Once again, back by popular demand.  (By popular, I mean 3 people asked if I was going to do this….that qualifies as “popular demand” in the broadest sense of the term.  Or in my mind.)  A summary of my thoughts during the 70.3* miles I did during the Oceanside Half Ironman.  Unlike some of the other races, where I could generally tell you what mile I was on, these thoughts might not exactly correlate to the exact mile I had them during the race.  For two reasons.  First, I am not sure anyone really wants to read 70 of my thoughts (even those 3 people that asked!).  Second, I lost my mind somewhere around mile 4 of the run and in retrospect, the bike is all a blur to me.  I’m writing this promptly so I don’t lose more coherency than I already have.  But that’s not to say I haven’t already lost most of it.  For those of who that have done an endurance race — or have 3 kids (or 1, or 2) — I know you won’t judge me for this.  For those of you who haven’t yet or who don’t, don’t judge.  You know what they say about karma.  On to the thoughts.

Pre-Race:  I hate eating breakfast before I workout.  But I’ve spent the past 3 months getting used to oatmeal bars, a cheesestick and an apple or orange to have some pre-race fuel.  I’m still not used to this but hoping these calories come in handy in 2, 3, or 4 hours.

Walk to the race: I am really glad I am not doing this alone.  Thank god for Brian Basye (colleague and friend) and Tim Wilton (another colleague’s husband and friend).  It reminds me of my trip to Europe, when I bought the ticket on my own and then by coincidence and convincing got to travel with Eric Fagan, Robert North, Marisa Arbanas (all friends from high school, Marisa one of my best) and Dave Filbeck (college, and life).  I’m hoping this race turns out as amazing as that Europe trip.  (Most likely, it will be like the night in Nice, France — the night Marisa and I survived, but should not have.  But man, the story that can be told when I want to tell it).

Transition 1 area:  THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE.  A LOT OF NICE BIKES!  And did I mention a lot of people? I think the guy to girl ratio is about 7:3. And I see Brian Stone, a friend from San Dieguito (high school).  He gives me great tips for the bike, and more important a big warm smile.  Perfect way to start!

In the corral:  After I get to hang with Tim and Brian, I head up to join my Silver Capped age groupers.  The song with the lyrics “Best day of my life…” is playing, and all 180 of these 40-44 year olds are dancing in their wetsuits and booties and caps.  And I’m wondering how I feel about this?  I’m known to dance, but this feels a little strange. I also don’t feel like I’m 40 (or 41, according to my leg and Ironman rules).  My feet are freezing.

In the water: It’s a water start — the water feels warm on my cold feet.  I jump in, and WAIT, it’s not warm.  Holy f&$%.  I lose my breath a little and question my decision to wear a spring suit.  I remember when I used to hyperventilate swimming the 100 fly when I was 7 years old all the time.  I think it might not have been from the pressure I put on myself, but from freezing cold water.  CATCH YOUR BREATH. (I do before the start).  I think I even say something to my fellow 40-44 year old women before we start the race out by the kayakes, but no one responds, and now I can of wonder if I actually said anything or just thought to.

Mile 1: (The Swim).  Awesome! All swim club swims at lunch have helped. I don’t feel nearly as shoddy as I did at the Pier swim just 6 months ago.  I’m out ahead, with a pack of 3 or 4 women, and this again makes me feel like I’m not 40.  Maybe not 16, but certainly not 40.  Then the group of us start catching up to the waves in front of us.  I’ve never minded starting behind people to catch up to them — an ego boost to start the day!

Mile 1: (The swim continued).  This is one long 1.2 mile swim. It’s got to be longer.  It felt like a mile to the first buoy.  Let alone all the way back.  The sun is so strong, I’m looking right into it whenever I spot check for a buoy, but it’s also lighting up under water.  It’s beautiful.  The sun makes me think of Lauren — the day it came out on the first run I did after she died, and Sugarland came on, and I knew she was there with me.  Her energy. I’m about to get on her bike and I remember trying to track her in Lake Placid during her Ironman.  I’m grateful for the sun and this very moment, this very second, of feeling her energy, feeling my stroke and having a good swim, and of getting to do this.  It’s going to be fun. [Side note: I am extremely grateful that I can remember this good feeling, as you’ll see later, I totally forgot it later in the race.]

