I have an Ironman hangover. I’m sitting on my couch in a cold sweat, after spending 14+ restless hours in bed fighting every incarnation of illness. Headache, nausea, stomach knots, and muscle spasms.
From going through this once before, I know that these next few days will be my figurative morning after. But not only do I feel like a shell of my physical self, there’s this persistent grey that feels all too familiar.
It was the perfect party. From accommodation, to food, to the company we were privileged enough to keep, everything about Ironman Los Cabos carried that happy-to-be-alive, in-the-moment aura. I had so many friends and teammates racing, and our good friends Rob and Barbara Markoff made a special trip just to cheer me on and take me out for a celebratory dinner—something I’ll never forget. Race-wise I had some minor disappointments (a slow swim despite all the hard work, dealing with some chest pain on the run, and my first true brush with a Kona slot), but I was proud of a performance that took me to new levels of myself as an athlete and as a person.
I had my red dress on, the music was pumping, and the drinks flowing. After the race there were bubble baths and breakfast buffets, Coronas on the beach and luxurious mid-morning naps. Nothing could steal this buzz.
Until, home. Bed was the last place I wanted to be, with work and packing and life to be lived. But my body won’t have it any other way.
We’ve all had those times where we’ve overindulged in something we love. Red wine and gin are two particular culprits that come to mind for me—after too much I simply can’t stomach them for a few weeks afterwards. It’s the same way with training right now. The love has been drowned out by the intensity and I need a rest.
I’ll write a real race report in a few days, but I need a few days to let it go, or sink in, or maybe both at the same time. I’m not sure what the right metaphor is.
All I want right now is my bed.