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Friday, December 5, 2014

What happens in Mexico...Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

 Every scar has a story. Don't be afraid to tell it. 

   I don't know how many hundreds of races and thousands of miles of competition I've completed in my life. I do know that of them, prior to Cozumel, I'd finished all but three races. My high school coach pulled me off the track in an 800 and a 1500 during league meets during my senior year of outdoor track when I was having asthma attacks due to untreated allergies. The other DNF came at an open indoor meet 1500 when I was in college, due to the type of stomach cramps that leave you doubled over. Overall, until last weekend, I'd missed less than a mile total of racing.

   Not a bad completion record.

   Triathlon, though, in a way, it's a game of chance. There's just so much more that can go wrong when you throw a bike (and, in some cases, a crowd of people in the water) into the mix. The longer you go in the sport, the more you hear of races that ended prematurely.  No race has a 100% finishing rate, after all. After four years of no bike mechanicals and only one minor, outside of competition crash, I was becoming more and more aware of the fact that I had been extremely fortunate thus far. I was a ticking time bomb, though. The mechanical slowed me down this summer, and I guess that lady luck hadn't found her way back onto my side quite yet.

  Anyways. Despite some rough times initially getting restarted after Chattanooga, the final few weeks of training heading into Coz ended up being some of the best, most consistent weeks that I had put in the entire year (minus swimming, but that nerve stuff was still going on). I checked all of my boxes, I knocked off a few bike workouts that were daunting on paper, I got to the point where extra layers and no fan on the bike no longer felt hot, and I found myself in a decent state of mind heading into the race. The field was strong, no doubt, but I tried not to focus on it too much, instead choosing to focus on my own race and execution. Yes, I was ready for the off season, but more than that, I was ready for one final good effort. Mostly, I had told myself that I wanted to enjoy the race, to find pleasure in the pain. I wasn't fully invested in Texas, the Coeur d'Alene mechanical had taken the wind out of my sails there, and in Chattanooga I was too fearful and too worried about redeeming my season that I'd been unable to really enjoy anything other than the final five seconds of the race. I thought back to that picture of me take on the bike in Placid last year-I was nowhere near the lead at that point, but I was bent over, powering on, and smiling away. I only wanted to find that in me again.

   Dave and I left for Cozumel on Thanksgiving day. I was excited by the fact that Southwest had TV stations available to watch, so Dave and I shared some headphones and watched the parade and the dog show (always a Thanksgiving highlight for me) as we flew into Cancun. The bus ride/ferry experience wasn't the most fun I've ever had in my life (in particular the ferry, as the rough seas meant that I was surrounded by people puking into bags. I don't handle puke.), but, in retrospect, it beat the return trip. We finally arrived at our accommodations, the Dive Inn, with hosts Jessica and Weston. A fellow pro female friend (thanks Jen!!!) had suggested it to me, and both Dave and I were very, very happy with how that worked out. Jess and Wes were the BEST, driving us around to wherever I needed to go (including safe biking and swimming areas), suggesting restaurants and such, and providing insider info on the island. I was able to get out on my bike a couple of times, which was much needed after extremely limited outdoor riding of late. If that was a factor in what ended up happening, I don't know, but that's life in upstate NY. Additionally, Dave had put a new set of aerobars onto my bike shortly before the race, and I wanted to get a feel for them. I got a taste for the wind on the east side of the island. I even fatefully told Weston that I hadn't been too scared in it, and I'd forced myself to practice refilling my aerobottle in it. Ha. Otherwise, pre-race prep went smoothly, particularly with the help of Jess and Wes.
Bus ride from the airport.  Hard to tell from the picture, but for whatever reason, our seats were basically reclined to a "laying" angle, and we couldn't figure out how to change it.  So we lounged.

After getting off the bus, I somehow ended up with a monkey on my head.

Hydrating and carb-loading.  Just kidding.  Dave took care of those, telling me that he wanted to enjoy "his Mexican vacation". I reminded him of that Mexican vacation he took back in March, and stabbed him with daggers from my eyes.

What this photo doesn't show is that the boat was being violently thrown about by waves as bikes were being precariously lifted onto it.  I kept waiting for one to end up in the water.  It just all seemed like a bad idea.

