Just like any other weekend morning, I was brewing away in my kitchen like a mad scientist, measuring and calculating calories and bottles of water, following a formula to ensure that I had enough to get me through a long ride. On this morning, I was fuelling up for the annual 200k Merritt Loop – a ride that just the previous year had kicked my ass. There really is no other way to describe the aftermath of what that ride did to me. I set out to as a Merritt Loop virgin to conquer the day and instead wound up being conquered, and sitting on the side of the road in delirium trying to figure out where I went wrong. The suffering began with about 50K still to go. My body decided that enough was enough, and for the rest of the journey, I wobbled to and fro, suffering with every stroke of the pedal. In the end, I was angry that I had failed, but in failing, I had learned. I learned the importance of calorie and hydration intake, I learned the key to pacing and above all, I learned how to suffer and survive – an extremely important learning lesson that you won’t find in any Ironman training handbook. Ever since that day, I have been seeking redemption, a chance to conquer that ride and to finish strong. I thought this was the year, so on this morning I had a prize in my eyes.
We hit the road just after 6am to give ourselves lots of time, and with a forecast of 35 degrees we wanted to minimize our time in the late afternoon heat. Just the same as last year, the ride from Kamloops to Logan Lake was calm and enjoyable. There were some gentle climbs to get us warmed up, and quick descents and rolling flats. As we arrived in Logan Lake, still bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, we laughed and swapped stories of the beautiful morning, and reminisced about the freezing cold we encountered at this exact location a couple months ago on our Tunkwa loop. This time we were happy to be warm and dry.
Once re-fuelled, we descended from Logan Lake along the windy stretch to Merritt. Sailing along the smooth curving pavement, we were treated to a gentle fresh morning breeze, the sights of deer and soaring birds, and an incredible tail wind that pushed me past speeds of 75 kilometres per hour. It was sheer joy – just the simple sound of my bike roaring against the pavement and the wind screaming past my ears.
As we stopped for the first time in a while just outside town I could feel the afternoon sun heating up, and as I looked behind us at the long stretch of road that had just been my playground, I realized we would be paying for the enjoyment later. As any veteran cyclist knows, a great tailwind out, means a great headwind home.
After refuelling in Merritt and taking a few minutes to stretch out our legs, we saddled back up for the journey home. With our bikes now facing east, I could instantly feel the hot, dry wind pushing back against us, almost as if challenging us to carry on. For almost 100 kilometres, we would trudge through 30 kilometre an hour headwinds, gusting to 45 in 35 degree desert heat. My neck began to tense, my shoulders began to ache, and the fun started to waver. Every stroke of the pedal felt like we were going up against a hurricane and the heat pouring down from the searing sun as we rode along the exposed asphalt made me feel as if I was melting. With about 30 kilometres to go, the pain within my aching muscles forced me to pull over more than I wanted, and it was in this moment I realized that on this day, redemption would not happen.
As we approached Cardiac Hill, the last, long steep climb of the day, I had vivid flashbacks to last year when Vince pushed me up this mountain. On this day, I longed for the push of his hand because there was a hint of possibility that I might either start going backwards or come to a standstill and then topple over to my death. As I started to pedal, I tried not to think, I tried not to look too far ahead, just pedal, one, two, three, one, two, three. The ache in my quads was excruciatingly painful. I still don’t know how I made it to the top, maybe I blacked out and an angel carried me, or maybe I just made it on pure insanity. Either way I made it, but it was not in the fashion I had hoped. As I pushed out the final rotations of the pedals, I practically fell off the bike and crumpled in a heap on the ground. If a picture was worth a thousand words, this one tells the whole story. There was no super hero pose or grandeur moment – just defeat.
We still had about 15 to 20 kilometres to go and at this moment we came to the stark realization that we had completely run out of water – there wasn’t even a drop. We were nomads in the desert and it was a dire situation. Even if I had water, I would not have wanted to drink it. I could no longer choke down anymore nutrition and even the thought of the water bottle touching my lips made me gag. Instead, I would opt to dry heave, my body revolting against the torture of Mother Nature beaming down upon us. For the remainder of the ride, I would mumble my words in a way that had me sounding like a drunken fool. Even when we had friends come out to meet us on the highway with ice cold water just outside town, I could barely choke it down before staggering back off on the road. I was desperate to finish and hell bent on not quitting. Damn that last 10k – it felt like the longest 10k of my life.
