Coming off the Philly Half, I had 3 full days to recover for my "Thanksgiving Training Camp." Recover I mean not being sore. All you cyclists that run during the "off-season" know that it's not easy to hop back on a bike and ride HARD after a hard running effort not too long before…and on top of that, not riding hard in 9 days. 

Recovery spin on Sunday after the race was slow, active recovery on Monday was relaxing, a short run on Tuesday felt great, the day off on Wednesday was even better. I wasn't sore anymore and was confident that I'd feel somewhat fresh for my first "real" ride back on Thursday. OUCH.

But that didn't phase to bother me or slow me down. The sun was out, the sky was blue, life was great. We had about 8 total riders; when it was my turn to pull through with whomever was next to me, I kept riding at the front for 3 rotations, into a headwind. The person next to me would peel off and I'd just…keep going. It's like I was possessed or something because my quads were burning so bad...but I wouldn't let up. Who knows, maybe I was angry, but I was on a mission that I really didn't know about at the time. We ended up with 50 miles for the day. Later that day, as I was walking down a flight of stairs, I felt the fatigue running down my quads and calves. I was hurtin' and I loved it. 

Friday, another gorgeous day, I was just shy of 50 miles. The ride was more of a conservative pace, yet my legs felt pretty fatigued from Thursday's shock to the engine. Saturday was a great ride, only because the weather was fantastic. I think my dirty bike had a lot to do with it because I hadn't cleaned it in quite some time, but I felt slow, yet again. There were some short "climbs" where I felt I could've walked up quicker, but it was nice out and that's all that mattered to me at the time. 77 miles. Saturday afternoon I cleaned my bike...shiny and no more chain "gook." Quads, tired and fried. 

Sunday was a totally different day. It was D-Day. Derby Day. Everyone that rides a bike in the Lehigh Valley knows about the derby. If you don't, you're not a cyclist. It's not an insult, it's just plain facts. Everyone that does the ride every Sunday, it's practically a religion to them. Instead of going to church, they do the derby. In fact, I haven't been to church in…eh, it's been too long.

The Fleetwood Derby is one of the best training rides around the Lehigh Valley, if not the best (I'm going back and forth with Thursday Night Worlds). Anyway, it always seems to have something going on. Someone went down, someone caused a big crash, people were riding on the left side of the yellow lines, a few went from the gun so it didn't count, the pace was freakishly fast, the crosswinds sucked today, it was a gutter wind day, we would've caught that group if we hadn't hit a red light,…whatever it is, it's always a good time. 

Going into Sunday, my quads were pretty trashed. You know when you're fatigued, and when you flex your quads you get that burning sensation? Yea, you know what I'm talking about. As I was riding out to the velo, I kept thinking in the back of my mind…"Am I going to make it today?" The ride turned out to be one of the easier ones (when you make the most of the derby, it's never easy) of the season…more steady than erratic. My legs hurt at times, but I wasn't gasping for air. It turned out to be a great ride (I think a clean bike helped) and I just kept on riding because the sun was out...65 miles. Sub-30mi easy spin on Monday…I just couldn't let the day go by without enjoying yet another nice day.

And so I thought about it. I rode 240 hard miles within 4 days. What made most of the miles hard was that I kept riding more when my legs were tired and simply shot. I should've listened to my body, I guess. Yea, but it wasn't your ordinary week. It's late November, the sun was out, and the temps were in the low to mid-60's. Crazy! Athletes know the rule of thumb, to listen to your body when you're feeling rundown, tired, and in need of recovery. However, there was an exception to this "rule." I wasn't listening this time around…what can I say, I'm stubborn. But let's face it, we all know what's going to punch us in the face in the upcoming months. 

By Jessica Chong via FB on Tuesday, October 27, 2009 at 11:22pm

Race Date: October 12, 2009
During my second season of this thing called triathlons, I qualified for the Ironman World Champs in Hawaii with personal goals and ambitions going into this race. Not ever having trouble with any type of open water swimming, what happened to me was the last thing that crossed my mind as a possible setback. Hey, I guess they're right when they say, "things happen when you least expect it." This was for sure, an experience of a lifetime. 

Full Ironman races are notorious for their mass swim starts (everyone starts at the same time). The first 500 meters or so are pretty rough as athletes are trying to claim their spot in the water, only resulting in flailing limbs and unrelenting scratching and hitting. Athletes are swimming in the Pacific Ocean; swells inevitably are moving and growing bigger as 1700+ athletes are moving through the water simultaneously. With pure adrenaline at your side, all of that seems minute. I unknowingly paid the price. 

