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Race weekend! Oliver 1-54-10

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I looked out upon the glassy, calm lake to see the sun reflecting brightly upon the yellow buoys marking my conquest for this morning. It was a beautiful morning for a race, but my nerves were firing into overdrive and I could barely stand still long enough to enjoy the scenery or pull up my wetsuit. Out of the corner of my eye I could see hundreds of seal-like people milling around the starting line; some warming up, some dancing around, some looking just as bouncy and jittery as I felt. I stood there on the other side of the chaos for just a few minutes longer pulling my wetsuit tight to my neck and ensuring that the sausage casing was wrapped around my body perfectly. Once I was satisfied and no longer felt the need to poke and pull on my second skin, I took a few deep breaths and plunged into the cool yet welcoming water to flap around. Satisfied that everything felt right I sauntered over towards the crowd where the pulsating rhythms of everyone’s nerves, adrenaline, terror and excitement pulled me in. The amazing thing about all the people you race with are the stories. Everyone has their own reason for being here; their own story, and their own failures and triumphs. For many people it will be their first race, and for others it will be just one of many. Yet most of us all have the same feelings that cycle through our minds and bodies just minutes before the starting horn blares.
In the sea of people, I managed to find my training partners and I couldn’t have felt more relieved yet overcome with emotion. Like everyone else we all have our own stories, and over the past six months we’ve been through it all together. For Vince, this would be his first half iron race; for me my longest (1-54-10); and for Yvonne, Mel, Mo, Tracy, Karen, and Pat, this was one of many they have done before, but it would still be new to them in their own ways, with different challenges and different goals.
Like a parade of seals we congregated around, posing for last minute photo ops, hugging, and talking swim position strategy before sauntering to our starting positions. Slowly we stopped talking and everyone focused on their own plan and absorbed themselves in their own minds. We had come to the starting line as a team, but we would now rely on ourselves to get to the finish line.
As we counted down the final seconds, I glanced around one more time to see the familiar faces beside me before the horn blared and like a blur we all meshed into a heap of flailing arms, thrashing legs and bobbing heads churning up the water. Hands punched me in the head, feet flicked at my face, and arms slapped against my back. I just boogied along, focused on getting around the buoys and back to the beach as fast I could all the while doing what I always do during the swim, repeat the wise words of Dory the fish, “just keep swimming , just keep swimming…”
As I rounded the second buoy I began to sight the beach and meshed in with the crowd to charge through the home stretch. It wasn’t long after that when my hands began to touch sand, and I took a few last strokes before clambering to my feet and flip flopping up along the beach. Then it was along the road where I would run another 500 metres to transition all the while pulling down my wetsuit and tearing off my cap and goggles. By the time I reached transition, I was exhausted and breathing like an exasperated woman in labour. With only one sport down, I figured now would be a good time to bring the heart rate down just enough so I could peel my wetsuit over my ankles, slap on my helmet and grab Red Lightning. Once I settled into my pace on the bike and shot myself pull of carbs and fluids, I found my rhythm and hunkered down for the 54 kilometre ride.
I felt strong. With all the miles and hill climbing Maurice tested us on during training, I knew I was well prepared. As I ticked off the kilometres, slowly the leaders from my training group, finished their 2 kilometre swim and began to catch me on the bike. They whizzed by, and I could barely muster any words, so I just dropped my head and churned my bulky legs a little bit harder, knowing I would never catch them, but at least I could chase them.

