Musselman Race Report

Today wasn’t a physical race, but a mental race.  Angela has spent time this season with all of us stressing the mental aspect of racing.  Today’s race proved I had the mental focus and tools to finish a tough race when I was mentally ready but not physically ready to race.

At the beginning of the year, I schedule the Musselman Half Ironman Race as my “A” triathlon race this year.  This year has been a real challenge for me.  I lost my mom to Ovarian Cancer.  She battled for three years, always being upbeat and telling me on her worst days, “it’s okay, tomorrow will be better.”  After 27 rounds of chemo, she had run through all approved chemo treatments available for Ovarian Cancer.  She quietly and bravely accepted this fate and held on so strong, never wanting to give up, until April 25 when she lost her fight.  It was the hardest time for me.  I took a leave of absence from work to spend the last week of her struggle with her and to be at her side, trying to make her as comfortable as I could, as I watched the strongest woman I’ve ever known slowly slip away.  At the same time, I became the shoulder my Dad would lean on the hardest.  They were married for 55 years, he surely doesn’t remember a time without her.  During this time, I can’t even tell you how many workouts I missed.  In the scheme of things, they weren’t important.  In May, I couldn’t focus on more than my dad, taking care of my mom’s estate, going through her belongings, helping my Dad with his finances, refinancing his house and being there when my dad needed to talk.  I decided I needed to drop out of the Musselman race.  I sent an email to the Race Director, Jeff, telling him I had to drop out of the race and somewhere along the way I lost myself in a fog.

During May and June, I slugged through life.  I tried to get back into the routine of a training schedule; tried to look down the road to the next race - an October marathon.  I kept missing workouts, unmotivated to get out there.  Slowly life started to seem a little more normal and I started to come around.  My son, Brad, graduated from high school, I was working on planning my daughter, Jennie’s, wedding, and life seemed to get a jump start.

Sometime late in June, I woke up one morning and actually started to feel like myself.  I was on Angela’s website, when I accidently hit Eric Gibb’s link to his blog.  My eye caught something about Musselman – Eric was looking forward to his race.  He was planning on doing both the mini and the half.  That same day, I got an email sent by Jeff, informing everyone that the mini was full, but there were a few spots left in the half and it was going to be a great race.  This was like fate.  Two times in one day “Musselman” was put in my brain.  It took seed and I sent an email off to Angela asking her what she thought about me racing Musselman – “was I crazy?”  Angela, in her upbeat manner, encouraged me, that of course I wasn’t crazy.  I certainly COULD do it.  Three weeks to get ready to race.  Could I do it?  I contacted Jeff, who put me back on the roster.

I wasn’t nervous entering this race.  Race morning came and I got ready for a long work out.  I was upfront at the buoy when the horn went off because of the walkers. Most of my wave started walking in the waist high water - I just started to swim.  It was windy and Seneca Lake was quite choppy.  I could not find my swim stroke.  For the first 5-10 minutes I struggled.  I couldn’t settle down and started to panic.  Finally, I told myself “Calm down.  Just breathe to one side.  You’ll be okay.”  It worked.  At times I felt like I was on a swimming treadmill:  swimming in place.  But I moved forward, cleared the lake and made my way through the calm water of the canal to the finish.  Mike was there on the point with camera in tow to take multiple shots of me swimming.  I was glad he was there!  I was exhausted when I got out of the water.  I could barely walk.  I hobbled into transition trying to find my legs and energy.  I didn’t rush.  I put on shoes, gloves, glasses, helmet and just stood there a second catching my breath.  I unracked my bike and headed out of transition.