Mexican mystery meat, in a rainbow of colors.  Mmmm.

Putting my bike in its sweet special rack at check in

View from my pre-race shake out ride.  It was much prettier when all of my skin was still there.
   Race morning involved a somewhat stressful combination of shuttle buses that didn't seem to be in the same rush that I was, but I managed to make it to the swim start with time to spare. We weren't allowed into the water early at all, but I hung out with QT2 teammates Darby, Jessie, Amy, and Katie, chatting, laughing, and stretching out. The atmosphere was buzzing, but my nerves were controlled, and by the time we got into the water, I was ready to get going on one last effort. The Coz swim was advertised as being down current, which always benefits me, of course. As it turned out, the Coz down current was not nearly as dramatic as the Chattanooga down current, but then again, I shouldn't exactly get used to that. Finally, we were sent off (late, according to Dave...that's Mexico, I suppose). I got a bit boxed in at the start, but eventually found myself with a couple other women. I knew that I wasn't pushing fully, though, so I set my sights on another woman (who turned out to be Kelly Fillnow, one of my swimming buddies of races past) and pulled myself up onto her feet. I stayed on Kelly's feet for some time, before she backed off a bit and I decided to take my turn doing the work. 
All smiles still at this point!  Yep, that 71 stayed on my arm for about another 4 days, until I had to suck it up and get my wounds wet in order to get the stuck on gauze off of them.

QT2 pow wow of randomness pre-race.

Because we didn't get much warm up time, my bladder was really full upon getting into the water, which meant that I actually peed WHILE swimming to the start line.  That was an accomplishment, at least.
   The Coz water was crystal clear; occasionally, I felt the light sting of a jellyfish on my arm or leg, but mostly, I made myself concentrate on swimming, rather than the colorful fish playing around underneath of me. For whatever reason, the straight shot swim just seemed to go on FOREVER. I sang 99 bottles of beer to myself, thinking that would take up a good period of time. Still, the turn towards shore buoy was nowhere to be seen. My brand spanking new goggles, which I had treated with antifog spray on top of that, were fogging slightly-just enough to make sighting difficult. Additionally, a little bit of water sneaked in them, making me concerned about my already bugging me contacts staying in place, especially when I lifted my head. For whatever reason, the buoys there were a combination of colors and shapes with no real rhyme or reason, and the SUP and kayak volunteers were wearing similarly colored shirts. All in all, those factors left me wondering if I was still on course, or if I had missed the turn here and there. It didn't helped that I someone consistently managed to time my sighting with being at the bottom of a swell, making it even harder to spot the next buoy. I stopped a couple of times in confusion, trying to get sight of my next target. Just when I thought must be getting towards the end of the course, I'd catch a glimpse of another looong line of buoys-ugh! Just as I was feeling like I was never getting out the water, I discovered that the long line of yellow buoys were, in fact, volunteers in bright yellow in SUPs. I saw Kelly to my left getting directed around the turn buoy, and then made the hard turn to try to follow her. I actually had zero idea where I was going the final stretch, using only her bubbles to navigate. I lost those, too, at the very end, and found myself outside of the lane line bringing us to the swim finish, with swim course volunteers yelling at me to go to my left. Oops. I ducked under the lane line, crawled up the exit steps, and made my way out of the water thinking, thank GOD I am FINALLY done with swimming for the season. Overall, though, my current-assisted 59min swim was still fairly solid for me. I was right where I should have been with in the field. Times were generally about 3-4min fast for most, which still put me in the range of my best IM swims. I darted through transition (again following Kelly, because I was sort of lost in the racks of bikes), and headed towards the mount line.
  The bike started off well, uneventfully.  My biking legs had been tired heading into my taper, no doubt, and I thought that my wattage goal seemed a little aggressive for my instructions to take it easy the first loop, to hold back.  The first ten miles, though, I was hanging a watt or two above my target and feeling comfortable-not easy, but comfortable.  I wasn't sure about my ability to hold that for another 100 miles, though, so I began to back it off just a hair after then.  I finished my first bottle in just over half an hour, and, for whatever reason, didn't refill right away, as I had turned onto the windy section of the course, and I didn't want to break from aero.  I decided that I would wait until the course began to incline just the slightest bit up anyways, to minimize the aero disadvantage.  The course began to rise right at a section that was completely bare from all vegetation between the water, bike path, and road-maximum exposure to the wind.  I flipped my aero bottle open, just like I'd done a thousand times before, grabbed the bottle from the cage-I had practice refilling in the wind two days earlier, just to cover all of my bases-and I started to refill.  Then it unraveled, it all came apart.  The refill bottle began to collapse into itself.  I pulled it up to my lips, to try to blow some air back into it, and went to bring it back down when my bike swerved.  Maybe it was a crosswind, maybe it was my new, wider aerobars changing my center of gravity, maybe a combination of all of those.  I don't really know what happened next; I remember is thinking oh shitam I going down?, I remember maybe trying to correct, and I definitely remember the moment when I saw my bike heading towards the gravelly, dirt-covered, rocky downward pitched edge of the road.  I knew exactly what was about to happen, and I remember thinking, this isn't happening, this isn't how it's supposed to end as I closed my eyes, flew off of my bike, and landed squarely on my left side.