Exiting the water in good position and running towards the transition area, I feel a bit off and know that something just isn’t right. As I am making my way through town within the first few miles of the bike leg, I experience unbearable stomach pain, as if I had consumed gallons of water and filled my stomach to the max. I bend forward to use my aerobars to get in a more aerodynamic position on my bike; the pain gets worse. Therefore, I am unable to ride in my aerobars for the majority of the ride. My initial feeling was fear, followed with despair because I knew then that it wasn’t going to be my day.

I continue to ride with agony and just hope that I start to feel better after a little time on the bike. It just got worse and worse and worse. I tried to urinate on the bike, thinking maybe it would take the pain and the full feeling out of my stomach. A little trickle down my leg did absolutely nothing. Then, at about 15 miles or so (I can’t even remember), I see a porta john. With utter excitement, I get off my bike and manage my way onto the seat and experience explosive diarrhea. I figure, okay, whatever was bothering my GI tract is out of my system; I will start to feel better. Boy, was I wrong. 

I get back on my bike and my stomach is still feeling full and uncomfortable. As I continue pedaling, I start to get really worried because I am unable to provide my body with proper nutrition. I can barely drink any fluids, and power bars and gels were not even an option at this point. I spew fluids several times throughout the ride, now realizing that I ingested a significant amount of ocean water. I went as far as trying to test my gag reflexes, but it didn’t work. As I continued to cough and spew more fluids along the way, a fellow triathlete rides by and asks if I am okay and to “take it easy”. Man, there’s nothing I can do but hope and just keep going. 

After about 30 miles or so, I realize that I am not feeling any better but just enough to start forcing some fluids and nutrition down. Even though it was important for me to try to drink and consume calories, it later proved that it just irritated my GI tract more than it already was. I go through the motions on the bike, feeling very disoriented, weak, and disheartened; the last 30 miles of the 112 mile bike were the longest miles of my life. “This could not get any worse,” I thought to myself—but it did.

I get off my bike and make my way over into the transition area. I put on my hat, sunglasses, and sneakers as the volunteers slather sunblock on my shoulders, arms, and legs. I start to shuffle my way out to the start of the run, not knowing what to expect. I realize from the start of the run that my hands are very swollen, stomach still bloated, and I could just feel the puffiness in my face from the excess seawater still lingering in my system. Not feeling right, I shuffled along thinking, “Maybe I’ll start to feel better after the first few miles.” I also found myself short of breath, not because of the humid air but for other reasons that I’ll explain later on. Taking deep breaths as an attempt to get my breathing under control was difficult. 

At about mile three, is when the “fun” really began. I see the first porta john on the run course getting closer as my GI tract churns with irritation—severe diarrhea. This became routine throughout the entire 26.2 miles, hitting every porta john I could find along the course. At one point, I waited at a porta john for about five minutes hoping the guy that went in before me would come out soon. However, I got annoyed and just shuffled up along the course a little bit more and found a desolate woodsy area. Do I have to explain what happened here? 

Holding down gels and Gatorade wasn’t even an option, but I still consumed them anyway at each aid station. The fact that I wasn’t feeling right from the start didn’t really make me feel like gold when vomiting became a norm throughout the run leg, as well. It didn’t worry or it didn’t phase me at the time, but the sputum in my vomit had a tint of blood. A chronic cough that wouldn’t leave my side, caused me to throw up countless times, anywhere between 15 and 20. Consistent diarrhea, vomiting, and my body rejecting everything and anything—my body is in complete disarray, and walking became the only option with a couple shuffles here and there. My body bent over with my hands on my knees, gagging and coughing until my vomiting episode ceased—until next time. “Oh my goodness, this is not what I intended for, not what I trained or worked so hard for. But you know what, I am crossing that finish line.” Several athletes have stopped to see if I was okay and if I needed help. I would just nod and say that I was okay and continue on. 

Darkness lurks over me as I make my way over towards town. I said to myself, “try to shuffle the last two miles.” That didn’t work. With two miles to go, I tried to shuffle a little bit, but I just had nothing in me and it would just irritate my system more than it already was. At this point, I see a porta john but ignore it even though I really wanted to pay a visit. With one mile to go, I stopped at one point to cough and throw up one more time, regain my composure, and continue towards the finish. Right before the turn to the finishing stretch, I bend down again and gag on whatever I had left in my system. As I stand straight up to start running again, an athlete that had already finished, ran over towards me and yelled out, “Don’t blame yourself! You’re great! C’mon now.” I run through the finishing stretch as the crowd is reaching out with their arms to give me high fives. I thought to myself, “Maybe I shouldn’t have given people high fives,” knowing what I had gone through. Grossssssss? 

