The Arrival

"Where do you want to start? The sky's the limit." The waitress at the diner said to me, pad and pencil in hand.

I looked up at her from the menu, a little perplexed by the back half of her question, and all at once felt the muscles in my face press forward.

"Go ahead, take a moment to imagine the possibility. You're ready for a change, and the time is now. What are you waiting for?" She smiled at me, then tongued the end of her pencil, blinked purposefully twice, and waited for me to respond. But I couldn't.

"Whether it's new carpet or adding on a new edition, make First Source your first stop for home equity loans."

'4:15 a.m.' glowed in the distance, I could tell that much as the waitress's voice now flooded the bedroom.

Ah. Heh... funny.

The kitchen was quiet as I poured my cereal, save the hum of the refrigerator and similar house noises. Competing with only these then the tinkling of the squares falling into the bowl seemed awkwardly loud at first. In fact, everything seemed a little awkward; it just didn't feel like a race morning, at least not in the way I'd come to know them.

The twinge in my stomach wasn't there, and my heart didn't pound when I thought of the day ahead. There was no urgency whatsoever in fact, but it suddenly occurred to me this was neither good nor bad. It also occurred to me I wasn't feeling particularly compelled to even put it into one category or the other anyway, so I let the idea drop. Oh yeah, something is definitely... odd.

We left at 5:00 a.m. to make our way to the course, about an hour away. The last shuttle was to leave for transition at 6:30 (which closed at 6:45), and when this thought scuttled across my mind, I braced and waited for the subsequent shriek of my race morning OCD to panic about the close cut. But it didn't make a sound this time, not even a lip-biting squelch of one.

After about an hour though, and suddenly finding ourselves smack dab in the setting of a Stephen King novel just before the fire hydrants come to life and attack the lone, lost tourists, it was evident we missed a turn somewhere. Hmmm, surely this was a more substantial scuttling concern for me, and it was, but instead of hopping up on a chair and throwing dishes at the thing, my OCD simply grabbed the broom and easily shooed it through the screen door, right out of my head.

"Oh well, we'll get there." I said. "This is the right road?"

"Yeah, we just have to back track through town." James said, likely a little surprised. Here's a man who's seen some Oscar winning performances out of my OCD after all, especially in situations like these.

"Wouldn't be a race without a little diffiulty, right?" He said, this time smiling and trying to confirm I really wasn't on the verge of a pre-race episode.

"Yep, true." I agreed, which led to this odd, unfinished feeling filling the car. It was almost like the world itself took and anticipatory breath and held it, unsure of what might happen next. Needless to say, I paid a little extra attention to all those fire hydrants until the feeling passed, just to be safe.

At 6:30 we were on the shuttle heading towards transition along with a lot of people just getting out of their cars to also hop aboard. Our shuttle quickly filled, and I suddenly felt satisfied knowing I hadn't wasted any energy on potentially being late. Looking back, I kind of wish I could take credit for making myself feel this way, like perhaps I'd invented some new nerve stabilizing mantra to get myself to focus on what really mattered, but I didn't do a thing at all. I didn't have to because I just never felt any anxiety for some reason, well, except during this one short moment when I thought we were on the wrong bus (which we weren't). That caused me to jump up out of my seat for a second in order to change to the one behind us, but even that was just the equivalent to Frau OCD finding a spider in the sink and startling briefly. With that, it seemed there was still no sign of this race presence - or whatever that feeling is for me - here at Steelhead, 2008, and at this point I was pretty sure there wouldn't be.

"10 MINUTES BEFORE YOU NEED TO HEAD TO THE BEACH! SHAME ON YOU JUST NOW GETTING HERE, LET'S GET MOVING!"

Hehe, yeah that's me. I'll be ready.

And I was, nine minutes later, transition zone set, me amongst the masses, and on my way down to the beach.

I'd lost track of James, as well as all my friends while heading to the water. The wind was really whipping once I came around the tree line, so forcefully in fact that it parted my braided hair.

Some of the Steelhead chop, if you look closely you'll see a jet skier there off to the left. The waves were almost as big as he was, but it was the undertow that caused the Coast Guard to call the swim.

