and unusual punishments that come with Ironman training and being willing to embrace each one to the best of your ability is key. And just when you think you've seen it all, you look at your schedule and see that your Coach has prescribed you a weekend consisting of a 2+ mile swim, 21 mile run and a 120 mile bike with a 90 minute transition run off the back, a weekend you fondly refer to as The Meat Grinder. Stupid. Kind of like training for a late season Ironman in Chicago...where it's already starting to feel like winter. Grrrrr...but that's my own damn fault.

Ironman training is...a privilege.

I feel so incredibly lucky that my body has cooperated with me for this long. Athletes definitely take our bodies for granted. At any moment, we have the potential to have everything we've worked for come crashing to a halt. Accidents happen. Injuries happen. The fact we're even alive is a privilege. Making it to the start line prepared and in one piece is half the battle. Making every day and every workout count is exhausting. But in the end, you have to step back and remind yourself just how lucky you are to be able to run 18 miles. Not everyone can. And there are countless people who would give up everything to be in our position.

Ironman training is...

...neverending.

...too long.

...not long enough.

...for people who really like training.

...expensive.

...a test.

...necessary.

...exhausting.

...inspiring.

...hunger-inducing.

...full of whining.

...and ice baths.

...and I cant's.

...and I can's.

...and I will's.

That, my friends...is what Ironman training is.

Awesomeness surrounds itself with awesomeness: Thoughts from the Chicago Marathon (or at least 18ish miles of it)

Yesterday was the Chicago marathon. Yesterday I had 18 miles to run. And it just so happened that I woke up and found a marathon bib sitting on my dining room table. Okay...less of a miracle, more of Mike electing not to run this year. You're smart...put two and two together.

But let's back it up for a moment first...

A few weeks ago, I stumbled onto a post from the Pace of Chicago mentioning that the reporter, David Wallach, was looking for a "slow marathon runner" to run with during the Chicago Marathon. My first thought was Finally! Someone giving us BOPers some love! My second thought was Shoot!! Of course this opportunity comes up the year I'm not running. But then I realized that Lauren would be beyond the perfect candidate for the job. She's spunky, genuine and all around an incredible girl. Within minutes of sending her a message, she was excited and on top of it (and I say that with intent of zero double entrendres, so get your mind outta the gutter kids!).

It came as no surprise when she told me she was picked.

That's just how awesome she is. She radiates awesomeness. And in turns, draws equally awesome people to her (okay...I'll go ahead and include myself in that group because word on the street is that I'm pretty awesome, too). David, the reporter dude? ...awesome. Her dad, Larry? The king of awesomeness who reproduced awesomeness. Jon? Naturally awesome marries awesome. You catch my drift.

Case in point. Awesome people help create an awesome experience for all. So back to the story.

I had 18 miles to run for IM training. Lauren had 26.2 miles of unfinish business to take care of from the 2007 Chicago "Fun Run" (aka, the marathon meltdown). And we both agreed that I would jump in right around mile 7.5 to give her some fresh legs when she needed it most. She wanted a PR and I promised I could push her to one with the warning that she may hate me by the time she was finished.

And so I waited by the infamous fountain at the corner of LSD and Addison for my girl. Fortunately for everyone, this year's conditions were downright blizzard-like compared to the past two years. It didn't take long for me to spot her...so I hopped on in and away we went. Lauren and her entourage of David and Barb.

Those 18 miles were wonderful. There here highs. There were lows. We laughed. We cried. It was better than Cats.

Lauren nabbed herself a new PR. David got himself a wonderful story and the revelation that 10 days is not nearly enough time to train for a marathon. And I got a fantastically fun solid training run of 18.5ish miles in.

I'm not going to to sit here and tell you her story...because this is one that is best told from Lauren's perspective. And of course, you've got the incredible recount of the 26.2 mile journey from David at Pace of Chicago. Both are worth taking the time to read.

Go ahead and read them right now. I'll wait for you here...

Done? Okay. Good.

So as you can tell, there isn't anything I could add to either of their race reports to make them any better. Except maybe amending David's to clarify that I'm not that crazy.

Since the pair of them shared their account from the day so beautifully, I'm just going to add one quick thought...

