Anxiety is a real thing.
Triathlons are not my happy, comfortable place.
I’m not a swimmer and I’m not a cyclist, but I get FOMO and when friends say they are signing up to Husky again, well… you can guess the ending to that sentence.
Last year, for a bit of a back story, I did the Sprint distance (750m swim, 20k bike and 5k run) which was a perfect distance for me as not only a beginner but also as it was my first few weeks back to running after a stress fracture in my femoral neck (top of my thigh bone). So the rehab of being allowed to swim, then cycle, then run was the perfect way to get into the head space of a triathlon. The event went a
As a highly strung, anxious person in general (more on that later), the mental side of ocean swimming and road riding was much more of a mental battle than the physical side of things. I have learnt through swimming laps that actually I’m not too terrible at swimming and the distance isn’t the problem, being in the open water with undiscovered prehistoric sea monsters, is. Something about this environment brings out every single irrational thought, fear and insecurity, and for anyone who has had a panic attack in the water will know, its not the place you want to have one.
Riding a road bike seems to have a different set of hurdles, traffic, cleats and downhill seem to present a decent trifecta of reasons not to ride on the northern beaches, which when combined with busy roads to ride on, gives an anxious human like myself every excuse to keep my bike firmly on the stationary trainer at home!
Not being one to back down from a challenge, and seemingly having a talent for making life as difficult as possible for myself, I completed the Sprint distance in 2020 and actually enjoyed myself. I knew going into the Classic Course where I needed to up my training and what the main hurdles were going to be. I prepared as best I could and felt so ready for Sunday.
The Husky Tri weekend is not one to be missed. Getting a share house with friends, all doing different distances, some first timers, some there for redemption, the kids had races, it’s a weekend for everyone. Saturday we got to watch the kids do their races, my amazing friend Jenn smash her first ever tri and finishing with a huge smile on her face with energy in the tank. Coaching her was a dream, seeing her passion and dedication has been so inspiring to me! She finished in 1hr 38!
Also in the Sprint was my other equally amazing friend Ash finally get to toe the line after a chronic injury, surgery, pulling out of last years race and then months of recovery, contracting cover a month before and overcoming everything to annihilate her goal by almost 15 minutes and finishing in 1hr 31!
Three of the hubby’s got together and did the team relay together, and I think can safely say had a ball (maybe they would admit they had fun!) and exceeded their own expectations.
The Sunday brings the longer distances and myself, Sarah and Ash’s husband Brett were all taking on the Classic distance - 1km swim, 60km bike & 10k run. To give some context of my expectations, my fasted 1km time in the pool was 21 mins, I knocked of 30kms on the M7 cycleway in 1hr 9 mins the weekend before and every run off the bike I’ve done in training has been around a 5min/km pace.
Sarah and Brett both did brilliantly (obviously!) every time I saw Sarah she was smiling, which made me so happy to see. She deserves it so much, she is such a talented all rounder. I’m so proud to be her friend and so grateful she talks me into these crazy ideas.
My story was slightly different. I felt great the whole lead up, I was was hydrated, well fuelled, relaxed, prepped, good to go. We didn’t start until 9.30 so the morning was cruisey, no stupid o’clock alarms or getting ready by torch light in the dark!
Got down to check the bikes in and get our transition area prepped, no dramas, race briefing, check, good to go…. Down to the beach we all wander, nearly 800 men and women in varying forms of swimwear congregated on the hill above the start line. Elite Energy did a rolling start as they did last year due to Covid, which was great as it meant we went into the water in 2’s, no mad rush of bodies all scrambling for a seamless water entry or poll position!
Sarah and I hugged just before we were given the signal to Go and we ran the beach to the water. After a few meters of running in to about waist height I dove in and as soon as the water hit my face, PANIC. I felt it shoot through my entire body like electricity and had to fight with every fibre of my being to stop myself from flying out of the water back to the safety of shore. I told myself to relax, to find an easy rhythm and just let myself settle in. I tried to focus on the bubbles in front of me to navigate but the water was incredible murky and visibility was almost nothing. I knew this would be the case from comments made by everyone from the day before, so was prepared for this. I looked up every few breaths to make sure I was heading out in the right direction to the buoy, with every breath the panic surging more and more through my body.
I had to breath every other stroke, which isn’t normal for me. I tried to make myself breath every 3rd of 4th but I just didn’t have enough oxygen in my body, I couldn’t get air into my lungs. Every time I took a breath in, it just wasn’t enough, my chest got tight, my arms and legs turning to jelly and I felt myself sinking deeper into the anxiety. I told myself all the things I normally would, focus on form, just let everything slow down. I turned to breast stroking when that didn’t work, to give myself a chance to just breath freely, but this only seemed to make myself feel worse, I could hear myself hyperventilating and felt the lower half of my body sink into the water and I felt like I was barely even treading water.