After almost nine hours in the saddle, and more than ten hours after setting out on the road, we finally arrived back home. I don’t even remember how I got off my bike – just walking in the door of my friend’s air conditioned house where we lay on the cold tiled kitchen floor moaning. I had a cold cranberry juice in one hand, a bottle of Advil in the other and a cold cloth pressed against my burning head. Redemption did not happen. I did not come out the victor- in fact I was a hot, pathetic mess.
The aftermath of this ride haunted me for nearly two days. Mother Nature was the victor and my demise came in the form of heat stroke that kept me shivering with a fever and riding out the waves of aches and pains. The adventure may not have ended how I wanted it to, but sometimes you just have to chalk it up as miles logged and another challenge finished. I guess I have a date with Cardiac Hill for next year because my redemption is now long overdue.
aly couch
Second chance – Half Ironman – Victoria
As I stood in waist deep water with my arms stretched above my head and an Eminem pump up ballad booming in the background I felt much of the same feelings right before every race start – butterflies, excitement, apprehension and an unrelenting desire for the start cannon to just fire already. My mind was no longer thinking about the magnitude of that day, or what I had done to get there – I just kept saying, swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run – that’s all you have to do.
As the horn sounded, I dove forward and did what I do every other race, try not to drown, get kicked or punched, and swim in a somewhat straight line. The swim felt as if it went on forever. Each time I popped my head up to sight the buoy lines, I would search for the turnaround point, which seemed to be moving further away than closer. With each stroke of my watch arm, I would try to catch a glimpse of the numbers to see how long I had been out there. “Just keep swimming,” I told myself. As I finally, hit the last buoy, I headed for the blue arch on shore. By this point, my intercostal muscles were screaming in a stabbing pain with each stroke and I was dying to be back on dry land and get going on my patiently awaiting bicycle. Heading into race day with pain in my ribs, the swim plan was to simply survive. It felt like a lazy Sunday stroll, but eventually my hands touched sand, and I shot upright, staggering across the beach and through to transition. I’ve always been lightning quick in this portion of the race – if it was a sport in itself, I’d probably go pro.
After being in the horizontal position swimming for the past 40 minutes I quickly discovered my sea legs made getting onto a bicycle a little more challenging. Unlike the shorter distances I’ve done in the past, this one requires a little more patience and time. Some hop on quickly, while others wobble to and fro like drunken fools riding their bikes in the night. What a fascinating place for a spectator to watch.
It didn’t take long to settle into my rhythm – one pedal after the other, I quickly began picking off the competition one by one. I knew I had some ground to make up for the slow swim, so I pushed into beast mode. Now was the time to focus. The bike requires a lot of thinking – at least it does for me. I have a mind that tends to wander and there is so much happening when riding a bicycle. “Look at the pretty tree, oh there’s a pothole, that guy looks good in spandex, where’s my water bottle, should I pass her, yes I should, I need to eat, I need to drink… squirrel!” For an ADD mind, everything is amplified. Nonetheless, I find a system that works so that I can take in the scenery, feed and water myself, keep on track with the race, not think about mechanical failures or flats, and even pee on the go. No – triathlon is not glamourous. With all the peeing, eating, drinking and other focused distractions, it’s incredible how fast 90 kilometres goes by. In fact, so fast, I got behind in my calories and hydration. In panic mode, I quickly choked back 400 calories of shot blocks and chugged a bottle of water with about 10 kilometres left on the course. I didn’t think it at the time but this would eventually come back to haunt me.
As I came flying down the hill into transition, I smiled like a giddy little kid. Heading back into transition after the bike is one of my favourite parts of the race. You get to see all the fans again, the mass of strangers cheering you on – it feels like a homecoming celebration. There is nothing like friendly faces or even complete strangers rooting for you as you struggle through what, at times, can be a suffer fest. It can be the difference between feeling like shit and feeling like gold.
As much as I love the bike, I also love the freedom of dropping off my bike and knowing the last portion of the race is relied solely on the mechanics of my body. No flat tires or broken chains to worry about – just tired and failing body parts, which can most always be overcome with a little bit of grit.