   The impact itself-it's almost like I was outside of my body.  I didn't feel anything, I was numb.  I sat up.  You're fine, you're fine, get back on the bike before you lose too much time.  The next thing I was aware of was Kelly Fillnow on the road above me, yelling down to me, clearly scared and concerned-that must have looked bad-asking if I was ok, if I needed help.  I'm ok, I'm ok, I told her.  She instructed me to get back up onto the road for help.  I nodded.  I stood up.  My lower back/sacroiliac/posterior pelvic area complained.  My scapula stung a bit-that's going to suck later when I have to reapply sunscreen before I run.  I picked up my bike, brought it back onto the road.  My aerobars were tilted down, the zip tie holding my aerobottle down had broken, leaving it flopping forward, and the top of the bottle was broken off, but otherwise there didn't seem to be any damage to the bike.  I'll pull the garmin off the bottle and toss it at the next aide station, I thought, and I started the 910 on my wrist so I could see some data, at least.  Below me, the offending refill bottle laid in the dirt.  I knew that I should pick it up, but in an act of defiance and anger, I left it.  With a couple of deep breaths, I pulled my aerobars back up (they stayed, at least at first), clipped back in, and started off again.

   My power meter magnet got dislodged in the crash, and I wasn't getting any power data anymore, but I decided that was for the better-I thought that I'd need a bit to go by feel.  I couldn't use my aero bottle anymore, but I would just have to get over my fears and drink from the downtube bottle-it wouldn't be that bad if I just drank a lot at once.  But my left iliac crest/lower back area was hurting.  With each pedal stroke, it complained with any significant pressure through it.  The mind is powerful, though.  I thought of my triathlon colleagues and friends; I thought all of those stories of people getting through races despite races.  I remembered crashing at camp, and how I finished the ride that day.  I thought of Steph in Florida a couple of years ago, flying past me despite a fresh patch of road rash on her shoulder.  Kim, standing by the side of the road in Placid after going down.  Did Mary Beth Ellis win France after crashing into a ditch?  I thought of Sam in Coz a couple of years ago, finishing with blood streaming down her face.  Keep going Jennie.  You can get through this, Jennie.  Be happy.  Smile at people, if you hide the pain from them, you can hide it from yourself.  Your hip will loosen up.  You just need to get through the bike, then it will loosen up on the run.  Can I still run?  I can always run.  I know this will be fine on the run, it always is.  It doesn't matter how you do anymore, you know you want to end your season at the finish.  You can still do well, though, you didn't lose that much time.  Am I gaining on anyone anymore?  I think I see some other people all the way up there.  Drink, dammit, I know you're scared of that now, but you're not going to be able to run a marathon unless you drink.  Downshift, increase cadence, it's less pressure on that left side.  Just.  Keep.  Going.  Make it to town, let Dave know what happened, tell him you're ok, that you're going to finish.  Make it through the headwind.  It will be a great story, when you finish.  Maybe you'll have to go to medical for your wounds, but that's ok.  Even if you don't place well, you can get through this.
Just a little road rash and a broken aerobottle...nothing to look at here...
  I set my sights on making it through the headwind to the road that cut across the island.  I was watching my HR, mostly.  I didn't have power, but I also knew that I was supposed to shoot for a HR around 153.  I couldn't keep it up there, but at first I was able to keep it around 151-152.  I kept trying to push it harder to bring it higher, but inevitably my left hip would just stop working.  It occurred to me how much my pelvis hurt.  I can't guarantee that it's not broken, I began to think.  My ribs and scapula started to ache, as well.  What if they're fractured?  I turned out of the headwind, and thought that I felt better, but I was wrong-I only felt better because my heart rate was dropping.  