Winging an Ironman

Not really - I don't want to give anyone the impression that I'm one of those superwomen who can strap on a race belt and swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles and run a marathon on a whim.  But until about two months ago, I was fairly sure I was going to drop from the full iron distance to the half iron distance at Cedar Point.  However, by about a month ago, when faced with the deadline to pull out, I'd started building the run back and found myself employing the age-old "making a decision by not making a decision" decision-making methodology.  So this is how I find myself facing an Ironman in four weeks time.  Hmmmm.

Since the last time I wrote, I've really enjoyed the biking.  Mid-June saw us head to Deep Creek Lake for our first Gran Fondo.  Mark rode 100 miles and I tackled 60.  On both courses, there was significantly more climbing per mile than Mountains of Misery.  And unlike MoM where the climbs were pretty much confined to two 2-4 mile climbs, the Gran Fondo had a never-ending series of one-mile climbs. Pretty tough, but utterly gorgeous.  The day started by dropping down from the mountaintop through the mist and probably the highlight was hitting 54.6 mph (c. 88 kph) on a glorious straightaway.  More than made up for by the 2-3 mph climbs.


And Scarlett, the new tribike got to show her true colors at Musselman Half Ironman (her first race).  While the run sucked, and the bike was probably the scariest I've ever experienced with a huge thunderstorm crashing right above us, lightening strikes nearby, rain and hail driving into our faces, Scarlett really performed well, going approximately 1.5 mph faster than any other half I've ever done on Indy.  Sweet.  (But don't worry, I won't be changing the title of the blog to Scarlett Soars anytime yet.  Indy is still my first love.)

And of course, the medals rock.

Since then, it's all been training, training, training, blah, blah, blah.  The swim has been coming together, with some good long distance sessions.  The run still sucks, but I'll get there.  Probably the thing I was most happy about was completing the 120 miler last weekend.  Not only because it was 120 miles, but because the route was the same as the one I crashed on last time around.   I was hyper aware of the railroad tracks coming up at mile 45 - to the point that I describe them to one of my ride companions as having teeth and breathing fire.  Turns out my memories are 100% accurate.  But what I didn't remember, is that the tracks are just remnants - they don't actually go anywhere.  So very cruel.  I made sure to dismount and walk my bike across.  Proof I can learn from my mistakes.

This weekend was the last big training weekend before the race, the highlight of which was our group of cyclists being chased by a basset hound.  We really live on the edge.

So here I am, facing an Ironman in four weeks time. Wheeee!