New Orleans 70.3

Oschner Ironman 70.3 New Orleans
1.2 mi swim -> 56 mi bike -> 13.1 mi run

I woke up and it was still dark outside. Well, of course it was, but was it the middle of the night? I’ve already had to get up once for a bathroom break. Wake up is at 5:00, what time is it? 4:50. Good thing, I can feel my heartbeat in my throat; there is no getting back to sleep. I kill some time checking email and text message conversations until I hear the alarm start to wail. Already very much into the attitude of the day, I slip on my heart rate monitor chest strap, my bike jersey, tri shorts and sandals. After a bathroom detour, I grab my Ensure and head down to the patio-area of our hotel for some reflection. Sitting on a swing and eating breakfast, I contemplate the magnitude of the day. This is my first attempt at racing a half ironman. I’ve completed 2, one in 8:25 and an easier one in 7:35, both of which were battles of attrition. My plan is to go sub-6. My training has not supported such a goal, but I’m going to try anyway.

Race day weather’s been all over the place the last week. Cool and calm to hot and humid to harsh thunderstorms. When the moment came the clouds parted and promised little chance of rain. It’s a good thing, too. Riding in the rain would be a recipe for disaster (see Music City Triathlon). I finish breakfast and meet up with a guy who volunteers to drive me and another racer to race site. His name is Doug, and he was going to race but injured his shoulder, so he’s now volunteering for the race. He hurries me through one more bathroom break, then I toss my gear in his car and we’re off. Doug used to live in Knoxville and is a big-time Vols fan. I express my indifference, and he replies “well, we can’t all be perfect.” The three of us talk triathlon all the way to T1. We get there something less than an hour before sunrise, and it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. Tour buses and cars everywhere, Lake Ponchartrain in the background, and the parking lot to UNO’s Research campus in the foreground. The parking lot is transition, and there are almost 3,000 bikes covering almost every square inch. Skylights coming from the middle of transition dance in the heavens and rock music blasts. Then all I could notice was bikes. An ocean of athletes and their bikes. Blue bikes, red bikes, big bikes, small, Cervelos, Felts, Giants, Kuotas, Quintana Roos, Argon 18s, every kind I’d ever heard of and then some. Doug lets us out and we head off. I think we have plenty of time. (We don’t).

Body marking is pretty smooth. It’s already set up, and 75% of athletes are already through it. I get marked up, say goodbye to my fellow racer and carpool buddy, and head to my rack. I checked in my bike the day before, so it’s all set up and I already know where my rack is. It’s really hard to navigate the area, so I’m glad I don’t have to search. One girl was frantically looking for hers. I assist in looking for a while to no avail. She goes off and looks for someone in charge; don’t know if she ever found it. I have to use the restroom one more time, so I get in line. I might have had plenty of time when we got there, but I proceed to spend the next 20 minutes waiting for a porto potty. I know I’m on a bit of a time crunch, but I force myself not to worry. I’ll get everything set up before transition closes at 6:45. After that, it’ll be another hour before my wave goes. I get through with the line, set up my transition, fill my aerodrink and fuelbelt bottles and am literally walking out of transition, wetsuit and drop bag in tow, when the announcer proceeds to kick everyone out.

It’s about a 1.5 mile walk to swim start; the swim is a straight point-to-point line against the wind, and the beach trail winds a little bit. I use the walk for visualization: find your pace, breathe, sight; get out of the water, get your goggles off, your cap, use the wetsuit stripper; put on your socks, helmet, glasses, shorts… I make it through the entire race 3 or 4 times over and it puts me at ease. There’s a sea of people walking to the swim start and I people watch the entire way there. There are a real rainbow of people here, all shapes and sizes, all colors, different sexual orientations, all different parts of the country, all ages, all here for the same reason. To explore the limits of their athletic ability.

