A Lemony Snicket Kind of Year

Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant, filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.

Hello, my old friends!

Here we are, on the eve of Santa Cruz Ironman 70.3 2017 and somehow I have lost two years. Well, not lost, per se.  A year off triathlon becomes a year off writing, and somehow apathy settles in.  2016 was a year of other adventures (learning to rock climb, learning to mountain bike, conquering the Brazen trail half-marathon series:  seriously, who says triathlon is hard?  I came closer to dying in each of those races than at any Ironman).

In 2017, I climbed back on the iron horse and started another season of triathlon. I want to tell the stories, and yet somehow have not been able to commit myself to write; to pour out the emotion.  Writing, like speechmaking, singing, and cycling uphill, is mostly a case of overcoming inertia; so bear with me.  It’s a case of writing something or not at all:  Imperfect words are better than none.

It hasn’t been the most unsuccessful season, but it has been one of upsets, incidences, highs and lows; a Lemony Snicket kind of year. 2015 seems (in retrospect) a golden summer of racing, with age-group podiums at my three big ‘A’ races (Wildflower half Ironman; Ironman Canada, where I came tantalizingly close to a Kona slot, and Ironman 70.3 Santa Cruz).  This year’s training has been significantly dented by an almost non-stop work travel schedule has which put a lot of stress on my body and made it hard to train consistently at volume.  On top of that, I’ve been running on an emotional roller-coaster this year.  Call it a post-40 mid-life crisis; with a few of my solid California inner circle of friends (and training partners) moving away and the constant flux of the work travel, I have found myself in somewhat of an existential void, questioning my life decisions.  Cap that off with the usual Type-A race anxieties and it’s a miracle I have toed a line this year at all.

I bought the Lesley Paterson book “The Brave Triathlete” which is helpfully subtitled “Calm the F$%k Down and Rise to the Occasion”.  The book is well written, and helpful not just for the psychological tips, but for the fact that it helps knowing there are enough crazy athletes out there to warrant writing a book about it.  I also just read Devon Yanko’s race report on winning this year’s Leadville 100 mile race, overcoming some psychological demons on the way.  Her tip is to treat each adversity point as a Plot Twist.  Dropped your nutrition into a ravine?  Plot Twist!  Just flatted both front and back tires?  Plot Twist!

Calm the F*ck Down….

I find the best way to deal with race nerves is to put it all into perspective. In the end, racing is a privileged hobby, and I’m not reliant on it for rent or food; so that bounces me back into focus.  At the end, whether I personal-record my race time, or win a prize, or limp over the line in a snot-pasted bundle; life will go on – there will be dinner, and friends to post-mortem with, and Monday morning I will go to work and deal with Real Life.  I decided, in the Plot Twist vein, to categorize my season into First World Problems and Real World Problems.

Throwing up in my mouth at the South Bay Duathlon in March on my way to a third place female finish: Plot Twist!

South Bay Duathlon Podium

Draft penalty at Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa: First World Problem [Although I dealt well with the penalty well during the race to push to an overall solid finish time, right on performance; I really took it to heart.  It was lack of concentration on my course position and probably the luck of the draw on the overcrowded bike course but I felt like I had somehow failed as an athlete; the draft penalty severely pinched an emotional nerve.  At the same time, it was otherwise a solid weekend building on friendships with team-mates].

….then missing an Ironman 70.3 World Championship slot at Chattanooga by TWO SECONDS because of the draft penalty: First World Problem.  [I did cry bitterly.  Pro tip:  don’t drink beer after a 5 hour race and a pizza lunch and expect to be in stoic control of your emotions at the championship roll-down.  ].

With Brenna and Sabrina, my lovely Santa Rosa room-mates!

Losing my car-key in the Grand Canyon on the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim 42 mile hike on my birthday the week after Santa Rosa 70.3: First World Problem. [It was a rental, nobody died and the whole saga could be resolved to greater or lesser expense with money…but it was a helluva long 10 hours before we retrieved the key.  Now THAT’S another story.  And what an amazing weekend of adventures with my Minnesota friends, otherwise.]

Sunrise over the South Rim of the Grand Canyon – what a birthday!

Having my lovely Cervelo P3 race bike stolen in the Whole Foods parking lot (the same day that my friend Norm crashed badly on our ride): A toss-up between First World and Real World problems – devastating to have my bike stolen but I was lucky enough to have another bike and the resources to replace it.

Riding to a second place Age-Group podium at USA Duathlon Nationals with a brand new replacement/ refitted Cervelo P3 exactly one week after my bike was stolen: Plot Twist! [With many thanks to Rob Mardell at La Dolce Velo in San Jose for fixing me up].

Podium at US Duathlon Nationals in Bend

….but missing first place Age-Group podium at USA Duathlon Nationals by FOUR SECONDS because I didn’t realize the girl ahead of my was in my age-group and I (frankly) phoned in the last few miles because I didn’t believe I would be that close to first place: First World Problem (and a life lesson in always, always committing 110%).

My coach (and good friend) crashing badly the same weekend we were at Duathlon Nationals; one day into his two-man Ride Across America race attempt: Real World Problem. Luckily he was safe, and recovered quickly.

Deirdre and Coach Wes all in one piece (at Sea Otter)

Getting my first ever California Highway Patrol bike escort into Healdsburg on the way to winning Barb’s Race (a small women’s charity triathlon in Sonoma) in July: Plot Twist!

Now, where’s that CHP officer when you need him?

….nobody capturing me with in my pink speed suit whizzing behind the CHP: First World Problem

High-five to Christina at the finish of Barb’s Race!

