Whose measurement of success are we striving for?

On participating in my first Ragnar last weekend, I’ve been thinking all week on how the experience can be applied to various aspects of life. But it hit me today the lesson I think I learned most of all… my measurement of success isn’t always the most accurate. There have been many times where I’ve successfully completed a goal or waded through a trial, yet still felt like a complete failure. Why? Because things didn’t play out how I had envisioned it. Allow me to use my Ragnar experience to illustrate.

Going into my first Ragnar, I’d heard multiple times that this race was different because it’s not just about yourself… it’s about your team. And not letting your team down was very important. So, I decided that in order to have a successful Ragnar experience, I needed to not let my team down by keeping my 9:30 pace per mile throughout each of my three legs so we could stay on pace. No one wants to stand there forever waiting for the runner to come in who they’d been expecting long ago.

My first two legs went pretty well all things considered. At the very end of my second leg, my IT band started acting up, making each step extremely painful. But I just kept going. I didn’t want to let my team down.

After a free massage at our next major exchange and a little rest on a hard school gym floor, my hip was feeling somewhat better and I was determined to do my last leg. It started out great – Kermit dipped and kissed me as we exchanged the slap bracelet and I was on my way. The sun was out, the temperature perfect, and I was almost done with my first Ragnar!

Then a mile into it, things quickly went downhill. At an intersection, there was a sign to cross the street then turn right. But once we turned right and got to the other side, there were no more signs. The three people in front of me went left and onto a trail. Since I knew this was supposed to be a trail run, I followed them. At about the same time, my IT band really started hurting again and I had to slow my 10 minute pace down considerably. After a couple more minutes, I had to succumb to walking, limping and grimacing as I went. I still had 5 miles to go – or so I thought – how was I going to do this?

After about 5 minutes of walking, I started wondering where everyone was. I was going so slowly… people should have been passing me by now. After about a mile, I was starting to panic. I was seeing fewer and fewer crazily decorated vans as is common in a Ragnar race. I hadn’t seen any more signs and I couldn’t see the three people in front of me anymore. I was lost in a town I wasn’t familiar with, had no cell phone, and the pain in my hip and leg was getting harder to push through. I had no idea if the road I was on lead me to the trail I was supposed to be on – knowing my poor sense of direction, I figured I’d get more lost if I turned off somewhere. Later I discovered if I would have gone to the next intersection and turned right, I would have crossed the trail. But I had no idea that was the case when I was in the race. So the only safe thing I could think of was to turn around and go back. I’d already gone about 1.2 miles since hitting the 1 mile mark. I tried to jog, but each time I took off, the pain shot through my leg like an oversized scorpion jabbing my hip and sending pain down to my knee.

I slowly made my way back to that one mile mark turn at a speedy 15+ minute mile pace. I thought about trying to flag down one of the vans passing by that was obviously a Ragnar van, but figured if I was really off course, they’d stop and tell me, right? Nope. When I finally got back to where I’d made the wrong turn (I figured I should have gone straight instead of turning left down the trail), and saw some runners approaching, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. So I started down the path I think I should have gone, but turned around again after a minute to make sure the other runners were coming my way. I didn't want to go the wrong way again. Assured I was now on the right path, I set my mind and pushed on.

Before starting my leg, we looked at the map and saw that it looked like my path and the van’s crossed at about 3 miles. So we decided to meet up at that point in case I needed any water or food or anything else. With the pain I was in, I decided I’d ask if anyone was willing to take the rest of my leg. Between getting lost and going slow, I knew it would take me a long time to get to the exchange. And I knew family members would be waiting for us at the finish line. There were only two runners after me to get there. I didn’t want to let anyone down.

I had been paying attention to my Garmin, so when I thought I was at about the 3 mile mark – or what should have been 3 miles had I not gotten lost, I realized the map had been misleading. The path I was on wound around in a park, and the path the van took went over bridges over the path. There was really nowhere good for the van to stop. With the realization that there would be no van, no cheering from my team mates, no chance of asking someone to finish my leg, that I was just going to have to keep going, tears stung my eyes. I had no idea how I would make it. The pain was getting worse. And as I kept going, I realized there would also be no aid stations, which meant no race officials to help me get word to my team that I needed help. I was alone.