I’m about a half mile away from the start when the pros catch me on their swim. They are swimming towards me, towards T1, so I hurry to the water’s bank to watch them pass. I can’t make out faces, but I know it’s a stacked pro field: (2007 Ironman World Champion) Chris McCormack is #1, 2008 Ironman Wisconsin champion Chris McDonald, uber bike Chris Lieto, 2008 Olympian Brian Fleishmann, and 2008 Ironman Arizona runner-up TJ Tollakson are all racing for early-season gold. The women were stacked even tighter; there’s former Olympian and World Champion Johanna Zeiger, Texan and all around babe Desiree Ficker, 2008 World Champion runner-up Yvonne Van Vlerken (though she didn’t race), multiple Ironman champion Heather Gollnick, Ironman champion and Cystic Fibrosis survivor Lisa Bentley, uber runner Kate Major, uber biker Lindsey Corbin, 2008 Ironman Lake Placid champion Caitlin Snow and one of the most decorated and experienced Ironwomen in the history of the sport: the one and only Natasha Badmann. Had only I known who all was racing! At the time, the only one I knew about was Macca. Hooray for big ticket, branded Ironman races!

The pros had started, that means the race had started, which means I should begin my pre-race playlist. I pop in my headphones and start to get my game face on. I pass the porto potties, the drop bag location, pick up my timing chip, and make it over to the start in time to see Nate in corral. He’s too far away for much intimate conversation, but we share a word and a wave before I head back to the drop bag spot. I’m getting changed as my playlist is winding down. As the last few notes of “Enfilade” by At the Drive-In rang in my head I was about to blow with nervous energy. I drop off my bag, almost forgetting my cap and goggles, and head to corral less than 10 minutes before the start. The 24 & under age group weaves their way through the corral and get in the water moments before our start. I get some water in my suit, do that-thing-that-you-do-to-warm-your-suit-up, and begin to lasso my racing heart. Trying to find a decent set of feet, I ask the guy next to me how long he expects to take. “My goal is 4:15.” I meant on the swim, but that answers my question well enough; that guy’s way too fast. We’re alerted that we have 90 seconds left, 1 minutes, 30 seconds, 10, then with one surge of adrenaline ignited only by that loud piercing blast of the airhorn, we were off at 7:48am.

The water was slightly cool to the touch, but not at all uncomfortable. 68 degrees at race start. It was slightly salty to the taste, as I made it all of 100 yards before swallowing a mouthful of it. My first thought was that I just drank water with 70 ppm of fecal matter. Gross. Going against the wind was a task, but the wind was pretty calm and the water was not choppy, which was nice. I couldn’t find anybody to draft off of, so I settled into my own pace and started plugging away. The Clearwater-chasers took off and were never seen again, but I kept pace with several of my green-capped, similar-aged compatriots. I knew there were 13 buoys, 6 yellow, a red buoy representing the halfway point and 6 more yellow. I tried sighting for a while and just saw a sea of caps. The buoys were over 150 yards apart, so I couldn’t really see much of the course in front of me. Eventually, I realized that I could keep on course without sighting, simply by gauging my placement relative to shore (when breathing on my right) and the buoys (when on my left). That worked well enough for a little while, but soon found myself zigging and zagging, adding several yards to the course. I’m still not all that good in open water.

I’m wondering how far I’ve gone as I’m swimming along. I don’t remember passing the red buoy yet, but I haven’t really been looking for it. After another few hundred yards, I catch the red buoy on a sight. I’m halfway there, and not really sick of swimming yet. I have a much better idea of how much farther I have to go for the rest of it, because I start counting the buoys. There’s one buoy; 2, 1/3 of the way there; etc. I can’t help but wonder how fast I’m going. I feel like I should be going a lot faster than I did last year. I really worked hard at my swimming over the winter and knew that really killing the swim is a vital ingredient to my ultimate goal of finishing in less than 6 hours. After some more flailing, several kicks, a punch to the face, some singing in my head and not much else of interest, I leave the 6th and final buoy behind me. I can see just over a retaining wall that swimmers seem to be veering off to the right into a little alcove. All I can see is the wall and a line of orange buoys steering swimmers into the nook. After making the turn and a little swimming in water 1.5 feet deep, I can see the banner marking the swim exit. As I get into the shallow water, I dolphin dive to shore and high kick my way out of there. There’s no timer and I have no idea how long it took me to do the swim. All I know is that I’m out of breath, but still feeling really good about myself.

