Ironman Wisconsin - Pre Race

After over three years of training and anticipation, I awoke in my hotel room somewhere just within what could be called Sunday morning in nervous excitement. Waking up over an hour before I expected to, the 1:50am wake-up would work in my favor I was sure; there is no such thing as too much preparation time. Just because I was too excited to go back to sleep doesn’t mean I wasn’t tired, however. I threw on my long sleeve shirt, blue jeans and sandals and headed out to try to find some breakfast.

The IHOP was about a half mile from my hotel and, as I was accustomed on this trip, I had no car. I walked all the way until I got into the parking lot before I saw the sign read “Open Daily 6am-12am.” Well, horseshit. I had to turn around and backtrack to the hotel and hope either the Denny’s or Perkin’s were open. East Washington Avenue was still bustling with activity at the 2:30 hour; with last call behind them, one of the largest party schools in America were heading home or grabbing some late night grub after what was certainly a long night. I find myself tearing up twice thinking about the finish line. Miles 140.5-140.6 are going to make all this worth it. I’ve thought of nothing else for so long.

Denny’s is open and brimming with energy. I look around at the restaurant, of which is well over half full of customers with plenty of loiterers as well, and don’t see a single person with an Ironman wrist band. Being that I sat by myself, the service was quite quick. I order my breakfast, a “create your own Grand Slam” and listen to my iPod to pass the time. I’m not visualizing the day; I’m just waiting and trying to not let all the adrenaline in my body make me sick. And people-watching. Breakfast comes and I do my best to eat all I can. I ate oatmeal (1/4), yogurt (all), hash browns (1/2), eggs (all) and toast (1/2), washing it all down with a large orange juice, some water and a half glass of milk for my oatmeal. I’m bloated, but my watch reads 3:15am; I’ve got plenty of time to digest.

Upon getting back to my hotel, I have little to do in a large amount of time. I sit and watch 300 and try to make as many “natural stops” as possible before leaving the hotel. After wasting away over an hour, I put my tri suit on under my clothes, make one final check that everything is in my special needs bags, and head out of my room towards my parents’ car right at 5:00. There’s a girl wearing an Ironman bracelet in the lobby of our hotel room who needs a ride. She’s a pro from Brazil and would go on to become the 4th overall female finisher, though I did not know this at the time. It’s clear her first language isn’t English during the exchange, but we eventually convince her that we have room in Denise’s car and we all exit together, bound for Downtown Madison.

I stumble out of my parents’ rental car a couple blocks from the Monona Terrace (the coolest transition area in all of triathlon) and start the playlist on my iPod I created specifically for this day. I drop off my special needs bags and head down to check out my bike, which I had racked yesterday afternoon. Still carrying my finish line drop bag, I head over to body marking. After I was marked, I asked a volunteer where I could find some Gatoraid, as I had not a drop of liquids on my bike at the time. She radioed race management and we both found out that there is not one bottle of Gatoraid anywhere in the Monona Terrace; she recommended I walk back to the Capitol building and get some at the local Walgreen’s. Seeing Ben for this first time of the morning, I head back to my bike and grab the emergency $5.00 I always keep in there and head back Downtown. After the quarter mile or so, I find out that Walgreen’s is only open from 7:00am-10:00pm. Asking another volunteer, I was advised to go BACK to the Terrace, walk up to the roof and ask someone in the VIP tent for some of theirs. During this commute, I stop by the volunteer tent (which already has food out for the 3,000+ volunteers) and ask them. The race director is standing there at the time and tells me that there is water in transition already. Water will do at this point, so I head back to my bike to fill my bottle.

Now it’s come time to pump up my tires. I borrow a bike pump from the guy next to me, but quickly give it back as I’ve forgotten something important. I rented a Zipp 404 and a disk wheel combination from Race Day Wheels, and both of them have valve extenders; I need a special adapter to get air in my tires. This means a walk back into the Terrace was in order so I could dig the valve out of my T1 bag. I grab the stickers for my wheel while I’m in there and head back to my bike. By the time I get back there, my playlist is winding down and people are heading out to this swim; I’m running out of time. I get back to my bike and find out there are volunteers with compressed air tubes filling bike tires for athletes; what’s more, they have the valve extender I needed and immediately go to work on my tires. The stickers meant to go over the holes on my valve were wet and wouldn’t remove, so I just racked my bike and got ready to head down to the swim start.

Ben is there, as we agreed, and we head towards the helix together. As soon as I pick up my drop bag, I notice something else: my wetsuit is not in it. Mother Fucker! I guess I took it out of the bag when I got bodymarked and left it on the ground. Sure enough, at the end of transition I see it sitting there folded up in such a way as to fit best in my bag. I put the bottom half on and walk down the helix with Ben, talking about the day and giving what advice I can give. We get to the bottom and are adequately distracting each other from the fear and the promise of pain the day will hold. I spot William Jenks from the forum on the way to the water; I hadn’t been formally introduced to him, but I recognized him and his wetsuit from Facebook pictures. I shake his hand and talk for a minute, but I have business to attend to. Ben and I are following the sea of people down to the swim and looking for the drop bag location. We make it all the way to the water’s edge before finding out that we had passed it several hundred feet ago. We have to backtrack through the ocean of athletes until we find the location. Dropping off our bags and heading back to the water, I forget my last thing: I’m still wearing sandals. Drop them at my bag really quickly, and Ben and I are ready to enter the water. Even after all the chaos, we’re still walking in at 6:45.