Mile 1.2 (or 1.5, depending on who you talk to).  The volunteers on the ramp pushed my back while they unzipped my spring suit (that had some ice dangling off), and it propelled me to go fast down this faded red (or, okay, maybe brown, or gray) carpet.  It’s me and 1 woman who got out right with me, and all men around us.  I’m one leg down! Just two to go!

Transition 1: My Speedo friends (family) are there to cheer me on.  Awesome! One of the cute little boys along for the ride (the son of my pseudo training partner Tim) holds a sign that says “This way to the bar.”  I love that cute little face and his serious look making sure I see the sign.  And I am looking forward to a drink!  It seems surreal to be chatting with them as if I’m at swim club but also having to figure out what I need to take on this 56 mile bike ride with me.  And I’m sitting down trying to get my bike shoes on and feel like it might be only slightly more appropriate than an ungraceful towel change, particularly since I don’t feel graceful at all.  And I can’t imagine the angles are flattering.  And Craig (colleague) is snapping pictures while I’m sitting here struggling and I better have approval rights over those pictures!

Mile 2: I made it out! I’m on the bike! It’s not so bad.  Remember to take it easy the first half.

Mile 3-10: Okay, surprisingly, I’m passing as many people as people passing me.  Most the people I pass are men my age or older.  most the people who pass me are women in my age group.  They are speed demons on the bike.  How can I become one?? Seriously.  How? And where the hell are we riding? I think the course takes us on a service road through a gas station and behind a grocery store.  So strange.  The guy in front of me dropped his kit to his flat.  He keeps riding as he looks to see what fell.  What will get me good karma? I don’t want to unclip, but I want him to have it.  So I shout, he stops, and dilemma solved without me unclipping.  I think I’m the only person on the bike course that doesn’t have a Rudy helmet or the water bottle that fits between the aero bars with a straw that goes straight up.  If I do this again, maybe I’ll invest in one of those water bottles.  So far, the bike isn’t bad but I’m thinking I’d like something more scenic to see than the service road.

Miles 10-20: I realize something amazing — I finally know how to work my gears.  I know exactly what pressing one or two clutches on the right side does (one — increases my gear, two lowers it, all on the back) and on the left side (one — lowers it, two increases it).  The first time I rode this bike was October 7th, 2011.  It is March 29, 2014.  That is pathetic — I’ve gone through my originally sporadic and then recently regular rides just guessing at what I needed to press to get me where to go.  AND IT’S NOT THAT HARD.  There’s only so many options to press – four total. Well, it is pathetic but let’s focus on the fact that I have it now, so this should be the best ride of my life (which makes me sing the song all the 40-44 year old women were singing in the corral — which makes me cringe just a little).  I continue to notice that I keep getting past by people, but keep passing people too.  I pass a lot of people on the uphill parts of the small roller hills we have.  I’m good at the uphill (at least relative to the people around me).  This should be symbolic of life somehow – right? Normally, on my shorter rides, I’d be able to make the thought more eloquent and layered.  But I’ve got to just stay focused on the bike since I barely know what I’m doing on it and any expertise I have gained will be shattered if I focus on anything else.  Brian Basye started about 20 minutes behind me, he should be passing me.  I feel half way respectable that he didn’t pass me by Mile 5 on the bike, actually.  I’ll take the boosts of confidence where I can find them.  Aside from the 20 or so women who passed me, it is all men out here.  From 23 to 60 years old.  My 7:3 ratio might be more like 8:2.  I remember the night Dave Filbeck invited me to “guys night out” in college.  It feels connected.

