Best-laid Plans

As I headed out for my morning run, I met up with my neighbor, Mary, also a runner. We stopped for a moment to chat, commiserating on the weather, our ailments of the week, and discussing upcoming races. “There’s still time to register for the run on Saturday,” she tells me. “I’m sure if you sent it in today, they’d still take it as early.”

“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t do early registration.”

“Ah, you’re more of an impulse kind of person…”

“No. No I’m not. Not at all.”

No, when I first began racing, and I mean really racing, not just doing a run here and there for fun when it was in my own backyard, I would plan my entire summer (or season – The Season) around my race schedule. As the sport publications came rolling in, I would be checking out the schedules in the back, logging onto race web sites, using search engines to find more obscure races. I would plan which race to do when, how it would compliment the races to come, and how to work in training to build for each successive challenge. Impulse? No way.

Any other plans I had for summer had to fit around this schedule. If friends asked me to join them for a festival or concert or other summer fun activity, I first had to consult The Schedule. I could never be out past 9:00pm, as I needed my sleep to be up and training by 5:30am. Vacations were actually planned in accordance with races. If we went anywhere new it was because there was a race. Of course the great thing with triathlons is the need for water and long expanses of roadway, so most of the places we ventured to were really quite beautiful, near lakes, oceans, forests, mountains. Some of the sprints allowed for visits to cities, where not as much space is required, such as the Danskin Tri in Seattle.

And in keeping with all of this careful planning, I was a master of pre-registration. I had a system for always making the cut-off date, marking on the calendar the day I needed to send my payment for the race coordinators to receive it on time, or to make the postmark date. For series races, I had the fax number programmed in the speed dial of my fax at work, which I would dutifully follow-up each time with a phone call to be sure they received my fax. Impulse? No, now I think we’re bordering on neurotic.

So, what happened? When did this all change to “I don’t do early registration”? The year I planned to do “it”—the big one, an Ironman.

I was ready. I had raced for three years, completing two half Ironmans with qualifying times. I’d had one bad year in there where I suffered knee injuries, but had tacked a successful year on top of it to erase its memory. I was ready. I scoured the races, there now being so many more choices for the Ironman-length. I found one close to home that hadn’t closed for registration yet, but requiring some travel and accommodation plans. Oh goodie, a vacation!

I read all the preliminary information, studied the course maps, read participant comments on list serves and group pages. I was psyched. To better set myself for the challenge and to assure my place, I pre-registered for the race well in advance. I told people I was going to do it, talking it up with close friends and colleagues to gain their support and encouragement for my efforts. I was doing everything the pros advise to “get yourself into the race.” And then the t-shirt came – with the race logo on the front and the letters boldly emblazoned on the back “IN TRAINING.” I was so proud. My training soared. I was peaked both mentally and physically. I was doing everything right.

Then, two months before the race – you can guess this, right? – injury. A pinched disk in my upper back, between the shoulder blades. Every time I turned my head, the dagger twisted in my back. When I ran it wasn’t bad, but when I stopped and put my arms down, fireworks shot through my spine. I lost feeling and motor control in my right arm on several occasions. Swimming was out of the questions. Biking was the only activity that didn’t cause pain.

Well, three doctor visits later, I’m in PT for the remainder of summer, The Season. My psyche is Swiss cheese, my ego is crushed, and I’m all but on the verge of diving into the black hole of depression. I know The Race is out of the question. It has become an impossibility. Unreachable. Unattainable.

I look back over the race info. I can still ask for a refund, at least $150. I hammer out a letter and send it e-mail. A week later, no response. I call the number and leave two messages. No response. I send one more e-mail. This time, a response, telling me to send a letter through traditional post. I do so, and receive a response that my request has come too late to receive a refund (One week too late – do I argue this with them? No.), but they will carry over my registration for next year.

I put the letter away in a box of race memorabilia. I go to PT twice a week for three months until I just can’t stand to go anymore. Going to PT reminds me that I am an injured person, not whole, not able to compete. I have to tell friends, family, colleagues of my injury and inability to compete. Their disappointment for me only adds to my misery.

My recovery is slow. It’s not until March the following year that I even consider the upcoming season. It’s then I decide I will never again pre-register for a race again. Yeah, it costs more (and can you please tell me why it costs so much more sometimes? Really, is it $20 more worth of work to register a person the day of instead of the day before?), but I’m already out $150 on pre-registering, so I figure I’ll late register until the extra cost matches that, then reassess my approach.

I can remember an old racing pal of mine, Frank, who I would see stroll in the morning of a race and fill out the forms. He was a veteran, having seeing the Big Island numerous times, always pulling a first for his age group in local venues. Back then, I just couldn’t understand how he could wait until the last minute to register, someone as experienced as him should have it all planned out, right? Now I know, as do many other seasoned racers, that you don’t know what’s going to happen from race to race. It can’t be that neatly planned every time, as much as you may want it to be. I suppose it only takes one injury, one incident to remind us that we’re human. We can’t always count on making life plans based on the health and well-being of our bodies, or at least we have to expect there will be times when those best-laid plans will fall through, especially when we continue to push our bodies to extremes and beyond limits. That’s just what athletes do, but then we have to be willing to pay – literally.

This is the lesson I have learned. And what have I to show for it? Well, a $150 t-shirt for starters.