At the direction of the race officials, we swim out a good ways to make room for the people still entering the water. We make it over to the boat ramp in plenty of time to see the pros make their start at 6:50. After that, it was time for Ben and I to make our departure as we headed back into the mass of athletes and seed ourselves as best we can before the start of our race. I’m treading water with 8 minutes to go and just trying to take it all in. Over the intercom I hear Mike Reilly’s all too familiar voice barking orders and giving encouragement. “Who’s ready to be an Ironman today?” We all cheer. Oh, I’m ready Mike, I’m ready. The remaining minutes tick away quickly and the national anthem plays. Taking one last look at the time clock, it reads 6:58:30; 90 seconds to go. Then, out of nowhere, the very familiar sounds play out. The airhorn blasts, I hear shouting, people in front of me begin to swim, the water is churned white, I see arms begin to flail and, just as last year, I hear the opening riff of “Sugar, We’re Going Down” by Fall Out Boy blast out of the loudspeaker. And then, nothing. All I hear is the water. Oh my God, here we go. Ironman Wisconsin is officially underway!

Ironman Wisconsin - The Swim

I knew I could expect something I’d never experienced before on the 2.4 mile, 2-loop Ironman swim: the pandemonium of a mass swim start. The course is rectangular; the swimmers head north past 7 yellow buoys and turn west at the corner for a couple hundred yards before heading back south towards the start and finish area along 7 orange buoys; red buoys marked all 7 turns. The swim got progressively less crowded as it went along, but I did not find open water until the second lap. The first few hundred yards seemed to inch along as I found myself doing as much lateral movement as forward motion just trying to get around people. Every few strokes left me slapping someone’s feet, having someone slap my feet, running into the side of someone, someone swimming over top of me, getting hit in the torso or arms, even once being kicked in the throat. It was never horribly cramped and I never felt unsafe, but the entirety of the experience was a lot to try to take in.

I went as easy as I could stand and then some on the half mile trip north. I was concerned with my time slipping off my goal of 1:30, but it never really got me down. For one thing, I could do nothing to change my predicament; for another, everyone was being slowed. It was a traffic jam in the water. I even did a little breast stroking in the water, which I’ve never done in a race before. The quagmire of black bodies and red and white heads remained the only story to tell through the first turn. As warned by another athlete, there was a slight hold up at the first turn. Too many athletes who didn’t know the course took just the smallest of moments to tread water and figure out which direction to go, slowing everyone else up. Upon turning back south and heading towards the Terrace I, somehow, recognized William on my right. I tried to swim with him for a little while, as his pace was just the smallest little bit ahead of mine, but lost him after about 150 yards in the sea of Ironmen-to-be. The proximity was becoming less of an issue with each yard passed, but it was still very much a problem; 30 minutes was simply not enough time for the race to seed itself out. I passed the time by sticking to my incredibly easy pace and counting the buoys as they passed. Knowing there were seven of them, I had checkpoints to get to; none of which were very far away at all. Rounding the turn buoy and heading east towards my second lap I struggled to see the time clock. I even, at one point, treaded water for a few seconds trying to catch a glimpse of how much time I’d spent on my first lap. It wasn’t to be, however, and I made my turn with no knowledge of whether I was on pace.

The big story of my final trip away from the Terrace was my bladder. It was obvious I had to use the restroom, but I couldn’t seem to go. It’s a very difficult thing, peeing while swimming. You’re body is completely horizontal, both your feet are engaged and your core is contracting and flexing with each stroke. I kept slowing down and getting closer and closer to actually going, then getting sick of the effort and speeding up. I hoped to hold it all the way until the final turn before going, but I soon lost the ambition and pulled off a little over halfway down the stretch to relieve myself. As far as I was concerned, you should pee in the water as much as possible because that will be the quickest bathroom stop you will make all day.

The field had spread out considerably by this point, and it became more of a swim than a jockey as I neared the red buoy out so far from the swim exit. Turning south, I was really gliding in the water. I took the opportunity to really extend my arms and try to make up some ground. I wouldn’t call it swimming hard, as I had already logged over 3,000 yards, but it was my first chance to really give some effort into it. It worked out very well, too. Just as I saw the northernmost part of the Terrace, I started to feel real fatigue in my arms and shoulders. I kept pushing at that Ironman race-pace extremely happy that I had found the balance between pushing too hard and “dogging it” in fear of pushing too hard. Making the final turn and heading towards the swim exit was a really cool feeling. I didn’t quite get the feeling of accomplishment I thought I may have, I was more concerned with simply being finished with the swim. I was completely intoxicated by the race and wanted to be out of that water and headed up to transition.