Mile 20-30.  We’ve got to be starting the hills pretty soon.  As Mile 20, I’m not doing so bad.  I go through an aid station and Marines that are volunteers are giving out water, propel, and gu.  The woman in front of me wants water but the guy missed the hand off.  So he runs as fast as he can to catch her to give the water.  I’m a little nervous because I’m sure there’s going to be a huge crash with his 240 pounds of muscle and me and her involved (and our bikes!).  But — he runs his 15 mph burst and amazingly catches here and everyone claps.  I pretend inadvertently that it’s for me, though I was not involved other than to be about 4 bike lengths behind her.  The marines are dedicated volunteers and they know how to cheer in short, enthusiastic words that make you feel like you have no choice but to GO FAST! WORK HARD! KEEP IT UP! USE THOSE MUSCLES.  They make me feel like I really am LOOKING GOOD.  They shout with confidence. I need to teach Kai the value of that one day.  Shortly after that (maybe Mile 22? 23?) I hear someone who is about to say “On your left”, I think, like all the other speed demons passing me.  But wait, “Light feet. Push pull. Push pull.” It’s my bike coach aka Brian Basye.  We just went for a 40 mile training ride two weeks ago, I have less mileage than that now.  He speeds by and I do what he says to do.  I turn onto Cristianitos and know the hills will start soon.  Wait, this has to be the first hill.  But I don’t think it is — not nearly long enough.  What’s up with people calling courses flat that really aren’t flat?  I do good on the uphill – it’s a good little prep, at least.  There are more hills, but none long enough to be the ones everyone has talked about, including the ones Brian Stone told me about right before race start.

Mile 30-40:  HILLS. Okay, the uphills. The big ones.  Were clear. I lost my breath a little when I saw the first one, with what looked from far away like little ants (who were actually the bikers) slowly making their way up.  Some on bike. Many on foot.  Many.  My first thought? Crap.  My second? I’m so glad I just did the Baldwin Hills Overlook with Brian.  The first time I did it, I went alone and didn’t know what I was doing and barely remember making it up the hill and it likely took me 8 minutes.  But then my crash course from 2 weeks ago was fresh in my mind (or was it one week ago? I think actually one week ago) and I reminded myself to keep my toes down, my feet light, pull up with my legs, and go to the lowest gear (which I now know how to do perfectly well!).  Breath through my nose if I can — which since I’m not expert at blowing snot efficiently out my nose while I’m riding or running, I am using my arm sleeve to clear (since I’m not using it to keep my arms warm), and just might be able to do since I had the genius idea of arm sleeve/handkerchief all in one.  I pass a lot of people (a few pass me, but I pass more).  A woman named Linda says to me “You like the uphills!” I tell her I’m scared of the downhills so I have to make up for it somehow.  And sure enough, 5 minutes later when we are going downhill, all those people whiz by me.  BUT, you know what, I got myself up to like 33mph. On that curvy first downhill, which I haven’t done since 1984.  Specifically since my sister Billi told me she wasn’t using the breaks on the downhill, and it wouldn’t be hard to turn at the bottom of the downhill, and I listened and got 30+ stitches (for a second time) in the bottom of my distinctly Hart chin.  So, pat on the back for me.  I know it’s not 50 mph, but the 33 mph is about 10 more mph of free speed than I’ve ever had as an adult.  After that. More hills.  Big hills, small hills.  Short hills, long hills.  There are hills.  Don’t let anyone say there are just two hills during the bike of the Oceanside Half Ironman.  There are more.  Calling them rollers is disingenuous. I need to write the course descriptions.

Mile 41:  16 more miles.  Totally do-able.  But, MY BUTT HURTS.  I might not ever want to be on a bike again.

Mile 42: MY BUTT HURTS.  Repositioning is almost useless at this point. And I’ve been staying far back in the saddle in the aero bars for a good chunk of this.

Mile 43: I’m a little tired of Gu.  But my water tastes delicious.

Mile 44: It can’t be hard to create a road bike seat with my padding.  Can it?  Seriously??

Mile 45-50: I’m riding with 2 guys from Mexico and a 32 year old woman and a 53 year old woman.  The 53 year old is in hot pink.  She’s bright but she’s good. We’re all pretty even. I might even break the rules for a bit and draft off the 32 year old.  It feels super easy.  The bike has gone fast! I might not be able to write a summary even if I wanted to because I’ve pretty much only been thinking about what I’m doing on the bike, which isn’t the most interesting thing for anyone to read.  I haven’t been judging all the athletes around me (my usual strategy).  Or playing funny mind games.  I’ve just been riding, and I’m almost tempted to say it’s been fun.  Almost.  In fact, I would say it except my butt really hurts and it’s a mixture of being on the bike and having a little knot in my left glute and that’s not fun.  But I’m almost done! And thankfully I did a few windy rides (even a brick during a very windy night where the wind could have been classified tornado winds (in my head)) and the headwinds really aren’t that bad.  I can’t believe I’m almost done.

