Triathlon, with all its equipment, offers a range of decisions. Road bike or tri bike? Ironman-branded race or not? Pool swim or lake swim? As I trained through the White Lake Half, I had to make a number of little decisions that cumulatively affected my day.

First, of course, was the decision to race at all. The race has grown so big that it's now split across two weekends: same course in eastern North Carolina in early May. There was no choice between weekends for me, since my daughter was running a 5K on the first weekend. There was, though, a choice to be made between racing and leading a retreat; I chose the race, reasoning that it would be important practice as I build to Ironman Coeur d'Alene.

Too bad I couldn't choose the weather. Where the first weekend of the race was overcast and moderate in temperature, the second weekend saw 90 degree temperatures under relentlessly sunny skies. Here's a shot of the venue, which is quite pretty. This is about as shady as it gets at White Lake.

With the water temperature at 77, just below wetsuit legality, I had to decide whether to wear my suit or not. Since I'll be using it in Coeur d'Alene, I wore it here, for practice. Had I targeted White Lake as my spring goal, though, I'd have gone without, in the hopes of keeping my core temperature down early.

Another decision: shoes on the bike in T1 and T2, or running in bike shoes. Again, I chose to simulate my goal race, so I put on shoes in T1 and clopped out with my bike. On the way back, I deliberated again: should I get my feet out, as I usually do, and run barefoot through transition? I decided against it, since I didn't want sand or grass on my feet before I put on my socks. There's enough discomfort coming in the run, I reasoned; I might as well have clean feet. Bad choice. I couldn't get one of my shoes unclipped (it'd picked up some sand when I took a quick potty break by the side of the road!) and wound up ingloriously tipping to my side at the dismount line. Jon Van Ark, who took these great pictures of me, was a gentleman and didn't snap any of me lying on the ground under my bike.
It was very hot by then, and I was glad to have chosen to run with my Fuel Belt. I'd also debated between a hat and a visor. Since the aid stations were supposed to have wet towels, I chose a visor, thinking I'd drape the towels over my head. But there were no towels, just ice that could be scooped into a hat.

I cleaved to my decision to walk though each aid station, which helped keep me moving forward and feeling good between walk breaks. This was a good choice; I kept my form together and felt very strong between mile 3, when I finally got my legs under me, and mile 11, when I decided to pick up the pace and get it over with.

Here I am at the finish—note my skinned left knee, a T2 casualty.

Each of these decisions supported my larger goal for the race: to practice my IM pacing, nutrition, and mental plan. I want to go at a pace that lets me really enjoy what is happening. This is a hobby, and it should be fun. Choose to make it a positive part of your life, not a source of more stress.

Rest is a critical portion of this equation. Consider the automatic ice maker in your freezer. Once you have used all the available ice, it's simply gone. You've got to wait for the machine to make more.

As I wrap up the bulk of my Ironman training, I feel like the ice maker lever's broken. In our model, there's a handle that rests on the top of the fresh ice. When it drops below a certain level, the machine begins making more ice. My self-regulating lever is stuck in an "up" position and I'm running low on ice. Happily, my taper begins soon, and my ice tray should be full on June 21.

There's still a little energy in my well, though. I realized this week that I have energy for my workouts—at least the first one of the day—and my meditation practice (probably because it requires very little physically), but that's it, no more. No energy to plan a menu beyond cereal or pizza; no energy to really focus on work; certainly no energy for housekeeping. (I'm writing from my couch—no energy to sit at my desk—with boxes of PowerBars towering above me and a growing collection of sweatshirts that haven't yet made it upstairs working as de facto blankets.)

The energy I have for my workouts feels good. It's like the cup of coffee you impatiently take while waiting for the full pot to brew: easily accessible, tastes fine, gets the job done. But the energy I bring to the rest of my day is like the remainder of the pot once you've stolen that first cup. The hot water has been on the grounds a little too long, and the whole thing feels slurry and slightly bitter.

Friday night, as I was making guacamole (stone-cold sober!), I botched the glamorous thwack-the-avocado-pit-with-the-butcher-knife move I've done for years and instead thwacked my hand. (As the triage nurse pointed out, a teaspoon works just fine for removing avocado pits.) While I felt like I had plenty of presence of mind—staunch the flow, assess the severity, find a neighbor to watch the girls while we head for the ER, put on shoes—I was surprised by my physical reaction once I saw the wound: waves of heat, beads of sweat on my face, an inability to walk unassisted. What can we control? The motion of the hand holding a knife? The sympathetic nervous system? Nope. Just our reaction. I tried to find the best form and breath, relaxing everything but the thumb that pressed against the cut, breathing slowly and intentionally.

The staff at the emergency room were wonderfully capable and efficient, and we were in and out of there, four stitches later, in two hours flat. In fact, when we returned, we found the avocado was barely browning, so we added it to the guacamole.

In the five minutes we spent with the nurse who splinted my hand, he repeated at least four times, in reference to his own life, "It is what it is." This lesson must be constantly presented to frontline workers: It is what it is. This is the situation. This is the emergency. This is the pressing need. This is the present. Notice what is happening in this moment.

No swimming for me this week, but if all goes well, I'll get to train through the White Lake Half on Saturday. Since my hand really doesn't hurt, I rigged the splint over a cycling glove and rode, as intended, a lovely century ride yesterday. Here's another upside to the stitches: I had to stay in my aerobars, no drafting, virtually the whole time. And another: now that the splint is out, to keep my finger from overextending, I'm holding it in jnana mudra.

How grateful I am for my husband, my access to health care, my tolerance for pain, my yoga practice. It is what it is, and it is good.