Every stroke and every sight got me closer and closer to the finish. Slowly but surely, things began to come into focus. First, it was the big inflatable “Swim Finish” sign. Then, the thousands of spectators began to resemble more of that than the blur of white they appeared to be in the previous hour and a half. 200 yards up, I could see volunteers ripping people out of the water. With patience and mental discipline, I eventually felt the discomfort of fine gravel on my tender feet and found it incredibly hard to find my balance. Clasping a volunteer’s outstretched hand, I was lifted out of Lake Monona and was upright once again. I heard the crowd for the first time as an official Ironman athlete… and it was beautiful…

I take off my goggles and cap and have my immaculate vision once more. Doing the preliminary work of removing my wetsuit as I ran up to the wetsuit strippers, I motion at one of them and he motions back. He instructs me to lay down as he and another volunteer grab the torso of my suit and rip it off my legs. Handing it back to me, I take a few moments to make sure I still have my goggles and cap in the suit’s arm before jogging up towards the helix. The crowd was incredible! All I heard was incoherent screaming. It was a cinderblock wall of families and friends from all corners of the globe craning for a glimpse of their loved ones. Heading up the helix towards T1 seemed to take a really long time, but I really didn’t mind it due to all the excitement.

The flow of transition, which only seemed hazy in the days leading up to it, made complete sense as I was directed into the room with our swim-to-bike bags. Calling out my number down the line, a volunteer handed me my bag before I could even run down there and I headed to the “get naked room” to prepare for the next leg of the race. Athletes swarmed the changing area, and volunteers were all around helping everyone out. Finding a place in the corner near the exit, I began to put my bike equipment on. It was a difficult and slow task as my body was still soaking wet from the swim. A volunteer helped me put on all my clothes and talked with me throughout the process, making me feel so great and so appreciative of them. I knew they were going to help me out so immensely throughout the day. By the time I exited, I had removed the top half of my tri suit and put on bike shorts, a bike jersey with food in the pockets, socks, sunglasses, my helmet, arm coolers, my Garmin (which I then powered on), a disposable camera for taking pictures on the bike, and a bottle of salt capsules. That done, the volunteer put all my swim gear in my bag, tossed it in a receptacle with the rest of the bags and wished me the best of luck on my journey. The exit proved a little confusing, but once I left the changing area it was all quite clear.

It was the better part of a quarter mile from the changing area to the mount line, so I left my shoes off and ran in my socks. Exiting the Terrace onto the parking structure where all the bikes were, I was once again greeted by thousands of screaming spectators. A volunteer quickly slathered my neck in sunscreen and I jogged towards my bike. Having a very low number, my bike was all the way on the opposite side of the deck, near the helix. I could hear Denise and my mom screaming at me as I neared the opposite side of the deck and prepared myself to receive my bike. I pumped my arms and pointed towards them as I jogged past, but only caught the slightest glimpse of them. I got to my bike and a volunteer held it while I put on my shoes. Taking it and thanking him, I clip-clopped towards the mount line. I heard a girl scream “Go Patrick” in front of me and smiled. It took a good amount of time for me to notice that the girl was Ben’s fiancé Meg, but I eventually recognized her as I ran past. Running past that wonderful tape line, I hopped on my bike, punched the start button on my watch and proceeded down the helix.

One down, two to go!

Swim Time: 1:25:07

T1: 10:16

Ironman Wisconsin - The Bike, Part I

The descent down the helix was fast and exciting, but it was a no-passing zone, so I couldn’t shoot down it as quickly as I may have liked to. The Wisconsin bike course is often and best described as a lollipop. You begin with the stick, a 14 mile trip to Verona, and proceed to make the candy, two 42 mile loops from Verona to Mt. Horeb to Cross Plains and back to Verona. After the second loop, you ride the inverse of the first 14 mile ride and head back towards Downtown. Easy enough, huh?

Immediately coming off the helix and departing north out of town, you spend a fair amount of the first 3 miles on paved bike trails and side streets until you get to the Alliant Energy Center, a premier Expo center for the city of Madison. I suppose you could compare it to the Sommet Center of Nashville. As I approached the center, I recognized a familiar cyclist. I doubt anyone out there will catch this reference, but just a few cyclists ahead of me, I saw Dave from “The Distance,” an amateur movie made about 3 people training for the 2008 IM-MOO. I pulled up next to him and talked to him for a little while. He told me that Josh had injured himself and didn’t train enough and that Tammy had made the opposite mistake and found herself overtrained for the event. He said he was feeling great, that his swim was better than last year and that he thought he would have a great day. Didn’t take long for him to ride away from me, but it was cool to talk to him all the same.

The first 14 miles were, in a word, uneventful. I was very excited to be on the bike and to be in the middle of the race I’ve had my sights on for 3 years. The roads connecting Verona and Madison were horribly paved and were very physically jarring to ride over. It appeared as if the whole road was paved with 12 foot squares of concrete, sealed together by asphalt, except that each square was set at a slightly different height. It was a rough ride. It went by soon enough, though, and I soon found myself in Verona embarking on my first of two loops. It had been obvious to me for some time that I had hyperhydrated the night before as I had peed a dozen times since my wake-up. I had to do so yet again ending “the stick,” so I stopped at the porto-potties at mile 15 to relieve myself; a volunteer actually held my bike up the entire time I was in there and handed it to me afterwards, which was awesome. Grabbing my first bottle of Gatoraid Endurance at the aid station, I knew I was once again racing a WTC race!

