The alarm fulfills its function by sounding promptly at six a.m., announcing it’s time for me to get up and walk. I fulfill my function by fumbling for the snooze button and hiding back under the covers.
Except, these days it’s not so easy to reason my way out of my morning exercise. I used to qualify my laziness as needing my beauty sleep, as the world seemed a much more beautiful place later in the day. But nowadays I’m more aware than ever of the empty space beside me. For the seventeen years we’ve been living together, this is how a normal morning is. Me waking up alone in bed, my husband already out for his daily six-mile run. But these days that empty spot holds a lot more significance.
You see, once upon a time, not too long ago, I accompanied Wayne to the Great Floridian Triathlon. One of his lifelong ambitions was to participate in an Ironman-length triathlon, which that was. If you’re not familiar with such an event, it equates to a 2.4 mile swim, followed by a 112 mile bike portion, and ending with a 26.2 mile run. All in one day.
If you’re like me, wondering why anyone’s goal in life would be to test their physical endurance in such a race, imagine them doing it on zero sleep.
Wayne’s always up for a challenge, but I guess racing to complete 140.6 miles in seventeen hours wasn’t challenging enough. (The race started at seven a.m. In order to officially finish, race contestants had to cross the finish line by midnight.) So, instead of getting a good night’s sleep, he paced, sweated, and fretted the night away.
Why?
Good question.
Everyone had tried to warn him how hilly the bike course was, especially a bear of a stretch called Sugarloaf Mountain. But we grew up in Colorado. Florida have hills like the Rocky Mountains? Please! Thus it was we never scoped out the course until the day before the race (when we saw for ourselves all the hills, including the very steep Sugarloaf Mountain), and thus it was he never trained for substantial inclines.
Race day was a nerve-racking affair for the both of us. For him, because he had to pull from somewhere deeper than he ever had before if he hoped to survive the day. For me, because I saw the doubt in his eyes. I knew how much this had meant to him, and I knew how devastated he’d feel if he’d have to quit without finishing.
My day was long and spent anxiously watching as he participated in the three events. He looked strong after the swim, perhaps because the brisk seventy-degree water had partially revived him. He didn’t look so good as he started out on the bike. To say he turned a tad green would not be inaccurate.
I didn’t see him after that for another seven hours. Every time a siren
sounded I was sure it was racing off to rescue him. But eventually he pedaled into the transition area, thumbs up, at half past three that afternoon. He’d done it! Sugarloaf Mountain and all! The only thing left was the marathon-distance run…
On his first loop around the running course he stopped to talk as he caught his breath. It was clear he was exhausted. He was so close (relatively speaking, he still had a good thirteen miles ahead of him) to finishing and he had made it this far. Could he really find the resolve to make it the rest of the way?
He seemed to think he could, so, breath caught, off he went again.
Five hours later, after a total of fifteen hours on the course, here came Wayne. Sprinting the last few hundred yards even.
That’s why, when the alarm sounds these days, I groan but allow myself to only hit the snooze once. When it sounds again I haul my keister out of bed. After all, I have no good excuses anymore. The world’s beautiful even before the sun is up, most mornings I can claim to have had at least a good seven hours of shut eye, and I usually only plan to walk three miles.
It’s not like I’m tackling an Ironman on zero sleep.
“Courtney Mroch is a Pets Blogger. Read more of her blogs here.
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