Putting the EXTREME in Cheaha Extreme Triathlon

As Patrick has been reminding me, I haven't posted in a while (as Patrick has been reminding me), and I have 18 started blog posts, but I decided to finish number 19 first. I need a creative outlet before getting down to some more boring writing. So let me tell you a story about the Cheaha Extreme Triathlon.  

 

Let's start with--- YES, I know the title of the race has the word "EXTREME" in it, and yes, I know the definition of "EXTREME," and yes, for once, I actually read the full course description!!! I even read it out loud to hear all the words. 

 

I should have known from the beginning that everything about the race would be extreme, including signing up. Patrick and I were literally about to get on a seaplane to a remote island when the sign-up day went live. A friend quickly posted and mentioned there were limited stops in the race and that we should sign up quickly. I stood in a parking lot in the Upper Peninsula in Michigan, quickly signing up before all communication was lost. Turns out that while there are limited entries, we didn't need to jump immediately... But good news, I got bib number 4 (thanks Fitz). 

 

Unfortunately, training quickly went off the rails between the Fall and Spring race day. While I muscled through two 50-mile running events, we also battled illness, cold days, and, well... and just other excuses of life vs. training. The swim was what I was most trained up for, as we had committed to swimming twice a week as a part of our New Year's resolution. So there's that. I mean, it is 1/3 of the race. 

In an effort to focus on the positives or vent the negatives, I began to write notes to myself (Patrick added in too).

 

RACE DAY

 

Back it up the days before race day. We had been up to Cheaha Mountain before, and for those who don't know, it is the highest point in Alabama (this is important for the later part of the story) to hike and camp a few years before. This allowed us to have a small clue about the area. After a great lunch at the oldest running bar in Alabama, The Peerless Saloon, we headed up the mountain while scouting some spots for the sherpa crew to meet up. Also, we decided that the original plan of meeting up every 20 miles on the bike route would be a HUGE mistake--- super glad for that insight.

Additionally, with being there a few days early, we were also about to take a quick swim the day before, finding out the water was bath water temperature. The bonus was that we found another great place to eat, sitting under a willow tree on the water's edge. It was hard to think we had to leave this spot to return up the mountain and actually do this race. 

 

Race morning came EARLY since we had about an hour's drive down the mountain. Here's the thing when you are in a car-- you look out the window and think, "That doesn't seem so bad," and then you realize, "Oh shit, I am in a car." This being a small race with self-support meant the low-keyness of it all created a feeling of closeness, even knowing that I wouldn't see most of the people after we came out of the water. 

 

Bikes all set on racks, running shoes all set in the front seat of the car, and swim buoy strapped on-- READY to go. 

 

One thing I appreciate about this race is that the start was on time, even if everyone still needed to get in the water for the in-water start. To be fair, the race director gave a fair warning, "Race starts in one minute; get in the water." And HORN. 

 

The water was so warm there was steam coming off the top, making sighting difficult enough that I was actually thankful for the swim buoy on the athlete ahead of me and for her ability to stay on a good line; plus, the kayaker who paddled beside her for a little. The best part of the swim was the sign that somehow the photographer did not capture that said, "WARNING DANGEROUS, DO NOT SWIM." In the words of our friend Fitz (who was also dumb enough to race and the creator of this wonderful let's-sign-up- event), "This seems like a great idea." 

 

The swim was a good time. The water was a bit murky, as all lakes are, and the early race day start meant that the EXTREME part of the swim was heading into the sun. I am pretty sure if the race director could figure out an uphill swim, he would have. The waters were smooth and fresh (if not a little muddy), though seeing to your wrist was about the distance of underwater viewing. I managed on the sim to pick up two guys who decided to act like Remoras, attaching to my hip and feet in the swim draft zones. The good thing is, with the exception of when I purposely slowed down to see if one of them would pull (they didn't), there was no touching or bothering me. In transition, the guy who had stuck to my hip mentioned that I had a nice smooth stroke; I so badly wanted to tell him, "Of course, you noticed that because you were on my hip drafting the ENTIRE time." But at that point, I had not lost my mind and was being nice, plus not his fault for using opportunity well. And I think it is totally fair to point out that the guy who drafted off my feet would go on to win the whole thing; pretty sure that little bit of rest he got in the swim was the reason he could just zippy up the mountain multiple times. 

 

Out of the water and into T1. Given that it was a long race, I have no shame in admitting that I was towel-covered-stripping-down and dressing in the middle of a grassy area in an Alabama park at 6am. NO SHAME. Dressed and ready to go, I walked my bike out of transition; little did I know that this would be the first of many times I walked my bike.