Gradually, it slipped lower and lower.  High 140's.  Mid 140's.  Back up the high 140's.  The hip/glute/low back wasn't loosening up; it was getting worse and worse.  Additionally, my right SI joint area was starting to hurt, particularly anytime that I sat up to drink or grab more fluid.  I just wanted to finish the lap, I just wanted to see Dave, I just wanted someone, anyone to tell me that it was ok.  I thought of everyone at home tracking, of my parents, my friends, Jesse, everyone, and I felt absolutely heartsick about dropping out, about everyone waiting hopefully for a split that wasn't coming.  Finally, I got to town.  The spectators would cheer at first, but then I could see changes in their faces as they caught a glimpsed of the blood-covered back that I couldn't see.  Funny thing was, that part didn't really hurt.  I then saw Dave-he had his camera out, ready to take pictures and cheer, which I keep thinking back to, how I changed his day in an instant from excitement to concern and fear as I yelled out, voice tinged with tears, I crashed.  Hard.  It really hurts.  I don't know what to do.  I saw his facial expression change in an instant as he laid his eyes upon me, from "ready to encourage" to some form of devastation.  I slowed down and let him run alongside me for a minute, as he told me, shit, do whatever you need to do.  I was growing increasingly skeptical about my ability to finish the race, and at that moment, I almost just wanted the permission to stop.  But, I had one last bit of fight in me, one more moment of, he'll tell everyone you crashed, but then he'll say that you're strong and that he knows you can still do this, and I committed to continuing on at that time.  Little did I know, the moment after I passed, he called everyone we knew in a panic over what to do, and headed to transition to look for me in medical.

   For some reason, my power meter kicked back on again at that time.  I glanced at the numbers, and realized that I could only maintain 30-40W before where I started; my surges weren't much higher, and they were limited by immediate pain.  The muscles in both hips and glutes were starting to not work.  Several minutes later, still in town, almost exactly 20 miles after crashing, after sitting up to navigate corners, which sent new pain through my scapula, ribs, lower back, and both SI areas, my aerobars dropped down again-seriously, am I going to crash again?  I was able to regain control of the bike, and I slowed to a stop.  I debated what to do at that point.  Pull the bars back up and keep going to the next aide station to look for a tool to tighten them?  The second I stopped, spectators started rushing towards me.  I asked if a woman could call my husband, so I could ask him what to do.  At that point, I knew that I would't be competitive anymore, so I didn't mind losing more time talking to Dave.  As soon as I put my feet onto the ground, the pain intensified.  Jessie passed me in that moment, calling out encouragement to me.  I had a spectator hold my bike so I could just try to walk for a second, to see if I could shake it out.  I swung my right leg over my bike, and almost went down then and there, as I immediately felt like someone had stabbed a dagger into my right SI joint.  I took a couple of steps, and was stabbed a couple more times.  A few more steps, same result.  I couldn't straighten up, I couldn't really lift my legs, and I could barely even put any pressure through my right side, which until that point, I didn't think was that bad.  I walked a little more, just to make sure that it wouldn't get better, and it only got worse.  More and more people were passing me, some shouting encouragement.  At that moment, I realized that even if I did somehow make it through the bike ride (40-50W low), I didn't have a freaking shot in the world at being able to run a marathon.  The spectators asked me if I wanted to sit, and motioned to the curb.  I turned, tried, and realized that...I couldn't.  I physically could not lower myself to the curb to sit.  Sometime in there, someone had motioned to the medics across the street, who were soon next to me.

 Sometimes you gotta fall before you fly.

