All I Ask

Both my tests ended in disaster. Today is Wednesday of race week. I haven’t been in open water or even a pool since the race I will be returning to on Saturday. A year, give or take a day. I guess you could say I don’t put a lot of emphasis on the opening act of triathlons three part play.

On Sunday, after another painfully slow four mile run, I donned my eighteen year old wetsuit, a vintage DeSoto T1, yes it is black, and vigilantly walked the 100 meters to the shoreline. We call it the beach but seashore is more accurate. The tide was low and the sun was hot. I lasted less than three minutes in Puget Sound’s Port Orchard passage before my face, hands and feet simultaneously froze. As I dejectedly walked back to the deck trying to find my lost equilibrium I heard the bitter laughter of failure, mocking me in total humiliation. I remembered something we used to say in Ironman racing, ‘respect the distance.’

It seems clear to me now that I had committed the gross misdemeanor of disrespect, thinking I could ho-hum the swim, albeit a short fifteen hundred meters vice the daunting two point four miles of the long course. Stubbornly I do the wetsuit strip drill and vow a trip to the pool the next day. Could one pool visit provide the absolute bare minimum?

I am at the pool. I am in the shower. I am on the deck. As I step in the single swimmer in the open lane is heading my way. ‘Kevin?’, she inquires. Remember I haven’t been in this pool for over a year, ‘Oh, hey Amy, how are ya?’ We talk and it is time. Adjusting goggles, reviewing strategy and firming commitment, I push off and glide through the seventy degree clear water. I am going to do a 3x500 set, slow, steady and smooth. That should be both a confidence builder as well as a decent workout. Breathe, glide on side, finish with a splash. 

By the Joe lap (I count laps using the Yankee number method, meaning the fifth lap is Joe DiMaggio) my poor heart was pounding like the hide of a baseball coming off the Yankee Clipper’s bat. Thinking is was the initial stress of the long dormant swim muscles mixed with a bit of fatigue (and maybe some inflammation), I push through the Mickey, Yogi, Roger and Tony laps, finishing the first 500 feeling like I had just been mowed down by Billy Martin (1) at home plate. 

I take a short break and push off the wall for the start of set two. Half way back I can tell something is wrong. Really wrong. This isn’t just another routine bout of AFib, my heart is pounding like a overworked sump pump about to explode. I dog paddle back to the deck, take several deep breaths and put two fingers on left juggler. Yikes!

I stayed in AFib all afternoon, finally calming the system enough during my second relaxation therapy session to feel confident that my decision to NOT go to the ER was a good one, and I was then able to coast through a ‘civilized 2x20’ set at the PB, with reduced power, a tactic that seems to be just the right zone and intensity level to ‘re-set’ the rhythm of my heart towards ‘normal’. 

After a difficult evening, I go to bed early proceeding with the process of ensuring that all boxes are checked off the list of things necessary for home aversion; quiet, calm, warm, cozy, safe, stress-free, hydrated, fed, grateful and forgiving. Deep rapid eye movement sleep is the cure, most of the time. 

I wake this morning at 0400 to prep for spin class in sinus rhythm, ready to rock. 

I am officially in taper. Forced taper but taper none-the-less. Tomorrow I will try one more swim in the pool. With any luck at all it will be successful and I can stand in the warm water of Lake Chelan on Saturday morning with a fighter’s chance. 

All I ask.