Losing the high

Photo: Jack McKenzie Photography

There were a lot of tears at the start line of IronMan New Zealand 2017.

And this time, none of them were mine.

As the 1200 IronMan competitors and I started the 3.8km swim, I focused on my race plan: draft as much as possible, be steady, focus on technique. Site the marker buoys often. Stay calm when others swim over you.

My train of thought stayed on this unemotional track: nutrition, pacing, technique … I was, oddly, in the mental space I experienced for every other race.

But that’s not right. This is IronMan! Why wasn’t I buzzing?

Last year, for my first IronMan, it felt like my whole life began and ended with that race.

After all, I had spent 10 months training to get to the start line. The time, effort, emotion and sheer mental energy of training were like nothing I had ever gone through. And so wading into the water to the start, I remember feeling utterly overwhelmed by what I was about to attempt.

I remember swallowing back the tears.

I also remember having an amazing time. Because once the race began, my mind was a child on a rollercoaster, high on fizzy drink … “I’m doing IRONMAN! I going to be an IRONMAN! I’m actually doing this!” And so it went, all flippin’ day.

I waved to everyone I knew on the sideline and many others who I didn’t. I loved the banter and high fives. I thanked every volunteer I met, because heck, this was the best day of my life (see stupid grin in image above).

The difference between the two races was startling, to the point where I found myself wondering in IM #2, “am I even having fun?” (See game-face in image below).

Nothing, it seems, can compare to your first. And the difference, I theorise comes down to self-doubt. I mean, as a first-timer, I had no proof that I could actually finish this thing. The very real possibility of failure haunted me throughout my training. But as I plodded along in IM#1, self-doubt dissipated. And in its place was that giddy wonder.

My boyfriend, ultrarunner extraordinaire, has had a similar experience. He says each of his 15 ultras was special for its own reason, but there was one exception.

“No one can take my first 100-miler away from me. I had to pinch myself because I was actually doing what I thought was impossible.”

He’s since switched to Muay Thai and similarly, the intensity of emotion invested leading up to his first fight was incredible.

But while the highs that came with a successful first fight were pretty high, he questions if it’s sustainable or even desirable to invest that much emotion into it long-term.

“It’s such a huge thing and if I’m to keep training for more fights, I need it to be a smaller part of my life.”

Likewise, there’s no way I could relive the emotional journey of my first IM. The emotional toll was far too great for it to be a regular feature in my life.

My former coach Dave Creamer, who has 15 IronMans to his name, provides some insight to how future IMs might look for me.

Throughout his IM career, his race day mindset remains focused on executing his game plan. “I’m always a little nervous pre-race, as I should be. But I’m a little more relaxed as each year passes.”

Dave reminds me that there’s no room for complacency, regardless of how many IronMan races you have under your belt.

“IronMan is a beast that needs to be respected. Every time you finish it, is an outstanding day.”

He’s right. In hindsight, IM#2 was an outstanding day. I finished happy, proud and absolutely stuffed. In fact, I haven’t ruled out returning for another.

But if I do, I just need to forget the race plan long enough to smile and wave.

I need to remember that IronMan is really really hard.

Because, as Dave says, IronMan is a beast.

Photo: Jack McKenzie Photography

Meet Dave. He’s an UltraMan

“You have a few moments when your alarm goes off at 5.30am and it’s pitch black outside, you put your feet on the carpet and think ‘why am I doing this?’”

Dave Oliver then visualises standing on the start line of UltraMan Australia, the three-day endurance race, which for most mornings last summer, was the reason he got up before sunrise to run, bike or swim. That mental image would push the 35-year-old to his feet. He would ride his bike to the pool, swims 200 lengths and sometime around 8.30am he would sit down at his office desk to begin his working day.

After work, Dave would run a half marathon. He would return to his Mount Victoria home at 7.30pm, leaving only enough time to say a tired hello to his flatmate, cook dinner and prepare tomorrow’s training gear and sleep.

Dave isn’t your average triathlete. In fact, he only fell into the sport four years ago after making a pact with a friend to knock off an IronMan triathlon from the bucket list.

“It was 2008 and I was working in Rotorua as a helicopter pilot at the time. A friend and I went to Taupo for a night out and it happened to be IronMan weekend. We were eating kebabs on the sideline, watching what looked like normal people finish in 16-plus hours. We wondered whether two guys who could barely swim and who had never done a triathlon, could finish an IronMan.”