Predicted swim time: 32.5-40 minutes
Actual swim time: 39:17

*Note* I did not bring a waterproof watch, and was never given any idea how long my swim had taken. As far as I knew, I was 35 minutes or faster.

As per my plan, I get my goggles and cap off, and get the top half of my wetsuit down to my waist. Wetsuit strippers are there, so I lay down in front of one for some assistance. With one jerk, the stripper slips it right off. How cool is that? That was so easy! I grab it from her and hustle to transition. A great sportsman alerts me about 5 steps from the pavement that I had dropped my goggles. She picked them up and handed them to me. How grateful was I! They would have been long gone otherwise. I find my bike with no problems. Denise is just outside the gate snapping pictures. I’m panting so hard I can barely talk. I toss on all my clothes and gear and head out towards bike out. I punch my Garmin to start the timer, cross the mount line and begin the bike; the discipline I’ve completely ignored in training and the discipline which would be the deciding factor in my success.

T1: 2:50

I didn’t make it 100 yards before I missed my first turn on the bike. I didn’t really think it would happen with such a big race, but I have to quickly negotiate a right hand turn for our initial out-and-back down down the beach. My Garmin almost fell off my bike from where I had jerryrigged it in between some cables, but I managed to grab it and slap it on my wrist. Very early in the bike, less than 5 miles in, there was a spectator with encouraging words branding a sign stating simply “at least the swim is over.” “You’re freakin’ right! That swim was terrible,” remarked a rider next to me. All I could think about was “what was so terrible about it? It was a straight shot with no wake.” I settle into my aero position and begin to cruise.

I’m happy to report that my Garmin did not give me any of the problems it had during the Natchez Trace triathlon, and I found the thing to be incredibly useful for pacing. On the initial out pattern heading east on Haynes I was cruising at or above my 18 mph goal pace in high zone 1. This was EXACTLY where I wanted to be. I could not believe that this was going so well. It spiked only when we crossed over the bridges; there were 3 undulations along Haynes that forced some spinning of gears, but the views were well worth it. Without any effort at all and with no discomfort of any kind, we turned onto Hwy 47 around mile 14. I was excited to see 14, because that meant ¼ of the ride already knocked out. The water stop was a welcomed sight, and I managed to pick up a Gatorade bottle without any real problems. I sucked what was left of my watered-down Lemon-Lime Gatorade available pre-race and poured in what was handed to me: Orange Gatorade Endurance in a squeeze bottle. I programmed my Garmin to beep every 15 minutes to remind me to eat a Clif ball. ¼ of a Clif Bar every 15 minutes with enough Gatorade to wash it down. Should give me plenty of calories and enough electrolytes to carry me through the day.

Soon began the familiar sounds of “on your left! On your left!” as people flew past me on the bike. What was true of sprint distance races didn’t quite hold true in the longer distances; I was actually passed by a handful of road bikes. At the same time, I passed about as many new carbon tri-bikes that cost several multiples of my bike. Still I always kept within myself and raced my own race.

It started around mile 25 for me. It wasn’t my back or my legs, it was my butt. My butt was starting to get really uncomfortable, and the ride isn’t even half over. The wind is blowing east, so for parts of it I’m in a crosswind and really should keep in my aero position. I was finding it increasingly difficult to will myself to follow this strategy. The scenery didn’t help either, we really were in the boonies. Once we got on Hwy 90 and continued to head away from New Orleans all there was to see were marshes. Endless swampland spanning in all directions except forwards and back. I’d seen enough of this growing up in Florida to not be awe-inspired by it. It was just... dull. I instead focused on keeping my pace, position and nutrition plan and watched the miles tick down. The halfway point at 28 was a welcomed sight and I looked forward to heading back into town. I was at 1:31 at the 28 mile point, a wonderful time indeed! I wanted to finish the bike in 3:00-3:30, and knew that the faster my bike time the better my shot at finishing sub 6. I also knew I had a stretch of 10k or so with a nice little tailwind. I might just make this yet!

