DMD IM

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.