Ironman Coeur d’Alene Race Report: Part I
Can you see me? Thankfully, the pink cap and height give me away.
Ok, buckle in friends as I tell a tale of the day I like to call the longest, fastest day of my life. Out there for hours and hours, but it went by in a blur. I want to recount the specifics; I was, if nothing else, totally present as I became an Ironmother. Some of the bike miles whizzed by, and I’d like to forget some of the run miles, but I competed with a detailed race report in mind. (I needed something to pass the hours and hours, right?) Enjoy! (Or just scan the pics, like you do with People mag at the grocery check-out.)
Pre-race: Thursday and Friday
I arrived via the friendly skies Spokane, Washington with a posse of Denver people on Thursday afternoon. I knew one of the posse had offered to give me a ride to the airport and/or Coeur d’Alene, but I couldn’t remember which way and hadn’t checked in pre-race. Turns out, Laura, a mother runner and wife of Cole, who was competing on Sunday, offered me a ride back to the airport on Monday. So I had to quickly find a ride to CDA—Grant, my lovely husband, offered to drive my bike 15 hours, and had left at the crack o’ on Thursday morning—and hooked up with a shuttle service. I can’t say I’m surprised I forgot something so soon into the trip, but thankfully it was minor. And I got an especially chatty driver, which I always love: taste of local culture.
Woke up Friday morning, and honestly, waking up without kids—they were with my mom all weekend—is odd and so quiet. Grant and I weren’t entirely sure what to do with ourselves. So we got up, found a bagel and a latte, and headed out to drive the 56-mile bike course which I’d ride twice. The hills seemed long, but relatively gentle; none of the crazy grades I had seen in my last century, where I almost left Lyle, my bike, by the side of the road for good. The course definitely wasn’t flat, but I’d trained on hills and at altitude. I was as ready as I could be.
We headed to Target to stock up on groceries (plain bagels, pretzels, oatmeal squares, bread, granola bars, beers…get the carb picture?) and, um, underwear for me. (Yep, another oversight: so far, nothing major.) Ran into Sarah, a mother runner I had dinner with the previous evening, who was buying toys for her just-pottytrained son. I found it very reassuring to realize the world was still turning, despite my Ironmother focus.
I think I could’ve drank this much chocolate milk after the race.
Back to the hotel to get my WetZoot and various other necessities: my workout for the day was a 15-minute swim and a 20-minute run. I wanted to check in and check out the water, which had the reputation of being just this side of Arctic.
I believe it was just about to rain and about 55 degrees outside when I got in the water for the first time. Not exactly tropical.
The water wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Yes, I had an headache, a la I ate too much ice cream too fast, for the first few minutes of being in the water, but then my body acclimated and I got to focus on the swimming. Which on this Thursday afternoon caused me to freak out. I was fine breathing to my right, my preferred side, but when I telescoped my neck to look up, I drank a bunch of water because the waves were just significant enough to reach my mouth. I did not see things shaping up well on race day, as I prefer to hydrate with nuun, not with lake water.
Overall, though, the swim was a victory. (Note the arms: a recurring, not exactly planned theme this weekend. V for victory. Or Ironmother. Or for simply getting my badass to the starting line.)
I decided I’d run from home (read: the Days Inn) and so we headed back to the hotel. Grant, who also brought his bike, headed out for a short ride, and I went for a short run. My legs weren’t exactly spritely, but I felt the best I had yet during this taper. My tapers, like my kids who were both two weeks late, like to take their own sweet time to present themselves. I spoke to Bri, my coach, on Saturday morning—about 14 days after I started to taper—and told her I finally felt like my body was ready to rumble.
Grant and I headed to the banquet on Friday night for some overly oiled pasta, really dry rice and rolls. (There was other stuff, but that’s what I ate. Oh, and an oatmeal raisin cookie too.) There was inspiration aplenty, as well as some good insight: the largest age groups competing are women and men from 40-44. Good to know I, a perpetual boot-cut jean wearer, am at least trendy in something in my life.
Meredith, Ms. Swim Bike Ironmother, and me at the banquet. She brought her whole crew: husband, kids, parents, while I went the minimalist route: one adult with me. I thought the butterfly shirt was a good symbol: I’d been cocooning for 8 months, and now it was time for me to spread my wings.