Those last three miles seemed to go on forever. I knew if I could just finish, I could rest. I thought of Kermit and how he’d tell me to just push through the pain. I thought of the Iron Cowboy and his doing 30 Ironman races in one year. I thought of my team mates waiting, impatiently I guessed, for me to arrive so we could finish the race. And I thought of the Ironman race I would be doing in December. I couldn’t give up. So I tried to run as much as I could, keeping about a 12 minute pace, stopping occasionally to limp and try to work out the pinching, aching feeling in my hip so I could continue. So many other racers passed me, many of them, after seeing my limping, made comments like “you’re doing great” and “keep it up!” I really wanted to sit down and cry, but knew I couldn’t. I wound around a golf course, a beautiful fountain, and through grassy areas, passing families out on walks and tons of people riding bikes. What I wouldn’t have done for my beloved Oscar Cannondale (my tri bike) to get me to the exchange faster. I felt sure I’d let everyone down.

As I got closer to the exchange, I saw some vans pulled over here and there cheering for their runners. How I longed to see my team! But again, I figured they were tapping their feet waiting for me at the exchange. When I finally got to the 1 mile left sign, I wasn’t sure whether to cry or heave a huge sigh of relief. I still had to hobble/walk/run, and was trying to ignore the incessant pain. I rejoiced at an intersection two runners and I got stopped at for a funeral procession… the other girls were ticked, but I was ecstatic for a break. At the last intersection we had to cross, I had difficulty keeping my emotions in check. Almost there. I could hear the cheering. I envisioned finally reaching the exchange and hugging Kermit.

I rounded the last corner where a bunch of people were hanging out cheering on the runners. I put on my best face, kept the tears in check, and just ran. Not my usually sprint pace, but I was running. I scanned the crowd for the next runner on my team so I could hand off the slap bracelet, and frantically looked through the faces for Eric. I felt a huge sense of relief when I spotted both of them. She frantically started waving to him, and he was on the phone (later I learned he was about to tell my mom I was lost). I gave her the bracelet, and Kermit hurried over as I limped to him, falling into his outstretched arms. Not being able to hold my emotions in check any longer, I started sobbing. I tried to tell him how I’d gotten lost and I was in so much pain I could barely walk. He started crying too and said they’d been so worried about me and they had people out looking for me, but he was so proud of me for finding my way back and finishing my leg.

That one moment in time is one of those you never forget. I was tired, in pain, worried I’d disappointed my team, and in my eyes, hadn’t successfully completed my first Ragnar. But in that one moment, Kermit showed me concern, love, and emotion to match my own. A couple days later, I heard the song Feels Like Home which perfectly described how I felt. I’d never felt more home as I did in his arms after the most difficult run I’d ever done.

I wound up doing 8.5 miles rather than 6. Soon after my run, my IT band stopped hurting almost altogether. I realized that while I didn’t feel successful (which, by the way, all of my team were worried about me – they didn’t think I had let them down), my Father in Heaven thought I was successful - because I experienced what I needed to to learn a valuable lesson. That I can listen to my body and know when to stop and when it’s okay to keep pushing. And I’d also learned that even in times of intense physical pain, I could keep running. And that even when there was no help in sight, I can keep going and finish the race. Yes, in God’s eyes, I was very successful.

So now I know that my idea of success isn’t always accurate. There may be some other lesson I need to learn from the experience that will take me off course, or bring me pain in the short term, but pay big in the long term. I can’t measure success by my imperfect human perceptions of what equals success. I also can’t judge my success off of other’s experiences, because I need to experience things differently than they do.

I’m grateful I made it to the end. I’m grateful Kermit was there to hold and comfort me when I finally made it. And I’m so grateful for the lesson I learned that will help me in my journey to becoming an Ironman.