“I can’t commit to anything! That’s the problem!” I said to Marion at some point last week during one of my seemingly endless meltdowns of self confidence I’ve had since turning 40 last month.
I can’t even commit to un-committing from writing my blog.
This is the deal.
I am tired of complaining.
I feel like the last few months I have been writing and posting endless sentences of me complaining of how sad I was that I didn’t race well, or at all this year, that my foot was breaking, or just needed a break, and I simply felt embarrassed. I had set and said so many lofty goals that all spun out so magnificently it almost seemed like I tanked them on purpose for dramatic affect. I did not. I appreciate the importance of conflict in a good story, but I wouldn't push it that far. Honestly, I didn’t think my writing was doing anyone any favors, and felt like you all deserved more, even my signature positive concluding paragraphs felt trite and hollow.
Hence, the decision to give the Heisman last Tuesday, and shutter the blog indefinitely.
My spirit animal, former Ironman World Champion, Daniela Ryf.
I spent the next few days focusing on my next book, and made a life-affirming discovery, I was riveted by my own writing. Wait, it was more than that, I was inspired. But, it wasn’t just the swimming, biking, running, or writing, it was the fact that I did all of that and shared it with all of you. It was realizing that I have been that woman sticking her neck out and saying, “Hey, I am not the best at this, but I am going to keep working at it until I am better, and I am not afraid to share my highs and lows along the way, because at some point or another, I’m sure we’ll learn something? Or at the very least, I promise it will be entertaining.”
Where did that go?
I felt lost.
Then, last Saturday I hit my breaking point.
While swimming in the lake-like ocean, the combination of a poor night sleep, the looming promise of a long, challenging, and slightly scary bike ride, and another full day of loneliness, was simply too much. My chest started to ache, my head felt heavy, and I could barely move, I was exhausted and just wanted to lay down. Next, I climbed out of the ocean, changed into my morning clothes, not my cycling kit, and walked to my car without my sunglasses on, an open invitation for any stranger to see my weeping eyeballs and ask me what was wrong?
I had no idea.
Then again, the one thought that instantly made me well up, was knowing I wasn’t heading to New York this week to run the marathon. Another was that I had signed up for another Ironman in 2020, but I had zero desire to race it.
There was a beacon of hope. I had a long run planned on Sunday morning.
My toe/foot situation has improved everyday thanks to the mystical power of KT tape, orthotics, and Hoka, Clifton running shoes. I have been knocking off mellow and challenging workouts the last few weeks, and have truly felt like a runner again, aka, like myself.
After my first "real" run since IM Wisconsin, two weeks ago.
In fact, I thought I could, or really should run a marathon.
I thought just like when I experienced my first major meltdown at thirty-two years old sitting inside a cabin in Lake Cachuma, that running a marathon (or many in that scenario), would make the despair disappear, except I am not just a runner anymore. In fact, I have never been one singular thing. I am a forty-year old woman, an accomplished athlete, widely-read author, parent to an adult, coach to a mighty handful of runners and triathletes, wife to a salt and peppered nearly fifty-year old Texan, daughter to my heroes, sister to my role models, and adventurous Aunt to the brightest minds of our future. Miraculously, after realizing all of this, the blinders of my self-centeredness started to peel away.
My amazing, cancer-free athlete, Rachel Peterson.
It wasn’t the New York marathon I wanted to run, (I officially pulled out of that one shortly after returning home from Ironman Wisconsin), instead it was the local, practically in my backyard Santa Clarita marathon taking place this Sunday, 11/3, that brought on my Grinch-like smile of delusion.
I ran fourteen smooth and pain-free miles on Sunday, but there is a gaping distance from fourteen to twenty-six point two.
I could do it.
But, what made me pull back from the brink of insanity, and gave me a different perspective of what I believed to be self-preservation, was the non-enthused feedback from my coach. Hillary was willing to work my schedule around this out of nowhere/unhealthy request, but she wasn’t excited about it, and that perspective from someone who has raced Ironman’s back to back repeatedly, and raced Ultraman twice, gave me pause, and a big reason to re-think “why” I wanted to run it.
I actually don't need a finish line to feel better about myself, accepting and embracing the struggle to reach it is the real win.
I don't need to run a marathon, race an Ironman, write a screenplay, or write a book to cure my insecurities; they will always be present in some form, bright or dull, at all times. Yet doing all of those things, working toward improving my ability to achieve all of those things, is what makes my story worth living and sharing.
Therefore, instead of simmering down my swimming and riding these next couple of weeks to make room for preparing and recovering from running a marathon, I will keep attempting the swim workouts that I haven’t nailed, but will make me a better swimmer, pedal hard in the relentless Santa Ana winds, that is no fun, but will make me a tougher rider, and run hilariously hard workouts on the treadmill and roads, that may make me wince, but will certainly make me a stronger runner when I am ready and healthy to race.
Also, I will keep writing and sharing my story with all of you wonderful people in blog form, book form, poem form, movie form, etc.,
Thank you for inspiring me to live a strenuous, yet genuine life!
The song choice this week is Selena Gomez’ new haunting and gorgeous tune, “Lose You To Love Me.”