This is going to sound terribly cliche, and for that I apologize, but
the night of the World Championship 70.3, as I was standing on stage
receiving my award for winning my age group, I had the very distinct
feeling that I was dreaming. Two women in black dresses and stilettos
walked towards me, and one took and held my trophy as the other one
started to put a blue and black jacket with the words "World Champion"
onto me, like the friggin' Masters' Tournament or something, and it just
felt surreal. I didn't know how to act or what to do, I'm not that
experienced on podiums, so I just looked out at my parents and shrugged
my shoulders in a giggly, dorky, and shocked sort of way. I have vivid
dreams from time to time, and I just kept thinking,
at some point I'm
going to hear an alarm, I'm going to wake up, it's going to be 4:00 AM
and it'll be time to get ready for the race, and I'll go downstairs, eat
my pre-race breakfast, and say to my friends, "I had the craziest dream
last night..."
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| Is this happening? |
That
Sunday in Mont-Tremblant, it turns out, wasn't a dream. It was
reality. It was, however, one of those magical days, so few and far
between, that make all the struggles and sacrifices worth it.
The whole week leading into the race felt, in so many ways,
different, and magic in its own way
.
I usually spend the week before big races tying myself up into a whole
big knot of anxiety and worry, flipping out if things don't go
perfectly, panicking at every little sign of injury or illness or
off-ness. Not so much this time. I didn't really do much of a taper--
Kona's still the priority-- and maybe that helped keep me sane. Leading
into the race, I just did my workouts, checked them off, and moved on,
pausing only to marvel occasionally at how much more
not horrible I felt than usual before big races.
Part
of the eery calmness, I think, was that my expectations for performance
weren't all that high. I've written here that I struggled quite a bit
this season, and while I
did believe I had turned things around in my training and was a lot
happier and healthier than I'd been for the first half of 2014, I
wasn't certain that the good training mojo I'd been enjoying would
translate to racing. I thought top 10 in my age group, about where I'd
finished last year, would be a great day, Top 5, a stretch.
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| Sunset from the Sweaty Friends House |
But
honestly, whether I hit those places or not, I didn't really care. I
started out this season with some huge, lofty, possibly
overly-ambitious, and mostly secret goals. And by and large, I'd been
failing to meet them. It was maddening... I was having some decent
success but failing to appreciate it (and probably coming across as very
ungrateful), because to me , it wasn't what I'd hoped for. But at
some point during my two months of Operation Mojo Reacquisition, things
changed. I don't want to say I completely gave up on my goals, but
.....
I completely gave up on my goals. I got myself to a point where I could say "
this
is going to be a "learning" year, I very well may end up being slower
than last year, and that is actually OK, because I'm finally enjoying
myself," and truly mean it.
I realize that's not
the way it's supposed to go. People don't brag about throwing away
their dreams. Coaches don't post inspirational quotes about letting go
and being content with less than what you wanted. But for me, those
pie-in-the-sky goals were taking all the fun away, the "failure" was
wearing on me, and surrendering, if you will, was completely freeing.
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| You won't see coaches tweeting this one |
Oddly enough, it's when I let go of the dreams that I actually started achieving them.
Now, the race weekend:
When
we got to Canada, I felt the magic as soon as we stepped off the plane
in Toronto for a layover Or maybe it was 5 minutes later, when I
realized that the airport provided
free coffee, tea, water, soda,
snacks, comfy chairs, and wi-fi. What a weird, marvelous place.
Mont-Tremblant itself was almost fantasy-like-- a charming little ski
town reminiscent of Disney World, except in French and filled with hard
bodies and buzzing with pre-race excitement. There was a true
championship atmosphere at this race, much more Kona-like than Vegas was
last year. I am, perhaps, looking back at things through rose-colored
glasses, but for once, I thoroughly enjoyed that pre-race buzz and
didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated. I was happy to catch up with
friends from distant lands that I hadn't seen in way too long (
Hi Adam! Hi Pip! Hi Karin!) and was just generally excited.
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| The Finish Line |
The
day before the race had some wrinkles (would it be a day-before without
them?), most notably mechanical issues with my bike. In the course of a
30 minute ride, my chain spontaneously popped off about seven times.
This was not good. But my strangely-calm-and-happy self dealt with it
with far less stress than usual, dropping the bike off at the
French-speaking mechanic who may or may not have understood the problem,
crossing my fingers and hoping for the best, and then heading back to
my parent's hotel for the all-important pre-race pancake gorge and
subsequent nap. That afternoon, I got my gear and (hopefully repaired
but I wasn't sure) bike checked in at the very last minute, because I am
nothing if not a procrastinator, and then it was just time to eat and
sleep and still not get all that nervous
Morning came
quickly, it was brisk and a little foggy, I set up my stuff, got in a
little pre-race jog and swim, exchanged high-fives with Karin & Co.
at the start line, and it was time to go....
