swim

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!

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.

Rust2Iron 4 MS

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RUST2IRONNot unlike almost every other night, I sit here on my couch unwinding from the day with ice bags draped over my legs, recuperating from another week of swimming, biking and running. It’s in these moments of easing my pain with icing, stretching, foam rolling, and massaging that I remember the words of one of my training partners; “Aly, you just get used to being uncomfortable.” And so I’ve come to learn that she is exactly right. Training for Ironman is not supposed to be easy or comfortable, it’s meant to push your limits, and it’s how you mentally handle those limitations that will ultimately determine whether you make it to that finish line or not. So, every time I get that unbearable pain that stabs into my inner shin, I scream at it to shut up and go away; every time my lungs burn and my heart pounds almost out of my chest, I block it out and tell myself to work harder; every time my knee pierces with pain, or my feet hurt, my shoulders ache or my hair flies in my face and messes with my rhythm, I hear a familiar voice that says, “suck it up, princess and put your big girl panties on.” That familiar voice comes from a friend near and dear to me, someone who I’ve never seen give up, and who always stands proud and just keeps on putting one foot in front of the other. She is the strongest woman I know, and even through her battle with Multiple Sclerosis, she continuously lives life being uncomfortable, managing the pain, and always just moving forward. She has been a constant source of inspiration for me throughout life and this journey because she is always in the back of my head pushing me to be better, no matter what obstacle stands in my way. To give back and to say thank you, I am dedicating my race to raising money for MS.  After all these long training hours, tears, aches, pains, triumphs, and failures, I want to cross that finish line accomplishing something bigger than myself; something that makes a difference. Please join me in my fundraising journey, and support the cause to help those living with MS by checking out my fundraising page here. Any financial help is wholeheartedly appreciated, but any and all moral support is just as welcome. Thanks to those who continue to follow me as I embark on this wild and crazy ride.

Bike, run, swim/drink – winter triathlons

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The last couple of months I have been using some real nasty adjectives to describe my training. Painful, daunting, tiring, consuming, fun-sucking, and miserable are a few that come to mind. But on this beautiful Saturday morning, feeling fresh and energized, I embarked on a mini triathlon of sorts. I left half a gallon of sweat on the floor beneath my bicycle on an indoor spin. Then strapped on my runners for a brisk 8k jaunt. And then transitioned out of my dripping wet clothing, and embarked on a swim in my bath tub with the company of a tub of Epsom salts and a bottle of vino.
My body is refreshed and relaxed, and so is my vocabulary.

Just another day in paradise

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I have found that my swimming training sessions are far more entertaining than running or biking. Unless of course there are epic crashes or run-ins with parked cars, but generally speaking, between near drowning, floundering, and sea creature flailing, swimming doesn’t require epic mishaps, it’s just an adventure every time.
On this particular morning, but not unlike every other freezing cold winter morning so far this year, I am draped in a titanic sized towel staring at the motionless water of the pool. I’ve become accustomed to the morning swims, but until I am fully submerged and awakened by the cool water, I usually just stand on the deck like a dumb donkey awaiting the crack of the whip. Sometimes I’m still waking up, other times I’m enjoying the calmness of the empty pool, and sometimes I’m quietly praying that my coach hasn’t brought those arm braces (Fulcrums) he keeps talking about or asks me to practice my sculling, tie my legs together, or swim another 800m time trial. I’m starting to learn that there are certain training sessions you come to loathe. The ones that result in me spitting up water, screaming in agony with each exhale, wishing my arms would fall off instead of continuing to propel me through the water, and puking in the pool. Most days I think that my coach is trying to kill me. In any case, of course when you wish things away, it seems that they always magically appear, as did the bright yellow arm braces on the pool deck, and the workout sheet which included ankle band, sculling, and 800m TT. I think my body may have instinctively turned towards the door as if the flight or fight response had suddenly kicked in.
As I hop in the pool with my bright yellow, awesomely awesome arm braces I feel like the special kid in class who doesn’t know how to swim and therefore needs special help. Not only am I the only one out of my group wearing these dumb things I also look like a dolphin who has its flippers caught in a six pack ring. And I thought that strapping my feet together and swimming like a demented sea horse was bad.
After managing to flounder through the first 400 with the Fulcrums and then bob like a seahorse through 300 with the ankle band, I still can’t shake the appearance of some off-the-rails sea creature. With a pull buoy squashed between my thighs I am now ass up sculling my arms back and forth as I motor along like a dying whale.
I know there is a method to the insanity of all these pool drills and that one day I will swim like a graceful mermaid torpedoing through the water, but in the meantime, I shall remain a hysterical spectacle for all to admire. 
By the time we are lined up for the time trial, I am mentally preparing myself for inevitable agony. In a TT I’m aiming to hit a time that my coach expects out of me, but my interpretation, in a nutshell, try to keep up to the toes of your training partner and if you start to lose them then swim harder. Usually I see those toes for the first 100 metres or so, then they move slowly inch my inch out of my grasp. I always try to reach out and grab them with so much desperation that my forehead crinkles, but it never matters how much I pull and kick or how hard I try, those toes stay out of my reach until they disappear out of sight and I am left with nothing to reach for anymore. It sounds horrendously defeating, but it’s actually extremely motivating to always have something to chase. Whether I can see it or not, I know it’s there, and it only drives me to be better.
By the time we are finished I am exhausted and sputtering up water. There is barely enough time for me to catch my breath, swim a few cool down laps, clamber out of the pool, and shuffle off to the dressing room where I am practically into transition. I peel off my soaking wet bathing suit, attempt to wring my hair of excess water and suit up in three layers of head to toe clothing. As I choke down a Power Bar, it’s off to the great outdoors where the harsh chill that I remember from this morning greets my lungs and whips at my face. Without much hesitation I silently yell some words of encouragement and we are off for a wintery 11 kilometre run. The workout in the pool is finished but my legs still have to carry me for another hour and 15 minutes through the snow. This is just another day of triathlon training; swim, bike, run, but sometimes all I hear is go, go, go.
At the end of the day I am chilled and beaten. I slink into a scathing hot bath of epsom salts and practically fall into a deep sleep. Sometimes these training sessions sound border line torturous but I love it. In some sort of twisted way feeling beaten and defeated makes me feel stronger. It really doesn’t matter how many sea creatures I resemble in the water or how many kilometres of snow you tell me to run in, I will always keep propelling through. Yes, it can feel awful when my lungs are screaming and my muscles are aching, but there is a brilliant satisfaction at the end of the day knowing that I survived one workout and I am that much more ready for the next one. After all, every step, or peddle, or stroke that I make, takes me that much further away from where I was and that much closer to where I want to be.