"Holy sh*t!" I heard a few guys in front of me shout just then, and looked up to find layers upon layers of white caps breaking on the beach before us. Oddly enough, the closer I got to the water the more I was filled with a strange new feeling that I couldn't exactly identify at the time. It was enhanced by the the roar of the churning water getting louder though, which made the cocktail vibe of fear and adrenaline rivering through the crowd around me immediately potent. Upon seeing the water and the reaction of my fellow would-be swimmers, I knew only that it was neither fear nor adrenaline, nor really anything in between.

Having been taught a lesson in humility from water just like this while preparing for my first Steelhead race (and first half-Ironman ever in fact) three years ago, I felt humble enough to jump in. I guess this was confidence, but not in the "brave" sense, just in the "I was sure there were no sea monsters waiting to eat me this time" sense. And of course the challenge was a little exciting too, especially considering I'd had all of two open water swims this year, one being the day before the race!

Anyway, after sleeping on it, I suppose I'd describe the feeling as one of waiting - waiting to see what would happen without any particular desired outcome or speculation, and this, like the short-circuited OCD situation from earlier that morning, was something else totally new for me. It just felt suddenly very still, the way the room gets when the dryer stops or the air kicks off. Just instantly still like that as I watched the waves come in.

So here we go... I took a deep breath then, and looked out steady on the undulating horizon.

"IT'S A DU! THE SWIM IS CANCELLED! KAYAKS KEEP CAPSIZING! IT'S A DU! 2-MILE RUN! NO SWIM!" Called the Paul Revere of triathlon as he sprinted down the beach against traffic, leaving in his wake a sea of slack jaws, wide eyes and stayed feet. Then, intermittently they all began to speak.

"A duathlon!? Awww, man, come on!!!"

"Are you serious? Really!? No, really? OH. THANK. GOD."

These were the two very distinct branches of conversation drifting through the air during the whole mile and change trek back to transition, and as far as I could tell I was the only one not riding either one. I'd have liked to swim, especially with the fascinating state of the water, but I'd never done a duathlon before either, so finding out what that would be like also seemed fun.

It's then, upon realizing I was quite literally the only one I'd witnessed so far neither relieved nor disappointed, but happy regardless of the new state of things, when I first began to understand this race. There was something waiting for me here after all.

The Replacement Run

With the roar of the lake behind me now, and plenty of time on the clock to prepare for a two-mile jaunt, I moseyed back to transition. Earlier, I'd seen Tri-Cajun just before walking down to the beach, and was hoping to catch up with some more friends now that we weren't all scattering like the spilled contents of somebody's ant farm.

Just as ordered, it wasn't long before I saw pals Sister Sara, Pharmie and Rural Girl, who came with an established bonus mission. Pee, and pee now.

Unfortunately, this was also the mission of everyone denied the pleasure of public urination in the great pre-race toilet that would have been Lake Michigan, which tried to suck the legs out from under anyone who dared try it. Somehow, I didn't have to go, so had the job of posting guard while my friends went to seek some green pastures. Moments later, we were shown the ladies' room, just off to the left of the men's room pictured here:

"Sweet! OK be right ba-"

And then, in slow motion with that Bionic Man reverberation for effect:

"WWWaaaiiitttt!" I yelled.

There was poison ivy. Everywhere.

"Oooh what a comfy bike ride that'a made."

So, Pharmie and Sister Sara decided to forego the foliage altogether and instead duck behind a nearby flagstone wall, but Rural-Girl would not be deterred.

"I ain't afraid of no steeenking poision ivy." She said, brandishing her iron butt, which at that very moment caught the first beam of morning sunlight and gleamed heroically, inspiring us all.

We three mere mortals just stood in a circle whispering amongst ourselves in amazement as she crested the ivy hill, then squatted defiantly.

"You know. I hear she even wipes with it..."

She emerged from the bushes moments later, humming Black Sabbath and chewing on a hearty sprig of the three leaf nancy bush, as she called it.

"We're not worthy."

"No. No, most certainly not."

All righty, well thanks to James braving the crowds (and with a gouged foot from some driftwood on the beach no less), here we have Rural-Girl front left in the 2XU visor, Pharmie back left in the hot girl shades, Sister Sara sporting the Evotri jersey coolness (also thanks to James) dead center, me just off to the front right in the 2XU hat, and new teammate, #1400, JP - the mountain - Severin in mid sentence just behind me. I'd tell you what he was saying, but his voice was too deep and loud for me to really understand.

