1.2 mi swim -> 56 mi bike -> 13.1 mi run
What is to follow is the complete story of my first Half Ironman Triathlon, held at Lake San Antonio in Central California. As best as I can recall, this is the whole story, as I experienced it, with no embellishments. This will not include any information about my trip before or after the race.
The weather was quite cool the night we arrived in Lake San Antonio Friday evening, and this remained when I awoke Saturday morning. As difficult as it is for me to get enough sleep the night before a big race, it was especially disappointing that I was woken up once or twice during the night because I was so cold. So, I began my morning shivering and very sluggish from lack of sleep. The past few nights had yielded similar results and I could feel the effects the day of the race. I knew this would be the start of a long day.
Never wanting to be in a hurry on race day, I ate my typical Ensure breakfast and headed down to transition about 5:45am to get everything set up. I was pretty early, the second athlete in transition setting things up. After a couple hours of setting up my stuff, filling water bottles, getting Powergel, etc. I headed down to the swim start to warm up at 7:30. They were only letting the elite wave warm up, so I would have to wait until just minutes before my swim start to get acclimated to the water.
The water at 8:00am was 63 degrees, which was the beginning of my problems. I did not have a wetsuit. I had a speedsuit that added no buoyancy or warmth, but it was all I had at the time. The moment the airhorn went off and I plunged into the water, I had trouble breathing. Keeping in mind that I've been cold all morning, my chest felt compressed and my lungs couldn't expand. Typically I breathe every 5th to 7th stroke, but I was struggling breathing every 2nd to 3rd to get enough oxygen to my muscles. I got out of the pack relatively quickly and avoided much of the frenzy, but did manage to get punched in the face about 600 meters into it. It didn't really hurt and didn't knock my goggles off or anything, I just found it interesting that I got punched in the face during the swim.
The swim was quite difficult because of the temperature, but also there was a wake during the race. It's still unclear to me as to where it came from, be it wind or boats, but it did affect my ability to swim in a straight line; which I can't do very well to begin with anyway.
Swim time: 48:37
I exited the swim still cold and quite out of breath from the jostling and the struggling to breathe. A little out of it, I rip my suit, goggles, ear plugs and swim cap off as I hustle to transition. As quickly as I can, I put on all my bike gear, including socks, gloves and bike shorts. Because of the congestion and a quick hill, my coach told me to put my shoes on in transition rather than leaving them on the bike. Seeing as how I'm so much smarter than him, I leave them on my pedals and run to the mount line, ready to dry off, warm up and get to the part of the race where I felt a little more comfortable.
T1 time: 4:08
I had plenty of time to put my shoes on before the hills hit, but I soon found that my cold fingers lacked the dexterity necessary to slip them on and fasten them. Soon thereafter, I hit a sandbag and lost a water bottle. I dismounted to pick it up and took the opportunity to put my shoes back on. I was shivering during the first few miles on the bike so much that it was difficult to keep the bike straight. Very quickly (4 miles) into the bike I came to Lynch Hill, a climb of less than one mile, but taking you 300 vertical feet, out of the lake and into the park entrance. My heart was racing to warm my body, and I was quickly getting tired going up the very steep hill. About 2/3 of the way up, I succumbed. Dismounting and pushing my bike up the hill gave me an opportunity to catch my breath and regroup for the rest of the day. Once I got my body and my legs warm, today was going to get a lot better.
It wasn't until roughly mile 15 that I noticed I had warmed up. Whenever this revelation struck, I was as comfortable and as excited as I've been on a bike in a really long time. I'm racing WildFlower! There's so much stuff to see! Mountains lined the background as I found my rhythm. I sailed along content, chatting up people as they passed my on very expensive, very aerodynamic bikes and genuinely enjoying myself. The rolling hills provided enough of a challenge to speed my breathing and make me a little worried over Nasty Grade at mile 41, but I was enjoying the ride until another, completely unforeseen problem arose.
It probably started around mile 35. I've never cramped on the bike before. I always thought cramping due to lack of salt was similar to the annoying side splits endured on the run, endurable but makes you want to stop.
My favorite part when I tell this story verbally: can you picture the point in your life when you were in the most amount of pain you've ever experienced? I can't, because it happened to me about a half a dozen times on the bike alone. At one time or another, every muscle in my leg locked up with the exception of my hamstring (thank God). When a cramp hit my leg locked up, the cramping muscle involuntarily flexed, locked and pulsated, reminding me of a seizure in the muscle. The muscle, let's say my quad in one instance, flexed so much I could see its movement through my skin. Every time one struck I screamed in agony, pulled off, dismounted and stretched the muscle. Time stood still as I stretched, shivered with worry and waited to remount and continue the ride. Sometimes I'd mount and the muscle would go at it again, so I'd have to choke back the scream and stretch it some more. Each time seemed to take longer than the last, and each made me feel more and more helpless.