  That's when the true confusion started.  I was crying, not so much from the physical pain, but from the utter devastation about the inevitable DNF.  I was harboring a horrible sense of guilt that maybe I hadn't gone as long as I possibly could have.  As much as these past few days have been the most physically painful days of my life, as ruined as my body has been, a small part of me still feels that guilt.  It's ridiculous, and I know I shouldn't, but I do, because finishing-it's just want I do.  Maybe I couldn't walk within an hour of being pulled off the course, but if the object in motion had stayed in motion...still, the worst part of it for me was feeling like I was disappointing others, and that was what I was crying over.  The on course medics explained to me that they didn't have an ambulance, but an ambulance had been called and was coming for me.  I demonstrated that I could move my arms and denied pain while they palpated my neck.   The ambulance came quickly, and I cringed as I was placed on the backboard and loaded in.  Somewhere in there, people were telling me things about my bike, telling me it would be safe, but all I couldn't concentrate on too much at that time.  The bike represented pain and disappointment at that time.  The ambulance ride itself was uncomfortable-my lower legs were strapped down, but all I wanted to do was bend them to take some of the pressure off of my crying lower back.  Every bump and turn jolted me, and sent new little stabs of pain to the same area.  Somehow, my road rash still didn't hurt, though.

   Finally, I found myself in the good old Mexican hospital.  I was reassured by many on my way there though that it was "good" and I would be in good hands, so I wasn't too concerned, as all I really wanted was to know if anything was broken or not.  I was greeted with a clean, sterile-looking, white environment, and transferred onto a bed, where some combination of doctors and nurses with decent English were able to explain to me that I'd be getting my wounds cleaned, and then I'd be getting x-rays.  The doctor with the best English was a tall, reassuring man wearing Ironman scrubs, and the receptionist spoke clear English as well, so I was able to communicate to her to call my husband.  I was asked about allergies, I was asked where it hurt.  My race kit was painstakingly removed down my body, and I was covered in blankets.  The subsequent IV placement was probably one of the worst parts of the whole darn hospital experience-my veins are small to begin with, and with blood loss and a giant needle added in, finding one took three pokes and lots of needle jostling.  I was reaching my limit of pain at that point, and lost it a bit when the poor kind nurse was hitting a nerve.  Finally, that was in.  Wound cleaning brought about more whimpering and a few tears, but thankfully was over soon enough.  I heard a few more sirens in that time, and watched a few athletes in bloody race kits get wheeled in around me.  Oddly, I felt less lonely.  I asked about Dave; the receptionist came over and told me they had gotten a hold of him, and he was on his way.  In the meantime, "medicine" was injected into my IV, and by the time he got there, I was actually fairly comfortable and in good enough spirits.  The worst parts of the wound cleaning were over, I was clear of mind, and crying about it just wasn't going to get me back on the race course.  Plus, there I was, in a Mexican hospital-at some point, it would make for a good story.
The obligatory "Mexican hospital thumbs-up" picture.  They gave me "medicine".

Who smiles that widely when taking a selfie with his wife in a hospital bed?  Dave does.  It's almost like I was a miniature pony.
   I laid there for a bit while we chatted.  I actually didn't really have much of an idea of what was going on or when I was going to be taken for x-rays, but I could hear some of the others that had been brought in throwing up profusely and loudly screaming in pain, so I figured that I had been dropped down a bit on the priority ladder.  Finally, a couple of nurses came in, and motioned to Dave to help wheel the gurney up to x-rays, which was interesting in itself.  Moving around into various positions for the x-rays (and then transferring from the bed to wheelchair to bathroom a short while later) was one of my first indications that, yikes, this shit hurt.  I was taken back down, and we waited more.  Finally, a doctor came in and told me that my x-rays were good, and a nurse then said I'd be able to go in 2-3 hours.  2-3 hours???  All I wanted at that point was to get out of the hospital.  And a burrito.  Given that I had already had to pee, I wasn't feeling like the giant bag of saline was all that necessary.  Dave took off at that point to get me some clothes and some food, briefly pausing to post a facebook update about what was going on, with instructions on how to reach me.  I made and received some calls, and felt better overall.  He returned, we ate, and finally I was told that I could go.  After my IV was removed and I had changed, the doctor caught a glimpse of my labored gait, and made me walk a bit.  I put on a brave face and tried to act as mobile as possible, just so that I'd be allowed to leave, even though I could barely weight bear through my right leg.  He told me to not move for a couple of days, and handed me a prescription.  The hospital called me a taxi, and after a brief ride and a very labored walk, I was finally back to the Dive Inn.  Phew.