It’s unfortunate for me to say this, but the next 15 mile trip to Mt. Horeb was very uneventful as well. I got the first taste of Wisconsin’s rolling farmland and was able to familiarize myself with the idea of being on an Ironman bike course, but there wasn’t much to see or do. I concentrated on staying aero and pushing as hard as my legs would allow me on its rationed energy. I had packed two Larabars and a Powerbar Triple Threat, which I hoped would last me until the Special Needs bag pickup at mile 56. I started eating, kept drinking and took in all the countryside.

After the first true climb on the day, a very easy grade, gradual climb over a mile or so, we made it to the city limits of Mt. Horeb for some much needed excitement. I saw groups of spectators for the first time since leaving Verona and it was a chance to actually go through a town with houses, people, music and cheering. I scanned the roads for anybody I knew, but didn’t see anybody as I motored past. Exiting Mt. Horeb, we made our way to mile 30 and the first part of the course worth discussing in pre-race: Witte and Garfoot Rds. I’ve seen a YouTube video of the “roller coaster” that was this road. It was a stretch of 3 or 4 miles of peaks and valleys as high as hills, but in close proximity as rollers. The road went up and down and up and down again as you transverse the most BEAUTIFUL countryside. I truly, truly enjoyed this part of the course. Each hill I descended carried me up the next one, and the view was more than enough to get me through it. I think the Zipp wheels and the aero helmet helped a lot; I was noticeably faster on the downhills than anyone else around me. I didn’t pedal on a single downhill the entire ride. At the end of Garfoot, I saw another climb I’d seen before in last year’s pro-race recap, which was enough motivation for the nerd in me to get myself up it. Shortly thereafter, just before mile 39, we got to the part of the course I most looked forward to: a one mile descent on the other side of Garfoot Rd. It was much more technical that I expected, and everyone in front of me was braking, so I had to as well. You really needed to, though, unless you had the course memorized and are an incredible bike handler.

With that stretch behind us, we had another ten miles of boring before we saw anyone. This, in my opinion, was the toughest part of the course. This is after the first stretch before Mt. Horeb, so it’s not a new phenomenon. You were low before Mt. Horeb, than got on a high again going through it, only to have it drop you off in another low. Not only that, everyone knew what was coming next: the two hills on Old Sauk Pass Rd and Timber Ln. Watching the miles tick away on my watch and continuing my pace, nutrition and hydration plans, I prepared myself for what was to come. After what seemed like forever, we turned onto the very start of Old Sauk Pass and passed a tent with some people camped out around it. Not very many people and not much excitement, but the first sign of life we’ve seen in a while and the front bookend to the incredible challenge to come. Old Sauk Pass winds around and around as flat as can be for a while, building tension, before it starts to kick up. I don’t know how steep it was, but I’d have to estimate it’s between an 8 and 10 grade for about ¾ of a mile. After it begins to climb, you wind left and start to see spectators. Cowbells rang and people shouted. I broke out my camera to take some pictures as I climbed the hill. Every time I did this, either in the middle of nowhere country or in the midst of the most challenging climbs, EVERYBODY loved it. I got more encouragement than any other part of the course. Being a good climber relative to people of like pacing in most races I do, I ground up the hill in the smallest gear I had and flew past many people. At the top, you got a mile or so to catch your breath before you turned off onto Timber Ln. Not far from the turn was the steepest, toughest hill on the course, referred to by some as “the Rockstar” because of the number of people on it. It was, as promised, reminiscent of the great climbs of the Tour de France, with a 4 person deep wall spanning the entire climb. Talk about a sight; I took a quick picture and was greeted by the roar of drunk college guys in banana suits and drag. “Yeah, Patrick! That’s awesome!” I jumped out of the saddle and hammered up the hill, passing more of my like-pace brethren. The top of the climb came in good time and I relished the excitement, but more so the completion and a chance to catch my breath and pull down my racing heart. It’s going to be really nice finishing this section the second time.

A number of dull miles ensued as we left Cross Plains, bound for Verona. They passed quickly enough the first time, but I could feel the effects of the day thus far; I knew the second loop was going to be hellacious. As my watch ticked closer to 56, it became more and more apparent that we were headed back into town, as we saw more and more spectators and heard more and more noise. I had made a goal for myself to not get lapped on the bike by the pros. I had made it to mile 53 without this happening. If I could make it to the turnoff point where you finish your “stick” as you head back into Madison, then I would have accomplished it. Mile 53.5, a mile and a half from the turnoff, I saw a Ford Fusion with the official Ironman race time, right at 5:00:00. “Cool” I thought, nothing thinking of it. Moments later, the men’s leader comes rocketing past me. Not far behind him were the top 6 men, one of whom was defending champion Chris McDonald. I yelled encouragement at him as he passed, but was a little upset at not making my goal. Oh, well, it was kind of a random, stupid one.

Entering Verona (a bit before the previous excitement) was really a cool experience. The crowd walls got thicker, and they had blocked off the course from traffic with barricades and sponsor’s signs. Going through the Timex bike bonus was breathtakingly awesome. It was just a surreal experience; in that moment, I was experiencing the awesome power of Ironman. Going through the aid station in Verona, a couple miles from the turnoff, I was refilling my Gatoraid when I passed my cheering section. Half of them had missed me going through, and I had a full Gatoraid bottle in my mouth as I passed, so I couldn’t say anything or even acknowledge that I saw them. Worst spot possible to try to catch my attention, but I kept a mental note of where they were to make sure I’d get to see them the next time around.

