Ironman Canada Race Report

Summary
I swam. I biked. I ran. I finished. My numbers look like this:

Swim: 1:28:34
T1: 9:00
Bike: 7:45:25
T2: 11:00
Run: 5:43:19

Pre-Race: The night before/morning of

After checking my special-needs bags once more and mixing my Carbo Pro/Gleukos solution (which was a little tough, because I'd gotten a new container so I wouldn't have issues at the border with bringing a large container of an unknown white powdery substance to anothe country, but the new container didn't include a scoop! So I had to guess at how much to put in), I took two Tylenol PM and went to sleep.

It was 7:30 p.m. The Tylenol PM made me groggy, but I didn't actually fall asleep until maybe 9 p.m. Exactly as I'd visualized, though, I woke up just a few minutes before my alarm was to go off. I turned off the clock and procrastinated, cuddled up in John's arms.

At 4:50, I got out of bed. I wasn't tired at all anymore, nor was I freaking out. I also wasn't the least bit hungry, but I knew I needed to eat. I hopped in the shower, then got dressed. John left to go pick up some coffee for me, and I sat at the desk eating my bagel, turkey, and cheddar cheese. I also planned on eating a Pop-Tart, but it was all I could do to finish the reasonable food, so I threw the Pop-Tarts in my dry-clothes bag and figured I'd bring it with me.









Pre-race goofiness

The plan was to walk the mile to the transition area from our hotel, but given that my shoulder had been bothering me and I needed to carry five full water bottles, I didn't want to do that anymore. I asked John to drive me and Danielle, and he drove us as close as we could get. Roads were blocked off everywhere; it was dumb of me to think we could drive all the way up. But it was better than nothing.

We dropped off our bike and run special-needs bags and got in a humongous line for body-marking. Luckily for us, a volunteer who wasn't assigned to body-marking got an extra marker and came halfway down the line to near where we were standing and started marking people. We joked about how we lost our chance for a podium start - if we'd stayed with the regular lines, the body-markers were having people stand on a little stool to get marked. So we didn't get a podium start or finish. But we didn't wait in a huge line for very long, either.

We then headed to our bikes. I started putting my water bottles on the bike and realized I made a mistake: the bottle that was supposed to be in my bike special-needs bag was still with me. There was no way I could make it back to the drop off and find my bag, so I went with plan B: instead of carrying two Gleukos-Carbo Pro bottles and one bottle of plain water, I would carry only Gleukos-Carbo Pro bottles and just have plain water in my aero bottle. I was annoyed at my mistake, but I let it go immediately.

I put the Clif Nectar and Mojo bars I wanted for the bike in my little food box thing (still in their wrappers, but the wrappers open). I dropped off the clear plastic jacket I wanted for the bike in case it rained in my swim-to-bike bag and was done.

Danielle came over and we headed for the Porta-Potty line. It was huge, of course, so she got the brilliant idea to go over to the finishers' area and use those instead. Perfect - we got to walk for about three minutes, then all the Porta-Potties were empty. No waiting in line!

We then got our wetsuits on, got our caps, goggles and earplugs out and put our dry stuff away. We dropped off the dry clothes bags and headed down to the beach. It was 6:40 a.m. - our timing was just perfect. We left the hotel at 5:30 and had exactly the right amount of time to get our stuff done, but not so much that we had time to freak out or anything.

We stood on the beach and watched the pros take off at 6:45. The water looked a little more choppy than Lake Sammamish, but not bad. Around 6:55, Danielle gave me huge hug and disappeared. I looked for her again, but I have no idea where she went. She told me later she thought I wanted to be alone to collect my thoughts.

Honestly, I had no thoughts to collect. I think the best piece of advice I got - and I got it over and over again, from so many different people - was to stay in the moment. I looked at my watch. I knew in less than five minutes I'd be swimming. I walked into the water up to my calves. I wanted to go deeper to get used to the water - it felt perfect, though, cool but not cold - but people were so spread out and I didn't want to be in the middle of the crowd. There were also a ton of people still standing on the beach behind me.

The Swim
I was a bit startled when the cannon went off. There was no countdown, and my watch already said 7 a.m. The water was shallow for a ways out, so I followed the lead of the athletes in front of me and walked through the water until it was about waist-deep.

From the very first stroke, I couldn't put my face in the water. I coughed and choked and started doing sidestroke - a nice sidestroke with a long glide, but still. I knew I couldn't do sidestroke the entire way and have a successful day (though I almost certainly could have completed the swim that way...plus with tired legs and a sore neck from not using both sides of my body evenly). So I tried again: I put my face in the water and immediately breathed in. Obviously that didn't work.