   I found a mirror and checked on the road rash pretty soon after getting back.  Holy shit, was my reaction, as I'd had no idea how extensive it actually was-I was expecting a small scrape on my shoulder.  I tracked the race, answered messages, and watched some football as Dave was mercifully able to track down my bike, return my chip, grab me some medications, and eventually get some dinner.  Things deteriorated further as the day went on and the hospital pain meds wore off.  At one point when he was out, I had to get up to plug in my laptop, which resulted in me getting literally stuck at one point, looking for something to grab onto while not twisting my right leg in any way.  I realized later on that I couldn't lean forward from the couch to grab anything off of the coffee table.  We also looked at my helmet, and discovered a couple of nice dings in there-huh, guess I had hit my head!  I did manage to remain in reasonable spirits about the race, though.  Dave and I spent the evening indulging in some (somewhat unearned) tacos and baked goods, and finding anything to laugh at.  Getting from the couch to the bathroom and up to bed later on, though, required the use of a stool as a walker, much assistance, and plenty of laugh-crying.  Surprisingly, I was able to get some sleep that night, although it was eventually disturbed by a combination of discomfort, unnerving dreams, and pain med induced nausea.
Topless pic on the internet!  Scandalous.  But not sexy.  Not at all.  Plus, the giant left love handle of swelling is starting.  Mmm.

Thank you, Mexico, for having this over the counter.  And thank you, enough of a medical background to know what to tell Dave to ask for.

Trying to make it from the couch to the bathroom to the bedroom with a chair-walker.  Wes later fetched me a far more effective stool-walker.  Holy right SI joint.
  The travel that followed in the subsequent days was, well rather rough.  The original plan had been to make it from Cozumel to a fancy-ish hotel in Cancun on Monday, the day after the race, taking the ferry to Playa del Carmen, a bus from Playa to the airport, and then a taxi from the airport to the hotel-all while lugging along my bike box, two roller bags, two suitcases, and my over-the-shoulder bag.  My right SI joint remained the most painful part of the entire deal, though, rendering me barely able to even weight bear on that side, let alone walk with luggage.  My road rash still felt ok at that point, but only because I'd managed to shower without getting it wet, and I'd just left my shirt stuck to it-there was only so much pain that I could handle at once.  My left ribs, lower back, and hip/hip flexor areas all hurt, but were at least manageable.  The soreness in my neck reaffirmed that I had in fact hit my head.  Still, all I wanted at that point was to salvage a night with a beach view and a nice dinner from the trip.  I figured that we'd be better off making it off the island without any time rush, too, so Dave tracked me down a cane, I gritted my teeth and convinced myself that I'd be able to move well enough with it, he broke down my bike, and Wes gave us one last lift to the ferry station.  In order to make it to the hotel, I knew that I had to get over my desire to be independent, and I accepted a wheelchair ride to the ferry, a bike cart ride from the ferry to the bus, and some help with bags at the airport (even though Dave yelled at me for accepting help, because it meant that his options for taxi rate negotiation were limited-which resulted in a sobbing breakdown on my part, because I literally could not do it without help).  Finally, we made it to the hotel, and after another Dave-directed breakdown (stop acting like I killed your best friend because you had to pay more and because we can't do anything fun at this hotel, this hurts really really bad and I needed help), we managed to enjoy the rest of the night and the following morning, including the best breakfast buffet ever (Nutella on french toast solves all), a brief, slow trip across the sand to the water, and even the experience of ripping my shirt off my road rash, as all I could really do at that point was laugh.
Last night of "vacation" with the Hansens.  I'm attempting to detach the shirt that had been healing onto my wounds for >24hrs.  Dave helped by taking pictures.  He has another pony-wide smile on.  Asshole.

After getting the shirt detached, so the road rash after ~24hrs picture.  Yes, that gauze did attach on as well.  Swelling is starting to set in more.  Extra sexy.