 

Fair warning this part about the bike is probably just therapy for me because I certainly need it. The first part of the ride, about 40ish miles, is mild. However, the problem with mild at this location is that you are still going up. Everything that looks flat is a lie. Here we are entering a town; it should be flatter due to city planning-- LIE. Here we are near an open field; it should be flat for farming-- LIES. Oh... yeah, you get it ALL LIES. Do you know why it is all LIES? Because you are going uphill the WHOLE time. 

 

Before mile 30 (yeah, I don't really know exactly where everything happened), there was an incident where I got chased by 2 dogs. There was a collection of dogs at this house; several came out from the fence, barking and setting to pursue. Two of the dogs caught up to me and were barking and nipping. It was certainly not the "Hey do you want to play" type of barking and nipping. I am pretty sure this was the fastest I peddled all day. Yelling no and making noise to try to disrupt their forward motion. Nothing was working, but eventually, on their own, they stopped and turned off home. After this, the first time, my heart lit up at seeing Patrick and Paula (Fitz's sherpa). These two were amazing-- ALL DAY LONG, especially at this moment when I needed someone else to make sure I was OK with a quick one over. 

 

Shortly after this, two guys passed me, and after a quick "hi, how are you," I overheard their conversation. Guy 1 told Guy 2, "This ride is pretty much 68 miles going up to the top of the mountain, then 40 more miles going down and up the other side." Huh. You ever have those moments where you know something, but it made sense hits much later. This was such a moment for me. It wasn't the 68 miles to the top of the mountain the first time. It was the first realization that every bit down the other side of the mountain would make up all the bits of having to come back up the mountain. 

 

The sun began to beat down, and the roads that had seemed somewhat shady while in the car had clearly had the trees trimmed away from the road overnight. The sun on the blacktop and the lack of wind brought riding to a whole new level of hot, not the fun, sexy kind. To counteract this, Patrick was filling my water bottles at every 10-mile stop and setting an expectation in his best dad's voice that all of the fluids be drank by the next stop. In truth, I didn't meet this expectation; however, I am also sure that his setting this expectation got me closer to the finish line than I would have been otherwise. 

 

The first 68 miles of false flats, followed by about 10 miles of climbing the mountain, ends at the lodge, where our room is, and I really wanted to be done. I had already pushed my bike twice due to running out of ability to crank the pedals. These were the first tears. They weren't big tears, just tired tears. Patrick and I made the deal before the race: unless I was hurt or had a mechanical issue, he would tell me three times to get back on my bike. He swapped out my potatoes for grapes, refilled my fluids, patted me on the back, and sent me down the other side of the mountain. 

 

Now here is the thing about the other side of the mountain. It is steep. It is sunny. It is 20 miles down. None of these are really the problem; it is when for the first time on the first small climb, you realize that for every hill you go down, you will have to come back up. This is the first time in the race where overcoming a hill or enjoying some free speed means bringing little joy because the truth is your brain is figuring out what it will feel like to go back up. 

 

Upon reaching the top of an outlook, I found the support crew and my race buddy. The first thing I noticed was that he had flip-flops. Now, his story is his to tell, but most amazingly, he offered the truth of his pulling out of the race while providing support for me to get back on my bike. I will admit this was the second time I wanted to stop; I wanted to be done. I wasn't the pain to stop. I don't think I cried this time, but I did tell Patrick I wanted to quit. He handed me a pack of crackers, refilled my fluids, patted me on the back, and sent me further down the hill. 

 

At one more stop, up a bumpy hill, I met up with Patrick again. These stops were a bit closer than every 10 miles, thank goodness. When I pulled over, the tears started. Turns out the two things you can manage to do while somewhat dehydrated-- cry and have snot drip out your nose. Both of these things happened at this stop. There wasn't an uphill that I didn't have to walk at some point. The hardest thing to do mentally is to get back on the bike after pushing it up the hill a bit, knowing the hill isn't done with you, knowing you have a mountain still ahead. At this last stop, before the turnaround, I ugly cried, like thankful the photographer was not around kind of ugly cried. I told Patrick I was done; I wanted to quit. He refilled my fluids, gave me a few ibuprofen, stuffed a payday in my hand, patted me on the back, and sent me the rest of the way down the hill. 

 

Here is where Patrick and I tell a different version of events. The plan was to meet at the turnaround. I was sure I was going to be done for real this time. I had maxed out my three times and was ready to have it all over. Going down the hill, I hit speeds well over 40mph, and the only thing I remember thinking was, "Would it be so bad to miss this turn and go flying off the mountain." I didn't have the energy to be scared and only had a bit of mindfulness to think, "Holy hell, this is cool...and FAST." I was ready to call it; no need for a mechanical or injury. 