I used that stretch of road as a carrot, stay in your aero position for now and you’ll be able to stretch out then. Which was good advice, I was going into a headwind. It was all making sense now: cruising the flats at 20 mph in z1? I was in a tailwind. I’ve been in a tailwind almost all day. Now I’m in a headwind. And the headwind continued. It was nothing I hadn’t experienced in training, but those training rides took a lot more time then I cared to spend on the bike for a race. It was very difficult to stomach the idea of riding at 14 mph in the middle of a race. But there wasn’t much to do about it. Just get and stay as aero as possible. My butt got worse, and I succumbed, and stood. I couldn’t hold my aero position, and my performance suffered.

It took much longer to reach the 2nd water stop. I had passed a water stop a few miles back that offered water and gels, but no Gatorade. I had everything I needed except Gatorade, so I passed it by. I was starting to really get worried that I wasn’t going to be able to stay hydrated in the growing heat and humidity. Around mile 32, I had slurped the last droplet of Gatorade out of my aerodrink and was left with no contingency plan. 5 minutes later, my watch beeps telling me to eat something. I can’t without anything to drink, it’ll just make things worse. I roll all the way through the 2nd stop and hear a volunteer shout that they were out of Gatorade. I’d rather pick up someone’s half drunk and discarded Gatorade bottle than have to… WAIT! A volunteer was picking up ejected bottles and handing them to people. I have to make a complete stop and ask her specifically and forcefully for some Gatorade before she gives it up, apologizing. I was so overcome with relief and gratitude that I spilled my guts in thanking her. That was a close one!

The last 20 miles were hell on wheels. I was quite ready to be off my bike, but there was not much I could do about it. Miles inched by but passed nonetheless and eventually reached the 42 mile mark (3/4) and turned off of Hwy 47 for good, ready to be out of this crosswind for good. Be careful what you wish for, because Haynes was a headwind. A soul-crushing headwind. I was completely beaten mentally. I saw my pace slide away. I saw my 3:02 bike split slip through my fingers like so much wet sand. My sub-6 day was going to require a superhuman run, but I felt like I had it in me if I could find my running legs fast enough. I started front loading my nutrition towards the end of the bike. I had experienced bloating in training, so I planned to eat and drink my last calorie around mile 50, giving my stomach at least 20 minutes to digest before the running started. I nervously and persistently checked my Garmin to gauge how much time I had left. 50 miles. 52 miles. 53. 54. There’s the University, should be any time now.

Then, out of nowhere, T2 was in sight. Although my Garmin had been consistently a half mile ahead of the course’s mile markers, I had only traveled 55 miles and change as of hitting the dismount line. I very much had been given jelly legs from the windy ride, but was so relieved to be off the bike. I really need to work hard on bike endurance this summer, because it is my only weakness. I’m at 3:16 according to my watch, which isn’t bad by any means. My worst-case scenario could easily have been 20 minutes slower than that. I hit the dismount line, almost fall over punching the lap button on the ole’ Garmin and head into the sea of bikes for the last time.

Predicted bike time: 3:00-3:30
Actual bike time: 3:12:58

I’m trying to jog to my rack, but it’s more of a wobble. I try to smoothly slide my bike onto my rack, but it’s more of a toss. Denise is there taking more pictures of me in transition, but I’m all business. I take off my bike shorts, slap on my fuel belt, slip on my shoes, grab my hat and I’m outta there. A very fast transition…except I have to use the restroom for the first time on the day. Not so bad, except there’s no porto potties open. There’s actually a guy standing in line for one! I don’t think it’ll take but a few seconds, so I wait. And wait. One opens and I find myself next in line. Another guy comes and stands behind me. Another relieved racer emerges, but a hurried runner swoops in, ignoring the line and any sliver of sportsmanship and takes the open door. So more waiting ensues and I’m starting to contemplate blowing the whole experience off. A third door swings open and I start to head for the door; as does the guy behind me. He was a bit delirious from the excitement, we both were. He yields the right of way to me and I enter to handle business. After what seems like forever, I’m finished up, crossing the timing mat and reading “begin running” on my Garmin.

