One More Thing

Hey friends, if you're thinking of me today in Lake Placid, know that one of the people I'm thinking of is Keith Miller, a local bike mechanic who lost his home in last night's fire across the street from my hotel. If you care to send a few bucks his way, visit the GoFundMe site here: gofund.me/9h4v9ja4s 

THANKS.

Race Day

My hotel was evacuated at about 8:30 last night as the fire across the street raged on. I found refuge up the hill with friends and slept four hours, which feels about four too short. This will be an interesting day. 

The fire is out, and everyone is OK. 

Athlete tracker is here, if you want to play along: http://tracking.ironmanlive.com

Thanks, you guys.

XO

Perspective

I was settling in for the night, right on schedule at 6:30, when I realized I had forgotten to buy salt for the potatoes I'm taking on the bike ride. I went down to the hotel lobby with a little baggie to see about getting some from the restaurant, and the two guys at the front desk looked shellshocked. "That's not good," one of them said. "Call the fire department NOW." I turned around and saw that the beautiful old brick building across the street was fully involved in a fire. Flames roared out the back of the upper levels, which I've assumed all week held apartments.

Stunned, I ran back up to my room. I've been thinking about fire all week. I've mentally mapped out the exit from my room so I could do it in the dark, I've worn PJs to bed every night in case I had to make a dash, kept my phone and wallet and keys right on hand. I never do these things. It's been very much on my mind. I watched with shock and horror as the fire department shut down Main Street, pushed spectators back, and began their first trips up the dark stairway to clear the building. It seemed an eternity before they got a stream of water on the flames. Smoke seeped out between the old bricks with increasing ferocity.

For the last two hours, the LPFD has been pouring water on the fire and on the four or five adjacent buildings. I have my bag packed in case we are made to leave. The buildings across the street house very small, locally owned shops and apartments. A Grateful Dead store, a toy store, a little gift shop.This small sweet, welcoming town has really grown on me, and its resources are stretched impossibly thin this weekend already.

Now so much smoke has gotten into our hotel that the alarms are going off and I'm being told to get out.

OK, well, see you on the race course.

A Body of Work

I am done hating my body. Most of my 40-plus years have been spent criticizing, hiding, and abusing it. Not wearing the clothes I like because I don't think I "can." Or because the clothes I like don't adequately hide the parts I hate the most. Missing out on adventures because I was too self-conscious to wear the required clothing. Missing out because I was too self-conscious to take the clothing off. Feeling guilty about eating. Sneaking food. Bingeing. Restricting. Exhausting a massive amount of energy worrying about it, trying to control it, beating myself up over it.

Enough is enough is enough. One of the biggest gifts triathlon has given me is that inch by inch, mile by mile, it has brought me into happier relationship with this body that makes it all possible. This glorious, strong, tough, resilient, perfect body. It's almost imperceptible, but the self-loathing trickles away with every workout, every race.

So I find myself here at Lake Placid, ready, willing, and able to take on one of the world's toughest endurance events. A race that I already know I can finish, an accomplishment I have already achieved. I wear my Ironman bracelet with pride, and I walk around this town wearing my Ironman athlete bracelet with pride, and I feel like F*CK YEAH, MAN, you're DAMN RIGHT I'm a freaking Ironman. This body and I can do any goddamn thing in this world.  

And at exactly the same time: holy shit, I am the biggest female athlete here. I am the only one with cellulite. No one here has any extra body fat. I feel enormous. I don't even look like an athlete. No one thinks I'm here to race.

I tell this voice to shut it. When I hear her shout, I consciously cancel her message with words of love for my calves, my thighs, my butt, my round tummy. But she's persistent, and loud, and she keeps coming back. The cognitive dissonance is compelling, and the intensity of this convergence leaves me thinking that I must be on the cusp of a major breakthrough. I am ready to shut that voice down for good.

We (women, especially) are bombarded with messages about how "flawed" our bodies are. We are expected to conform to an exceedingly thin standard to achieve real beauty. We are supposed to exercise and diet to achieve a beach, summer, or bikini body before we dare to let our wobbly bits show. No no no no no. My tummy wants sunshine on it, and I give exactly zero fucks about whether you think I have a good enough body for a bikini. Which is not entirely true, but it's my platform and I'm practicing it until I don't feel one bit squeamish about it. 

