I’m soon wrapping up a short period of “interployment” (which is, to some, the more PC version of “funemployment”), trying to clear space both physically and mentally for what’s to come (so much!).
It feels natural to have stumbled across this piece, which I wrote in Cambridge in 2012 at the ripe young age of 24. I think the last line’s a lie, the type of wrap-up I aspired to, a tied bow I realize now I’d always wanted to unravel. (Because really, this process is so very difficult, for the precise reasons described below.)
Last Tuesday, my grandmother Ruth Phaff – mother of 6, grandmother of 19, great-grandmother of 38 – died at age 89. Just a few months ago she was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer which, given that she was never a smoker, she took to mean simply that her time was up. She chose not to put herself through arduous treatments, went almost immediately on hospice, and decided to spend all the time she could with her family and friends, however long that might last.
During that time I made a couple visits up to Albany, but also saw, via Facebook, of course, photos of visits from so many other relatives. There were near-weekly brunches at her house, where various family and friends gathered to enjoy mimosas and French toast casseroles. Pretty good victory lap.
I got to see her the day before she died. I had flown in last-minute on the tail end of a vacation so I could sit with her for a while. By this point she was in and out of consciousness, but more than once she’d rouse, see me, and go, “Hey, Em.” To have been there: what a blessing. Just two days later I was heading back to Albany for her funeral and the beginning of shiva.
I got the idea that I wanted to write something when I was back at home for that one day. Or more specifically, I wanted to write a sonnet, or two. I’ve been writing sonnets for years, having first been exposed to them in high school (Shakespeare’s love sonnets, of course!), and having fairly consistently returned to them over the last decade. As I later told all the people who gathered at Grandma’s funeral, as a lawyer, the strict rules of the sonnet “feel like a big hug, which is comforting.” Frankly, if my deep seated and longstanding affinity for sonnets isn’t the most clear-cut commentary on my personality, I don’t know what is. I got to writing on the long drive from DC with my dad. I couldn’t fit all I wanted to say into one (just fourteen lines! Too little, too restrictive), so this pair is what I wrote, and read, at the funeral:
Writing has always been therapeutic, and poetry especially so. There’s something about pushing my thoughts, feelings, and memories into a precise (or imprecise) structure that accelerates how I process them. Here, I wanted to reflect on who Ruth Phaff was as a (wonderful) human, but also bask in the memories I have of her and her surroundings; for us grandchildren, Lake George was the backdrop to so many summers, and likely our formative memories of Ruth and Leo. I wanted to dig into that.
Pulling those memories isn’t easy; I don’t walk around every day with the image of Smokey the cat batting my ankles from behind the open-backed stairs, or the feel of the warm wood of the dock, or the breathless freedom of bolting from whatever older cousin would chase me through the technicolor gardens, or the way Grandpa facilely would tear a worm in half to load up onto a hook, or the gaggle of kids huddled in front of the old TV watching older videotapes of the Muppets, or the white noise of the waves lapping up against the sea wall that would greet you every morning. I had to dig. Digging was like opening up a favorite book I hadn’t had the occasion to read in years. Digging hurts; there’s so much there, so impossible to remember all of it, and at the same time the pain of knowledge that nothing will be quite like that again (the house, the childhood, the time), and I wish I had more.
But through this process of pulling, and then melding my memories to fit a script, I came out the other side feeling cleaner, and lighter. And feeling like life is so short, but also so, so long, because those memories feel like a lifetime ago.
After the funeral, a couple of attendees said things like, “That was a lovely tribute,” which is nice, thank you, but of course, not the point. The more poignant feedback I received was from my brother: “She really didn’t want us in the kitchen, did she? That’s why she had that cookie jar at the end of the counter. I think it’s because I would always go in there and eat everything.” (I responded that, when she made mashed potatoes, which was often, and my most favorite food, I would go in there to steal samples, too.)
I overheard, and participated in, this same ritual amongst the six kids, first trading stories amongst themselves with the Rabbi present, and then in a continuous flow over the next days.
It’s funny, what we each choose to retain. And funnier, and sad, that we don’t choose to throw our respective retentions on the table more often.
Death is sad, and it is heavy. But to the extent it prompts us to sit together and trade the beautiful pictures we hold in our heads, to patch the holes in each other’s faulty memories, to add more color to the years we’ve spent together, to permit each other to serve as partial kaleidoscopes who separately can’t show the whole reflection but together scan a complete horizon—loss retains a whole lot of light and lightness. Loss reminds us we’ve all seen so much (even the young ones!). And loss even makes us laugh.
I often describe post-death rituals as “being in the trenches.” (Unfortunately, having done this three times in the last 18 months (twice this summer!), it’s feeling familiar, and characterizable.) There’s so much to do, the outside world goes quiet, and you’re enduring alongside comrades you didn’t choose. But the days following our loss of Grandma didn’t feel like the dark kind of trench, putrid and unpleasant, dripping with condensation, simply enduring. It felt more like we were locked into a bright Neverland, colorful and joyful, but for the absence of one human we all wished could have been there, too.
We’re all returning to life now, shiva having been completed. All six of Ruth and Leo’s kids (my mom, aunts, and uncles) spent an entire week in that Neverland, in an unusually long stretch of time together, given they’ve scattered across continents. I hear this week was unbelievably moving and meaningful for all of them.
So what I’m taking, moving forward, is this: dig deep into your stories together while everyone’s still here to hear them. Find the people in the world who are yours, but also never forget those who were there from the start, and create space to be together not just in times of sadness, but also in times of simcha — happiness. Above all else, my grandmother valued family (that’s why she birthed such a big one), and laughter. Hold both close every day you’re here. There’s just so much to love, and, even now, so many reasons to smile.
If you’re looking to do a longer-distance triathlon, I have to say I recommend somewhere scenic. Around 1:30 PM on Saturday I launched myself into the finisher chute at Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa after 70.3 miles of mountains, hills, vines, and trees. It was a good day.
As is evident from my precap, my training for this race went way better than last year’s half training, and it wasn’t a new distance, so I was far less jittery and just…plain excited…for what was to come that day.
Friday
The day before the race, I rode up to Santa Rosa with Courtney to grab our bibs and do all the pre-race necessities. Abby and Callie got stuck in traffic and eventually got there, and we were in that area for far longer than we thought, making sure all our stuff was ready, getting our bikes from Tribike Transport (they all made it!), etc. I had a slight delay in that my bike arrived with a rear flat, which I initially blamed on TBT, and then their guy Chris showed me how much glass had been lodged in that tire. He was super nice and gave me a free tube (I think he saw how anxious I was about a potential flat during the race, as well as the cost of all this), but I walked next door to the bike shop tent and bought a new tire, which he put on for free. “So if I get a rear flat tomorrow during the race, it’s just gonna be really, really bad luck, right?” “Yep.” “Cool.”
Callie’s mom kindly chauffeured us for the day, and drove us up the 35 miles to T1 where we would check in our bikes, and test out the lake. T1 was BEAUTIFUL. The bikes were all racked downhill from where we parked, and the view of the bikes against the lake below against the mountains above was so striking.
Abby and Callie had never swum in their wetsuits before, and I was anxious about the water temperature, chop, and visibility, so this dip was extremely helpful. We swam out to the bridge and practiced sighting (I hadn’t done any OWS since last season, soooo this was necessary), and got out after 20 minutes or so in the water, feeling a lot better about the next day’s swim. What we didn’t feel so good about was the 0.4 miles of steep uphill concrete we’d have to run up after the swim to get to T1. We hoped Ironman was going to throw down mats, but just assumed it would be a very slow jog and our T1s would be long and whatever who cares. (This is what English professors call FORESHADOWING.)
We picked up groceries for our house, and arrived there to find that it is modern and huge and gorgeous! The living room had a ton of floor space to stage our gear, which was the best part. Abby cooked a dinner of pasta, chicken, and some broccoli/cauliflower, with a side of cherry tomatoes. Callie and I each had one glass of $5 wine that was, of course, pretty decent because Sonoma, and then Dani arrived and we went to bed. Quick note: I have to say, arriving shortly before a West coast race is pretty great; the time change makes it very easy to sleep and wake very early.
Race Morning
Our alarms went off on race morning at 4:15 and I was ready to go. I did my race braids first thing, quadruple-checked my gear, did Callie’s race braids, and ate some steel cut oats with peanut butter and a sliced banana mixed in. I planned to eat a Lara bar while waiting for our swim start.
We left at 5:10, 10 minutes behind schedule, because of anticipated traffic, and Dani ever so kindly drove us the 10 minutes to Lake Sonoma. What we didn’t realize was that he couldn’t drive us to T1…he could only drive as far as a parking lot near there, at which point we had to board a school bus to be shuttled up to transition. We felt a little stressed by this, but given how many athletes were doing this, we figured we’d have enough time.
Transition looked like an active anthill by the time we got there. Per usual, people were frenzied, and I tried to stay calm and just get stuff done. I got body marked, found a bike pump to fill my tires (these were harder to come by at this race because of the split transition), laid out my bike gear, unwrapped two bars for the ride, and body glided for the wetsuit. Abby and Callie were racked right near me, which made all this easier as we shared some gear and laughed at our wetsuit struggles.