 

On many races, I talk to myself; some of you have heard my internal thoughts come out as cheers for you to keep going or push on, but in all honesty, a lot of times, those are messages to myself as well. I can normally bring up positive imagery or positive self-talk, but this was probably the darkest moment in my brain at any race. My mind was no longer focused on the beauty of the mountain, the trees, or the blue skies; instead, all I could think was that I would be good with going down the side of the mountain, bouncing off a tree, and seeing the blue skies as the helicopter comes in to find me. As I said, the thoughts went dark and well planned out. Of course, I also knew deep down I wouldn't make that turn but man, did I want to at the moment.  

 

I reached the bottom and was in the loop to turn when I noticed Patrick was not there. OK, everything is OK. Surely he is meeting me on the other side of the loop. And no, Patrick. As I started to climb out from the turnaround, here came Patrick. I was pissed thinking he was playing head games with me, just not giving me the option to quit. Knowing that if I started back up, no matter what, I would finish this bike. Well, I was going to show him "finishing this bike" if it was the last thing I did.  

 

Now rewind for a second because Patrick's version of what was happening was much different. You see, when we had last stopped to get me ibuprofen, Patrick had to open the car topper and pull from a bag up there. He sent me on my way and packed up things, including moving my race items from the front seat to eh back seats, so I would have a place to sit when I refused to go back up. After dealing with me and my emotional basketcase-ness, he forgot to close the topper and took off down the hill. When the realization hit, he stopped, fixed the problem, went back up the hill to see if anything fell out, and then headed back down to catch up with me. He was a little late catching up but waved and checked in as I headed back up the mountain. 

 

Turns out he wasn't playing mind games. And maybe it was best I didn't know what had happened or why he wasn't there. In the end, this was a motivator for me to move pedal by pedal or step by step up the mountain. On the bike, off the bike. On the bike, the computer dies off the bike. On the bike, crying, off the bike, crying. Back on the bike. So on and so on, the plan goes to getting to the top. Amazingly Patrick and our friends were at every overlook, offering support, cheers, and smiles. I can't tell you how much this is what kept me going. Each mile slowly ticked by until, all of a sudden, the top was coming into view. Patrick went ahead to the T2 area after I told him that I planned to make an attempt at the run portion. Paula and Fitz walked beside me up the last of the hill. I had to laugh when Fitz, a seasoned athlete, yelled at Paula, a more casual athlete, "Don't touch her or her bike." I am sure Paula totally sistered him with an "I know" eye roll. But after spending time with Paula, the reminder made sense as she is a helper and healer personality (which I adore that I could feel her wanting to help me along the way). 

 

The top of the hill was glorious. Not the end, but glorious. My calf was bruised from my bike pedal hitting it as I pushed it up the mountain. I would be glad to hand my bike over any minute now. Before that would happen, I did want one more moment on the bike. I hopped back up and gave a few cranks of the pedals. That was it. T2 (being the vehicle) was right there, and the bike was done. If you are wondering, yes, I cried... again. And yes, I made a second towel-changing event but this time at the TOP of the mountain. There is no shame.  

 

Off on to the run, well walk, well very slow walk. Oh... on a bit of trail as well. 

 

Patrick ran the top four miles with me-- thank goodness, or I may have sat down and finished crying by myself out there. This top terrain was rocky, with big rocks and sliding little pebbles. This portion took the last of the daylight. I was glad to have grabbed my hiking poles before heading out... and this would not be the last time this thought during the run. The benefit of having Patrick with me in this first part was that I didn't have to watch for the course; I just followed along. I needed a bit to reset my brain from the bike. As we passed the store, Patrick got me a soda, which I knew was a Dr. Pepper and "something," but all I really knew was that it was making me happy in the moment. 

 

We made the loop around where I would begin the steep, death-and-dying downhill. First, the race director did give fair warning about this one-mile trail downhill to a lake and then a bit of solid ground. The problem was the "death and dying hill" between me and that road. Again, I'm super glad I had the hiking poles, as this would be the only way on my shaking legs to make it down this section. Watching each step, I slowly began to make my way down. There were several big drops and tight foot placements. Additionally, there were moths and deer. 