Saturday morning, and I was back in the water. This time, I was alone, as Grant went for 100-mile spin around northern Idaho (a good call, as I was definitely in my own zone). First I took Lyle out to check out his gears, and all was good to go. Phew and excited! Then I parked Lyle by the water, and asked a nice woman named Amy if she wouldn’t mind watching my stuff. We got into a conversation about—what else?—Ironman, and I shared my concern about sighting and not drinking half the lake. “You don’t need to sight in an Ironman,” said a nice Colorado guy who joined in, “There are so many people around.” I liked his point; yes, I’d have to turtle up every once in a while, but the 2,699 other athletes might also have an idea of where we were going. That—and a much calmer morning on the lake—eased my nerves.
Then I took some time taking some artistic shots: my beloved Saucony Virratas, and a lovely lake.
I checked Lyle, who looked kinda lonely.
I checked my bike and run bags, which contained everything I’d need for transition: helmet, shoes, PB+J’s, motivation to bike 112 or run 26.2 miles. (Dang it: that doesn’t come in a bottle!) Notice number 662 and her blue X: helped me find my anonymous bag as I ran by. Thank you, 662!
Then I went back to the Days Inn, slipped on my 110% calf sleeves, and spent the afternoon like this. So nice. Worth it to do an Ironman just to have some P + Q—and bad reality shows on Hulu—to yourself.
I didn’t sleep well on Friday night, but after a pasta dinner on Saturday and two episodes of Parks and Rec, I was ready to close my eyes at 8:15 or so. I was up a bit to use the bathroom—I had hydrated like a champ—but overall, a decent pre-Ironmother sleep.
Race Day!
Up at about 4:30. Downed a bagel with NuttZo, a banana, and some sports drink; my biggest concern out of the box was getting enough calories in me before the swim so I didn’t get that so-hungry nausea I’d felt during previous long swims. I’d packed everything the night before, but my brain didn’t really retain that. (And by the way, if nutrition is the 4th discipline in Ironman, organization is the 5th. So.much.stuff.) “Where is my Garmin?” I fretted as soon as Grant pulled away from the hotel. “Oh, in the bottom of my backpack, where I put it last night.” Breathe, sister, breathe.
We got to the lake, and I pretty much went into silent, am-I-really-doing-this mode. I guess I was. I went into the bike area to put water bottles and GU’s on Lyle, and stood there for about 5 minutes wondering if I should try to pump up Lyle’s tires with a borrowed pump, take Lyle to the line where volunteers were filling up tires like a pit crew, or just let him be. I finally arbitrarily pumped up his front tire, which felt not as rock solid as the back. Then I got into the crazy long line to go the bathroom, decided that was a waste of time since my body felt like it was in total clamp-down mode, and went to go find Grant again.
It was tough to stay inside my own head on Sunday morning—and any time I was down at the expo. Everybody else seemed to have a sense of purpose and a plan. Even though I knew I had both of those things, seeing these ridiculously fit bodies in motion made me alway wonder: should I be doing what they’re doing? Why does she have so many salt tabs? What’s in his bottles? Should I have taped my shoulder like she did? What does that stretch do? I learned, though rowing, that you go fastest when you keep your eyes in your own boat and focus on making your crew go faster, but my restless taper feeling and Ironman virgin status had me totally gazing everywhere but in.
Off to slay some dragons.Fortunately, I didn’t have much time to stargaze because after I kissed Grant and hugged him in that drapey, extended way I do when I really don’t want to confront the task next at hand—and then ran after him once to give him my flip flops, and then again to grab the GU I wanted to take immediately before I swam—I was back in the water. Got my ice cream headache over with (and used my own personal portapotty), then climbed up on shore. The fog was just lifting off the lake, the forecast was for pure perfection, and I was ready to get this party started.
I barged in a conversation with two other women, who I could tell were just talking to each other for the first time: one was a first-timer from Washington, one was from North Carolina, did the same race last year in 12:30-something, and wanted to under 12 hours. I just wanted to connect with people before I spent the rest of the day in my head. “I think I am in complete denial I have to run a marathon later today,” I told the first-timer, and she laughed and agreed. I got quiet during the National Anthem, and teary when Human by The Killers came on. Close your eyes, clear your heart, cut the cord. Sounds like a game plan.
Couldn’t write it much better than this.