We got booted out of transition at 6:15 and felt like we’d gotten everything done. Barefoot (well, I had some throwaway socks), we went to use the toilets (ew!), and then walked down that concrete ramp to the swim start which was already crowded. Seeing the long line of shoes near the swim start, I started thinking that might have been smart because the ground was feeling pretty sharp. (This is more of what they call foreshadowing.)
In the crowd, as we worked our way towards the “40-43 minute” area, Callie and I lost Abby. We figured she’d wanted to seed later but we’d wanted to give her a hug/fist bump/etc. Though not many others had selected light blue caps, we couldn’t spot her. We started psyching ourselves up, and the line towards the water was moving. Goggles on!
As had happened the day before, the first contact with the water generated an “eeeeeek!” due to the cold. But we walked straight in, and I yelled to Callie, “Let’s do this.” Mentally, my head was on so straight, but for the first 10 minutes, I couldn’t breathe. I think it was the cold. I was pretty much stuck to breast stroke, and I couldn’t keep my head in the water, and I kept thinking I was having a panic attack, and wondered whether I’d ever be able to breathe and get into a groove. It wasn’t until the first turn buoy (where I looked up and saw that EVERY ATHLETE around me was similarly head-up and not swimming) that I started to calm down. From then on, I tried to focus on my form and keep some space.
I assumed the swim would be much better without the crush of different speeds, but I can’t say it was. So many people were fairly aggressively grabbing my feet/ankles/butt without adjusting their position, sighting poorly and diagonally across my path without paying any attention to who was around them. It wasn’t great, and I had an inkling that I was moving pretty slowly, but refused to look at my watch and just kept moving forward. At least I felt warm at this point.
Finally got to the last turn buoy and felt a good current given all the swimmers around me. I stopped for a second to try to pee, but didn’t work, so swam into the finish. As I suspected, I checked my watch on the way out and registered a time over 46 minutes. I groaned a little, given my expectations of a faster swim this year, but tried not to focus on it, especially given the longest ever T1 ahead (OK, this is a little too on-the-nose to even count as foreshadowing).
Swim: 45:44 / 55th in AG / 2:22/100m
So we thought maybe they’d mat the whole ramp, but it turns out the matted like 30 feet or so and the rest of the route to T1 was rocky concrete. I realized my feet felt like balloons, probably because they were so cold and wet, and I tried to jog, but after just a few steps I realized this would be impossible. The ground was SO painful. I cursed myself for not having stashed flip flops or shoes. Finally made it up the ramp and celebrated my rack spot being near the archway we’d left transition from, but they looped us the OTHER way to get into transition, which added at least another 200m barefoot, and at this point I was limping, slowly, and almost crying. I kept scanning the ground for some creative way to cover my feet but came up entirely short. I just had to get to my rack and I wanted to cry but I was literally too cold. I saw Callie when I finally made it. Shaking, I got my wetsuit off, put my socks on my numb, pained feet (magically, they weren’t cut at all), ate my sandwich, dried off, shivered intensely, and put my arm warmers and jacket on which immediately helped. I was so so so so so unhappy. But the sun was starting to shine and was no longer barefoot so…things were looking up. Callie left a few minutes before I did, and Abby arrived, and it was nice to see both of them before heading out. We all survived the swim! But I barely survived T1.
T1: 16:08 I can’t even make that up ugh ugh ugh
I jogged my bike over to the mount line, which was crowded. There was a bit of a jam getting up the little hill and my gear was obviously in the big ring, so I started my ride with some problem solving. Once up that small hill, I immediately realized that the air wasn’t actually that cold, as I had feared it would be. The shorts and jacket combo seemed to be the right move, though I knew then I’d probably feel a little warm later on.
The course began with a couple miles of steep, fast downhill. It was marked as a no-aero zone, and it was so steep I wasn’t even tempted; I was hanging out at like 28-31mph for this section and it was still very populated. My mood was much improved, though, cruising down the hills (though my stupid aerobottle was spraying me with Gatorade), and thinking, “Great! Let’s bike to Santa Rosa. I hear it’s exactly 56 miles away.”
The best thing I can say about the ride was that it wasn’t very eventful (yay!), and was very beautiful. Many times I looked to my left and just smiled, like, wow, this place is just stunning, and I’m lucky to be riding here. I noticed that I was amongst all types of riders, and I was passing a good number of people. My main issue honestly was that my nose was running like crazy, so my gloves were…REALLY gross by the end.
Around mile 20, I forced myself to eat some of the bars I had stashed in my bike box, and made sure I was drinking even though I didn’t feel hot. I kept to diluted Gatorade the whole time, and ended up drinking only the liquid I’d brought onto my bike that morning. So I don’t think I was drinking enough but I nevertheless had to use the bathroom at the mile 31 aid station, so I couldn’t have been that dehydrated. I talked to a few folks on the ride and my only negative interpersonal interaction was a woman who decided to scream like a crashing banshee on her way down the hill to alert people she was going to be passing them. (Recommendation: yell loudly, in your normal voice, “ON YOUR LEFT.” Do not scream as if you were crashing, which makes people look around in a panic, heart rates spiking.) I also saw a cyclist almost get hit by a car, despite the police presence directing traffic. That was weird, but he didn’t get hit.
Around mile 25 or so, my knee started threatening to hurt. I’m really familiar with this pain now, so I’m not so afraid of it – I knew even if it started hurting, it would be fine, and my run would be totally okay. It continued to threaten, but never blew up. I forced myself to continue using my legs equally and not to overcompensate with my right leg. When I hopped off the bike to use the bathroom, it was my right hip that was yelling at me, more than I’d ever experienced. I hoped it would calm down once I got moving again and it mostly did, but I worried it might flare up on the run. I tried my best to stretch it while riding, but focused so much on continuing to exert energy and keep my speed up.
About that speed. I was holding a pace that I had not been holding on my longer rides – cruising around 17mph (except for big climbs), often exceeding that. When I had about 15 miles left, I started doing some rudimentary math, and realized that barring any technical issues I was going to come in around 3:30 – an ENORMOUS PR on the bike. I was elated, and reminded myself to keep working. So I did, and started nearing town, which was flat. Kept cruising, and came into the last mile with a huge smile on my face. Dismounted and saw Dani and Yassi on the left side, told them I just crushed my prior bike time by 35 minutes, gave them high fives, and clomped into transition.
Bike: 3:31:40 / 51st in AG / 15.87 mph (still not super fast but man, what an improvement)
Transition was funny. Yassi, PJ, and Dani were just watching me change and get ready from the side, and helped me with my sunscreen. I hadn’t taken off my jacket or arm warmers for the whole ride so I was pretty sweaty (but honestly, never got THAT hot), and my hip seemed to be OK. Used the portapotty, grabbed my gels, and ran the 300 yards or so to the run out archway. If being honest, my T2 was slow, but there also was some distance to cover as it was a very long, skinny transition area. So…maybe that helps account for why I took eight minutes….oops.
T2: 7:59
Just like last year, I set off on my run in high spirits at a quick pace. Just a half mile in, I saw some NP folks including my friend Erin which was an extra boost. I knew the course would be two loops: one long, 9-miler, and then a shorter 4-miler. I decided that I just needed to get through the long first loop and then I could get my head in the game for the last part. After my first mile of 7:59, my legs started to feel all the miles and I started to struggle. I rejoiced in this, weirdly, because the run was supposed to feel worse, because I’d never put in that kind of bike effort before. After my second mild at 8:59, I let myself off the hook and turned my watch face to the clock, so I couldn’t eye my real-time pace and only saw mile splits. My plan was to jog/run the whole thing but walk through every aid station. Slower was fine.
My jaw started feeling weird, and I had the intuition that it was dehydration or lack of calories. So I stepped up my aid station intake and made a point of getting Gatorade AND water at each one, and I would stop moving entirely until I finished everything in the cups. My stomach was feeling fine and I had eaten one of my Chocolate Outrage Gus in mile 2 (whoops, was meant to take that at the start of the run), and felt fine on energy as well. My legs were just not moving super well.
The course was partially shaded on packed dirt, for the most part, on a flat (FLAT) wooded trail. It was really pretty, but there weren’t a ton of people out cheering, unlike at Timberman. I kept myself occupied by looking at people’s ages and thought long and hard about how I’ll need to do triathlon forever because boy, does it keep people looking young. I was dazzled by how amazing mid-fifty-year-old women looked. I actually told one woman on the course – after I was FLOORED by the 54 scrawled on her muscular calf – that I had assumed she must be in my age group before seeing her age. “You just made my day and added some spring to my step, thank you!” (Seriously. Holy wow.)
But I hadn’t seen ANYONE in my age group the entire day, which was pretty weird. Were they all ahead of me? Or just very few of them? I was hanging around 9:15s at this point and was just like – whatever, this is fine. Around mile 7 I was passing under a bridge and saw some familiar looking braided pigtails – it was Courtney! She was on her second loop, so I got to spend about 2 miles with her which was a godsend. She added spring back to MY step and I was super happy to have someone to chat with. We saw Callie starting her second loop, and then saw Yassi, PJ, and Dani who were stationed towards the end of the loop, which was lovely, and I ran Courtney to the turnaround and cheered her towards the chute. From that point on, my pace picked up significantly.