Dave wasn’t foreign to sport. He played rugby in his twenties, enjoyed mountain biking and had completed a marathon “in no spectacular time”. After working as a helicopter pilot, particularly in hot spots like Papua New Guinea, it’s fair to assume he also isn’t afraid of high pressure situations.

He ignored the pact until 2012 when he entered his first triathlon in the local series at Scorching Bay.

Since then, triathlon has overtaken Dave’s life and transformed his understanding of what’s possible.

Time spent watching TV and long sleep-ins – time he retrospectively calls “junk time” – was swapped for running, cycling and swimming.

Dave was training for up to 20 hours a week. Unsurprisingly, his social life took a hit. His mates thought he was mad when after a meal out, Dave would change into his running gear, and in the pouring rain, run the 10km home.

He admits in the early days he didn’t have the balance right, sacrificing time with friends and family to train. Time management, often touted by triathletes as the hidden fourth discipline, was something he learned with time.

“I’ve made a conscience decision not to let my training affect my social life too much. I still manage to prioritise going out for a beer with mates every now and then.”

He’s also adept at stealing training opportunities. For example, a visit with his mum in Palmerston North turns into a training ride to Otaki where they’ll meet for lunch.

The life-training balance was made easier last year when he traded in his month-on, month-off helicopter pilot job for regular hours managing aeronautical publications.

It took just two triathlon seasons before Dave felt ready to take on IronMan New Zealand. In 2014, he completed the 3.8km swim, 180km cycle and 42.2km run in 10 hours 45 minutes.

The first-time IronMan ranked in the top 20 percent of finishers. Dave, it seems, had a talent.

“I did it again the next year. I was faster. But that race destroyed me. I just pushed way too hard, too early. After the race, I was standing there in a world of hurt. I couldn’t think or function. My sister had to take my shoes off.”

Despite the painful race, Dave continued his daily training regime with local triathlon squad Traction Fitness.  It wasn’t really training, he says. It was something he did for fun. And seven months later, he applied for UltraMan Australia on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast.

UltraMan Australia is an endurance race covering 515km in three days, and is open to only 40 competitors. Dave didn’t think too much about it when his application was accepted, choosing to focus more on enjoying training.

About 12 weeks out from UltraMan, things got serious. He’d train up to 24 hours a week. A 7km ocean swim after work was not unusual, nor was a 180km Sunday bike ride.

Training wasn’t without its challenges. There was constant laundry, dietary restrictions, energy-sapping headwinds, strained muscles, punctures, choppy seas with the occasional jellyfish and those early morning wake up calls.

But Dave is remarkably philosophical about it all. “It’s nothing you can’t work around,” he says. Besides, it’s good practice for race day when you never know what obstacles you’ll face.

What’s striking about Dave is not his physical accomplishments, but his attitude towards them. He speaks ambivalently about his punishing training regime. And when probed about his toughest sessions, he reframes the experience in a way that is constructive.

He recalls this year’s Marlborough Grape Ride, remembered by cyclists mostly for its miserable conditions:

“I did the 2-lap, 200km course, plus I was staying in Picton so had to cycle 40km to the start. It was 4.10am, raining and the first thing I’m faced with is the hill leading out of Picton.”

He shrugs.

“But you need some terrible training experiences. I would draw on what sounds like a negative thing and turn it into a positive because I know it’s going to be fuelling my motivation in UltraMan. It’s like a pocket of motivation.”

He knew he’d need all the motivation he could get for UltraMan.

Day one was a 10km swim, the equivalent of swimming from Freyberg Beach to Petone Foreshore, followed by a 140km cycle, the distance between Wellington and Palmerston North. Day two was 281.1km on the bike and day three equalled back-to-back marathons, covering 84.3km.

“I never thought UltraMan was a crazy thing to do. I never thought about the distances. I just treated the long cycle like a nice social ride. It was much more of
a mental game than a physical one.”

Dave finished sixth with an overall time of 24 hours, 48 minutes.

“I was stoked, exhausted and a little bit emotional. It was a surreal moment. It had been my only focus in the world and that’s it. It was done.”

