As many of you know, I completed my FIRST 70.3 on Sunday, October 30th in Ironman 70.3 Miami.

The time limit to be an official half-Ironman was eight hours.  My goal: finish in under 8 hours, and alive.

My official time was 7:15:24, and I couldn’t be happier.

Especially considering that my run was so terrible that it really wasn’t a run at all. But more of a cursing, painful limp.

The Expert crossed the line shortly thereafter.  (A proud moment for a 10th anniversary, for sure.)

Pre-Race
I was plagued with a headcold which started on the drive down to Miami on Thursday. The night before the race, I even downed a ton of NyQuil…. Regardless, I sniffled, coughed, tossed and turned like crazy all night.

Our alarm went off at 4:15 and I looked over at the other bed housing the Expert (yes, we are like the Cleavers. On races, we sleep in separate beds. It’s the best. Sorry, but it is..).

I said, “Oh no.”  He opened one eye and said, “I know.”

I was so tired. He was tired. I was so sniffly. I was so PUFFY. (The salt intake, oh, the salt.) And I hadn’t done a workout in almost 10 days, due to my hamstring.

At 4:20 on race morning, I found myself just plain dumbstruck.
I knew what was about to happen. I suspected what was about to happen.

I had no idea what was coming.

Set-up and Waterlogged
We arrived at the venue about 5:15am, and it was pouring down rain.  Pouring.  Pouring.  We parked about 12,000 miles from transition. (“Five dollar parking! Goody!”).

In the parking garage, the dichotomy was awesome: triathletes were rolling in, and a nightclub was letting the drunken Halloweeners (no pun intended) out.  Crazy drunk kitty cats and witches.  Crazy drunk nurses and ghosts. Crazy sober tired people with helmets (oh wait, that was us). The Expert and I watched as a Chippendale tried to go home with a Naughty Devil.  He succeeded and we cheered from inside the Pilot.

We walked to transition in the pouring rain.  Coach M called me on the phone.  I knew who it was without looking at the caller ID.  Only one other person would be calling me at that hour.

I answered, and Coach M was in process of giving me “the” awesome pep talk, when I slid on the wet pavement and cracked my toe on the curb.  (I know flipflops are the name of the game on race morning, but I am way too clumsy for that).  *(&@#.

At 5:25, the rain was dripping down my face, I was staring at all the bikes, and I couldn’t figure out where my transition space was.  I thought it was under my back wheel. But all the fit fancy people were using the front of their bikes.

I literally stood, holding my bag and staring into the rain for fifteen minutes. In fact, I stood there flabbergasted for so long, the Expert had time to pump his tires and set up his entire transition area.

He came over, “You ready?” I blinked and stared at him. He looked at me, unpacked and doe-eyed.

“Do I look like I am ready?”  I wailed. “Oh mah gawdddddd.”

Swim Start
Somehow I unpacked, the Expert pumped my tires (love) and transition was ready.

We wandered to the swim start about 5:50am. The rain continued to mercilessly come down, and we started to get cold.  In Miami.  Cold.  Ridiculous.

We found a place under a tree to sit, but the tree just poured fat, sloppy rain on us.  There was nowhere to hide from the rain.  Finally, I put on my swim cap just to keep my head warm.  That worked a little.

“What have you gotten us into?” the Expert asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

The object formerly known as the Sun appeared to come up (although there was no actual sighting of it).  About 7:30ish, the first starting gun went off, and the Pro Men took off.  The swim was set up like a demented triangle, which started with a jump off a dock, a swim out and wait until the gun start.

I was in Wave 9.  I kissed the Expert and waddled off in the rain to find my people.  But not before slipping one more time on the pavement, cursing, and then dodging a falling age grouper as he hit the pavement.

This race is already sheer carnage, I thought.

I was pretty impressed with the wave organization.  I followed a person waving a sign that said “Female 30-34″ and had a silver swim cap attached to it.  That was me.

I looked around at my fellow silver caps.  Unlike local races, where I could race Athena, there were no Athenas in sight.  In fact, there were no women who were within 15 pounds of Athena.


Where are the other fat girls? I thought to myself.  Where are ANY fat people, for that matter?  In that moment, I felt a little sick.  Not nervous.  But sick.  I thought I had bit off more than I could chew. Was I overconfident?  Was I just clinically insane?

