I registered for Ironman Arizona 2019 the day after Ironman Arizona 2018 – the first day it opened. (It does sell out quickly so I was on it.) I wanted to do a late season full knowing I would be riding high and inspired to get after it in the post-Kona glow. The options therefore were Florida or Arizona, and I’ve got an unearned jellyfish phobia so Arizona it was. Plus people love IMAZ, it seemed like the obvious choice.

Then the hip, the Boston DNS, the IMVA DNF, the Ironman Lake Placid DNS, and the ongoing difficulty to recover. My doctor and PT both warned me early that Lake Placid wouldn’t happen, they said Arizona was a probably. Over the course of this journey I first thought they were crazy to say Lake Placid wouldn’t happen, then I thought they were crazy to say that Arizona would.

By September I was awash in insecurity, unable to build the run miles, still stuck on an anti-gravity treadmill week after week. Kona was indeed the inspiration I knew it would be, but it also sprung a well of deeper doubts – long and short-term doubts. Then the flu waylaid me for over a week a month out from race day and all hope seemed lost. At one point in late October Josh gently asked whether I was sure about doing the race and I insisted I was, that I couldn’t handle another 2019 DNS disappointment, but on the inside I was now drowning in uncertainty.

So that’s the energy I carried into Arizona! I managed to build my run mileage up to one fifteen mile run a few weeks before the race, which felt totally insufficient. Between the flu and a cold snap that forced me repeatedly indoors to ride I didn’t feel ready for anything, except ironically the swim. I headed west with a lot of physical and emotional baggage and no idea whether I’d see a finish line.

Race Day Eve Eve

I landed in Phoenix Thursday evening and a friend from college, Dayna, picked me up at the airport. We hadn’t seen each other in ages and had the best dinner catching up and comparing life notes. We ate at a huge spot in Tempe called Culinary Dropout and gorged ourselves on fried chicken and crafty cocktails. I’m grateful for the good food and company to pull me out of my anxieties and self-loathing for at least a few hours.

The next morning I had to be up early for some work calls – good for staying on east coast time – and then took a Lyft to the expo mid-morning (mountain time). The first volunteer I saw at packet pickup had a massive Great Dane service dog which immediately quieted my nerves. Just being in the vicinity of Great Danes and a fellow Great Dane mom makes me happy! Packet pickup was very quick and easy which also lessened some of my stress.

Over the course of my femoral neck stress fracture diagnosis and recovery I met a couple people online who were in the same injury mess, and one of those people was Ashley (@a.g.isthenewo.g. on insta) who lives outside Phoenix. She joined me at the expo and getting to meet her in real life was fantastic. She’s one of the few people who really understands the hellishness of this last year and she has been so generous with her time and support. We got to spend a few hours together, perusing all the fun booths at the expo and hitting up one of the many cute restaurants in the area for lunch.

Spending time with Ashley boosted my anxious spirits. The expo had some great booths, and the ASU-adjacent neighborhood was a nice place to spend the day. The weather was also great and I’d been fearing the predicted chilly temps on top of my own lack of preparedness. I started to feel better about things and wondered why I’d been so panicked. I thought to myself, even if I wasn’t as prepared as I wanted to be, I was fit enough to finish, and experienced enough to finish faster than I had at Chattanooga in 2016.

Scott got in that afternoon and we checked into an Airbnb I had found right next to the race – the location could not have been better. After a day at the expo I was feeling pretty good, excitement had supplanted fear for the most part. I felt better about the temperature, I felt energized by finally being at the race, and I knew I had good people around me.

That night the Ironman Foundation happened to be having their annual Kona Afterparty fundraiser in Mesa, which is basically in Phoenix. (I was learning that everything in Arizona [except I guess Tucson] is basically in Phoenix: Mesa, Tempe, Scottsdale – they’re all in Phoenix and I’m not sure why they sport different names acting like they’re not just part of the same metro area.)

I’d been wrestling with whether to buy tickets to this Iron party. On the one hand it sounded really cool – there would be pros there, and Mike Reilly and other cool tri-celebs. On the other hand it was two nights before an ironman that I wasn’t entirely prepared for and staying in and sleeping seemed like the more responsible course of action. Ultimately though I decided it was too cool an opportunity to pass up. (And I’m thankful Scott was willing to humor my serious tri-nerdiness.)