Photo: Dayle Jordan

Dave swears he enjoyed some quality Netflix time after the race, and tucked into a burger or two. But he hasn’t strayed too far from Traction Fitness and his daily training sessions.

This month, just four months after UltraMan, he will compete in IronMan Wales.

“I’m really looking forward to an awesome day out at IronMan Wales. Apparently it’s an amazing course and I’ll have the Welsh side of the family there cheering me on.

Dave bats away the suggestion that what he’s done is extraordinary arguing “it’s all relative to where you’ve come from and what you believe in”. He maintains he’s a “typical Wellingtonian” who drinks too much coffee at The Hangar and has a serious weak spot for Pandoro’s croissants.

“I don’t see my lifestyle as any different to someone else with a time-consuming hobby. At the end of the day, most of my weekends are spent with mates having a good time. It’s just that we’re usually swimming, biking or running.”

This article was originally published in Capital magazine, Spring 2016

We are IronMan

They say triathlon is a selfish sport. Yet I’d never have thought during those months of training, those months of selfishly putting my needs before everything else, that the highlight of my first IronMan would be everybody else.

Months out from the big day, six of my loved ones said they wanted to be there. They wanted to take a day off work, drive a 10-hour round trip, and give up their entire weekend to stand on the roadside and cheer me on.

I was stoked and very humbled.

Then in the days leading up to the race, I received phone calls, texts and Facebook messages from friends wishing me luck. My sister had matching supporters’ t-shirts made up and my unofficial mentors baked IM-shaped cakes and presented two ginormous ‘Go Jo’ posters.

My parents took nearly a week off, first driving me to Tāupo, ensuring the fridge was stocked with the right food, buying me a pre-race massage, reading the 36-page athletes’ guide and studying course maps. More heroically, they put up with my pre-race tetchiness without a single complaint.

I was overwhelmed by the support, and I thought, there’s no way I cannot finish this race. People would know, people would be disappointed. I couldn’t let my friends and family down after everything they had done for me.

On the day, my support crew was joined by another couple of triathlon friends and my flatmate. My coach, who on the morning of my race ran a sub-3 hour marathon in New Plymouth, drove 277 kms to Tāupo to join the others by lunchtime.

When I thought I had maybe 10 supporters on the day, I actually had 17 people cheering for me. My swim coach, my coach’s wife who I’d met the day before, a girl I knew from high school, a friend’s friend who I’d met once four months earlier – all of them yelled a “Go Jo!” “You’re doing awesome!”, which boosted my spirits and made me grin like an idiot.

There were high fives, chalked messages on the road, photos at every turn, and a hell of a lot of yahooing.

One of the hardest parts of the race was the last 20km of the 180km bike ride. The head wind and gradual climb chipped away at my motivation. I thought of my supporters
then. 20km until I get some love! … only 19km until I get some love … 18km …

And they were still there at every lap of my 42.2km run, long after the sun had gone down and the temperature had dropped. Surely they’re over this? But no, they were still there. Still waving and yelling.

And when I finished, there was still more – gifts from friends (absent and present), IronMan gear from parents, my sister and my incredible boyfriend. Didn’t they get it? I should be buying them presents.

When I signed up to IronMan I considered it an individual pursuit of a purely selfish goal. But my supporters made it so much more. They made my IronMan a day-long celebration where I spent most of that swim-bike-run, grinning like an idiot.

Just some of the people who made my IronMan one of my most happiest adventures.

50 thoughts every IronMan-in-training has

1. I’m hungry
2. Still hungry
3. Oops, I didn’t mean to eat all of that
4. Yes I can be there … I may be wearing Lycra
5. I love my bike, I hate my bike, I love my bike
6. F— you wind!
7. When I’m a normal person again …
8. 9.30pm, Friday. Sweet, bedtime.
9. 6.30am, Saturday. Sweet, sleep in.
10. “How’s training going for your marathon/biathlon/fun run/sports thing?”
11. Why am I doing this?
12. It’s so so far, I just don’t know whether to laugh or cry
    

    16. Can’t. Training.

13. Seriously, WHY AM I DOING THIS?
14. Everyone else in the world is asleep right now
15. I’m sorry I haven’t showered
16. Can’t. Training.
17. Yes 180km on a bike. No, just one person, in one day
18. Why? Well, I’ll get a medal. And there’s the free t-shirt …
19. I’m sorry for what I said when I was tired
20. Get out of my lane
21. Get out of bed you lazy thing!
22. I think I’m actually getting slower
23. My wetsuit has definitely shrunk
    