This was the first Ironman to use a rolling swim start, which meant instead of firing one cannon, after which 2,700 athletes started flailing around in the water, we’d seed ourselves on our swim times, and roll across the starting mat, which would start our race time, and roll into the water. I may be marking myself as a non-Ironman purist, but I loved this process. Instead of an explosion at an unexpected time jolting my heart rate to 160 and tons of limbs churning around me, I got to walk slowly towards the shore, take a deep breath, run in with a few people around me, and find my groove.
The swim course was two laps of a rectangle; you swim one lap, come out quickly on the shore, then head back in. Swimming the long sides was pretty uneventful. Sometimes I had a little collision with a fellow athlete, but for the most part, I had the space I covet. (And the sighting wasn’t a problem: the lake was calm, there were plenty of people about, and I was swimming straight out or back.) The top of the rectangle, though, was chaotic. People wanted to get close to the buoys, so we were just sardined in there. After getting kicked and toppled—and doing the same to others—I switched to my condensed breaststroke to keep my eyes above the water and my stress low. (Not a full frog kick, mind you: I didn’t want to impale anybody’s kidneys.) I hung one more left, got socked by a big wave (actually really fun), and headed for the shore.
The buoys were pretty close to together, so I always felt like I was making progress. And there were so many kayakers and paddle boarders and other people out there, it seemed like there was always somebody with their eyes on you. I concentrated on stretching out my long limbs, marveled that I saw the sun come out from behind the clouds, and hit the shore in 31:xx, the same time it took me to swim 1.2 in my recent half-Ironman. Rounded the buoy and went out for round two, which was more of the same: space on the sides, cramps up top. Coming down the home stretch, my spine and left shoulder, both of which had not taken kindly to the marshmallow bed I’d been sleeping on for 3 nights, were sick of swimming, so I took 10 strokes for Amelia, then 10 for Ben, then 10 for Grant, 10 for my Mom, 10 for my Dad…10 for others was a pattern I’d call on a couple times during this, the longest, shortest day of my life.
I swam until my paw hit sand, and stood up. 2.4 miles was done. Wow. Done. 1:05:xx, which I later saw put my at 5th in my age group.
And then I came out of the water as I always move through the world: with grace. Or not.
During a pre-race talk, Bri, my coach, told me I shouldn’t sprint out of the water. “Have you even been coaching me these past few months?” I joked with her, “I do NOT sprint.” I didn’t even want to waste my energy pulling my wetsuit down to my hips, as many athletes around me were doing. So I walked up to a wetsuit stripper, turned around, stuck my arms out like a scarecrow, and let them completely disrobe me. After they pulled it over my feet, they even helped me back up. Ser-VICE!
Grabbed bike bag 663, headed into the women’s changing tent, had one of the many enthusiastic, beyond helpful volunteers I’d meet during the day prepare me for the bike, got slathered up in sunscreen, then went to find my date for the next leg: Lyle.
And we were off!
Quick programming note: because we had to switch website hosts this weekend, you may have noticed our podcast wasn’t up on Sunday. We are going to run that tomorrow (Tuesday), so you can have it for a long run over the long holiday weekend. (Disclaimer: You might notice a few repeats between this race report and my podcast race report…that’s how these dice roll.) For Wednesday, I’ll write part II: the bike and run.
24 Hours after Ironmother
Garage decorations courtesy of my neighborhood pals. Can’t say it enough: just overwhelmed by nearly everything these past couple weeks.
Last night at this time, I was sitting in an ice bath, scrolling through tweets and FB messages. I was in a daze, amazed by the support I felt and elated that my day had gone so well. I woke up this morning, looked out the window at the pouring rain, and thanked my lucky stars again. Race day weather was perfect, and everything else fell in line.
I have so much to tell you all—I got peed on during the bike segment, for one, and my lordy child, 26.2 is a mother of a long way to run—but right now, my feet are swollen, at least three toenails are going into retirement and are throbbing accordingly, and getting up from a sitting position is getting incrementally and exponentially harder. I am calling it a night—I think I slept about 3 hours last night, I was so hyped up—and heading to my own bed. I pick up my rugrats tomorrow at my mom’s house, and we’ll head right back into summer.
I’ll have a full race recap just as soon as I can. Hope you all have a great Tuesday.
What Would Another Mother Runner Do?
Shannan (yellow hat) and her BRF after nailing a 5-minute half-marathon PR (1:53:53) after following a Train Like a Mother plan (!).