By now the current the other swimmers were creating had helped to pull me along enough so I could see buoy #20 - the last buoy you pass on the way back to shore. I wasn't even to #1 yet. I prayed that they didn't go in order, but instead were randomly numbered. (Nope, they went in order.)

I tried yet again to swim, and still couldn't put my face in the water. I did a lifeguard's crawl stroke with my head out of the water, but felt ridiculous - no one else was swimming like that. Plus, that would hurt my neck, too - which wouldn't contribute to a great bike ride. I looked over at another girl who was struggling. "I don't think I can do this," I told her. "I don't think I can either," she said.

Then I saw a guy grab on to a kayak, and the kayaker raised a red flag. I guess that means he was done. I thought, huh. Why don't I swim near the kayakers - on the inside of the buoys - instead of the outside where I am. So I started to swim sideways across the remaining swimmers towards the kayaks...and in doing that, somehow remembered how to swim and put my face in the water, forced myself to breathe out, and started going.

When I was at the first buoy, I checked my watch. Drat! I'd failed to press "start" twice, so it was still waiting for me to start it. But I saw the time: 7:10. 10 minutes to get to the first buoy. I did some quick math: if there are 20 buoys and it takes 10 minutes to get to each, that's 200 minutes, which is more than 3 hours. I won't make the swim cutoff.

Now that I was actually swimming (still to the left of the buoys rather than inside), I decided I'd check my pace periodically between buoys, assuming they were evenly spaced. Well, they must have been - it actually took me about three or four minutes between each. So that time works out to be a lot better. I knew with that pace I'd make it.

However, hanging back and then panicking put me in the weird position of needing to pass A LOT of people. But by now everything had changed: I was calm, comfortable, and in a rhythm. I swam between people, over someone's legs, around people, and pretty much whatever I had to fo to get to open space and go my pace. I touched a lot of feet and hands, and for that I'm sorry, but I know I didn't hurt anyone, which is more than I can say for the person who punched me in the nose. I'm sure it wasn't intentional, but it hurt for a bit.

I also go kicked a few times; that must be what people instinctively do or are taught to do when someone touches their feet. Trust me, I didn't want to touch any feet - it just happens.

When I got to the first turn, I was startled by the sight of the scuba diver watching me. I mean, I knew they'd be there, but they looked so funny just lying on the bottom of the lake, looking up!
It was longer than I thought it would be to the second turnaround, but by the time I got there, I was happy because I knew I'd finish - I'd checked my watch, and saw that I was still on pace to do about 1:30, given that the second turn is more than halfway back.

My wetsuit had never given me a problem with chafing throughout my training, this season or last. But for some reason, today it decided to chafe my neck. I kind of stopped partway through to try to fix it, but I didn't. I wondered if it was chafing because I was only unilaterally breathing on the right (where it chafed) and not bilaterally breathing.

I actually started bilateral breathing on the way back, but decided I was happier just breathing on one side, so I went back to that.

I wasn't sure when I should stop swimming; people ahead of me seemed to be standing and wading through waist-deep water. But I know it's faster to swim in that than try to run, so I kept swimming until absolutely everyone around me was standing, then I stood too. I walked, though, to get out of the water - I wasn't sure if I'd be dizzy or what. As it was, I wasn't - but it gave me a chance to get my wetsuit down to my waist. I kept my pink cap on longer than I usually do so I could be identified in pictures more easily.

The wetsuit peelers had a harder time getting my wetsuit off then I expected - I must have not unzipped it all the way. But it was all good, and I got my cap, goggles and earplugs off. Someone handed me my swim-to-bike bag and I ran to the changing tent.

It was chaos in the change tent - tons of people in there. I found a spot and opened my bag on a chair. I found my towel and tried to dry off some, then got my bike clothes on. As I was dressing, next to me was a woman who had had a double mastectomy. I was in awe of her for a whole bunch of reasons - surviving cancer, attempting the Ironman, and not being ashamed about her body.

I managed to get dressed fairly easily, though I had to remove my jersey the first time I put it on and try again - it was all twisted around me - and then I calmly put all my stuff in the bag and asked a volunteer to put sunscreen on me. She did, then took my bag, and I was off to retrieve my bike.