    23. My wetsuit has definitely shrunk

24. Nope, too windy/rainy/hot
25. I can do this! I’m going to be an IronMan! … [two minutes later] … I’m going to die.
26. Has anyone else bought endurance sport bars and accidentally eaten them on the couch? Ok, yeah. Me neither
27. [eyes up nutrition for the bike] … Ha, none of that is actual food
28. Stop drafting off me!
29. Swim swim swim SHARK?!!
30. Swim swim swim SHARK?!! Seriously Jo, you’re in a pool
31. What do you call a female IronMan?
32. Even if I’m anaemic?
33. I’d go much faster if I had a new —- [any tri-related toy]
34. After this, I’m going to retire. I’m going to lie on the couch for a year. Still wearing the finishers’ t-shirt and stroking my medal.
35. So the run is just four 10km laps plus a bit more. Easy.
36. If I have to cycle 150km then that’s just three lots of 50, or one big 100 and one 50km or two lots of 75km, or ….
37. I want to go home
38. Ice cream. It’s mostly protein right?
    

    43. Holy smokes my arms are huge!

39. Weeee! This feels so good. I want to do this all the time!
40. It’s not a hickey, it’s chaffing from my wetsuit, honest
41. Kona, eh?
42. Has my Torpedo 7 package arrived yet?
43. Holy smokes my arms are huge!
44. What do you mean you ‘go’ on the bike? … ohhh …. Ewww
45. [someone asks what the weather’s doing this weekend] “slight northerly winds in the morning, picking up to about 34km/hr by 1pm, about a 50% chance of rain, Sunday’s better …”
46. Have you read Iron Wars?
47. Please don’t let that be a puncture
48. Coffee-coffee-coffee-coffee
49. Wow, I cycled and ran so far today. [does the maths and realises that was a small portion of the race, cries, laughs, bends over to throw up]
50. [Nods eagerly throughout the ‘I’m Training for an IronMan’ YouTube clip] See? Those Iron people aren’t so nuts after all.

Mental warfare

They’ll talk about the day they clocked up seven hours on the bike and then followed it up with a 20km run. They’ll talk about sore muscles, tiredness and their dodgy IT band. But people training for IronMan don’t talk much about mental burnout. Those days when getting out of bed for a 6km run is simply just … too … hard.

As I approach race day, those just-too-hard-days are becoming more frequent. Physically, I doubt my training is suffering as I’m starting to taper anyway. But mentally I’m in a war zone, which is rapidly wearing away the energy stores I have left.

Listen to your body, says the angel at my table. You’re no IronMan, says her devil twin at the other.

You’re tired, you need to rest.

Pull yourself together and get out the door.

And so they argue, back and forth, until finally I give up. I eat two bowls of ice cream (two and a half), and settle in for a night of despondency on the couch. Later, I set my alarm for 5.30am and promise I’ll work hard and eat healthy tomorrow.

Do I feel at peace with my decision?

Not even close.

An article on the IronMan website “6 areas to flex your mental muscle” describes mental burn out as feeling unmotivated, irritable, angry, sad and bored (yes, yes, yes). Another tell tale sign is fantasising about quitting your sport (again, yes). And then the rather unhelpful advice: “The most effective approach is to prevent this from happening.”

Excellent, thanks IronMan.

I take note of some of the suggested strategies to combat mental burnout, largely, taking time off, reconnecting with goals and writing a list of why I love the sport. I’m also going to listen to my endurance sport friends who suggest sleep, prioritising rest over other duties or obligations and positive affirmations.

My plan starts now. I hereby promise to have an early night. I will leave work an hour early tomorrow so I can get to the pool before the lane becomes crowded with the faster, more aggressive after-work set. Instead of dwelling on how long the swim will take (all 130 lengths), I’m going to cruise through it in no great hurry. I’m going to enjoy the sensation of gliding through the water and use the time to remember why I fell in love with triathlon in the first place.