I paced off a guy named Bob for a few minutes who was super psyched that it wasn’t 90 degrees (at 71 degrees, he said, “This is the best I’ve ever felt in a half.”). We were passing a lot of folks, but at a certain point I told him to go on ahead because I couldn’t quite keep up. I was looking for Abby and Callie at all the points where we were doubled up on the path, but didn’t see anyone. I gave my volunteer bracelet to a little boy who was handing out water. I was SO ready to just be done.
So once I got off the trail, I knew I had a half mile or so to go. My legs came back to me – so trusty when a kick’s in sight, thanks for the training, Myles! – and I picked up the pace, skipped the final aid station, and finally got to pass that turnaround and head onward to the chute. At this point, I passed Bob (hi Bob! Bye Bob!).
The chute at Timberman last year was pretty good. But Santa Rosa CAME OUT for this race. I spotted a girl with 27 on her calf and I was just like – seeeeee ya later – started sprinting towards the arch, which riled up the crowd. I high fived some kids, smiling like an idiot, being a total ham with all the cheers, and crossed the line with my arms up and out and laughing, wishing I could just do the last 100 meters again and again and again.
Callie grabbed me right across the line – turns out she’d finished just a couple minutes before me – and we waited for Abby who came in on a similar sprint (again, we’ve been taught well). Dani and Yassi got some great photos of us hamming in the finish area. Medals and finisher hats on and earned.
Run: 1:52:34 / 17th in AG (HA) / 8:35/mi
Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa: 6:34:05 / 44th/83 in AG
After the race, we got food at the tent (PIZZA!), got all our gear, returned our bikes to TBT, and had a fresh, cold Lagunitas beer which was glorious. Everyone was feeling pretty decent. Finally left there and went back to our house to shower and hang out, and eventually meandered out for burgers.
The next day was spent cleaning and packing and then wine tasting and exploring Healdsburg and its legit Mexican food. We were all a bit sore but felt okay. And since then, I’ve been hanging around SF and Oakland, eating everything (particularly avocado toast), and I did a little yoga and a couple of shorter runs. Dealing with a mildly pinched nerve-y feeling in my glute but otherwise back to normal (except for eating habits which are decidedly still abnormal).
Reflections on race as a whole
So, the obvious: my transitions were much, much slower than last year. And I gained about 90 seconds on my swim, which was a bummer because I was so much better trained on that. But I cut 34 minutes off my bike time, and, shockingly, cut 4 minutes off my run, yielding a 23 minute overall distance PR. As irritated as I am about the awful transitions (particularly T1), since I know that at a race with normal transitions this would have been a 6:24 or better, the actual substantive gains I did make were enormous. I’m immensely proud of my better bike time, and also of my 1:52 run which was the 17th fastest out of our age group of 83. It remains that I’m pretty good at running-after-biking, but there’s still obviously a ton of work to be done on my biking that will likely drag down my run speed. I’ll welcome that, I promise.
Honestly, I’d come back to do this race. It was extremely well run, utterly gorgeous, and not too tough (most of the hills really were rollers). It lends itself so well to huge cheer squads because it’s in Sonoma, and a great recovery with great wine. But…of course…I’d stash shoes down at the swim start. If I did that, I think I’d be totally set.
Now that it’s been a few days…
This finish was a lot less emotional than the last one. That totally makes sense – it wasn’t my first. But I’ve been feeling that loss, which I imagine many feel about their second or forty second marathons, or whatever. That maybe the distance has lost the fear, and thus lost a bit of its magic. The half iron distance doesn’t scare me anymore, and I’ve been spending a little time thinking if I’m looking for fear and the magic of mere completion as the enormous source of pride, then a full ironman is going to have to happen really soon.
But if it’s the fear I’m shooting for – the doubts about whether I’ll make it to a finish line – maybe triathlon’s a great sport, since so many things can go wrong and I’ve just gotten lucky. Maybe I’m taking for granted all of the tiny victories that happened out there on Saturday: every swimmer keeping enough distance so as not to knock me unconscious, my wheels staying in tact, no biker swerving dangerously in front of me to cause a crash, no invisible raised roots on the trail to catch my toes, and really, my heart and my lungs and my legs holding strong. Every finish, each a victory in itself, is made up of thousands of tiny wins you don’t even notice but for their absences and the prayers you whisper when toeing the start.
So my days of recovery out here in this beautiful part of our country will be spent physically recovering, drinking lots of water and wine and eating all the pastries my stomach can handle. But I’m also doing a little work to get my head back on straight, to see my six hours and thirty one minutes spent on this beautiful course as something to be entirely proud of in and of itself, as a super big deal even though it’s not the first. As a thing I want to keep doing, not needing a full distance (which will occupy so much more of my time for more months) to nurse an addiction. I’m so lucky to live in this whacko world where these things seem so attainable. I’m lucky to live in this strong body so that I know they are attainable. But if I give-a-mouse-a-cookie my way through my athletic career, I know something’s gonna give at some point, and my sane sense of pride will fall as first victim. I’m working on it.
Luckily, we can delay this conversation, because this fall will bring a huge first: my first marathon. New York City will be my playground and the site of a massive victory lap, and my plan is to train not so differently as I’ve been training this spring: run 3 days a week and do a ton of cross-training (read: biking and swimming) and hopefully feel good and happyish even at miles 18-24. But most importantly…I’ve got some friends in New York. I hear the cheer squad will be pretty aggressive, and whether I finish in 3 hours or 4 hours or 6 hours, that’s going to be a beautiful day. Saturday certainly was.
So I’m something like 35 hours out from my second half iron distance triathlon, Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa. Having chosen to race an early season half, to clear some calendar space for an (abbreviated) off-season before starting to train for the New York City Marathon (which will be my first – as well as my last chance for guaranteed entry), I really dove into this training with the new year and the new administration. (For inauguration weekend, I escaped DC for Mexico City, which was my “end of freedom festival”; my training plan had me beginning the following Tuesday). Figured I’d divide the work and do a race “pre-cap,” before the actual tri even goes down.
As some might recall (I certainly do!), last year’s training cycle, culminating in August’s Ironman 70.3 Timberman, was somewhat tumultuous. About 2.5 months in, I began feeling pain in the interior of my left knee, which prevented me from exerting any real effort while cycling. This killed my speed at both the 2016 NYC Triathlon, and ultimately at Timberman, which was my first half. I completed the bike in 4:04:56, which was just…a really long time to be on that bike, having spent half the time either enduring or anticipating inevitable sharp pain. No fun. I was fine with my total time of 6:57, as it was my first, but the bike was pretty disappointing and unpleasant.
My goals:
I looked to 2017 for a few things. First, I knew running the NYC Marathon would be important, so I wanted to craft my year around that, rather than around triathlon. Second, I knew I needed a proper off-season – I was registered for the marathon last year, but after Timberman in late August I was just too tired to keep it up. Third, I wanted to see big gains on the bike, and ironically a slower run, since my run time (1:56) was only possible because I was unable to burn my legs during my ride.
Underlying all this was my new job, which is far, far more forgiving in terms of time, allowing me to actually train properly, so long as I was dedicated to the training.
My plan:
Once again, I adapted Matt Fitzgerald’s Super Simple 70.3 plan, but this time, dropped just one swim per week, and added a gym day instead. (For several weeks, I got to work with a trainer at my gym, which was hard, and great, but financially unsustainable.) The plan peaks at several weekends of a 60-mile ride + a transition run & a 14-mile run the following day, and unlike last year, I didn’t skip any. Swims peak at 2400m, which, if being honest, I did in yards all but one time, but I did all but one of the longer efforts. Including bike commutes (which, given how much I sweat during them, I count!!!), I peaked at around 13.5 hours a week.
So what does all this mean? As compared to last year, I more than doubled my time spent in the pool. As compared to last year, I completed an additional 5-6 long effort rides, in allllll sorts of conditions. And as compared to last year, I controlled my run mileage and truly kept it to what my plan demanded.
Things that didn’t go perfectly:
Knee. Despite these changes – a better-balanced training routine, increased strength work, and more sleep – when my rides started topping 40 miles, I started to get some threatening pain right where I had it last year – interior of my left knee. Instead of internalizing anxiety over it (OK, I had one anxious afternoon), I immediately got physical therapy recommendations from friends and started seeing Sydney over at Rose PT every single week. Through a combination of butt-strengthening exercises and trigger point release during our sessions, a couple of weeks later that pain stopped threatening, and has not since resurfaced. Could it, during a hilly 56-mile ride on Saturday? Totally! But at least I got my training in. So the fact that the pain came up isn’t good, but this is a current win, actually.
Burnt Legs. For at least 4 scattered weeks during this cycle, my legs felt absolutely toasted every morning when I tried to make them work. Fighting through that wasn’t particularly easy, but on a stepdown recovery week (i.e., “Oh my god guys I only have to ride 45 miles Saturday and run 10 miles Sunday I’m in heaven”), the legs started to come back to life so I had faith that a taper would get me to race day feeling strong and less spent. (Note: this has played out so far. I’ve felt great this week.)