Swim
(
27:35, 8th in Age Group)
This
swim was a beach start with a long-ish run-in through shallow water. I
hated this idea. I am not a huge fan of beach starts, especially in a
championship setting where
everyone is charging hard off the
line, I am generally very, very leery of dolphin dives in lakes for
personal reasons, and mostly, I just knew it would be aggressive. We
were also starting towards the back of the race, meaning there were
several waves of racers already in the water that might require some
effort to weave through. With those things in mind, I made the
game-time decision to line up as far right as possible, and then swim
inside the buoys and hopefully away from the mess until the first
turn.
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| Bob, I stole this picture and a few others from you, if you read this and object, email me and I'll take them down:) |
My
strategy worked perfectly. The horn (and fireworks, awesome) went off,
I bolted in, ran through the water, head-down sprinted for
about the first 80 strokes before settling in, and then was very, very
surprised to find myself with almost entirely open water.
The
swim felt great, the water perfectly clear and cool. I cruised along
at a very relaxed pace inside the buoys all the way to the first turn,
largely by myself and not really able to see a whole lot of other
people. I wasn't sure if this strategy was smart or totally dumb, but I
took comfort that there was at least one other girl near me that I
could see and another clearly enjoying the draft that I was providing,
as she hit my feet over, and over, and over, and over for the whole damn
swim (until she sprinted to get out of the water before me,
you go girl, seventh place is ALL yours).
I could have tried to stay closer to the masses and maybe caught more
of a draft, hindsight is 20/20, but I was really enjoying the effortless
pace and open water.
Coming back in to shore, we
turned into the sun and I couldn't see a damn thing and just generally
swam towards splashes ahead. I had a bad feeling that my line was bad
and I was tacking on unnecessary distance, but girl was behind me still
tap, tap, tapping on my feet, so at least we were all going down together.
Out
of the water, I still had no idea where I was in relation to anyone
else in my age group, but I caught sight of the clock, did a little math
to subtract out the time between when the clock started and when our
wave started, and came up with 27-odd minutes. That's a PR, and not a
small one. You never can tell with swim times and I tend to ignore them
as they vary so much with conditions and measurements, etc. etc., but I
figured a 27 had to have done me decently well.
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| Are out-of-water pictures ever good? But I do love my ROKA suit |
T1
The first transition was
long,
almost a half-mile, but my legs felt good. My brain, however, got lost
somewhere after the time I was able to do the math necessary to compute
my swim time and before I got to the tent where the equipment bags
were. I'd marked my bag all up with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle duct
tape in hopes of being able to spot it in the piles, but that wasn't
enough to keep me from running down the wrong aisle of bags and then,
much like I did at Eagleman, running around completely lost and
desperately begging volunteers for help in finding my gear. The
frustration grew (
why am I such an airhead??) but once I'd found
my bag I turned up the pace, got my sunglasses and helmet on, stuffed
the wetsuit into the bag, and bolted to my bike.....which I ran right
past and then couldn't find.
I'm thinking I lost
about a minute with that comedy of errors and I wasn't pleased with
myself, but I shook it off and focused on riding.
Bike
(2:33:38, 5th in Age Group, 2nd off the bike)
Getting
going on the bike, I felt quite good and remarkably non-frantic, given
the T1 debacle. I hid the watts on my bike computer and rode fairly
easy for the first stretch, knowing that the tough part of the course
was in the last 12 miles and not wanting to overdo things early. The
first part of the bike course in Mont-Tremblant rolls, but not terribly,
and I spun up the hills and tried to get as aero as possible on the
downhills.
The first several miles out on 117
really were enjoyable. Things weren't too crowded, I was enjoying
moving up in the field, the weather was great, the road super smooth and
scenic. Then, going up a hill, my chain spontaneously dropped, just
like it had the day before. I tried to maneuver it back on but failed,
and had to pull over and get off my bike and wrestle the chain back on.
I slowly started up again, on an uphill, and within 4 pedal strokes,
dropped the chain again. This time there were under-the-breath swear
words as I dismounted again, and I wrestled with the chain, drew blood,
and tried not to flip out as I heard dozens of riders
whoosh, whoosh, whooshing
past me as I stood on the side of the road. At the time, I was pretty
sure my day was over, envisioning a long, long ride of constantly
getting off to fix my chain. I was sad....this was a long way to come
to have a race ruined by a mechanical. But I told myself to just see
how it went, I got back on, tried to put out of my mind the time I'd
just lost, and miraculously, with careful, careful shifting, I was able
to keep the chain on for the rest of the ride.