In our ongoing series of dilemmas faced by mother runners, we’ve met a gal who dislocated her hip during a marathon when she slipped on a banana peel and we’ve profiled an ingenious woman who pretended her Garmin was a camera to scare off creepy driver. Now meet Shannan, a mom of two in Baker City, Oregon, ran a small 10K trail race (“small” in this case equals, at most, four women in the race) earlier this month.
She won the race—or, at least, thought she did. Running a two-loop course, Shannan was announced as the lead 10Ker when she crossed the midway point, then she was proclaimed the first-place finisher when she crossed the finish line. At the awards ceremony, she was bestowed the first-place award. A week later, Shannan checked the website looking for race photos. The place finishers were listed on the website page, but her name wasn’t listed. Like she said, it was a miniscule race, and Shannan knows she came in first because she saw the second-place finisher cross the finish line minutes after she did. (The two gals had talked to each other in the starting corral, so Shannan recognized her.) Shannan also received many congratulations after she crossed the line.
Shannan realizes this race isn’t a big deal in the scheme of things, but as she wrote to us, “but it kinda is—I mean, when will I ever win a 10K again?” (She describes herself as “not speedy; I’m a middle-of-the-pack runner.” Her time in the 10K, which included two almost mile-long climbs, was 1:01.)
So Shannan emailed the organization that put on the race, stating she was awarded first place for the 10K. She wrote wasn’t sure if there was a mistake on the website posting or if she had been awarded the winner’s gift certificate by mistake (she thought maybe she’d be disqualified somehow?). Shannan even let the organizers know she still had the gift certificate so she could return it if it was awarded to her by mistake.
The seemingly cut-and-paste email response Shannan received:
I’m sorry for the problems with the timing. We had power problems with the clock and 2 of the 3 stop-watches died.
We are already talking about ways to improve the timing situation so please except [sic] my apology. Jane Doe was the 1st Place winner in the women’s division and I did see Jane come in 1st. After that I pretty much had my head down trying to make things come together. Over all we hope you had a good time and will join us next year.
Shannan was left scratching her head.
Shannan and her little ones, ages 5 and 2: They always think their mom is #1.
What would you do?
Sarah answers: Well, given that I already would have bragged about my win far and wide on Facebook, Twitter, and just about any other social media site imaginable, I would have figured the race organizers made a mistake. Sure, race results live forever on the Internet, but all the shout-outs on race day told the truth.
Dimity answers: Sounds like the race director knew there were a few probs with this race, so I would’ve just let it lie as well. Probably wouldn’t go back, though–and definitely wouldn’t recommend it to anybody who asked me about it. (And let’s be honest: anytime the topic of that race—or trail racing in general—came up, I’d definitely find a way to slip in the story.)
What Shannan did: She didn’t respond to the seemingly generic email response. As she told us: “I figured no good would come out of responding, and it might seem sort of combative.”
What happened: That said, Shannan wanted some sort of validation that she hadn’t lost her marbles—that she really had won the race. She didn’t have any friends or family at the race (alas!), but it turned out one of her husband’s co-workers had run the race. Shannan had her husband ask the fellow if, indeed, Shannan had been the first woman across the line in the 10K. His response, “Most definitely.”
What would you, another mother runner, do?
And if you’ve got a running-related moment you’d like some clarity on, via WWAMRD, feel free to email us at runmother [at] gmail [dot] com. Thanks!
Solutions for Summer Running
With Molly (left) and Kristin, SBS in her official Summer 2012 Long Run, Chafe-Free Outfit.
As temps are heating up across the country, Sarah and Dimity answer your questions about sweaty summer concerns. Hope it doesn’t rub you the wrong way, but they spend quite a bit of time talking about chafing. They move on to myriad tips on how to have enough fluids for long runs. (One important take-away: Do as Dimity says, not as she does.) They also cover sunscreen, the importance of slowing down, and acclimatization (glad they didn’t have to blurt out that mouthful of a word, though!).
If you’re digging our podcasts, we’d be super-grateful if you’d take a minute (because we *know* you have so many to spare!) to write a review on iTunes.
[audio:http://www.podtrac.com/pts/redirect.mp3/podcasts.pagatim.fm/shows/amr/amr_062013.mp3]**Also, the quickest way to get our podcasts is to subscribe to the show via iTunes. Clicking this link will automatically download the shows to your iTunes account. It doesn’t get any simpler than that!