But, we had a nice view from our balcony.  I at least waded into that pool.  Naturally, it also started pouring while I was sitting on those lounge chairs, and Dave was off playing on the beach at that time.  Thanks to the random awesome girl who saw me struggling and helped me up and into some shelter!

I would not be denied a trip onto the beach.  Nothing like being a well-appearing 30 year old with a cane!

Artistic Dave in front of the water.

I dug my (swollen) toes into the sand...until the tide came up a little more, and I realized I wasn't steady enough on my feet to resist the waves.
   The flights home were manageable; Tramadol and my excitement to get home trumped (almost) all, even though I was reaching my limits with the seemingly unending walk from customs to security in the Baltimore airport.  Since getting home, I've continued to be a bit up and down physically.  My experience with acute injury and hospitals had previously consisted of an ankle sprain when I was 14.  My only other bike crash had hurt, but I was riding six hours again by the end of the week.  So, I guess you could say I wasn't necessarily prepared for or expecting how much something like this could hurt, really.  I made it into work on Wednesday, but needed help from my patients moving their equipment-great.  We mercifully were able to arrange it so that I'd be off the rest of the week.  The road rash pain peaked on Wednesday, as I hadn't been able to get my hands on any sort of proper dressings in Mexico, and it just kept getting adhered to gauze, shirts, etc.  When it started to dry out a bit and crack, moving my left arm began to hurt.  But, Tegaderm (thank you Peter!!!) has been a godsend for that, at least, and I can tell that the surface area is getting smaller.  My left elbow is still puffy, but only hurts with pressure.  My left hip/hip flexor/SI area is mildly sore at times, but really not too bad except again when I put pressure on it-laying on that side isn't happening too much yet.  My left ribs are still somewhat uncomfortable-again, not horribly uncomfortable, but definitely tender, and coughing or sneezing are not too fun.  Pretty much my entire left side from scapula to foot swelled up, but that's coming down gradually.  True to my bruise-resistant form, I really don't have many bruises.  The biggest problem, though, remains my right SI area.  I'll get a few good hours when I cave and take painkillers, but otherwise my weight bearing tolerance remains limited, and my gait looks, well, in the words of my boss, "like you had a stroke", which echoed my assessment of myself.  I have had a few moments (usually when trying to get into bed) where I've reached my limit and broken down a bit, but overall, I've felt very, very fortunate.  I wouldn't have had any training to do right now anyways, and my injuries are quite definitively temporary and will hopefully be relatively short-lived.  I know how much worse it could have been had I landed with my arm stretched out more, or if I had taken the impact six inches higher on my body, up near my head or neck.  I know far too many people that haven't been nearly as lucky as I was with crashes, and so I'm continually extremely grateful to be in the position that I'm in right now.  This knowledge, and my focus on taking care of my physical self, has helped to keep me from any sort of major disappointment over the race and what could have been.  IM number ten will just have to wait; it was just my time for some misfortune, that's all, and in the grand scheme of things, it will soon just be a spring board for some motivation, anyways.
On the way home, I had to lie to customs about touching or handling livestock., because Dave had been petting a donkey.  Oooo.  Scofflaws.

A little hard to see, but my favorite random injury: a bruised pinky.  What the heck?  I don't ever bruise..except for my pinky.  So random.

Wednesday night road rash.  Starting to get stiff and cracking, but smaller in surface area!  Rocking some swelling still, though.

I don't take tons of bathroom mirror selfies, unless they involve oversized elbows.

  Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what could be.  