As I hit the shady trails around the lake, I was on par for a great time. All I had to do was settle into a comfortable pace for the next 11 kilometres or so, then start picking off the competition again. For the first 6 or 7k this felt doable, but then I started to play mind games with myself as my body grew tired and sore. The adrenaline of the bike was leaving me and here I was to slug it out – one foot in front of the other. This was the point in the race where the suffering began, and I started to question why I was here, why I thought this was remotely enjoyable, and even started questioning how the hell I was going to double the distance in just six short weeks. The focus had left me. My first half ironman was starting to eat me alive. As I rounded back towards the 10 kilometre mark, I could hear the spectators and I was able to pick up my pace. In fact, before heading back onto the trail, there was a smattering of familiar faces, including my dad, yelling my name, picking my spirits back up. I couldn’t help but find that giddy kid smile again and just kept right on moving. But it wasn’t long after that I felt the kilometres ticking away at an unbearably slow rate and felt as if I couldn’t even lift my legs one step further.
As I went to choke down another gel, I felt that uncomfortable feeling in my gut rise up, and I knew the run plan was out the window. Here was the last minute overkill of calories and water on the bike coming back to haunt me. I will spare the gory details of the remaining kilometres of that run. Like I said, triathlon is not a glamorous sport and what happens on course, stays on course. Now it was about survival. The time I was hoping for slowly ticked away, and it was all I had to dig deep, reminding myself that yes, I did love this sport and yes, I had worked hard to be here, so I would be damned if anything stopped me from reaching that finish line.
As I reached the final kilometre marker, I started to move faster than I had moved in the past two hours. In that final 200 metres through the crowds of incredibly supportive cheering spectators, I saw my dad and the sound of his voice and smile on his face was all that I needed to turn that corner with a burst of energy. I flipped my signature bright neon trucker hat backwards, almost as a sign that the work was over and the celebration was about to begin. As my feet hit the Ironman red carpet, stretched out for less than 100 metres to the finish arch, I reached out to high five complete strangers.
Running through the arch, I flexed my arms in triumph and tears streamed down my cheeks. Finally, I had done it. For six hours and 16 minutes, I swam, biked and ran, thinking really only about how to survive. It wasn’t until those final few seconds that everything sank in. If you had seen me cross that finish line, you would have thought I won the damn thing.
I hate sappy endings, but I have to admit, I felt like I won or at least proved to myself that with a little bit of grit and determination you can beat your body to a bloody pulp and still keep going. Through all the obstacles this last year has thrown at me, I’ve got back up, and just kept moving forward every single time until I got to my finish line, beaten and battered, but still kicking. My first half Ironman was incredibly humbling and inspiring. To be surrounded by thousands of other athletes, all from different backgrounds and with different stories and reasons for being there, grinding it out with you, is a pretty incredible feeling. It certainly wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, but that’s the beast of this sport, and I can’t wait to see what is possible at double the distance next month.
Getting to the start line – one pothole at a time
In six days, I will be competing in my first half Ironman – a goal almost one year past its expiry date. My first half iron event was originally scheduled for Penticton in August last year, but the universe had different plans for me. So here I am for round number two still trying to get myself to that start line.
Looking back on the past two years, I see a journey that has been fuelled by a colourful array of emotions – sometimes good and sometimes bad. It has not been an easy road. With a goal as demanding as Ironman I expected challenges, I expected detours, bumps and bruises and maybe some aches and pains, but I was never expecting some of the hoops thrown my way. I suppose that is the fine line of life – it could go one way or another in a heartbeat.
After missing my first big race, I wallowed for a little bit in disappointment, but with time I would put it behind me and move on to the next challenge with a brighter and more spirited outlook. By December I was back into training with my sights set on completing the half Ironman in Victoria – my hometown. For the past six months, I have once again poured my heart and soul into the training plan, conquering new challenges, setting new personal bests, and feeling more resilient and more determined. These kinds of bumps in the road are always a difficult pill to swallow but it’s incredible how much stronger we can come back after being pushed down. Unfortunately though, I have continued to face tough obstacles. Even in the past week, I have encountered new injuries that seemed to pop up out of nowhere. It has almost become comical as I scramble to make last minute chiro and massage appointments – even my bike is broken and checked in for a fix-up. What else could possibly happen to threaten me from getting to that start line? It’s like riding your bike along a long, smooth, unknown highway – you have no idea how long it will last or if, just beyond the horizon, the road is full of pot holes or long stretches of gravel and, boom, down you go. I suppose, among many other things, it has taught me to enjoy the smooth ride while the smooth ride lasts. If the potholes come, brace yourself, and hope for a soft landing.