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| I always feel weird smiling for the cameras |
After
that, the scene started to change. As we were getting going out on
117, the pros were coming back in, and it was cool to throw out a couple
cheers for my favorites. And then came the first waves of age
groupers, riding almost entirely in packs of 30-40 with a straggler here
or there. I think the drafting issues at this race have been talked to
death, and I don't have a whole lot of substance to add, except to say
that during the race (and after), I was glad I was in the age group that
I was in. We (35-39) took off late, towards the end of the race, and
well behind the young, fast male age groups where the packs tend to
form. By bringing up the rear, my age group was able to have a much
more fair race than some of the earlier-starting female age groups that
got mixed in the men, that's evident even in looking at the times, and
for that, I am very glad.
Anyway, aside from being
appalled at the packs I saw across the road, I was cruising along well
and enjoying the day. Until maybe 10 to 15 miles in, when I was passed
by Amy Farrell (who seemed to be desperately trying to break away from a
few 25-29 year-old leeches that had attached themselves to her rear
wheel). Suddenly, things changed. I raced Amy earlier this year at
Eagleman. She beat me soundly, by four minutes or so, but didn't pass
me in that race until almost mile 5 of the
run. That she was
passing me this early, or on the bike at all, did not bode well for me.
I started to question myself and thought maybe I was having a crap
race, even though I felt good. But that thought exited quickly, and
from somewhere deep inside of my
goals-out-the-window-this-is-just-a-learning-year psyche came a competitor.
I
threw out my race plan, I stopped looking at my power meter, and for
the first time possibly ever, I decided that the race was right here, on
the bike, and I could not let her go.
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| Nice face. |
For the rest of the bike, Amy and I (and an Aussie girl)
raced
that bike (legally). I've never really had that opportunity, and it
was so much fun. She'd pass me, I'd fall back, I'd pass her, she'd
fall back. I'd go by her on the climbs, she'd zoom by me on the
descents, I'd think I'd dropped her and 5 minutes later, she'd fly right
on past me again. She was relentless. We never said a word to each
other through all those passes. Maybe she had no clue who I was, but I
knew her and I knew her capabilities and I just kept trying to
get.away.from.her. It didn't escape me that Amy had out-run me by 8
minutes at Eagleman and that worried me a bit, but I was in the moment.
And the moments flew by. The course got tougher in the last 12 miles.
I barely felt it. I was in such a zone.
T2
I
did pass Amy on the last big hill, but figured she was right behind me,
so I hustled a muscle in transition and booked on out to the run
course. I didn't know where we were in the overall standings or how
many were ahead of us, but for some reason, I was focused on
this
particular match up. I found out later that Amy had actually fallen off
her bike (her words) at the very end there, and I probably got a
much-needed minute or so head start on account of that.
Run
(1:29:06, 1st in AG)
And then, the dream sequence started.
I
headed out and my legs felt great, a welcome surprise after the last 12
miles of punchy hills on the bike. The 2-loop run course is no joke,
and the hills were pretty much constant and substantial. Hills are
not
my strength but each climb was met with a very nice downhill, and I
felt like I was moving well. I evaluated my effort, tried to stay at a
relatively easy pace for the
first 5K, and just kept waiting for the moment when Amy would pass me
(remember, outran me by 8 minutes earlier this year?) I made a
last-minute decision before the race to leave my Garmin behind and had
just a simple stopwatch that I forgot to start (nor would it have
done me much good as the course was measured in kilometers), so I was
going completely by feel. In hindsight, it's a good thing I had no idea
of my pace, because if I had, I most surely would have slowed down.
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| This hill was in the last half mile of each loop, and a bit intimidating |
As
we were approaching the turn-around for the first loop of the run, I
forgot to start looking ahead to see who was there to catch, but for sure once
I'd made the turn, I started scoping out the scene behind me. Amy was
charging hard and not far back. She seemed to be followed by a whole
line of familiar faces, girls who I knew to be excellent runners.
Oh boy, here they come.
We
ran back towards town and I felt better and better but still expected
the passes to start. I mean, I've been run down in every long course
race I've done this summer. I'm not a runner. It seemed like a
foregone conclusion.
As
we approach the Village for the turn-around to start the second loop,
my parents spotted me and subsequently won themselves the race-VIP
awards for the second time this summer. Confusingly, my dad yelled over
and over, "P-2, P-2, P2," his own secret code words for second place, a
code that he forgot to tell me. And my mom, bringing her A-game and
showing up to the race more than I did, yelled very clearly, "
you are
in second place. The girl in front of you is from Austria and is
wearing red. Her number is 1850. You have gained a minute on her at
every split."
Yeah, Mom!
Moms
are great, they really are, and my mom, who has watched me develop as
an athlete since I was seven years old, is the best. I wanted to turn
to her at that moment and say, "
OK, but what's going on behind me? How far back are the rest? When are they going to start passing?"
That's my m.o. I look backwards in races. I have literally tripped on
curbs and fallen on my face in races because I was looking back for
whoever was chasing me. I generally assume I'm going to get passed, and
I run scared. So it was the race behind me that I was worried about.