  As for what's next?  Well, I had a very productive conversation with Jesse yesterday, which left me encouraged and optimistic about last year.  The ups and downs of this year served as one heck of a learning experience, and I think we both gained a greater understanding of what works for me, what makes me tick, what keeps me in one forward-moving piece.  In the past, I likely would have balked when told "no more than three IMs in a year" and that I'd need a nice, long base this winter before adding intensity or being allowed to race, but yesterday, I was only sitting on the other end of the line in silent relief, because I knew very well that was exactly what I needed.  In a way, the DNF in Coz might have been a blessing in disguise-sure, more Kona points and a good finish would have been great, but maybe physically, it was better for me to not have put myself in more of a hole with a fourth IM this year.  Now, I'll be able to wipe the slate clean and head in with a body that's as ready to go as the mind.  What happened in my races in no way takes away from the gains that I made in training over the past few months, and although those results aren't posted for anyone to see, I can still put them in my little mental bank of "things that I've done", and withdraw that knowledge when needed.  But first, even if my season ended in a Mexican hospital, I'm still going to enjoy the heck out of my off season-especially because it's Christmas, and I freaking love me some Christmas.  I'm already enjoying some small dose decorating, and I can't wait to catch up with my family and friends (including a few who I've gone way, wayy too long without seeing), shop, bake and cook with my parents, and stay up past 9:30 and sleep past 5.  Plus, it's given me time to start creating some new stuff for my athletes, and work out some better organized systems in that regard.  I am already starting to miss, well, moving, though, which is a good sign that I'll soon enough be ready to get back at it.  I crawled back to my chiropractor today (as a PT, I'm not too proud to admit this-call out to Kenny Tsang at Active Care Chiropractic for sliding me in today and promising to get me in as much as possible next week), so I'm optimistic that I'll be able to move my right leg soon enough, as well.
This was a pretty dumbass idea that I'm now paying for, but I needed to at least START getting the Christmas lights up today.  I found myself pulling all of my "mind over matter" athlete tricks out for this one.  And I involved the Tramadol.  Christmas or bust.
   Overall, I think that I have more thank yous to give out and more gratitude to express after this whole experience than I have after any other race in my life.  I've been continually, absolutely touched with the responses I've received from so many near and far.  From the phone calls, to the facebook messages, to the emails, to the packages, I can't say enough about how appreciative I've been towards every last person who took the time and effort to reach out to me.  My emotions were on overdrive in the days after the crash (probably not aided by medications), and I found myself tearing up repeatedly over how much love and encouragement was being directed at my way.  Even though triathlon had hurt me, I was still having a little lovefest with it, thanks to the awesomeness of the people the sport attracts.  I don't know how it is in other professional sports, but the fact that a good number of my very competitors reached out to me, in my opinion, just speaks volumes about the quality of individuals in not just the women's pro field, but the entire sport.  In particular, thanks to my amazing friends, and to my family.  My biggest concern in the hospital was just getting in touch with those closest to me, and assuring them that I was ok.  Hearing familiar voices at that time was more useful than any pain med that was being pumped into my body.  Thanks to Jess and Wes for their hospitality with our housing, and for their enormous amounts of assistance all weekend!  Thanks to Quintana Roo, for again supporting me just as much in the bad times as the good.  On the bright side, my body broke the fall and protected my bike!  Huge thank you to Jesse, for encouraging me, reassuring me, helping me keep this whole thing in perspective, listening, and getting me to look ahead with a new sense of understanding and optimism.  And thanks to Dave-although I might have wanted to smack him a couple of times in the course of travel (and when he yelled at me for not thinking to return my timing chip as I was getting carted off in an ambulance-really??), nothing makes you appreciate your husband more than legitimately needing him.  I'm going to enjoy a little more rest and relaxation, and then I'll do my best to channel all of the lessons and bumps in the road from the year into something positive in the time to come!


  1. Ouch!! It's hard for us to not compete even with such pain. I am glad you made the right decision. Nothing is worth losing the next season over too. Tramadol over the counter?! Wow! Hope you are on the mend!

  2. hey jennie, i dont know if you remenber me, but i tried to help you when you fell in cozumel with your bike. i saw in the pics your number and i researched you to get informations about you. but i can see you are ok! great! it was my first time on iron man competition so i didnt know what your number would mean, and now i know you are exellent competior.
    maybe you dont wanna see the pics, but i have some of you really hurt and i got worried about you. then i saw dave taking your bike, and i asked him about you and he told me you were ok. sorry for not calling him at the moment, i´m from brazil and my iphone had no signal. i was really worried with your bike... someone could take it to the wrong place, and when a guy came with an iron man tshirt i gave it so i could trust! sorry for my english!
    if you have some time, send me a imail!
    be fine and stay strong!! kisses
    thais bomtempo