Ironmother Week: The Spirit
Made by yet another creative mother runner: Denise, my pal from Boulder, who is just a love. (Thank you, DD! xo)
So my body is on board, my mind is prepping to live in the moment, my coach is unbelievably awesome. The last piece? The spirit. And with this, I will close Ironmother week; look for a short race report-ish post on Tuesday (and some longer ones once I get settled at home again). Thanks for sticking with me.
One of my favorite kid books is the Hello, Goodbye Window, a simple story of a young kid staying overnight at her grandparents’ house.
In the morning, the grandpa wakes up and yells out the Window, “Hello, World! Whatcha got for us today?”
I think I will open my window at the Days Inn on at 4:30 a.m. on Sunday morning and ask that very same question. Regardless of what the response is—rain, wind, nerves, aches, cramps, exhaustion, elation, triumph—I will be up for it because Sunday is my day.
So when I get to Lake Coeur d’Alene and throw up in my mouth because I’m so nervous; and the rubber smell coming off my WetZoot just adds to the nausea; and I can’t even begin to comprehend how long the day will be, lest I actually barf, I’ll realize: this is how my day is supposed to start. This is in the plans.
When I get flustered in the swim because somebody thrashed my nose or I went off course or the waves were too much to handle or I swallow a mouthful or thirteen of water, I slow down and remind myself, this is my day.
And when I get out of the lake (currently a balmy 62 degrees: that’s honestly warm for this race) and I can’t feel my feet or my hands, I’ll know that on this, my day, my digits were supposed to start cold because things are going to heat up later.
When I see Lyle, my bike, for the first time on Sunday, I will smile like a crocodile. Because we get to spend some quality time together: how could we not on today, my day?
When the temptation is to fly away on Lyle for the first 56-mile loop, I will reign my legs in. This is our day, Lyle, so we need to keep things calm and collected for the first half.
When I get to see my best cheerleader Grant and my coach Bri and all the other familiar faces in the crowd after the first loop, I will wish I could get off Lyle and hug them and give them a mid-race recap. But that’ll have to wait because this is my day.
If a flat tire comes, I will be even more calm and collected, and I will change it as efficiently as I can. If it takes me 15 minutes, that’s how I was supposed to spend those 15 minutes. Because that’s what my day had in store for me.
When my lower back goes numb by mile 70 of the bike and I wonder how the run will feel, I will push those thoughts away for three reasons:
1. I am not being here now.
2. My back backfires on nearly every long ride, and I’ve lived to tell the tale so far. Why would it be any different this time?
3.This is my day.
When I think I can relax a bit on eating and drinking, I’m going to tell that voice to politely shut its piehole. On my day, I eat and drink like an Ironmother—or I may not become one.
When somebody around me is having a tough time, I am going to chat with them, cheer them on, and remind them, this is our day.
When I get to the run, I am going to mentally cross a finish line, as my wise Ironmother pal Kara Thom suggested. “Don’t think I’m running a marathon after biking 112 miles and swimming 2.4 miles. Just think about running.” Yep, I swim, cross a line. Bike, cross a line. Run, cross THE line on my day.
And when I’m running, and my legs feel like cement and my four-minute run intervals feel like they’re four hours, I’m going to remind myself that they intervals are just 240 seconds and that 240 seconds, when held up to 8 months of training and 140.6 miles of racing, is just a blip. My day, come day’s end, is just a bunch of blips on repeat.
When I pass cheering spectators and every volunteer, I am going to say thank you. Gratitude is certainly a part of my day.
And when I open a card from an Ironmother pal in my special needs bag in my run, I will get teary. “You’ll feel pretty alone at that point,” she admitted, “And a friend gave me a card. It made a huge difference.” I will remember that on this day, my day, I am so far from alone. I’ve got an army of mother runners huffing and puffing me down the course. (And my gratefulness to all of you is beyond huge.)
And when my badass crosses the finish line, whether it’s just past 12 hours into my day or if the race clock reads 16:59, and I hear, “Dimity Davis*, you are an Ironman!” I will smile, I will cry, and I will thank my day for turning out just the way I thought it would.
*If you’re not sick of Ironmother Week by now, you can track me a couple ways. I am number 663. (Under Dimity Davis: I thought I’d go alias with my married name because, you know, I—with the weird name short hair, and tall bod—am so unrecognizable otherwise.)
