It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

IMOO, Part II

Saturday, August 29th

The last week before IMOO. I take Precious out to the country, to our familiar route, with spanking cool Zipp 303s on her, generously loaned by Bridget. We start off – shoot, forgot to change the magnet to these wheels. Again – shoot, computer still isn’t working. I futz, and then decide, forget it. No time for that. We set off, and pretty soon we’re just flying along – I don’t need a bike computer to tell me that. And, it’s fun. A gorgeous day, and I’m grinning from ear to ear. A dog comes running out of nowhere, barking and chasing, and I think, “sprint time!” and smoke him, laughing. I’m only supposed to do a relatively short ride, so I turn around reluctantly, thinking how far I’ve come that a 50-mile ride barely feels like a warmup. I think, no matter what happens at IMOO, I’m okay with it. Just getting to this point has been worth it.

Sunday

Are you f&(*^ing kidding me with this “no matter what happens” crap? I’ll be getting across that finish line if it kills me, dammit.

Monday, Labor Day

Panic sets in. I’ve forgotten how to swim, and there’s no way I’m making the swim cutoff. What idiot decided we should only get 2:20 for a swim like that anyway? Despite my fear and loathing of the lakefront path, I decide to head down to OSB for a swim. Good god, do people actually try to bike this path on a regular basis, especially on weekends? It’s like a real-life video game, dodging everything and everyone coming at you from all directions. It seems most of the people swimming at OSB are prepping for IMOO, so we talk about the weather, and when one girl says that she checked the weather last night for Madison and it said rain for Sunday, I respond with the fact that I checked 3 sites that morning and all said partly cloudy and 72. They all nod sagely. No one seems to think it the least bit odd that we’ve all become weather vigilantes. Not that the weather really matters though. My motto has been “train like you race”, and so I’ve been out in every kind of weather possible. In fact, the only thing that might actually throw me off is perfect weather. Go figure.

My swim sucks and I heap curses on the idiot jetskier and boaters who take delight in zooming right by the buoys, stirring up waves. I’m doomed. All this work on my biking and running, and I won’t even get past the swim. Why did I not realize this sooner?

Tuesday

I may just take to drink. I have 5 days; I can still cram some training in, can’t I? I spend hours trying to find info on the kind of people who don’t make the swim cutoff. I want someone to tell me that these are people who really can’t swim and try to do the backstroke the whole way, or something like that. That they’re not just slow, like me. A friend points out that if I swim at the same pace I did at Evergreen Lake, I’ll finish in under 2 hours, and that helps a bit. Before panic sets in anew. I’ve done the training, more than any of my plans called for, so why the panic? It doesn’t even make sense.

Looking back now, I think it was borne of fear, fear of failing, fear of “what if” – what if I don’t make it? What if something goes wrong? And always thereafter thinking that even if people were understanding and sympathetic, quietly they’d be whispering about how they knew I couldn’t do it, that obviously I hadn’t trained enough, that what else could you expect? And that would be totally, completely unacceptable.

Wednesday

Panic has been replaced by zen calm. I’ve been reading Rich Strauss’s tips which remind one to be calm, cool, focused. Besides, there’s nothing I can do now about my total and complete lack of preparedness for this, so I’ll just have to suck it up and accept my fate: a watery grave. Sigh. I head down to OSB for another swim, and there are only 3 of us crazy fools out there. An older guy looks at me and says “Ironman Wisconsin, huh?” I guess it’s obvious. Again, my swim sucks, but at least I’ve found out that my backup goggles won’t work (I forgot my regular ones, of course). They fog up right away and leak, as do most all other goggles when pressed against my oddly-shaped, freakishly gargantuan head, so big it probably has its own planetary system. If anyone wants a pair of TYR Socket Rockets, email me, they’re all yours.

That night I go to the CTC meeting, and somehow most of us IMOOers in attendance wind up sitting at the same table. We all look slightly....haunted. Joe surprises me with a batch of his special wonderful chocolate chip cookies. Thanks Joe!! Life always looks brighter with a chocolate chip cookie in hand. Knowing how much stuff I usually pack for a typical tri, Bridget asks me if I need extra space in their car, and I tell her that the Allied Vanlines people are showing up bright and early, but thanks anyway. Someone else asks me if I’ve made out a will – I’m not sure if this is a reflection of how tough they see an IM as being, or on the likelihood of my expiring in the process of trying to finish, but either way, I just shake my head and walk on.

Thursday

Since I managed to gain weight during IM training, I still get on the scale this morning as usual, and am happy to see that it’s down. Sweet! I then realize that I’m a complete and total moron. Sticking to the whole fish-chicken-vegetables thing the week before an IM is probably not a recipe for success, as I’ll wind up ruining a year of prep to see a few pounds gone on the scale. Stupid. Gee, why don’t I just start a juice fast now too? I decide I need to put aside the whole dechunkification plan for a few days and (gasp) start sucking down some carbs. And.....I need to get my ass up to Madison.

