A thanksgiving family run affair

October 26, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 2 Comments

Training feels like a faraway memory. I often joke that these days I’m more into Netflix and drinking marathons than running marathons. But on a Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, I found some time and energy to fit in a race.
For an October morning, the air was warmer than I expected as the sun peeked over the horizon greeting us on a strip of seaside road in downtown Victoria. It’s race morning and not unlike other race mornings, I am immersed in my surroundings, absorbing the overload of familiar senses, from the sight of intermingled bodies, to the smell of sweaty skin and the sounds of excited chatter. There are thousands of us all huddled together like a herd of sheep. Despite the same feelings of any other race morning running through my nervous hands, this morning felt different. Waiting for a race start usually means I’m standing on the shores of a body of water peeing one final time into my extra tight neoprene wet suit. Peeing in my race shorts in the middle of the street was not an option. I hadn’t run a road race in over two years and standing there on dry land with my running shoes on felt awkward. Needless to say, thanks to a not-so brilliant idea from my sister-in-law for a family race, here I was at the start line of an 8K road race with the intention of running a personal best time.
Over the eight weeks leading up to the race, I tried to get out for a run four times a week. It usually ended up being two, maybe three times, with the excuse that I was still recovering from Ironman. As the weeks went on, I just started telling myself that it was ok to not want to run, and it was ok to want to drink a bottle of wine instead, and so I did. Slowly, I started to become a shell of my former fit and dedicated self. My collection of empty wine bottles increased and so did the numbers on my scale. Still, I was convinced I would pull off an 8K PB. Race day would bring some hard realities to fruition.
As the gun blasted to start the race, I headed off feeling strong and confident. Unfortunately, that only last for just over five minutes, or until about the first kilometre marker. My pace was on track, but my heart rate was skyrocketing and so was my breathing. I screamed curse words silently in my mind. First it was directed at the extra 10 pounds I had gained, then at all the wine, gin, beer and coolers I had consumed over the past couple months, then the silent screaming turned on all the other runners who were slowly but effortlessly passing me.
The first 4K felt like torture. It was a gradual climb – and by climb, I mean a very slight incline, but I could feel it in my legs as I stomped along like a lame horse. As I approached the 3K marker I saw my brother already heading back to the finish, looking fresh and strong. The silent cursing started again. Of course he has the running genes in the family.
Shortly after, I hit the turnaround point and rounded the cone and I actually started to suffer. At this point in the run I had planned to kick my pace up and kill it back home, but my plans were all but an impending failure. I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and could hear my exasperated breathing intensify. Other runners must have looked at me and thought I was dying. In the near distance, I could see an aid station approaching and I had to think about what I was going to do with it. Normally for anything less than a half Ironman I wouldn’t even think of using one, yet on this day, things were different; things were getting ugly. As I approached the table, I desperately reached for a cup of water, which I threw on my chest, and then a cup of some sort of electrolyte drink, which I ineffectively, spilled half down my front. I felt foolish and if I wasn’t hurting so bad, I would have laughed. Everyone else around me seemed like they were on a Sunday stroll, and every few metres, out of the corner of my eye, I would see all sorts of people moving in unorthodox running styles, moving past me. They looked clunky and terrible, but they were not red in the face from laboured breathing, nor ready to fall down flat on the pavement. That was me. At one point, just a few metres in front of me, I could even see someone taking a ‘selfie’ as they jogged along. This is when the self-talk kicked in. “Just be grateful you are able to do what you do, Aly, you are out here doing it.” Then I thought, “no, you don’t get to have excuses!” Again, I cursed my last couple months of indiscretions.
Rounding the final bend of the route, I saw the finish line off in the distance, which, in fact, was not where we started, but about 200 metres beyond that. I didn’t really feel like taking another step. Then I looked to my left and saw my parents cheering me on with my bright eyed 5 year old niece. OK, maybe I could take another step. I tried to smile and wave and look strong, but I feared that I ended up looking like I was in awkward pain.

Awkward pain look.

After crossing the line and receiving my medal, I found my family. I tried to play it off that I was cool, but quickly resigned to the fact I was near death and sitting down was a high priority. They laughed in spite of my defeat.
I was nowhere near my 8K PB but I did beat my course PB from two years ago by over three minutes. It was my consolation prize and a lesson learned in expectations. You can’t set the bar high and expect to get there without hard work and commitment. Heading into race day, I had neither of those. But it was fun to laugh at myself.
Since race day I’ve continued to allow myself to have late nights at the bar and otherwise indulge in non-training activities, with the caveat that November 1 is the deadline for getting back on track. I’ve had my fun, but I have a different kind of fun that I’m longing to get back to. So, back to the grind I will go, ready to commit and work hard.