The silver caps inched our way down to the dock.  I pulled my goggles down. I could see the Expert from the shore.  At most races, we have a hard time distinguishing each other from the other swim capped people.  I waved.  He immediately waved. Oh. He could easily distinguish me.  I was a sore thumb in my group. Like the one who had just attacked Krispy Kreme a few moments before.  Sigh.  I felt sick again.

Another starting gun and the pink caps took off.  We all walked to the edge of the dock, and jumped in the water.  I swam out.  One minute to start, the announcer said.  I felt calm at this point, repeating to myself: this is just a workout. Just a workout. 


Thirty seconds to start.


The starting gun went off, and I went after it.  Once my face hit the water, I was calm.  I felt in control.  I felt so strong.

Then I realized this was the longest, saltiest swim in the history of the world.  I had never seen so many buoys in my life.  Yellow, red, orange. Hundreds of them. (Okay, maybe 10).   I saw some pink swim caps…meaning I caught up to the previous wave.  That felt nice.  I was making some forward progress.

The sea grass attacked me.  And so did the men in the green and purple cap wave behind me.   One guy swam over me.  Literally.  I felt a hand on my butt, then I felt an entire body go over me. And not in a sexy way.  In an OMG, I’m being killed kind of way.  I was knocked around and kicked in the head.  I was elbowed.

Somehow, I rounded the last bouy and swam in.


Swim Time:  00:46:08

I walked my jelly legs up the stairs, and went through the fresh water rinse off.  As I “ran” to transition, I felt like the crowd of people was judging me.  I might as well have been naked.  I felt huge and seriously out of place.

In that moment, I had a decision to make.

Was I going to spend the rest of the race looking down?  Thinking I didn’t belong?  And why?  Because (to quote Bridget Jones) “I can’t ski, I can’t ride, I can’t speak Latin, my legs only come up to here and yes…. I will always be just a little bit fat”? 


No.  I wasn’t going to do it.  I held my salty head up, and made it alive into transition.


T1
Good T1, considering the distance to travel.  Uneventful. Thank God. Coach M mentioned how imprecise the fine motor skills can be in transition.  Seeing as how this was the longest race swim I had done, I noticed how correct he was.

I couldn’t bear the thought of putting on socks or gloves. I was just so soggy, and had been soggy for almost four hours at this point. I didn’t want wet socks or wet gloves.  I put on my wet helmet. I put on my dry shoes (which had been in a Ziploc), and I tucked my wet sunglasses in my trisuit.

I exited T1 at about 00:52:20.


Bike
This bike leg was ridiculous. Ri-dic-ulous.  Headwinds, side winds, rain, bumpy pavement, traffic, railroad crossings. Carnage on the road.  When I saw a pile-up of six super-fit athletes on the side of the road, I was shaken to my core.  Word on the street: there were several crashes at the railroad crossings.

SBM friend Leslie was one of the athletes in a pile-up I passed, although I didn’t see her at the time.  Despite being thrown off her bike, suffering a concussion and a sprained finger, she still caught me.  ”Hey Swim Bike Mom,” she shouted.  [I loved seeing her on the course.  Despite crashing, she still finished in under 7 hours.  Way to go, L!]

The bike was mostly this:
“On your left” ”On your left” ”On your left”
“On your left” ”On your left” ”On your left”
“On your left” ”On your left” ”On your left”
“On your left” ”On your left” ”On your left”
“On your left” ”On your left” ”On your left”

Despite the headwind, I had a good time on the bike, averaging about 16.5mph.  My first half was much better – the wind caught me pretty badly after the turn-around.   I think I was probably about 17.5mph on the first half of the bike.

I found alot of time to be grateful, to thank God for the day, and spend some time in the moment.

There were aid stations on the bike course – two of them – and I avoided them at all costs.  I had four bottles on my bike, and that was that.  Which was a good idea, because apparently no one can operate a bike and grab food/water simultaneously.  I stayed far away from the hand-offs, and I still almost fell victim to other cyclists clambering for water.

The ride was on a major roadway, and although the entire left lane was blocked off with orange cones for the race, the traffic was sketchy and scary.  Coupled with the horrendous wind, I think this was a downright stupid bike course.

On the “LEFT”, experienced cyclists blew by.  On the RIGHT, eighteen wheeler trucks blew by.  Sometimes it was scary.  Of course, an argument can be made to get rid of the sissies like me, and the course would have been roomy.

I hit the bike wall about Mile 44.

Bike Time: 03:23:38

T2
I have never been so glad to see a sign in my life.  ”Bike In.” Yay.