I cross the finish line and two volunteers come over to me and put a towel over my shoulders. I told them that I had diarrhea and was vomiting throughout the entire race, then I bent over one last time to cough up more “bloody” sputum. They brought me over to the medical tent, where I was analyzed for over an hour because the medics just weren’t certain about my condition. Within that hour, I had to hit the porta john twice, get multiple tests and was simply miserable. Their initial concern was dehydration from diarrhea and vomiting, but when they saw that I had a chronic and raspy cough, their concern doubled. Every time I tried to take a deep breath, it would cause me to cough uncontrollably and put me on the verge of throwing up. When I did throw up at one point in a bag, they saw that there was a tint of blood, so at this point they knew something really wasn’t right. After attempting to use an inhaler several times to see if it would open up my lungs, the medics knew it was a little more complicated. They sent me to the hospital in an ambulance to get a chest x-ray just to rule out any serious medical conditions. Well, it was pretty serious. 

Spending two nights in the hospital was not the way I wanted to spend the remaining time I had in Hawaii. I was hooked on oxygen, an IV, had blood drawn several times, had hunger pains, and felt so darn helpless. The doctor in the ER tells me that I do have abnormal amounts of fluid in both of my lungs and will need to get a CAT scan just to rule out blood clots or anything of that nature. So, I waited and waited oh so patiently. At one point the following morning when I was not hooked on oxygen, my oxygen saturation level was at 69 when it should be around 95+, especially for endurance athletes like myself. Measuring oxygen saturation basically tests how well the hemoglobin in your blood utilizes oxygen molecules. Anyway, I finally get my CAT scan the following late morning; I will admit, all that time while I was waiting to get the test done, I kept telling myself that I was just fine and I could just go home and rest it off—whatever it was. 

It turns out, as the doctor spills the news, I have aspiration pneumonia. As I was throwing up during the race, the bacterium from my GI tract was entering my lungs. Given that I threw up between 15 and 20 times, the doctor pretty much told me that I should’ve stopped after the first incident. “It’s a pretty severe case,” the doc says. I did not want to hear that. The coughing was due to the fact that I had seawater in my lungs, as well, causing major irritation, swelling, and damage to the blood vessels. Also, the fluid in my lungs restricted my breathing, which explains the blood-tinged sputum and the hard time I had at the start of the run when attempting to take deep breaths. 

After spending about 7hrs in the ER bed with absolutely no sleep or food, I finally get moved to a quiet room where another patient is sleeping. I got kind of tired listening to the drunk and obnoxious patient next to me. Slurring his words, talking to himself, making weird noises, and bitching at the nurses—I wonder what his story was. As I begin to make myself comfortable in my new bed, I start to ponder about how in the world I was going to keep myself entertained, or get some shuteye to say the least! I kept getting poked with needles and things shoved up my nose. Still awaiting for my cell phone to arrive at the hospital, I lay with dismay. I realize that I still have not showered. Ewwwwwww, narstyyyyy. Watching the seconds go by on the clock, tic, toc, tic, toc…this isn’t doing it for me. It’s time to get some shuteye but only manage to get in about an hour or two. Eight am arrives and I start to get to know my neighbor after she overheard me speaking with my nurse, explaining what had happened to me. Being an islander herself, she explains the Hawaiian detox:
-----“To help detoxify their body, Hawaiians will actually buy a bottle of seawater specifically meant for cleansing. And what it does is cause you to go to the bathroom; that’s why you were having diarrhea and problems with your GI. Your stomach felt very full, right?”

-----“Oh my God! That totally makes sense. And since I had like five times the normal amount in my system, my body did a great job of getting rid of the seawater! I start to laugh then instantly pouted. 

10am arrives and I finally get wheeled over to a room upstairs to get my CAT scan. The doctor giving me the CAT scan explains the process as I helplessly lay stiff in the bed of the machine; after the first round of scans:

-----“Now, I am going to inject you with dye so that we can get a better look at your chest and lungs. When the scan begins, you will feel a warm sensation go through your body and down to your groin. I gave you half the dosage, so you should only feel it as far as your abdomen. 

-----“Ooooo, fun.”