Off season blues

September 10, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 2 Comments

It’s been just over six weeks since Ironman, and I think my life is finally settling back down to something that resembles normal. It’s a hard transition to go from a million miles a minute, to the greatest experience of my life, to nothing. For a few days after the event, I allowed myself to heal. That meant allowing myself to sleep in, not train, and otherwise not think about swimming, biking or running. And considering I was still hobbling along with sore muscles, searing blisters, chaffing and healing road rash, a break was probably needed. But slowly the pain and tiredness went away, and as the sunshine and sparkles of race day faded, I began to feel somewhat lost. There was no more structure in my life, no schedule telling me where to be or what to do, and no more goals, or drive. I slowly started to feel the happy escaping me. Some nights I would curl up on the couch feeling sad and lonely. Some nights I paced around the kitchen unsure of what to do. Some nights I barely slept. At the time, I longed for workouts, but didn’t have the energy. Even light jogs would send my heart rate skyrocketing, and I started to worry I was losing everything I had worked so hard to build – and I was.
The off season was tougher than I had thought. My body, my mind, and my life, in general, needed a break from the constant and, at times gruelling, two-a-day training, yet at the same time my body and mind almost ached for it. I remember during training season, I would say to myself, when this is all over I’m going to enjoy life outside triathlon. I had plans to stay up late, eat chicken wings, drink beer, sleep in, and otherwise regain my social life. Yet, with all the time in the world to do those things, I kept finding myself wanting the one thing that I thought I wouldn’t miss – training.
As I gave myself some more time to digest the post-season, I found that over time things slowly fell into place. First and foremost, I had to tell myself that it was ok to let go of the constant swimming, biking and running routine to do other things. I just had to rediscover what those things were. I also needed time to recover and to accept that if in that process I lost some of my fitness that was ok too. It’s a part of the cycle, and with rest comes re-building which can sometimes be one of the best parts of training.
Within about a month, I had settled back into a busy life full of triathlon and chicken wings and beer. It’s an incredible combination, but my sadistic love for punishment will have me chomping at the bit for more intensity soon enough. I’m already setting goals and thinking about my next challenge, and yes Ironman Canada is on the calendar for next year. If you had asked me immediately after the race, or even during the race, I would have said that another Ironman was not in the cards for me. But with some reflection, I’ve discovered that this journey I’ve been on is not over. A chapter of it is complete, but there are so many more mountains to climb and conquer. Here’s to whatever 2016 has in store for me and I’m knocking heavily on its door.

Ironman Canada – July 26 – Whistler

August 10, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 8 Comments

The world is quiet at 3:30 in the morning. It feels dark and lonely and unchartered. As I sat across the breakfast table from my training partner, Tracy, we choked down our pre-race meals in silence. There really wasn’t much to say between us, and we didn’t need to talk, we already knew what was going on in each other’s minds. Just being together side-by-side heading off into the battle field was all we needed.

As we descended onto Rainbow Park and into transition for final bike set-up, it felt like any other race morning. I went through my routines like clock work as I bobbed my head to pump-up ballads thumping through my headphones. I opted to drown out the voices around me – I had enough going through my own mind and I didn’t need outside distractions or further things to worry about. After meticulously putting on my wetsuit, I begrudgingly removed my headphones, dropped off my belongings at the morning clothes bag drop, and took the long way around to the water where I happened to find one of my other training partners, Kate. The two of us could hardly contain ourselves from embracing in a long, emotional hug. Together we decided there was no time like the present to get in the water.

With Kate on my toes we slowly swam our way out to the buoy line. We still had about 10 to 15 minutes until the start but it was more relaxing to be in the water. No more pacing, no more distracting music – just me, thousands of other Ironman hopefuls, and the cool lake water. Together we bobbed, floated, and anxiously awaited the start cannon. With a mere 30 seconds to go, as if in unison and without any prompts, we all started yelling good luck to one another, and then it began.

