It is what it is.

As I lie here watching the Olympic swim coverage, I feel like a supremely lazy person. I've had a week of nothing, and it's starting to drive me batty.

OK, so I swam 1000 yesterday. It was good! It's definitely time to lever my dead butt off the sofa and start the engine back up before the mothballs get caught in the exhaust...although it has been really nice to sleep in all weekend...I'm playing it cautious, since my family seems to have the plague. It's a bad one. It took my spouse out for over a week, number one daughter is still full of snot and it's been sitting on her for a couple of weeks now. This is a virus that means business. I really, really don't want it. So I'm hoping that laying low and playing dead will mean that it passes me by.

that's the plan, anyway.

Anyway. Olympic swimmers. Since this is my 3rd season of triathon, and hence my 3rd year of swimming, this is the first time in my memory that I have had a personal yardstick to help me to understand just how awesome these athletes are. I can't ever remember even taking an interest in swimming before, but now, I'm watching women's butterfly and I have a really good idea how hard it is to do that stroke. I watch the women's freestyle, and I see them do 100m in under a minute - the same time it takes me, on a really good day, when feeling smokin' fast, to do 50m. These people are fast. Really. Fast.

I can't wait for track and field.

I've been avoiding writing about the Vineman run because the start of it was the darkest part of the whole deal, literally and figuratively. But, as I've said before, it's important to remember these things, if for no other reason than to learn from them. Or help someone else.

Did I mention that I did this race on the day that my body had other plans (to put it as delicately as I can)? It was one more thing I had to have logisitics in place for -- but you know, it was no big deal. There was really nothing I could do about it. I told myself as I got off the bike and headed into T2, it is what it is. I had been saying that to myself for the last 30 miles of the bike. Stay in the moment. It is what it is.

In T2 there were, depressingly, a lot of bikes already racked. I grabbed my bag and headed into the changing tent and was soon joined by two Team In Training people I'd been dogging all day. They were complaining about the day, the heat, the time, and I was really not happy to hear them. Stop. Shut up. Don't talk about the time. Just. Don't. It is what it is.

T2: 10:49

I escaped the tent and headed grimly out into the run. No sense wasting time. There was an aid station just outside the T2 timing mat, and I paused there to get something to drink. They had ice. They said, "Do you want some ice?" It was so hot, I was cooking. Later reports told me it was 98 degrees. I grabbed ice and put it in my bra. "Do you want some ice in your hat?" And even as I was grabbing the ice and putting it in my hat I thought this is a really bad idea. I know this is a bad idea, but I'm hot, and I don't care. They are encouraging me to put ice under my hat, maybe it's OK today.

Lesson 6: Never ever ever ever put ice under your hat on a hot day. Did you know that there are temperature sensors on the top of your head? There are. And if you thermal shock those temperature sensors (as in, put ice on them when they're 1000 degrees), you can really fuck yourself up. Bad.

I started to run, then immediately backed off to a walk. That's no good. A guy caught up to me and cajoled me into running some more - "Run with me, Outlaw. Just to the stop sign" he could tell I was struggling - and I was. I jogged as gently as I could, knowing that the first mile would just feel like crap, no matter what. Then I let him run on and walked a bit more. I have time to let my legs catch up with me - I'll be OK.

Within 5 minutes of starting the run, I was hit with a wave of dizziness and confusion which felt oddly familiar. It wasn't until much later that I realized when I'd felt that feeling before - it was when I broke my arm on the trail. That feeling was onset of shock. I immediately sat down - because otherwise I'd fall down. People on the sidelines came up and asked if I was OK, and I said no, but I'll be OK in a minute.

I stood up and started to walk again, and about a minute later I felt drastically short of breath - as if someone had sat on my chest. I sat down again. Not cool. After a minute or so of this, I put my legs under me and walked - I really did not know what had happened, but I figured as long as I could walk a little, I would keep walking. It felt horrible - I knew if I got hit again by dizzy that sitting down would be preferable to passing out standing.