Weather. Oh god, training through winter was truly as irritating as I expected. At first, I looked forward to two hours on my trainer, catching up on all the Netflix I had gotten behind on. But by the fourth week of this, I started to get really, really bored, and was dying to get outside. My toes go numb very quickly, so it’s extremely unpleasant for me to ride in anything under about 45 degrees, and I stuck to this, but as spring approached, teasing us with days of good weather and happy weekend forecasts that turned into 40s and rain, or 30s and wind, I started to get a little more stir crazy and just…went out anyway. This got me some good experience in the rain, and in the cold, and in the wind, but it wasn’t fun or my best riding. And I haven’t put on my wetsuit since last year, and haven’t gotten into any open water either. A seasonal inevitability, but seriously not ideal.
A Lengthy Vacation. Look, life happened, and I had plans to take a 2.5-week trip to Japan and Philippines in February/early March. It was early enough in my plan that I wasn’t missing any crazy volume weeks, and I put in increased run mileage during my vacation (if you’re training for something, I recommend vacationing with running friends!). I returned and didn’t feel like a complete whale…just a little set back on the bike, which I was willing to swallow.
No Proximate Training Partners. This I didn’t feel so much, because I pretty much trained alone last year, too. Callie and Abby signed onto the race, but they’re in NYC and there were a number of envious moments, seeing as they got to put in all their long efforts together. This said, our text message thread helped me get through some harder moments (e.g., the Sunday we all kept texting each other every other mile of our 14-mile run, since we were all apart and feeling warm and rough). And we got to run the NYC Half Marathon all together in March which was super fun. And not having my squad around meant I made new biking friends, like my neighbor, with whom I did virtually all of my long rides. I was lucky to have found her!
What I did (more) right:
Weight/Nutrition. I don’t own a scale and I don’t use the ones at the gym, but based on photographic evidence and, you know, mirrors, I am not as skinny as last year. This is obviously a far-from-scientific assessment, but keeping up my protein and caloric intake probably helped sustain me through the multiple peak volume weeks. While my legs might have felt exhausted, overall I didn’t grapple with any chronic fatigue preventing me from getting a workout in. (This does NOT mean that I was psyched to do every workout. I certainly texted friends multiple times saying something like, “I really don’t want to go to the pool,” asking for verbal support to get me there. This really worked.) Part of this was having an extremely supportive personal chef who was cooking multiple meals each week, since he knew that my training + work schedule was tight. Anyway, this all helped.
Not Skipping Workouts. Three or so weeks ago, my dad asked me to dinner with him last minute on a weekday, and I had planned to get my ride in after work. I had a baby conniption about skipping a workout, because it was the first one I was skipping (other than my Japan trip). Once I realized how impressive and absurd this was – and, of course, getting my head on straight about prioritizing time with my parents over one stupid 12-mile ride – I happily dined with him. But that was the first! I really (and frankly, incredibly) got the rest of them done, somehow. I swam at lunch with a triathlete newbie colleague. I sometimes went to a spin class at lunch. I would ride in to work, but take a 10-mile detour where I’d do loops of Hains Point. I would do a track workout and then run into work and get the rest of my miles in that way. I got creative and made it work.
Probably Many Other Things I’m Not Giving Myself Credit For. Since, you know, that’s a thing. Like getting myself to PT early and consistently. Like going to the gym and doing strength work even when I was soggy from a rainy run. Like having a buddy for the middle sections of most of my long runs (thanks, Julia!). I’ll take those.
So, here we are.
I’m flying now to San Francisco, staying on the couch of a generous runfriend who’s also racing Saturday (but a mere stop on the way to her second Ironman!), doing all the pre-race tasks tomorrow like picking up my bib (#1196) and dipping into likely-frigid Lake Sonoma and checking into our cute rental house situated on a vineyard. We have plans for wine tasting the day after; a day that’s hard to visualize because I’ve got a pretty big item to tick off my agenda before that happens. Here’s what I’m hoping for on Saturday, other than good race photos.
Swim. This race is seemingly unique with its self-seeded swim start. I’m going to seed according to last year’s time (43:21), but I’m hoping for and somewhat expecting a faster time given my doubled training, pending water conditions and all that (obviously). There may be some chop, as compared to the pristine, crystal-clear, calm waters of Lake Winnepesaukee, and it’ll be cold, as compared to last year’s ideal. So I can’t be surprised or disappointed if this doesn’t come through, but I’m definitely looking forward at least to a swim where I don’t have a ton of people swimming past/over me.
Bike. T1 and the bike are going to be cold. I’ve packed accordingly, and am planning to wear my winter run jacket on the ride, which to many will appear to be overkill but I get really cold on my bike. I’m nervous about this, but being prepared with the right gear is helping. I’m hoping for at least (pleeeeease) a sub-4-hour time, but honestly, I’m not sure what to expect. Picking up 20+ minutes as compared to last year would feel great, but it’s really hard to know what I’m capable of; I only started hitting my stride on my rides late in my training cycle, and even then, I was riding on a trail that had frequent momentum-killing stops. Ultimately? I’d love not to feel that knee pain, and have the freedom to burn out my legs more and feel like I got to give it a lot more of my energy. The clock can say what it wants.
Run. I’d love another sub-2-hour run. But if that doesn’t happen, I’ll be counting it as a win, since it means I worked harder on the bike. The course is a lot flatter than Timberman, which should help, as should the weather, which is forecast to be about 15 degrees cooler, but my real goal is to run the whole thing other than aid stations, and remain positive like last time. (Maybe less positive, though. I think my butterflies-rainbows-unicorns attitude on the Timberman course weirded people out.)
So there we have it. I’m not shortsighted enough to set time goals on my second half on a different course in an effectively different season. What I want is to have a great day, and not freeze, and have fun, and high five people, and cross the finish line feeling like I left everything on the 70.3-mile course. And then enjoy my victory week out West. This training cycle has already been the success I was seeking, so really, no matter what happens on Saturday, #IM703SantaRosa is a win.
I’m leaving New York tomorrow. After almost exactly two years, I’m sitting, mere moments pre-departure, thinking that it’s the things you expect the least that rock you the most. The green and red gleaming of my building’s call box. The tepid, clean-feeling air of Nolita, taco joints in garages. Used sunglasses vended on the street. A door closing after an awkward, too-big goodbye.
When you leave New York, it doesn’t matter where you’re going. Wherever that is, some things are certain: it won’t be anything like the place from where you’ve just come, you will gratefully shake off some elements and sorely miss others, and your sidewalks will be cleaner (and the air will be clearer – OK, unless you’re headed to LA, or China, or – forget it, nevermind).
When I leave New York, which is tomorrow, I’m leaving five decades of my family’s history. The bridge, the power plant my grandfather helped to engineer and build; the site of my dad’s (and brother’s) summer internships and first post-collegiate jobs; fifty years of footsteps to follow.
When I leave New York, which is tomorrow, I’m leaving twelve years of my own history. Thinking about when I was sixteen and my city-born friend escorted me on the subway, to get French fries somewhere, following only his nose and city senses to Pommes Frites, a place that blew up in that explosion last year, which I heard from my apartment at First and First, around the corner from Saint Marks which is a street I walked twice every day for the last year to travel to my office. We stood outside the tiny storefront that night; what must have been 2004; stuffing face with frites as I marveled at the magical constellation of streets and humans and sharp corners and characters and everything everything everything around us. The city, this city, was mine from then.
And it was mine in 2007 when I spent my summer unpaid, living on the Upper East Side in a Spartan dormitory, staying out late just wandering, often alone, watching and looking at and absorbing the pulsing life of the place. Picturing my future of cocktails, a real New York apartment, endless nights and boroughs to explore, over so many years down the road, I was just eighteen and my city was without limits.
I got most of those things; namely the cocktails and the real New York apartment, but turns out time isn’t endless, and here I sit at one type of end, on the cusp of closure, feeling my throat tighten and fingers shake even though this place so frequently kicked me in the shins and punched me in the stomach and made my head and senses spin in the bad way.
New York: you brought me forever friends, frivolous lawsuits, good wine and better food, stifling humidity, wonderful races, terrible races, the worst landlord in history, the best donuts in the world, several gray hairs, two stray kittens, a distinct and visceral love of natural light. I didn’t have much to offer beyond what your millions already possessed. But I was here, your streets were mine, but for a time, and now it’s see you later, see you soon, on to new scenes and settings and I think you’ll be a little bit mine (and I, yours) forever.
Long Time Coming: IRONMAN 70.3 Timberman Race Recap
On August 21, I completed IRONMAN 70.3 Timberman. For those of you who know me well, you know that it was a long journey to the 70.3 finish line that actually started back on December 31, 2014.
At that time, I was registered for the Boston Marathon to fundraise for the Alzheimer's Association, a cause close to my heart. I was tearfully excited and dangerously nervous, and on New Years Eve that year I had nine days left to decide whether the seemingly bone-related pain in my foot should keep me from that start line. That night I decided it should, and my heart was breaking a little. So my soon-to-be boyfriend proposed a new plan: take the time to heal my foot and do something bigger in the fall. A half ironman race. (!!) I immediately perked up to the challenge of learning how to swim and bike, letting those sports carry me through months devoid of running.