I also vow not to have ice cream for dinner. I’m going to drink more water and take my iron supplements. I’ve booked a sports massage and I have scheduled in a yoga session for the weekend. OK, yes I know the sloth-like pace of yoga makes me antsy, but I’m planning to use this time to mull over all the reasons why I want to finish an IronMan in two weeks’ time.

There are a lot of reasons, I’m sure. And I’ve already got the first one:

It’ll make me a stronger on the inside.

Road to recovery

According to people who know stuff, training plus recovery equals performance.

Those people might be pro triathletes or whatever, but in my stubbornness I thought I could do without one half of that equation.

For me, recovery after a race was a day of no exercise. Now that standard distance triathlons, trail races and half marathons are a regular feature of my calendar – in no great time I might add, I just do them for fun – the idea of recovery seemed even less relevant.

Contrary to my earlier ignorance, post-race eating is good.

Eating x amount of protein y minutes after a race seemed not only overly complicated, but counterproductive if I wasn’t hungry. Why have rehydration fluid when I could have a nice pot of soul-soothing (and unfortunately, diuretic) tea?

Foam rollers and stretches? Nope. Busy. Things to do, people to see.

Ice baths, compression gear, protein-shakes, a bit over the top isn’t it?

And the truth is, I kinda like feeling a bit broken the next day. Much like a finisher’s medal, sore muscles are a reminder of what I achieved the day before.

But I’ve done a complete 180, and it’s all because my coach is mean.

OK no, it’s all because I’m training for my first Ironman and I’m constantly training on tired muscles. When I have a half marathon or a triathlon lined up for a Sunday morning, my coach thinks: “Great! Do that! And on the Saturday before, I want you to smash yourself on the bike.” Awesome. Thanks coach.

And so when I finish that hard cycle, I’m now mindful that what I do in the next 18 hours is going to determine whether I enjoy or endure Sunday’s race.

So what is it the pros are doing exactly?

According to a Runner’s World article, training is all about straining our bodies to go longer or faster. We’re depleting our fuel sources and causing microscopic tears in our muscle tissue. Our body goes into a period of adaption where our stores are opened for maximum refuelling and our veins deliver white blood cells to repair the micro tears. Apparently, there’s a two-hour window after your race when this is occurring. If you wait until you’ve driven home, showered and called your mum, you may have missed your opportunity.

The article goes on to say: “It’s not in our workouts that we become better athletes, but in the time between them. Neglecting to take sufficient rest or to answer our depleted bodies’ needs not only limits our improvements, but can start a spiral of a very different sort.”

Noted. In order to go faster tomorrow, I need to stop today.

Rest is the easy part of recovery. This is time spent sleeping and not moving. Have a nap, resist the urge to babysit your beautiful niece. Read the paper instead.

Compression gear may just change your life.

Recovery is harder to implement: hydration, compression, nutrition, trigger-point release, heat, ice and even stress management.

There’s a tonne of science out there on optimising recovery. American coach, sports nutritionist and Ironman triathlete Ben Greenfield starts his Ironman recovery before his race even begins. And even he admits, it’s pretty complex (topical magnesium, amino acids, cold showers, etc).

For us non-competitive, average Jo types, I say do what you can. Ignoring recovery altogether is foolhardy. You’re only hurting yourself. Rehydrate, eat some good food, stretch, chill out.

Oh, and FYI, compression gear feels heavenly. After a hard workout, it’s more soul-soothing than tea. I promise.

Lost in Paradise

A couple of weeks ago during a local Xterra trail race, a runner went running and didn’t come back.

The Police and Search and Rescue were called, and 26 hours after the race began, she was found. Cold, hungry and happy to be alive.

I must have been a horrific wait for her family and friends, not to mention the rescue teams, police, volunteers and race organisers.

Trail markings for the Orongorongo Xterra race.

The race was part of my local Xterra trail series. The series has a great community vibe, and offers fun Sunday runs through some gnarly forest trails. It’s paradise.

Regular Xterra runners were all over social media while the runner was missing. There was overwhelming concern for the woman, but discussion occasionally turned more generally to the risks and safety measures of these races.

At the start of every single Xterra race, at every single Xterra event, race organiser Tomo gives a speech:

“We respect some of you are pretty fit and can knock these runs out no problem. However, if you roll an ankle or have a fall and need to sit on the side of the track for a while, you will need to keep warm. Have no fear our marshals will be looking after you, but given the nature of these events, it may be some time before we get you back to home base.”

