Time heals all wounds. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Yet, more than two months on, I can dredge up a no more rosy-colored assessment of Rev3 Cedar Point than "meh." Imagine how I felt the day after.
It wasn't the straw that broke the camel's back, nor was it the next deposit in the bank toward a larger, more meaningful goal. At worst, Cedar Point was a race where I walked the last 10 of 140.6 miles in order to earn a paycheck. At best, Cedar Point was the canary in the coal mine. Of what? I didn't know at the time, although two months has proven the length of time to figure it all out and do something about it.
I actually did start a more traditional Kelzie-style race report on the trip home from scenic Sandusky, Ohio. Only it's title - Any Given Sunday - and opening stanza remain, as a tribute to what I thought at the time was the larger theme of my race.
"It's Ironman, it's a crapshoot." - very astute observation by my rack mate 'round about 6 am on race morning
Betting big or betting conservatively, first-timer or Luis Alvarez (note: only person to complete every IM on the planet), we are all the same race morning: standing at a start line, facing something of a crapshoot.
From the first-timers perspective, I offer my athlete who this weekend completed her first Ironman. Her stated goal this past winter: finish standing, with a minimal amount of suffering. Well, she finished. And not only standing, but with plenty of time to fall flat on her face and crawl the last 26.2 miles if need be. Dare I say her experience and execution surpassed both of our expectations? Her come out roll at the 'shoot was a straight up 11. Her response: That was SO. MUCH. FUN.
From the betting big(ger) perpsective, I offer myself who this weekend completed the Rev3 Cedar Point Iron-distance race two weeks after taking a turn at the 'shoot and rolling snake eyes. I rolled a Hard Deuce (note: that's a 4, which is horrible odds for a come out bet). My response: meh.
The rest of what I wrote is inconsequential now.
The absolute highlight of the weekend was participating in my first Rev3 race. From Charlie to Krista and Carole to Sean and Brady, this race organization goes out of their way to treat every single athlete like a rock-star by hosting big events with a family feel. They gave a race-less girl a last minute destination, a hearty welcome, and more than a few laughs.
The swim was disgusting, both on my part and the part of Lake Erie.
The bike's scenery was far more beautiful than I expected. The bike's chip-seal was just as painful as I expected.
Every run course should have a militantly religious drill instructor standing mid-way through each lap. "G*d will be waiting for you on the second lap." He was so up-beat and positive, not to mention hilarious, and at mile 23, truly a god-send. Everyone at the awards banquet cheered when he was shown in the race video.
But even a messenger of G*d on the run course in wind pants and a sweat band, with a shiny bald head, can't top the bizarre of post-race. While I ate a late dinner at a bar I got picked up by a guy on a blind date. With the blind date sitting right next to him. That's keepin' it sexy Sandusky.
The rest is pretty immemorable. Case in point: I took not a single picture the entire trip, which is definitely the only PR I set that weekend.