Fighting Through the Wall

Part 2: My Journey to Ironman

One of the most common questions I get when people learn I’ve finished two Ironmans is how do you even begin to train for something like that? This is an especially fair question for someone like me, who spent 20 years dramatically stating they’d rather die than attempt a 5km.

And yet in 5 years, I went from nearly passing out every time I ran (not to mention barely knowing how to ride a bike), to crossing the finish line of Ironman Maryland.

I’d like to pretend that I was some super-star athlete that knew what she wanted and confidently moved in the direction of her dreams. But the truth is, I bumbled my way forward at every step.

The beginning of this journey is filled with really dumb mistakes. In Part 1, my less than triumphant half marathon (made less than triumphant because of a dumb mistake) ended with me hastily signing up for a marathon (which in some ways, turned out to be…you guessed it…a dumb mistake). It wouldn’t be the last one either, but that’s a story for another time.

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September

Visions of cheering crowds with funny signs and fellow racers high-fiving each other as they entered the finishers shoot filled my mind. Sitting in the back of an Uber, I revelled in these daydreams as I quickly pressed register for my first marathon. I had only just finished my first half, and I’d done it alone, with no fanfare.

But THIS race - the full marathon - was going to be the one where I finally felt like a real runner. It would make up for the mistake that meant I’d finished my run that day in front of a CVS pharmacy and not holding a medal, wrapped in a foil blanket (did they even do that for halfs!?). It was to be my debut into the running community and I couldn’t wait to get to that starting line. I was ready to show-off my progress and come out swinging with a triumphant marathon under my belt!

November

Well, that didn’t go as planned.

As I stood by the starting line, looking around at my fellow runners, I couldn’t help but feel that registering for a marathon without doing any research on the race may have been a bit short-sighted. Turns out this wasn’t the New York City Marathon or the London Marathon. This was the C&O Canal Towpath Marathon in Washington DC, a small, locally organized race that attracted people who had a goal of finishing a marathon in each state (/district). My fellow runners numbered not in the thousands, or even the hundreds, but around 50 people that would be stretched out over the course. I may as well have been running another race alone.

As I warmed up, a woman walked by with her dog and gave me a wave.

“Morning! What’s all this about?”

“Erm…we’re about to run a marathon.”

“Oh wow! Cool. Good luck!”

And she and her dog went on their way, the lone spectators in the early November morning.

I hated to admit it, but this was a bit underwhelming. I thought back to the visions I had in the Uber, trying to come to terms with what was in front of me. The “finishers shoot” was a part of the path that was fenced off on either side, and the finish line was a literal line drawn in the dirt. Besides us runners, and the kind volunteers who came out to make the day work, there were no crowds, no signs, no supporters.

In any case, I was here now, so I forced myself to focus as the race organizers had us group together by the start. I gave one final look at the runners around me. And then the whistle blew, officially ushering in my anti-climactic debut to the running world.

Off I went, following in the footsteps of an older gentleman who looked like he could be my pace. Imposter syndrome immediately kicked in as I heard watches beeping and saw runners adjusting their fancy belts full of gels and Gatorade. I didn’t have fancy run equipment - I was using a timer on my phone to approximately gauge my pace, and I hadn’t learned the importance of nutrition. My belt was full of exactly six small gummies (I truly thought having one, small gummy every 40 mins would suffice. Maybe I actually was an imposter…).

I felt butterflies in my stomach as I thought forward to the hours stretching ahead, the kilometers I’d have to cover, and the inevitable suffering that was to come. I started to spiral, and it was way too early to spiral. Pressing shuffle on my phone, I hoped my carefully curated playlist would offer up a song to get my energy up. Work Bitch by Britney Spears blared from my headphones and I felt my mood lift.

I plodded along, quickly realizing I was slightly faster than the older gentleman. Pulling ahead, I soon found a pace that seemed comfortable. Every now and again, I’d pass a couple out for an early morning walk with their coffees, and they’d give my race bib a curious stare. There was nothing but the bib to suggest that a marathon was underway.

On I went, occasionally passing a volunteer who would hand me a cup of water and share an encouraging word.

Every 40 minutes, I’d take my one small gummy, as if it did anything. Whenever I passed another runner with a bib, I’d give an encouraging shout and a thumbs up, trying to keep momentum going. At some points, I didn’t know if I was doing it more to encourage them or myself.

I was quickly learning that the course was as quiet as I had feared. Long stretches of time would go by where I was alone on the path, forced to contend with my thoughts. A lot of those thoughts were along the lines of “Robin, you’re such an idiot for getting yourself into this situation again. Just once, maybe use your brain and organize your life a bit and maybe you’d stop making so many stupid mistakes!” The remainder of the thoughts were “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.” (I had a massive blister forming on my foot).