Moments later we were on our way to the first run of the day. With 2500 or so athletes 20 deep in every direction, it felt more like the start of the Chicago Marathon than a little old 2-mile jaunt. We took off in our original swim waves, with the first two waves heading out together.

"MAKE A HOLE!" The official yelled to the crowd of us.

"RUNNERS COMING DOWN! MOVE TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE YELLOW LINE!"

We all shuffled over as best we could, trying also to scramble into our respective waves.

"RUNNERS COMING THROUGH!!"

Moments later an ATV blazed by us, and the girl next to me and I exchanged a wide-eyed, holy cow face. If that thing didn't get people on the other side of the line nothing would. A bicycle then cruised by, and almost immediately thereafter the first runner, going seemingly just as fast as the bike. The crowd of 2,000 odd athletes exploded in cheers as he and those behind him ran by, and I swear to God I've only ever felt chills like that while floating in Lake Monona, heart in my throat, 10 seconds before the horn of my first Ironman. It was just amazing. Now you wouldn't have seen this on the swim...

Soon Sister Sara and I were up. We ran together for about eight seconds before she floated away, and in that moment I knew she'd have the best race of her life. I don't know why, but I just knew, and swelled with a certain pride and excitement for her.

I vaguely recalled a massive quad-killing hill around here somewhere, and had heard a rumor we were going to run it to start the day. Sure enough we did, and it was just as huge as I'd remembered. About halfway up some extra terrestrials with rocket pants levitated by me like we weren't ascending Mount Olympus or something, and I had to laugh thinking, wow, I guess maybe they wipe with it too!

The Tour de France crowd was still gathered waiting for their respective waves to queue out, and running through the hole was fun. The sky rattling roar wasn't there anymore, but the feeling from before lingered in the air and that was enough to supercharge my momentum. I saw James and Naked Lad cheering there as well, which gave me still an extra boost, and one that I'd really need considering the ankle swallowing loose sand during the last few hundred yards or so. My watch said 20 minutes almost exactly for the two-mile run when I got to transition, but my chip time was 21:21, so who knows. Either way the games had officially begun, and we were onto the bike.

The Bike

Transition the way it looked first thing in the morning, and the way it remained for T1!

Swimming slowly has its advantages. Until this race - with the exception of a few older folks and a few others fighting to escape their wetsuits turned Spiderman's Venom Symbiote - I've been accustomed to sailing in and out of T1 with hardly anyone in my way to muck up the process. Oh but this would not be the case today, as that two-mile jaunt didn't stagger the waves nearly as much as the 1.2-mile swim would have. Thus, learning to navigate my way through a thick transition was another new, unexpected experience for me. And I liked it.

Though all we had to do was change our shoes and top off with a helmet, I was amazed to see how the lack of more to do seemed to frazzle many around me. The woman across from me returned to her zone three times as if she'd forgotten something, but without knowing particularly what it might have been, could only turn around again. Others just stood over their areas surveying with their hands on their hips, looking as if they were trying to bring something far away into focus.

"I'm all off my mark now!" The lady next to me laughed while deciding what to do next, and just then realized I was OK, which doesn't sound like anything in particular, but for me it kind of was. Here I've spent three years being rigid in this sport and reliant on predictable structure in general, and I must say, to be able to finally just go with the flow even with 1,000 people jumping in and out of my back pocket felt pretty good. I liked the energy and the momentum in the air, and decided maybe I was ready to let go of the slow-paced, nice and easy T1s of times past. Yeah, maybe I was ready to let go of that comfort zone altogether.

"CROSS THE LINE THEN RIDE! CROSS THE LINE FIRST, THEN RIDE!"

Before I knew it I was in the bottleneck of bikes exiting transition. There were bikes to the left of me, bikes to the right of me, bikes in front of me, and bikes behind me (in fact it stayed like this for the entire ride). Packs of riders fought for inches of asphalt, and maybe it was the adrenaline of the moment, or perhaps my newly found ability to seamlessly adapt to unexpected situations, but I found myself going fast, despite the cars, despite the bikes, and despite the wicked headwinds whistling through the vents in my helmet.

Cruising up the first hill I looked to see my watts were hovering around 250 and I was still comfortably accelerating past several packs of riders, many of whom made it very difficult to pass as they wouldn't fall into line. It was hard to blame them though because if they did fall into line, they'd have received a drafting penalty from Boris the drafting Nazi, whose motorcycle hovered menacingly off to the left. So what's a girl to do... half out of fear for getting a drafting card, and half because I just felt uber cool with myself, I passed the lot of them.