The Bike

Initially I went the wrong way to get my bike, but some volunteers directed me the right way. I managed to get my bike with its two bottles behind my saddle under the bike rack and started running with it to the mounting area. As soon as I got there and swung my leg over my bike, I knocked both bottles out. A zillion people were watching, so I quickly picked them up and replaced them and said out loud, "Let's hope that's the only time today I do that!" (And it was.)

I took off on Main Street and got passed, passed, passed, which I expected and it didn't bother me much. I saw a woman I know from the Pro Club and marveled at her speed, and then Sister Madonna Buder passed me, too! She is 77 years old. I was like, wow. I suck. But I just said to myself, I'm going to ride my ride. I'll likely be seeing a lot of these people passing me now later on during the run.

Once you get out of town, you're on the road that goes around a lake - the lake you run the length of later. There are a couple of short little hills, but I felt great and just did them. I found that I was able to stay in the aerobars much longer than I do when I ride at home - which leads me to believe I need to find places to ride that are less urban so I can stay in there and practice more. In the city, I just want to be closer to my brakes. The first "climb," McLean Creek Road, was no big deal at all. And I knew that once it was over, I had a long flat section and a steep downhill as a reward. That's the thing about this course: every hard part has a great reward...except one, and I'll get to that later.

So I'm playing tag with a handful of people, and it's near impossible to stay three bike lengths apart and still ride the pace I wanted to go. So that was tough, and it felt like the course marshalls on the motorcycles were always near me. They didn't say anything specifically to me, but they did to a guy who was passing - who threw a little fit. I was like, dude - you just gave them a reason to give you a penalty next time they see you. If all they're going to do is talk, nod and smile.

The course really is largely downhill for the first 40 miles, and it felt good - downhill or flat. On the flats, I kept the bike in an easy gear and spun fast, on the downhills, I put it in the big ring and just turned the pedals. I stayed aero for most of this part, with the occasional stretch or shoulder shrug.

I stopped for a potty break around mile 20. I had had to go since T1, but not too bad, and I knew I'd be making a few stops at least so I wanted to wait. A volunteer held my bike while I took care of business. So cool - no worrying about dumping my aero bottle!

I had been drinking the plain water in my aero bottle, plus sipping my Gleukos-Carbo Pro mix. But I actually felt like eating, so I was also munching on pieces of Clif Mojo and Nectar bars. At each aid station - about 10 miles between each - I took a bottle of water, poured it into my aero bottle, and tossed the empty bottle. The volunteers made these handoffs work so well - I had no issue whatsoever with handoffs.

Maybe 25 miles in I saw my car pass me by. "Hey, that's my car!" I said to no one in particular. My car pulled over up ahead and John, Charlie (Danielle's husband) and Gabriel jumped out, but John didn't grab the camera at first and I flew by. He got a picture of my back.

The next time I saw them, I asked, "Where's Danielle?" John told me she was about 40 minutes back. Okay, good - she's not going to catch me anytime soon. I wanted her to catch me, and in fact, expected it, but I didn't want her to catch me until Yellow Lake. That way, we could finish the downhill part together and run together. Since you can't draft, I didn't want to ride near her for the full ride - she rides faster anyway, and I didn't want to even look like we were cheating.









All smiles early on



John and the kids drove ahead me a handful of times, each time getting out of the car and taking pictures. In Osoyoos, the course turns and you begin the climb up to Richter Pass. I thought the timing mat for the 40-mile mark would be right here at the turn; it wasn't, so I checked my speedometer. Average speed to here was 17.8. (Note: if you look online, it will say something like 15 something. That's because the mile 40 timing mat is actually at mile 43 - 3 miles into the Richter climb. And the official time includes my time spent in the potty.)

I started climbing very calmly, keeping my heart rate and power output fairly low. Even still, I was passing people immediately. That was kind of weird - people who had passed me earlier were now slowing down. When I saw John on Richter Pass, I motioned like mad to the woman just in front of me, that I was about to pass. I wanted to say, "Take pictures of HER!" It was Sister Madonna again. John didn't get my frantic motioning, but he did take a bunch of pictures of me, and you can see in them that I'm passing her. Sure, passing a 77-year-old isn't much of a victory, but man, she's hard-core, and I'm proud to share a course with her.




Check out how hard-core Sister Madonna is!





So the first section of Richter was easy. I said to the guy next to me, "Where's the hill?" He laughed and said, "Just around that corner." I was ready for it. Each stair-step was shorter than the last, though possibly steeper. Either way, it didn't matter - no section of it was as hard as Lakemont. And though I definitely can't say that I could spin the entire way up, I wasn't having to mash the pedals to make it happen.

