Between you and me, what is supposed to happen on Oct. 17 is absurd. I don't believe it can happen. My disbelief is supported by various reactions to my goal, which is to complete an Ironman triathlon (2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and a 26.2-mile run). Friends have called competing in this kind of race "narcissistic."
One friend joked, "Are you doing this just so you can write about it?" My father called it "meshuggeneh" (meaning crazy in Yiddish), then asked, "Is that even healthy, honey?" Others just stare and nod slowly as I list the distances.
Despite my skepticism, I've plodded along through my training plan since April. The plan promises to culminate in completing the race, if only I follow it as best I can. And I have.
The hardest part is not the actual work. The hardest part is what happens now. I'm resting and waiting. This phase of my training plan is called tapering. I hate it.
Back up — why even do this to begin with?
Culmination of goals
What interests me about this race is not about achieving a particular time or the supposed bragging rights that come along with completing it.
I'm not doing this so I can gloat about the absurd amount of hours, money, Epsom salt baths, calories, or Vaseline that I've poured into this effort, or the social/personal development opportunities I've missed. To be my friend in the past few months is to tag along for bike rides or runs, or show up at my house when I am drooling from exhaustion and refuse to move from the couch.
Not a pretty picture, I know — and this is not a "humble brag," either. I acknowledge that this race and everything that goes into it is a junk storm of my own making.
For me, the race represents a culmination of all of the other impossible-seeming goals that came before. I don't consider myself an athlete, and the fact that I can even entertain completing an Ironman blows my mind.
When I was younger I had terrible asthma. Hiking up one hill felt impossible — but I did it. Running five miles, never mind one, was something other people did — until I started running.
Over time, I completed a half marathon, then a marathon, my first triathlon, then a triathlon half the distance of an Ironman. The only thing left was the full distance. All of the careful planning and many hours of the day that I have dedicated toward this one goal, to complete this race, have trained my mind toward a new sense of possibility. That sense is infused into the rest of my life, from family to work.
The plan to get there
At the beginning of training I stared at the milestones listed on my plan with disbelief.
The early workouts were easy to tick off; probably designed so that I felt a sense of optimism and stuck to the plan. By the middle, the swims, bikes, and runs were longer but still achievable.
In the final phase of training, which kicked off in August, I started combining the long bike and long run into mega-weekend-workouts called "bricks." My longest brick was a six-hour bike ride followed immediately by a three-hour run. I did it, even though I distinctly remember at the beginning of training wondering how this was possible.
Several times, my triathlon training partner and I looked at each other and said that even if something happens on race day and for some reason we can't finish, all of this work we've put in will have been worth it.
Now, the plan that has built us up steadily is telling us to stop. Sure, we do mini runs, swims and bikes. But the volume is nowhere near what it has been. We're supposed to "rest."
I don't remember what that is. I'm doing it now, and it's more uncomfortable than being on an ill-fitting bike. It chafes more than my arms on a long run.
I'd prefer to feel muscles I didn't know existed in my shoulders during a long, chlorinated pool swim. I like to work. Work tells me I'm achieving something and some level of discomfort propels me to become a better person. When I'm resting, the soreness goes away. My bike is in the shed. I slowly eat my omelette in the morning because there's nowhere I need to be. I feel lost.
This is ridiculous, and I understand that.
Getting ready for what comes next
Although tapering is torture, I know it will help me on race day.
I'll be fully rested and spring-loaded, and like a wind-up toy I will skid across the beach and into the water. I'll momentarily forget how to breathe while swimming because I'll be so excited. Then, I'll settle into a groove. I'll eventually park my butt on the bike and be grateful my arms have a rest. By the time the run comes around, I'll be astounded that this is the final step, and then the race will be over, forever.
After that, I won't have a looming goal for the first time in a long time. I'll have free time again, and perhaps even some extra cash to spend on things that aren't race-related. I'll have freedom. I'll have choices.
The easy thing will be to rest for a week before signing up for another race. The harder thing for me, and what I plan to do, is to relax. Instead of a training plan on my calendar, I'll have time -- and who knows what I will do with all of that. Maybe I'll snowshoe; maybe I'll ski. I'll decide when I get there.
Alli Harvey lives works and plays in Anchorage.