For the first 25 metres or so, I couldn’t even put my head in the water. There was a mass assault of body parts flying every which direction and with every stroke and kick I would collide with neoprene. It felt like a charge of seals flailing from an impending predator – we were swimming for our lives. I kept thinking that if I stopped at any which point, I would be trampled from the herd and sink slowly into the dark depths of the lake. Finally, the mass settled out, and I was able to get into my pace and rhythm with mostly clear water around me. Every now and again for no rhyme or reason a body would swim directly across me, or an arm would slam on top of my head. Sometimes I yelled, other times I just grabbed onto that misguided body part and moved it out of my way. It was every man for themselves out there. Be aggressive, or be left behind.
The swim went on and on and on and on. One, two, sight, one, two, sight, repeat, repeat, repeat. I would count buoys, I would yell at other swimmers, I would sing songs, I would think of the finish line, I would think of land, I would think of the grey sky that looked the same every time I looked at it. The excitement only kicked up when I hit the turn buoys and masses of bodies would all converge together as if we were a giant magnet. Again, I would get my elbows up, yell and move people out of my way. Then it was back to one, two, sight and repeat. As I rounded the third buoy and headed out for my second lap, I turned my head to the right and breathed almost in unison with no one other than Kate. In that moment, I realized through all that chaos she had managed to stay on my toes for the entire first lap – incredible. We briefly smiled and acknowledged each other before heading off on our paths. Once I hit the second to last buoy on my last lap, I started to get tired. I was longing to be vertical and to be on my beloved bicycle and out of the water. The stretch from the last turn buoy to shore felt like the longest part of the swim. I kept thinking I would see land beneath me, but it just went on and on, until finally I was almost scraping my body against the sand and I stood up. As with every transition from the water to shore, I sauntered like a drunken pirate until my body remembered what walking felt like. I celebrated with a couple fist pumps before almost bulldozing over my competition on my way towards the change tent. It wasn’t until I ran out the other side that I realized the air was cold and the rain was coming down hard. It was going to be a freezing, wet miserable ride.

Within the first 1o minutes I felt like an icicle. My sunglasses were too wet and foggy to wear, so I opted to tuck them in my back pocket, forcing me to squint as I avoided the huge droplets of rain flying into my exposed eyeballs. Rooster tails of water would fly up from bikes ahead of me, and I did what I could to pass them without skidding in the pooling water. At every descent, I would remember the wise words of Jeff Symonds, “you can crash and run a good marathon, but the recovery afterwards is brutal.” I would be damned if a crash would end my race

As we headed for the climb up into the Callahan I felt slightly warmer, but really still quite frozen. With only my dripping, wet tri kit and arm warmers clinging to my body I was exposed to whatever Mother Nature had in store for us that day, and on this day she was a bitch. From the top of the Callahan, all the way down into Pemberton my teeth chattered incessantly against one another, as I kept saying to myself, it can’t be like this all day, it can’t be like this all day. My fingers were getting numb and I struggled to shift gears. At each aid station I could see athletes unable to grasp water bottles, while others were huddled in cars and wrapped in blankets. It was brutal. My only saving grace was seeing the spectators and my friends and family all lined up against the road cheering as if I was a rock star. At one of the bridges, I even raised my arm as if to encourage more cheering and they went wild. I had to hold onto every ounce of their positive energy, inside I was falling apart.