As I rounded the final corner and headed into my final transition I hopped off my bike, lost a shoe in the process, and just kept going. With Red Lightning racked back up, I remembered a last minute transition tip from Yvonne to slip on my shoes, grab my gels, race belt and hat, and get out of there.
The run course was empty and lonely. The half iron competitors were still on the bike, and my competition was far enough out of sight ahead or behind me. As I ran up past the iconic voice of Steve King, I could hear him rattle off my swim, bike and transition times, and about my journey of raising money for MS. It was the inspiration I needed to find a jump in my step as I moved my clunky legs a little bit faster. After turning down an empty neighboured road I found myself completely isolated and within half way of my run, I got lost. There was no clear markings and somehow I found myself down a trail that eventually seemed not so much a part of the course. I was confused and frustrated, firstly at myself for not knowing the route better but secondly at the race organizers for not clearly marking the course. It wasn’t long before I reconnected with a path that got me back on the right trail, but nonetheless I’m almost positive I took a small detour. It was enough to throw off my entire race, and I was angry for the entire second half of my run. My watch didn’t start properly, so I had no idea what my pace was or even how far I detoured. When I crossed the finish line, I felt more rattled by my deviance that I couldn’t even celebrate my achievement. I placed second female overall, but I will never know how far off my time was from my little escapade off the beaten path. It was almost enough to bring me to tears, then I remembered the story of when my dad once got lost on a triathlon run course, and I laughed in spite of myself. I took a few minutes to gather my emotions before running over to transition where I saw Yvonne coming off the bike, and I forgot everything about the past three hours.
One by one each of my training partners flew in on their bikes, and shot off on their run. Seeing them compete was all I needed to re-focus my energy and celebrate their successes. For the next two hours, I stood at the turnaround point of the run course and watched them all absolutely dominate this race. My energy was alive again, and I was overcome with pride. Each of them had a phenomenal showing, or as coach puts it, “excellent execution.” At the finish line as they all trickled in, we hugged and shared our triumphs, back together again just as before the race began. Each one faced their own battles and endured their own stories, but we came back together as a team and our experiences were celebrated as one.
10439029_10202940540487660_2134804175558332296_nIf you ask me about my race weekend in Oliver, chances are I’ll tell you all about my amazing training partners, and what they accomplished that day. Truth be told, I don’t really even remember much about my race, only that I got to finish with some of the most amazing athletes and people I have come to know. I learned that sometimes it’s ok to let go of the competition and the expectation that things will be perfect on race day. I also learned celebrating someone else’s success is just as rewarding as your own, if not, better.

Thanks to Katrina for the amazing photos!

Deflowered on Tunkwa

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It was cold, wet, long and hard. I screamed in agony, begged for mercy, and closed my eyes tight. My ass was beaten, my legs could barely hold on. It was my first time, and nothing about it was gentle, in fact, it was rough and ruthless. But I came out on top, alive and unscathed; a brand new woman. This is the true story of having my cherry popped on Tunkwa; a one hundred and thirty kilometre up-hill battle of a bike ride from the edge of town in Kamloops to the heart of Logan Lake. She is unforgiving, and as we passed through rain that poured in sideways and right side up, hail, howling head winds, and freezing temperatures, I felt what it was really like to doubt myself.
It started out like any other ride and for the first twenty odd kilometres I laughed in the face of Tunkwa and it’s harsh reputation. I was extremely naive but humility followed shortly afterwards. Upon reaching the lookout point just past Tobiano, overlooking Kamloops Lake, we paused for a couple photos and a brief break. I felt strong, and I thought, bring it on. But after the ensuing playful and fast descent I saw what lay ahead of me. For the next forty plus kilometres rolling hills felt like mountains, and steep climbs felt like Everest flipping me over and slapping me silly. I drained my bottles of water, sucked back gatorade, mowed on bananas, crushed bags of candies, desperately searching for every ounce of energy I could find. At this point, I couldn’t tell whether I was on the verge of bonking or just overly exhausted, or just overly overwhelmed, or just overly crazy. With each breath, which sounded like I was in deep agony, I questioned whether I was worthy of chasing such absurd dreams. With every stroke of the pedal, I asked myself, “what are you doing, who do you think you are?” Then the skies opened and the rain began to pour. Grit and water flew up at my face and dripped from the brim of my helmet. My body started to freeze, and I began to think of which friend might find it in their heart to come rescue me. Then the rain turned to hail, and I saw another long ascent just ahead; “fuck me,” was all that escaped my lips.
After riding for more than 80 kms, we finally reached Logan Lake, and congregated inside the tiny gas station to warm up, replenish our fuel stores, and share stories of the grind. I was confused and lost, as I looked to Vince to tell him I may be calling for a ride home, I felt defeated. This is by far the weakest I’ve felt on my entire training journey thus far, both physically and mentally. I wandered aimlessly, feeling incredibly uneasy and unsure. Here I was pushed almost beyond my limits, miles from home, or anything that felt comfortable and safe, and I was on the verge of quitting.  Yet somehow, as I sauntered out of the store and into the harsh elements, I found myself back on the proverbial horse, and once again peddling my away along.
As we cycled out of town, the chill set back into my bones, and even changing gears became impossible, as I could no longer feel my fingers. I either stuck to the gear I had selected, or if desperate, reached around with my hand and palmed the lever until it shifted.
We were barely a few kilometres back on the road when we were randomly stopped by a guy with truck, apparently someone who knew my fellow riders, offering to give anyone a lift home who wanted it. Vince looked to me, and said, “hey Aly, you wanted a ride home, didn’t you?” I looked at him, with sweat and mud dripping from my face and said, “no, I didn’t come this far to quit.” And that was that.
By the time I reached the edge of Kamloops I was exhausted and just beginning to thaw. I was also talking to myself and singing random Celine Dion songs. Some would say I had gone delirious, but in my mind, I had made it.
My deflowering on Tunkwa wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t supposed to be. Like all first times it was rough, raw, and painful, and I can’t wait to do it all over again, but this time I’ll be much more experienced and ready to go all day long.