Mile 51: Jesus. I’m going to finish the bike much faster than I thought.  Be proud for one minute, but get ready to run.

Mile 52: Back through the gas station and behind the grocery store.  Random streets of Oceanside. It’s amazing to think that I lived here for a year or so.  That was 4 lifetimes ago.  Literally.  It wasn’t even my life it seems.  Although I know I wouldn’t be where I’m at now without that year. And all the times I swam on Camp Pendleton growing up to get some long course training in.  That was 8 life times ago. But I feel more like that 16 year old than the 30 year old that lived here.

Mile 56: YAY! People cheering.  And I’m not just pretending it’s for me.  It really is for me! I give them a big smile, without effort, because it’s so awesome they are here.  And I am sooooooo close to getting off this bike and giving my butt a break.

Mile 57: DONE WITH THE BIKE.  I never want to ride a bike again. (Until I do this again).

Transition 2: I go a bit faster than T1, happy to know I need much less stuff with me.  There’s not too many bikes racked up in my area, so I’m doing okay.  About 4-5 women all around me, my age and younger.  We are with about 50 men in our general area.  The ratio isn’t 7:3 or 8:2.  It might be 9:1.

Mile 58 (aka Mile 1 of the run): I did lots of bricks. I ran every time I got off the bike.  I ran a lot.  I ran runs at lunches. I ran 14 miles the morning after the Amos Lee concert.  I ran A LOT. I ran 8 miles with jello legs after a 40 mile bike ride on the CARGO BIKE we have because my road bike was in storage and the key to storage was at Derek’s work.  This does not feel like Mile 1 of any of those runs.  Slow down.

Mile 59 (aka Mile 2): Slow down.  Loosen those legs up. I’m good at pacing, slow down and throw this mile away.  I see my cheering squad (which is also Tim’s and Brian’s cheering squad). I want to hug each of them. I give the little boys a high five and a smile and run.

Mile 60 (aka Mile 3 of run):  Okay, this should start feeling good soon.  Where is the music? I need to think of a song.  I can’t think of any song. Think of one.  Okay, The Best I Ever Had by Gavin Degraw was a regular on my runs. I can’t think of one word of that damn song.  What about I’ll be the One, or Soulshine, by Warren Haynes.  Soulshine only has like 20 words total.  Think of them.  I can’t even think of two words.  And that house is playing music, but the speakers are horrible and I can barely make out that they are playing Happy by Pharrell. But better than nothing.

Mile 61 (aka Mile 4).  Really only Mile 4?? You have to be kidding me.  This can’t be mile 4. There must be a mistake with the Mile markers.  But seriously Mile 4?  I look at my watch, 34 minutes into the run.  So mile 4 is accurate, and I’m not happy about it.  Lots of people are walking, and I really want to walk. Stay slow, this is a throw away mile.

Mile 62 (aka Mile 5 or when death starts setting in).  I spot Brian running back north — a quick hello and renewed energy.  About 8 miles to go.  I just did a mid day 8 mile run not too long ago through Echo Park to keep running in the mid day heat.  This is no different.  (I tell myself, HA! — to be clear, It Is Different).  There’s no breeze.  Where’s the coastal breeze?

Mile 63 (Mile 6 of run): I need to pee.  Actually, I need to stop running so I am going to pee.  To give my legs a break.  I need 5 cups of water and 5 wet sponges (though I only take 2) and a cup of ice.  The ice just might be the best thing I’ve ever held and eaten.  This can’t really just be mile 6.  These mile markers are off.  Wasn’t I supposed to think of someone new each mile?  Pretend I was running with a friend? Think of a song? I can’t.  The sun is out, strong, beating on us. This usually makes me think of Lauren and that always inspires me.  Takes me a to a different level.  But though Inspired, I can’t get lost in it.  Many of my training runs worked best when I had to work out some issue in my head – some emotion, some discomfort, some sadness, some frustration.  Think of that and try to get lost in it.  NONE OF THIS HAPPENING. My mind can’t hold a thought.  Okay, get back on your game for the second half of the run.  I see Tim.  He’s a great runner. He got me through a run on a seriously hot day when I had cramps in my quads.  Think of that. (I can’t even do that because my mind can’t hold a thought for longer than 2 seconds).