-----In a calming sort of way, the machine speaks to me. “Breathe normally. Take a deep breath and hold. Exhale and breathe normally.”

-----Thinking to myself, “Woah, I feel like I just peed myself.”

The scan is complete and the doc comes back out: 

-----“It went all the way down to my groin, Doc.”

-----“Wow, you have a great circulatory system.” 

-----“It was weirrrrrrd,” as I laugh out loud.

As I get settled back into my wheelchair, the doc decides that he’s going to bring me back down to my hospital bed (instead of calling a nurse), even though he has a lot on his plate. 

-----“Aw, well aren’t you a gentleman.”

-----With a smile on his face, “Don’t tell anyone because then they’ll start taking advantage of it.”

-----“Your secret’s safe with me, Doc <chuckle chuckle>.”

As he’s wheeling me back downstairs, we have a small conversation about triathlons, and then the Phillies, after he came to the realization that I am not an islander. 

Some doctor (my primary doc) and patient dialogue Sunday late morning after my CAT scan:

-----With a stubborn tone of voice I say, “I’m scheduled to fly back home Monday early evening. Do you think I’ll be better by then?” 

-----With a calm and patient tone of voice the doc says, “As of right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were in for a couple more nights.”

-----“So like, the rest of this morning and tomorrow morning?”

-----“We’ll have to see how you progress, but there’s a possibility that you’ll have to stay until the end of the week.”

-----“I can’t do that, I need to get home.”

-----“What I am concerned about is the amount of fluid in your lungs. I don’t want you flying until your lungs are clear. Fluid can rebuild and especially since you’ll be in flight for a long period of time, we just want to make sure that you’re okay before you get on a plane. Earlier this morning your oxygen saturation was really low.”

-----<as I pout>“Oh man, this sucks.” 

-----Susan looks at me and says, “Jess, everyone will understand. You need to get healthy.”

-----“I know, ugggggggggggghhhhhhhhhh.”

-----“We are going to give you a diuretic to help your body flush out most, if not all of the excess fluid in your lungs. The diuretic will cause you to urinate at several occasions within a 3-4 hr window. We will measure your output to make sure that you aren’t urinating too much fluid.”

-----“Oh, what fun.”
At this point, all I could do was lay in bed and see how many times I can pee. “Well, I might as well make myself comfortable,” I say to myself. I finally get a shower, a new robe, and even new bed sheets—this is a five star hospital! My lunch arrives and all I can do is stare at it and take a sip of the orange juice. Blah, I can’t eat anything at this point because I just feel weak and nauseated from the combination of sleep deficiency, medication, IV, and the overall aroma and atmosphere of the hospital.

Oh! I’ve got to peeeeeeeee. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve got to pee again! I urinate about eleven times within a two to three hour window, averaging about 700cc, and things are looking good. Making friends with the nurses, cracking some jokes, trying to kill time. I get moved to the neighboring room because my roommate had left; the hospital had to arrange the rooms so that a male and female were not in the same room. As I shuffle into my new room, a patient is moaning and groaning due to a broken ankle. “It’s going to be a long freakin’ night,” I think to myself. But then I am relieved to hear that she will be going up for surgery very shortly. I get my vitals checked for the 10 millionth time and I get a good feeling even though the nurse didn’t say anything about my current status. As I’m updating my status on facebook, texting and calling some of my fellow buds, I wonder if I’m really going to spend another night in the hospital. My primary doc comes in at about 6pm and gives me some good news: 

-----With a smile and a look of shock on his face, my primary doctor says, “Well, you are recovering a whole lot quicker than I thought. Your vitals look great. Your oxygen saturation is at 100 and your lungs look pretty clear. I feel comfortable to discharge you tonight; I am going to put you on antibiotics for five days.”

-----With a huge smile on my face, I just say, “That’s awesome!” Free at last!

Ugh, as I gather my things and get ready to walk out of the hospital, the meds and lack of nutrition really hits me. I get nauseas and the only thing I want to do at this point is get to my hotel and go to bed. Twenty minutes later I arrive at my hotel, walking like a drunkard. I scrounge around for my hotel key, drop all of my stuff on the floor, and plop onto my bed. I slept for 12 hours. The way I felt the next day, my trip back home, and my week of jetlag is just another story in and of itself. 