Knowing how much energy I was wasting I tried to go back to freestyle, it was fruitless. Sarah was just over my shoulder and she checked in on me. Sadly though there was nothing she could do for me. Helpless in the water feeling like I was moments away from complete hysteria I spotted a volunteer on a life saving board and I managed to get myself there to hold on for a few breaths. I eventually made it to the first buoy and breakstroked around it. These congestion points sent me into a frenzy and anything I had done to regain any control was again, lost. By this point my legs were on fire with adrenaline and they felt like two dead weights in the water. If you’d asked me to stand up with that feeling in my legs I would have collapsed, they were complete jelly and had absolutely nothing in them.
Along the back section there was another volunteer on a board and I had to stop again here, along with another swimmer. By this point, just under half way, I was fighting with everything not to completely loose it. My hands were pins and needles, my chest pounding and breathing was totally out of control. I tried to take slower breaths, but as anyone with anxiety knows, focusing on your breathing tends to make it worse. A more useful way of helping someone through a panic attack is to get them to focus on their senses, things they can feel, see, smell, hear and taste. It grounds them, takes their mind off of their breathing and starts to bring them off that metaphorical cliff edge. But I felt like I was drowning, the sensation of the water around me wasn’t the comforting, enlivening, freeing feeling that people usually associate with water. To me it felt oppressive, dark, relentless and overpowering.
My saving grace was that volunteer on the board, Amanda. She saw the fear in my eyes, she heard my breath and panic. She stayed with me, every stroke. She encouraged me to keep going. “We’re going to swim for 2 minutes and then take a break” My throat was tight and my goggles were filled with tears, but I knew how badly I wanted to keep going. I knew I didn’t want this beat me. But I felt my body failing. Even through all this I knew how much I was taking out of my body. I felt utterly depleted and like I’d already failed. All my expectations slipping away beneath me into the dark murky water.
By the time I rounded the second buoy and was headed back to shore I knew I was pretty much the last swimmer out there. Feeling alone, empty and with no breath in my body I tried to focus on the pull of the shore and my friends and family standing there waiting there for me, helpless. I knew they knew. I should have been on shore 15 minutes prior. As I neared the beach I barely had the energy to stand. I could see Amanda The Angel pull off to the left on her board but I knew I had to thank her. I ran/fell towards her and hugged her before starting up the beach, defeated, My legs almost gave way and I stumbled up the stairs, nothing in them to run. Last year I remember flying up them, full of pride for what I had just accomplished This year I stopped half way and almost collapsed.
I remember Matt’s hand on my back and him suddenly being there. I don’t remember the conversation, only that his presence got me up the transition area. It was practically empty. Surely I was last. Suddenly I remembered to tick my watch over. Ooops. Pulling myself through the mud pit that was the grass I could barely read the numbers for the racks of bikes. Eventually finding mine I made sure I did all the things I knew I should, fuel, water, helmet, socks and shoes. Bike. Let’s go. Trying to find the energy to push my bike out on to the road and fight back tears and breath, felt fruitless. I knew I had nothing. I reached the Mount Bike Line and struggled to balance and lift my leg. My only moment of clarity here was to hit my watch over to Ride. My legs hardly moved.
The short out and back away from the bike course gave me time to clip my shoes in and find a gear I could actually peddle in. I was trying to find air in my lungs, telling myself we were out of the water, it was ok now. My throat was raw and my body feeling the full force of being in shock.
Ultra running is all about problem solving. So I tried to think logically and problem solve. What was happening to my body? A massive kick of adrenaline, yup, I know what shock does and the affects. It’s really a time game. I didn’t have time. I was now facing a 60km ride on legs that felt like they’d tried to outrun a sabre tooth tiger.
Two and a half hours of pins and needs in my hands and feet, every up hill was like facing Everest. My legs had nothing. I have no other way of describing it. I saw Sarah on the first out and back which felt nice, she was, of course, smiling, which I loved. Again, using my problem solving skills, I talk to myself, force myself to smile, try to take slower deeper breaths. I tried to use the downhill to make up time. As time ticked on I saw fewer and fewer people on course I felt alone. I fought the mental demons. The bike course is two laps of 30kms. Coming back into Husky I was met with my cheer squad and saw hoe much they wanted me to be ok. How much they cheered to try and bring me hope. I knew they wanted me to be ok. I had to be ok for them.
Out for the second loop I knew what I was facing again. Each hill got harder, the roads emptier. The feeling of pins and needles in my hands get worse as the oxygen in my flood decreased further, being directed to my heart and lungs, body in absolute survival mode. Making my legs turn over became a mighty battle of heart and mind. As I hit the 50km mark, I was at the final turnaround point. This is just a point in the road, marshalled and barricaded off to traffic approaching from the opposite direction. Bad timing meant I arrived here at the same time as a driver, who thought they simply couldn’t wait for me to u-turn in front of them and came flying towards the three event marshalls in the middle of the road. I saw how fast they were driving and could tell weren’t planning on stopping.
