Accomplishing the Impossible

September 12, 2009. A day I anxiously awaited and yet dreaded with more mixed emotion than I can imagine most will experience at any given point in their life. This was my baby. The baby I was told I’d never have. The baby I had to work for harder than I’ve worked for anything up to this point in life. No one will ever fully understand what this day means to me, but that is fine. I didn’t do it for them. I did it for me.

It all actually starts a few years prior to that beautiful September morning. To be exact it was six years and five months prior, to the day, that I was found curled up on the sidewalk in front of my work in fetal position, right knee deformed beyond all recognition, fading in and out of consciousness due to the extreme pain screaming its way through my body. An ambulance ride with 3 failed en route IV attempts later, I was sitting in the ER of the local hospital with morphine making its way through my veins and a doctor hovering over my leg trying to figure out what had happened. The conclusion: my kneecap had decided to relocate itself to the back end of my knee, taking all attached tendons and ligaments with it and detaching a few of them in the process. In other words, PAIN! The doctor gave me another shot of morphine and then uttered the words that still to this day make me sick to my stomach, “Hold on to somethin’ sweetheart, this is going to hurt a bit.” A nauseating, grinding sound and searing pain followed as he straightened my leg and forced my kneecap back into place. In the short amount of time it took him to wrap my knee with an ace bandage, my knee had swelled to the size of a cantaloupe, and barely fit in an XXL stabilizing brace made for someone weighing 350 pounds or more. Not a promising sight for someone full of big dreams of an active future. Even more discouraging was what I heard from the doctor I saw the next week: No more running. No jumping. No snowboarding, waterskiing, rock climbing, hiking, sports of any kind, etc. Nothing that could put my knee in jeopardy. Ever again. I was given a list of don’ts that seemed endless, including things as simple as kneeling or standing for extended periods of time. I was heart broken.

(before the first surgery)


(after first surgery)

Three extensive knee surgeries (two repairing the right knee, and one preventative on the left), multiple titanium screws, metal plates, millions of stitches, staples, and a growing number of scars later, you reach my final diagnosis: Your knees will never be the same. As weird as it sounds, I had to re-learn pretty much everything from the knees down. My legs post-surgery were severely weakened and in a completely different position than they had been the previous 18-20 years of my life, meaning what once came so naturally; walking, running, jumping, dancing… was now totally foreign. It seemed I would be starting at square two. Not square one by any means, but definitely close to it!!

Fast forward 6 years and 5 months from that fateful day. Shivering from the cold and shaking with anticipation, I stand on the dock of Yuba Lake, looking out at the challenge that lies ahead of me. The giant orange buoys are set, marking the course for the swim; it looks a lot longer than what I had imagined. As I’m psyching myself up to swim it, the surface of the glass like water is broken by a fish jumping up to catch a bite to eat and my stomach drops to my feet. The main subject I’ve been trying to keep my mind away from since my alarm went off at 2:30 AM is fish. Not the little fish I just caught a glimpse of, I’m talking the big fish that grow larger than four feet in length, are quite territorial, and call this lake home. Not only am I terrified of water I can’t see through, but add in a fish lovingly called “the fresh water barracuda” and it’s almost enough to make me turn around and drive home. Three buoys, a triangle course… If I can stick with the other swimmers, the fish will be scared away and I won’t have anything to worry about. I just need to stick with the pack, simple as that.








But things can’t ever be that simple!! My strong start and plan to stay with the pack is thwarted not far into the swim when the zip cord of my wet suit is caught by a stray appendage of another swimmer, tugging the rubbery suit back against my neck, and setting in motion the chain reaction that almost ends up being the death of me. My panic intensifies every second I’m unable to breathe, and I revert to what I was taught at my very first swimming lesson as a little girl: flip over and float until you’re able to swim again. I try to backstroke away from the others while pulling at the front of my wetsuit, pleading for it to loosen its ever tightening grip on my windpipe. Along with the panic of being unable to breathe, an additional panic sets in as my goggles started to fog. Goggles that are guaranteed never to fog, $35 well spent apparently. I aimlessly float mid water, struggling to breathe and unable to see and frustration gets the best of me. Blindly grasping at the cord dangling in the water behind me I unzip my wetsuit, rejoicing as the oxygen finally reaches my lungs. I quickly learn, however, that this was not a smart move on my part when water starts filling up the wetsuit. The more water added, the deeper and deeper my body gets pulled into the unknown. Struggling to even keep my head above water and not being able to see whatsoever sends me into a panic like I’ve never felt. I pull the goggles off my eyes, instantly feeling the gritty water mixing in with what had to be tears of fear, frustration, and defeat. I look back and realize I’m only about a hundred meters from shore. I look ahead and realize I have more to swim than I feel possible, as the panic alone has drained me of all energy. The pack I planned to stay with was already turning the corner of the first buoy, easily another two or three hundred meters ahead of where I am. An overwhelming urge to quit devastates the adrenaline rush I had all morning, and thoughts of “I shouldn’t be able to do this anyways, I’m crazy for even trying” and “No one thought I could, I guess they were right” rush through my head and I get ready to swim back to shore and admit defeat. I take one last deep breath and exhale in an audible sob. I tread water for a moment to clear my eyes and regain my breath and as I prepare myself to turn around I hear, “Hey, are you ok?”

