Ironman Maryland 2018 - Facing the Fear

I grew up in a home where fear was woven into the fabric of everyday life. Fear of falling, fear of The Boogey Man, fear of illness, fear of death. My Jewish grandmother was incredibly superstitious and would spit three times, chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" in response to anything she perceived as calamitous. "Great-Uncle Irving was rushed to the hospital - pooh, pooh, pooh." As if this ritual in response to any misfortune would keep similar trouble from hitting closer to home. While my childhood was not bubble-wrapped, my grandmother's sense that catastrophe lurked around every corner became the voice in my head. 
 
As I grew older, I rebelled against the superstitions and irrational fears and have learned to accept that some things are beyond my control. I live my days free of the kind of fear that plagued my grandmother.
 
Three years ago, my husband, Mike, decided to compete in Eagleman 70.3. My grandmother's voice, which I'd long since quelled, came rushing to the surface. "But, you could DIE," I'd heard myself telling Mike. The thought of him swimming in the open water (never mind the distance and the running and biking afterward) made me sick with dread. Yet when Mike followed through and actually registered, I got sucked into the excitement and registered too. My grandmother admonished me from the grave – not even spitting three times and chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" could possibly save me from what I was about to do. I thanked her for her concern and competed. And finished. And didn't die. My grandmother had been wrong on all fronts.
 
Sometimes I look at things that are genuinely fearful – like my teenaged nephew's complicated surgery last year – and marvel at the capacity to be brave. Gavin has cerebral palsy. He spent all of the previous summer and the better part of 2018 recovering from the surgery that is enabling him to have greater mobility. He endured painful physical therapy as he grappled with the "why" of having had the operation in the first place – he had been mobile enough before the surgery and had been happy and popular in school. To him, this was a significant setback, and he had trouble seeing the beautiful rainbow that awaited. After the surgery, he had to start from ground zero, working hard to learn to walk with his reconstructed legs. His continued fight for independence is nothing short of courageous. 
 
With Gavin and his courage in mind, I decided to compete in Ironman Maryland this year. I discussed some of my fears with my coach, which mostly revolved around whether or not I was capable of the 140.6-mile total distance. She reminded me often that the brain is a sponge that absorbs everything put into it and spits it back out during the pressure of race day. As Gavin worked hard to retrain his legs, I worked hard to retrain my brain. During the long days of training when my mojo waned, I thought about Gavin and kept my Grandmother's voice locked in a vault. 
 
When I entered the Choptank River on September 29th, I felt ready! I have somewhat of a rhythmic mantra that I say to myself when I'm swimming in the open water. As a kid, one of my favorite cartoons was The Flintstones. There is an episode where Fred is walking home at night and is robbed at gunpoint. The robber tells him to put his hands in the air and count to 1000 "nice and slow, see…that's the way to do it…nice and slow." This mantra gave me something to focus on when I felt the familiar stirrings of fear getting ready to pull me under and my grandmother's voice sneaking up to the surface. Nice and slow, see…that's the way to do it…nice and slow.
 
Soon I was on the bike and still flying high from having survived the swim and beating my "worst case scenario" expected swim time by 15 minutes. But by the time I'd ridden 30 or so miles, my mojo had evaporated. The wind had picked up. It was as if my body finally realized that I'd swum 2.4 miles. Like a kid who scrapes his knee and doesn't cry until he realizes he's bleeding, I suddenly realized the magnitude of the day's journey. When reality hit, my body began to reject being on the bike. I didn't know how I was going to ride another 82 miles. People on their second lap started to fly by. I felt helpless and hopeless. I did a lot of praying at this point and developed a new mantra – just keep pedaling. I seriously considered calling it a day and waiting on the side of the road for the air-conditioned van to drive by. I was so miserable that even the thought of hating myself afterward if I quit didn't seem to matter. I heard the faint squeak of my grandmother's voice threatening to taunt me. That's when I put my head down and demanded of myself that I just keep pedaling. 
 
Finally, off the bike and starting the run, my legs felt like lead. My feet felt like bricks. I felt clunky, like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. Yet my spirits were lifted every time I saw friends, neighbors, and seemingly the entire city cheering. If anyone ever wonders whether or not coming out to cheer really helps, I can tell you it does. I may not have seemed enthusiastic to see you. I may have grimaced instead of smiled. But let it be known: It touched my heart that so many people came out to cheer. As miserable as I was, those moments filled me with joy. Unlike on the bike, I did see the light at the end of the tunnel on the run. If I had to crawl, I was going to crawl. One way or another, I was going to become an Ironman!
 
Mike, who was also racing, had been ahead of me for most of the run. He eventually slowed down enough to close the gap between us. We passed each other when I was on my final lap. This was the fourth time we encountered each other and the fourth time he asked me if he should wait for me. I'd said no three times. This last time I said yes. The finish line was within reach, and it would be wonderful to cross it together. I began bawling as I rounded the local brewery with less than a mile to go. A friend saw me and pointed to where Mike was waiting. When I finally met up with him, I screamed: "WE DID IT!!!". There was a grand celebration along the sides of the finishing chute. People were banging their hands on the barrier and cheering. I felt like a celebrity! It was an experience that will be etched in my heart forever. 
 
And to my grandmother, who always saw the negative, spitting three times and chanting "pooh, pooh, pooh" is also a reaction to something great.