Passing the turnoff point, I celebrated not getting passed by any of the women at least, and began to scan ahead for the special needs bags. Eventually, we got to them (around mile 59, actually) and I got another awesome experience, tearing through the entirety of it while people pulled off to get their bags. It was like a Tour de France feeding zone; it was mass chaos and confusion as people pulled off to get their bags and pulled back into the lane of travel. Everyone was shouting to get out of the way, or that they were passing on the left. My bag was all the way at the end, so I got through the commotion and picked up my bag. I stopped to use the closest porto potty for the second time on the bike and realized that it was the same one I had stopped at on the first loop. There was a line this time, so I took a second to stretch my back, which I wanted to do anyway. I didn’t really mind the rest all that much! After a quick break, I pulled out the additional Larabar and Powerbar Triple Threat, shoved them in my jersey pocket and shoved my Mom’s homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies in my Bento Box before heading out on loop two. I was already tired. I looked forward to enjoying the sweet vacation from energy bars, but I knew, as everyone else on that course, that the second loop was going to hurt like crap.

Ironman Wisconsin - The Bike, Part II

I don’t really know what to say about the 2nd lap. It was the same course as the first, and everything was exactly as it was three hours ago. That is to say, the same as it was one octave of exhaustion below the first. The boring stretch to Mt. Horeb seemed longer and more boring the second time around, but I still had relatively high levels of energy in the tank. Eating the cookies helped my mood, but it wasn’t quite the treat I expected it to be. Energy bars taste like garbage when you eat them in everyday situations, but when you’re exercising, you really do develop a taste for them. At the time, it’s exactly what your body needs to yield the best results possible. My mom’s cookies just didn’t do it for me. They were sweet, they were delicious, they were soft and thin and chocolaty. In the end, though, they were just too sweet. I ate on them for about an hour and a half before throwing away what was left of them. All I could taste was the vanilla extract. The thought of continuing to eat them made me grimace. So, I went back to the bars and enjoyed the variety, very satisfied with the diversity and another hour and a half of proper nutrition in the books.

Riding through Mt. Horeb the final time was nice in the sense that I knew going into it that I would never see it again. This became a common theme throughout the second loop. It’s unclear to me if and when I’ll ever be back. I may do IM-MOO again some time down the road, but I know my current goal is to do a tour of all the American M-Dots. So, last time in a decade. In any case, it was great to see the familiar streets and people. Witte and Garfoot were certainly harder the first time, but they flew past once again with but a glance of the gorgeous countryside along it. The mile-long plummet on the other side was just as nice, perhaps more so because I need the rest even more. The ensuing 15 mile commute to Cross Plains and Old Sauk Pass was much worse the second time and I started to notice my pace dropping off. It was getting harder to stay in the aero position and I found myself coming out of it whenever possible. My butt began to hurt so much that being out of my aero position was just as painful, so I had to find that balance.

Old Sauk Pass Rd and Timber Ln. were so much worse. My body was so roasted after the roughly 85 miles completed thus far. The crowd had thinned and it just wasn’t as magical an experience. I passed several people on both climbs just as before. I’m reasonably confident that not only did I pass more people on the second lap than the first, but I got more comments about my pace from both racers and spectators on the second go-around. They both hurt worse, though. The Timber Ln. climb was hell on wheels. I could only get my heart rate up to about 185, but I was going to failure. A semi-permanent grimace was etched on my wide open mouth as I struggled, out of the saddle, up the climb. Motivated only by what spectators were left and seeing the top of the hill oh-so-terribly close, I got my fragile body up the hill. I swear I felt 50 pounds heavier the second go-round. Exiting Cross Plains, the next 10 miles of boring were expected, but not welcomed. By this point, I was in real awe of not only my mileage, but my average pace thus far. I was certainly on the top end of what I considered possible going into the race. I could limp home and still make my goal time. I was tired and very sore, and I had my doubts about how I’d handle the marathon, but I was go excited at the idea of getting off this damn bike.

Verona finally appeared in the distance, just as it had before, and was even more beautiful that the first time. I took special care to quickly exchange bottles at the aid station and hug the far barricade so I would have an opportunity to feed off my cheering section. It had thinned some, but Denise and my mom were still there toughing it out, and their cheers gave me what energy I needed to make it to the turnoff point. The second trip through, I noticed some sidewalk-chalk graffiti with my name on it, which was a very cool sight to see.