Planning logistics for two long, bone-crunching days in the saddle on my August 200 mile RSVP ride from Seattle to Vancouver: First World Problem

Seattle Airport Logistics for RSVP with Joe and Marlene

…Spending a day and a half of our planned two days of riding in the ER with Joe, our friend who had a bad bike crash: Real World Problem. [Postnote:  He’s healing remarkably well, and now has a bionic plate in his jaw.]

If you read this before Sunday afternoon: send me good juju for my half Ironman in Santa Cruz.  I’ve been polishing my Big Kahuna Tiki Guy in preparation.  By this time tomorrow, I’ll be eating good Italian food and regaling friends with tales of racing.  Good or bad.  There will be laundry to do, and bags to pack for work travel.  And the off-season will begin; with a task from my coach: to reflect on why I do triathlons and how it brings me happiness.  I’ll get back to you on that one but I have a couple of hours tomorrow to think about the answer.

 

Been There, Done That, Wore the T-Shirt…

Article from Fit Magazine; Irish Independent – 13th June 2013 .

This is the director’s cut….I didn’t see what went to print…

“Jaysus, Hassett! Would you ever put on a pair of togs?” I could hear one of my club mates* bellowing at me as I scrambled off the start line of the Craughwell 10 mile race in 2011, wearing a pink-and-green tartan running skirt which he clearly thought didn’t bestow the dignity that my club singlet deserved.

If you’re going to be a pacer, do it in style.

Once upon a time, I owned a single greasy cotton t-shirt to run in, a white shirt with a charity logo and dubious stains. It was accompanied by a pair of tracksuit pants which crackled as I ran, with static and despair at my running speed.
I finally acquired a real bona-fide pair of Asics running shorts on holiday in New Zealand in January 2008, pushed on by greedy envy at my friend Helen’s pairs of emerald green and canary yellow shorts. They were an astute investment for what would turn out to be the year of my first marathon. The running wardrobe spiralled from there; based first on the need to have enough training gear to avoid almost-daily laundry runs, but also in the desire to look the part of the athlete I wanted to be. When you spend a significant portion of your leisure time in stretchy Lycra, it’s important to look and feel the part. Even a few years ago, the selection of running gear in Ireland was fairly dire, and I would spend my holidays abroad scouring sports shops for luridly coloured spandex.
With the improvement now in the available of pretty, fashionable running gear, especially in the US, and the tendency towards souvenir technical shirts at races, my sports wardrobe has exploded beyond what my grubby former self would recognise. You know you have too much sports gear when you politely decline cotton or too-big t-shirts at race entry (you can tell the non-runners by their mystification at my refusal of a free shirt). These days I am forced to regularly cull my running wardrobe, both of ill-fitting technical race souvenir shirts and of well-loved and once-fabulous but increasingly tatty sportswear. My friend’s husband happily plays darts down in Co. Clare in a (too big for me) Hell of the West race shirt, and it was one of his proudest days when someone in a pub asked him if he did triathlons.
I do have a few favourites though – these days my most precious sports pieces are the hardest won. My first Dublin Marathon shirt. My Ironman Frankfurt finisher’s shirt (which I unfortunately pre-ordered in a slightly small size, so that it sits bravely but unflatteringly just about on the bellybutton). The pink “Craughwell 10 top 25 finishers” shirt (which I earned in my running skirt); God bless the organizers in one of the few races in Ireland which mark the top group of women finishers as well as the men. A friend once confided: “Whenever I feel bad, I like to go to bed in my Dublin Marathon finisher’s shirt; that always cheers me up!” After a hard day at the races, there is nothing like driving home in a shirt you earned with your own blood, sweat and tears.

This Week…
I couldn’t resist the lure of a new cycling jersey. It didn’t come free (or even ‘free’ as in built into a hefty event fee); I had to pay for it on top of the ride entry fee, but the right to wear it was paid for tenfold over the day. There is an unwritten rule at road races and triathlons that you must show up to packet pickup wearing the shirt with the highest boast factor possible. This covers: the longest distance you have raced (wear a marathon finisher’s shirt to half marathon registration); the oldest (Hell of the West cotton finisher’s shirt from 1992: “This old thing? Sure I was racing triathlons long before it became fashionable”) or the hardest acquired (an Ironman finisher’s shirt will do, but an Ironman Kona shirt will trump all others neatly).

Never so happy to see the top of a hill…

I set out on the Sequoia ‘Century’ ride on Sunday with a couple of new friends**. This was an organized bike ride in the Bay area covering 100 miles of beautiful scenery through redwood forests, including some teeth-gritting climbs at Redwood Gulch and Tunitas Creek. With nearly 3,000 vertical meters of climbing over the day, it was not for the faint hearted. With all the hills, we made an excruciatingly slow pace over the first half, and at the 50 mile mark I was beginning to doubt that the day would ever end, but a second wind (and the sight of the finish line) pushed me cheerfully up Tunitas Creek on the last big climb of the day before riding back to the finish for ice-cream. Afterwards I admired my expensive, brightly coloured event shirt, silhouetted on the back with the ride profile. Yes, I earned this one.

*I can now exclusively reveal that my ‘clubmate’ was Frank Burke who possibly is due his own Indo column at this point.

**Picture not included in the Indo; I note now that I wore my ‘Triple Bypass’ jersey (official jersey of the longest (123mile), hilliest, highest bike ride I have ever done) on Sunday’s Sequoia ride as a talisman against the ills of 3,000m of continuous climbing.