After an uneventful dismount (thank you sweet Lord), I trotted walked limped to my transition spot. And I had to pee so bad.  I couldn’t for the life of me see the porta-potties.  Even though I swore I had scoped them out the day before.  Where is the potty? Where?  Finally, I knew it was hopeless.  I sat on the grass, put on my compression socks, shoes, and Fuel Belt…. and just peed in the grass, right under Antonia. Yes, through my trisuit. No, not near anyone else’s transition stuff.  Plus, they were long gone.

It ain’t sexy, but it was the best idea ever. And it was drizzling, so it felt sanitary. Sorry, Mom.

Run

I ran out of transition, feeling pretty good. Run and done, run and done, I repeated to myself.

This was two-loop course.  I like two-loop courses almost as much as I like childbirth.  Passing the Finish Line en route to a second lap (while people are finishing!)?  Demoralizing.

I started off pacing about 12:00 minute mile, which according to my training and all sources, would have been reasonable.  Strategically, I was thinking, I could finish with about a 12:30 pace  (insert mild laughter here…for reasons shown below).

At the Mile 1 sign, I almost cursed out loud. One???? One?!?!?  12.1 to go?

My legs stopped working shortly thereafter.  They were moving forward, but they weren’t… what’s the word?  Firing?  Like I couldn’t turn them over to a run pace.  By Mile 2, I knew I was in for a 70.3 special treat.

The run went over a causeway, which on fresh legs would have been a fun, challenging climb.  After 4 hours of swimming and biking… “fun” is not particularly the word I would use.  Perhaps alien autopsy, or anal probe.  That’s more like it.

I jogged the first 3 miles of the run. I looked at my Garmin at one point, and I was going a 4.4 pace.  I can walk faster than this, I thought. At the top of the bridge, I had to walk.  I walked because I knew I had 9.5 miles to go.   I trotted downhill, thinking that the turn-around was close.  Uh.  No.

Positives? The aid stations were awesome.  Gatorade (or the Ironman brand of it) flowed freely. Gels, water, ICE (ice, baby), bananas, oranges.  I never thought I would want fruit.  But I devoured oranges at every turn.  The texture was divine.  After hours of baby food (GUs), real fruit was heaven.

The first loop was bad.  The second loop was hell.

Going up this bridge on the second time, I was so wrecked. One lane was blocked for the runners, and traffic was coming in the opposite direction.  A little disorienting.  At one point, I lost my whereabouts. I stumbled.  A Mazda honked at me.  I was over the cones.  And I had no idea. [Race pointer for next year's race?  Ummmm. How about no major highway? Thanks.]

On and on I ran.  I walked.  I had ZERO grateful moments. Not because I wasn’t grateful, but because I was lost.  I was wandering.  I had no idea where I was.

Somewhere, I saw the Expert.  I saw him coming for about 100 yards.  The closer he got, the more I cried. Until he was passing me, saying, “Are you okay??” and I said, “Yes. I am just glad to see you.”

Bridge up, bridge down, bridge up, bridge down.

At Mile 7, I stopped to pee.  It was a porta-potty.  I opened the door, and there was a giant poop on the seat.  A real, live steamy poo.  On the seat.  ON. THE. SEAT. I was tired.  I closed my eyes. And I hovered over it.  I thought… this is it.  I am in this to finish.  Because otherwise… I can’t justify this moment, hovering over poo. Over strange poo.  I am going to finish.

I kept moving.  Then I saw a sign that said Mile 9, and I cramped, and wept.  4. More. Miles. No. No. No.

Really, I don’t remember much about the run after Mile 9.  But I do remember this:
I had about 1.5 miles to go.  And I saw this “volunteer,” a snotty long-haired kid.  And as I shuffled by him, only a short distance from my ultimate quest, he snickered, snorted and then laughed at me.  I thought I was mistaken.  But then he looked at me and snorted again.  I stopped.  For just a second.  I looked at him, and I said, “Did you @#%*ing just laugh at me?”  His little baby eyes got big, and he turned away.  I knew I wasn’t imagining it, when a crowd member said, “YEAH!  What she said! Go girl!!”

And I kept going. Oh boy.  A mean teenager laughed at me.   What was I?  A five-year old?  Yes.

Before I knew it, I was running down the chute.  People clapped…. surprised faces, encouragement, laughter, smiles and “go girl”.  I heard it all.  At one point, I put my hand on my heart, then my head, and I said, “Thank you, God.  Thank you.”  And I meant it.

As I crossed the finish, I threw out some thumbs up, and I did a fist pump…and I jumped. I was foolish.