On the bike I found renewed energy.  It was great to be out of the water and moving.  The first 40 miles went well.  I stayed in zone, passed some people and dealt with a wind that only got worse as the day went on.  Some gusts hit me and skidded my bike sideways – but I held my own.  Mike, somehow, managed to be everywhere, cheering me on, taking pictures and putting a smile on my face.  But then my quads started to spasm and freeze up on me.  I tried to stretch them out by standing to one side and then the other, but they seemed to just spasm more.  I just kept going.  The wind picked up and it rained.  The last ten miles felt like an eternity.  This was the longest ride since Ironman Wisconsin – 10 months earlier.  By the time I made it back to T2, I had little energy and less confidence.  What was I thinking when I decided to re-enter this race?  I’m not ready for this challenge.  I barely got off my bike.  How am I going to run 13.1 miles?  I can barely walk.  My quads are cramping.  I am in sad, sad shape.  I rack my bike, take off my helmet and look around.  People are finishing the race. The racks are full of bikes.  And here I am, just coming in and feeling like hell.  I take off my bike shoes. I manage to put on my running shoes.  I feel like I’m in transition forever.  I stretch and slowly walk out of transition in pain.

Mike meets me at the transition exit.  I tell him I am in so much pain; I was not ready to do this race.  He tells me I’m doing great and beautiful.  I start running (if you can call it that) very, very slowly.  I cannot find my legs.  My quads are cramping again.  I am ready to give up in that first mile:  “How can I do this for 13.1 miles feeling this way in my first mile.”  I slowly picked up the pace and found my legs.  I start to get mad at myself.  “Of course you can go 13.1 miles girl because you went 26.2 after 112 miles on the bike, this is easy, it’s only 13.1 miles.”  I found my rhythm.  I plodded on – mile 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and then I hit mile 7, the big climb was through the orchard.  I turned down the gravel road toward the hill.  I was moving slowly.  I got passed by.  I start to power walk up the hill.  I am so tired.  I crest the hill and head down.  “Oh shit.” My quads freeze up and stop me dead in my tracks.  I can’t even walk.  I can’t lift my legs, I can’t take a step.  Massaging doesn’t help.  I’m thinking, “I’m done.”  “I can’t even walk, how the heck am I going to finish?”

Mike appears out of nowhere.  He tells me to take a gel, it will help.  I take a gel.  He runs to the aid station and the volunteers bring me water, enduralytes and coke.  A little boy tells me over and over, “You’re still doing really good.”  I wanted to hug him.  Finally, the spasms ease up and I can walk.  I take more water and more coke.  At least I’m moving forward; right.  I make it off the gravel road and back on a blacktop road.  I start to run again.  I make it about 500 feet and the spasms start again.  I stop.  I massage my legs.  I stretch.  I’m worried because I saw Mike get in the car and head down the road (but he actually never leaves me).  I’m out here by myself.  This is my lowest of low points.  Oh man!  I convince myself to keep going.  “There is a medal waiting with my name on it.  I’m too close to stop now.”  I have a lot of respect for the pros in this sport and the elite racers and the top finishers.  They amaze me, they are so strong, but I wonder, what would they do if they were in my shoes?  I’m at the tail end of the race.  I can’t see anyone in front of me, nor anyone behind me.  It’s lonely.  It’s demoralizing.  I get myself back into a running motion.  As long as I keep running and don’t walk, the spasms aren’t as bad.  I take Coke at every aid station from mile 7 on.  I’ve never taken Coke before.  I don’t like the taste of Coke. But today it is a gift from God.  I get more energy, I get stronger, my pace picks up.  I start seeing some other racers.  I start passing them by – 2 people, 3, 4, 5.  I am amazed, my body is screaming to stop, but my mind won’t let me. 

“Only a 5k left.”  I am starting to feel happy.  I hear the awards ceremony.  I run through the Mussel Kids’ Race.  I start running faster.  I am in pain, my legs are cramping, but I keep going.  No crowd lines the finish line, only Mike and a few family members for the people I have passed.  Somehow I sprint.  I finished the hardest race I have ever run with the biggest smile on my face.  I’ve done it.  I wasn’t physically ready for this race, but mentally I had what it took to talk myself into finishing.  I found myself out on this course.