The moral of the story—sometimes things just never go the way you plan no matter how much you work for it. Experiences like this only matter in that it’ll make you that much better and stronger physically and in life. People know how good you are at what you do; pride must not get in the way of any journey. The last thing I wanted to do was walk off the course and call it a day. I was going to cross that finish line even if I knew I was making my pneumonia worse, and knowing that I put all of my time and energy towards this race and all hell breaking loose. Heck, if I had a broken arm I would’ve finished the race because I knew in the back of my mind and from the bottom of my heart, that at least one person back home would be proud of me even though it was simply a CRAPPY day. You can’t go to Hawaii for this event and not finish—it’s just not right.

Race Date: October 31, 2011

Yes, I know…I'm a bit late with this post, but I started working on my website from scratch just one week ago. I thought Miami 70.3 would be the perfect race to jumpstart my blog since nothing seemed to go right for me that weekend. Now that I look back at it, I just laugh at myself. You will be quite exhausted after reading about my weekend in Miami, but I promise, it's somewhat entertaining. 

Race Prep: After having a great (I say great because Boulder is just plain awesome and I won $1500…more money for sushi) race in Boulder 70.3 earlier in August, my right patella wouldn't give for the life of me. I developed patella tendonitis; running was at its all-time low. Before Miami, I was averaging about 8-10 miles per week since Boulder. Just from the natural mental exhaustion when dealing with an injury, swimming wasn't a priority either. I just rode my bike because it's easier to think and reflect while on the bike than running or swimming. So, I was going into this race with a lot of concerns and doubts. I was still going to race my best and hardest. 

Pre-Race Shenanigans: Let's just say that there was really bad planning on my part. I thought that if I booked a place .5 from the race site, I would be set to go. However, I neglected to look into the atmosphere of Miami, especially at night, and especially in Downtown Miami. Yea, I know. My flight to Miami was hassle-free until I got to my "condo hotel." I got there really late, around 11:30PM, and it was raining. I kind of got this weird vibe from this place...maybe because there were some people hanging outside of the entrance that didn't look like your "ordinary" people--perhaps due to Halloween shenanigans. When I first arrived, I was told by some guy standing outside that there was no on-site parking in their parking garage for non-residents. So, I went back to my car and drove around to find parking around this place. My goodness, I wasn't going to park blocks away due to construction and walk around alone. So, I went back to check in and asked the guy at the front desk the same question about parking. He was speaking with someone on the phone, in Spanish, so I couldn't really understand what he was saying. But, when I finally got his attention (after getting the "hand" a few times), he also said I couldn't park in their garage, and at this point I didn't know what to do. I was kind of creeped out by this place, to be honest. After the guy at the front desk gave me an envelope with my room key in it (he still had whoever he was talking to, on the phone), he asked me what room number I was. This was weird to me because this place didn't offer room service. So, why would he need to know? But, I told him my room number, and as I walked away to go back to my car to try and find parking, he got back on the phone with whoever, telling them my room number. I went with my gut feeling--get out of there! What sucked the most, there was no refund for this place. I drove around the block a couple times, thinking about what to do. I then decided to drive back towards the airport, about 20 mins away, in hopes of finding a better place to stay in. I found a Marriott, just 5 minutes away from the airport. It was past midnight and I was completely exhausted at this point, so I was praying that they had a room available. They did, but I had to wait a couple hours for their hours to roll over to the next day. Basically, so I wouldn't have to pay another $160…it clearly wasn't worth it. So, the receptionist said that at around 2:30AM, I'd be able to come back and check into a room. So, I went back to my car, declined the driver's seat, and snoozed until 2:30AM. I awoke and walked back into the Marriott, and a different desk receptionist said, "It's not time yet." I had to wait another hour. So, I go back into my car and snoozed until 3:30AM. I walk back in, yet again…still not time. This time, I plopped myself on the furniture inside the Marriott because I just didn't care at this point. I finally got a room around 4:00AM. All this time I was thinking to myself, "It's Friday…two days before race day…I'm screwed." All you athletes know the importance of quality rest two days before a big event. The next day, my planned agenda didn't go as smooth as one would hope. The unsteady weather and flatting on my disc tubular tire while trying to do my pre-race ride were just the icing on the cake.

Swim: It was hard to get motivated for the start of the race because it was dark, cold, and drizzling rain. The water however, wasn't cold enough for a wetsuit swim. I didn't feel like myself for the swim; in all honesty, it was one of those, "Am I done yet?" kind of swims. After I got out of the water, I was thankful and just wanted to get on the bike so I could try to make up time/places. I usually do, just not this time around. 

