WHY TRI?

I was having dinner at HOLLIE'S house last weekend and eventually the conversation led to my triathlon. Probably because I shouted "I'm doing a triathlon!" when I walked in the door. Of course HOLLIE knows I'm competing in The Thon and her mom knew (because I met her mom the day before and shouted "I'm doing a triathlon!" within moments of meeting her) and a couple of other people knew, but HOLLIE's dad, Mr. HOLLIE, did not know. And so he asked some pretty typical questions. The first being something about the distance. After I gave him the stats, he asked the next logical question: Are you nervous? And I explained very clearly that yes, I was, sort of, I mean, sometimes, but then again I'm excited, but of course, that can be nerves, but it's not like I'm trying to win, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous, in fact I am, sort of, I mean, not really, but kind of. Then I ate a deviled egg and when I came to (those were some good deviled eggs) I explain that mostly I was looking forward to it – except the run. I wasn't looking forward to the running because, as you know, I don't like to run. I explained this is detail – the fact that I don't run, don't like to run, don't like the concept of running and don't like to run. Yes, again.

Then came a question that I don't get often but was pretty logical given the power with which I explained my dislike of running. Mr. HOLLIE asked, "Well then, why are you doing a triathlon if you hate running so much?"

That Mr. HOLLIE, he's got a way of putting things.

It took me about ½ a second to decide if I was going to tell him (and Mrs. HOLLIE, Nanny HOLLIE and Pa-Paw HOLLIE) the reason I'm doing the tri. Because there is a reason, a real reason. Not just a "for the challenge of it" or a "because it was there" Edmund Hillary type reason but a real, solid reason. A reason that I spent entire agonizing runs trying to uncover. A reason I pondered and examined with every painful, lung-bursting stride. A reason that goes past the competition of it, past the enjoyment of it, past the addicitive nature of competition. All the way back to the days I was laying around growing wild, mutated, uncontrolled cells in my body. Cells that were trying to kill me.

(YOU: Oh goodie, she's going to talk about cancer again.)

There were a lot of things I disliked about my cancer. There were some good things – renewed friendships, getting to see what I looked like bald, not having to shave my pits – just to name a few. But there were a lot of not-so-good things. Too many to name, actually. One of the biggest sucks for me was this whole idea of having to fight the cancer. It is something people tell you right away when they hear you've been diagnosed. "You're in for a fight!" they say. And "Give it hell!" and "You need to really fight this thing!" and I get that, I really do, but I hated it. I hated the whole idea of it. I hated that I had to go to war against my body. That I had to poison it. That I had to do really mean and hideous things to it. Then again it was trying to kill me, so I guess we were sort of even.

Up until that point, I'd always felt like I had a really good relationship with my body. My body and I were really tight – not in the I-look-great-in-hotpants way but in the I-know-when-I'm-ovulating way. Like my body and I were in sync. We were in harmony. Ebony and ivory – er, ivory and ivory. We were in it to win it. The Dynamic Duo. And then, suddenly, we weren't. Suddenly, we went from being all Peaches and Herb to all Ike and Tina. My body went haywire. Turned against me. Took all the good things I'd ever done for it – and pooed all over them. My body basically looked me in the eyes, put its thumbs in its ears and gave me the biggest, wettest, pffffflllllbiest raspberry ever.

And I was left blinking and confused.

It took many, many months for me to figure out if I was at war with a killer. There were many times, well into chemo, when I would be sitting bald and weak and have it dawn on me that Holy Shit – I have CANCER! Those moments were frightening and heart lurching – the exact reverse feeling I've had all my life when I've woken up from a truly horrendous dream and realized I didn't actually kill someone, wasn't pregnant out of wedlock, hadn't accidentally had sex with the neighbor or wasn't responsible for a misfortunate understanding that led to mass genocide. The waking realization of those moments was the same intensity of the realization of my diagnosis. The intensity was the same. The emotion was quite different. Different like cheesecake and a kick in the nuts is different.