Thursday afternoon

Monona Terrace is pretty empty as I go to pick up my stuff (schwag! score!), and I zip through. I check out the Expo, and decide it wouldn’t be bad karma or jinxing myself to buy some things that just say Ironman Madison on them, no year or anything. Wandering over to the clearance section, I pick up a shirt, and when I realize that it’s a 2006 Finisher shirt, I drop it like it’s a chunk of plutonium and frantically wipe my hand off on my jeans, walking away quickly. I then go to the top of the terrace and look out over the lake, remembering how a year ago when I was here as a volunteer, I stood in the biting wind and looked at the cold, foreboding water and said that I’d be in tears at the thought of having to swim in that. It’s windy and choppy today too, but I’m thinking, that doesn’t look too bad. Bring it.

We then go to drop off brownies, chocolate, and beer to the “water hose people” on Timber Lane. The older man who answers the door is clearly not the cyclist-aficionado in the family, as he comments “Yeah, that race is sometime this weekend, isn’t it?” He seems happy about the beer though, so that was a good call.

Friday

Morning swim in the lake. How the hell can a small LAKE get so choppy? There’s a strong current, progress is slow, and I keep getting huge waves of water in my face. On the way back, the current is flowing from behind but at an angle, so it’s pushing swimmers away from the shore. Swimming to Cuba, as usual. This isn’t exactly a huge confidence-builder, but if this is as bad as it gets, it’s doable.

We then hit the House of Cheese on State St. – the owner is a big supporter of IMWI, and the shop stays open until the last finisher goes by. And who doesn’t love cheese?

That night I meet up with the other CTC folks for the Friday night dinner. By this time, some serious GI issues have kicked in, so I keep running to the bathroom. Great, just great. Note to self: going from practically zero carbs to hundreds over the course of a couple of days is probably not a great plan. I have a potato for dinner. But my inner Pollyanna has decided to make an appearance, so I’m optimistic, thinking, better today than tomorrow or Sunday. I keep popping pepto-bismol tablets, hoping that’ll help. Please, let it help.

Saturday

Today I’m supposed to do a brick as my last workout, with some intervals thrown in to stimulate those “fast twitch” fibers, which assumes I have some in the first place. I set out on Precious, not quite sure where the bike path goes but deciding I’ll figure it out as I go. I stop at a map to check it out, and immediately get swarmed by mosquitoes, big enough to cart off small children and VW bugs. Ayee! Off we go again. I get lost, of course, but eventually decide screw it, as long as there’s a path that I can keep going on, it doesn’t matter where I’m going exactly. I practice going up and down some hills, then almost get killed by two kamikaze suicidal squirrels that run in front of me as I’m doing my intervals. Then, hearing the dreaded shucka-shucka sound, I pull over, fix the computer sensor that got out of place, and realize that my wheel is rubbing against the brakes. Shit. You have got to be kidding me. Obviously the wheel got misaligned in the car, because no matter how I move the brake mechanism, it still rubs on one side or the other. Shit. I hope they have tech support at Monona Terrace. Suffice it to say, this is not my best ride. I continue on, when a THIRD F*CKING SQUIRREL goes running right in front of me, so close that I’m pretty sure I actually ran over its tail.

Me: “SHIT!!!!!!!”
(cell phone rings)
Bridget: “Is everything okay? Colleen and I thought we heard you scream.”
Me: “Oh, just a typical day for the Schleprocks of the world. Do you have a gun? I could really use a gun right about now.”
Bridget: “You’re not going after the rollerbladers again, are you?”
Me: “No no, not this time. It’s those damn squirrels. They need to be eradicated from the earth.”
Bridget: “Roger. I’ll get back to you on that. In the meantime, maybe you should just go back to the hotel and wrap yourself in bubble wrap, as we discussed. You can’t be too careful.”

Good point. I decide that yet again I’m being given an indiscernible sign of some sort, and it’s time to call it a day. No brick, no run. Too dangerous. Disaster lurks everywhere.

Back to the Terrace, and I’m now wearing my t-shirt that says “Easy to annoy. You were warned.” Seems most appropriate for today. After the techies fix up Precious, I try to take her for a spin around the parking lot, and realize the shifting is now.....difficult. Maybe it’ll loosen up if I keep riding in random circles......damn, dropped a chain. I stop, and just bow my head in defeat. I’m not dressed to ride, my bike shoes are already at gear check.....I’ll just have to wing it and assume the bike tech guys knew what they were doing. It’s Ironman, they had better know what they’re doing.

Bridget and Colleen stop by the hotel to say hi, with my “I coulda used a little more cowbell” shirts that I’ll be using for the run in tow. Speaking of, if anyone’s ever looking for a place that does custom shirts, check out Propaganda on Lincoln, right next to Dinkel’s. When they didn’t get my shirts in on time for Bridget and Colleen to pick them up on Friday, they actually personally delivered the shirts to their house later that night. Talk about customer service. Bridget also tells me that on their bike ride today, they went past the water-hose people......who now have a huge sign in front of their house to welcome the Ironman! Not just a handmade sign either, but one of those Elks-type signs that advertise the next fish fry. I think it was the brownies that prompted this outpouring of affection for us, but I could be wrong on that.

After making little sayings to stick on my aerobars (I go with “breathe!” and “make it fun!”) and a little bib for Dino with his name and our number, I practice changing a tire in case I get a flat, and then I’m so exhausted that night from weeks and months of panic and worry and stress and training that contrary to my usual MO of being up all night the night before a race, unable to sleep, I sleep like a baby. Dino and I are ready to take on the world.