well, you do get bored. and that's when the mental part of the race comes in. you have to mentally be prepared and mentally race yourself through. last year i ran a full marathon with no training- one five mile run about two weeks earlier- i ran it and shaved 20 minutes off my last time, and still walked around the rest of the day. was it cause i was in great shape? meh. i think it's cause i was mentally ready to do it. don't get me wrong- training=important. but the mental training is half of the battle.
mental racing is part of why i have decided to branch out into triathlons... running races are still mental and challenging, but now that i've done a few, it's a different kind of mental. doing tris is a new way of challenging myself: i am not concerned about timing, performance, technique- no, i am concerned about finishing. the end. it's a good mix up for me.
this weekend i had the hardest mental race i've ever, ever had.... it started out with a lack of planning/response on my friends' parts: we were supposed to race together, the three of us. it turned out i went to the race alone. all week i was a little peeved, at least secretively so. then on thursday, my roommate's bike, the one i was planning on using- got stolen. poor roomie! friday i spent the day scrambling around, trying to find a decent rental bike, since my mountain bike was in desperate need of a tune up and was not going to be race-able by sunday. saturday i picked up the 'hybrid' bike: i was under the impresison it was a mountain/road bike hybrid; i'm pretty sure it was really a mountain/cruiser hybrid. not ideal for racing, but it would do!
after i picked up the bike, i raced home to get ready for the afternoon concert series friend and i were attending. in my rush, as i was changing my trash bags, weirdly enough, i sliced my finger open, pretty deeply. so deeply, in fact, that 40 minutes of direct pressure and elevation above my heart, and it was still bleeding. i wrapped it in a tiny purple bandaid and forgot about it as much as possible, and off i went.
fast-forward to sunday am. i wake up at 5 and i can tell i'm just in a snappy, bad bad mood. i pull all my gear together, jump in the car and curse the cold morning i knew was coming.
arriving at the reservoir, i checked in, racked my bike and sat on a bench, watching the sun rise over the reservoir, mentally preparing for the race ahead. it was beautiful, and i thought i was in a better place- ready to go! sixty minutes later, as i waded into the cold reservoir in my purple swim cap, i realized my 'tude adjustment was temporary.
bad, dirty words flew through my mind as i jumped into the water at 8:20, surrounded by women my age, capped in purple plastic head gear. i started the swim by loosing my breath, and trying to ward off an anxiety attack. the whole swim was much, much longer than i had anticipated, and i could not seem to make my mind and body cooperate. my legs kept sinking, my face would not go in the water and i could not get my breathing under control. pulling my arms out of the water for the free style stroke for the first time, my arms felt like dead weight, and everything my swim lessons taught me went right out the window. all i could think of, literally, was 'i would rather be dying right now then doing this. this is the worst thing in the whole world. i could drown right now, it would be easier.' however, in reality, drowning was not an option. i kept kicking, paddling, wishing and willing myself forward. all the purple caps had passed me, and even a few white and greens (the last two waves of women), meaning i was in the race now with the 'athenas' (aka 50+ women, the last wave).
i finally reached solid ground-and kissed it. no, not really, but instead of running out of the water and up to the transition (yes, we had to run UPHILL STAIRS to get to our bikes) i walked the first few yards. i just was so happy to be on solid ground, i couldn't think of anything else, nor could my legs do anthing else. as i finally ran up the steps, my first moment of hope arrived: i spotted not only my mom, but my sister! cheering, snapping pictures, for ME! ahhh! mental rejuvenation. maybe i CAN do this!
'the bike will be better, the bike will be better' i chanted in my head. i pulled my shorts on and undid my bathing suit bottoms. shoes and socks on, i looked down and realized my cut had pulled open and was gushing blood. 'no time, no time!' i thought, as i buckled my helmet and ran my bike through the chute.
hope moment two: mom and sis again! i said hi and my step lightened a little. i jumped on my bike, ready to burn some rubber and then noticed, as i pedaled, two things: one, my hand was literally still gushing blood. i could not use it to steer the bike- i had to rest my left forearm on the handle and try to keep the hand above my heart to stop it- especially since my heart was beating extra fast; two, i noticed that my knees were essentially hitting my ears every time i pedaled. not great. my bike seat was too low! it must have not been tightened from when we fitted it at the rental shop.
i couldn't stop! i was in panicked go-go-go mode, plus i only had one hand. i powered (puttered) up a hill, and women zipped past my left, over and over- many, after seeing my hand, even slowed to ask if i was ok. this kind gestured only added to my emotional panic, and i fought the tears, and the urge to turn around and quit. it would be totally legit to quit if i had to go get stictches, right?! i thought in my head... at one point a race official on a motorcycle asked if i was ok, and i even said in a fighting-the-sobs voice, 'yes i'm fine. i'm, i'm not gonna.. i'm not gonna run though'. what?! he just wanted to know if needed first aid and i was sharing my mental race breakdown with him! too stubborn, i didn't stop for first aid.
i pedaled on.
at half way through the ride, the bleeding had finally stopped so i pulled over and fixed my seat. the rest of the ride was much easier, and i began to actually pass people, rather than being passed. i could see, from the ages written on all our calves, that i was back in the 35-45 year old wave of women, meaning i had made up some of my swim time. this amazed me, and inspired me to keep pedaling. i began talking out my transition outloud, so that i wouldn't forget what i was doing when i got there. i also began cursing triathlons in general, out loud, and swore to never do another. 'this is stupid!' was my mantra for a mile or so.
i can run, this i know. i begin passing people. i stop to re-tie my shoe, and pass the people that passed me. i keep on pace. 3 miles is easy to sprint, so i run hard and fast. the phrase 'f this stupid race' grows legs and runs through my head at a fast pace. i begin talking myself down, feeling more calm the more distance i put on the run. i can run, this i know.
i see the chute. the last 100 yards involve two 90 degree zigzags, one after another, and bad 'tude kaci makes one more appearance, muttering out loud: 'this is stupid. who planned this race?'. but i run through them. i sprint up the hill (yes, another hill!) and into the chute and around the corner (yes, a corner in a chute. i reiterate: who planned this race?!) and sprint to the finish.
i stop racing. i won. my time was not important, because i won my own race: my head.
remind me to never, ever tri again. at least til next year :)
(update: i checked my time for this hellacious race, and the first tri, three weeks ago, the one that i l.ov.e.d. surprisingly, my times were exactly the same, with a 4 second difference. hell is 4 seconds longer than love.)
I love you! And as I always say...you're my hero! I'm proud of you for keeping up even when all you wanted to do was let it go and I'm glad I came to see you, you always make me want to do what you do (and thats a good thing!):)
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