I’m not sure where to start. When you don’t finish maybe there’s nothing to say. Not every race can end on a podium. And sometimes, a race can end before the finish line.
I’m not a quitter. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I stopped an athletic event that I started. I’ve been dropped and pulled from criteriums. I’ve had to walk the run in triathlons. I’ve thought about quitting during a race. {Haven’t we all?} But actually pulling the plug, unable to continue?
That’s not me. I come prepared. I dig deep. I race in rain. And cold. And hot. I race to push myself further. To that edge.
Unfortunately, I went beyond the edge and flirted a little too closely with hypothermia while racing in Vermont a week ago.
Rasputitsa started out with rain and 40 degrees. We climbed, into a snow / ice / sleet storm and temps plummeted to 28. We descended, and descended. And more descending. I was soaking wet, to the bone. Brake pads were cooked. Hands were not functional, frozen meat hunks. Brain was foggy and not making smart decisions.
At mile 23, I pulled into a driveway. Rang a doorbell. Said, “I’m not okay” while walking into a strangers home. Dripping on their floor. Stripping in their dining room. Shaking. Broken. Empty. Cold. So unbelievably cold.
That’s where my race ended. At Bill and Sue’s cozy home in the Vermont woods.
They nursed Leigh and I back to life with hot tea and lots of maple syrup. {seriously} Our teammate Sarah came to get us. I took a long hot shower and listened to the battle stories of others.
The following day we were invited to participate in the Bittersweet event. A gathering of women and the community. We had an amazing breakfast and rode to a local farm. We experienced “sugar on snow” which has to be a top 5 food moment for me. {It was so yummy, I had 3 sticks of it!} And this community of women helped melt away the memory of the previous day. That DNF.
I’ve raced hundreds of times. Maybe thousands, thinking back to all of those swimming events. I’ve pinned on and zip tied a lot of numbers in my athletic “career.” Dove off many starting blocks, slammed my hand into many touchpads, recording my time, rewarding my hard work. I’ve pushed off many start lines. Crossing just as many finish lines. Some as a participant, some as a competitor, some a domestique, and a few, a champion.
Rasputitsa was one where I pushed off the start, and “finished” my race at a home in the woods. DNF
After a hectic long weekend of travel to the east coast and a late flight home on Monday, last week was spent catching up at work. And on the bike. I knew I needed to train through the race this weekend. Going into HellKaat Hundie on tired legs would be good DK prep, right?
Rode long on Friday morning before work and hard on Saturday morning before work. Drove to Michigan late on Saturday evening and woke up early, ready to race.
I wasn’t necessarily redemption that I was looking for. To be truthful, I wasn’t as sad or as bummed about the DNF than I thought I’d be. I feel like I made the right decision for self-preservation. Yes, I made some mistakes clothing wise, but I wasn’t mad about it.
I do have a fire inside, to race hard every time I toe the line. But HellKaat was different. I approached it kind of like the 2nd half of Dirty Kanza. Talking my way through low moments. Finding good tandem wheels to follow. Pushing when I could, but also knowing myself and when to back off. Or maybe that was my legs forcing the issue.
I watched my competition ride away, and my legs said no. But my mind kept battling. You never know what will happen in a long endurance event. You have to keep pedaling.
So I did. And 5 long lonely miles later I came up alongside my competitor and another rider, on the side of the road looking like she had a mechanical. Moments later I swore, Fuck, now I have to keep trying.
{After the race, she came up to me. It wasn’t a mechanical. She crashed and took herself out. Continued on for 10 more miles, but pulled the plug, as her body said no more. She is okay, just bruised and battered. We swapped DNF stories. PS that’s not how I’d like to win a race.}
Meanwhile, I kept trying. I kept getting dropped. I kept looking back, wondering when she’d pass me. I had some fast moments and somewhere I thought I’d fall over if I went any slower.
I crossed that finish line totally depleted. Top Step.
DNF // Top Step. Basically completely different experiences, but to me, they felt the same. Both days, battling the bike and elements and competition. Some days you win and some you look back at, wondering how you ended up in a cabin in the woods. Or by yourself on a farm road in Michigan. Both journeys by bike.
We are less than a month out from Dirty Kanza. I’m feeling fit, and ready to put down this final training block. Christine and I have assembled our amazing crew and I just found out I’ll have a teammate racing too! Lots to look forward to and a lot of anxiety-ridden events to follow.
I haven’t said it yet, but I’m having surgery four days after DK. I’m getting a device implanted to help me actually breathe while sleeping. I’m hopeful these will be my last few months with restless “sleep” and that actual restful recovery will be had.
And I’m anxious about the impending move. I can’t believe it’s already been three years here in the Midwest. Nothing is official yet, but I’m trying to stay present and enjoy these last few months in Chicago.
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