Ultimately, I completed an Olympic distance race that July (2015 NYC Tri) and had so much fun, but pulled out of my selected race, IRONMAN 70.3 Austin. My heart wasn't in the training and I was tired. It was a decision without much fanfare, in part because it felt a bit like a failure. I said okay, maybe next year.
So then it was November 2015, just a few weeks after I would have become a half finisher by my original plan. I went to a workout way up on the Upper West Side to celebrate my second NP-versary, and during that workout I convinced Whitney to do a half with me the following summer. It was forever away! But we started the selection process almost immediately, and then Matt was in, too, and the team was born. We ultimately decided on Timberman (over Rev3 Poconos), mostly because I wanted to do an IM-branded race as my first half, which is maybe a silly reason but as a trademark and branding person by trade, I'm brand-loyal, so...Timberman it was. Timberman! We registered in January and the race was still forever away, but we were excited.
My Training
I used a plan by Matt Fitzgerald that I found online -- a so-called "super simple" plan. It appealed to me because I wanted to finish, not to win, and I further modified (er...simplified) it by cutting one or two swims a week (swimming doesn't make me that nervous), mainly because I was still a practicing attorney at a large law firm and my job just didn't permit three two-a-days a week. I was also traveling a ton this summer, to places where I wouldn't have bike access on weekends, so if we are being honest, I skipped a BUNCH of long rides despite trying to fit them in where I could. You can see this dearth of training in my race results but...we will get to that later. I had the time and constraints I had and I ultimately wasn't super willing to compromise my fun summer plans for my training (much), so this is on me. I did the NYC Tri as a tuneup, and my performance was not that great (2:50 with a course that was cut to an 8K run) but my recovery was speedy and I felt great after the race generally, so I took it as a good sign.
Throughout my training, my run mileage was on point (or too high...) which also showed in my results. I started swimming in a local 50m pool which helped me on the swim a lot (PSA: such pools exist and are free to access in Manhattan).
All to say, though, I didn't stick strictly to the plan and I felt very, very prepared and fine during and after race day.
The one thing that was worrying me was a recurring pain in the interior of my left knee. I was working with an expert PT/masseuse to try to work it out and she had been taping it up for a couple weeks and it was feeling okay on short rides. But I didn't do a single ride over 26 miles in the final 5-6 weeks before race day so I was definitely nervous about the pain returning during the ride. It had slowed me down significantly at 2016 NYC Tri at the end of July but didn't affect my run. So worst case I hoped I could just suffer through the bike and then push through a good run time. My fingers were tightly crossed about this.
Race Weekend
I was so lucky and happy to have the Timberteam I did. We picked up a fourth member, Ragner, who then brought a non-racing friend to NH, and my boyfriend Luke came to support as well. We rented a house fifteen minutes from the race start which was perfect and unstressful. We drove up Friday so had all of Saturday to pick up bibs and get any last minute items.
We didn't run or bike on Saturday, but did visit Lake Winnipesaukee around sunset which made me so excited for the swim. That lake is STUNNING. None of us brought our goggles for that test dip so didn't do any real swimming, but I found it really calming to get in the water (which was the perfect temperature), take a look at the buoys that were already set up, and enjoy the sunset beauty of the place. Seriously gorgeous. Could have stayed forever.
We checked in our bikes but weren't able to bring in any other gear so made sure to pack it up the night before.
Race Day
Luke generously volunteered to drive the racers to the start (at 5:20 AM! - Saint status). Traffic getting into Ellacoya Park was a problem and I would caution people to leave at LEAST another twenty minutes to account for just waiting in the car line, even if you're not intending to park (which you can't anyway...it's a shuttle system from Gunstock Resort). We left plenty of time to get there (we thought) but then only had about 12 minutes in transition to set things up before it closed, which wasn't ideal. I managed to remember everything and walked over to the beach to wait for my wave to start.
I loved the swim start because anyone could be there, meaning your friends and family can hug you and keep you chill almost until you get into the water. All of us were together, plus our friend Jesse from Boston and a not-tiny NP Boston support crew.
I was feeling really calm, with a side of "whoa, can't believe I'm really about to do this." My friend Sarah, a two-time Ironman, had given me advice the day before: only think of each sport as it happens, one thing at a time. Don't think about the bike til you're on it, or the run til you're doing it. So during that time I just thought about swimming and meditated on remaining calm if I got kicked in the head, or felt that buoys were really far away, or something. I thought about how lucky I was to get to that start line, and how I would get to do things I really love for a bunch of hours.
Luke stayed with me even after I had to line up to get into the water, and was with me pretty much until five minutes before our gun time, which I didn't need per se (wasn't panicking!) but was really nice because he was so excited. Unfortunately my wave was the third to last one so it was a good bit of waiting. Only young men started after me.
As I waded into the water (it's an in-water start thankfully, since the rocks are god awful), I asked a girl in my group how she was doing and she expressed nerves about the swim. I asked her if it was her first half (she seemed super jittery). "No, it's my sixth, but I'm always nervous about the swim." Okay!
Our gun went off at 7:36 and I didn't try to be a hero, took my time getting started and just focused on moving forward and trying not to weave around too much and keep my space. I didn't get hit at all, maybe because the swim course is pretty wide and the water is so.clear. I could look left and right and see bodies under the water multiple feet away. I could watch the whole of my arms with every stroke. Maybe this sounds minor but in the Hudson River, you can't see two inches in front of your face in that water, and this difference was amazing. Not to mention the water tasted like water as opposed to garbage juice! I was really happy and just hanging, getting into a groove, and I decided I wouldn't look at my watch at all until I was done.
At a certain point the young whippersnapper men behind me began to pass. I did my best to give them space, sometimes taking a couple light breaststrokes just to make sure we were all good. I wasn't in a rush. Things got a little tight around the turn buoys but nothing crazy. The buoys came quicker than I expected and before I knew it I was on the way back in, trying not to concern myself with how many other yellow caps were still around me. I was expecting a time of 50 minutes based on my mile time in the pool, and was really happy to climb out of the water and check my watch and see a time of under 43 minutes. So far so good -- and Luke was cheering on the beach as I ran past which was really awesome.
Swim: 43:21, 2:14/100m (71st in AG)
The wetsuit strippers were super helpful (we didn't have them at NYC), and I was efficient but not crazed during transition (this race would be 6-7 hours for me and I didn't mind losing a few minutes in transition to make sure I remained calm). Grabbed a cup of water on my way in. Ate a peanut butter and jelly Uncrustable (triathlete gold) as planned, made sure I had an unwrapped Lara bar, several Gatorade chews, and two full electrolyted waters on my bike (aerobottle and normal bottle). Got sand off my feet, Balega socks on, bike shoes on, helmet gloves sunglasses on, and good to go.
T1: 6:16
I quickly walked my bike out and we were off. As was promised, the course immediately hits you with a pretty tough climb which is pretty rude. The worst hill is at mile 11 so I was prepared for that. I was told that after the first 12 miles the course is easy, particularly the last couple miles coming back into town. This was not my experience of the course at all.
I would be in for a much harder day. My lack of good bike training became apparent really quickly after an initial swath of athletes passed me (I was mentally prepared for this and told myself I would catch them on the run, as I did at NYC). I couldn't keep a good speed. At a certain point I just started focusing on my form during the (many) climbs: heels down, sit back, full circles. Around mile 20, I realized I was almost alone on the course (was I last? Was I lost?) and tried to focus on getting to the halfway turnaround -- the back half is all I wanted. Matt biked by and yelled for me (he was on his way in, about 9 miles ahead of me) which was an uplifting moment.
But the bike got pretty dark for me. Around mile 25, my stupid knee started acting up. Being in aero position hurt it worse, and it was coming and going but I was really concerned about blowing it up and running a painful and terrible thirteen miles. I stopped at each aid station to refill my aero water bottle with Gatorade. I drank no water on the course but a metric ton of Gatorade which got pretty gross but I think it helped me a lot. I tried to drink two bottles each hour but probably only did a bit over one bottle each hour...but I felt fine and hydrated, and even used a bathroom at an aid station. I ate the bar as planned and felt absolutely fine, energy-wise...just could not go fast.
I remained virtually alone on the course for the remaining 36 miles. It was really demoralizing, mostly because I just didn't expect it, and so I hadn't mentally prepared for it. I didn't expect my late start and relative slowness would leave me so alone.
The course wasn't beautiful, closed to cars, or easy. At one point, my knee pain got so sharp and bad that I cried out, and thought for a second that I may not finish. But I kept pushing through and at that point developed my mantra of the day (which always comes organically in my experience): Whatever it takes. So I blow my knee? Whatever it takes. I walk the whole run? Whatever it takes. I have to rehab my knee for months? Whatever it takes. This is my A race and I have been training since April. I am going to finish, whatever it effing takes.
I stopped to help a sidelined athlete who needed a spare tube, almost messed up my chain in the process, and thought briefly that I wouldn't be able to finish due to a technical bike issue (I can't mentally strong arm myself through something like that...) but the guy helped me fix it and I was on to the last fifteen miles.
I started leap-frogging a woman in a pretty legit tri kit on a gorgeous bike, and wondered what had happened such that she was on the lonesome course with me. We chatted about how empty it was, how we felt like we were coming in last. It was good to have a little human contact and someone to suffer with because the hills weren't relenting.