He reminds us for safety’s sake we should have a long-sleeved thermal or waterproof jacket, some water, food and a basic first aid kit. Survival blankets are available for a few dollars at the registration desk.

The most basic kit won’t kill your finishing time.

About 30 per cent of the runners are like my sister who automatically packs a bag with gels, warm clothing, cellphone, water, and probably a map.

Then there are runners like me who take the least amount of gear possible (emergency gel, long-sleeved top) or worse, runners with no gear and wearing only a singlet and shorts. It’s faster you see, and saves the hassle.

Big sister: “You’re relying on your ability to run and not thinking about what would happen if something went wrong that’s outside of your control.

“It’s New Zealand bush and New Zealand has really changeable weather. That’s why so many tourists who go tramping get into trouble, because they underestimate the conditions. It’s the same thing”

Amen sister.

It would be so easy for any Xterra runner to twist an ankle or take a wrong turn and then be unable to summon for help. It doesn’t matter how good you are at running, by not carrying gear, you’re putting the onus on race organisers to get you out of trouble, which, when you think about it, is kinda irresponsible.

The Xterra community has a lot of respect for organisers Tomo and Eve. The pair put on a fantastic (and safe) series. Had the recent ordeal ended tragically, it would have had major repercussions for them too.

As Tomo said, they’ve had over 12,000 people run in the bush since their first Wellington event in 2008, “I fully expected something like this would happen one day”, he said, which is why they have a very comprehensive management plan for missing runners.

Regardless, it should be up to the individual runner to ensure they get home safely. Carry a whistle, take some food, wear some warm clothing. It may cost you seconds on your finishing time, but it could buy you hours if you’re lost in the bush.

Running in paradise.

A Novel Approach

If you invite me to your house, the first thing I’m going to do is check out your bookshelf. Eliot? Mailer? Palahnuik? I’ll stay. Complete set of Dan Brown? … We’re going to need to talk.

The second thing I’m going to do is check out how you store your books. I’m in the market for good ideas you see, and I may just pinch yours.

Due to my wanderlust, I’ve never had the luxury of having more than a handful (or a hundred) of my books under one roof. The majority are stored in boxes in my parents’ garage. After years on the road, I dream of the day when I can unpack my beloveds and display them for all to see and admire.

Until that day, I browse for unique ways to store and display books. I’ve discovered there are two ways to approach book storage. The wrong way, where the finished product resembles a library that’s been through a spin cycle.

And the right way, which I imagine looks something more like this:

Or this:

… I know, right?

I’m working along the same concept but on a miniature scale. I rest my books in the space under the oversized windows in the lounge.

The idea is to work with existing design contours. It’s less fussy, more ordered and definitely a little bit of cool. Much like these examples, which are unfortunately not my house.

I much prefer built-in shelves to hulking, stick-y-out-y shelves. It’s as if the books are a structural component, (and therefore indispensable) to the house.

Trawl the internet and you’ll come across some crazy bookshelves. It’s apparent that many of these aren’t really about books as they could easily be admired as installation art. Ironic really, that the principle artistic value shifts from the works of art themselves, to the storage of them. Kind of like admiring a museum for its bricks and mortar, and not the treasures inside.

I’m greedy and want both. I want something both functional and artistic. Creative and yet ordered. Whatever form my book-shelvery will take, one thing’s for certain I’ll be taking a novel approach.

In Defence of Selfies

Vancouver Sun Run 2014, Photo credit: me

Bless the generation that brought us selfies.

Wait. Bear with me, here.

Like most people of a certain age, I don’t care for the vapid, duck-lipped, bathroom-mirror kind of selfie that has flooded social media. However, I do appreciate the occasional selfie when out for a run. Many of the self-portraits captured on my phone are rubbish of course. No filter can hide the sweat, weird facial expressions and questionable headwear.

I admit, there is some narcissistic value of these run-time selfies. They allow me to reminisce over some of my cooler, gnarlier runs. They provide photographic evidence that I did in fact, reach the summit or get that far offroad.

But selfies are also genuinely useful when I’m having a pre-race panic.