In a wonderful post in her "Go Kaleo" blog, Amber Rogers writes

Listen folks. Cellulite is not a ‘problem’. It is not a flaw. Cellulite is a normal function of the way women’s bodies store fat. 80-90% of women have cellulite to some degree. Lean women have cellulite, healthy women have cellulite, vegan women have cellulite, paleo women have cellulite, celebrities have cellulite, body builders have cellulite, bikini models have cellulite, women in isolated cultures who still live a hunter-gatherer lifestyle have cellulite, women with access to unlimited amounts of plastic surgery have cellulite. Most of the women reading this have cellulite. You’re not flawed. You’re normal.

(I encourage you to check out the whole article, for a clear and simple anatomy lesson and an inspiring message about body acceptance.)

I belong to a Facebook group started by Amber that provides a forum for discussing these issues. One of the traditions of the group is for members to post photos of parts of their body that they feel good about, or bad about, or ambivalent about, as a way of gaining perspective, developing some appreciation for themselves, normalizing our diverse body types, and correcting the radically skewed body image ideals that pervade our mass culture. I thought it was a little weird at first, but over time, I've found it to be one of the most emotionally moving, powerful, effective, and healing aids in my own path toward self acceptance. To see all these normal women's bellies on Tummy Tuesday, for example--to realize how widely reality diverges from the ideal, to read about their own fears and insecurities, and to hear about their own victories and confidence, their efforts to love themselves wholly and completely and without condition: yes. I want that for all of them. I want that for all the daughters. I want that for myself.

I was delighted this week to see that the cover of Women's Running Magazine features a beautiful athlete who does not conform to the typical size/shape/body composition standards of mainstream athletic pop culture.

We so desperately need images that represent us in all our shapes and sizes, that allow us to be strong and fast and brave and tough, whatever that looks like. I'm also a member of a women's triathlon group on Facebook, and every so often someone will post something about looking so horrible in race photos. Some chime in to offer support, but the bulk of the responding comments are from dozens of other women who think they, too, look terrible. How they bulge out of their spandex, how their faces look drawn, how their cellulite shows, how fat they look, how bony their knees are, how old they appear. 

It crushes me. My heart breaks for all these sisters. Of course the photos are unflattering -- we are breathless, in motion, working hard, wearing spandex, concentrating. I deeply appreciated champion runner Lauren Fleshman's decision to publish "real" photos of her body in contrast to her "perfect" runway shoot. 

Why are we even thinking about this? We are strong and capable and winning! We are goddesses and badasses. Stop it, just stop! But here's the thing: I am the worst among them. When I get link to a photo gallery from a race, I rush to find my own photos, and I'm a nervous wreck as I do it. I literally hold my breath while I click though to find out how disappointed I'm going to be. I sort through to to find a photo that I think is flattering enough to share to celebrate my accomplishment. If I'm lucky, and maybe with some cropping, I can find one I'm OK with sharing. Even last year's Ironman! A whole gallery of photos of me smiling while achieving the most badass victory of my life: and I was OK with sharing 4 of them. In the other 10 or 12, I couldn't see through the fat to simply celebrate the image of this strong, happy woman achieving a peak experience.

So I'm going to do something really hard right now. I'm going to post a photo from a recent race that I consider OK to share, even though I'm not thrilled with it. And then I'm going to post the one that horrifies me. I mean HORRIFIES me. Without editing and without further comment.

Yesterday while I was in the changing rooms at the Mirror Lake swim area, I heard some girls using the vending machines just outside the door. I imagined they were about 11 or 12 years old. "I'm actually getting food for a bunch of people," one said. "God, I would feel so gross and guilty if I ate this much food." 

NO! I wanted to shout. NO! Do not feel gross, do not feel guilty. Eat to feed your growing body. Do not explain yourself to others. Do not apologize for your choices. Do not hide. Love yourself, child. Let us all love ourselves, just as we are.

So tomorrow I'm going to stuff my big Athena goddess body into a teeny tiny spandex race kit, and I'm going to spend 140.6 miles in front of some 30,000 spectators. My legs are going to swell, as they do every day, and my various parts are going to jiggle and wobble and bounce, and my cellulite is going to be really pronounced in some of the photographs, and I am going to be jealous of some of the women out there, and that voice is going to try to tell me I don't belong, that I'm not good enough. But I am pushing that voice way away, into the deep woods of the Adirondacks, because the only voice I'm listening to tomorrow is the one I hear at the finish line, the one that says,

Shannon Thompson, of Camden, Maine, congratulations! YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!