I've always sort of known it, but didn't really grasp it until yesterday...(probably because I wasn't actually participating in the marathon)...in an endurance event, the back of the pack is where the grit and determination rests. We have a ton of fun and don't over-obsess about our times. Sure, there's a fair amount of stupidity mixed in as clearly there are folks there who didn't train as much as they probably should have...but the back of the pack has an insane amount of heart. We're still out there plugging along long after the winners and BQers have packed up, gone home, showered, napped and had their post-race recovery meal and massage. It's the Bingham mentality of "I'm slow. I know. Get over it." Frankly, it's this mentality that makes me love the back of the pack.

But you have no idea how excited this notion makes me for Ironman Arizona. I am well-aware there is a strong possibility I will be that 16:59:59 finisher. I am equally aware that there's always a chance I may not finish and that it's not guaranteed. But one thing I am certain of...I cannot wait to draw upon the awesomeness of those in the back of the pack on Nov. 22nd. We're all going to be in a world of hurt together...so here's to hoping we can make it as fun and as memorable as possible in the crisp, dark desert night.

To Lauren and everyone out there at yesterday's marathon--Congratulations!

Coming Together

Today I can officially say I'm doing an Ironman next month.

Uhhh...wtf?! I can't have that little time left? Can I?!?! ...I mean I just signed up for this silly little race last week...didn't I!?

And then this morning someone reminded me that the race is indeed next month and asked if I was feeling ready.

Hardly.

I mean, are we ever REALLY ready to do this from a mental, physical and emotional standpoint? 140.6 miles is an insane distance to travel in one day without the assistance of a car, train or airplane. We do everything we can to get our bodies and minds in the right place and simply hope for the best possible execution and outcome during the Big Dance. We're doing everything we can to get to the start line of that 140.6 mile day in one piece. Then we swallow our nerves, ignore that little voice in our heads that says "this is the stupidest thing you've ever done," say a prayer and stay in forward motion for up to 17 hours.

I'll admit. I'm not ready now...nowhere near ready. Mentally I've got my head wrapped around the rest of the training on tap (not the race though)...but emotionally and physically I've got a ways to go. But I'm confident that by the time November hits, I will be as ready as I'm going to be from a training perspective. I've put my trust in the Chief of Pain and paid him big bucks to do all the thinking around training for me. Which gives me my current mantra.

Don't think. Just do.

I've found that telling myself to just shut up, don't think about the work and just get it done, is the approach that I need at the moment. The emotional side of the trinity...I imagine I'll be sorting through that up until I'm treading water in Tempe Town Lake waiting for the cannon to fire.

On my long run over the weekend, I really got to thinking about how far I've come over the past 7 months of training. I went from absolutely loathing my bike, to actually enjoying being in the saddle for obscenely long periods of time. I went from keeping a 10:00 pace during speedwork to cranking out 8:30 miles...at the end of a long, evil session on the track--homegirl doesn't run that fast. Ever. And the swim...well...it is what it is. I'm relatively comfortable in open water when I find my groove...sighting has improved dramatically over the past month, although I still find myself inadvertantly pulling to the left. At least the Arizona swim is counter clockwise, so that'll help.

To date, I've done two century rides. The first, the wheels fell off around mile 61. The second, I was great until mile 81 hit. I'm hoping that this weekend's 100 miles don't start sucking until after I'm done. I never imagined that I'd be off riding hundreds of miles in any given weekend.

The next few weeks (okay...weekends, really) are going to be a wee bit on the intense side. The final build weekend is absolutely beyond anything I could have imagined myself doing. I kid you not...I saw the schedule and nearly fell out of my chair. ...I get to swim 2+ mile in Lake Michigan (shall we start wagering how freezing it'll be at that juncture?!?) and run 21 miles...and then the following day I get to bike 120 with a 90 minute transition run. I don't call Coach Mo the Chief of Pain for nothing!

It's strange that I find myself really excited of this final build. The feeling of dread with the big crazy long workouts has subsided. I'm more or less thankful that I've gotten myself to this point in training with the support of Mike, a few good friends and the Chief. Taper time will inevitably be bittersweet.

In the meantime I find myself counting down the days, and somehow wishing I could add another another month or two between now and the moment that cannon goes off on November 22nd...