Rained Out

Road Trip Day #14 - Well, we didn't have any luck with blue skies yesterday.  So now, we look and smell like drowned rats.  So far, camping on the Olympic Peninsula has proven to be a very soggy ordeal.  We're not going to quit, though.  We're rough 'n tumble campers and are going to tough it out.  The forecast is predicting bluer skies, so we're hoping for the best.  If not, we'll be back to drinking boxed wine under the tarp.  Bleh.

Over and Done

Road trip Day # 13 - It's amazing what a few days of rest can do for the body.  Considering how thoroughly wrecked I was on Sunday night, I feel great.  My quads are a little fatigued and my back is still in knots, but those are the only physical remnants of Sunday's Ironman.  It's almost sad.  After all those months of training, planning, and obsessing, it's just over.  Sigh.

But now it's time for the fun part of our road trip.  Now it's time to play.  We've crossed the border and are back in the states, exploring the Olympic Penninsula.  We spent last night at Dungeness Forks campground, tucked back into the Olympic National Forest.  Today we're headed south to Wynoochee Lake, and are praying the rain lets up.  It's beautiful out here, but wetter than wet.  The peninsula is certainly living up to it's reputation.  All we can do now is hope for the best and, possibly, a break in the clouds.  A little blue sky would go a long way...

Ironman Canada

It was just after 8pm when I crossed the finish line, thirteen hours and three minutes after the gun went off and I plunged into insanity.  The final surge of adrenaline I had felt in the final miles of the run i
mmediately dissipated, only to be replaced with relief and utter exhaustion.  I had done it.  I had completed Ironman Canada.  My legs could barely hold me up, my entire body shook with cold and fatigue, and waves of nausea overcame me.  I made my way through the race corral and collapsed into Mouse's arms, fighting back tears.  All of the emotions I had battled over the course of the race - frustration, fear, pain - all bubbled up and came out.  I was completely and thoroughly spent.  But through the fog of my mental and physical pain, I was still able to feel the unmitigated elation of knowing that I had actually finished.  I had accomplished my goal.  I was now Ironman.

Sitting on the grass, sipping my chicken broth, it was surreal to think that I had started this morning at the lake, battling my way through the two-mile swim with nearly three thousand other participants.  It had been my first mass start, and it was ruthless.  The sheer number of swimmers made it impossible to get into a good rhythm for the first mile.  I spent more time fending off the other swimmers than I did actually swimming, and sucked in more water than I did air.  I sputtered and coughed.  I can't even count the number of blows I took to the head.  It was pure madness, and it took everything I had to keep the panic at bay.  Luckily, the field began to open up as I began my second mile, allowing me to fall into a steady rhythm.  With every stroke, the panic faded and my confidence began to build.  I could do this.  I found open pockets of water, navigated my way through the other swimmers, and made seemingly slow progress through the field.  Finally, I rounded the last turn and reached the shore.  The first portion of the race was done.

Then came the bike - the part I had been dreading.  It's my weakest event and, also, the longest.  I'd been reading the course reports for weeks and feared the worst.  The official report claimed only 4,000 feet of elevation gain over the 112 miles, but the unofficial reports warned it was closer to 6,000 feet.  Either way, I knew I had a significant amount of climbing ahead.  And climb I did.  Then I climbed some more.  That's all I seemed to do.  Every time I gained a little speed on some downhill, I was met by an even steeper uphill.  My quads burned and my spirits sank.  It was becoming a vicious mind game, and frustration was getting the better of me.  I tried to distract myself with the awe-inspiring beauty of the surrounding mountains, but even that couldn't boost my spirits. The hills just never seemed to end, and miles 92 to 100 felt like a cruel joke.  But, like all things, the hills did eventually come to an end.  I rode into the transition area on an indescribable high, knowing I had battled my demons, my burning quads, and those insufferable hills.

Now it was time for the run.  This is what I had been looking forward to all day.  This was going to be my chance to make up some of the time I had lost on the bike.  Amazingly, I felt great on the first thirteen miles.  My adrenaline had kicked in as soon as I put on my running shoes, and my legs wanted to go fast, maybe a little too fast.  I tried to slow myself down in preparation for the 26.2
miles ahead, but my first couple of miles still went by more quickly than they should.  By mile 5, I was able to fall into a comfortable pace, and I settled in to my run.  The course switched from paved path to gravel trail, winding past golf courses, lakes, and through wooded areas.  The varied terrain was a blessing, keeping my mind occupied, and off the severe fatigue that was starting to settle in.  No matter how much I love running, I couldn't deny that I was beginning to fade.  By mile 15, my quads were shredded and my pace significantly slowed.  At this point, it was a mind game.  I knew I couldn't let time, distance, or fatigue get the best of me.  So, I just kept pushing along.  At times, I was certain that my shuffle was no faster than a walk, but I didn't care.  I knew I had to keep running, which is exactly what I did.  I kept running past mile 20, then mile 22, and before I knew it, I was passing the mile 24 marker, making my way into Whistler Village.  The crowd support was amazing; their cheers only adding more fuel to my fire.  My pace quickened as my adrenaline surged once more.  Before I knew it, I was crossing the finish line, barely able to process what I just done.  I was speechless and stunned.  I had thought I would cry tears of joy as soon as I crossed that line, but I discovered I had nothing left at that moment.  I was the definition of done.

There it is.  Six months of my life wrapped up into one, long day.  Was it tough?  Definitely.  Was it worth it?  Most certainly.  I'm proud to say that I am Ironman.