The rollers begin immediately after Richter - you get a nice downhill, then you're climbing again. I got two of them over with when I saw a sign that read, "Nine bitches (rollers) ahead." Hmm. I thought there were seven, and I already did two of them? Oh well, whatever.

I can see why people don't love the rollers because it's hard to get a rhythm. It kind of was - some of them required my easiest gear to ascend, and they all deserved hard gears to descend. But this is where it got weird: sometimes, when the road looked downhill, I was struggling to keep going at 11 or 12 mph. I figured maybe this is what people call a false flat and I was really going uphill.

But once I got back to town and got some perspective, I've learned that the wind picked up when I was around mile 60 and was harsh. You pass a farm or something called "Windy Valley" on the way, and I was like, "Yeah, it is windy." But I wasn't sure how to equate wind with my lack of performance. I still felt good - little pains were coming and going, like a pain in the top of my right foot (the same place I had a cortisone shot to fix, and it was fixed...until now, when I suspect it's un-fixed) and a pain in my left hamstring. And of course the usual shoulder, neck, and back tiredness that comes from both climbing and living in aerobars. Nothing was a big deal, though.

It seemed like forever to get to Keremeos, where you turn to do this out-and-back part. Danielle and I had not driven this part, since it seemed relatively flat anyway and we were more eager to preview the hills. Well, it got me worried right away. I was going 17-18 mph and I felt like it was all downhill. I didn't realize then that it was a tailwind pushing me ahead.

I knew Danielle was gaining on me, and I needed to stay focused to keep ahead. I got to the turnaround and got my special-needs bag. There wasn't much in it that I wanted; just a couple of Clif Nectar Bars. A volunteer was walking around with a box of stuff other cyclists had discarded from their bags and offering it to us. I didn't want anything, but I added my leftover stuff to her pile. I used the Porta-Potty again, then got back on the bike to head out of the out-and-back.

About a mile away, I saw Danielle. I figured I'd see her on the out-and-back, but not this soon. "You're almost catching me!" I yelled, and kept going. Seeing her kind of got my behind back in gear - and realizing the out-and-back really was close to flat, it was just the now-headwind keeping me down. I was happy when it was over. This was the part that just sucked, and had no fun downhill reward.

But by now, I was tired. And I knew that soon I'd start the climb to Yellow Lake. I couldn't remember what the exact mileage was of the lake, so at mile 84, when I was feeling kind of tired and low, I took some advice from the great Gordo Byrn and told myself I was going to quit, but not yet. I was going to quit in 7 miles, at 91. I thought maybe Yellow Lake was there.

Somewhere around here a guy on a mountain bike in board shorts and sneakers passed me. I thought it was cool, actually, but some spectators made some nasty comments about him. I was just thinking, see ya on the downhill, dude. And I did. There was also a man on a really old road bike with toe-clips. Hard-core.

Yellow Lake wasn't at mile 91, but I'd been climbing, so I knew it had to be fairly soon. Plus there were spectators lining the road cheering me on, and that sort of takes the pain away. Not as much as it did on Richter Pass, where there was less pain, but some. At mile 91, my new bargain was, "I'll quit at mile 95." And of course, by mile 95, I was flying downhill, passing tons of people and just enjoying standing up, stretching my legs, and going FAST.

But something happened at mile 100 - I was trying to shift of something, and I got my chain stuck by the small ring, between the smallest ring and the bike frame. It was totally stuck, and I didn't know how to fix it. Not 30 seconds after I pulled over, the bike mechanics showed up! In another 20 seconds they had fixed my problem, and I got back on the bike and continued to fly the rest of the way into town. There were some flat parts where I actually had to work (in other words, pedal), but mostly I just flew. It was a tiny bit discouraging to see all the runners going out - and some even coming back in! - but I just told myself, whatever. Race my race.

A volunteer took my bike and another handed me my bike-to-run bag and I ran into the change tent. The chaos of the morning was gone, and a volunteer quickly approached me and asked if I wanted help. I said sure and she helped sort my geat and find what I was going to wear. I had my shoes and socks off when I heard a screen and Danielle, arms open for a hug, came running in. PERFECT!!! We told the volunteer how we hoped it would work out this way: I'd swim faster, she'd bike faster, and we'd run together. Well, here it was - without either of us jeopardizing our races to be with each other, it just happened. Lucky us!