Somewhere in this time period, I approached mile 40. I had quite adequately psyched myself up for the big, long climb by the time by this point, and was in between episodes at the mountain's base. Yelling encouragement to myself under my breath, I began to work my way up the great hill. Nasty Grade itself, a two-hill 4 mile long climb rising you 850 vertical feet, wasn't quite as horrible as I expected. The second hill, however, I was accompanied by preliminary cramps I could ride through, but made it all the more unbearable. The inside of my quad and hamstring stabbed with pain with each pedal stroke as I struggled up the hill. The pain was not wanted, but it did quite effectively divert my attention from the climb and I found myself near the summit sooner than anticipated. Looking over my right shoulder and seeing the pristine setting from 1,400 ft, I could hear war drums just ahead as I closed in on my last 100 feet. As I crested the hill, some poor bastard in a full body Energizer Bunny suit was banging on a drum to encourage the cyclists. So, I did what anybody would do; I bit my lip and kept going and going and going, until I hit the summit.
My legs did not lock up completely during the stoutest of the climbing or on the screeching descent that followed, which I am supremely grateful for. This was no less a gift from God, whom I was just beginning to rely on to get me through the day. However, at one point or another, my legs did cramp in the same fashion 5 or 6 times in the last 20 miles of the bike. I was even consoled by a weaker rider who would pass me as I stood helplessly stretching, panting and crying out several times on the side of the road. Once I got going again, I would easily pass him. Then my legs would lock again, and I'd pull over for some more agony.
Hitting the intense final descent into Transition, I prayed for God to help me through this run and to help me survive the day. I have no idea how many times I've asked him the same by this point, but I certainly would have underestimated how many times later in the day I would have to make that very same prayer.
Bike time: 3:55:58
Total time: 4:48:43
My only thought in transition was that I wasn't as sure as I would have liked to be that I would be physically capable of finishing the next 13.1 miles. My body has never been pushed as hard as it was on the bike, and it was now starting to get hot. The high for the day was around 80. This was not the problem, so much as the humidity of 50%, the seemingly endless trails of dust and a general absence of shade in any form.
Before I embarked on the run, I made a quick visit to the porto potty to relieve myself. This, I feel, is important because it provided yet another sign that things were not quite normal. It was now made obvious to me that I did not have enough salt in my system. At the time, my only way to fix this was to swell Gatoraid and hope for the best. Yet, the more I drink, the more I have to get rid of. Thus, the stage was set for my first experience in survival.
The comfortable jog I hoped to hold the entire run lasted about a half a mile before I was slowed to a walk by cramps. Over the course of the run, I was locked in a battle between my body's need for sodium and my palate's ability to take it in. This would prove to be an issue the whole race. Not only that, somewhere I got it into my head that I should begin to fear heat stroke. I couldn't tell if I was sweating anymore, so I had to assume the worst. From watching Survivorman on TV, I knew that I was to fear lightheadedness, lack of sweat, dizziness and nausea. When the nausea started to settle in, I gave up any remaining motivation at achieving a reasonable finish time and changed my goal to surviving the race and not getting disqualified.
I developed rituals to handle each problem individually. At each aid station, I would grab a full cup of water, stand in the shade and dump it over my head and neck slowly to bring my core temperature down (not as pleasant as I would have imagined it). Because nobody seemed to have access to any salt tablets, I had to continue to chug Gatoraid at each aid station. I also carried gels as makeshift salt tablets, popping a gel whenever my legs started locking up.
My biggest problem throughout the first half of the run was mental. Doing the math in my head, I tried to discern if I would make it to the finish line before 5:30, 9 hours and 20 minutes after my start. For some reason I miscalculated several times in a row and convinced myself that I was not on pace to finish this goal. It's really difficult to try to explain in words how hopeless this was. If I was at all interested in finishing the entire 13.1 miles, I could not go any faster than my speed walk pace; yet, if I was interested in finishing the race within the legal time, I was going to have to speed up. Where this energy boost was going to come from, I had no idea.
At one point, I found myself talking to another walker. "When I started this race, I told myself I either wanted to finish or to pass out trying," I told him. "I've thought a lot about it and, well, passing out trying to finish isn't all that appealing anymore. I don't want to fail now, having come this far." And yet, I trudged along, convinced this effort would be in vain. I was having a hard time coming to terms with my impending failure. This was my one race, there wasn't going to be any chances for do-overs until September. That's an entire summer of camp, a full season of racing, and 6 very long months away. I didn't know how I would be able to look myself in the mirror after this. My body insisted that I didn't have what it would take, and I began to rethink my life and its direction. Ironman became a word that meant nothing to me. It was impossible; I couldn't even do half of one.