T2: 3:39

I had a bad feeling it would take me a while to find my run legs. For whatever reason, my pace and heart rate at a given effort are always a lot higher coming right off the bike. Exiting transition and leaving UNO, I was running 9:30/mi with a heart rate in high z3. It evened out soon, as it always does, and I found myself in the middle of z2 heading down Lakeshore along the beach for our little out-and-back distance waster. From just a few passing glances at the course map, I thought we just had a mile or so before the turn around. I was excited to pass my fellow ride/hotel buddy almost the minute I begin the run. He tells me to hurry up, but I figure I’ll catch him no problem. I’m looking for the turnaround along each bend. Nothing yet, nothing yet. Here’s a water stop, Garmin says mile 1; the turnaround must be at 1.5. Another water stop at 2. It must really be down here. My pace is holding around 11:15/mi. I haven’t found my run legs yet, am trying to get my heart rate secure, and I’m running into a headwind. The wind slowed me down, but it also cooled me off, which was very much appreciated. I hoped I wouldn’t overheat on the way back. I ended up running 3.5 miles before the turnaround got here. I look at my watch: 3.5 miles in just under 40 minutes. It’ll be a pretty tall task getting that average pace back down.

Similarly to the bike, I programmed my Garmin to alert me every 30 minutes to take in a gel. I carried a fuel belt with 3 8-oz water bottles and a gel flask with 5 gels and the powder of 4 endurolyte capsules. At my first feeding I placed the cap in my mouth and shot it in. Really shot it in there. In the hot sun, the Gu had warmed and thinned, making it the consistency of runny pudding. All of my hard training had been in the winter of Tennessee, and I was used to it being the consistency of molasses. I would have to use both hands to force the stuff out. This certainly was one plus of the heat, much easier to swallow Gu. Water was as hot as the air, though, making that pretty unpleasant.

Moments after hitting the turnaround at 3.5 miles (official race time: 37:10), I was greeted by a familiar face. The same guy that posted up at the start of the bike with his “at least the swim is over” sign, was on the run course touting his “at least the bike is over” sign. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” I told him as I passed. He seemed like a pretty nice guy. I’m avoiding overheating pretty well and am finding my pace again on the way back. In the tailwind I’m hitting the 10:00/mi pace I’d like to average for the day. The math is getting fuzzy in my head with the hours and hours of sun and effort, but I know I can still hit 6 hours with a kick ass run. I rationalize that my decision point will be at mile 7. Once I hit mile 7, finished with this out-and-back nonesense, I’ll have less than 10k to go. At that point, it will be do or die. Pick it up, or accept your failure. Is sub-6 worth another 50 minutes of pure agony?

I make the decision at mile 6. I start to pick it up. At mile 6 I start to run 9:45s. At the mile 7 aid station, after taking in a cup full of Gatoraid and rinsing with some cool water, I let out a roar and begin to snap off 9:30s (keeping in mind, my race pace is 10:00).