Mile 64 (Mile 7):  My cheering squad! Yay! If you are ever wondering if cheering someone on helps them — IT DOES! For the fifteen second when I was in their sight, I felt like “Okay, this second half of the run.  It’s what you are good at.  You can do this!”

Mile 65 (Mile 8 of run):  I have descended every single freaking run I’ve done since Thanksgiving.  Unless I ran with Brian and/or Tim and I let them set the pace at the beginning.  Every single other one, I’ve descended.  This might be the exception today.  I want to die.  Why did I sign up to do this race? Why? Was I really having fun on the bike? Did I really just smile at those people cheering me on and lead them to believe that I am happy? I AM NOT.  Wait, I just passed the woman who is wearing my same shorts but with a tiny little bikini top and she has an awesome 6 pack. I passed her.  It does not matter, it means nothing.  Except I’m running faster than her.  Does that mean anything? I don’t think so.

Mile 66 (Mile 9): I want to walk.  But don’t walk until you see Brian run past the other way (I tell myself, I can’t even think in first person anymore because my first person thoughts are all negative) – he’ll pass you soon (stay in third person, pretend this isn’t you running). Don’t let him see you walk even if you decide to admit you walked later (which I’m going to have to — my splits will be evident).  But I’m likely walking as fast as I can run right now.  My god I want to walk, and lay down in that puddle of water on the side of the road. When I signed up in June 2013 for this ride, I thought deep down that I needed this to get me through the year of transition I was about to have.  WHAT WAS I THINKING?  Who needs this?  Who needs these Mile markers that are spaced too far apart mocking them as they approach 5 1/2 hours of physical activity on a hot day?  Why can’t it be raining?  I hear Chariots of Fire.  I want to walk.

Mile 67 (Mile 10): I’m the Man by Aloe Blacc playing at the aid station. I think all the volunteers – who I want to hug when they give me ice and water and tell me keep it going I’m doing great — and every one on the road is singing it.  How do they have energy to sing?  But the song makes me smile, for so many reasons that warrant a different post, another day.  Too many reasons than I can think of coherently right at this moment (though I want to think of them, they make me happy), so not fair to write about them, because I just thought “I can’t believe they are playing this song. I’m happy they are.  I can’t believe everyone is singing it.  I want to sing too but I can’t remember how to put one foot in front of the other.” I stop to pee aka take a break again.  3rd time on the run (I never have stopped during any other half marathon i’ve done.  the whole 2 that I’ve done).  Good thing for my 2 piece Soas “kit” that makes this easy (by the way, when did I become such a pseudo tri-geek that I call it a kit instead of a suit? and did that woman I saw 2 miles ago just say “nice kit” and it took me two miles to figure out what she meant?).  A few women pass me and I’m (sort of) ashamed (but not really) to say “Seriously, they should not be passing me. They do not look like they should be passing me”. I then I give them kudos for being so tough and say more power to them. Because they look like they are jogging while I’m shuffling, even if I’m shuffling past all the men slowing down (the ratio, by the way, is definitely at most 9:1. lots of men do these things). So they do look like they should be passing me BECAUSE THEY ARE MOVING.  I’m leaving everything I have out here but the reality is I can’t go any faster than I’m going right now.  I want to talk. I mean walk. I mean stop.

Mile 68 (Mile 11): I”M ALMOST THERE.  I see Tim again, one last time.  Wait, his face is all bloody.  And his shoulder.  But he’s smiling.  Am I delirious?  But if he’s smiling. I’m smiling.  I do want to walk.  If I walk, I have no longer than 30 minutes left.  I’ve done way too many training runs to let myself walk.  Pretend you are running with someone. I can’t even think of one friend’s name.  I have a purple and pink sock on — my mismatched socks.  Which remind me of Sasha & Gemma.  Because Gemma likes pink and Sasha likes red.  But i don’t have a red version so I go with the purple.  Go figure.  There was more to the logic at one point but I forget it now.  And my daughters are tough little cookies.  So keep running.  Remember when I was in labor with them FOR A WEEK.  And the medicine to stop the labor only made it feel worse.  And then I was dilated to 10 cm with no medication and I was pretty sure I was going to die or kill someone.  That was worse than this, right?  I’m supposed to say to myself “That was worse.” But I’m not sure that is true.  I’ve never rode 56 miles on a bike, let alone after swimming 1.2 (actually 1.4, I’m pretty sure) miles, or before running a freaking half marathon.  I just want to be done.  I see Brian Stone from SDHS again. I walk for a minute, say hi, get the benefit of his big warm smile.  Okay, just keep it going. I pass the Zolezzi’s beach house, where I had so many fun evenings and bon fires and memories.  And there were big comfy sofas (or at least one) and there’s certainly a pillow. I want to climb the steps and call it quits right there.  But wait, I don’t think I can climb any steps even if I stop running.  My quads aren’t doing it.  Just keep it going.