The event consisted of a seriously tri-dorky red carpet with hors d’oeuvres and drinks, followed by a program celebrating Kona 2019, the Foundation’s charity projects, a silent auction offering entry to Kona 2020, and a tri-celeb panel (that included Roderick Sewell! squeeee!), all emceed by Mike Reilly.

I got to sit next to Lindsey Corbin and other pros there included Sarah Crowley, Heather Jackson, Ben Hoffman, Paula Fraser, and Mark Allen. It was a totally cheesy and inspiring evening, and while it was maybe more excitement than is advisable a few days before a race, it totally revved my tri engine. (But no I was not the one who bid $40k to race Kona, still really hoping to earn my spot there one day without having to raid my 401K or remortgage my home…)

Race Day Eve

I had big, carefully thought out plans for Race Day Eve: I was going to sleep till around 7:30 or 8:00 – getting at least 8 hours of shuteye after the IM Foundation fundraiser – go get Koop out of tribiketransport right when it opened at 9am, ride for 30, drop him off and be in the water at 10am leaving me plenty of time before the swim practice closed at 11. Dayna was going to swing by the expo around 11:30 with her pups – puppy kisses are a critical component to race readiness – and my dad would be arriving from Atlanta around mid-day so that left plenty of time to lunch, prepare gear bags, and get any final errands done.

I was up, dressed to bike, and breakfasting by 8am as rigorously planned. Then I thought, ‘hey! I should read the athlete guide!’ As I sipped my coffee I perused the guide on the Ironman app and right as the caffeine hit my bloodstream I realized that I needed to drop off my bike and run bags much earlier than I thought – really I needed to drop them off at the same time I racked my bike, and I needed to rack my bike between noon and 1pm based on my bib number.

I pulled out the many color-coded bags that come in a full Iron packet and tried not to panic as I spread them out on the living room floor and affixed my number to each. Then I sat on my knees and just stared at them, feeling totally stuck as to how to proceed. I texted Josh for help as my stomach began its unwelcome nervous calisthenics. Josh called me right back and we spent about twenty minutes talking through each transition as well as special needs.

My brain was in such a panic-induced fog I don’t think I could have properly packed without his calm guidance. Transition bag discussions however led naturally to a robust discussion (disagreement) about what I would wear on the bike the next day. I was very worried about being too cold after the frigid lake swim, on a windy course that would be in the 50s when I started my ride. Like so many women (and some men!) I have Raynaud’s which causes certain toes and fingers to go painfully numb in even mild temperatures, and I really didn’t want a flare up when staring down 112 bike miles.  I thought I was ready though, with a long-sleeved bolero, leg warmers I’d made out of Scott’s old tube socks (tres chic) bike shoe covers for my toes, and rubber work gloves that I planned to stuff with handwarmers. Josh however was aghast that I didn’t have a plan to cover my core.

I explained that I planned to swim in a bathing suit under my wetsuit and pull my kit on in transition so I thought my core would be ok but he wasn’t having this plan at all. He insisted that I swim in my kit, promising I would regret having to pull a tight race kit onto my wet post-swim body. He said the kit would dry quickly – it’s literally made to do that – but that even dry if I didn’t have a plan to keep my core warm I was looking at cramping and a DNF. I had brought a Speed Sherpa cycling vest but I really didn’t want to wear it – it fits me really loose, perfect to put over other layers on a really cold day, but baggy to wear over just my kit. I know it’s silly but I hated the aesthetics of it and didn’t want  to look like I had a giant gut in 100 miles of bike pics.

I hesitantly agreed to wear the vest but wasn’t really convinced as I hung up the phone. I decided to call Sara and Ellen and get their take on the situation. Scott asked me if I was calling around until I got the answer I wanted, to which I unabashedly admitted yes, confident that one or both my gals would back me up and tell me to leave the vest.

Neither did though. They were understanding about the long-lastingness of race pics but both agreed with Josh that covering my core was more important. Sara suggested I search the expo for a smaller vest – maybe even a cheap one I could ditch at an aid station if I felt warm enough – and that idea appeased my vanity. Plus I had to acknowledge the fact that all three of these voices I respect so much were speaking in unison.

With my wardrobe (mostly) settled and gear bags packed I headed down to the race, only now it was nearing 10am and I realized I would have to swim first to not miss the 11 o’clock practice cutoff. The whole carefully-planned morning was already off the rails.

