Our oldest dog, Guinness, is getting old. She will be turning thirteen in January. She still runs around like a teenager thanks to her crazy younger sister, Blueberry, but as it tends to go with older dogs, Guinness is making a few messes around the house. I am trying to jump ahead of any foreseeable accidents and make the escape outside for her as easy as possible, which is why on Friday morning, instead of counting on her using the doggie door to complete her post-breakfast morning ritual, I opened our back door, and instantly smelled a horrific, yet familiar Fall aroma, fire.
Early reports of the Saddleridge fire.
“T! Hope you’re home is ok, let me know if I can help with anything, I see the fires are in your area.” My friend Molly texted moments later as I walked out our front door and saw a plume of grey smoke hovering in front of the foothills about five to seven miles north of my house.
I didn’t feel like we were in any danger, the fire would have to jump the 118 freeway and terrorize a handful of neighborhoods before it reached our house, but I did feel detached from civilization while watching on the local news flames lick through the neighborhood I was pedaling through two days before.
I was not shocked at all seeing the devastation unfold.
The area the fire was raging through is a gorgeous stretch of land covered in dry, native California chaparral, aka, an inviting tinder box. There have been fires there before, the largest and most recent was in 2008, and every year since without a blazing catastrophe has been a surprising relief.
I felt sorry for the residents that had to be evacuated from their homes in the middle of the night, and for the firefighters putting themselves in harm’s way to protect those homes, and finally for all of us Angeleno’s not in close proximity to the flames, but who would be still be affected by the poisonous, heavy, far reaching smoke for days.
Thankfully, I had a day of swimming and riding along the coast on deck for Saturday.
At 6:45A Saturday morning, a minute behind schedule, I decided to check the SMOG Facebook page before I headed out the door for the hour long drive to Redondo Beach, suddenly my heart hit the floor; the ocean swim was canceled due to the unhealthy air.
Awesome.
“Wow, the universe really doesn't want you to be a triathlete. You can’t swim, can’t bike, can’t run.” Marion teased after I slumped back into bed after I told him the news.
“I know. That’s how it feels.’ And it was. But not just because of the fire, and the smoky fall out from it, but from all of the events that I started to play back in my mind since May, first a tickle in my throat that turned into pneumonia, wiping away any chance of qualifying for Kona in Boulder, then a bum foot hobbling me in Madison, and tossing out the dream of another magical marathon New York next November. ‘It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
Next, I jumped onto www.wunderground.com in search of clean air. Then, I emailed Hillary asking for an alternative trainer ride workout, since I would be stuck inside all day, and finally texted my mom to insure I had a back up pool to swim my two swim workouts the following Sunday.
Hillary responded quickly with a long and slightly tortuous trainer ride, and I locked in my mom’s spiffy club pool for Sunday.
Then I started pedaling, finally relaxed, but the hits kept coming.
About two hours into a three and half hour ride.
I tuned into the Facebook live coverage of Kona, and after a few mesmerizing minutes, my dry, smoke encrusted throat started to well up, I couldn’t believe I wasn’t there.
Or, I couldn’t believe that I ever was there?
Then the whole pent up misery of the year started flooding back.
The first couple of days after Kona were surreal, I was happy, sad, deflated, proud, but mostly empty. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around what had just transpired, and I had no one to talk to about it. Thankfully, I had enough forethought months before to sign up for the NYC marathon a few weeks later, knowing full well that I would be feeling off, and that the best band-aid was a marathon in my favorite city surrounded by my best friends.
After that race I went on a tear about big goals for 2019.
I set up a plan to go full gas from January through June, promising I would go back to real life once I stormed across the finish line in Boulder as the first, second, or third place amateur, earning my pro card, a slot to Kona, and the attention of a few sponsors who would happily support a creative, outgoing, aging, yet still spritely triathlete who’s story and passion for triathlon would inspire others to pursue their goals.
I did everything I set out to do.
I ran more than ever before, raced more than ever before, attended training camps, (mini and large), was humbled week in and week out during workouts out with better athletes, was told my running form was wrong, changed it, swam every single day for three months, (excluding a couple mandatory rest days), rode harder, faster and farther than ever, knowing for certain that I was in the best shape of my life at the exact moment I needed to be.
Cue the pitiful Ironman Boulder race pull-out video. (Actually, I don't think any of us need to relive that.)
I didn’t even make the starting line of the event I put my entire life on hold for.
Everything changed in Boulder.
The next few months were spent playing catch-up to my fitness, maneuvering around my growing foot pain, trying to be grateful for everyday miracles, all the while feeling overwhelmed with guilt that I put my family’s livelihood, and my career on the brink of disaster for a selfish goal.
Then something astonishing happened.
“It’s incredible that you’ve been so dedicated to your goals.” Said a very accomplished female movie producer during our first meeting at the end of September.
This woman held my dream job.
Since I was ten years old I believed that I was meant to be the kind of producer that would find unique stories, develop them into meaningful scripts, and deliver them to the world as powerful films. Instead, I veered off course in my mid-twenties to find a somewhat secure career in visual effects, and then dropped off the map completely in my late twenties to assume the role of full-time parent/wannabe triathlete. When I finally went back to work full time at age thirty seven, it was for a position that seemed too good to be true, because it allowed me to re-charge my career, make some cash, and still pursue the highest level of triathlon.
Unfortunately, that job did in fact turn out to be too good to be true. Nevertheless, I appreciate it because it taught me valuable lessons about myself, show business, and the human condition, both light and dark.
It also reminded me that every problem has a solution.
And that life operates on its own timeline, which usually is not the one we want it to.
I’m not sure why this year spun so marvelously out of control when I tried with all my might to make it a fairytale ending? Clearly, I have been trying to make sense of it for months, (as it is a familiar theme here), but I do know that every sorrowful second was worth it, because it is part of a unique story I am blessed to live and tell.
Our girl, Guinness.
I ended up not swimming in Claremont on Sunday, as those plans were dashed due to an all-day swim meet. Instead I found an indoor pool at a somewhat close-by YMCA, and spent the bulk of the day swimming in warm water, surrounded by kind strangers, listening to the hint from my intuition to follow my ambition.
The song and video choice this week is the new single from Normani, the aptly titled, "Motivation." Enjoy.