This race was starting to feel like it was going to end. I went immediately to a really dark place - how would I explain this to my family? How would I explain this to myself? I came here to do this thing - not be taken out by some freaky weirdness - but still, this was a depressing and un-fun place to be racing. Something was going horribly wrong, I didn't know what.

I walked to the first aid station (mile 1) and asked the first person I saw, "what are the symptoms of heatstroke?" to which they said, "please sit down here. Can I get you some water?" And I sat, for a good 5 minutes, just waiting to feel good enough to keep going. They checked me, put a colder bottle on the back of my neck. I said I was still sweating, I think. I think what made me feel better was when they said "just keep walking, take it easy." I figured if they thought I was OK to walk it must not be too bad.

So I did. I walked about 90% of the first loop, nauseated and ill. I would, occasionally, run into other team members on the run. Baboo was particularly helpful - he helped me piece together why I had gone all screwy (ice on the head = very bad move). He helped me recover my nutritional strategy when my stomach started to go sloshy ("you're not digesting, just sip water").

Getting to know that first loop was pretty depressing too -- all those people coming in for their 2nd, 3rd loops, passing me as I walked; me feeling about like I'd licked the floor of a bus station toilet. As the loop progressed, I was able to run a little more, walk a little less. I finished loop 1 and checked the time. Oh crap it's after 7:00 - I have 2 hours to finish this lap or I won't make the cutoff.

And then I ran.

Lesson 7: Sometimes, there is no better motivator than potential failure - every time I thought I was tired, I looked at my watch. While DNFing a race due to medical issues is one thing, missing a cutoff at this point would really be difficult to explain. I picked up the pace and I picked it up good. I walked the (dang, those are steep!) hills, but I ran everywhere else. I hit the loop turnaround just before 8pm and hit the gas - I had an hour to run about 4.3 miles - which I could do, anytime in training. But this is Ironman, and all bets are off. I found someone else who was equally motivated to make the cutoff, and we booked it together.

I got back to T2 to start the 3rd loop about 8:50 and felt great. Finally, I'd found my legs. I went back into T2 for my headlamp.

Lesson 8: Be sure to pack whatever you think you might need, because in an Ironman, you'll probably need it. I had left myself a gel flask in T2 (in Vineman, you're allowed to use T2 as your special needs drop) filled with caffeinated hammer gel, along with a running skirt, a pad, and my headlamp. And other stuff. These four things made my race. I had changed to my skirt and pad when I thought I was feeling pain from a bladder infection (not peeing, being on the bike all day, and being dehydrated during that time of the month was taking a toll on my girl parts). I went from abject misery to relative comfort in that change.

Lesson 9: Never stray from a good nutrition plan. Somewhere in the 2nd lap I found the nutrition plan that worked for me. I walked every aid station, and I took sip of gel from my hammer gel flask (they had clif shot on the course and it was not agreeing with me) at one aid station, e-cap at the next, sips of coke and water at the next. Rinse, repeat. Once I got this system in place I was good to go. And go, and go and go.

I grabbed my headlamp at the start of the 3rd lap , which was good since it was getting really dark - and the course was not well lit. The 3rd lap I ran feeling, well, relatively awesome. Perhaps it was all that caffeine? I don't know. Between the good nutrition, the inadvertant 1 loop rest I took, and the dark cool air (yes, finally, it cooled off - and rather suddenly), I felt really good. And I ran.

In fact, were it not for the developing blister on my pinky toe, I actually felt like I could have kept going.

I know. That is weird!

The last mile, I got my coke and water (see rule 9, I didn't stray even in the last mile) and went to set it down along the road so I wouldn't be running in with a cup in my hand - and I realized that while running felt ok, NOTHING ELSE DID. Bending over? Not good. Stopping? bad. Sitting down was right out.

Run time: 6:06:14

I crossed the finish line with my babies in 15 hrs 55 minutes and change and said to Geekgirl,

Holy Fuckballs, that was hard.

Oops. My kids. Did they hear that? Well, maybe they should.

And about 2 minutes later, I was thinking,

I know I can do better than that.

And later, when I found myself on the bathroom floor at the hotel at 4 in the morning eating pizza: Is this what it feels like to do an Ironman? Weird.

Cool!