I can’t explain exactly why but as we left the apartment for the short walk I grabbed my timing chip and fastened it around my left ankle. I am constantly looking for my timing chip on race mornings so I think I had decided to just wear it until go-time, and I wondered if I would need it to drop my gear bags and bike off. I’m so glad I grabbed it as it turned out I needed it for the practice swim. I saw volunteers turning people away at the dock for not having theirs. If Scott or I had had to run back to the airbnb to get it – even with the proximity of the apartment – I don’t think I would have made it into the water that day.

I’m also glad I decided (similarly last minute) to don my new neoprene swim cap. It looks like a 1920s leather football helmet and I felt pretty silly and uncomfortable with the tight velcro chin strap, but given the water temp and the Raynaud’s and my admitted wimpishness it was the right call. I was also wearing the neoprene booties I’d bought a few seasons ago but never had cause to wear before.

I got on the long swim practice line around 10:15. It moved pretty quickly – probably thanks in part to the number of people being turned away without their timing chips – and within ten minutes I was sidling down the ramp into Tempe Town Lake. I marveled at how calm I felt about the practice swim, still riding off Friday’s fear-turned-excitement of finally being at the race. Then I hit the water.

At first the booties and wetsuit shielded my senses, but as soon as I was chest deep and trying to swim my confidence dissolved. Or froze over. The water felt stingingly cold. I dipped my face in to swim properly but had to quickly abandon that plan as my lungs tightened in an asthmatic-adjacent lockdown. Instead I awkwardly alternated between breast stroke and freestyle with my head above water, not wanting to risk a full attack. Plus we all think about the men and women who seem perfectly fit only to lose their lives in the swim portion of a race. Having had heart surgery in my 20s I’m especially aware of those sad stories.

I reminded myself that I’d raced in Maine and New Jersey this year and last in water that was only a few degrees warmer than this supposed 63* degrees, but my mind couldn’t convince my lungs and limbs that all was ok. At Escape the Cape in New Jersey it had taken a few minutes to get comfortable but I had eventually warmed up and had a pretty decent swim; I kept waiting and willing the same to happen but every time I tried putting my face in I felt the same pulmonary panic and pulled back.

*59-61 degrees if you consult my and others’ garmins. 

I continued my inefficient flailing for a hundred meters until I did something I’ve never done before and grabbed onto a security raft near one of the buoys. I took a few moments trying to calm myself down – even hit pause on my Garmin after a a minute or two – and took in the scene. There were five other people hanging onto the raft looking shell-shocked, and at least half of the hundreds of other swimmers were doing my same pained vertical crawl. I watched the chaotic tableau and tried to give myself a mental pep talk. I also had a pee hoping it would both warm and relax me. After three or four minutes I got back on my way.

It took me another fifty meters and the turnaround before I could coax my head into the water. By that time I was halfway through the 500 meter practice course and didn’t have much time to get fully acclimated to actual swimming in the cold. When I dragged myself out of the lake 15 minutes had passed, meaning I had just swum 500 meters at the blistering rate of 100m/3:00 minutes.

Cue the panic.

Obviously the water wasn’t going to get any warmer in the next 18 hours so I began to descend rapidly into self-centered despair. That disconcerting swim set the tone for the rest of race day eve; a feeling of impending doom lingered beneath everything I did. I felt like I might cry at any moment and my mind roiled with worst case swim scenarios. I didn’t see how I would get through 2.4 miles in that water and started planning for 2 hours in the water at 3:00/100m. Hell, what if I didn’t even make the cutoff?

I found Scott who had my bike bags. I shivered and shook from the lake’s straight talk as I peeled off layers of neoprene. My mind was spinning when we made it to tribiketransport around 11am. Dayna and her pups were due to the race any second now, my dad was in a taxi from the airport, and swim-be-damned I still needed to get a ride in to make sure Koop was ok after his trip west.

Transport was quick in handing me my beloved and reaffixing his pedals. As I pulled my helmet and shoes on my dad arrived and I was so happy to see him, though still too obsessed with that terrible swim to properly let him know how grateful I was he had made the trip. I left him and Scott for 10 minutes to ride up and down the riverwalk and click through all my gears making sure everything was in working order.

As I dismounted Dayna arrived with Pax and Piper and those initial hyper puppy kisses may have been the only time all day that my mind relented on its swim-doom obsession. Dayna and the furbebes accompanied me into the expo to seek out a more flattering bike vest and I found a well-fitted black number at the Betty Designs tent. It was more than I had planned on spending but I figured I would get a lot of wear out of the sleek LBV to justify the unplanned cost. Our women’s Speed Sherpa kits are made by Betty so at a minimum it looked great.