The most crushing moment of the entire race came at mile 6. Having trudged past mile 5, I was looking forward to the halfway point at mile 6.5, mainly so the math would be easier and I could be more sure of my pacing. I shuffled over hill after hill, looking for mile marker 7, at which time I would know I had over half of this run finished. Just as I climbed another veritable mountain, a large white placard read "Avia Mile 6." My mind plummeted into a frenzy. This wasn't fair. I had already passed mile 6...a mile ago! Or, so I thought. There was no way I was going to make it. Each mile marker was further away than the last one, but this one was listed twice. Or was it? I was seeing things that weren't there. I started to really fear insanity out on that lonely, dusty trail.
And yet, the most important discovery of the day was that the trail I was walking along wasn't all that lonely. Lining the bike and run course were signs put up by the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. I recognized the FCA from high school. I never really got much out of it, and was a little annoyed at the pervasiveness of the signs, but they did help me look in the right direction. As much as I had faith in myself, I knew at this junction in time, for the first time in my life, that I could not finish this alone. So, I prayed. I prayed every mile. I had more one-on-one time with God over the last 5 hours of the race than I've had my whole life prior. I asked Him to watch over me, to help my body, to keep me moving. I trusted that He wanted me to finish, that all this pain was to teach me a lesson in life, but that He wanted me to finish.
There isn't a lot more I can say about the run. I continued the hydration and nutrition pattern until around mile 8, when I could stomach no more food. I have heard of this sensation: your body is absolutely famished, but you just cannot eat anymore. From that point on, you just have to play the odds that you can get enough calories in through drinks. After passing the halfway point, I reassessed my situation and no longer feared overheating, so I started doing the jog/walk thing. Dictated by the peaks and lulls of my cramping legs, I made a lot better time in the second half of the run. The mile markers continued to be placed strategically further apart, but I continued to chat up God along the way and put all my faith in that He would make sure I made it to the end.
When I hit the long, steep descent on Beach Hill a little after mile 12, I knew all this was about to be over. I began jogging and told myself I wouldn't walk until the finish. I lenghtened my stride to accommodate the downhill and plugged away. Even the downhill seemed like it was far too long.
Crossing the timing mat at 13 miles, I entered the finish line chute and was greeted by the most amazing display of tunnel vision I could imagine. I pointed to the sky, thanking God for making good on his promise, and ran towards the line. My right leg locked up just meters from the line; wasn't going to stop me. I limped along and grimaced, but kept going. This would all be over soon enough.
I honestly don't remember my hand gestures during the finish. They were completely natural. I recall holding the number one at some point, but nothing I did was voluntary. I just relished the glory of finishing, within a legal time. Not only that, I finished in under 8 hours, 30 minutes; not a huge accomplishment, but you have to finish an Ironman in under 17 hours, so 8.5 for a half would be the same.
Some combination of the reality of how long I spent on the course, my hand gestures of euphoric relief and the fact that I was sprinting on legs actively locking up on me, the crowd got behind me. Not to put adjectives where they don't belong, but the cheer was deafening. The announcer called my name and welcomed me in. In 8:24:39, I had done it. I had finished.
I was greeted by volunteers who removed my chip, put a wet towel around my neck and presented me with my finisher's medal. As I wandered toward the porto potties (I've long since lost count of these trips), it happened. I thought it might have happened. It never did during the Gear Up Florida arrival, but I felt it coming for this one, and there was no holding it back. It started with a tickle in the back of my throat. Then came a light cough. Then a few coughs in a row. They my chin started quaking. Before I knew it, the tears started to flow. Just one at first, but as the realization that my goal was accomplished and the reflection of all the pain of the day set in, I completely bawled my eyes out. It was all I could do to get in the privacy of the porto potty and rest my head against the side as tears of joy shot down my cheeks one after another. "That was so hard" I told myself. "I can't believe that was so hard."
Run time: 3:30:32
Total time: 8:24:39
Epilogue:
I ended up going into the medical tent to make sure I wasn't in any real danger. After two failed attempts at an IV, I finally got one to work and enjoyed a half hour of rest.
I still wasn't able to eat anything until several hours later. I hadn't been that sunburned since I was a kid. I had a watch and a sunglasses tan line, as well as two tan lines on each leg: one from the bike shorts and one from the run shorts. More predictably, I was as sore as I've been in my memory the next few days. The trip back was pretty brutal with all that sitting down and not being able to stretch anything out.
After the race was over, I ended up spending over an hour looking for my campsite. With all my stuff, I had to climb several other hills to find my site, and got lost several times. This seemed like insult to injury to me, but it wasn't like I couldn't handle a little more suffering. I actually think I worked so hard for so long that I made my lungs tired. It's now 3 days after and I'm still having trouble breathing.
And finally, even after all the race took out of me, I still didn't sleep well that night. I woke up twice because it was too cold. Some guys just can't catch a break...
So, what was the race like? It was the most difficult, most rewarding, most humbling and, most of all, most spiritual experience of my life. Hidden inside all that suffering is self-actualization, and I have what I need to continue to make myself stronger.