Negative thoughts and blister aside, I was actually feeling pretty good. Maybe I’d pull this off! I still had no idea how my time was or what pace I was running at, but I still seemed to be somewhere in the middle. I hadn’t passed many people and not too many had passed me.

But as it always does, just when you think you have it all in the bag, everything falls apart. It turns out that only six gummies and lack of proper pacing didn’t do my body any favours.

I hit the dreaded runners’ wall.

My pace faltered, slowing bit by bit, as my legs got shaky and my heart race sped up. Every step quickly became a fight. I passed a small sign taped to a tree that said I was at kilometer 38. Looking around, I noticed I was once again alone on the trail. I felt tears welling up in my eyes as my breathing started to become irregular. I could tell I was on the verge of a panic attack.

All the feelings that led me to start running in the first place burst out. Crippling self-doubt took over. The worthlessness, the inadequacies, the deep well of sadness that had made its home in my consciousness – it all came bubbling up. I was definitely spiralling now.

For months during my training I had fought back against these feelings. I had pushed myself further than I’d ever thought possible and it felt like all my progress was unravelling as I stood there on that quiet towpath.

Focusing on my breathing, I made myself interrupt the unhelpful thought patterns and think back to how I’d gotten to that point. All the early mornings waking up at the crack of dawn to beat the DC heat. The excited phone calls to friends and family as I finished training runs that were farther than I ever physically thought I could run. The feelings of calm that running had started to give me. The perseverance I had showed running my solo half marathon.

And I realized something important. I may have signed up for this race for the glory, but I would finish this race for me.

Glory be damned, I wanted this. I needed this. I didn’t need the big crowds or the flashy finish line. I just needed to put one foot in front of the other.

Yet, my body didn’t seem to understand.

I couldn’t go on. My legs wouldn’t stop shaking and my heart wouldn’t stop racing and as I tested my steps I felt my blister burst. I was a wreck.

I had to give up.

I didn’t want to believe it, but my race was over.

At least I’d tried.

And then –

I felt a hand grab my elbow.

I looked to my left and a lady who had to be in her 70s urged me forward without a word.

Out of pure surprise, my body started moving again.

After a few steps, the woman turned to look at me and said the exact words I needed to hear:

“If you’ve come this far, you can finish.”

Tears pouring from my eyes, I nodded at this woman who had just saved my race.

“I will run with you,” she said softly.

Keeping her hand gently on my elbow, she ran next to me for a full kilometer, sacrificing precious minutes off her own marathon time. I was slow, my body still exhausted. But my heart rate had calmed and my breathing was regulating.

As we got closer to the finish line, she looked at me again:

“Are you okay to keep going?”

“I think so. Yes. Yes I can do this.”

“Good. I know you can. Don’t stop. I’ll see you at the finish line.”

And she ran off, leaving me with the promise to see her at the end. I couldn’t let her down, not this kind stranger who had pushed me forward at my moment of need.

So I ran on, painful step after painful step, her words echoing in my head.

If I’d come this far, I can finish.

The remaining kilometres started to melt in front of me. Time compressed as I pushed forward, ignoring every instinct in my body to stop.

And there – the finish line was ahead! I could see the fences on either side of the path. And there was the line drawn in the dirt!

Adrenaline spiked through my body as I saw my friends standing around the end. The only crowd that mattered had arrived.

I closed the distance faster than I thought possible as my friends cheered on my final steps. With a tremendous leap, pulling out energy I didn’t even know existed, I jumped over the line with a huge grin on my face.

See? Wasn’t kidding about the dirt line! But damn I had never been happier to see a dirt line.

A feeling I’d never had before filled my body – dopamine and adrenaline and pride all mixing together. My self-doubt crumpled at my feet as I realized what I’d just done.

My friends ran over to give me a pat on the shoulder (it would have been a hug, but I was a sweaty mess, so a pat would do), excitedly shouting congratulations.

I was beaming ear to ear.

Looking over their shoulder, I saw my saviour grinning. She gave me a small wave and a nod of approval as we locked eyes. Waving back, I mouthed thank you. I watched as she turned around and slowly walked away, never knowing if she truly understood the significance of what she’d done.

So it turns out I didn’t need the fanfare or the pageantry. All I needed was to prove to myself that I could do it. I was a runner – hell I’d just run a marathon! And man did it feel good.

Hobbling over to a volunteer, I took my medal and put it over my neck, confused why this had meant so much to me just a few short hours before.

Doing the mandatory medal pose

I knew then that this was just the start of my journey. I’d hit on something incredible and I wouldn’t let go.

In the moment of excitement, I naively thought that maybe, just maybe, I had learned to conquer my depression, my anxiety, and my ego as an added bonus, all in one fell swoop.

That was, of course, incredibly naive thinking, and the next year would prove that. But for now, I soaked in the moment, savouring the feeling this tiny race had gifted me.