There have certainly been times when I thought maybe racing long distance triathlons was just not meant to be and that maybe I was better suited for knitting or water aerobics. At some point you have to wonder. But I’m also too stubborn, too proud and even times too stupid to give up. That all being said, I have also had too much fun. For the most part, I train six days a week, twice a day, and sometimes in the freezing cold, the burning hot, and from 6 in the morning until 3 in the afternoon non-stop. I have toes so black they fall off, I have aches so sore that I often hobble, I have blisters that sting, I constantly smell like sweat or chlorine, and I barely have time to eat, sleep or otherwise fit in a social afternoon with friends. To many people, this is nuts. But I love it. I love every waking moment of it and even with the potholes or long stretches of gravelly road, I know things eventually smooth themselves out again. Looking back on these past two years, I see a life teeming with fulfillment, challenge, passion, determination and grit. The injuries and illnesses have played a huge role in my journey, but they do not define it.
With just a few days until race day, I plan to bubble wrap myself and sit on my hands – there is no more room in this journey for any more hiccups. Race day is happening, whether my body wants to take part or not. I know my mind is up for the challenge, so I guess we shall see who prevails. Within my heart, I know if I just hang in there and get it done, there will be much celebration, much to be proud of, and there will be much to look back on and say, “I did it! What’s next??” Here’s to the final days to that half Ironman start line and crossing that finish line with my arms in the air and a smile on my face.
Training for the mind
My training journey has been one full of learning. I’ve learned how to use clip in pedals, drink while running, eat while biking, tape up blisters, blaze through transitions, and otherwise how to be an ironman triathlete. But aside from the physical skills of this sport, I’ve started to learn the mental game.
The past eight weeks have really put me to the test. With a torn MCL earlier this year, I was limited in my training for six weeks, and then just as I received clearance to run again, I took myself out with a cold, which can only be described as the plague. For almost two weeks, I was only able to lift my head for violent coughing fits, or blowing disgusting amounts of snot from my nose. As I replaced running marathons with sleeping marathons, I wondered if I would ever get back on track. Everything seemed to be going either in slow motion or backwards as I tortured myself by counting every workout I missed. I realized this was the part in the journey where I was either going to sink or swim.
Dealing with adversity is never easy, yet it comes with great teachings, that, in the end, can build a resilient and smart athlete. I have learned how to adjust and adapt, which are two very important abilities for an ironman athlete to obtain. Racing is unpredictable and the best triathletes are those who make dispensable plans – if one doesn’t work, throw it out the window, and go for Plan B, or C, or Z. Understanding that training and racing comes with many variables, also means I have learned to accept uncontrollable situations. Sometimes shit happens , that’s just part of life. In acceptance, I’ve also learned that sometimes I will have bad workouts, sometimes I might come in dead last, and I might get ill or injured – accept them for what they are and move on. It doesn’t mean settling, it means accepting that every day is not perfect. And by foregoing perfection, I have learned how to change my expectations and be ok with it. If my muscles are aching, or I’m sick, or overtired, I can’t reasonably expect the same results if I was rested, healthy and pain free. Once again, not every day goes according to plan and neither does every workout. Most importantly I have learned that training smart is better than training hard. This by no means suggests that half-assing all workouts is smart – there is no substitute for pure hard work. But there are some days where pushing the envelope can be detrimental. If I listen to my body and go with my gut instinct, I’m less susceptible to going down a path of disaster. I’ve finally recognized that my training schedule is not the bible. On some days, what coach says might not be what my body says. Like I said, adjust, adapt, accept, and be smart. And when it all comes together, celebrate the successes. There is no such thing as a small success and every hard earned effort should be recognized, otherwise I’m in for a dark, unhappy ride. Lastly, no one likes a pity party. Everyone is enduring their own battles of aches and pains, and my aches and pains don’t make me special or entitled to whining about it. This doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to my feelings, but not everyone needs to hear about how tough life is all the time. Scream into the pillow, kick up some dirt then put on the big girl panties and keep moving forward.
