My Triathlon Story

This January was a turning point for me. After 3 years of trying to conceive and 2 devastating miscarriages, my husband and I agreed to stop putting ourselves through the pain and inevitable disappointment that became more and more difficult to bear as each month went by.

It was time for me to let go of this dream that I had so desperately wanted, wished and prayed for. For years I had put off so many things thinking that caring for a life growing within my womb was just around the corner. The most significant thing I put off was training for the Tri-For-Life, a sprint-triathlon that benefits a ministry near and dear to my heart—Options Pregnancy Resource Centers.

Over the past several years I have watched many of my friends train together and compete in this worthwhile event. I have cheered them on one-by-one as they crossed the finish line with well-deserved pride. All the while I couldn’t bring myself to give that much time and effort into training for something that I might never be able to finish. You know, since getting pregnant was certainly just around the corner.

When I turned a corner in my life and thought process this January, I decided to reach for the stars and attempt to accomplish the one thing I had put off for so long. I determine that I would do everything within my power to finish the Tri-For-Life in June. Mentally, physically and emotionally I needed to invest my time and energy into something that I could have some measure of control over. Something tangible. Something I actually had a hope of accomplishing.

And so I have. I dusted off my bike. I bought a new pair of running shoes, and I elicited the exercise companionship of my nearly 10 year-old daughter, Leeann, who set out to accomplish this feat with me.

Just a few short months ago I could barely get from one end of the pool to the other without quite literally fearing for my life. I’ve had a fear of water in my face for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been athletic. I’ve never been fast. I’ve never had much in the way of endurance. Swimming 500 yards—I knew that would be a stretch. I was hardly any more confident on the bike, or in my running (er, fast walkingish) skills.

In just a short time my confidence in the pool has skyrocketed. Though it’s still not easy, I now know that I can make it from one end of the pool to the other and back again without fear of drowning or choking on water (which I was all too accustomed to!).

Today this non-athlete had the strength and endurance to not only swim 500 yards, but then to hop on my bike for a leisurely 12.4 mile ride, followed up by a 3.1 mile stroll through town on my own two feet. It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Today this non-athlete has become a tri-athlete!

All the while, during this season of healing in my own life, I got to train along side of and encourage my daughter as she set out to achieve an amazing goal at her young age. Not only did she finish the race, but she did so with ease and she raised an incredible $1,273 for a cause near and dear to both of our hearts.

And perhaps together we will be able to help a woman or two realize that the unplanned child growing within her womb is indeed a blessing—even if at the moment the blessing is still in a blessing in disguise.

Just a day in the life of someone getting rescued by some life guards…

 Let’s say one day you’re just going about your business as normal. You’re slowly dragging your body through the water at a Master’s Swim Class reminding yourself with every stroke to breathe air, not water. You’re training for a sprint triathlon with well seasoned athletes in the lanes beside you. They go fast. You look like you’re trying not to drown. Which is true.

Then imagine that your swim instructor urges you to do a 25 yard (1 length of the pool) as quickly as you possibly can. You have fins on your feet, so really, you can actually go pretty quickly. “I can do this,” you think to yourself. Determined to give it all you have you set out with gusto. “One, two, three, breathe,” you chant over and over again. “One, two, three, breathe,” you repeat, recognizing that if you don’t tell yourself to breathe you may very well forget.

Then, let’s imagine you get a little more than half way down the lane (just past the point that you can reach the bottom of the pool because you are, say 4’11.5” tall…) and you unknowingly find yourself inching closer and closer to the lane line.

And, for grins and giggles, let’s imagine that as you glide your hand into the water you ram your poor little pinky into the hole of the lane line with such skill and force that it gets jammed more than halfway down your littlest finger. Stuck. Unable to be removed.

You pop your head out of the water and don’t even notice the pain in your arm from trying to unsuccessfully pull the entire lane line out of the pool as you attempted to pull out your pinky and just keep swimming like you’ve (blush) done before when you’ve gotten the same pinky caught (but not stuck) in the same line.

