Most endurance athletes will tell you that they're addicted to the thrill of the finish and the powerful emotion that accompanies those golden steps across the line. The sense of accomplishment is a product of successfully navigating the course, but the feeling is driven by the hours of tireless training that allows the body to perform. When the challenge is great enough, you etch a significant life achievement onto the back of the medal hanging on the rack.
It's easy to discuss the wins and a pleasure to recount the adrenaline-fueled moments in front of thousands of eyes. But what about the seconds, minutes, and even hours of time we're not as fond of? Struggle makes the end sweeter, but isolating the periods of doubt and borderline failure can reveal more about a competitor than anything.
In my IronMan Atlantic City race report, I promised to detail the boardwalk battle that forced me over my goal time and left me hungry for another crack at the course. I've felt it before, that moment when your mind constructs a mile-high wall and leaves your body to figure a way over the top. And each time, the barrier eventually becomes a distant memory. This one, however, will stick with me forever.
I had started the run needing a 9:22/mi pace to cruise in under six hours and promised I'd let myself settle in after three hours on the bike. Instead, I shot out of transition cannon with memories of a 7:50/mi pace a month before on the same boardwalk. Three miles into the half marathon and headed away from the finish before the first turnaround, I knew I was in trouble.
The heat was blistering without a breeze and I could feel myself fading - away from focus, further from my goal, and even beyond belief of finishing. My race photos by the pier showcase the dry, pink face of early heat exhaustion. Every muscle locked up and, by then, I nearly forgot I was competing. The buzzing of my Garmin was my last tether to the frustrating reality that six to eight miles remained.
An arid, debilitating haze had become my personal 'fog of war'.
It was then I found my lifeline, and it was nothing more than a passing thought. As it zipped by like the other competitors as I slowed to a hobbling walk, I grabbed on and held it tight. One moment of inspiration, motivation, and determination neatly wrapped in a care package of self-talk. Removing the expletives and gibberish, these thirty seconds saved my race:
"You are hurting and need to accept that it's not going to get better. One foot in front of the other isn't good enough for mile five - that's too many steps. But after all the time you've put in and all the people in your life that have supported you, it's not okay to quit. It's not okay to walk it all the way home. Today is something that you will remember for the rest of your life. You need to make a choice on how you will remember it..."
From that point on - a quarter of a marathon - I let myself relax without the stress of time. I flipped my Garmin away from what I'd consider a discouraging pace and kept only the total time on my wrist. Each time I glanced, I was reminded only that I would finish within striking distance of what I planned before even attempting this distance.
Though the last six miles were brutal, they were mine. My body had climbed over the wall, but descended into a minefield of cramps and pain at every step. It wasn't until I hit the red carpet leading to the finish did aching take a backseat to the relief and pride seen in the photos.
The story we tell begins at the conclusion of the day's odyssey, where the hero returns home after what feels like years adrift and alone. But it's not the most important tale of the day and not the one we'll use next time doubt creeps in to threaten a race. Ugly moments that push us to the brink aren't the first ones to be shared, though they may be the most critical.
In order to know how far we can go, the memory of how deep we can dig should be worn from start to finish.
I had started the run needing a 9:22/mi pace to cruise in under six hours and promised I'd let myself settle in after three hours on the bike. Instead, I shot out of transition cannon with memories of a 7:50/mi pace a month before on the same boardwalk. Three miles into the half marathon and headed away from the finish before the first turnaround, I knew I was in trouble.
The heat was blistering without a breeze and I could feel myself fading - away from focus, further from my goal, and even beyond belief of finishing. My race photos by the pier showcase the dry, pink face of early heat exhaustion. Every muscle locked up and, by then, I nearly forgot I was competing. The buzzing of my Garmin was my last tether to the frustrating reality that six to eight miles remained.An arid, debilitating haze had become my personal 'fog of war'.
It was then I found my lifeline, and it was nothing more than a passing thought. As it zipped by like the other competitors as I slowed to a hobbling walk, I grabbed on and held it tight. One moment of inspiration, motivation, and determination neatly wrapped in a care package of self-talk. Removing the expletives and gibberish, these thirty seconds saved my race:
"You are hurting and need to accept that it's not going to get better. One foot in front of the other isn't good enough for mile five - that's too many steps. But after all the time you've put in and all the people in your life that have supported you, it's not okay to quit. It's not okay to walk it all the way home. Today is something that you will remember for the rest of your life. You need to make a choice on how you will remember it..."
From that point on - a quarter of a marathon - I let myself relax without the stress of time. I flipped my Garmin away from what I'd consider a discouraging pace and kept only the total time on my wrist. Each time I glanced, I was reminded only that I would finish within striking distance of what I planned before even attempting this distance.
Though the last six miles were brutal, they were mine. My body had climbed over the wall, but descended into a minefield of cramps and pain at every step. It wasn't until I hit the red carpet leading to the finish did aching take a backseat to the relief and pride seen in the photos.
The story we tell begins at the conclusion of the day's odyssey, where the hero returns home after what feels like years adrift and alone. But it's not the most important tale of the day and not the one we'll use next time doubt creeps in to threaten a race. Ugly moments that push us to the brink aren't the first ones to be shared, though they may be the most critical.
In order to know how far we can go, the memory of how deep we can dig should be worn from start to finish.
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