Once I had finished one of the sketchiest descents of my life into Pemberton I started to warm again and the rain subsided. For the first time in awhile, I started to feel good. I knew this bike course like the back of my hand. I knew each corner, each turn, each bump, and I was so grateful for all the time we had spent training here just a few weeks ago. At this point in the race, I was able to settle into a solid pace and began ticking off the competition. I was nailing my pacing and feeling incredible – and then I made an error.
I could see an aid station approaching on the horizon and I knew I needed to pick something up but in the chaos of my mind I couldn’t decide whether I needed a Gatorade or a water. I kept thinking – Gatorade, water, Gatorade water? With a few metres to go, my brain sorted itself out, decided on a Gatorade, and then realized I hadn’t slowed down. I was coming in hot. Aid stations go by a lot faster when you forget to apply your brakes, so I had a split second to stick my hand out, grab a bottle and maybe slow down. Without thinking, I reached across my bike with my left hand, grabbed the bottle, and without even a second to realize my mistake, I had cranked my front wheel completely sideways and my head and shoulder slammed down hard against the concrete. I thought my race was over. Frantically, I hopped back up, shaking, still straddling my bike, and trying to play it off like nothing had happened. Instantly I had volunteers descending on me. I could hear them saying over and over that I had hit my head really hard. They were right, I had double vision and my head was pounding. In a panic, I tried to make it seem like I was good to go; I could almost feel tears welling up in my eyes, as I thought I wouldn’t be able to continue. The sound of my dad’s voice rang through my head, “how could you be so stupid?” Eventually they convinced me to sit on the curb for a time out and quick evaluation. Fortunately a medic was nearby and was able to bandage up the road rash on my shoulder and check me for any signs of a concussion. It didn’t take her long to give me the green light. She said my pupils looked fine and I was making sense, so it was up to me if I wanted to continue. I almost interrupted her as I blurted out that this is my first time, I’m was going to be an Ironman. So, they handed me that Gatorade, wished me luck and off I went for the last, long 30 kilometres of hill climbing back up into Whistler. My legs were tired and heavy, my head woozy and all I could do was count each stroke of the pedal – 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3.
As with every race, as much as I love my bike, once I hit transition, I am ready to let it go. I flew in feeling slightly wobbly and drunken, but with a huge bright smile on my face. I hopped off that bike almost faster than the volunteers could grab it, thanked the universe I was still alive, and bolted into the change tent to get ready for the run.
After a quick transition, I ran out the other side with more fist pumping and celebration as I ran past my friends and family. Once again, I felt like a rock star. As the cheers faded into the distance, I settled into my run pace and focused on how the hell I was going to run a marathon. Previous to that day, the furthest I had ever run was 23 kilometres, so I literally didn’t know if I was going to make it. By about the 15 kilometre mark, I had to start to thinking of survival mode and how I would get through this. I opted to stop looking for kilometre markers and start looking for people markers. There were the beer drinkers and my friends at the golf course, the lady giving out free hugs on the corner of the trail, my mom waiting on the corner of Lorimer and Blackcomb and the long crowds of people near the village – those were all markers along the course I remembered and longed to see again. They were my lift and I relied on them to bring out my smile.

Once they faded from sight, I would stare at the ground in front of me and just keep trudging one foot in front of the other. Even as I passed the 23k mark, I didn’t feel like celebrating the distance – I still had so far to go. The final 7 kilometres was when everything started to hurt. My toes were tingling as blisters started to form, my knees would scream out in pain with each pounding step, and I was fading. As I crossed the road and looked up, I saw my dad. He seemed to be beaming with pride as he asked how I was doing. All I could muster out was that I was in pain. In a sympathetic yet encouraging tone, he told me he knew how I felt but I was almost home. It has hard to hold back a warm stream of tears. I was so grateful for his words and his company in that brief moment.
As I hit the final two kilometres and rounded the Lorimer and Blackcomb corner one final time I saw all my training partners, some who had already finished and some who had just come to cheer us on. They were yelling my name, and again, the tears almost started to stream – I was overwhelmed. Leaving them in the distance, I continued on the longest 2 kilometres of my life. I could hear the announcer proclaiming Ironman finishers, yet my journey was not quite done. At one point I thought I saw my turn into the finish chute, but I looked up to see my brother, waving at me to keep going around the other corner – I was still not there. My feet have never felt so heavy, and they were barely willing to move one step further.
Finally, as I rounded back to that corner, that actual final corner, I knew I was home free. To summarize what that finish chute symbolized to me would almost be another story in itself. I was re-energized, free, happy, and overjoyed. I took that neon trucker hat off my head, turned it backwards and fired off towards the awaiting finish line. I was overcome with emotion and overwhelmed by the crowd of strangers cheering for me as I spread my arms like a bird and flew down the chute. I yelled, I high fived awaiting hands of my friends and family hanging over the fence, and I celebrated with whatever ounce of energy I had left.