It happened just after mile 7. Not the crash, that hasn’t really happened yet. No, I see the sign. The ever-inspirational sign that will blast me with repeated doses of adrenaline throughout the rest of the long, hot day. At Wildflower it was the FCA sign, the one about how God gives your body the strength it needs to do what needs to be done. This one was a series of 4 signs held up by a family of little girls. Or maybe they were grown. Or maybe they were men, or dogs, I didn’t notice; I was watching the signs. “1.2 miles across Lake Ponchartrain.” “56 miles to the East.” “13.1 miles to the Quarter.” “Finishing the Ironman…Priceless!” Forget the last sign, that’s cheesy, predictable and inaccurate (you’re not an Ironman unless you finish a full). It was the first 3. The images rang in my head. My mind went wild with imagery. “1.2 miles across Lake Ponchartrain.” I imagined bulleting across the lake, knocking the lake's contents upon the shore; churning the water white with the awesome power of fit arms and legs; leaving the unsuspecting fishermen with nothing to say and nothing to think. How best to describe such an insane image as 2,800 men and women flying across the murky, polluted lake, a lake with only has one good use: fishing? “56 miles to the East” The East, there was something sublime about it. I pictured rough, foreign lands. Asia, the Indies, Singapore, China. On about they go on their daily lives. In much the same way the foreign, unknown habitants of the swamplands. The birds, the alligators, the fish and the reclusive hermits living among them. What must they think as these blue and red and grey rockets flew past them in the sun? Traveling at breakneck speeds, speeds physiologically impossible for the native inhabitants. “13.1 miles to the Quarter.” And there it was, the Quarter. Like a pirate seeing land for the first time in years. A runner and his finish line, that damn line, that torturous, unforgiving, uncompromising prick of a line. Oh, that’s where we were headed, all right. Now, we are running along the woods of a park on the very outskirts of what the government chooses to call New Orleans. But soon, as swiftly as our exhausted limbs can carry us, soon we will be in the Quarter. Soon, we may tell our body to stop, that it has made it, and it was good enough. As this imagery bounced and grew and deepend, I got the most amazing shock of chills all through my body. I felt weightless. My mind cleared and was completely silent. I thought of nothing but these vivid, emotional renditions of what this all could mean. My throat started to tickle and my mouth started to quiver. Such a struggle it is, to continue after 5 hours of constant motion. So emotionally draining. I feed off my emotions, I allow them to strengthen me, to pull me through those awful patches where my mind fails me and I’m left only with this disconnected ball of rubber in motion with no concept of time, place or purpose. And for me, when all that raw, uncensored, inexplicable emotion pours out, when that angry, tired, hurt, frustrated, primal release surges out of every pore in my skin, every orifice in my body, it always seems to manifest itself as angry tears. I can’t help it people, I can’t help it.

Tears never came, but the end result was met and I found another wind. I begin to run 9:20s. Unlike the bike, there was at least one aid station every 10 minutes which gave me access to Gatorade. I stuck to my nutrition, hydration and cooling plan by continuing to take a gel/electrolyte powder every 30 minutes, Gatorade every mile and a cold water bath at every aid station, and my body was responding like music. My mind ached, begged me to stop, but my body grew stronger and faster with each mile. At mile 9, I grabbed my Gatorade cup and informed the volunteer that “I’m going sub-6 today.” She laughed politely and gave some empty words of encouragement. I left thinking "she doesn’t know, she’ll NEVER know."

By mile 10 I was nearing the edge, but I knew I had but a 5k to go. Anybody on the face of the planet can run a 5k, and I’ve trained more than 95% of them. I glaced at my watch and was amazed. 8:30/mi. This is my Sprint distance race pace, my 5k race pace. I’m running it after 5 hours, 40 minutes in motion. Much less, my heart rate. I’m at Lactate Threshold. This is as hard as my body can go without accumulating lactic acid, without putting into motion an evil process that would require me to slow. You go this fast if you can, but at the end of a half ironman you can’t go this fast. You’re body doesn’t have that kind of effort left in it. Well on this particular day at this particular race at this particular moment, my body had that and more. I turn the alerts on my watch off; I don’t care how fast I run, I will not slow down. “To the Quarter.” Keep moving, keep going. Only a 5k to go.

But it wasn’t to be today. As I neared mile 11, I started to feel a tickle in my quad. Then in the other one. Then cramps, deep painful cramps. I slowed to a walk and fought back the all-but-inevitable plunge into the dark, lonely abiss of frustrated depression when your body grabs your heart and your mind and your balls by its collective throat and says “NO MORE!” I frantically shoot the rest of my gel flask into my mouth. About 1.5 gels and a full endurolyte capsule, and wash it down with some water. I start to jog again, about 9:45s. I pass the aid station at mile 11 a quarter mile later and drink some Gatorade. Only 2 miles left, this is do or die. I start going again. I’m back at 9:00s. And again, they lock up on me. I grab my emergency gel in the side pocket of my belt and take it down, followed closely by the rest of the water in my bottle. I check the other two bottles. Collectively, I have enough to wash down the last gel, but there is no more. No water, no gel, no salt, one aid station, and just over 1.5 miles to the line. I’m finished, my sub-6 hour day just melted in the hot, humid Louisiana afternoon.

