So yesterday’s blog about San Diego and my super trip, was a tad on the lying side. Not anything about the San Diego trip, but the bottom part:
The part where I stopped around Mile 32, got off my bike, waiting until the Expert rolled back to me. The part where I was hurting and tired and angry.
And where I looked at the Expert and said, “I’m not doing this anymore.”
He stared at me. “You have to. You have 13 miles to get home.”
“No. I mean. I don’t want to do this anymore. This training. This this this.”
Really that was the first time I actually thought about hanging up all this insanity. The first time since my first real bike ride back in August 2010. I have been scared about races. Scared and thinking, maybe I should bow out of this race, or that race.
But yesterday was a I-think-I-may-bow-out-of-this-entire-triathlon-thing type of day.
I’m not sure what it was. Yes, I was tired from my trip. Yes, the ride was the longest one in a while. Yes, New Orleans is creeping scary close.
But it was something bigger.
It was about 40 degrees outside. I was frozen from the ride. My kids were at home. I missed them. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was suffering when I could have been reading Elmo, shopping or watching a movie or organizing a closet. But instead, I was physically hurting and doing it on purpose. At Mile 32, I just couldn’t take it anymore.
The Expert kept riding. He knows when I slip into crazy, to move along. Said he had his phone and to call if I had a mechanical or anything like that. I told him to go on. I rode a few miles, stopped, and sat on a bench. I did this a few times. I rode about 7-8 miles per hour… on a completely flat ride. People on grocery-getter bikes were flying past me. I didn’t care. I was hungry. Tired. Tired of it all.
How did I go from totally stoked and motivated from my trip to falling flat out of space?
I was sad. I was sad that I wasn’t even trying to pep myself up, talk myself out of it, put my “yes you can” motivation tactic to work on myself. I just gave up for no real reason. Swim Bike Mom was headed to just a blog called
Swim Bike Mom.
Today, I woke up and our baby girl (well, age 3) was sick. After taking her to the doctor, I dragged myself to the gym. I missed the scheduled spin class due to the doctor. So it was just me, sitting in the dark room, by myself.
I sat on the front row, under the dim lights, turned on Snow Patrol (instead of something peppier), and held on for the misery. I listened to Chasing Cars, Crack the Shutters, and Set Fire to the Third Bar – my three favorite SP songs that make me feel a little teen angst-y, Claire Danes like. Which was fine, because that’s how I wanted to feel.
I stared at myself in the mirror for the first fifteen minutes while I rode. Little by little, my legs picked up speed. Then, my heartrate climbed. The sweat started pouring. Thirty minutes later, I was suffering, riding faux hills, in and out of the saddle.
An hour later, I was back on the triathlon high. The proof? Well, I skipped over the treadmill and ran 2 miles in a little over 21 minutes. And I drove home.
And just like that, I’m back in it. I can’t explain it. But I think the simple answer to all of these emotions… is literally my little mantra: just keep moving forward.
If I had truly “quit” and sat on my lazy bum all day, I would not have been rejuvenated by the spin/run…and quite possibly, I would have let the negativity take root and that could have been…well, that.
So today, I confess my “I quit” attitude of yesterday. And now, I tell y’all… I’m back. (Even though you never knew I was gone.)