I woke up last night at 3am. It didn’t make any sense because I was already sleep deprived. But I woke up wide awake. I got up and made a list of questions to ask my director before signing my next contract.
Then I listened to some music. One line, in a host of lyrics, caught my attention: the worst is over now, and we can breathe again.
That transported me back to the Ironmnan, in fact to a certain point on the cycle. I began to think of the race again. I began to wonder: Was it really that tough?
It is day 9 after the race and my legs still have not forgotten it, my sun singed skin is still shedding flakes. Maybe I walked for as much as quarter of the run,. I mean, let’s face it, 5:17 for a marathon is not a sprint. At the same time, when you’ve been out there for 9, or 10, or 11 hours, walking at that point is not quite the same as walking around in the garden. People are standing on the side of the road shouting. Yes, I’d rather be running, but my body is also saying: wait. I need more rest and then I’ll be able to run for a while again. Give me a bit more time.
If you don’t listen to your body, especially in the run, you pay. I saw a lot of people walking, limping, because they had torn or stretched a muscle in their legs. Each step was like unstitching the tissue running above or below their knees. It looked painful and it was. I was determined not to suffer the same fate, and having come to the race very undertrained, I was a prime candidate.
Whenever I think, well, since I did it, how tough could it be, I also remember after the finishing line, limping to the medical tent, limping up and down the stairs of the Humewood hotel, limping to and from the bathroom the night after the race. I remember the night after the race I was so tired, but the pain prevented me from falling asleep. I remember standing for a while, and suddenly feeling extremely hungry, and then dizzy then lying down and shaking because ice cold had snaked its way through the silver foil that I was holding around me. My body was utterly spent. How on earth did I manage to run so far, when, afterwards, I could barely walk?
The size is of the race is actually too big to appreciate. Even after having done the race, it’s still hard to see the whole race on one page. Rather, it has to be seen, and even more important, raced, in bite sized chunks. In sections, pieces of a lap, one part at a time. The only way to do it is one thing at a time, focus on getting through one thing, then the next. Pace and power need to be natural and in sync. This is a recipe also for how we live our lives. Have a balanced approach. Hold something in reserve. Remain disciplined. Avoid rash behavior.
I turn sometimes back to the glow, the golden glow of that day. When last did I spend an entire day outside? I left the beach just after sunrise and much much later, I was still out there, the waters darker now, and shimmering in the rain. The sun was long gone, but the sea and me were still out there, moving under violent varicose bursts of lightning.
When last did I wake up and go out (wearing next to nothing) and explore for a whole day? When last did I get to know myself and the world so intimately? What happened to the child that set out with an adventure streak and a few coins in his pocket?
One of the blessings of the day, was the realization that God has blessed the length of my limbs with a power and strength beyond what I had imagined. It was not until close to the very end, probably 10 and a half hours into the day, that I began to see the finish as something real. That was how modest I was in my approach.
I made a deal with my body right from the start. My body said I may not even think of times, time targets and deadlines, since I had not spent enough time training it for that. I did ask unfairly of my body, to push itself in one day over distances cycling and running it had not seen for more than 7 months. I emerged at the end of the day fully aware of my natural ability, and filled with the respect that comes from moving deeply inwards and then coming outwards of oneself, richer and fuller.
The reason the movie Million Dollar Baby resonated so much with me, was because I could identify with a woman who came from poverty and despair, dared to dream and be passionate. She suffered pain and defeat, and explored the full extent of her frame, up to the barest edges of her fingertips. The ecstasy of mastering one’s craft lies right alongside the despair of losing all that one could have won. She was a thirty two year old woman (I am thirty three), poor, but not too poor to pursue her own visions of greatness.
The Ironman calls to mostly 30 and 40 something men (and some women) to bring their being back into their bodies. To cast their minds over the sand and sea, to move against and with the winds and hills of the road. To push themselves into the unknown and come out with something new, some new knowledge. What is it? What insights then?
The race, for those who run the length of it, confirms the enormous natural ability that we are born with. Becoming conscious of the mighty strength that resides soft and salty in our bones is warm, and joyful.
We have a living spirit that burns hotter and redder and more energetic in us than we imagine. My race was not about time, or speed, but believing in the race and my place in it. My experience was a happy one. The remarkable gift is simply this: being imbued with a sense of confidence and of a place, a home in the world that is here for us.
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