One Marshall pretty much there himself in front of the car as I was rounding the Turn Here cone and tried to brake with almost zero function in my hands. My bike slid out from under me, managed to unclip on foot to steady myself but it was fruitless. My leg gave way and I landed full force on my right side, my tyre finishing inches from the car. Another marshall grabbed my bike from on top of me and the third helped me up and to the side of the road. I could hardly bare weight on my right leg and my hand was throbbing. Doing a full body scan and realising I think I was physically ok, putting my chain back on and climbing back on I stumbled back up the road.
The last 10km felt like I was just draining every last drop of whatever was left of my body. I came past my cheer squad almost in tears and all I could think was how am I going to run now? Reminding myself to unclip to avoid another stack I approached the dismount line with caution and the events guys here could see something was wrong. They asked if I was cramping and I blurted out what had happened as I hobbled into the transition area. As I worked through changing shoes and racking my bike another event team member came to talk to me. I don’t know if she was a medic or not but they vibe I got from her was definitely that of trying to figure out if I was well enough to continue. As I put on my shoe, took a gel and a swig of water I tried to make my legs work. They didn’t. I gave myself until the Run start line to walk and as I tried to move, nothing happened. Every step was agony. I couldn’t feel my legs through the pins and needles, my breath left me again. Sheer panic rushed back through my body as I realised there was going to be no saving grace today. My last hope was just to finish, in whatever capacity I could.
As I moved through the first kilometer, I saw Matt appear like a beacon of support and love. I cannot express how this moment felt, through everything else, knowing he was there meant everything. I don’t want to know what he thought when he saw me. He walked with me and I said something about anxiety and the car, the state my body was in, that I didn’t want to stop. As we moved together we saw Sarah. She saw me and she told me to RUN. It’s the firmest I have ever heard her talk to me. All I could muster in response was ‘Great job hun”.
Moving at a shuffle, some running and a lot of walking, my body slowly gave way to itself. I don’t remember much of the run. I think lack of oxygen due to my inability to breath just started to shut things down. One amazing woman lent mer her inhaler, then I coughed and vomited, cried and lost all control. Matt tried to console me but really, what could he say?
I knew if I didn’t stand up and keep moving I was done. I started walking again. This was going to be my race. Survival. Battling my own body, running with a vice around my throat. I stumbled often. I put my hands out to feel the leaves, the trucks of trees, trying hopelessly to ground myself just enough to be able to keep moving. Matt was behind me, talking me through every step. I lost all concept of time.
We finally reached the turnaround. Matt had gone ahead to the medic there, he tried to stop me, but I knew I couldn’t. It was only 5km. I had to finish. We started back. Another medic, on the bike, Matt flagged him down. He followed me and tried to talk to me. I had no words. My fear and anxiety grew with the sense that there were people trying to make me stop. My hands cramped shut, my nails digging into my palms. I couldn’t open them to drink from the cups at the water station. Matt had to hold the cup to my mouth for me to drink. As my breathing got worse, my jaw started to clench, the sounds of my breathing took over every thought as I felt myself drifting further and further away like a nightmare.
I don’t know when it happened but my son Finn appeared on his bike. Seeing him filled me with so much sadness that he would see his mum like this. That I’d failed him. I wasn’t strong, I couldn’t console him. Then Jenn appeared. She talked to me, from what I can remember about the things I could feel, hear and see. We inched closer to the finish and although I knew I would finish, the feelings in my arms and legs were gone and the anxiety of a finish chute was building in my mind. As much as I wanted to finish, I wanted it to be empty. I didn’t want people I wanted the ground to swallow me and disappear. Social anxiety is crippling and I was headed straight into the fire.
But the urge to finish was stronger. I stepped into the finishers chute and knew it was nearly over. I started seeing faces I knew, the people who had stood by and waited for me all day. I felt such sorrow for them, wanted to apologise for them wasting their day. I saw my younger son, River, waiting to run his mum down the final few meters across the finish line. He’s 5, he had no concept of what had happened, he saw me, he smiled. So proud of his mum. So much love. We ran together. I couldn’t hold his hand, mine were clenched shut like a vice. We crossed the line. I fell. Collapsed. Finished.
I cried, I coughed, I vomited. River’s voice somewhere in my head asking if I was ok. Medics arrived, Sarah was there, her hands on me. Then I heard Matt’s voice and then it went still. I don’t remember really much until being in the medical tent.
As I write this and it all comes back I’m still filled with raw emotion. It’s not the race report I wanted to be writing. So why? A couple of reasons. Firstly, anxiety is a real, tangible thing. It is not controllable and it affects the seemingly most outgoing, bubbly people. I want those who also experience anxiety to know it’s ok to share, to be vulnerable. Its not easy, and I’m learning too, but I wouldn’t have survived yesterday if I hadn’t been open about what was happening to my body.
Secondly, to try and figure out what happened. That’s the frustrating part of it all, the why. I wasn’t stressed, it came from no where. Without a why, what do I work on? How do I stop it from happening again and how can I trust my body not do it again without understanding what went wrong. I don’t have answers yet. Hopefully they will come.
Finally, will I do it again? Of course. My redemption run will come. We don’t let the fear control us.
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