This deserves a re-post, not written by me, but brilliantly written and always puts a lump in my throat as it totally describes the Ironman race especially Ironman Canada. Enjoy!!
Brief
History: This was originally written for a friend on the TRI-DRS list
in 2002, when she began her mid-taper meltdown (hey, we've all been
there). Since then, it's taken on a life of its own. I posted it four
years ago on ST, and received a wonderful set of responses (as well as a
podcast!), so I figured it couldn't hurt to bring it back.
Without
further adieu, to those of you heading to Ironman Canada this week - to
the IM-Virgins, the veterans, and everyone in-between...
==================
Right
now you've all entered the taper. Perhaps you've been at this a few
months, perhaps you've been at this a few years. For some of you this is
your first IM, for others, a long-overdue welcome back to a race that
few can match.
You've been following your schedule to the
letter. You've been piling on the mileage, piling up the laundry, and
getting a set of tan lines that will take until November to erase. Long
rides were followed by long runs, which both were preceeded by long
swims, all of which were followed by recovery naps that were longer than
you slept for any given night during college.
You ran in the snow.
You rode in the rain.
You ran in the heat.
You ran in the cold.
You went out when others stayed home.
You rode the trainer when others pulled the covers over their heads.
You
have survived the Darwinian progression that is an Ironman summer, and
now the hardest days are behind you. Like a climber in the Tour de
France coming over the summit of the penultimate climb on an alpine
stage, you've already covered so much ground...there's just one more
climb to go. You shift up, you take a drink, you zip up the jersey; the
descent lays before you...and it will be a fast one.
Time
that used to be filled with never-ending work will now be filling with
silent muscles, taking their final, well-earned rest. While this taper
is something your body desperately needs, Your mind, cast off to the
background for so very long, will start to speak to you.
It won't be pretty.
It
will bring up thoughts of doubt, pain, hunger, thirst, failure, and
loss. It will give you reasons why you aren't ready. It will try and
make one last stand to stop you, because your brain doesn't know what
the body already does. Your body knows the truth:
You are ready.
Your
brain won't believe it. It will use the taper to convince you that
this is foolish - that there is too much that can go wrong.
You are ready.
Finishing
an Ironman is never an accident. It's the result of dedication, focus,
hard work, and belief that all the long runs in
January, long
rides in April, and long swims every damn weekend will be worth it. It
comes from getting on the bike, day in, day out. It comes from long,
solo runs. From that first long run where you wondered, "How will I ever
be ready?" to the last long run where you smiled to yourself with one
mile to go...knowing that you'd found the answer.
It is worth
it. Now that you're at the taper, you know it will be worth it. The
workload becomes less. The body winds up and prepares, and you just
need to quiet your worried mind. Not easy, but you can do it.
You are ready.
You
will walk into the lagoon on August 26th with 2000 other wide-open
sets of eyes. You will look upon the sea of humanity, and know that you
belong. You'll feel the chill of the water crawl into your wetsuit, and
shiver like everyone else, but smile because the day you have waited
for for so VERY long is finally here.
The bagpipers will walk across the beach. Steve King will ask you to sing along. You will.
O Canada!
Our home and native land!
True patriot love in all thy sons command.
With glowing hearts we see thee rise,
The True North strong and free!
From far and wide,
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
God keep our land glorious and free!
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee.
You will tear up in your goggles. Everyone does.
The helicopters will roar overhead.
Maranatha will roar. The splashing will surround you.
You'll stop thinking about Ironman, because you're now racing one.
The
swim will be long - it's long for everyone, but you'll make it. You'll
watch as the Penticton Lakeside Hotel grows and grows, and soon you'll
hear the end. You'll come up the beach and head for the wetsuit
strippers. Three people will get that sucker off before you know what's
happening, then you'll head for the bike.
In the shadows on
Main Street you'll spin out of town - the voices, the cowbells, and the
curb-to-curb chalk giving you a hero's sendoff. You won't wipe the smile
off your face for miles as you whisk along the lakeside, past fully
stocked, silent aid stations for the run to come.
You'll
spin up McLean Creak Road. You'll roll down towards Osoyoos, past the
vineyards glowing in the morning sun. You'll settle down to your race.
The crowds will spread out on the road. You'll soon be on your bike,
eating your food on your schedule, controlling your Ironman.
Richter
Pass will come. Everyone talks about it, but it's really nothing.
You'll know this halfway up, as you're breathing easy and climbing
smoothly. Look to your right. Look how high you're climbing. Look at all
the bikes below, still making their way there. You're ahead of them.
All of them.
You'll climb over Richter, and descend to the
valley below. You'll ride the rollers, one at a time. You'll start to
feel that morning sun turn to afternoon sun. It's warmer now. Maybe it's
hot. Maybe you're not feeling so good now. You'll keep riding. You'll
keep drinking. You'll keep moving. After all, this is just a long
training day with valet parking and catering, right?
You'll
put the rollers behind you. You'll head into the Cawston out and back.
You'll put on your game face, fighting the urge to feel down as you ride
the wrong way for what seems like hours. 10 miles in, you reach
special needs, fuel up, and head out.
By now it'll be hot.
You'll be tired. Doubts will fight for your focus. Everyone struggles
here. You've been on that bike for a few hours, and stopping would be
nice, but you won't - not here. Not today. You'll ride on leaving
Cawston behind you and head for the final showdown at Yellow Lake.