It. Was. Done.  I am half an Ironman.
Run Time:  02:54:40 


…And really “done”
The Expert and I celebrated our big day at the hotel bar, after the most needed shower of the century.

I smelled like the dirtiest, smelliest billy goat in all the planet.  Salt was crystallized on every surface of my skin. I was sunburned.  I looked beaten.  We planned a big night out. I brought a fancy dress to wear.  But we couldn’t walk.  We didn’t want to walk.  I couldn’t hold my arms up to dry my hair.

We decided the hotel restaurant was perfect. I toasted our race with a Stella Artois.  We downed chicken wings, spring rolls, pizza, hamburger, and cake.  3 glasses of wine, 3 beers, and a mojito.  In an hour.

And I was still hungry. By 8:30…. dead asleep.

But not before I realized that I only had one bike shoe… and no flip-flops.  And no helmet.  I abandoned an entire bag in transition, including the Expert’s race shirt.  Ooops.   Then, the next day driving home, the Expert and I realized we left all of our Ironman 70.3 goodies and shirts and magnets in the hotel.  I called the manager, and he is shipping them to me (allegedly).  When/if they arrive, I will do a plug for the fabulous hotel. But not until then!

….What I Learned:
I finished 67 out of 75 in my division, number 340 out of 367 women.  I finished 51 in the swim.  57 on the bike. The run obliterated me, obviously. What I learned?

1) I need to run more. I need to perfect my run.  My run suffered. I suffered.  I cursed the running gods.  I must run more.

2) That I may be fat, but people on the sidelines are often fat a-holes. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for all the supportive crowd-goers – you guys were awesome.  As I rounded the finish, one lady yelled, “Hey you!” and I looked to her.  She was about my size, about my age, and she said, “YOU ARE AWESOME!”  And the best part?  I could tell…she meant it.  And I finished, and I said, “Yeah! I feel awesome!” (despite my inability to walk).

So. To those of you who scoffed, mocked and laughed at me along the way?  Screw you. [My mother reads this. Or I would have used this chance for an inaugural F-bomb.]

But on Mile 12. To have someone laugh at me.  To have someone scoff.  At my 7+ hour effort?  It was bizarre. I wanted to scream:  ”Oh yeah? You laugh? You are fatter than me!  And you are attempting to shame me? For what? For running a HALF IRONMAN?”

That’s what I wanted to say. But I didn’t.  Because to focus on that, would have made the day about them.  So instead, I held my fat head up.  Moved forward. And ran/walked/shuffled my way to 70.3.

4) I. Am. Worthy. I. Worked. For. This.  (And no one can take that away. Ever.)

5) No one cares.  I have done an epic thing (in my head).  But guess what?  No one cares.  People outside of triathlon think I am weird.  People at work wonder why I’m not in my office. People don’t care.  The lesson? When you do something “epic”—- you better care.  Because you’re all you’ve got.  You better tuck away your victories.  You better know.  Because no one else does….. and if they do…they don’t care.

6) I am proud of the Expert.  Very proud.

7) This may be the longest race report in the history of the land.
But THE lesson? Really?  Yes. You. Can. Go do it.  Move slowly. But move.  It doesn’t matter. Just go.

I love you all. Thanks for keeping me moving.  Thanks to Staci and my parents for watching our babies while we were gone. When we walked in from the trip, Stella, our three year old baby girl said, “Oh, you run? You ride your tricycle? You swim, momma?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that yes, Momma felt like she was riding a tricycle….

Until the next adventure… keep moving.

 

SWIM	BIKE	RUN	OVERALL	RANK	DIV.POS.
46:08	3:23:38	2:54:40	7:15:24	1912	68

LEG	DISTANCE	PACE	RANK	DIV.POS.
TOTAL SWIM	1.2 mi. (46:08)	2:25/100m	1515	51
TOTAL BIKE	56 mi. (3:23:38)	16.50 mph	1822	57
RUN SPLIT 1: 3.6 mi	3.6 mi (43:05)	11:58/mi
RUN SPLIT 2: 6.8 mi	3.2 mi (44:06)	13:46/mi
RUN SPLIT 3: 10 mi	3.2 mi (47:40)	14:53/mi
RUN SPLIT 4: 13.1 mi	3.1 mi (39:49)	12:50/mi
TOTAL RUN	13.1 mi (2:54:40)	13:20/mi	1912	68
TRANSITION				TIME
T1: SWIM-TO-BIKE				5:29
T2: BIKE-TO-RUN				5:29