May 69 (Mile 12): My god.  My jesus f*&*ing god.  I used to be eloquent and able to think of so many things.  No longer.  I want to stop running. I don’t even want to walk. I want sunscreen.  I want ice. I want chocolate milk.  I want a massage. I want a pillow.  I want the knot in my left glute to be worked out. I want to dive in that freezing cold water I was in this morning. But just float.  I want to be a spectator and cheer others on and I just want to be done.

Mile 70 (Mile 13): ………… (I don’t remember having one thought whatsoever).

Mile 70.1: The finish line.  Thank god. I pick my 10:35 pace back up to 7:45s to impress these spectators that I don’t know lining the finish corral.  I smile b/c I know how to fake it and maybe they will think I really looked like this the entire 13 miles of the run.  Then I smile because I AM DONE.  I DID IT.  I can’t help but smile because I accomplished this — the event, and the training leading up to it, and dare I say it was awesome. I even think I did it pretty well (although I’ll critique that thought likely for the next few weeks, thinking of how it could have been better).  I’m happy because I feel proud and it was incredible and somehow I have already forgotten that I wanted to die just 15 minutes ago.  And suddenly I instantly miss the training for it.  I had that same feeling when I had Kai — I hated being pregnant, and as soon as I had him, the very second, I felt amazing pride in my body, love for him, and longing for being pregnant with him.  Because I knew what the payoff was.  Then I had the twins.  What does this mean for my future? I’m not doing a full, that’s for sure.  (By the way, somewhere around mile 2, 3 or 4 of the run, I thought “There’s no way in hell I will ever want to do a full ironman.” ) My 6:05 time blew my fake goal of 6:30 out of the water and fell just short of my real goal of 6:00, but I don’t feel in any way like I fell short. (Though I know IF I do this again, IF, I know I can break that barrier).

The Ironman Village: Who the hell can eat tacos and chocolate chip cookies right after this? I have two chocolate milks and water and the only thing keeping me alive is saying good job to Brian and Tim and finding a masseuse.  I never want to eat again. And if I do, I never want to see Gu or Bonk Breakers again.

Massage Area:  Thank you.  My legs feel new.  Two masseuses at once, with good firm Kelly Brown-worthy hands.  They work on my left glute and one says “This is a really tough, painful spot to have a knot.  It affects the whole left side.”  I say “It is. But I don’t mind being reminded that I have a muscle there.”  Which is true, I don’t.  And I can at least say in this moment that I’ve got tight glutes.

*45 minutes later: Brian, Tim and I pick up our transition bags and bike.  We bike 1 mile to the hotel. I note that if there is a hill, I’m walking up it.  And I’m giving us credit for the additional mile, making the total 71.3 today. We all deserve the extra credit.  We worked hard during the race, and handled gracefully the efforts it took us each to train as much as we did. I feel in good company knowing I did what they did today.

Upon arriving to the hotel:  Ice cold beer, waiting for the participants. I don’t even like beer but that Corona tasted amazing.

Extra points for being impressive/an idiot: After a dip in the hot tub, and a dinner in Encinitas (Solace and the Moonlight Lounge), we stayed out until 1AM.  Featuring a trip into The Saloon which I doubted was wise (anyone who knows the Saloon understands why) until I saw Pam Capin (friend I swam with growing up) and thought maybe it was meant to be.  And – after walking at least a half mile further!!! — good music, good conversation, and a Stella Cider at Union Kitchen & Tap.  Which was nice if no other reason than knowing I could stay up late without having to plan to get up at 6am to do a 50 mile brick workout.

1:15AM – I was asleep like a rock.