Just then I looked down at my PowerTap, which occasionally has been known to say very sweet things, and read '22mph, average watts 148, 25 miles down'.

Twenty. Five. Miles. Down.

Oh my God what? Holy crap I am THORWINA! Cycling Princess of the UNIVERSE!

And immediately I had to share all the love in my heart.

"Hang in there sister, we're halfway there!" I encouraged the strapping young lass I passed on yet another hill. She looked at me like I was munching on cat litter though, so I smiled - rationalizing internally that maybe she wasn't a good sport about being passed - and resolved to just bestow my joyous exuberance upon the next person in queue.

My good friend and Justice League counterpart, Pharmie, all aero and She-Ra like on the bike.

It was Pharmie! At some point in my amazing existence I had caught up with her and wanted to chat much more than we did, but we were coming upon Boris and his flunkies at an intersection again, so I had to pull away. She caught me again not long thereafter, and the two of us leapfrogged our way over the course in all our cycling majesty for a bit more. I looked down at my PowerTap then just after Pharmie took another turn passing me, and beamed.

"Just 20 miles left to go chica! You're looking awesome!" I said to yet another girl, who replied with a limp, "who farted?" smile.

Man, people are touchy out here today... I thought. But oh well. Just WAIT until my coach sees the coolness of this ride data baby!

And that's when the great ass of the universe descended upon my head, and I knew exactly who farted.

Oh. My. God. No. Way.

25 miles down was actually 25 minutes down, you see. I had my PowerTap set to display time when I thought it was displaying mileage. How it's possible I had no concept of the difference between 25 minutes and the HOUR AND A HALF it would have taken me to ride 25 miles, I have no idea. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the moment, or perhaps my newly found ability to seamlessly adapt to unexpected situations... yeesh.

Well needless to say I slowed way the hell down, as 36 miles now had turned into 36 minutes in a flash. I could have kept up that pace for another 20 miles with T2 gleaming like Rural-Girl's brandished butt off in the distance, but there was no way I'd be able to do it for 46! That's right. I had only gone 10 miles.

Whoooooooooo boy. Well that was fricking poetry, Trace. Seriously, right up there with asking what shock absorbers do when you were 15. Here, scoot over so I can add it right under the 'do hotwings just come from little chickens' question you asked James seven-some years ago. OK, so Thorwina... what was it? Cycling princess of the universe?

OH. It was a spectacular disaster. If anything were going to send me into a tailspin it would have surely been that, but the whole damn thing was just too funny and I couldn't stop laughing to myself about it. I guess maybe somewhere along the lines I really have learned to treat myself like I would any friend, and what mattered now anyway was hurrying the hell up out of there so I wouldn't have to face all those people I passed... with all the love in my heart.

Total bike 3:15, a good 15 minute overall half-Ironman PR, which, since most everyone I know PRd their brains out on the bike, I could attribute to the winds or to the unavoidable slipstreams of the packs. But you know, I think I'm gonna go with Thorwina, Cycling Princess of the Universe.

The Run

I smiled the entire way back to transition, wondering how I'd ever explain what happened to my coach. I imagined he'd have a good guffaw about the whole thing, how could he not after all. Spectacular screw ups like this take talent, and surely he'd appreciate that. Either way though, it was time to run.

I ran the first mile in 9:30, which surprised me because it felt more like 12. My legs didn't hurt, but they didn't exactly spring with each step either, so I'm not exactly sure how I pulled that one off. Mile two was another story though. I started feeling really flushed and nauseous, but only for a few minutes, and then it passed. Whoa time for an Endurolyte... I thought, and reached back to discover I'd forgotten to put the tube in my jersey pocket. Fantastic. Well, Gatorade would have to suffice, and I did have my Hammer gels, so didn't worry too much more about it.

Oddly enough it didn't feel hot out there at mile two, in fact it wasn't until about mile six that I started dumping ice down my jersey and putting it in my hat. Around this point I ran into Pharmie again, who had told me she kept overheating. Maybe that's what was going on with my stomach.