But for some reason, I didn't ask that question, and when I told her
later that I'd wanted to, she said,
I knew that was the information you wanted. And that's exactly why I didn't tell you.
There
was something in that exchange that changed my entire attitude as an
athlete. Suddenly, I stopped looking back and instead looked forward
and said, "I can
catch that girl and I can win my age group."
It was small, right there, that shift in thinking, that sudden belief in myself as a runner, but it was incredibly profound.
I caught her within a half mile.
 |
| Top of the hill |
From
there, I took off like a bat out of hell, on a mission, but just
floating. I know there were hills on that course.... I'd felt them in
the first loop. Remarkably, I didn't even notice them that second time
around. When I got to the final turnaround and saw I'd actually
extended my lead, I had a moment of shock. But the race isn't over
until it's over so I picked it up again, and was just tearing through
the crowds of people as fast as I could, breathing so, so incredibly
loud, just repeating to myself "
faster, faster, faster, you've got this, you can do this, go, go, go."
Triathletes
are so nice, and I think they could tell by my animal noises how hard I
was working. I got a ton of cheers from the competitors from other
waves as I passed, which was so motivating. About a mile and a half
from the finish, I saw my friend Karin heading out on the other side of
the street. "AAAMMMAAANNNDDDAAA, GOOOOOOOO," she screamed, sounding
more excited than even I felt, and to borrow a phrase from her lexicon, I
got a serious case of the feels. When I was a new triathlete
anonymously hanging out at Well-Fit, Karin was one of those fast girls I
looked up to so much, and she was also one of the ones who was nice to
me. In time she's become one of my best friends and biggest supporters,
and her honest and obvious happiness for me gave me chills.
I
huffed and puffed my way back to the village where I saw my parents
again, a half mile from the finish (which includes a massive hill, so it
wasn't an insignificant last half mile), with my dad yelling "P-1, P-1,
P-1." This time, they clued me in on what was behind, telling me I had
more than two minutes ahead of second. I didn't slow down when I got
that news, but I relaxed mentally a bit, and let myself take it all in.
Coming
down the last steep hill into the finish, I totally lost it. Looking
at pictures, I look absolutely insane....mouth wide open, like a crazed
animal. I was doing some sort of combination of gasping from the
effort, while also crying.
But
I was just so shocked. I never, ever imagined this result, I've never
considered myself in that league, and the enormity of it overwhelmed
me. I made a bit of a scene at the finish line with my happy tears,
and then again a few minutes later when I got the official results that
confirmed the place. And it wasn't even just the age group win that thrilled
me, it was the whole day-- the magic of it, the
effortlessness, after a year that had been so full of
effort.
And the run? I'm still a little stunned. My run has not been good
this year in races, and it's never been my strength. So to PR, straight
up, including open half marathons, on a course that cannot be
considered particularly fast, and to have the fastest run in my age
group -- you can see why it all feels a bit surreal.
TOTAL: 4:36:36, 1st in AG, 8th Amateur
I
stayed on a high for a few days. Or really, a little longer that
that. Of course, Kona's still coming and has always been the primary
focus. I celebrated a bit but got back to work quickly, having a bit
more spring in my step and confidence in my ability, and that has shown
up in my training. Yes, I
know Kona's a different and much
bigger ball game, my "job" there will be no easier after this, and I
have not suddenly changed my goals or expectations for that race (or
really, set them). But, I'm going in there putting even less pressure
on myself than I did before.
I had my magic day. I had this moment. 2014 is a success, no matter what else happens..
Of
course, I cannot do this alone, and there are SO many people to thank
who have helped me along the way, and especially those who helped me to
pull out of my mid-season slump and get this train back on the track.
To my parents, thanks for being there in Canada, thanks for the updates,
thanks for all the love and support.
Liz,
my coach, thanks for being the mastermind, hanging with me all this
time, giving me the tough work (and the tough words at the right times),
and helping me learn to believe in myself. Thanks to Val, Criss, Pat,
and all the Sweaty Friends for welcoming me into your house for the
weekend. Taylor and Gina and A
chieve Ortho, thanks for keeping me injury-free.
Heather Fink helped me with nutrition, and is so great at what she does.
Gloria Petruzelli,
who helped me with some mental skills training in July & August--
you never gave me the answers but instead helped me to find them on my
own-- thanks so much! Thanks to new-this-summer riding buddies
Kristy and
Nick
who helped me to re-find the joy in training, and to so many friends
near and far who have provided so much support, you know who you are.
And of course,
TriSports.com, thanks for the support, and it was so great to see so many teammates out on the course!
Thanks for reading!
 |
| In the jacket |
 |
| For comic relief...the guy who finished right before me. I had nothing to do with this |