 

Let me tell you about the moths and deer. My headlamp was awesome at covering and lighting up a large area for me to see the terrain. The problem with a bright light in the dark of night in the middle of the woods of Alabama is the moths go to the flame. I was swiping them away when they looked to be headed for taking out my eyes. This meant I was also trying to not fall down the mountain and not stab my eye or leg with my hiking pole while trying to live through a moth attack that could rival Hitchcock's birds. Then there was the deer. In my current mindset, the glowing eyes were freaky, like really freaky; then, they became my best friends. Oh yes, these deer were from a Disney movie. While they watched me thinking, "This one's lost it, wandering around in the night"; I was telling them about us being best friends and how they would journey down the mountain to tell Patrick where I was if something happened to me. They seemed to be in agreement with this plan and watched me just moving down the mountain again. You might be thinking, "Certainly, her mind wasn't this far gone to think these deer would save her." You would be wrong; me and the deer had an understanding, me and the deer were friends, and if we encounter each other later in life, we will acknowledge this moment with a simple head nod because nothing else would need to be said.     

 

What I wasn't planning for at the bottom of this "death and dying" path was kids playing in the bathroom by the lake and camping area. This is, in fact, what I did encounter. Kids can be creepy on a normal day; in the dark, when you are tired, and they are in an echoing bathroom with little light, they might as well be the children of the corn. Thankfully Patrick was in sight at this point, so if they came running out, at least there would be a witness. And Patrick would get to use our "save yourself" plan.

I approached the two vehicles and heard Patrick talking to someone. Honestly, I figured it was a race official or park ranger wanting me to call it a day and go home or to make sure they didn't have to go in search of my remains; no worries there because the deer would have known where to find me. Instead of either of those options, it was a buddy to the guy behind me. WHAT THE HELL!!! THERE WAS SOMEONE ELSE OUT HERE!!! I honestly didn't care about what was in front of me or behind me; just not feeling as alone was a huge moral boost. Again as had become the norm, Patrick checked my fluids refilled, offered food, and sent me on my way. A NASCAR pit crew has nothing on my husband regarding making sure I don't dehydrate or starve. 

 

You might now think the rest of the story is, "I walked and walked some more." You would be right, and you would be wrong. Because what you don't know is after leaving the lake and starting a few miles walk on the road, I was nearly kidnapped...runner-napped...let's just say there are a number of horror movies that begin this way: There I was lit up in my 360-degree vest and headlamp, walking at a decent pace on a curvy mountain road, when suddenly I heard the roar of an engine. Maybe not a roar, more like the loud rumblings of a truck that had seen one too many dirt roads. I was walking on the wrong side of the road for walkers, but it was nearly 10 pm, and in this direction, I could ditch off the road, which I would not have on the other side. The truck, which confirmed my dirt road thoughts, came past me. OK, cool, no problem. Then there were reverse lights. If you don't know me know this, I was not going to be taken in that vehicle. I had my poles ready and felt very stable on this dark mountain road. The guy rolled down his window and asked if a race was going on, to which I said yes. In my mind, I was thinking, "Yes, and they have a tracker on me (because we really did), and they know where I am at all times." He then proceeded to ask if I was heading up or down the mountain. Oh, hell no, I am not giving this creepy dude my itinerary for the next 3 hours. I kindly looked at him while moving my pole into a better stabbing position, "I am headed to where my husband is waiting." I then matched on like he wasn't there while he may have asked a few more questions. He finally got a clue and drove by. Thankfully shortly after, I saw my vehicle and safety. I could feel the adrenaline kicking in my veins, which really isn't the best thing on such a long day when you have already been chased by dogs, wanted to fly bike first off a cliff, and struggled to make it down the "death and dying" hill. 

 

As Patrick went through his pit crew procedure and got me a new pack of crackers, I told him about the events. He had noted the truck going by and, other than it being a late night, thought little of it. After affirming that I would go on, Patrick waited in the vehicle at this "intersection" where I was now on the dirt road. I was about a quarter of a mile from my vehicle when the same sound of a dirt road riding engine can through the night. I turned to look back a few times, noting that Patrick was still there. THAT DUDE CAME BACK!!!! Now I know as runners, sometimes we tell stories in a fisherman style, expounding on the danger. But I have no doubt that the dude was NOT just turning around after dropping hot soup for his ailing grandmother. Evidently, seeing the vehicle still there or my woodsy-looking husband, the guy got the message to move on. 