Turning off onto the short 14 mile trip back into town was so relieving, but I had certainly forgotten two things about this little stretch: there are a couple climbs worth suffering over and the roads were so rough! The climbs came and went with little agony, but after 105 miles of riding the rough roads were almost unbearable. I slowed down considerably and simply grunted my way over the street, occasionally glancing at the distance reading on my Garmin, and watching it tick closer to 112. I knew I had to sweat out these damn poor streets until I hit the Alliance Energy Center at mile 109, then we’d be off the main roads for good. More patience was needed and drawn forcibly from my mind, but I eventually saw the building in the distance and eagerly dropped off John Nolen Blvd. Going around the Energy Center, retracing my steps along the side streets and the cool-as-hell bike trail hugging Lake Monona I knew I was just moments away from Downtown. Then came the stunning sight I’ve wanted to see for the last 6 and a half hours: the Monona Terrace. As I approached the great building, I threw my fists up and smiled in accomplishment. I put my bike into my easiest gear and spun up the helix, listening to the faint roar of the crowd from the top level. Finally rolling around the last turn, I entered T2 and handed off my bike. A little wobbly at first, I jogged my way into the Terrace to the music of my family screaming my name.

T2 was even better than T1. It wasn’t nearly as crowded and I got to sit down. There was far less clothing to put on, and the task was easier with dry skin. I was much more coherent and had a much deeper conversation with the volunteer helping me change. He was a big cyclist who was earning his spot to race at Wisconsin next year. I shared with him that I had volunteered last year, and how exciting it is to finally be doing it. After getting fully dressed, I bid him farewell, but stopped and stretched out my abs before exiting. I was in no huge hurry to hustle out of T2 and start my 26.2 mile death-march, so I didn’t really do anything in much of a hurry. As soon as I got outside, a volunteer slathered me up one more time with sunscreen and I hit the porto potties again before I embarked. Everyone in my cheering section with a camera had multiple opportunities to snap pictures of me exiting the porto potty and running towards the start of the run. I was so excited to see them again and so glad to be off the bike. I’d found my running legs before even exiting the transition area and knew that after another 26.2 agonizingly painful miles that I’d forever be an Ironman. At that juncture, just as I crossed the timing mat and reset my Garmin to record my running time, I was ready for the sacrifice. “Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.”

Bike Time: 6:58:55

T2: 9:20

Ironman Wisconsin, The Run - Part I

From the moment I had started the run, I reverted to a pacing strategy where I’d jog for 4 minutes and walk 1. I had received many pieces of advice telling me to do so, most recently from Nate. When it all came down to it, my opinion on the matter was that this was “the Ironman Shuffle;” this is going to take a really, really long time no matter what pacing strategy I chose. It gave me no benefit to pretend otherwise. I had to disappoint some volunteers early on, to see a racer walking with 26 miles to go, but most people who knew anything about racing felt much less pity when I told them my rationale. Quickly into my “run” I altered my plan include walking the entirety of every aid station, the entirety of every reasonable hill and any time my heart rate went over zone 2. The latter did not happen a single time, because my body simply was not capable of that kind of effort at that juncture, but my pace was right around 13 minutes/mile; a pace I thought I could hold the rest of the day with the number of walk breaks I was taking.

Immediately leaving T2, I was able to bear witness to the pro men finish. I had missed the top 3 or so, but I did get to see Chris MacDonald, a hero of mine, finishing up his long day at the office. Some miles up, I was passed by the 2nd place woman, and then, about a hundred feet behind her, I saw defending women’s champion Hilary Biscay in 3rd. I yell out to Biscay that she’s my favorite female pro triathlete hoping that’d help her kick, but I guess it didn’t. I think I had missed the first female finisher in the porto potty, as I had to stop one more time within the first mile to drop off some solids. I can ride a bike literally all day and be fine, but the instant I start to run my body immediately goes code brown. It was like that all year.

The first 5k heading up towards Camp Randall Stadium was horribly winding and didn’t seem to have much rhyme or reason to it. It seemed to me that they were just stretching out an otherwise simple path to make the loop an even 13.1 miles. My Garmin, just as in training, beeped at me every half hour to remind me to take in something substantial, and I drank Gatoraid at every aid station, which was the caloric load I was accustomed to. The issue was that it was not the nutritional plan I was accustomed to. Throughout the last half of my Ironman run training I was using EFS Liquid Energy Shots, made by First Endurance Nutrition. It has the caloric density of a gel, but the consistency is a liquid; I suppose roughly the thickness of hot maple syrup. It’s also packed with electrolytes and other good frou-frou stuff; they package them in 5 oz flasks and one liter refill bottles. After my last (what I would call) long run of training, I had placed both empty flasks in my sink before crashing hard in my bed. My roommate’s fiancé, not knowing what they were, threw them both away. MOAB, the local bike shop that sold them to me, were sold out of them when I had left for Madison. Turns out, MOAB is the only dealer in a 50 mile radius that sells them. What’s more, there’s only one bike shop in all of Madison that carries that specific product, and they were sold out of them. Being that the Ironman is sponsored by Powerbar, all that was available on course or at the expo were Powerbar gels. I loathe Powerbar gels. But, in a survival situation, you take what you’re given. I was afraid of what this may do to the end of my day.

Approaching Camp Randall Stadium was an awesome spectacle. After almost completely circumnavigating it, you eventually turn right into the stadium, perform a loop around the far corners of the playing field and head back out the door you came. It just so happened that I had a walk break just before entering, and it took me right at 4 minutes to run around the stadium, which gave me another walk break immediately upon leaving. A volunteer was telling me how he was “kicking himself for not bringing a football” to toss to us as we passed. I remarked that if he threw a football at me right then, I’d probably just let it hit me in the face; tired did not even begin to explain it.