Just call me Topples

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On this past sunny Sunday afternoon as we trekked out on a beautiful rolling ride that took us past everything from industrial buildings, country farmlands, goats, roaring cars and peaceful babbling brooks, I learned something new about myself; I’m a toppler. Most veteran cyclists have at least one crash story to tell, and I’ve heard a lot of them. There have been tales of run ins with parked cars or moving cars or speed bumps, slipping on wet roads, or rocks, being hit with flying debris or opening car doors, and even just flying off the bike for no other reason than it was your day to go down. I’ve also seen the end result; black and blue bruises, broken bones, and third degree road rash. While I have certainly endured black and blue bruises and blood, there has been nothing epic about my ‘topples,’ which seems like a perfectly good adjective to describe the slow motion flail of my body hitting the hard concrete. The word ‘crash’ should be reserved for stories that evoke shudders from your audience, not laughter. But what more would you expect, I still struggle to properly clip in and out of my pedals – a beginners skill I should have mastered by now. And if I so much as take my right hand off my handlebar to make a signal, I struggle with some fairly seriously teetering. Even dropping down into the TT position requires a significant amount of serious concentration. I am like a wobbly baby fawn learning how to ride a tricycle. So, it should come as no surprise on this Sunday ride that when my chain locked up mid-way through a steep yet small hill, I did what every rookie would do, panic. I immediately started over thinking the situation as my clipped in feet suddenly felt like led bricks chained down to the pedals, and my wobbly balance weaved me like a drunken sailor towards the ditch then the middle of the road before I flung one foot out and planted it clumsily on the ground. But my unsteady legs, tired from hours of riding, were practically wet noodles and like the demise of the leaning tower of pisa, I crumbled over onto my hip, and flopped to the ground. You ask almost any cyclist and they will tell you what hurts the most after a crash (or a topple in my case) isn’t our bleeding flesh, bruised knees, or concussed heads, but our pride. I felt like the lonely, geeky kid on the playground desperately trying to impress the cool kids, yet failing miserably. Although, the “cool kids” I play with are much more forgiving, and yelled back to make sure I was OK. Despite the black and blue hip and blood seeping from the back of my calf, of course I was fine, I fell over going a mere 2 kilometres an hour. So, I picked myself up off the asphalt, dusted myself off and thought to myself that at least the oozing blood looked badass, and for those who didn’t see the topple, I would just smile and tell them it was epic.