Enter: my knight in shining armor. Well…more like shore patrol man in blue kayak, but hey! Modern times call for modern heroes, right? Another deep breath and I yell back, “Yeah, I’m just deathly terrified of open water and a horrible swimmer.” He laughs his response of, “Yeah, me too. That’s why I’m in a kayak and not in there with you.” I smile in response, and realize I’m not ready to give up just yet. An attempt to put my goggles back on proves pointless as they are hopelessly fogged and a few strokes toward the buoy make apparent that the breast stroke isn’t going to work either since gritty eyes can’t see their target. I flip back onto my back once again and start backstroking toward the first turn. Under water everything becomes eerily silent except for an inexplicable sound every so often that I silently pray aren’t the fish coming to get me. Out of nowhere I hear “LEFT!! LEFT!!” I lift my head out of water and look up; the blue kayak is trailing me about a meter off. “You’re getting a bit off target, swim left.” I glance at the buoy, almost there! But just to the left.

For the remaining two lengths of the course, I was trailed by the man in the blue kayak shouting left or right whenever I was veering off course, as well as words of encouragement that gave me just enough energy to keep going.


(That guy next to me is the man from the blue kayak)


I reach the dock energy depleted and shaking. The man in the blue kayak proceeds to get out of the water with me and head up what the coach at the tri clinic had dubbed ‘the steepest, longest boat ramp you’ll ever attempt to run.” He asks if I’ll be ok and the only response that comes to mind is, “Yeah, now that the swim is over!” A quick “good luck” and he takes off to his next post, leaving me to prepare for the bike.

Transition one: In my head, the warnings I’ve received to practice getting out of a wetsuit as quick as possible seem irrelevant. The fact that I can not wait another second to rip the thing off of me and be free from its grasp makes the issue that I haven’t practiced even once obsolete. A long drink of water, a packet of Gu (the most disgusting thing I’ve ever ingested… BY FAR) and another drink to wash it down, and I feel ready to conquer the bike. Something I know I can handle. Not just handle, dominate!






I pull my bike off the rack and head toward the mount line feeling confident. The biggest foreseeable obstacle is cattle grates spaced out every few miles and before and after the freeway overpass. Since I train on a road with rail road crossings and am fine with them, I know I can handle these as well. After the turn onto the open road from the camp ground, I quickly find my pace and am able to relax a bit, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying the ride on this amazing bike that cost nearly as much as a car. Miles after miles pass and I keep my cadence steady and my pace on target, adjusting the gears when necessary, just like I’ve been told by the few cyclists that were so willing to help me train. The halfway point appears out of nowhere, seemingly miles before where it should be, and fact that I’ve come so far, so fast gives me an extra boost of energy as I make the turn to head back to camp for transition number two.

About 4 miles out from camp, a stress fracture in my shin that I’ve been tending (read: avoiding) for about a month and a half turns from a dull ache to a substantial pain. My doctor that initially let me know about the injury told me that as long as it was only an ache I was fine to continue on, but if it went from an ache to a pain I need to stop what I am doing as it could be about to break. Too bad, leg. I’ve come this far and I’m determined to finish. I resort to a military running tactic, with a twist. My own form of Jody calling. Chanting about what I’m doing to keep my mind off what I’m feeling. Most of it under my breath, but the more pain I feel, the louder it gets.

The false flat road leading up to the camp ground breaks into a true flat and I can see the entrance to the transition area. With a quicker return than I had expected, I’m elated as I weave my way in to get ready to run. I stand up to dismount and almost fall off my bike, and with that remember that I should have switched positions every few miles. Too late now, time to run. Another packet of Gu, and as much water as I could stomach to wash it down and I’m off running. Well, making an attempt at running anyways. My legs are so used to the motion of pedaling and rhythm I’d used for the bike bit that it takes a good hundred meters before I feel normal again and not like I’m about to fall on my face from my legs moving so awkwardly against the pavement.








A small dirt hill at the beginning of the run takes its toll on my shin and I’m forced to slow to a fast paced walk for a bit until the throbbing feeling subsides and I can run on. Run, walk, run, walk, run … I run until my shin physically will not let me anymore, walk off the pain, and push for a run again. This pattern continues until the course takes a turn onto an unevenly cut, deeply rutted, rocky dirt path. Something I usually love. Something I currently hate due to the fact it could easily twist my ankle just right and turn a stress fracture into something much worse. Visions of my shin bone sticking through my skin influence me to take it easy for the mile long dirt trail, a decision I’m quite relieved with when I reach the pavement again as even walking the uneven ground has brought my shin to a burning pain and I’m feeling as though any minute I’m going to collapse with a broken leg. At this point, a mile from the finish line, I feel content with the idea that I could be carried across the finish line if worse comes to worse. The closer the finish line gets, the harder it becomes to push myself and again I start chanting under my breath. Turning the corner into the campground and seeing the big red inflatable banner marking the finish line is exhilarating beyond words. I’m well past my second wind, as well as a third, fourth, fifth, tenth… but seeing the finish line gives me an adrenaline rush and the ability to push just that much further until finally I’m crossing the last timing wire with a wave of excitement, relief, exhaustion, and euphoria. I did it. Against all odds; I accomplished the impossible!!









**Here is where we’re going to get cheesy, so stop reading now if you’re known to get nauseous… I focused only on myself in this post; I wanted it to be my memory, my point of view. I know, however, that I wouldn’t have been able to do this without a certain group of people for which I’m extremely grateful! The people who trained with me on a daily or near daily basis, the friends who supported me and cheered me on when I doubted my abilities, and the friends and family that showed up the day of the race to cheer me across that finish line… You all know who you are, and I owe you each a million times over again: THANK YOU!!

And not forgetting, the best doctor in the world who I am convinced could put Humpty Dumpty back together again!! Dr Charles Beck, I owe you the world!