As much as I moan, complain, and often joke about coming in last, I have never actually come in last. Not once. But this past week I came pretty dang close. For the first time, I completed a swim/run biathlon that I have forever been terrified of. It happens 18 times a year, every year, for the past 7 years that I have lived in the Santa Barbara area, but I have never once done it. I’ve done the run and the swim more times than I can count, but fear has kept me from doing both. When I realized my fear was not of drowning but instead of coming in last, I realized I had run out of excuses (no pun intended). So last week I attempted it for the first time.

 I actually felt amazingly good on both legs. I remembered what my husband said (and that little blue fish from Nemo) and just kept swimming. Every time I wanted to spot the buoys or look for other swimmers, I simply did so while I kept swimming. Once on land I managed to get out of my wetsuit faster than I thought (I had visions of a 10 minute transition thanks to the new wetsuit that I swear is superglued to my body) and got myself off on the run with a few other transitioners still in site. I had some unexplained hamstring pain during the initial uphill, but is subsided quickly and I felt, dare I say, really good through the entire race. So I felt great, moved as quickly as I would have possibly imagined, and got to the turnaround with 1.5 miles left to run and. . .radio silence. No other competitors in site. One girl about a quarter mile ahead and one elderly gentleman about 100 yards ahead and that was it. How was this possible? I had fully expected to finish in the back but I felt so GOOD. How was I last? I kept on running and eventually saw a couple last stragglers behind me. But I ran the last mile and half in total silence; a vast change from the usual crowd I am surrounded with when I do only the run and finish in the middle of the pack. While quiet and a little bit lonely, I quickly grew to appreciate the peace. It was a rare moment where I just ran, with no other runners chattering nearby and no ipod; Just the salt on my skin and the breeze in my face and one lone course official directing traffic. I took a moment to yell a thank you to the officials who were still on the course, to see us last few make it in safely and I thought about how impressive and inspiring all of these back of the packers were (ok yes, toot my own horn just a tad) but seriously. I know the winners work really hard and all, but so do the rest of us! And we are out there for a long-ass time. We don’t have the satisfaction of first place medals to measure our success so we have to measure it in other ways.

I measure my success in completion of a goal. In finishing a distance I’ve never finished before. If I am not going to be known as being fast, I want to be known as being a trooper. Being known for running, swimming, biking, climbing, paddling, whatever- despite the fact that it takes hard work and the payoff lies only within my own ability to pat myself on the back. (And my parents and husband do a great job of this as well.) I took a test in the Triathlete’s Training Bible this weekend that measured natural born talent, and motivation. It was no surprise where the test thought my strengths lied. There is no doubt that I am going to need to work hard to accomplish my physical goals. But what would be the point if it all came easy? I am now on week 2 of my Olympic Distance Triathlon training program. I am looking forward to the trials and tribulations of training for a new distance.

How do you measure your accomplishments? Share your stories. I’d love to hear them.

Last night I completed my second ocean swim of the year.  Despite being lucky enough to grow up 7 blocks from the ocean and spending more summer days than not, at the beach, I still have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the ocean.  I love it.  I do.  Really.  But it still seems to cause me a moments (or hours) hesitation, when planning my frequent reunions with it.  Whether it be kayaking, surfing or swimming, there is something about planning a paddle into its depths that gives me butterflies every single time.  I think it has to do with the unknown.  Not knowing what’s under the water.  Not knowing how the waves are breaking.  Not knowing how fast the tide is moving.  The possibilities are endless and you never know just what to expect until you are actually in it; swimming, surfing, kayaking.  Last night was an excellent reminder.

In preparation for “tri season,” as I call it, (despite the fact that I have exactly 1 triathlon on my calendar and that will make two, total, for my lifelong count of triathlons) I am starting back on a swimming plan.  Though my 16 week training plan doesnt officially start until Monday, I am getting a head start getting myself used to the idea of being back in training.  Every wednesday night there is this fabulous little local event here that involves a 1k ocean swim and a 5k run.  Last year I attempted the swim for the first time.  And because my expectations were so low (my ONLY goal was not to come in last) the swim was a total success!  This year however, I feel like I should be a seasoned veteran.  I swam last week and did not come in last and beat my time from the previous year.  hallelujah.  Last night I swam again.  It looked calm.  The water was warm.  Perfect conditions, right?  uummmm, not so much.  Turned out that peaceful rolling swell was not so peaceful when swimming through it.  I had no idea you could get seasick while swimming.  Turns out, you can.  And to add insult to injury my husband decided to stay back and swim with me at the back of the pack.  Nice, right?  Yes, until he started treading water, doing the butterfly, and swimming to far off places and then back to me, so he wouldnt get too far ahead.  He  seriously had to work hard to “keep up” (I mean back) with me.  All the while he kept looking at me concerned and asking if I was alright.  I kept responding I was fine and that this (slow and not-so-steady) is in fact, how I swim.  He just couldnt believe that anyone could swim that slow and be fine.  But I was.  I swear.