It started getting hot and so I forced myself to drink more. I worried about sunburn (a fear that was definitely realized). I worried about how it would feel to be the last bike in. The last few miles were miserable, on the shoulder of a highway without any shade. I passed a handful of people (turns out I wasn't alone after all), and the morale among all of them was pretty low as well.
By the time I was entering transition I had seen part of the run course and tons of people running. I felt so behind and was getting really angry. Luke spotted me and cheered as I finally biked in, and he told me later that I looked like a very unhappy kitty. (Accurate.) I had been hoping to beat 4 freaking hours on that bike but no such luck. Whatever. I started psyching myself up for my favorite part. I get to run! Just hope my knee holds up....?
Bike: 4:04:56, 13.72mph (80th in AG at this point)
As expected, I biked into a transition essentially full of bikes. At least I was prepared for that by that point. I racked my bike, drank some water, grabbed my Hammer gels, put on my hat and race belt. Went over to get shade by a tree to put my sneakers on, at which point an older gentleman, holding his finisher medal, said to me, "Aren't you glad that's over?"
"I haven't started my run yet."
"Oh..."
Further fire to crush the run. Planned to use the first portapotty I could find (mark of successful hydration) and grabbed water from a volunteer on my way out. Let's do this.
T2: 5:48
I took a Hammer gel immediately and downed the water and was so excited to see Luke and the rest of the crew and to finally be on my feet that I started running at a 7:25 pace which felt -- so unexpectedly -- incredibly light and easy. I used a bathroom and didn't stop my watch for that and still clocked a first mile at 8:18...which I figured I wouldn't be able to hold, but whatever. The NP squad was awesome. Luke had a Pikachu sign for me (GOTTA CATCH EMMA ALL, genius), and got some great cheers and high fives. The morale was high.
The run course has its pros and cons. It is a double out-and-back which is pretty boring and repetitive, so that part sucks. And I was passing hundreds of people but they might have been on their second lap (many/most were) so it was hard to tell who I was actually passing (not that this should actually matter). But the hills weren't bad, and everyone was together so the course felt really festive and populated, and there were a million aid stations and neighborhood residents set up to watch (and provide booze and bacon and high fives, no joke). Most helpfully, the course was automatically broken out into 3.25-mile increments which is mentally good. And you pass your friends tons of times. So I was skeptical of the course initially but it wasn't so bad.
I kept a snappy pace throughout the entirety of the run, pretty much. But I walked through every aid station (it was getting hot and I was feeling salty) and drank Gatorade or water, sometimes both at each stop. Luke ran with me for a little bit which was good because I got to vent about the crappiness of my ride and let it go. Throughout the run, volunteers and other athletes were super nice and positive, complimenting my energy level which probably seemed insane to everyone.
It seemed like a lot of the athletes were walking with friends. I kept thinking to myself: those athletes probably crushed their rides.
It's hard to express how happy and excited I was for virtually every mile of that half marathon. Because at mile 3 it finally became real that, come hell or high water or knee pain, I was going to finish. All I had to do was keep moving forward as quickly as I could, as quickly as was intelligent.
One of the worst parts of the run is that, in order to start your second lap, you have to come down the finisher chute and then take a sharp right just before the finish line. It is utterly painful. Everyone cheering as if you're finishing, plenty of people next to you ACTUALLY finishing, and then having to dip out last second -- ugh. I ran as fast as I could to get out of there which generated some "whoa, great pace" comments. Yikes.
I had a second gel halfway, and my knees started feeling the distance a bit around mile 8, but they held up for the most part (whatever it takes!). During my second lap at the turnaround, I started yelling to other athletes that we only had 5K left. 67 miles down! 3 to go! I quickly stopped once I realized that, though I was towards the back of finishers, there were still athletes doing their first run lap so maybe I should be a little less annoying. I started saying "good work" instead which was true for everyone still on the course.
The last mile and a half of the course is downhill. At this point my excitement levels were fairly stratospheric, and I started thinking about what a long journey this was, and how it began almost when I started my job in biglaw, when I had just moved to New York, and now I was crossing this finish line finally, having left biglaw, just weeks away from leaving New York. How it was a feat that scared me a lot, and how I didn't know how to swim or bike, how I picked out Misty (my bike) at the shop in January 2015 (of all times to buy a road bike), how dumb and impulsive that was. So then I started getting choked up which isn't okay when you're trying to breathe so I tried to reign in the emotions so I could speed into the finish.
Ryan was at the chute with his camera to capture my final kick. Luke was right there as I crossed the finish line, my arms as wings. The announcer said my name and commented on my "big smile." I kinda hyperventilated at that point (there is this adorable video of my finish and then coming over to Luke with an ugly almostcrying face and then walking away because lack of air). Crossing that line finally was so much fun. And my last mile of my 70.3 miles was at a pace of 7:28.
Run: 1:56:52, 8:55/mi (69th in AG at this point)
[NOTE: my watch had the run course at 13.28 mi, so my pace was actually more like 8:48.]
IRONMAN 70.3 Timberman: 6:57:13
Post-Race
I ate the delicious chicken they had for finishers (best thing ever consumed maybe), found the crew, and we got a photo triumphantly holding our bikes in the lake. Found out that Whitney and Ragner finished a solid 1.5-2 hours before I did...amazing, insane. But a finish is a finish!
Before the race, Ryan said I would know whether these endurance triathlons were my thing in the last third of the bike. That was indeed my darkest part of the race. But Timberman made me want to train for a great ride - like shooting for a one HOUR bike PR - and I finished the race thinking "wow, that was awesome" after having run the happiest half marathon I've ever done (and at this point I've done 11). So I think these just might be my thing, and I'm excited to take this on again next year. (Though probably not Timberman...wasn't a huge fan of the course, other than the swim.)
A big thank you to my blood family and non-fitness friends for thinking what I was doing was pretty cool and (mostly) restraining their bewilderment.
But an epic, huge thanks to my running and triathlon family, in New York especially but also far beyond, for making me believe this finish was not only possible but ensured, for convincing me it wasn't that crazy, for making me feel strong and able, for doing runs and rides and swims with me but also understanding when I had to break from the group to get them done alone. And of course to Luke for birthing this idea, and for creating a bit of a monster but loving the monster anyway.
Through this process my muscles grew but so did my dreams and my confidence in what I can do, if only I care, and try. I hope my journey made other people think, "maybe I'm up to this, too" (hint: you ARE).
[The National Parks Service is at a decision point regarding where November Project’s DC group can meet for its iconic Wednesday workouts. Permits are an option, but the NPS has decided (provisionally, temporarily, surely) that November Project should find somewhere else, even though we have #foundourpark. Our group of modern-day rebels is now sharing stories, one by one, about what the Lincoln steps mean to us. As a DC native and soon-to-be DC resident, I’m chiming in.]
Bob,
It was a legitimately frigid Thanksgiving morning in 2013 when, to my parents’ utter bewilderment, I set an early alarm (on a day off!), scrambled out of my borrowed bed, hustled out the door to a sun that was just waking up, and jogged the 1.3 miles from Dupont Circle to the Lincoln Memorial.
The light was a warm gold—a hue I’d not seen many times before, but would see many, many times over the next two and a half years—as I arrived at the base of the monument’s steps, scanning the scene for fellow runners, mystery strangers, or anyone who looked like they, too, were waiting for something to happen.
Finally, I spotted three guys who appeared, from a distance, to be in activewear, and jogged up the steps to say hi. “HI,” I beamed, breathless, “I live in Boston and I just started doing this and now I can’t stop and I’m from here and my parents live in Dupont and I was so sad to miss the Boston workout Wednesday but then I found out there’s a November Project here too and so I knew I had to come so I messaged that guy Danny and now I’m here and happy Thanksgiving!” Smooth.
I had stumbled upon the first annual Tryptophan 10K, a “race” that the newborn November Project DC put on, a race that rebelled against all races due to the absence of (1) fees, (2) medals, and (3) any care in the world how fast you finished. And that morning I experienced, for the first time, the feeling of running friendship when I was sidelined on Roosevelt Island for 30 seconds to massage out the aching muscles surrounding my knees, and someone inexplicably waited for me to finish before running on, in tandem.
Let’s rewind three years. I’d just graduated from the University of Maryland and was working two jobs in the District during a year off before starting law school. I felt like an in-betweener during those months, on hold between two chapters as all my colleagues advanced, but treasured my mornings by running my most favorite DC route, from Dupont to the White House to the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial and home. In that summer sun, hot, red, I’d hit my final stop within Abe’s gaze and dash up the stairs for the best view in the house: ahead, an enormous hero in repose; behind, an unforgettable panorama, sky reflected in calm water with my favorite vertical testament to freedom, the District’s highest high. Sweat slid slowly down my forehead and, no matter how hard I ran the rest, I always took a pause, and gawked, to allow my city to take a bow.
Lincoln was important to me then, but November Project DC has now made it so much more.