For the week leading up to a race, my stream of consciousness goes something like this: I haven’t done enough training! I need more hills! More speed work! Possibly less Nutella straight out of the jar! More runnnnnnning!!!!! And so it goes on.

And then, I look at my photos and remember that I have pushed myself more than usual. I may not have trained my hardest, but I have improved. That in itself is a good thing and worth celebrating with a new race. Faith is (somewhat) restored.

The motivational power of selfies works between races too. When I’ve let training slip and become better friends with the couch, motivation and self-confidence plummet. I flick through my photos and I long for that sense of achievement. I want to be that type of runner again. I can do it! I love it really! Those selfies are a metaphorical kick in the pants to get off the couch and be awesome again.

Touristing/running/learning stuff in Montreal.

My new habit of running with a camera also means I have some pretty neat photos of me running in various cities around the world. I’ve combined tourist-ing about with my daily morning run. It’s just good time management when you’re on holiday and want to see a million things. And it’s helpful when you’re trying to figure out what sites warrant more of your tourist time, and what you can strike from the list as you jog past.

Lost. Such fun.

All too frequently I get, well not “lost” exactly, but “uncertain”, geographically speaking on these tourist runs. But oh the things I find! – a community piano! squirrels! graffiti-inspired murals! – all of it captured on camera.

Sometimes the photos are of me and a large part of my arm, sometimes of the more interesting background. Regardless, this is where I thank the selfie generation. Selfies are no longer exclusively for people with no friends. And this social acceptance has encouraged me to take a camera when heading out for an unusual run.

I swear, I’m not really such a narcissist. It really is all about the running. Well, mostly.

The Hurt Shocker

Making my mark at the pre-race expo.

There were a hundred excuses, but only one reason why the Calgary Marathon wasn’t fun.

I could blame my slowest ever marathon time on Calgary’s higher elevation and thinner air.

I could blame the surprisingly hilly course or the less-than-happy stomach.

I could blame the fact I had spread my training across swimming, cycling, running and the gym over the last couple of months, with no real focus on the race.

I could point to all of those things to explain why I clocked in at a modest 4:05, but I’d be lying to myself. The real reason I was 15 minutes slower than my two previous marathons? Easy. I didn’t run enough.

In the few weeks leading up to the race, I had just three 3-hour runs under my belt. I figured those three runs and my triathlon-ready fitness were sufficient to get me through.

Yeah … about that.

Perfect conditions for the 50th anniversary Calgary Marathon. Marathonfoto.com

The sky over Calgary was delightfully clear at 7am when the starting hooter blasted. I took off at a clip and gained confidence as I weaved through the crowd. At 12km, Ron the 3:45hr race bunny caught up with me. “Jolene! You mean monster!” he said. That morning, over breakfast at our hostel, I told Ron I just wanted to finish the race but “anything under 4 hours” would be nice.

I kept a decent pace and focused squarely on getting to the 30km mark. Then it’s just another 12km right? And I’d use gels for that extra push.

But at 32km my muscles began to shout: “Hey! We’re done now. Game over. Time for a sit down and some ice cream.”

“Can’t do that muscles. We’ve still got another 10km to go. Only 10km, what’s the big deal?”

That last 10km was hell.  My legs had given up and my usually steady gait turned into a shuffle. This new running style meant I relied on other muscles to keep moving forward. Glutes, vastus medialis in both quads, my right calf and left heel, took turns at protesting. For that last 10km all I could think about was the hurt and when it would be over.

The mental beating was also pretty brutal. You suck! You wanted 3:50? Ha! You’ll be lucky to finish. You’re too heavy. You didn’t train enough/eat properly/hydrate well. You’re not a runner anymore. Why do you even bother? You should quit.

Image: http://www.addictedtosuccess.com

When I finally straggled over the finish line I wasn’t flush with the usual elation. Even when a race volunteer handed me a ginormous medal and pushed me in front of photographers, all I felt were my stiff muscles and intense disappointment.

The berating continued into the next day. I contemplated quitting running, but then I got on the phone to New Zealand. My parents were super proud of me. My sister said I was awesome and we started to talk about what I needed to do for an Iron Man in 2015.

Far from quitting running, I faced up to the truth of what went wrong and what I need to do next time. Not enough running, eh? That’s easily fixed.

“Hey muscles,” I said two days later.  “It’s time for a run. Let’s roll.”