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.