After my first exposure to DC’s tribe on those golden steps in 2013, I knew I’d renewed my vows to the Boston chapter. And later, after graduation, the New York City chapter. It’s through November Project that I met some of my best friends in this hard, concrete jungle, learned how to push myself to run faster and make the leap to triathlon, learned the meaning of community—not just in my school, not just in my neighborhood, but in my country. And though, until this point, I’ve lived in other cities, the DC tribe and the Lincoln steps have remained my home.
Because it’s the first place another NPer waited for me to feel better before running on. The first place where another NPer invited me to go to dinner with him and others, since I was a stranger from out of town but simply seemed nice. And of course, the first place I really became a runner. To us, Lincoln is the scene of daily, weekly renewal, every sunrise an opportunity. The Lincoln Memorial is not just a place we work out. It’s a symbol of home, an emblem of hope, a badge of patriotic honor.
In September, I’ll return to the District and once again make it my official home. And I’ve been waiting, breath bated, for the chance to run down to Lincoln with my people every week instead of just on school breaks and holidays. To flash Abe a quick peace sign salute at his feet before turning and taking a split second pause to let my home show off. To track the passage of time in the most photogenic of places with my family, my tribe, in the true heart of our free world.
I didn’t grow up with a favorite number; all around me children proclaiming seven was lucky, maybe twenty-seven, or four. I felt ambivalent, but I think today we’re going to go ahead and call 3 the lucky number.
Early this morning I raced my first triathlon, a sport of (of course) three events, a race for which I’ve been training since I pulled out of Boston Marathon training in January. This morning I finished the NYC Triathlon, an olympic distance race, in 3 hours and 3 seconds, and an hour later, got the text telling me my boyfriend had finished his first marathon in Denver in a Boston-qualifying 3 hours 3 minutes and 30 seconds. Lucky 3s.
Firsts are always special. I remember lying half awake for hours before my first half marathon over five years ago, having nightmares about losing the course. Last night it was more about missing my 4:00 AM alarm -- but that giddiness and uncertainty and inability to visualize any part -- and there are many parts here! -- special. Reading blogs and talking to every triathlete, swimmer, and cyclist I met, wide-eyed with millions of questions -- special. Luke and I were down in the first-timer weeds together, asking a whole lot of what-ifs, making mental flow charts and checklists.
My road to triathlete was ill-advised and definitely ill-timed. In the dead of winter I bought my bike (after making eyes at her in the bike store, I think it was love at first sight, honestly), bought a trainer so that on Sunday mornings I could throw on House of Cards and cycle in my bedroom for hours, getting in my long rides while watching Kevin Spacey et al; I joined a triathlon club to gain access to the only 50m pool in the whole of New York City and never even got to that pool once, but sustained long Wednesday evenings’ energy and hitting up their swim workouts. Swim lessons, stupid solo rides over the George Washington Bridge, teaching myself to use clipless pedals without falling, researching the best or the prettiest gear (my shoes got two on-the-move compliments on the course this AM; another kind of win), new friends who happen to own bikes, signing on to raise $2,500 for the MS Society without much planning, riding uptown to November Project when it was 20 degrees because I didn’t realize that frostbite on toes is very, very real (and crying with pain after, as feeling returned to my toes), open water swimming whenever it was an option (bachelorette weekends! beach weekends! totally normal!). Generally being impulsive and hungry for this sport I had actually never sampled. When I finally got back on my feet to run, I was jubilant, having lost none of my speed, logging 25 miles per week for no reason. Needless to say -- my training was erratic, and at times, plain stupid.
But for some reason I felt -- knew -- that triathlon would save me, or sustain me through months of injured darkness (I’m only being somewhat dramatic here, it was winter and actually dark all the time). The three sports would cure my fixation on the one, and I’d emerge a more well-rounded athlete, faster, stronger, bulletproof. By and large this has been true; I’ve spent less time hurting and injured over the past 6 months than, well, in a long time.
But more than anything I think about all the useful things I’ve learned (and... acquired....), and see real change and improvement, feeling fairly comfortable in a community that formerly made me feel tense and awkward. My performance today wasn’t even that fantastic, to be clear; my T1 transition was hilariously slow, T2 wasn’t a ton more impressive, my ride was a lower speed than I wanted, my run felt sluggish. But now, this is a thing that is mine. Mine to take as a baseline, mine to improve upon, mine to do bigger.
Here’s the power of the brave step outside of comfort zones: as young adults at the bottom of our careers’ ladders, there’s little we can claim as a self-made win. We don’t know anything. Final products can rarely be identified as ours. But this! The hustle for 26.2 miles, or the courageous leap into the Hudson River (yes, that happened this morning), because, like, whatever, let’s do this, and after we do this, we’ll know this was made ours.
If I think back, in the past year, of my favorite days with the most smiles, the ones that felt most epic, most of them were days of athletic achievement. I am blessed to have found running, triple blessed to have found triathlon, and infinitely blessed to have found my fitness family, many of whom were on the course today, and my real family, also there to hug me (at arms’ length, fair) post-finish. So here’s to many more of these hard, epic days where I come away with a sweaty smile and seriously real sense of achievement -- I hate to break the chain, but next time, under 3 hours it shall be.
I found myself in a pool yesterday. Unlike my recent routines of actual lap-swimming -- I've been getting creative with my therapeutic, low-impact aerobic activity -- this pool had nothing to do with exercise, and everything to do with mindset.
The last three weeks have been stable. I had a plan. Yoga, swim, sleep, rest, strength train, meditate, and wait. Hope. Cross fingers. But coming to the end of my third week, I started to fidget. Why isn't my foot feeling perfect? Why and how did I tweak my knees on the Lincoln Memorial steps when I wasn't even running? Why isn't my planned healing time actually healing everything that's wrong with me? Where did my control go?
Even on a day like Thanksgiving, when my thoughts should be firmly fixed on what I'm thankful to have at this moment -- by all means, a lot -- the negative wave came, the crashes and tears of "I don't know if I can do this." I tried to stop it. But yesterday it came down hard.
The Boston Marathon, that is. The spot I worked hard to attain, the famed finish line I dream of crossing, the mountain I so want to summit, the fantasy that I can make real. All of it fogged. Because I fixated on the fear, and forgot how much I want it.
I want it. And I've wanted things before. Law school -- a good one. Check. A short term job in Sydney, Australia. Check. A writing opportunity in South Africa. Check. A sub-two hour half marathon. Check. I've got a lot to be proud of, and all these things started with a base desire, a snip of a thought, a fleeting dream. I dreamt, I schemed, I executed. It wasn't always easy. But I owned all these things.
Where has that gumption gone? What on earth is this helplessness that's not in my nature, that makes up 0% of my DNA?
So I visited a real pool this morning. Full, Olympic length, fifty meters of fighting to each side (swimming is still hard and new!), followed by two miles' worth of deep water running. I cleansed. I rinsed off the helplessness, that nausea of feeling out of control, the fear. I stepped out feeling a little water-logged, but strong.
Like everything else I've wanted, achieved, and owned, this race is mine. I'd be kidding myself if I thought, for even a second, that I'm not up to this, given what I've wanted and gotten in the past. And what makes this challenge different and all the more beautiful is that I'm not alone. Whether trainers or physical therapists or people who just straight up love me, I've got a team committed to making this mine.
That finish line on Boylston is before me. All I have to do is drop the fear and take the steps. The time to own is now.
[If you'd like to support my fundraising efforts, you can donate here: www.crowdrise.com/alzheimerassociationboston2015/fundraiser/emmaraviv]
Ever since I was little I’ve hated the feeling of falling, being out of control; those thrills don’t quite thrill me, and, no surprise to anyone I know: I hate the feeling of isolation. Time and time again I would visit these parks with my family, or friends, or whoever, and I’d be the one alone. I’ll pass on the roller coasters -- I’m good, thanks.
So it’s no coincidence that this week has been next to intolerable for me. Up and down, pulled in every direction, all because something so cherished may not be mine for a while: running.
Ten days ago, I found out I was selected to run the 2015 Boston Marathon, while fundraising for the Alzheimer’s Association in honor of my grandfather. Putting together my website and telling his – and my – story drew deeply from my emotional reserves, along with the immediate face-slapping nervousness about finally taking on 26.2 and getting to have a go at that Boylston Street finish line. (Ten days later and I still tear up a little bit, typing those words. Whew.)
In an attempt to be responsible, I wanted to check out this nagging discomfort in my foot that feels a lot like bone pain – something I’m familiar with from December 2012 when I broke my fifth metatarsal (while shopping, not running, go figure). And, lo and behold, it might be a stress fracture.
Sitting here and confronting this on November 9 is okay. Even if it is the cursed stress fracture, I have enough time to heal fully and then take on my Boston training. But I had plans to crush my half marathon PR in Philadelphia in two weeks, and to do my second marathon relay in San Francisco in early December. I finally feel fast. I’m running intervals at under a 6:30 pace; longer runs around 8:05. If I was going to crush it, it would be now. But no longer.
Facing up to physical limitations has never been my strong suit, and yet I have dealt with an injury every single time I have trained for a race over 10 miles. It is the greatest source of my marathon fear. If my feet – knees – hips – can’t take 13.1, how on earth am I going to double it? Though I have many friends who routinely crush that distance, I have just as many who have battled all sorts of pains and crossed their finish lines practically in pieces, if at all.