Because you’re cool like that.

Instead you realize that no amount of grace and composure is going to get your pinky out. It’s stuck. And throbbing. And turning deep purple.

You look at the life guard, trying not to cry. You start mumbling something about your finger being stuck. Then you start communicating louder. And louder still. Then the tears fall and the nice lady in the lane next to you turns around and comes over to find out what’s wrong. You’re trying to tread water but the fins are making it difficult. She holds you up while another lady comes to get your fins off of your feet at your request.

Perhaps at this point you don’t totally remember what’s going on around you because you’re imagining your pinky falling off in the pool. One of the ladies tries to pull your pinky out but it won’t budge. You scream, “Stop, it hurts. It really hurts.” As if that wasn’t already obvious.

Through huge tears you feel the lane line start to move. The life guard has detached it and jumped into the pool. He drags you, your pinky and the lane line that’s still attached to it to the side of the pool. Then he informs you that he’s going to lift you onto the deck. In one fell swoop this young life guard with muscly arms the size of your head (I’m not gawking, you would have to be blind not to notice) hoists you out of the pool and into the arms of, I kid you not, 3 other life guards who all just happened to be there (two off duty, one coaching swim team). Oh, and another swim coach who has, I believe, also been a life guard in the past.

Then, shivering on the pool deck you look down, starting to feel woozy. As one of the swim coaches call out quietly, but within ear shot of you, “I think we need to get some help.” Then a little more loudly she shouts to someone, “Go find SOMETHING we can cut this off with.”

Then you really start to panic. You look down. Your pinky is purple and visibly throbbing. You’re not sure how long your pinky will stay attached with this much pressure on it. It’s swelling more and more with every second. More swelling means less chance it’s going to slip out on its own.

You’re wondering if someone’s going to have to put you through horrendous pain and just pull your stupid pinky out, perhaps breaking it in the process. Or maybe someone else is going to come at you with a device strong enough to cut hard plastic. Or maybe fire men are going to have to come work their magic. Because getting rescued by four life guards isn’t a sufficient story to tell.

Then, in some random moment of clarity while everyone around you is trying to figure out the best course of action to take you think, “Maybe if I can get some of this blood out of the tip of my pinky, maybe it’ll shrink enough to allow me to pull it out.” So you start massaging the tip of your pinky. You’re not hopeful since it already feels swollen.

But eventually after 123 8-10 minutes or so into this endeavor, something gives and you are able to release your poor, pathetic little pinky finger from the mean terrifying grip of this horrible, awful lane line.

As you breathe a sigh of relief the wonderful life guards get you some water. And your glasses. And a towel. And some gauze and tape to control the bleeding. They take good care of you. They assure you that you’re going to be alright. After a few minutes they change the bandages and reassess the wound. Your pinky is bruised and bleeding and cut all the way around, but it still bends. And best of all, it’s still attached to the rest of your hand.

You realize you’re going to be okay. You wipe the tears from your eyes and try to compose yourself. Then you drive home and part way down the road you burst out in tears again. The pain is still horrible. And honestly, you’re a bit embarrassed.

Then you get home and after a few minutes your husband realizes you are home early and asks what’s wrong. Then he gives you a hug and you start bawling like a baby about the emotional roller coaster you just went through over a pinky. A PINKY!

After you take some pain medicine and spend a few hours resting you text your good friend, fellow pastor’s wife and swimming buddy to let her know that Mr. Muscles had to literally pluck you out of the pool today. You get a good laugh when she asks if you were actually drowning or just faking it!

You realize through all of this that you are a potential danger to yourself when attempting to do any sort of athletic endeavor. Despite your best attempts, you’ve never been much of an athlete—and it’s becoming more and more obvious that this fact is not likely to change anytime soon.

Perhaps this is best illustrated by reflecting back on the time just a few months back that you somehow not-so-gracefully managed to fall of a STATIONARY bike during a spin class.