With my wardrobe set and my bike in working order Dayna and the pups gave me goodbye and good luck hugs. I immediately missed my friend and her frenchies, but no sooner had they left than Sarah Crowley of all people walked by. She was by herself and I took a chance and called out to her. She stopped and talked to me for a few minutes. We chatted about the fundraiser the night before and she kindly posed for a picture. She is so epicly cool.

Finally I filed into the long-but-quick line to rack Koop and drop my gear. The line wrapped all the way around transition, snaking back into the expo, but in less than ten minutes I was wheeling Koopa towards our rack, bike and run bags each hanging awkwardly off a shoulder.

I tried to log mental notes about where my bike rack was in relation to transition landmarks – namely the porta potties. I checked and rechecked everything in my bike and run bags, mentally walking through each transition repeatedly. Feeling semi-confident that I had everything I needed where I needed it I proceeded to the transition exit, only to turn around right before I got there to run back and check my bags once more, convinced something crucial like my helmet or my bike or run shoes was missing.

Finally I rejoined Scott and my dad outside transition and we went and found lunch. I tried to put on a happy-ish face while choking down calories but it was a struggle. I still felt barely in control of my tear ducts. The one bright spot of lunch was that Ben Hoffman was a couple tables away. Pros everywhere! I let him eat without bugging him for a picture but I was excited to see so many tri-celebs. (I know, celebs to me only.)

After lunch my dad went back to his hotel for a bit while Scott and I hit up Target for a few last things – mostly food for the morning and for special needs, and a bottle of wine for after the race. (I viewed this as either celebratory finish booze or drown your sorrows DNF sour grapes.)

We got cleaned up at the Airbnb and were about to leave to meet my dad for our early dinner when the dam finally broke.

I had been getting wonderful messages from  friends all day. Their encouragement and faith in me made me feel like I was going to let them all down. At one point I said to Scott that it seemed a lot of people had more confidence in me than I had in myself. My anxiety had snowballed through the day until, getting out of the shower before dinner, I found a message from Ellen who always knows just what to say and I lost it.

I swear Ellen always know what sort of self-sabotaging treachery is in my head and how to squash it. She offers up tough, insightful love like no one I know. (She’s gonna be an incredible mom.) In a long series of texts she gifted me many pearls, but the one that finally broke me was this: “you’re not racing with any other past version of yourself.” My mom said something really similar over the summer before Nationals that also hit me like a ton of brick workouts. They both could see that all I’ve been doing is comparing myself with where I thought I would be now – where I thought I should be. But life had intervened and I’m not the person or athlete I expected to be when I signed up and set big goals for myself. I read that message from Ellen and the tears that had been building since dragging my defeated shivering body from the practice swim fell hard and fast. At first I was just crying from feeling love from a friend I admire but soon I was just crying from everything. It felt like the whole year of disappointments needed to spill out of my eyeballs in that one piteous moment. Scott hugged me silently and let me ball it out.

After I composed myself we had a nice dinner with my dad at a great spot, Fellow Osteria, and the meal and company took my mind off things for at least a little while. (Absolutely recommend to anyone looking to carb up before IMAZ, or to anyone looking for legit pizza and pasta and a decent wine list in Scottsdale; which again, is really just Phoenix.) After dinner Josh and his girls sent me the most amazing video of encouragement – which of course yielded more tears but they were less existential.

After dinner I mostly just had to veg and wind down. The nice thing about full Irons and having to drop gear bags off early is you don’t have the usual triathlon-eve transition bag packing fest. Instead we found some Law & Order SVU – it’s pre-race tradition even if I’m all the way across the country from Tiff – and I tried to quiet my brain.

I also instituted a new totally sane and not stalkeresque tradition: I put on my bff Clarice’s t-shirt that I still had from her handing it to me the morning of Kona and ate a frozen snickers bar like she likes to do before a race. (It wasn’t a  snickers ice cream bar so my new tradition is different enough to not be creepy, right? [That being said she’s probably never getting this shirt back, it’s become too important to my lifestyle.])

I was tucked into bed at a responsible-seeming 9pm. It would have been responsible anyway if I’d been able to fall asleep. But actual slumber was elusive. I lay there not even able to keep my eyes closed for hours. A few times I drifted off for a few fitful minutes, but mostly I just lay awake and stressed and tried not to cry or puke. I was still awake, trying to keep that snickers bar down, when race day eve officially gave way to race day…