So, here it is. I need the next 2-3 weeks to re-center in every way. Balancing everything – my new job, city, apartment, cats, life – has taken a toll on me as I’ve been pushing my body ever harder. Something has to give for a bit. Meditation and yoga and strength training and sleep and proper rest days will help.
After this period of healing, I hope to see some smoother sailing and fewer dips, to regain control, and to say “no thanks” to the wild rides with intention.
On May 25, I finally woke up in the morning and figured my half marathon might go okay.
Nothing's ever perfect with racing and me; my foot was giving me a slight issue in the days leading up to race day. But I felt strong -- weeks of steep hills and stadiums with November Project, weekly yoga at Prana, and skater squats all protecting my knees; new light (neon) shoes with orthotics protecting my feet.
After my Cherry Blossom 10, I had hoped to take twelve minutes off my previous half marathon time of 2:02. I called that my super ambitious goal (twelve minutes?! That's practically a minute every mile!). Realistically, I wanted to cross the finish line without pain, and in less than two hours.
I beat it. I met it. 1:50:05.
All the small inclines felt like no big deal, thanks to training on Summit Avenue. All the flats along the Charles felt like home, thanks to those stretches being my home court. And the race felt meaningful: as I hustled down Memorial Drive, police officers had stopped their cruisers in a line, and stood along the path -- a line of high-fives, one after another after another from those brave enough to protect us every day.
That was probably my last Boston-area race until...well, let's hope. It is wonderful to leave this city (in 3 weeks, anyway) on good terms, having run four out of five of my half marathons here. End of an era; start of a new one. I cannot wait to embrace my next Boston racing challenge.
Until then, I have a bar exam to sit, a career to start, and so many other milestones to meet.
When I was fifteen, my world fractured. In the middle of the night I thought I heard crying and the opening of a door; in the morning before school my mother tearfully told me that my cousin had committed suicide the night before.
I come from a big family -- two grandparents yielded six children yielded nineteen grandchildren, seventeen first cousins to chase after (or to be chased by), constant chaos in the Lake George kitchen where we seemingly spent all our endless summers. But despite our size, we are close; we feel small; we share and laugh and know each other; we have best friends and concentric social circles; we care.
Gilad was four years older, the same age as my brother. He had a mean artistic streak, a talent that when he put pen to paper he could craft any being or scene or monster or beauty, I remember being mesmerized by his hand holding newly sharpened pencils, showing me how to sketch angel wings. And he had the music: at seventeen he recorded an album on which he played every part, a discordant one-man band that only modern technology could foster. We would watch Incubus music videos; he tried to be Brandon Boyd, angst and all.
I remember the moment I learned his sadness. I was twelve and tip toed along the side of the wood-paneled house towards the lake and rounded the corner, I watched him from thirty feet away, looking somber, entirely absorbed by his journal, scribbling furiously, face gray. I remember grabbing my own notebook and writing helplessly, without understanding – I see he’s dark, why can’t I light him up?
When I found out, on May 15, 2004, that his most recent suicide attempt had finally met success, I instantaneously took back to my writing, and committed to doing one thing: succeeding in his name. His illness, which prevented him from enduring one more day of that breathtaking talent, the backbreaking heartache, would not hinder me, but would rather propel me to find my own wins, my own successes, and celebrate his too-short life. I knew it would make him proud, and, unlike so many other times – happy.
In the last ten years, I have often lost sight of this goal; I got bogged down in the minutiae of my everyday. I have kept a two inch by one inch photo of Gilad – tattoos, gauged earlobes, bleached hair – on every desk or bed side table I have had, but too infrequently prayed on what it symbolized. But each May, I take some moments to remember.
This morning – not too long after the ten year anniversary of his death (wow) – one month after what would have been his twenty-ninth birthday – I walked across a temporary stage in front of Langdell Library on the campus of Harvard Law School and was handed a law degree after three years of hard work and hard growth. And tonight I get to remember why, and how, this happened.
About how, that year in high school, I was at a crossroads, wondering whether I wanted to be social, or smart (at the time, it seemed binary). About how, after Gilad’s death, I made the commitment to try harder, to be better, to be a smart kid, to win the battles he couldn’t fight anymore. Maybe, probably, I would have found my way there without his tragedy. But maybe I wouldn’t have.
Tonight I’m dedicating this degree – my Juris Doctor – to him, a would-be fallen soldier – to his mother, one of the most beautiful women I know – to his brother, my first cousin and one of my very best friends -- to his sister, who has recently made this family grow with a little boy whose eyes match his uncle's. So that we can find some cheer in the pain of this hard anniversary. So that we can be reminded that life comes from ashes. So that we remember what family – especially ours – is about.
I am almost unacceptably lucky; the opportunities that have walked my way have been nothing short of incredible. Receiving this degree would have been a lifelong dream, had I had the nerve to think Harvard Law School could ever have been on my life’s path. I was blissfully happy to share this most wonderful day with my parents and brother, but I wish I could have also shared it with my grandparents, all sixteen remaining cousins, all aunts and uncles, all the friends who propelled me here to this point. And Gilad.
But he was here. He’s in the fake leather folder that contains my shiny new piece of paper, all in Latin, that ascribes to me something unquestionably valuable. He’s in the bright green of the photographs we snapped in front of the library. He was in the drizzle yesterday, the neon sunshine today, and all the hardworking and rewarding days ahead.
So law school ended, and my inbox is once again littered with airline and hotel reservations, from the fun and new (Copenhagen in June; Bangkok in August) to the dreadful (hotel room in Albany for the bar exam).
These two weeks are a brief hush before everything gets stormy, just in time for the weather here in Boston to finally warm and lighten. I'll graduate in twelve days and then, except for the Scandinavian trip, will be weighted down by bar study. There are a lot of New York laws to memorize.
I'll try to take pictures anyway.
And it seems I've booked my second engagement shoot in a few weeks! Super exciting.
Lots of work but also lots of good things ahead (including that race in just two weeks despite fending off plantar fasciitis at the moment).
For now -- summer!
[Photos (all but one) from Frieze Art Fair in New York this past week.]
Two weeks ago, I finished the Cherry Blossom ten-mile course in DC, pushed myself across the finish line to a PR of 1:23, and realized something amazing: my knees didn't hurt.
I took that momentum to my fifth half marathon registration: on May 25th, I'll be running Boston's Run to Remember, a half that takes you through the streets of the city I've come to love and appreciate so much over the last year. I'm planning on taking 12 minutes off my previous best time.
On Sunday, in anticipation of Marathon Monday, I decided to extend my long run, and head downtown, to the Common, and then down Boylston to the famed finish line. The energy there, just 18 hours before the first runners would cross it, was electric. And yesterday, I had the honor and privilege of cheering on thousands of runners as they tackled their twenty sixth mile on the course of the 118th Boston Marathon, from Kenmore Square, right near the apartment I inhabited for my downtown summer, nearly three years ago.
Full circle. Switch flipped. After five halfs (halves?), I've made the decision to shoot for a full. And not just any marathon, but the oldest, the best, and, at this point, the most emotional: the 2015 Boston Marathon.
Here's hoping I can find a charity bib (because my 8:25 pacing is not enough to speed-qualify), and that my body can take the training. But after four years of running, I'm so excited to feel that it's finally time.
Everything is becoming countable. Two digit numbers symbolizing what's left of our studenthood: formals, finals, class days, vacations. The last this. The final that. And all around: where did our time go?
I remember so vividly sitting on a white couch in an apartment on Garfield Street, belonging to a girl I barely knew at the time but who would become one of my closest friends, jittery, anticipating my 8:20 AM first Torts class. The rest seemed endless, even though our summers were always lowly numbered at two, our semesters at six. That's the magic of mystery, I guess. And as we became experts (not at law, but at law school, that is an important difference), everything picked up and fell away, quicker.
I am lucky to have had such solid constants through all of this, both inside and outside of this small world. For the most part they'll remain that way, but in just sixty days I know I will walk across a stage and into a world I won't much recognize.
Otherwise:
Painfully neglected here: one month in South Africa, a weekend in New Orleans, one week in Turkey (all to be profiled here as near-term archives). And now? Still planning, as always: a ten-mile race next weekend (not a half, but hey, my fifth long race); Scandinavia and Russia (!) and Southeast Asia once again. Then, as of October 13th, grown up stability: New York, kicking off my career, adopting kittens.
Here's to taking these final 60 days and making them stretch. Hopefully spring will finally come and let us do that outdoors.
WIth the final e-mail sent containing my 31-page paper (meant to be 25, oops), I once again enter the happy pre-travel phase, when I realize how little planning I've done, how much reality I have suspended during finals, and how psychologically unprepared I am for the next month.
My particular brand of escapism -- the "I'm just gonna leave and not think about it much and not come back for a really long time" thing -- always hits this funny snag about a week before departure. It's part of its definition. So I can't quite call it "anxiety," or "unexpected."
This is my penultimate escapist trip. So I'm going to choose to sit back and enjoy the wash of every part: the post-booking euphoria (check), the pre-departure jitters (check), the night-before sleeplessness, the lightness en route, the blissful reconnection with my camera. And then, you know, the destination (this time: beaches, wildlife, mountains outside my window), and the project (learning! writing! patent!).