Finally with my foot over the finish line, I heard the words I had be longing to hear for the past two years, the words that I had worked so god damned hard to hear, and the words that would bring this journey to end – you are an Ironman. I almost stumbled into a volunteer as she guided me to a chair – finally I could stop moving. With an uncomfortable foil blanket draped over my shoulders I sat there unsure of what to do next. But in less time than I could sigh a breath of relief I heard the screams of my name and looked over my shoulder to see my friends and family anxiously awaiting congratulations hugs. It was exactly what I needed – that, a hot bath and some new legs.
It’s been almost three weeks since race day, and I still struggle to reflect on exactly what that day meant to me. It’s an adventure full of ups and downs, and one I will never forget. I claimed my title and no one can ever take that away from me. I poured my heart and soul into crossing that line, and even when there were days I never thought I would, I did. I’ll never be able to duplicate that feeling of crossing the Ironman finish line for the first time, but I will forever cherish it, learn from it and take it with me on whatever journey life has for me next.
aly and mom (1) aly random

And the day is here…

July 25, 2015February 28, 2016 / alycouch / 3 Comments

To sit down and try to summarize all my thoughts, emotions, and retrospects from the past two years is a challenging task. For the first time in this journey, I’m finding myself at a loss for words. Part of the problem is that my emotions jump from one to the next in mere minutes – smiles to tears, laughter to screams – so it’s hard to say what I’m thinking. The butterflies come and go, so does the anxiety, fears, and even some excitement. I’m still not sure that I’ve quite grasped the magnitude of what I’m about to tackle tomorrow – swim 3.8K, bike 180, then run a marathon- it sounds like a bit like insanity, even to me. But what has been reiterated to me time and time again, is that the work is done. All I can do from here until race start is rest, shut off the brain and trust in the journey I’ve been on. Trust that everything I went through was a part of the bigger plan to get me here. The meningitis that delayed my first half ironman, the knee injury that threatened to end the dream, the popped out ribs, the colds, the heat stroke, bleeding toes, blisters, sun burns, and all the other cuts, scrapes, bruises and obstacles, were all a part of growing me into the person I needed to be to do this thing.
I still remember when I first told people I would do an Ironman. My dad looked at me with suspicion and said, “that is a really big race.” Some of my friends also gave me the same looks of suspicions, yet they smiled and nodded that I could do it. So, off I went – like an eager kid, hopping in with both feet and never looking back. Now here I am, less than 12 hours from hearing that start cannon – it’s a bit surreal.
Over the past few days, with all the buzzing of energy, sleepless nights, and unpredictable emotions, there has been one constant in my life – the support and it’s been that way since day one. Triathlon may be an individual sport, and on race day I have only myself to rely on to get me from point A to point B, but there is no denying that there are many people who have been by my side, believing, even when I doubted myself, that I could and would do this thing.
First and foremost, I would not have even stepped foot into this sport if it wasn’t for the three most important role models in my life, my mom, dad and big brother. My love for sport and competition, and relentless determination and stubbornness comes from one of three places and I have them to thank for telling me I could do whatever I set my heart out to do, even if it was Ironman. Through the journey they have been on the other end of the line to hear it all, to cheer me on, and to build me up when I was down. I also couldn’t forget the love of my sister-in-law who, despite not understanding anything about the sport, would often send me text messages full of Ironman related questions and words of encouragement. Her curiosity of my insanity oftentimes made me smile and I loved sharing my stories with her.

Then there have been my friends, who may never truly understand why I do what I do, but have been every step of the way. Whether it was coming to cheer me on at one of the world’s worst spectator sports, randomly volunteering at my races just to get closer to the action, talking to me about my training for hours on phone, or tracking me online – knowing you were there rooting for me every step of the way meant the world. I am especially grateful to those who made the journey to Whistler to sport a neon yellow ‘Team Couch’ support crew shirt and cheer me on for however many hours of the day this thing will take me.

I also can’t look back on these past two years and not think about my training partners, who have not only become friends, but my second family. I couldn’t possibly single any of them out because each of them has offered me something unique and priceless – from many words of wisdom, to shared tools, bike parts, tires and wheels, to shared homes, food, drinks, laughs, cries, dinners, hotel rooms, trips to Kona, chats in the hot tub, chats on the curb, and so much love. Their support over the past two years has been nothing short of incredible and inspiring. I will be thinking of each of them on race day and everything they taught me leading up to tomorrow. I could not have found a better group to go through this roller coaster with me.