OR

It could have been the New Orleans Praline Pecan sundae I had the day before the race, like I somehow forgot I was lactose intolerant or something. Come to think of it, that would have been pretty easy to do considering right before I took the first bite James said, "Hey, aren't you lactose intolerant or something?" You see how it slipped my mind.

Anyway, clearly I'd found the limit of just how much path straying I could do this year and still get away with it. I can count on one hand the number of workouts in which I've actually challenged myself, and haven't paid decent attention to my diet for months, but here I was on the last leg of a half-Ironman with a bike PR in my pocket. Hell, I was Thorwina, EMPRESS of the Universe if I could do all that with such minimal effort right? Yeah, well even if, this highness couldn't wait to find a throne if you know what I mean.

Worse than that though was the all-stop nausea that hit out of nowhere, and the last thing I wanted to do was throw up in front of anyone though because seeing someone ralph on the side of the road is an instant energy suck for me. All of a sudden I get caught up in empathy for the poor SOB barfing his or her brains outs, then usually get sucker punched by the power of suggestion and start feeling a little queasy myself. Needless to say, I didn't want to share all THIS love with anyone, so the mission was suddenly clear: Do. Not. Puke.

Now carrying out this mission involved a hardcore strategy - run until the nausea wave crashed, and then move like I was carrying nitroglycerine in my jersey pockets. I'm sure to those around me the insta-stop and subsequent "special" kid walking that immediately ensued was curious to say the least, but OH the debt of gratitude they owe me for not launching bits all over their happy trails. I kept up like this for about four miles, ice helped, leathered road kill did not, and Gatorade might as well have been monkey pee for as much as I wanted another sip of it. This was not good to say the least, and I still had three miles to go.

My stomach started some serious Mount Vesuvius rumbling approaching mile 11, and it was getting harder and harder to keep it in. I just tried to smile and swallow hard because I knew if it hit my mouth it was all over, much like the time I was 17 and at the county fair, sitting next to the quarterback on a twirly ride just like in some Sweet Sixteen novel come to life. I was no friend of the twirly ride though, my friends. With every flip and loop we looped I begged the gods of high school humiliation to spare me from decorating the lap of his Levis with all the carnival crap I'd eaten. We were fresh out of gypsies here in the Midwest for me to run away with, after all.

When I got to the water stop it was clear I had to decide if I was really going to continue suffering like this for the last two miles, or just give in to nature. Any hope of a decent run split was long lost back at mile two, so what did I really have to lose except for a gutfull of God knows what? So, there at mile 11, I turned in and saw the red "occupied" sign on the Porta Potty slide to green as if to say, "Welcome, my child." Oh yes, it had been waiting for me.

The next ten minutes were both the most disgusting and the most glorious of my life. I can't say I've had an experience to equal coming face to bowl within a pressure cooker toilet, gazing upon the great snake mountain of mile 68 sh*t, then purging atop it all the fermenting curd raccoons that had been ransacking my stomach for the last 10 miles. Surely I had found the property line between Heaven and Hell.

The sandy chute to the finish.

When it was all over I emerged from the Porta Potty, wiped my mouth under the single sunbeam that illuminated me from above, and charged the field singing the Rocky theme. I was resurrected. The last two miles were nine minutes each, save the last 300-400 yards of quicksand, and my friends lined the finishing chute cheering. The whole thing was brilliant, I thought. Mule ass slow, but brilliant.

Lake Michigan at the end of the day, calm as can be.

3:15 for 13.1 miles (total race time 6:59). The absolute worst run split in the history of run splits, but a few valuable lessons came clearly into focus out there that day.

I've learned how to take whatever comes and make the best out of it, to laugh with myself even in light of my greatest personal debacles, and to believe I don't need my comfort zone anymore since it seems I really can hold my own in the crowd. And believe me, those lessons have been a long time coming.

Spending this year trying to turn down the volume in my head so I could listen better to the world around me, and really trying to live all the moments of my life has turned out to be the best decision I could have made. This is something that, despite my best efforts, I either didn't know how to do, or didn't have the time, patience - insert shortcoming here - to learn while also trying to figure out how to cover the miles, fight the monsters, and rally the faith in years past. It's a tricky balance, and one that I personally don't believe I achieved these last three seasons at it. Who knows though, maybe we never really do, but now that I have all the pieces I think I'm gonna try to find out. Just imagining the possibility is exciting, especially since I have a sneaking suspicion that for me...the sky's the limit.