Of course, there are only two ways to deal with a realization that intense and that stark.

1) fiercely ignore it or

2) fiercer-ly face it.

The lack of hair and the puking made it a little difficult to ignore. So that left number two. Aptly named. I faced it. I fought it. I told my body to f-off if it really thought I would go that easily. Really, who did my body think it was anyway? Was it new here? Did it not realize who it was messing with? This was ME for crying out loud. Had it forgotten? Apparently. Apparently it needed a little reminder. And so I reminded the rebellious child, the bitter teenager I was harboring, just exactly who I was. Basically I spun around, looked my body right in its cancerous face, narrowed my eyes and whispered two words, "Bring it."

Important side note: there is a song by P.O.D. that I listen to over and over again when I am training for this triathlon. It's called "BOOM". And there is a line in that totally awesome song that is repeated over and over again with increasing intensity.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got? I'll take your best shot.

Is that all you got???? I'll take your best shot … I'LL TAKE YOUR BEST SHOT!

BOOM!

If you watched me train to that song, you'd be convinced I wrote it. It's probably obvious who and what I'm thinking of during that song. And why.

Is that all you got?

You'd think I penned those words myself.

I'll take your best shot

You'd look at me training, you'd listen in on my ipod and you'd raise your eyebrows in recognition of something profound.

Here comes the BOOM.

Eventually, the body backed off and got back in line. Backed off. Capitulated. What choice did it have? Eventually, the body saw the error of its ways. Eventually it shrugged its shoulders and dug its toe in the earth and apologized with its hunchy posture. Oops, it said. My bad. Never mind. Friends?

I'm not one to hold a grudge. Spit/Shake, it was all behind us.

But to be quite honest, we've never really gotten back to where we were before all of this happened. Ever since then, I think my body and I have only been tolerating each other. We've been like two lovers after a fight–without the make-up sex. We've been tiptoeing around. Nodding politely when the other has something to say or contribute. We've endured each other's presence. By and by we've abided. And that's the all of it. Which is fine.

Fine, but not okay.

I miss me. The whole me. The united me. The oneness I shared with myself at one time. And I want me back.

So I don't know. Maybe I've seen too many of those movies where two opposing forces come together against a common enemy or a common goal. Maybe I've read too many Jane Austin novels where the one you hated ends up being the one you marry. Maybe I've watched too many after school specials and tween movies where foes become friends, but somehow, someway I just believe that if my body and I can do this thing … this crazy, senseless, what-are-you, nuts? thing called a triathlon .. and if we can do it together – because believe me, it's going to take at LEAST both of us to finish this thing – then in some way I will have shown myself that we're back. That we can hurt and push and strain and we can do it together and we can do it side-by-side and we can hate the difficulty without hating each other. That together we can girl-up and do this.

And when we cross that finish line, my body and me, it will be because together we figured out how to run without throwing up in the ditch and together we rode our bike in high freakin' winds and together we figured out how to overcome leg cramps and side-stitches and together we swam lap after lap after lap in a warm rehab pool and together we sweated and stunk and ground out one more mile, one more lap, one more time around the track. Together. And that's why I'm doing the triathlon. Because by God, I have to.

There's really no finish line when you beat cancer. No end of the road – the road, in fact, keeps going. That is, after all, the point. But there is a finish line in a triathlon. A very distinct, a very clear and well-marked finish line. And I guess I need a finish line.

And a start line too.

Here comes the BOOM.

Comments

[The Hub]

In the words of Yoda: "Tri not. Do... or do not. There is no tri."

Ready or not, haha! How you like me now?

Dooooooooooooooos it!

[HOLLIE!]

What she didn't mention is how inspirational that answer was to my mom....who is currently also at war with the cancer in her body. Thanks, friend, for always sharing the truth. Give that tri hell on Sunday!

[Erin]

How did you do? I know it was not a "do not"!