I'm in the last stages of Ironman training. Starting Monday, I will be sliding stomach first into the taper period, where doubts and pounds will start building up at a fairly constant pace.
These last few weeks of Ironman training have always been the most challenging, when the volume of activity in all three sports reaches its peak. When the number of hours spent training equals to the number of hours spent sleeping.
On any given week, I am swimming about 4km, cycling 250km and running 50km. I'm doing static exercises (no gym here) to build muscle mass, doing intervals to build speed, and drinking beer to carbo-load. I'm eating not to survive, but to recover. I'm sleeping not for relaxation, but for the ability to wake up at the next sunrise and push myself to the limit once again.
Its at this period of Ironman training when pain is at its peak. It's constant. I go to sleep with tired legs and wake up with aching muscles. I grunt when I walk up stairs and moan when I try to get down on the floor. It seems the only pain-free peace I have is sitting on the toilet. Some days I never want to get up.
Everything hurts.
But still, the training must go on.
Granted that this year I have clocked less mileage than in previous years', but what I lack in quantity, I try to make up for it in quality.
Last Friday I woke up at 0730 to do the Ironman Nice bike ride. 180km. 2200m of climbing. 15 to 25 kmh wind gusts. After already logging in 300km the previous 2 days. If everything felt fine, I would've been brutal. But, alas, I'm in the heat of Ironman training. Did everything feel fine? If by "fine" you mean "everything hurts," then yes, everything felt fine.
I started the ride off slowly, mostly because I was in too much pain to go any other speed. I got into my painstakingly slow groove and pedalled down the Promenade des Anglais. 10 minutes turned into 30. 30 into an hour. My mind wandered about. I went in and out, into the here and there, the this and that. I thought of things and stuff and such and such. And soon enough I got to Gourdon, THE climb for the ride.
I was relaxed and decided to push a little harder, to get up the col and prove to myself that I'm in Ironman shape. I focused my mind, honed in my eyes, shifted my gears and pushed.
Ooh. Ouch. Ugh.
Within 15 seconds I realized that my plan wasn't going to work out so well. Screw this, I muttered. I backed off the gears, sat up and slowly spun myself up the hills. Frustration began to seep into the weak corners of my brain. The fluid of doubt started coursing through my veins.
Why do I do this, I thought to myself. I want to be strong, I want to be fast, I want to be better than me. But I'm not. I'm not. As I pedalled further, I sunk myself deeper into the downward spiral of despair. I doubted my ability, wondered if I'd ever feel like I could move faster than a snails pace. I bowed my head in sadness and looked down at the ground just as an escargot passed me by.
It was about this point that two other riders rolled by.
They were Swedish, and they were just going a little faster than me so I mustered up everything I had, picked up the pace, and held on. I needed motivation. I needed company. I needed anything.
Between them, I learned, they had finished 12 Ironman races, and was in Nice as well like me not to race, but to support their friends who were participating in Sunday's race. As we rode together, we struck up a conversation of all things triathlon: the ghosts of races past and ghosts of races future. Of training and traveling and balancing life on the pinpoint of sanity.
"You're training for Ironman Zurich?" they said after I shared the info. "That's right around the corner. You must be in pretty good shape."
I chuckled slightly. "I might be in good shape", I said. "But it's really difficult to tell. Everything hurts. Always. I'm always in pain."
One of them smiled a triathlete grin - the cheek to cheek gaze of somebody who has been down that road, who knows the feeling. "I miss that", he said. "I miss waking up in pain."
We talked on a bit further, but my mind revolved around those comments. I couldn't stop thinking about what he said. About the enjoyment of pain.
And somewhere down the road it started making sense. I suddenly realized the gift I've been given. The gift to feel. To know I'm alive. To sense in every moment of every hour that I've pushed myself to the limit.
If there is a bright side of pain, I suppose that this is it. It is the constant reminder - every second of every day - that I am in shape. That I am doing exactly what I want to do. That I have set my goals and am achieving my dreams.
If there is a bright side of pain, it is the continuous reminder that I am proud of me. I guess they were right - why would I ever want to let this feeling go?
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