Exiting Camp Randall, we headed north and very quickly found ourselves on the Howard Temin bike path, a wonderfully shaded, flat, smoothly paved pedestrian pathway right on the edge of Lake Mendota. I was warned that the trip in the opposite direction seemed like it went on forever, but the eastbound direction seemed very nice, indeed. Besides that, I knew the only big climb on the run course on Observatory Dr. was coming up. I mean, come on, Observatory Drive? You KNOW that thing is going to be a wall. Nearing mile 5, I saw it and began to walk up very slowly. No big efforts here, the thing was steep and very long. The opposite side was very nice, I was able to ramp my body up to speeds of 9 to 8 minute miles descending down. Very shortly thereafter, you come to the best part of the whole course: the turnaround on State St., marking roughly the halfway point on the loop. Similar to the big climb on Timber Ln., people crowded the streets 3 and 4 deep and screamed encouragement at everyone. The street was covered sidewalk to sidewalk in chalk graffiti and music blared out of the official Ironman speakers. It was a huge pick up, and I had a very long spell of jogging from the start to the turnaround and all the way back to the next aid station when we left it behind us.

After all the excitement on State St., I was a little happy to reach the Temin Bike Path once more, en route to the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr. The serenity of the water, the wonderfully cooling shade and the flat, gentle expansion on the path gave me a chance to really let my mind come down off all the excitement of the day, which was bordering on overload. Right around when the straight and narrow began to wear on me, we came to the halfway point of the straight stretch and began running past the inspirational signs our friends and family had made for us in the Janus tent during the pre-race expo. The signs literally stretched a mile in both directions, and I was able to recognize one that Denise had made me along the way. Eventually, I neared the Ford Motivational Mile in the opposite direction which gave me some motivation to make it back there in a short amount of time. From there, it wasn’t a half mile to the turnaround. Making it back to the big Ford display, I crossed the mat and eagerly looked up to see what inspirational sign my friends had left for me. After a few steps, I read “197. P. Allen. Fetus Fold!” Damn you, Ben. Damn you.

Knowing the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr. left you about 4 miles from Downtown, I was given new life. Jogging back into town, I was greeted by a guy I didn’t think I’d see all day. Jeremy from the forums recognized my last name on my tri-suit and ran up to me. He talked about how his bike had suffered some abuse in the days leading up to the race and how it just annihilated any chance of him accomplishing his goals. He went on to say that he started the run in a waddle and wasn’t sure if he could even finish the event. He and I soon realized we had similar athleticism left and similar remaining goals, so we stuck together and discussed the day away. My conversation with him adequately distracted me from the ensuing miles, and we eventually found ourselves past Camp Randall Stadium, on short route back to the turnaround Downtown and halfway through our run. I started to feel real fatigue for the first time on the run about two miles from the halfway point, but the wall soon came crashing down and we soon bore witness to the other side of State St., less than a mile from the turn. We ran past Jeremy’s family first, and my sister parked up not too much further. I dropped off my sunglasses with her as the sun was about a half hour from setting and continued around the Capitol to Martin Luther King Blvd, the site of the finish line and the halfway-point turnaround. I didn’t think I had “earned” my Ironman finish yet, and I was so excited to see my cheering section again that I got a huge surge of adrenaline when I passed. It had actually grown since the start of the run, as Binkley and Beth were also Downtown with homemade signs and fresh lungs. I shouted and waved at them and got that energy back ten-fold. Crossing the timing mat at the halfway point, I noticed it had taken us just under 3 hours to do the first half. My body still felt relatively good, all things considered; I still had some tricks up my sleeve for the end of the run. I could soon abandon my gels plan and switch to the warm salty chicken broth and sweet, caffeinated “defizzled” (read: flat) coke, which would please my tired palate and provide easily burnable rocket fuel to push me towards the finish. Fully expecting to jog the whole last 4 miles, I motioned over to my cheering section that I expected to be back at 9:45.

Heading back out of Downtown on the same route as before, a volunteer handed Jeremy and I the ever familiar glowsticks. “You have to have these to continue running.” It’s a safety issue, allowing motorists to see you. It also provides quite a spectacle to see the beaten but valiant few who struggle on well into night. This was a description that suited Jeremy and I well as we plod along back towards Camp Randall. Turning back and heading the opposite direction would mean that the day was over, that I had seen all there is to see, and that I was an Ironman. After 3 years of waiting, all I had left was 2:45 of suffering left to endure before I could get on with my lifetime of pride.

Ironman Wisconsin - The Run, Part II

Leaving Downtown Madison for the last time, it didn’t take long for me to realize that our pacing was slowing down. After our extended jogging session leaving the turnaround ended, we were doing 13 min/mi despite expending the effort of 10:30s. We did a stint of walking until we neared State St and saw Jeremy’s family once more. Jeremy gave his smile and wave and dropped off his sunglasses as well as we headed away from the excitement and into the lonely. Our pace was slowing, but we kept to the plan and hoped we could bank enough energy for a kick at the end. Having seen the course just 3 hours earlier, we were very proficient at rationing our jogging strides to coincide with the course’s small hiccups. Bound for Camp Randall Stadium once more we pushed our jogging stints as far as they would go, stopping because we had to more often than because our 4 minutes had expired.