If I can mentally out tough this journey, then I know my body will be able to do the rest.
Despite the set back in my training, I’m still clinging on. I’ve taken the past eight weeks to apply my learning and keep pushing towards my goal. This past weekend, I finished my first race of the season with the lingering effects of the cold. For the entire race, I coughed up phlegm, snotted all over myself, breathed heavily and otherwise felt heavy. There would be no PB’s or impressive splits, but I was there doing something that eight weeks ago I thought was impossible. I was relaxed and care-free. For the first time since finishing a triathlon, I did not care about my performance, placing, or time, and as I crossed the finish line, I raised my arms in celebration and with a smile on my face – something I’ve never done before.
You can teach someone how to swim, bike and run, and all the other physical elements that go along with becoming an ironman athlete, but developing the mental grit, is almost more important and doesn’t come without its challenges. Cruising along in calm waters all the time can be dangerous, because once the storm hits you won’t be prepared. Endure a few swells along the way, and you’ll learn how to survive and smile while doing it.
Me and my crew
Someone once asked me what kind of support system is required when training for an Ironman race. I paused for only a brief moment before recalling the date June 22, 2014. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a hot Sunday afternoon en route back from a 200 kilometre ride, and I was starting to feel unusually tired, unhappy, and heavy. I wanted to burst into tears, as every pang within my body started to scream. We still had 50 kilometres to go, but after failing in the calculation of my hydration and nutrition, this was going to be a long, bonky ride home. As I slowed down to almost a snail’s pace, two of my training partners rode up beside me for support. For the remainder of the ride they stayed with me, even tolerating my cursing, spitting and delirium. At one point Vince literally pushed me up Cardiac Hill – a mountain of an incline just outside town. It was one of toughest rides I’ve ever done, and really the only reason I lived to tell about it is because of those who were willing to literally push me up a mountain. They are the same people who greet me with smiles at 6am on the pool deck, who find time to laugh with me between gruelling sets, even though sometimes we’d rather cry, and the people who have seen me shoot snot out my nose, with multi-coloured gels caked onto my cheeks, and salty sweat dripping off my nose.
They are there for pool sets, where you just don’t think you can do one more, and they step up and pull you along, worker harder, so you don’t have to. They are there on long runs, looping back, because no one gets left behind. They don’t pass judgement when you have to run into the bushes every five minutes, or look at you differently when you put ice in your underwear, puke up your breakfast, pee in your shorts, or otherwise start taking off your clothes in the middle of anywhere, because they have all been there before. They have been there through your breakthroughs and your breakdowns, and it’s because of this that we share a genuine and unique bond.
Beyond the high fives, hugs and other moral support, my training partners also play an integral role in the execution of my training plan. Whether that’s by pushing me, challenging me, or otherwise, simply lending me a set of wheels, or a chocolate peanut butter ball when I’m feeling bonky or cranky. They also lend me expertise that you won’t find it any book or online blog. It’s a simple gesture but I’ve come to learn that the advice from a veteran Ironman athlete is simply priceless.
At the end of the day, my passion for this sport is often fuelled by the people I do it with day in and day out. I have often said that I don’t know if I could do what I do without their support. Sometimes knowing they are there, whether it’s beside you or kilometres ahead of you, enduring the same challenge, makes this journey that much easier.
Just this past weekend, after a long 94 kilometre ride, we had a 45 minute brick run that I was dreading. No part of my body wanted anything to do with it. But as I looked over at Katrina, who had just completed her longest ride ever, I figured the least I could do was run alongside her as she finished her milestone.
Sometimes we do what do, not because we want to, but because someone else’s journey that day is more important than how we feel. So, with lead in our feet and pain in our legs, we trudged along together, grumbling and mumbling, yet all the while knowing we would make it out alive.
As the season ramps up, the gruelling workouts are just beginning but for every one that I accomplish I know there will be sweaty, gritty, salty hugs or high-fives waiting for me on the other side – and that is something worth getting up for.
Rust2Iron 