Kamloops Spring Sprint – 1:18:58

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There’s nothing like the first race of the season; it’s what we wait all year to do. But on this race morning, with my windshield wipers frantically flip flopping to chase off huge droplets of rain pelting my car, I mumbled a few words of disdain. The temperature gauge registered at just 5 degrees and with three layers of clothing, a toque, mittens and wool socks, it hardly felt like the beginning to triathlon season. This was normal dress for a weekend snowboarding jaunt, and with the fresh blanket of snow glaring back at me from the hills, I felt a cruel mocking from Mother Nature.
As I racked my bike in transition and covered my shoes, saddle, and running gear with plastic bags, I had to smile.  Whether it stopped raining or not, I would eventually be soaked after the swim, and staying warm would be dependent on how hard I worked. Work harder, go faster, stay warm; seemed simple enough.
My heat time slowly approached after almost four hours of dancing around to keep warm, and all the familiar pre-race jitters began. Like a neurotic rain man I mentally ran through transition and the course map a million times over. Four laps. Three laps. Left, left, right, left, left. Bike, shoes, helmet, hat, runners, race belt. Over and over again. Once you’ve had one triathlon disaster nightmare, these things become an obsession.
Soon enough, there was no time left to mull over the details, I was in the pool, waiting for the go signal. Then, my favourite swim adjective, came to life as I flailed like a frantic demented dolphin through the water. I learned last year at my last race from Maurice that the key to a sprint triathlon is to go balls to the wall. There is no pacing or strategy, you just go as hard as you can, or as he put it, “you want to feel like you’re on the verge of puking the whole time.” So, without any rhyme or reason, I flailed through the pool as fast as my feeble arms would allow. Everything was blur. The sounds on the deck were muffled, at the end of every length the wall seemed to come out of nowhere, I inhaled water, fumbled under the ropes, things seem to spin and as I clambered out of the water and onto the deck I felt out of sorts as I ran out of the door and into the freezing rain. Tearing off my cap, and goggles I flipped on my lid, ripped off the plastic and flew out of transition with bike in tow.
The roads were flooded and the cold wind whipped at my bare skin turning it a bright shade of red within minutes. This only inspired me to pedal harder; it was all I had to try to keep warm. With each lap, I scanned the crowd for my coach, and with his encouraging words, I charged forward even harder. And still sputtering from mouthfuls of chlorinated water, I had been on the verge of puking since the first 100 metres of the swim; perfect execution.
As I rounded the final bend back towards transition, I reached down to un-velcro my shoes and pull out my feet, and it was like having ice cubes for fingers. I fumbled like a child learning to tie shoes, and miraculously pulled my feet out, rounded the curve, hit the dismount line and started running. At this point, I had no idea if my feet were even hitting the ground. In fact, I probably somewhat resembled a gazelle running across hot coals. I heard people commenting on my poor, red bare feet, and with an odd sense of self-satisfaction and bad ass-ery, I smiled.
Then it was rack the bike, grab the race belt, throw on the shoes, discard the helmet, throw on the hat and go. As I peeled out of transition in between heaving breaths, I yelled at Maurice, “I’m so cold!” and all he yelled back was, “GO! Fast, fast, fast!” Remembering that I was in fact racing, I quickly switched my mind back into race mode and tried to block out the numbing sensation in every inch of my body and move my giant ice block legs forward. I was sputtering, there was water in my ears, and all I could hear was the hollow sound of my heavy breathing and grunting, as I continued at my on-the-verge-of-puking pace. All I could think of was moving one foot in front of the other, as fast as my legs would allow.
Finally, I hit my final loop and rounded the corner towards the finish chute. By this point I was warm. Not fuzzy under a blanket warm, but at least I felt the rush of blood through my body again, and the rain had stopped. Once under the finish arch, I almost had to be grabbed to stop, as I charged through, my legs just wanting to keep on going. I glanced down at my watch to see a time that was almost 10 minutes faster than last year. There was a rushing feel of pride and happiness. All the flailing pool workouts, killer hill climbs and heart pounding tempo runs have paid off, and it felt so good.
Race one of the season, done, and one race closer to becoming an Ironman. The adventure continues.

More snot and other grossness

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Mud and water flew up my nose and splattered my face for 3 hours on this morning’s ride, and it  goes without saying there was flying snot and rockets of spit. And in that moment it occurred to me how unglamorous I’ve allowed myself to become since I started training. I now feel no shame in about being covered from head to toe in mud, grit and sweat, shooting snot from my nostrils, spitting all over the pavement in front of complete strangers, heaving out my guts after a hard workout, going out in public with permanently matted, frizzed hair, walking like a broken old woman, and leaving behind a trail of intoxicating chlorine scent. I sound more like a tobacco chewing, tractor driving hillbilly than an endurance athlete. My mother would be so disappointed. But what happened after the ride this morning, as I was stepping into my hot, steamy shower really took my level of unglamorous up a couple notches.
The warm water felt awesome, and it was especially satisfying watching the mud wash off my sore, tired body and circle down the drain. But as I turned around and the hot water splashed against my backside, I shrieked and nearly jumped straight through the shower curtain. I felt a harsh sting shoot through me, and while huffing and puffing through the burning pain, I twisted myself around to discover I had experienced my very first saddle sore. The soaking wet padding in my bike shorts chaffed my skin so badly that on either side of my buttocks I had two large engraved pink curved raw lines running down towards my thighs. Gross.  Along with all my rocketing and ejecting of bodily fluids, I now have what looks like diaper rash. The best part, or maybe the worst part of it all is the phone call with my mother this evening, when she offered up her motherly advice of plastering myself with diaper rash ointment and taping sanitary napkins to my butt. Seriously? “It’s worth a go,” she said. Oh man, I think I’d rather endure the suffering, even it it means that I’m not going to be able to sit straight for a week. I can just picture myself walking around the office on Monday like an old woman and then awkwardly propping myself on my hip while I sit at my desk. My co workers will wonder if I contracted something at a party over the weekend; nope just self induced pain from 10 hours of running and biking. It’s crazy what I do for fun.
Despite all the suffering and grossness though, I feel awesome, I just might not look good doing it. Doesn’t matter, I’ll take all the flaws triathlon bestows upon me and just keep going, ass sores and all. It’s just a part of the journey. And not to worry, this is one post that won’t include photos.