There was entertainment along the way. Girls in hula skirts. Basketball stars sporting Afros. Elvis told me I was "lookin' good, baby" and one of the racers was on a banana seat and wearing denim cutoffs. Frenzied spectators ringing cowbells lined a seemingly mountainous set of hills like it was the Tour de France. And in downtown Lake Placid, friends and family embedded in packs lined ten deep were cheering my name or Team in Training.
But mostly, over the twelve hours and forty-five minutes I was on the Ironman course, it was like being in a silent movie. The stunning scenery - clear lakes, forested mountains, wide rivers with cascading waterfalls, and meadows dotted with wildflowers - provided the backdrop for a line of racers moving forward independently, quietly, and internally focused. Our faces showed a determination to reach the finish line at the end of the day.
It had been raining lightly when I arrived at the transition area at 5:15 on race morning. I kept my nerves in check by moving through a checklist - pumping up bike tires, having a volunteer marker my race number on my arms and legs, wriggling into my wetsuit, donning my swim cap and goggles. I found my parents and Phil for final well wishes and made my way down the beach. Treading water in the misty dawn air with 2145 racers while listening to the national anthem was electrifying. A canon boomed and arms and legs churned the water like spawning salmon. I was elbowed and kicked and did the same to others. People swam over and under me. We were all fighting for the limited space between our bodies that could propel us forward. As luck would have it, I spied the underwater cable that connected the racecourse buoys and swam directly over it, protecting it like my private lane line. The jostling died down as swimmers spread out and I began to relax and establish a rhythm. I alternated thinking about technique and thinking about nothing. The bubbles from the tanks of scuba divers signaled a turn towards shore. Reach and breathe. I exited the water, crossed a short beach and entered again for lap number two. Reach and breathe. I swallowed water from a passing group of fast swimmers and suppressed choking. Reach and breathe. As the beach grew closer, I suppressed any adrenaline - fueled acceleration. When my hands hit sand, I stood to a roar from spectators overflowing the beach and lakeshore. Two volunteer "strippers" peeled off my wetsuit by the ankles and I took off down the Astroturf path to the transition tent.
Biking past the ski jumps that hosted the 1980 Winter Olympics reminded me of Lake Placid's history in athletic competition. That was the year of the "Miracle on Ice," when the Americans beat the Russians in ice hockey. And, the ice oval - where our bikes were lined in orderly racks and where we would cross the finish line - was the same place that American speed skater Eric Heiden won 5 gold medals. This was a fitting place for a true endurance challenge like the Ironman. I pedaled easily up and down the "rollers" out of town, giving my legs time to adjust from the kicking of the swim to the spinning of the bike. Descending steeply into Keene along a thundering river was both terrifying in that it was raining and exhilarating as the pro racers' disk wheels whirred by like helicopter propellers, already on their second lap. The crowds thinned giving way to wilderness scenery and I delighted in spotting a fly fisherman in a meandering stream or a rockslide high on a mountain ridge. I picked off tiny hamlets, artist studios, farm stands and aid stations stocked with water, bananas and enthusiastic volunteers. As I started the infamous climbs by Whiteface Mountain - Little Cherry, Big Cherry, Mama Bear, Baby Bear and Papa Bear - sun replaced clouds and hip hop music from spectator's radios replaced the silence. At sixty miles, I found myself once again zigzagging the neighborhoods of Lake Placid. I spotted my husband's lime green baseball cap (which became my beacon) and found him encircled by my parents, in laws, kids, family friends and the husband of one of the women I dedicated the race to. A few miles later, friends in hula skirts made me laugh and other close friends who had kept their attendance a secret made me cry. As I turned out of town and began up the first roller, two more friends jogged briefly alongside. As expected, the hills seemed steeper and the flat stretches longer the second time around. My mind struggled with being tempted to work the hills harder and pick up speed while saving my legs for the marathon. I passed riders. Riders passed me. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead. As fatigue and loneliness began to set in, I caught up to a teammate, initiating a playful game of cat-and-mouse, giving us both a needed boost up the final climbs.
As I exited the transition tent to begin the run, family and friends were holding signs and cheering wildly. The initial steps felt unsteady, but soon I was gliding past crowds and the pros returning to the finish line. By this time, it was so hot that I accepted sponges of water to squeeze over my head beginning at the first aid station. Designed as four out-and-backs, the run course proved to be a party compared to the solitude-in-nature experience of the bike. I spent much of the marathon searching for teammates, cheering on friends, admiring the faster racers and having empathy for those who were struggling. I tried to concentrate on staying true to the running strategy designed by my coach, but my mind wandered often and I found myself either speeding up or slowing down without realizing it. I ate and drank often and spent long stretches of time calculating (and mis-calculating) numbers in my head (How many GU packets/calories have I had today? How many minutes per mile am I going right now?) Every few miles a runner passing me would ask about the laminated photos pinned to the back of my jersey. I would explain they were pictures of Maggie Ryan and Denise Dolan, two women whom had lost their lives to cancer and that Team in Training raised money for cancer research. Other people recognized the signature green and purple jersey and thanked me for Team in Training's commitment. At the half marathon mark, my family in town (still cheering wildly!) was motivating but I was unsure whether I could maintain my goal pace. But the continuous encouragement about the Team in Training cause had its effect. The two hours I had left to finish the race seemed very little compared to the eight years Maggie Ryan struggled against liver and pancreatic cancer, which included countless blood tests, probes, chemotherapy, medications and operations. And, although I was racing for my own athletic accomplishment, I was also racing for those who will benefit from the $16,000 from my fundraising effort and the $750,000 from my team that would support The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's work. The more these thoughts sunk in, the lighter and prouder I felt. And at mile 24, when someone from the roadside yelled, "Go Team in Training. It's for the cause!" those pictures on my back became wings. I entered the ice oval to find Phil and our toddler sons, Austin and Carson, waiting. I barely had their little hands in mine before they dashed for the finish line, laughing all the way.
One week later, I sat in the warm sunshine on the summit of Ampersand Mountain surveying the sprawling woods and waterways of the Adirondacks. Recognizing Whiteface Mountain in the distance, I reflected on my Ironman experience - both what transpired that long day and the nine months of training and fundraising that proceeded it. I remembered a quote I had read for inspiration on race morning: "The Ironman is a race within a thousand races. Take control of yourself and the race will follow your lead. Be patient and look no further than the present. Do what you can do in the moment. Let it go. Control what you choose to control." Now that the Ironman journey was behind me, the words felt even more suitable for what life experiences lay ahead.