You'll
grind the false flats to the climb. You'll know you're almost there.
You'll fight for every inch of road. You'll make the turn towards the
summit as the valley walls close in for the kill, and put your head
down. The crowd will come back to you here - the cars are always waiting
to cross the summit, and you'll soon be surrounded in the glorious
noise that is the final climb of Ironman Canada. Let their energy push
you. Let them see your eyes. Smile when they cheer for you - your body
will get just that little bit lighter.
Grind.
Fight.
Suffer.
Persevere.
Summit.
Just
like that, you'll be descending. 12 miles to go, and no climbing left.
You'll plunge down the road, swooping from corner to corner, chaining
together the turns, tucking on the straights, letting your legs recover
for the run to come - soon! You'll roll back into town - you'll see
people running out. You'll think to yourself, "Wasn't I just here?" The
noise will grow. The chalk dust will hang in the air - you're back in
Penticton, with only 26.2 miles to go. You'll relax a little bit,
knowing that even if you get a flat tire or something breaks here, you
can run the damn bike into T2.
You'll roll into transition.
100 volunteers will fight for your bike. You'll give it up and not look
back. You'll have your bag handed to you, and into the tent you'll go.
You'll change. You'll load up your pockets, and open the door to the
last long run of your Ironman summer - the one that counts.
You'll
take that first step of a thousand...and you'll smile. You'll know
that the bike won't let you down now - the race is down to your own two
feet. The same crowd that cheered for you in the shadows of the morning
will cheer for you in the brilliant sunshine of a Penticton summer
Sunday. High-five people on the way out. Smile. Enjoy it. This is what
you've worked for all year long.
That first mile will feel great. So will the second.
By mile 3, you probably won't feel so good.
That's
okay. You knew it couldn't all be that easy. You'll settle down just
like you did on the bike, and get down to your pace. You'll see the
leaders coming back the other way. Some will look great - some won't.
You might feel great, you might not. No matter how you feel, don't panic
- this is the part of the day where whatever you're feeling, you can
be sure it won't last.
You'll keep moving. You'll keep
drinking. You'll keep eating. Maybe you'll be right on plan - maybe you
won't. If you're ahead of schedule, don't worry - believe. If you're
behind, don't panic - roll with it. Everyone comes up with a brilliant
race plan for Ironman, and then everyone has to deal with the reality
that planning for something like Ironman is like trying to land a man on
the moon. By remote control. Blindfolded.
How you react to
the changes in your plan will dictate your day. Don't waste energy
worrying about things - just do what you have to when you have to, and
keep moving. Keep eating. Keep drinking. Just don't sit down - don't
EVER sit down.
You'll make it to halfway at OK Falls. You'll
load up on special needs. Some of what you packed will look good, some
won't. Eat what looks good, toss the rest. Keep moving. Start looking
for people you know. Cheer for people you don't. You're headed in -
they're not. They want to be where you are, just like you wanted to be
when you saw all those fast people headed into town. Share some energy -
you'll get it right back.
Run if you can.
Walk if you have to.
Just keep moving.
The
miles will drag on. The brilliant Penticton sunshine will yawn, and
head for the mountains behind the bike course...behind that last
downhill you flew down all those hours ago. You'll be coming up to those
aid stations you passed when you started the bike...fully alive with
people, music, and chicken soup. TAKE THE SOUP. Keep moving.
You'll
soon only have a few miles to go. You'll start to believe that you're
going to make it. You'll start to imagine how good it's going to feel
when you get there. Let those feelings drive you on. When your legs just
don't want to move anymore, think about what it's going to be like
when someone catches you...puts a medal over your head...
...all you have to do is get there.
You'll
start to hear town. People you can't see in the twilight will cheer
for you. They'll call out your name. Smile and thank them. They were
there when you left on the bike, and when you came back, when you left
on the run, and now when you've come back.
You'll enter town.
You'll start to realize that the day is almost over. You'll be
exhausted, wiped out, barely able to run a 10-minute mile (if you're
lucky), but you'll ask yourself, "Where did the whole day go?" You'll be
standing on the edge of two feelings - the desire to finally stop, and
the desire to take these last moments and make them last as long as
possible.
You'll hit mile 25. You'll turn onto Lakeside Drive. Your Ironman Canada will have 1.2 miles - just 2KM left in it.
You'll
run. You'll find your legs. You'll fly. You won't know how, but you
will run. You'll make the turn in front of the Sicamous in the dark, and
head for home. The lights will grow brighter, brighter, and brighter.
Soon you'll be able to hear the music again. This time, it'll be for
keeps.
You'll listen for Steve King, or Mike Reilly, or Whit
Raymond. Soon they'll see you. Soon, everyone will see you. You'll run
towards the lights, between the fences, and into the nightsun made just
for you.
They'll say your name.
You'll keep running.
Nothing will hurt.
The moment will be yours - for one moment, the entire world will be looking at you and only you.
You'll break the tape. The flash will go off.
You'll stop. You'll finally stop. Your legs will wobble their last, and suddenly...be capable of nothing more.
Someone will catch you.
You'll lean into them.
It will suddenly hit you.
You will be an Ironman.
You are ready.
Hurricane Bob
* You are ready. *
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