The locking subsides and I’m about to start running again when I pass a sign on a telephone pole. It’s nonesensical, but states something to the effect of “You are thinking about it, but you are wrong.” But what am I thinking about? What am I wrong about? There are two voices in my head, one telling me I can run sub-6 and one telling me I can’t. Which is wrong? I’ll know in a mile and a half.

Turns out I knew sooner than that. I started running again and made is about a half mile before I cramped again. So I stopped, and walked. And walked. And distressed. It was over. Completely and totally. My sub-6 day. My torrid run pace. All that pain, that misery, was for a lie. To have it all stolen in my last fleeting moments, the last mile of the fucking race. I was embarrassed. I walked past spectators shouting that I was almost there, that I could do it, that it was just around the corner. They thought I was an ill-prepared athlete who had used up all the heart he had. I was a man willing to thrash my body, to run until I collapsed, to blow the gates off of Hell itself and make the devil quiver the strength of human spirit. But I had cramps. My legs wouldn’t move. So I walked, and did my best not to say anything at all.

I felt able to run again as I neared the turn onto Decatur. It was a straight shot of less than a mile after that. No cramping in sight, so I ran. I was doing 10:00s. Then 9:30s. Then 9:15s. Then 9:00s. I turn, and I’m downtown. The familiar French Market I had eaten lunch in yesterda. The narrow street I had walked just 24 hours ago. Buildings on each side weak and weary from decades of weather, wear and complacent maintenance. And there it was one more time, that voice. If you’re going to go sub-6, you have to go now. Go, go, GO NOW!

“To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:50s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:30s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” The voices are louder now. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” People are lined up on either side of me. They are screaming incoherently. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:00s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” I hear nothing but my own voice. I see nothing but the faint cloud of white in the distance. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter!” I’m running now. Sprinting. I’m out of breath. “The Quarter. The Quarter. The Quarter.” 6 blocks now. The roar of the crowd is deafening. “Quarter. Quarter. Quarter. Quarter Quarter Quarter.” I can see the line. I’m 4 blocks away. I can’t talk any more. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. I’M IN THE QUARTER!!!” People are thickening. I can read the sign at the finish line. I’m in Jackson’s Square. There’s the finish line. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” The scream lasts a lifetime.
It lasts until the chute.

I enter the chute and see the clock. I started at 0:48, so I need to see 6:48. I see 7:00. I slow. And slow. Cross the finish line. Grab my medal. Hang my head. The volunteer cannot get my chip off; it takes her about 6 tries. I follow the crowd to the post-race festivities. I’m beside myself. I could have made it. My God, I could have made it. Those cramps cost me my finish.

Estimated run time: 2:00-2:20
Actual run time: 2:14:30

Predicted total time: 6:00-6:30
Actual total time: 6:13:13
Age Group Place: 52 (out of 80 finishers, 82 starters and 101 registered)

After an hour or so of reflection, I realized that I was being too hard on myself. There’s no way I lost 15 minutes walking half of 2 miles. I lost it on the bike, in the porto potty line, on the swim, in the wind along the beach. I’m text messaging my Dad, who has been following me online at ironmanlive.com. He knows my finish time and all my splits before I do. He tells me my swim was 39 minutes. What the hell happened there?

In the end, I was very satisfied with my race. I proved to myself, less than one year after Wildflower, that I can race this distance. I proved that after 5.5 hours of solid effort that I can dig deep within myself and go faster and harder than I would have possibly imagined. I proved to myself that I can deal with the heat and humidity, and that my run fitness has grown exponentially.

So now, I wait. I have a marathon in a couple weeks to transition to, but after that it’s back to training. I have to get my bike endurance up. After that, I’ll be ready to smash Wisconsin. There’s not much else to say, really. I never did see Nate again. I was hoping to run into Reid and Megan to tell them that I wasn’t upset anymore, that I was satisfied with my race and that I wanted to be social again. I never saw any of them again. It’s just as well. So ends another journey into the depths of my base fitness. Until next time, I think I’d like some ice cream.