Then there is coach. Before Maurice, I learned what I could from online videos, blogs and books, but his knowledge, expertise and ‘rain man’ way of looking at this sport was truly special and it’s because of him and his training program that I got to this day. Although he often said things I could only smile and nod at, he was able to look at my journey in a way I could never have comprehended. There were also times when I cursed his name. But in the end, he cared about us as athletes, and he went through every up and down with me, making damn sure I got here in one piece. I couldn’t possibly thank him enough for his patience when I chose to do keg stands instead of bike rides, for playing hockey or ball when I should have been resting, and for allowing me to ask all the dumb questions in the world. He has been one hell of a coach.
And speaking of coaches, I’ll never forget the woman who would teach me all the fundamentals I needed to know about swimming. Teresa was the one who helped get me from one end the pool to the other, and eventually into my very first open water swim. You never forget those moments or how they contributed to the overall success of my swimming.
In one last shout out, I couldn’t forget all the medical professionals I encountered along the road. From my massage therapist, to chiropractors, my athletic trainer, and hospital staff in Victoria – I saw some of them more than I had wanted, but they played an integral role in making sure I got here alive and in one piece.
As I turn off the light and try to shut off the buzz that invades my head, I will take one final thought with me, “It’s lack of faith that makes people afraid of meeting challenges, and I believed in myself.”

The final push

July 22, 2015 / alycouch / Leave a comment

Just over a week ago, I dragged my body in my front door, passed out on the couch and didn’t wake up for almost ten hours. My body was beaten. There was chaffing in places I didn’t know could chafe, there was tender skin where there used to be toenails, I had blood stained socks, clothes so soaked in sweat and mud they could only be described as hazardous materials, and muscles that would scream if I put them near a bicycle or tried to make them to walk too swiftly downstairs.

Two weekends ago I packed up my bags with my training crew for one final push of training at Whistler. One final suffer grinder fest of a weekend. For four days, we trained, ate, slept, moaned, groaned, stretched, and otherwise tried to discover new ways to work out the pain of sore, tired muscles. Between Friday morning and Monday afternoon, we logged more than 500 kilometres on our bikes, stomping on the pavement, and flailing through the water. We endured tough elements with daily relentless headwinds, white caps on the lake, smoky skies, torrential downpours and even some heat from the glaring sun. There were workouts that had me in tears, screaming in pain, cursing at Mother Nature, and otherwise questioning my sanity. I lived mostly on a diet of liquid sugar – gels, powders, and gummies. I craved salt and longed for real food. Some nights I slept like a baby, other nights I tossed and turned, unable to find comfort. With each passing morning I would wake up more weary, wobbly and hobbly than the last. It was a massively intense weekend – I couldn’t wait to taper. But like all the crazy weekend workouts our coach plans there is always a rhyme and a reason for it. Sometimes it’s not abundantly clear, sometimes you have to search for the method behind his madness, but on this weekend, in particular on the second day, it became quite obvious.
In the morning we rode down to Pemberton and out through the meadows to the turn around point. From there, we did a time trial back into town before breaking at the gas station, then time trialling back up into Whistler – a total of 130K. Once back at our hotel, we rested for about an hour, only able to consume nutrition we would have on race day, before heading out on a 21K run. As I stepped out of the front lobby, a torrential downpour started beating off the pavement. We were in for a wet, cold adventure.
For the first 5K or so, I hobbled along, not feeling well and blowing drops of cold water off my nose. It didn’t feel good, and I started to lose a bit of hope. Here I was on the run course, already doubting if I had it in me to complete the full race in just a couple short weeks. As we re-grouped before heading down the trail, I hoped to make it the full 21 without crawling back home. I sauntered off at my turtle pace behind the group, just doing what I could to keep moving. The kilometres were slowly ticking away, and with my head looking down most of the way, I really had no idea where we were going – I just sort of followed the feet in front of me. After about an hour I looked up for the first time and saw a wooden foot bridge crossing Green Lake. Instantly I recognized it from when I spectated at Ironman last year as one of the bridges on the run course. A smile spread wildly across my face. It finally dawned on me that I was on the race course and that in two weeks I would be back on that bridge competing at Ironman. It was in that moment that I recognized I was ready. I also recognized why coach dragged us all the way to Whistler for one last suffer fest – it was a chance to test ourselves and see firsthand the beast we would conquer. We would either find peace in knowing we were ready or run away screaming. I was grateful for the peace of mind.
If you had asked me the week before training camp if I was ready for the race, I would have shaken my head with an air of defeat. There were days when I would lie in bed crying in pain and wondering where I steered the ship wrong. My body felt done and I was almost positive my journey was not going to end the way I had hoped. Today is a much different story, and despite the challenge of that final training weekend, I’ll be forever grateful I endured it. Come race day, I’ll be looking for that wooden bridge and hoping it has another kick for me.