IMC - My Day of Reckoning

Road Trip Day # 9 - Race Day.  It's 4:30 am; my final pre-dawn morning of the season.  It all comes down to this.  140.6 miles of swimming, biking, and running, which will most likely take me (at least) fourteen hours to complete.  It's going to be a tough day.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous, maybe even downright scared.  This race is going to test me physically, mentally, and spiritually, but when it's all said and done, I will be an Ironman.  Here goes nothing...

The Problem with the Taper

Road Trip Day # 7 - OK, so I totally lied.  I still feel like a slug.  Or, maybe, a better description is that of a big, fat, doughy ball of out-of-shape flesh.  Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.  I have been actively training for Ironman since February, after all.  It's just that this tapering and carbo-loading thing is messing with my mind.  After being so active for so long, and becoming accustomed to training for several hours every day, this self-imposed state of rest is disconcerting.  I already feel thoroughly out of shape, which is not exactly ideal, considering how quickly this race is approaching.  I'm trying to make the best of it, though.  (I know, I know.  Poor me.)  I guess there could be worse things than hanging out with old friends, cooking meals together, and relaxing in a mountainside condo, so I really should stop my moaning.  One more day until IMC.  I hope I'm ready for this...

Ready or Not

Road-trip Day #5 - I may be dirty, smelly, and vaguely reminiscent of the patchouli-laden hippies that seem to populate Vancouver Island, but at least I'm feeling less sluggish. After a couple of days tucked into the wilderness, with some trail runs and hikes under my belt, I'm beginning to feel a little more like myself.

Vancouver Island was everything I imagined it to be; the exact portrait of the Pacific Northwest conjured in my imagination. Victoria proved to be a quaint city, exuding an old-world vibe one doesn't get back home, with it's architecture of centuries past. I wish we had been able to spend more than a couple of hours there, as it would have been an intriguing area to explore, but the southern portion of the island was calling us. So, we ate, stocked our groceries, and headed for less-populated shores. The drive to China Beach in Juan del Fuca Provincial Park took much longer than expected, along the narrow, winding, rural roads, but it was worth the trek. The further south we ventured, the more rugged the wilderness became. Except for some houses dotting the coastline, and the occasional roadside cafe, there was no civilization to speak of, just old-growth forests and rocky beaches. I honestly don't think you could get more quintessential Pacific Northwest than this. The pine trees towered at least one hundred feet overhead, majestic in their presence alone. The green mosses and ferns covering the forest floor only further lent to the sense of mystique, like we were walking into a storybook rendition of a rainforest. It was all so rugged and beautiful in a way that made me want to get lost there forever. This abject beauty did not come without a price, though, as it was quite a bit colder than expected. Even in the supposed heat of August, the ocean mist would role in and chill us to the bone. I guess that's a small penance for such surreal surroundings, though.

Today, we're back on the ferry and returning to the mainland. Our next stop is Whistler, the true purpose for the trip. While I'm excited for the luxury of the condo, and to spend some time with friends, I'm also keenly aware that this signals that Ironman is nearly here. I'm trying to keep my nerves at bay, and focus only on the good, but it's tough to do when Sunday is approaching so quickly. I just have to remind myself that it is only one day, and I've been preparing for it since February. Ready or not, here it comes.

Oh Canada!

Road-trip Day #3, and I feel like a slug. For two days now, we've been on the road for more than twelve hours a stretch. We've subsisted on fast food and junk, as there aren't many nutritional options in the middle of nowhere. And any form of exercise has been out of the question; we've been too focussed on making good travel time for any form of leisure. I'm not sure if this is the best pre-race prep, but I guess that's how it goes.

We finally crossed the Canadian border last night and made it to our campsite on Porteau Cove in pitch black. The beauty of the coastline was lost on us as we navigated the winding Sea-to-Sky Highway. All we could see was the precarious road ahead and the infinite darkness around. This morning was a different story, though. We woke to a misty Pacific Northwest morning, with the fog unfurling from the mountains into the sea below. It was a sight for sore eyes, and a welcome reminder of why we drove so far.

Thankfully, the worst of the traveling is now behind us. Today, we're hopping a ferry that will take us from the mainland to Vancouver Island. Once there, we'll hit up the city of Victoria for a proper lunch and some microbrews before heading further south to Juan de Fuca Provincial Park and China Beach for some more camping and, finally, a touch of relaxing. I don't think I've ever been more ready for the mainstay of a vacation to begin...

Whistler or Bust

Well, here we go. My training is complete. There's nothing left to do. At this point, I will either sink or swim come next Saturday. (Frighteningly, that's a very literal interpretation of what could happen.) So, we packed our gear and hit the road early this morning. Our final destination: Whistler, British Columbia. Today, we'll be happy to make it to Boise. Right now, we're somewhere in the flat, never-ending grasslands of Wyoming, wishing for even the slightest change of scenery. Our road-trip has officially begun, and we have countless hours of driving ahead. Even though this first stretch is tedious and threatens to be mind-numbingly boring, I'm thrilled for our vacation to begin. I've been planning, plotting, and researching for this all summer, and am excited to see my efforts finally come to fruition. Besides, I need to focus on how much fun this trip is going to be, rather than how truly terrified of Ironman I am. So, for now, I'm pushing all race thoughts as far to the periphery of my mind as possible and am treating this like any other vacation. I'm looking forward to exploring the Pacific Northwest, a region in which I've not previously ventured. I'm looking forward to seafood dinners and days on the beach. Most importantly, I'm looking forward to finally having some time to unwind. So, let another adventure begin!