The picture before you isn't the best of me, but it is me at my best. And today, in the 50 mile an hour winds and driving rain, the greyness of winter is threatening to make me slip into one of two states: panic or ennui. I'm struggling to find something in between.
Why the picture of me at a finish line? Because right now, today, this minute, I need a reminder of completion, of the feeling of elation that follows accomplishing something I have worked hard for. The finish line picture is from my first triathlon which was last September in Sandy Hook, New Jersey. I tried to talk my daughter-in-law into doing it, and just about anyone else I knew who can walk and breathe, mostly for moral support, I suppose. Truth is not one of my friends does competitive sports--I either compete alone or sometimes, if the my kids are running a race in Central Park and I'm signed up too, we start together or meet up afterward.
I decided to go through with the triathlon anyway, hoping one of my kids would show up on race day for this new "first". I drove from my home in Pa. to Sandy Hook the day before the race with my bike racked on my black Jeep,picked up my packet of instructions, and met some other novice racers. After lunch, I drove to the national park to review the course for the half mile ocean swim ( looked much longer from buoy to buoy ), 12 mile bike ride( WAS much longer than I expected and more difficult ), and 3.2 mile run ( sort of reminded me of how I felt when I was in my twenties and had to work a full day after staying out drinking all night ).
Why did I set this goal for myself ( I asked myself that question alot on viewing the course )? Because my trainer in New York thought triathlons would be a good alternative to running races since I was starting to complain of ITBand ( spasming muscles between your hip and knee that are hard to stretch ) pain and some low back pain. I dropped 10 pounds to make my body's work less difficult and trained all summer for this event having really no idea how I would fare.
The morning of the race, I awoke at 4:30 am full of adrenaline. I packed up my bike and gear in the dark and headed for Sandy Hook National Park and Lighthouse,which incidently is the offical gateway for ships crossing the Atlantic headed to New York and was presumably the first land seen by all the immigrants coming to New York harbor since the 1600s. The lighthouse is the oldest operating lighthouse in the U.S. and was built during the Revolutionary War.
The sands of the long peninsula that comprise Sandy Hook shift dramatically during rough winters, and consequently, the perimeter of that spit of land is dotted with literally hundreds of shipwrecks. My ancestors, John and Betty Friend, along with their seven children, were shipwrecked off Sandy Hook and almost lost everything they had on a chilly October day, 1833.The story deserves its own telling another time, but the Friends were saved from drowning and eventually recovered all their money from a chest on their ship thanks to some divers (whom I am sure my gggrandfather paid handsomely for their effort.)
I could see the silouette of Manhattan as I drove the dark, deserted road, the full moon framing it in the distance. It was a dazzling sight. There was no signage, so I just barreled forward, my bright lights on, until I could see strobe lights near the lighthouse where workers were beginning to set up the markers for the race. I waited as first light appeared and the park filled up with spectators and participants. Before I knew it, it was time to begin. That meant getting in the choppy ocean before the sun rose--without a wetsuit.( For a little background, let me just say that the swimming event, the first event in triathlons, is done in waves since it's not practical to put 1000 people in the ocean for the swim simultaneously. )
The first wave of the race was the elite triathletes ( all of whom looked to be in their 20s and 30s ). The second wave was my wave. So, as the sun rose, 99 other women and I got into the choppy ocean water to begin the event. The buoys looked like they were as far away as the Chrysler Building to me. The gun went off and I shuffled into the water, waiting my turn to start swimming. The woman directly in front of me must have panicked when she got in the water, because instead of watching for the buoys, she just swam, kept criss-crossing my path over and over as, her flailling legs kicked me in the face. I finally picked up speed and took a long loop around her but I couldn't go too fast because I had to use the breast stroke to see where I was going since the water was so turbulent.
The next event, biking, was about a block from the swim finish, so I tiptoed across the gravel road ( didn't think of flipflops ) over to my waiting bike, dried off with a tiny scrap of towel, put on bike shorts, socks, shoes--you get the idea. By the time I started the run, the sun was high enough that it was getting hot. I started looking for a cheering section, thinking my sons might surprise me and drive over from Manhattan, but no one I recognized showed up on the run route. I knew then that I was on my own to make it to the finish.The last half mile my legs started to feel like rubber, so I started repeating the names of my shipwrecked ancestors, John and Betty Friend over and over like a mantra, hoping their spirit and the notion that they had been in this very place would inspire me to continue to the end. And I did.
Why this story on this grey, rainy, windy and thoroughly disgusting day? Because I'm running a half marathon a week from Sunday. I'm currently in pain ( ITBand and hip ) and have not done a run longer than 3 miles since December. My trainer has been sick ( never gets sick he says and I believe him), so he hasn't been available, I've been sick-ish, and my whole training routine is shot to hell. And I have the motivation of a voule to run 10 miles in the next three days. Not a very sad story? Or as my son Ben would say: "Cry me a river, Mom". I know.
But there is a metaphor here. I suppose i'm at the end of a dark tunnel. That's always the worst spot, the very worst s I like beginnings, I like ends. It's the middle that's a bitch. And here I am.
So, my dear reader(s), I'm on my way to the gym to put some distance on my legs. I won't do ten miles today or even six. But I will do it before this Sunday. Tomorrow the weather will improve, I'll stretch my ITBand and hip flexors so that, hopefully they won't spasm, and I'll do some more miles. Will I run in Miami next week? I think so, I plan to. I'll keep you posted.
In the meantime, I'm going to remember Sandy Hook and that warm September day. That's going to have to be enough for now.
M.C.
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