A little nauseaous and a little deflated, I finally made it out of the water with my husbands not-so-subtle hints of just how slow I was ringing in my ears.  He had nothing but the best of intentions and a little concern for his potentially drowning wife.  But his butterfly beating my freestyle may have nudged me just enough and made me realize that I have a ways to go before I am ready for my race.  And this, is a great thing.  Because I may have been getting just a little too comfortable in the back of the pack.  Maybe I can work my way up to second from the back. 

And by the way, last night turned out to be my fastest time yet.  Go figure.

There’s something about the mind of an athlete. I used to be one. Some days I still am. But, I have to think that athletes approach jobs, illnesses, and setbacks in ways most other folks don’t.

The saying “No pain, no gain” as a motivating mantra for football players and marathon runners means that they equate discomfort and trials with progress and improvement. Getting stronger and better hurts. You work through it. You believe the hard part is temporary. You strive for a payoff that’s not guaranteed. You suck it up. You fight. You win. Athletes spend 95% of their time training for competitions that might only last an hour a day or even seconds. And they find those moments worth it.

So are athletes better at rebounding from life’s hard blows? More resilient? I met a man at a conference who was doing research and writing a book on this very subject. He studied former athletes battling cancer. He found that they approached their recovery in much the same way they trained for races and competitions. They pushed the limits and reveled in small improvements. They believed they had control over their illness, rather than the other way around. They chipped away at getting better. Rationalized and regrouped when things didn’t work out as they’d thought. Took a glass half full approach. They trained their body and mind through their illness. Athletes believe they can do anything if they work hard and don’t give up.

I recently read that most female CEOs played sports. It doesn’t surprise me. I run my own company and at times it has felt like an ultra-marathon. Our new reader stats show that 40% of Women’s Adventure readers are owners or co-owners of their businesses. We fight. We win. We believe we can do anything with hard work and determination. I learned those lessons on the track with lots of sweat and interval work in the Texas sun. I ran through college. I still run.

And now, while I battle MS, I’m back to running 5 miles. Three weeks ago, I had to walk most of my shorter routes. But, I’ve been chipping away at it. The 5 miles feels good. But, my body still isn’t ready for it. It’s as if the run activates my brain into overload. A 5 mile run at any speed means that I’m down for the count the next day with muscle fatigue, tremors, spasms, and skin sensations. I’m foggy. Unable to focus. Just need a dark room to calm everything back down. But, I feel really blessed to have that 5 miles. I know it’s a gift.

So, I rest. I let my brain reboot. And, by my next blog, I expect my recovery time to be better. Normal. I believe if I work hard and don’t give up that I will control my disease instead of it controlling me. I have the mind of an athlete. It’s a placebo. Because whether or not what I am doing helps me get faster, better, healthier, my belief that it does, changes everything for the better.

By Stephanie Smith

It’s two o’clock in the morning and I lie awake in my tent. The silence of the mountains at night allows me to hear my beating heart. Anticipation, excitement and fear are building with every beat. The guides will be waking us in an hour and I can’t seem to get out of my head. I always thought of the mountains as a place where I could go to get away, to escape the eight to five, for mental shutdown and to enjoy all the peace and quiet it has to offer. But this trip is different. It’s Father’s Day and it’s only been three short months since my dad passed away. In an hour I will start climbing for the summit of Mt. Moran in the Teton Range. But all I can think about is what a coincidence it is that I find myself here, in this place, on this day.

It was on August 1, 2005, that we received the news. My dad, who thought he had a bad case of the flu, was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. They had found a mass in his chest. There are no words to describe all the emotions we went through that day and the ones that followed. We, as a family, had always been so fortunate. How could this be happening? My dad, my hero, my role model was about to face the toughest battle of his life. After 20 years in the Air Force, flying jets in the Vietnam War, you would have thought he made it through the worst. We know better now. I was devastated and my entire family was shaken to the core. So many questions…How? Why? It didn’t matter, he would fight it, we would fight with him, and he would kick cancer’s ass.