Bike: Due to the rain, the ground was very wet and slippery. Even the transition area was all marble floor, but that's not where people were falling. I was lucky to be one of the first few victims of the wx conditions. After I grabbed my bike and started to make my way out to the mount/dismount area, I instantly fell hard on my knees. More so on my right one. Almost shocked and very frustrated, I just waited for the volunteers to pick up my bike and unclipped shoe. I took my time to get on the bike, as my knee was stinging uncomfortably. As I took my first few pedal strokes, I got really nervous because my legs felt like I had done a hilly 100-miler the day before. My legs never loosened up, and no one was in sight...mentally screwing up my game. I only managed to pass one other racer. To make it even worse for my mental state, the course was completely flat, on very long stretches of road...how boring. There were a few times during the race where I thought about calling it quits. It's amazing how your perspectives change when you transition from an age-grouper to a professional. But, I wasn't going to give in and let my pride get in the way. So, I thought to myself, "Ok, I can make up some ground on the run." I dismounted off my bike, safely, and realized how far back I was...man oh man...talk about mental strength. 

Run: Knowing that I was sitting far back in the standings with the other pro women, I had to redirect my focus towards something else so that I could finish the race on a positive note. At the start of the run, my legs did feel a little heavy, but they loosened up a bit and I actually felt pretty decent. It's weird how your body works…night and day between the bike and run legs. My wound was stinging pretty good, but I figured it was going to bother me anyway, so I thought about something else…like trying to hunt down at least one other racer. My tendonitis wasn't a huge worry, given that I took 600mg of ibuprofen before/during the race. I managed to catch up to the 10th place woman, running with her for a couple miles. Then, after a long gradual hill, I kicked it up a notch because I knew she was tired. I opened up a big gap and just kept going. I didn't know how far back I was from the other ladies, so I just kept running as hard as I could. It was an out and back x2 kind of run course, so I did see who was in front, but I didn't let that bother me because you just never know. I kicked it in to the end, feeling a bit wobbly after I crossed the finish line. I managed to maintain a 7:08 mi/hr pace for the 13.1mi, which is pretty good if you ask me, with practically no run training. Ok, I pulled it out of my______(you fill in the blank). I immediately got brought to the med tent and walked out looking like a volleyball player. 

Post-Race Shenanigans: So, I had to get to the airport by 2:30PM so I wouldn't miss my flight back home. I knew that by not getting the proper post-race nutrition and recovery, I was going to pay the price one way or another. It was about 1PM when I got back to my hotel, completely exhausted and just wanting to go to bed. I was feeling a little queasy, but not to the point of actually puking or passing out (not yet, at least). However, I had no appetite. So, I quickly took a shower and gathered my luggage and belongings. Since my bike and bike case were already in the car, I decided it was best to disassemble my bike in the Marriott parking lot. As soon I started to work on my bike, I started to feel really light-headed and was moving really slow. Really…slow. My stomach started to bother me, having a nagging pinch-like feeling in my intestines. I knew this was going to be a long trip back home. Anyway, after I managed to get the bike disassembled and securely in the bike case and car, I headed to the airport. This is where the fun begins. Walking through the airport feeling like I was was probably very entertaining to anyone watching me make my way to my destination(s). I don't think I've ever walked so slow in my life. It felt like I was dragging two bodies…when really it was just my one luggage and bike case. So, I managed to get through ticketing and security, feeling really sick to my stomach and MISERABLE at this point. As I was waiting for my plane to board, I looked for anything that looked half-appetizing…no cigar. Instead, I found myself just walking around while clutching my stomach. Trying to "go to the bathroom" wasn't working either. I finally boarded the plane with hopes of falling asleep for the duration of the flight, thinking it would make me feel better. Instead, for the first 45 minutes or so after take-off, I fidgeted in my seat due to "the pinch" in my stomach that only seemed to get worse...until I puked. Don't worry, I managed to get myself to the plane's bowl. Good thing it wasn't occupied at the time. While I was puking in the bowl, some obnoxious girl kept knocking on the door. What didn't she get? I wasn't done yet. So, as I was washing my hands and drying up, I opened the door and said, "What?!," then closed the door. She knocked obnoxiously again, and when I was done cleaning, I asked her if she'd prefer me puking on her than in the toilet...then I went back to my seat. Anyway, after all of this, I still had a 3-4 hr layover for my connecting flight, arrived back home around 1AM, and wasn't able to eat for 30+ hrs since my last gel pack during the race. Man, did that first bite of cheese pizza taste oh-so-good.