Waves
By Alison Colavecchia
5.25.01 (www.slowtwitch.com)

I first began to experience the waves this winter. Not the kind that we endure at the start of our races. Not the ones where they put all us old folks at the very end—and old is defined as anything over 35! No, this was a different species of wave.

I am talking here about the waves of confidence––alternating with waves of fear––that envelop me as I imagine doing my first half-Ironman this season. As the race nears, these waves are washing over me with increasing frequency. I endured only a few such episodes over the winter, but now they seem to be visiting me every few weeks. These are not paralyzing meltdowns—they’re just waves of fear about whether I'll be completely humbled, followed by waves of confidence that I will be steady, patient and manage whatever the races throw at me.

The shift in perspective, from confident to fearful and back again, can be triggered by a variety of events. Sometimes it can happen after a batch of days in which the rest of life has been the greater priority and I simply do not have the luxury of training. Other times the change comes after I’ve read an article about a training program for a shorter or equivalent distance race that clearly suggests I am behind schedule. Then the tide will turn: I’ll have a workout that clearly shows a new level of fitness—a breakthrough. Perhaps I’ll find I have a morning to myself and can actually ride until the ride is done without having to race home to meet the school bus, make the supper or pack for a family outing.

Some days I imagine myself swimming strong, knocking off the buoys one by one. I imagine myself moving powerfully through the mass of churning water. I imagine finishing with thoughts that I could have gone further and still have lots left for the ride. The next day, or the next week, I am imagining trying to calm myself after a panic attack at the swim start. I imagine people swearing at me because I have kicked them with my breaststroke. I imagine not being seen as I sink because of all those other bodies thrashing their way to the first marker.

Some days I imagine myself tucked into the aero position on my bike yelling "left" as I pick off rider after rider between myself and T2. I feel the strength in my legs as they steadily climb a hill, impervious to the strong winds, cresting the top with a spurt of energy that impresses my fellow competitors. Then the pendulum swings and I am racing with the lead-filled legs I am so much more familiar with. I am again being passed by hundreds of athletes who appear to be exerting little effort, are maybe even chatting with a buddy, as they pass me. I feel that discouraging sensation of working hard and yet going nowhere—anxious for the turnaround, anxious to make sure there is at least one more person behind me.

Some days I can feel my mind and body settling into that steady paced running effort I have come to appreciate. This is the pace I have worked so hard to achieve. It is my Iron pace. It is the pace that allows me to feel I could just keep going until they tell me I can stop. I feel myself smiling as I fluidly run past all those other racers who are more buff, better equipped and younger than I.
I picture myself running through all the aid stations, eating and drinking without fail, without miscalculation or mishap. Then I come back to where I am—still recovering from running injuries—and imagine that I am totally undertrained. I close my eyes and can feel that war within, the one where I’m bargaining with myself just get to that tree, to that police officer with the broad, pain-free smile. I imagine that I look rough—really, really rough. I see myself crumbling close to the finish and not quite making it in.

Of course I had to find out if I was neurotic or normal, so I went to my support team. Both Joel (Filliol, the coach at www.competitionzone.com) and Scott (Challender, my mentor and a five-time Ironman Canada finisher) assured me that I was not nuts. They told me these waves are normal, experienced by age-groupers and elites alike. I was assured by Scott that these waves of confidence and fear ensure that you get the work done. No fear equals less effort. He reminded me to look in my "heart of hearts" and trust that if I felt I was meant to do this Ironman thing, that I would do what I needed to do. He encouraged me to "maintain aim" and expressed faith in me. Joel reminded me of my original goals by sending them back to me verbatim—a very sneaky yet tactically sound maneuver. I was reminded that my original goals were not to get to Kona, not to win my age group and not to kill myself or lose my sanity in getting to the start line of my first Ironman. He reminded me to enjoy myself, be confident in myself and in my training and to always remember my goals. They were and remain:

1. to do an Ironman for my 40th birthday
2. not to lose everything I gain in the water on the bike
3. to be fit for life
4. to show my children that hard work pays off and that you don't have to win to feel like a winner
5. to be doing this ‘til I am 70 and THEN maybe qualify for Kona!

Nowhere in there do I say I want to go under 14 hours for my first Ironman, not to do breaststroke if I have to, not to walk to the finish if I have to, and certainly nowhere does it say anything about wanting to burn out by 41! Also of note, there is nothing in there about completing a half-Ironman, so if I am able to get there and complete it, that will be a bonus.

Hearing from my "team" was hugely reassuring. But, being the evidence-based person that I am, I needed to show myself that I was still on track. So I did a long swim in a respectable time—confidence restored in the pool. I biked more than two hours for the first time and realized I could have kept going—confidence restored on the bike. Then I ran following my next ride—confidence restored on the run and anxiety over transitioning from bike to run reduced. Then I reread Scott's and Joel's e-mails and relaxed.

Another wave endured.

Still tri'n