Adirondack Mountain High

My excitement reached fever pitch when I made the turn in Keene onto the bike course. The clouds shifted across the lush green mountains and played the late afternoon light, sprinkles of rain mixing with golden sun as I clapped my hands and pounded my steering wheel and belted Van Morrison out my open sunroof at the top of my lungs, thrilled beyond thrilled to finally be at Lake Placid.

I checked in to the hotel, made six trips up to the 4th floor to bring my bike, all my triathlon gear, and a week's supply of food, not to mention the few things that normal people need for a vacation. I had done my 30-minute run in the middle of my trip, when I stopped in Burlington to meet my friend Nora. I still had a 30-minute swim ahead of me, and as excited as I was to be here, I was exhausted and it took every ounce of will power to get out of the hotel at 7:30 to walk down to Mirror Lake in the light rain. My resistance was so evident as I struggled to put on my wetsuit in the failing light that a man walking by said, "You really don't want to do that, do you?"

Nope. But I have never once regretted swimming. This time was no different. The moment I slipped into the water, my body rippling with appreciation and ease, I was filled with gratitude. All the kinks of the ride, the stress of the month leading up to it, all the fatigue dissolved away. I swam a portion of the Ironman course -- a double line of buoys, with a cable running along the bottom to allow swimmers to sight a straight line--and came out of the water a changed woman. Rain fell as the sun set, a band played in the park across the lake, a group of teens flirted on the dock, and two young boys splashed in the children's swim area, ignoring the pleas of their mother to call it quits for the night. I am in Lake Placid, and I believe I am the luckiest person on this planet.

I slept until I woke up, a near-forgotten luxury, and spent the morning catching up on a few things, thrilled to be quiet and still and alone. When I ventured out in search of a new race belt at the bike shop, I ran into a guy taking photos of the Olympic Speed Skating Oval, where they're setting up Ironman ground zero. 

"Isn't it cool?!" We both exclaimed. 

"Are you racing?" I asked him. He was not, and my grin nearly broke my face when I told him I was. I gushed about the whole thing for probably way too long, but he was into the story, and his excitement on my behalf is one of the things that will sustain me in the darkest moments of Sunday's interminable marathon. He wanted to know if he could follow my progress during the race. Humbled and embarrassed and completely delighted, I told him, yes, yes, please! I can actually feel the support when I'm out there. It makes a physical, not just a mental, difference. 

I spent a few more hours goofing off, including grabbing a most precious afternoon lie-down in the sun by the lake, and then got on my bike. My legs were tired, but the scenery was breathtaking, and it was all I could do not to stop every couple of miles for photos of the mountains, the trout streams, the glacial ponds, the wildflowers, the the the the.

While was pulled over in the golf club parking lot trying to get the sun to come back out for this shot, two friendly local guys pulled up on their mountain bikes. Splattered in mud, gregarious and charming, they offered advice about the race and suggestions for fun in the area. John said he was riding back home, so we said goodbye to Randy and headed up the hill. John then treated me to a backstreet tour of this sweet little town, showing me where to launch a kayak on Lake Placid, the place where they cliff jump, the old foundation of the Episcopal church, now a beautiful garden. 

He told me about his neighbor, Pownie, who is 90 but you'd never know it. She happened to come out as we rode by her house, and he was right--I would put her at maybe 75. Her friend Bobbie showed up, and I was treated to fifteen minutes of total inspiration and hilarity. They are all there, I realized. More than most people far younger. It's all about being present. Yes, they're healthy, and their intellect is sharp, but there's something more than that. These women are totally in their bodies, totally in this moment, totally engaged. I want that when I'm ninety. I want that now. 

It's a big part of why I do this race--the training sharpens my mind and puts me in my body and keeps me present like no other practice. When I asked these amazing women if I could take their photo, I snapped one, and then Pownie declared, "I'm getting rid of this old cane!" and threw it off to the side.

They headed off to a concert at church, and John and I took off for two more stops on the tour -- including the views from the Crowne Plaza resort, built on the highest hilltop overlooking the town. We stopped to admire this scene, and (real estate broker that I am), my first thought was wow, what a tragedy they put this hideous white building right here--it totally ruins the view. 

They really should have protected it--you'd think the resort would have done something! Or the zoning! This is a travesty. "What is that AWFUL building?" I ask. 

"Uh....that's the Olympic Center." John politely replied.

The Olympic Center. The one built in 1932. The, um, whole reason that all of this is possible, really. 

No wonder people hate real estate brokers. We both had a huge laugh at my expense, and it was a perfect end to a most magical tour.