Here’s the official Ironman website. Bri, my coach, will be tweeting from @TheMotherRunner and Sarah will post periodic updates on our Facebook page.
Ironmother Week: The Mind
Sorry for the f-bomb, but I had to lead with this one. Sense of humor is key to Ironmother success.
So my body is idling, ready to shift into gear on Sunday. My glutes, the biggest muscle in my body, are ready to fire and fire and fire and fire. But the largest muscle that matters is the one on top, both literally and figuratively.
Oh, my brain.
I wish I could load up my brain with carbs, pre-race, and when the cannon went off, be confident it wouldn’t betray me.
Because as badass as I may seem, my brain always struggles in a race. Sometimes from the start (a really bad day), but always when a race gets hard. I start making bargains with myself. “O.k., this is fine, but just don’t let your splits drop any more.” Then the splits drop. “O.k., just keep them here for the next two miles.” And there they go again. And even when a race is going well, I still see things half-full. “I’ve hit my splits for 8 miles, but can I hang on for 5.1 more miles? Wait: 5.1 more miles left still? Seriously?”
SBS has an innate ability to rebound when a race gets tough; she can turn it around and still make it a success. She can also chew off bites of a race and not worry about what’s left on the plate. I am not so adept at those skills. When things go bad for me, whether it’s at mile .2 or 12.2, I fantasize about quitting and wish the race away. I tune out and mentally drop out. All I want is the finish line. (Which, truth be told, is partly why I haven’t run a marathon in over 6 years. I can’t stomach the mental effort.)
But Sunday is not just another race. Sunday is a bucket-list item, a race I want to remember for years to come for the good points—not just the struggles. Sunday has a different equation.
8 months of effort + hundreds of training hours + thousands of dollars = 140.6 miles I will NOT allow myself to wish away.
I had my pre-race pep talk with my coach Bri today. We went through all the details: whether I should drive the course pre-race (yes); how to seed myself in the swim (faster if necessary); how she’s seen people put sausages (gross!) in their special needs bags that they get at the halfway point of the bike and run. My mood was light-hearted until we got to talking about the run. Then I got really nervous. “I just hope,” I said with a quavering voice, “that I can get to at least two and a half hours into the run before I get that I-just-want-to-be-done feeling.”
Her response? The run is the best part of the Ironman because you can interact with the crowd—Coeur d’Alene is an especially spectator-friendly course—and I’d be stupid to put on my blinders and not soak it all up. (She didn’t say that last part; I ad libbed.) Plus, she said, the miles will go by quicker than I know. “Suddenly, you’ll be at mile 20, then running down the finish chute, then wondering where the day went,” she said. “Savor this. Just savor it.”
Huh: a novel concept for me. Savor the race. Soak in every step. Even when I want to be done, continue to be present. That is my first mental race goal. I’ve used the mantra I am here now in the past with some success, and this is as good of a time as any to pull that baby out of retirement.
So I’ll consider that goal one: to remember that I am here, in this Ironmother of a race, right now. Yes, it will get mofo hard. Yes, my legs will hurt. Yes, I’ll get nauseous and uncomfortable. But I am here, in this beautiful Ironmother of a race, right now. I’ve visualized being here for 8 months and so many miles. Dang it if I’m going to hope for the clock to tick any faster than it already does.
But I wouldn’t be Dimi-tri if I didn’t give myself at least one more goal. And Bri, helpfully, laid out some best/average/worst case scenarios for me.
I feel like I’m showing you my stretch marks and vericose veins: these numbers feel that intimate to me.
All along, I thought finishing under 13 hours would be a killer badass Ironmother success. Actually, I thought just finishing would be a killer badass Ironmother success, which it is.
But now I see this other goal—one possible based on my past performance and training times—that is an hour faster. Whoa there, friend.
My fastest marathon time is a 4:13, which was 6 years ago. Is a 4:22 is possible, especially if, you know, I’m going to savor the race? Feels pretty impossible.
I’ve sat with this new idea for a few hours, and I realize I like having the potential dangling out there. Maybe with the right mindset—this Ironmother race is mine to not only savor, but also to dig deep and freakin’ thrive in—maybe I could do something totally out of my comfort zone. We’ll—I’m including myself here—just have to stay tuned.
No matter when I cross the finish line, I know it will feel magical. It’s up to my mind to make the rest of the day—and all the highs and lows it will bring—be magical, too.