Clearly, you are a woman of high class. Hypothetically speaking of course. Because really, stories like this would never really happen… right?

When the Scale Lies

I’m doing something a bit wild and crazy and completely out of the ordinary right now. As in, entirely foreign and out of character. I—get this—am training for a sprint triathlon.

You know, one of those races where you swim 500 yards, bike 12.4 miles and then run 3.1 miles. One. Right. After. The. Other.

My nearly 10 year-old daughter is training with me! We’re having lots of fun working out together and we commemorate many of our workouts with ridiculous pictures!

Sometimes we even let the boys join us on a bike ride. The truth is—we kind of like those silly boys!

I for one, have never been athletic. I played soccer in middle school and high school because I loved being part of a team, but I was never good at it. I’ve never been fast and I’ve never really had much in the way of endurance. I’ve never been the least bit strong either. And, honestly, I prefer to be lazy than get up and get moving. I’m not going to lie!

While I would love to still think of myself as in shape (after all, I did play soccer in high school), it’s been, um, a few years since then. And, it’s hard not to stare the cold hard truth in the face when I look in the mirror. I’m not 17 anymore. There is certainly more of me to love then there was when I was 17. What I wouldn’t do to go back to having the body I had back then. The sad part is, I didn’t appreciate it when I had it and now I’d do almost anything to have it back!

I know well enough to know that I will never have that particular body back. Things shift after growing another human being inside of you. I wouldn’t trade motherhood for my 17 year-old body. But, I certainly wouldn’t mind doing the best I can with what I have. Not only to look good, but to feel good.
To be strong. To be healthy. And yes, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I would mind staring at a little less of me when I face the dreaded mirror. Well, that, or a little less jiggle when I wiggle. <----Keeping it real here folks.

Since the first of the year I’ve been training for this triathlon. It was slow going at first, but for the past couple of months I’ve been biking/swimming/running or a combination thereof two to four times per week. Some days, I’ve even been doing a little bit of weight lifting.

This was my first 5k walk/run time a few weeks ago. It’s slow, but it’s mine!

I haven’t lost a single pound. Not one.

While I try not to let that hamper my motivation, I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was disappointing. I have weight to lose. And by golly, I’d like to lose it! I’m working hard, I’m pushing myself. I’m varying my activities, speed and intensity. I’m more or less eating well.

And I haven’t lost so much as an ounce even. 

I don’t get on the scale more than once a week. In fact, it had been nearly a month since I stepped on the scale before last week. I was so bummed when it showed the same number it always shows. Again.
Yet, recently I put on some pants that aren’t very forgiving. And you know what? I buttoned them with ease. And I felt good in them! Staring at the truth in the mirror I could see that while I have not come anywhere near arriving at my final destination of weight loss, I’m making progress. Though not really, because I haven’t technically lost any weight. So, while I haven’t made progress in my weight loss, I’m trying to be content with the fact that I am slowly seeing some progress in my overall health and appearance despite what the scale says.

Though when I say slow. I mean S-L-O-W. It seems like I should be seeing more progress by now doesn’t it? I’ve been training for 3.5 months. If I don’t see some seriously progress in the next 2 months I fear I’ll have a difficult time keeping up the motivation to continue exercising after the race. Yet I know it’s good for me. I know I’m getting healthier. I know I’m getting stronger. I also know that I really, really, really want to see a change in body as well. As in, yesterday.

I know that slow and steady is best. I know that healthy choices are better than fad diets. I know muscle weighs more than fat. I know it takes time. Effort. Hard work.

I also know, that despite what I know that I know—that I live in a quick-fix, results oriented world. While patience is a virtue, it’s not a virtue I have mastered. By golly, I really want to see the scale the reflect the effort and energy I’ve put in to this true test of my strength and endurance. After all, I am human and I inevitably seek validation from outside sources.

Perhaps the scale isn’t the best place to seek that validation however. I’m beginning to think that the scale lies… or at the very least doesn’t tell the whole story.