Through all my 33 years, my dad was always my cheerleader. Sometimes reluctantly, but he always came around. He respected my adventurous and independent spirit, because he is the one that showed me the way. If it was something that took me out of my comfort zone, I was down with it. And in 2004, it would be no different. I decided to sign up for a benefit climb through a program called Summit for Someone. It’s a series of climbs that support Big City Mountaineers. The program provides urban teenage youth with positive mentoring through challenging, safe outdoor experiences designed to build their self-esteem. Even with no mountaineering experience, I immediately signed up. Our group was successful on our summit of Mt. Hood in 2005. It was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, so I didn’t hesitate to register for the 2006 climb series. This time I chose something more challenging, Mt. Moran in Wyoming. The prospect of another outdoor adventure was an opportunity not to be missed.

The outdoors has always been a passion for me and my family. My parents were world travelers. They had just recently visited Portugal and New Zealand, among many other exotic places. They shared a love for skiing and fresh off a week long trip down the Colorado, had just found a new passion for the river. In May of 2005, my dad and I took a father, daughter trip to Idaho. We went on a two day whitewater rafting excursion down the Lochsa River. We had the time of our lives. But little did we know there was a mass in his chest and it was growing rapidly. I know now that this trip wasn’t a coincidence. It was just a month later that I saw him again in Jackson Hole. It was June of 2005. Our family had gathered for my cousin’s wedding, and it was Father’s Day weekend. It was the last time I would see him, the man with the boisterous laugh, as the healthy, happy man that I love and respect.

Exactly a year later, I found myself in the same place, Jackson Hole, on the same weekend, Fathers Day. But this time my pops wasn’t here, he wasn’t anywhere. He had lost his battle with Lymphoma (thankfully in the comfort of his own home surrounded by all of us, his loving family) on March 9, 2006. I never felt as alone as the day I walked off that plane in Jackson Hole. It was too fresh, too familiar and it was then that I began to wonder if I could do this at all. I eventually, with much hesitation, made my way to the Climbers Ranch in the Teton National Park. This is where I would stay for the next two nights before our summit attempt. I found myself overwhelmed with emotions sitting outside my cabin. I spent much of my time reflecting and writing. Sitting there, surrounded by those majestic mountains, I finally let my guard down. I realized that my dad was sitting right next to me. He was enjoying the view. It became clearer how present my father was the next day when I met one of the other climbers. His name was Matt, and within this fellow outdoor enthusiast, I found a person to confide in. The thoughts of my dad flowed out of me like a raging river, and amazingly Matt took it all in. He was seemingly unafraid and non-judgmental of my outward emotion. It was comforting how at ease he was with the conversation. Over the last few months I had discovered how awkward it was for many to speak of death. I welcomed the conversation with open arms. I wonder if he will ever know how much I appreciated that day…that talk. During that exchange, I had told him about my dad’s Buffalo Bills ball cap that I had brought with me. It was the symbol I needed to carry with me so I knew my dad was there, and it would make the journey to the summit.

On summit day, Father’s Day, we headed out at 3am, with my dad’s Buffalo Bills hat safely stored in my pack. That day we were blessed with clear skies and sunshine. I think we can all appreciate a day like that when the mountains are involved. To me, that was my dad telling me that even with the possibility of stormy skies, a bright day still existed. It was a long 6 grueling hours to the summit, but with every step I leaned on my dad. I was energized by the thought of him. He helped me take those steps. He helped me climb that mountain. And when we reached the summit, it was Matt that reminded me; let’s get that picture with the Buffalo Bills hat. I will always be thankful to him for that moment.

So it was atop of Mt. Moran, 12,605 feet high, with my dad’s ball cap on my head that I began to heal. The outdoors had brought me and my dad together when he was alive, and I realized it brings us together in his death. I am not a fool; I know that the healing process may never end. There are many more mountains to climb. But, on that day, I know my dad was with me. I know now that the wilderness is a place to truly keep in touch with the man that taught me to be the person I am today. In the solace of the mountains, I will meet my dad again.

There was a quote that my dad and I shared, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us” – by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It was on that mountain, on that climb, that I found what lies within me. It is the foundation that my father laid for me. It’s a foundation of love, strength, determination, and hope. I plan to take it on my next climb and on my life’s journey. Thanks to my pops and to the mountains, I now embrace that journey with all my heart. I love you Dad and I look forward to seeing you on the mountain.

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