I got off the bike and have the fastest run I've had since spring 2014. 

Oh, Lake Placid. I love you.

The Impossible Question

Are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready? Are you ready?  Are you ready?

I love every single question I get about the Ironman. I'm grateful that anyone has even the slightest interest in this fandango, and the support I feel is humbling and immeasurably precious.

But this question. Oh, this question. I don't know how to answer it. Yes! Hell no! I don't know! GAH! NO!!! Yes. 

I'm ready to stop thinking about it. I'm so ready for a week's vacation that I would do an Ironman just to get a few days off. I'm not tired of training. I don't want to be over. I'm not looking forward to the discomfort. I am looking forward to the thrill. Physically, I have no idea. I know I'm behind where I was last year. I also kind of don't give a shit. It's deeply disconcerting. I'm worried that I'm only remembering the best parts of last year, forgetting how horrible the pain. 

"Of course you've forgotten!" laughed my mom and Aunt Sue, who between them have birthed 5 babies and raised six. "You'd never do it again if you remembered the pain!"

Last night a friend asked what I was most excited about. 

Taking a few days off of work. Hitting the road all by myself. Unplugging. Having lunch with a friend in Burlington, taking that cool little ferry across the lake to Essex. Buying new bras at Victoria's Secret. A hotel room all to myself, jumping on the bed, clean sheets and bathtub and everything so tidy, and the TV that I'll turn on the first night and see what it's like, and then never turn on again for the rest of the stay. Reading a book. Finding a giant flat rock in the middle of a river and taking off all my clothes in the sun. Making new friends. Flirting. The giant spandex man party. 

And oh yeah, the race itself. The spectacle of 3000 athletes, and tens of thousands of spectators. Digging deep, pushing through the pain, finding the fun that's there even when my body hurts. Figuring out what my body can do. Finding out what my mind can do. High-fiving the little kids, dancing with the rock bands, smiling for the photographers. Reveling in the party. Keeping everything moving. Staying warm, staying cool, eating enough food, drinking enough drink. The joy, the exhilaration, the adrenaline.

The attention. Cheering and waving back at the people cheering and waving for me. Making people laugh. Hearing thousands of strangers yell my name. Spending 14 or 15 hours immersed in a world of people at their best. This race is challenging for every single person who participates. It's hard for everyone, no matter what their story. There are so many kinds of victories happening on this day. A fair share of heartache, too. It's raw and huge, and it blasts my heart wide open.

As I dedicate my race primarily to my friend Kelly, who is having breast cancer surgery the following day, I wish that by voluntarily taking on some discomfort, I could relieve the suffering of someone else. I don't think it quite works that way, but I view this race as my offering.

What happens inside this crazy bubble is a glimpse of humanity at its best. People supporting, encouraging, cheering, helping, cooperating, wishing each other the best. A world of love disguised as sport.

Oh hell yes.  I'm ready. 

Empress of the Innertube

Somehow, with all the miles I've put on in the last 7 years, I've only had one flat tire, and at the time I was only a mile away from my destination so I hitched a ride back and let some guy deal with it. See, as independent as I am, I am a big fat chicken when it comes to things mechanical. I don't like to fix things. I like the feeling of having fixed things, but the uncertainty and fumbling around and crushed knuckles and ripped nails? No thanks.

Coach Scott suffered two flat tires during his Ironman race last year, and he's been exhorting me to practice changing flats so it doesn't kill my time if it happens to me. So I've been watching YouTubes and switching tires in my living room over the winter and spring, feeling reasonably adept in the comfort of my home but a little queasy about the prospect of dealing with a real-life flat.

Yesterday it finally happened. I was 10 miles from home on Route 90, with 62 miles behind me, when suddenly my rear tire went whompwhompwhompwhwomp. I was racing to get home in time for work and had almost no juice left in my phone battery. Ruh roh, I thought. Hot, dusty, greasy, tired, thirsty, late. This could get complicated really quickly.

The culprit.

But no. I whipped that wheel right off the bike, got the tube out, found the staple that caused the whole thing, replaced the tube and blew it right up with the CO2 cartridge I've carried around all these years but never used. Just like that. Which is no big deal for most people, but I felt like repairshop royalty at that moment. The empress of innertubes, the boss of bicycle grease. The slayer of staples.

A couple stopped across the road to switch drivers and asked if I was OK.

Oh HECK yeah.

Made it home just in time to scrub the grease out from under my nails and get to work.