 

Patrick stayed, covering the turn until I could no longer be seen (we didn't know the road was in a condition where he honestly could have followed me). Again, I took to marching along. Thinking I was done with creepy events for the night, I focused on my crackers. Of course, that was short-lived when I saw a weird light up ahead. ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME. How many times can a person have an attempt at kidnapping in one race? Let me take a minute here and explain that as a child of the 80s, there is a fear of white utility vans ingrained in our mindset; you see one, you don't park next to it, you walk by turning your head and body towards it at all times, and you never help find a puppy or accept candy from this van. Back to the dirt road with the creepy white utility van with semi-blacked-out windows (I think because of curtains) that was pulled over just before the turn to the long course (which I had missed the timing to be able to go down that direction). What was weirdly stranger about the van was that there was no noise besides the AC running. The lights were on, but there was no flicker of a TV, no music, nothing that would resemble normal life. I am unsure if a dark van would have been better or a person standing outside waving. I'm pretty sure I would still be writing about the creepy van I saw after the near kidnapping either way. The good news is, everything was fine, and BONUS, it may have motivated me to move a bit faster (at least in my head, I was moving faster). 

 

The end of the dirt road is a curse and a blessing. As in, "Yay, you reached the end of the dirt road," and "boo, you have to climb this damn mountain AGAIN." At this junction, Patrick informed me not to worry because I had already biked up this section and knew what to expect. This, while truthful information, was not uplifting. I smiled anyway for fear of crying. Since Patrick had scoped it out, he knew of two potential stops up the mountain where we could meet. At this point, it wasn't about finishing or not finishing; it was just about encouragement and feeling a little not-alone-ness. 

 

I started my trek up the hillside (the hill sounds so much better than the mountain). I was tired, and everything I attempted to put in my body wanted to come out. The good news is I only threw up once, and it was dark outside, so all you get to know is I only threw up once. Patrick was at our checkpoint a bit later and with a wave and an "I'll see you at the top," I kept walking, fearful stopping at this point meant having to crawl the rest of the way. After this encounter, I was passed by a guy who had come from the long course. And then the final weird thing happened; a car came down the mountain. Now alone, a Honda Civic coming down from the race site on a long race late in the night is not strange. As they passed, I saw a slight waveform in the car and waved back. Again, not strange. But then there were lights behind me, and in the dark and silent night, I knew it was the same vehicle. I was ready to stab at the car or jump off the mountain when a very nice female racer rolled down her window to tell me the top was near and there was a breeze up there. This was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me! She and her car companion offered a few more nice sentiments and then drove up the hill, leaving me again in a bit of darkness, only this time, there was also a bit of light. Yes, yes, the light in my heart for their kind words, but also the light of the state park. Two more turns, and I would be standing in front of the gate (granted, this is not the end, but it is a damn sight closer to the end). 

 

On tired legs, I hauled my exhausted body and incoherent mind up the last of the mountain. There at the finish line stood three people-- the race director, the photographer, and my husband. I had no tears left to cry at this point, but I was ever thankful for each of them being there at midnight o'3 when I finally took my final steps to be done with this mountain. Patrick hugged me, and I felt my body break apart at that moment. I was finally done, I was finally safe, I was finally able to quit, and there for it all was Patrick. How he manages to love me through the stupid things I want to do (and maybe do again) is nothing short of amazing. 

 

 

 

 

 

The night concluded in a comfortable bed... well, except for the part where I wasn't done throwing up. Turns out my stomach was the one part of my body still letting me know it was actively revolting from the body union and not in agreement with allowing bygones to be bygones.

 

Now, you may ask, "Teresa, will you do it again?" Still, a month later, my answer is, "I don't know." I want to do it again to do better and to complete the full distance since there are 13 miles left on the run that I still need to overcome. But then flashes of the dark thoughts pop into my brain, and I don't know how I feel about meeting the mountain again. Maybe this was enough to push through....but maybe, maybe there is more on this mountain to be discovered. 

 

I can trust one thing... there will be something else, somewhere else, sometime in the future.  

Forgot to mention this in the original publishing of this article. 

Total distances:

Swim 2,571 yd

Bike 108.5 MI with 10,143 ft of climb. My watch died at one point but I can tell you that for 11.87 of the back Mountain miles there was 2,363 ft of climb.

Run 12.46 MI with 2,124 ft of climb.

 

Ending note: Our support crews were what kept us going. For me, without Patrick there, I would have ended my day on the backside of Cheaha Mountain. The support crew is vital with not only nutrition when you can't think but with kind words and laughs. There wasn't a single stop that Paula and Patrick (and eventually) Fitz weren't laughing and cheering. It didn't matter that I was walking my bike. It didn't matter that I was crying. It didn't matter that I was cursing and apologizing. They just raised their hands up, cheered, and smiled, and told me some story that would make me laugh. We all create a tribe to get us through life, and I am ever, ever thankful to have met my triathlon/running/cycling/swimming tribe; they are amazing people doing amazing things. 

Photo credit to Greg Gelmis, who takes amazing photos, especially in water shots which you don't often get at events.