We dressed in our semi-matching outfits: me in a black tri top and the pink camo GymGirl from SkirtSports, Danielle in a pink tank top with the zebra-print GymGirl. And of course we had pink headbands and pink visors. Danielle decided not to wear her fuel belt, so I decided not to wear mine either. I took the food from the pocket and stuffed it into the two pockets in the GymGirl and the third pocket in "cleavage alley" of the tri top. Perfect! We both went to the Porta-Potty and took off.

The Run

Immediately when we started running, I felt some new pains - my inner quads on both legs. It sort of felt like the muscle was detached from the rest of my leg and was just hanging there. It didn't feel jiggly - it felt tight and separated. I'm not sure how else to describe it. It wasn't pleasant.

But it was runnable. We waved to everyone and learned something: even though we were both running in our regular running clothes, they seem to attract a ton of attention during an Ironman! Plus, it was so cool to hear people yelling our names, which were printed on our bibs. I kept thinking they were people we knew, but nope. Just people who can read. And yell.



Again, happy early on...sensing a theme here...



So the run was pretty cool out of town and the beginning of the lake road. Danielle was entertaining, singing and laughing. I didn't want to talk much for the first few miles; I was just trying to get into the rhythm of the run. I timed our miles, and they were just over 12 minutes, including walk breaks during the aid stations.

I had no desire whatsoever to eat. I knew I needed to, but I just didn't want to. I carried a little baggie filled with Sour Patch Kids, which I kind of munched on in order to make me thirsty in order to make me drink. I did drink water at every aid station, but by mile 4 I was realizing my lack of desire to eat would turn this run into a disaster if I didn't make myself have calories. So thereafter I took a cup of Gatorade - it was warm out, so drinking wasn't too annoying - and a cup of water.

We started seeing people we knew coming back the other way. It was fun to look at those athletes and guess what their finishing times would be - they were so impressive. And we kept on running. We each stopped at Porta-Potties a couple of times - which we deemed a good thing since it obviously meant we were hydrated.

But eventually, running got harder. We walked a hill somewhere in the first half, and it felt a lot better than running. And I started asking Danielle what she would think if I wanted to walk.
At first she said no way, we were going to run. It's funny how quickly goals you make when you're home and cozy and comfortable can get thrown out at the first sign of adversity. Run the marathon? WHATEVER.

It was all I could do to push on to the halfway point. The promise of interesting things in my special-needs bag kept me going.

But of course, when I got there, nothing looked interesting. I took my Terry bolero and put it on; it wasn't quite cool enough to need it, but I didn't want to tie it around my waist. I told Danielle I was going to walk back up the hill we descended to get to the special-needs station, and then when we got to the top, I said I just didn't want to run at all.

It was here that I had a little bit of a breakdown: I really just wanted to cry. I had no reason to cry. I just wanted to. Danielle said, "Here! Have some Princess Gummies!" and handed me some Disney Princess fruit snacks. The absurdity of Princess Gummies fixing my breakdown was enough to make me laugh, which brought me back to the present task of completing this marathon.

I really did want to walk, though. But apparently, I walk very fast. I started walking and Danielle had to jog to keep up with me. I'm not sure how exactly that works, since I'm actually shorter than her, but I've always been a fast walker and I wanted to get done enough that I wasn't going to go at a leisurely pace - or even a comfortable pace. My walk hurt - in fact, walking hurt my legs and right foot more than running - but when I ran, I got all this tightness just under my rib cage and despite my heart rate being low, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Danielle said something technical (she is a triathlon coach and has a degree in exercise physiology, after all) that I boiled down to this: all systems related to breathing were sore and tired, too - not just legs and arms and shoulders and neck and back. When I ran, that part of me felt all tight and painful. But when I walked, I felt happy. Well, happy enough - Danielle's constant chatter and singing definitely made it fun, as much as I wanted the race to be over.

We stopped at every aid station, and when it got dark, discovered that chicken broth really is a great alternative to Gatorade. I also tried eating - I had some grapes and a couple pieces of cookie - but mostly I had no interest in food. I didn't have any gastrointestinal issues, though - my IronStomach plan worked, and I was happy with the outcome. In fact: when we were back on Main Street, a guy had a box full of donut holes from Tim Horton's. He offered them to us, and even though we know we're not supposed to take outside food, we each had one. Danielle said it would be impolite not to. And I thought it was funny.

After dark, Danielle wore a plastic light-up necklace, and people started talking about how she looked like Christmas. I got two purple glow sticks from a course marshall person and played with them to entertain myself. My walk/Danielle's jog was faster than most other walkers - and a lot of joggers - out there. So I didn't really feel like running would be that useful.

