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.
cycling
More snot and other grossness
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.
Three-peat hills
It feels like every single week I’m hitting new milestones in my training journey, and doing things I never thought I could do. Every week I am pushed to new limits, and most days I don’t even think twice about taking on the challenge, no matter how hard. With my training partners by my side, my coaches constant voice in my head, and my dreams laid out before me, I am fully willing to puke or pass out to get where I need to be. Whether it’s finding that extra push to beat the clock in the pool, or that extra step to keep pace on the track, or that extra drive to rotate my wheels just one more time on the bike, I am constantly pushing myself, and it feels so damn good. That triumph and rushing feeling of greatness after killing a workout strikes me with an overwhelming sense of pride and happiness, and any amount of ache or pain within my lungs or muscles quickly evaporates.
This weekend I had a hill climb workout on the schedule; my first ever. My idea of hill climbing last year compared to this year are vastly different; like mole hills and mountains.
I teamed up with two of my training partners at the crack of 7am for an easy warm up in the crisp and chilly morning. The sun had broken through the clouds and the sky was a vast beautiful blue, lighting up the asphalt before us. Like most workouts these days, I never know what to expect, so naturally I just always prepare for the worst, and psych myself up for the greatest challenge of my life.
After warming up our legs, we entered the bottom of the first hill at Todd Road. I looked up, shifted down, mumbled some words of wisdom, and off we went. Within the first kilometre my heart rate had certainly elevated and my legs were slightly heavy, but with each pedal I had a good feeling that I was conquering this hill. It was in the last kilometre and a half where my breathing intensified to what sounded like wheezing, my heart rate sky rocketed, and my legs seared with that lactic acid burn. I began to wobble, and even thought of giving up, and literally just toppling over dead on the side of the road. But as always, I looked up to see the bobbing heads of Pat and Vince just ahead of me, and I cursed at myself to keep going. Once at the top, I smiled with joy; one hill down, two to go.
The descent was the perfect time to relax and enjoy the ride down with the wind whipping at our faces as we practically kept pace with the cars beside us. Halfway down and my heart rate had already calmed to a recovered rate, my lungs were no longer aching, and my legs felt fresh again; all in time to do it all over again. So, I shifted my gears, settled in, and while muttering the words of Katy Perry’s ‘Roar,’ I once again proceeded up the hill, one rotation of the crank after the other.
Round number two was reminiscent of the first as it went from easy, to more difficult, a little more difficult, challenging, then to heart pounding, lung burning pain. And as good as it felt to conquer it the first time, it felt even better on the second round.
At the bottom of the third hill, the boys talked about hitting the top and then continuing on to Coldwater Terrace for one final hill. “Some people stop at the roundabout, and some people go for the top,” said Vince. “That won’t be me,” I replied with a grin. The funny thing is, no matter how much I have accomplished and no matter how well I do, I always sell myself short. But when we reached the top of Juniper, and Vince called back to see if I was continuing on, I knew if I didn’t accept the challenge, I would spend the rest of the day in regret, so I called back a quick, “yup.”
As I reached the final ascent, I looked up to see what lay before me, I looked down to see my legs churning the crank and I looked out at the valley below me, and I was all smiles. This wasn’t painful, it was pretty freaking awesome. 
As much as training for Ironman is a physical challenge, it’s a mental one too, and so often you just have to be prepared to find whatever it is within yourself to push a little bit further. Whether it’s been running in snow blowing in sideways, cycling up mountains, or swimming with ninja sticks on my arms and my feet tied together, I always find a way to keep going and to always finish with a huge smile on my face. It felt amazing to conquer the three-peat hills this weekend, and I am already anticipating the next challenge on my schedule, and looking back on this and thinking this was a walk in the park.
Training partners and snowy rides
On this morning’s ride I could feel snot flying from my nose, and as the snowflakes peppered my face with a fierceness that chilled my brain I just bore down and kept going, charging against the brutal wind, one pedal after the other. I knew my group mates were just ahead, and their presence, even as slowly disappearing dots ahead of me, prompted a voice inside my head that almost screamed to just keep going. We were on a three hour ride – the longest I’ve ever been on – and all of us were soaked, caked from head to toe in mud, and slowly losing feeling in our fingertips and toes. There were moments when my glasses were so fogged and splattered with mud that I couldn’t see more than two feet in front of me. The official start to spring was just a few days ago, but it still feels like the dead of winter. Life in Canada can be so cruel sometimes. In the back of my mind, I hoped for some hill climbs just to warm up, but almost two hours in, as I reached the bottom of the longest, steepest ascent I had ever seen, I cursed at myself.
Mid-way through my muscles were screaming at me to topple over the side of the road and succumb to defeat. I was visualizing myself literally just toppling over like a massive heap and never getting back up again. But as I looked ahead and saw my training partners bobbing along, I told myself to shut up and just kept going.
Once at the top, I wanted to jump up and down and proclaim my victory, but with all the veteran cyclists, who have no doubt climbed this hill, and others, many times before, I reached for my water bottle instead, and quietly reflected on my own personal milestone.
On the journey back, we endured a whipping wind, an assault of missile snowflakes and caking mud spray from the roaring passing vehicles. For my first group ride, it was one I will never forget.
Having training partners during these kinds of workouts are like a gift. If I woke up this morning for a solo ride and saw the snow and the wind, I probably would have curled right back up in bed. But when you conquer a training session with a group, you push yourself to do things you never thought you could do. You look at those around you and realize everyone is cold and muddy and wants nothing more than a hot bath, so instead of grumbling about it, you just keep going and you have fun doing it, even if you can’t feel your toes. 
Over the past few days, our group has endured some serious harshness from Mother Nature, which has tested our mental toughness, but we’ve done it together, pushing each other along, and I can’t thank them enough. During this journey, I have come to learn that coaches and training partners are the backbone to our triathlon journey and I feel so fortunate to have a group that, since day one, has pushed me to be stronger and better, even when the only thing on our minds is hot chocolate and a warm blanket.
Rage against the bicycle
It’s the middle of November and for the first time since mid-October there is bright, glorious sun, and I am dying to get in a rare off season outdoor ride. Mere moments ago I was excited at the thought of bundling up to brave the chilly air, and to bask in the glory of a sunny Sunday afternoon, yet now with a black film of grease caked onto my hands, sweat dripping from my brow and profanity flying from my mouth, I am feeling disappointed, angry and frustrated. After taking my rear wheel off and swapping my indoor trainer tire for my road tire, I am struggling to get it back into place. A task that should be simple and routine, yet I have made it quite complicated; typical. By the time I have the wheel back in, the brakes seem to have magically shifted and now I’m fiddling with screws that connect to components which are foreign to my pea sized brain’s understanding of bicycle mechanics. At this point, I have made too much of a mess, and I worry that by fiddling with unknown parts, I have increased my odds of mechanical failure on what was supposed to be a lovely Sunday ride. With the bike shops closed today, I am left with the decision to degrease my hands and pout. 
I have said it so many times before, and I will say it again and again, there is so much to learn. The mechanics and maintenance of my bike is something I really struggle to understand. I remember as a kid that if my chain came off I walked that bike back to wherever I came from, because I simply did not know what to do.
When I first started this sport, I didn’t even know how to change a tire or grease a chain, and I really still struggle with both. Today’s rage against the bicycle episode, and there have been a few, really highlights the need to truly understand all aspects of this sport, including the equipment.
So it’s off to the bookstore with my dirty, greased up hands for a much need self-help book and then to the spin bike for a much deserved stare-at-the-wall-and-pedal sweat fest. I am overjoyed.
Rust2Iron 