But when we hit mile 24, 2.2 miles from the finish, I said I'd do it - I'd push through and run to the finish line. We stopped once more at the final aid station, fueled up, and took off. I didn't like running much, but I soon saw my family just before the 25 mile mark, and that was a good boost, then we were on Lakeshore Drive and little kids were holding out their hands for us to slap and it just felt fun, even as it hurt. Running away from the finish line was annoying, but the turnaround point came quicker than I thought it would, and suddenly even though I said we weren't going to speed up, the homing-pigeon instinct took over and we did. I pulled out my lip gloss, one item saved from run special needs, and shared it with Danielle so we'd look pretty in our pictures.



Just before mile 25...almost there!



I thought our families were going to run across the line with us, but they didn't. Instead, steps from the line, Danielle pushed me ahead so I'd "break the tape" and cross ahead of her. I didn't really want to do that - we should have crossed fully together - but it was too close to the finish to react.

When I heard my name announced and felt the tape, I didn't feel some great joy or sense of accomplishment. I actually felt embarrassed - all this fanfare, and for what? Because I spent 15 hours swimming, biking, and running? Oh my goodness.


All done!

The Aftermath

I expected to feel something special, I really did. But at the time, I didn't. I took a happy picture with Danielle and right away our families found us. All I wanted to do was get home. I missed the fireworks and all that - I was hungry for real food, finally, and I wanted to just be done with everything.

Immediately after, and even yesterday, I didn't feel all that good about it. Doing an Ironman is a selfish venture. At one point on the run, Danielle and I passed a whole group of guys in matching yellow shirts with some web site address on it. I can't remember now what it was exactly (you know, lost brain cells as a result of endurance athletics), but when I asked the guys about it, they said they were doing the Ironman to raise money for children's wings of hospitals. One of them asked me why I was doing the Ironman. I answered truthfully, "Lord only knows."

Honestly, the race itself was fun at moments, but mostly it wasn't that much fun. I wasn't bored, but I wasn't elated like Danielle, or ready to sign up again, like other friends I know. It took a lot of time and training, and the outcome was that I get to wear a t-shirt around Penticton all the next day that says I finished. So did a few thousand others. And that's cool, but is it really worth it?

It's so expensive - all the equipment, sure, but also the entry fee, the hotel, the travel, the pictures, the dining out while in the race town for a week, the supplies - it costs a small fortune to become an Ironman. And it was also costly to my family: everyone had to move stuff around in their lives to accommodate me, and it was definitely rough in other ways on the people closest to me.

I'm not embarrassed about my finish time. Sure, it was slower than I wanted it to be, but mostly I wanted to finish the race happy, and that I pretty much did. I didn't crawl across the finish line; I ran. Did I "leave it all out there on the course?" No, probably not. But I'm not sure that's appropriate for me either - after all, I have a husband and two kids and a demanding job and school starting for my second-grader next week. I don't have the luxury of time to recuperate - I have to be ready to go NOW, no limping around or sleeping extra or whatever. My family has given up enough already for me just to do this.

I'm left asking this question: Did it prove something that I didn't already know in my heart?

I'd like to say I knew I could do it before I did it. At times that was true, but I also had my moments of doubt before the race and during. Many moments of doubt. Other people believed in me a whole lot more than I did, and for that I thank you and appreciate you.

But I am the type of person who, if you tell me the stove is hot so I shouldn't touch it, I immediately touch it to be sure.

Completing the Ironman is proof that I can complete an Ironman. Maybe it symbolizes more; it is definitely about physical and mental endurance, the ability to keep going when everything in you says to stop.

So yes: I proved that I could do it. And perhaps what that means is that many more people who don't think they could do it can. So many blog readers and friends have called me an inspiration. I have trouble seeing that - after all, I think about all my mistakes and missteps along this journey - but I guess when I look back to what I came from, who I was just three and a half years ago - it is fairly amazing.

What's Next?
Focusing on my family. Moving closer to work. Losing a few pounds. Exercising for exercise, not training. Reconnecting with non-triathlete, non-runner friends (I miss you!).

I'm not sure I'm going to get depressed without an immediate race goal ahead of me. I'm kind of looking forward to the downtime.

Again, thank you all for your support. I couldn't have done it without you. And I really do mean YOU - everyone who read this, offered advice, sent good wishes, thought of me, or cared in the least. THAT definitely means a lot.