Eventually the 5k mark on the loop came and went and we entered the Stadium for our very cool second loop around. We jogged the whole thing, but it was much slower and more painful this time. Scarcely making it out of the stadium, we stopped for another walk. My body has never been in motion for this long and I could sense problems over the horizon. Jeremy had given me a couple capsules of chewable Pepto-Bismol at the turnaround, which I took although I was not suffering GI issues yet. Round about the 16 mile marker, on the other side of the Stadium, I started to feel a sinister process brewing in a very unhappy stomach. Wishing it away provided a weak defense and over the next mile it grew to full-blown nausea.

The nausea manifested itself over a half mile or so. Once it had matured, it slowed me down to a crawl. Jeremy stuck by my side and talked me through every uncomfortable step. I tried many things to reverse the process: I tried sucking on peppermint candies, I tried forcing down water, I tried eating nothing at all. The damage had already been done from lack of variety in my day’s nutrition plan. As night fell in Madison, I continued to slow Jeremy down more and more along the Temin Bike Path. The shade and view of the water were no longer noticeable under the veil of darkness, so it didn’t help to quell the anger in my stomach. I limped along with Jeremy, doing more walking than jogging, until we got to the great climb on Observatory Dr. Jeremy was recognized by another racer who lived close to him and they began talking. As they walked and talked, I faded back. Jeremy began barking encouragement at me from above: “Come on Patrick! Keep going, man!” Soon their conversation soon turned to their favorite races. One of them brought up a race in Buffalo and all I could think about was buffalo sauce, buffalo chicken tenders and hot wings; the conversation was making me more ill by the second. I stopped and held my knees. Then began walking again only to have to stop once more. Jeremy tried to pull me up the hill with words of motivation, but my body was failing; I had to let him go. At the top of the hill I decided to jog down the other side. Coming down the hill, I caught Jeremy and his new friend once more, but they quickly dropped me again as we neared State St. Thus setting the stage for what was next to come.

I think it probably took the better part of an hour to go the 2 miles from the start of Observatory Hill to the completion of State St. heading back towards the turnaround on Lake Mendota. I could not eat, could not drink, could not think of anything, not even finishing. My whole world was forcing back the urge to vomit and trying to comb the nausea to the side. I wanted nothing more than to run to the finish and puke my brains out. My jog now resembled more of a weak limp, but I headed down State St. towards the turnaround as fast as my body would allow me. Hitting the turnaround, I punched m y Garmin to record my second-to-final split of the day. I was a mere 7 miles from the finish. Leaving behind what was left of the crowd at that time, I neared the aid station at the end of the road feeling worse than I had all day. I had to use the restroom and remembered from previous experiences of, -clears throat-, “excessive consumption,” that using the restroom often helped my nausea. The one porto potty I saw immediately was occupied, so I sat on the sidewalk and laid on my back. This was a frightening alarm to race volunteers and local police. I had 2 or 3 people come to check on me, but my weak response of pointing to the closed door of the porto potty and a mumble were enough to dissolve any immediate danger. I’m sure they kept a close eye on me, though, as it was clear to anyone who saw me that I was near my body’s breaking point.

Eventually, I noticed two more porto potties across the street and forced myself to my feet. Hobbling over to one that was vacant, I sat down, locked the door and rested my head on the side. And waited. I would have stayed in there as long as it took. I had finished using the toilet, but I had no will to move, no reason to do the death-march any longer. I sat there and collected my thoughts. I tried to use meditation and breathing techniques to slow my body down and get over the nausea. Eventually, I determined I was not going to feel any better, so I put my suit back on and walked out down the street through the aid station. I had made it roughly halfway through the station when I had to stop and hold my knees once more. A well-meaning volunteer asked me if I was okay, asked me if I needed anything, asked me what was going on. I told him that I was about to vomit. He left me alone for a time before offering me some bratwurst. I don’t know if he offered it to me before I had told him about my nausea, but it really didn’t help the situation. I started walking again for about a step before passing the point of no return. I sprinted over to the side of the road to what I thought was a trash can. Turns out it was a can filled with cool water and sponges, long since abandoned with the setting sun. I grabbed the can with both hands and vomited. It was an extremely forceful experience; my hands dug into the side of the can and my feet lifted off the ground. As I emptied out the contents of my stomach into this can all I could taste was orange Gatoraid and gummy bears. That’s all that was in there. The spell continued through dry heaving once everything had been expelled. I continued to hold onto the can for a moment. Nausea still dwelled in my gut for the longest of moments before evaporating completely. I may as well have been cured of leprosy. After a few seconds post-evacuation, I was clear and ready to run again.

Before I continue, there is something I need to clarify. I don’t know how to say it; I’m so frightened that it happened at all. This is going to be difficult to write, perhaps more so than it was to experience. As I mentioned before, my body made a complete 180 after vomiting and I felt completely better. The nausea that had so tortured me for the last hour had lifted and I was ready to move again completely unrestrained. Well, the key phrase was that a couple pregnant seconds had to pass between vomiting and feeling better. Oh, God! How to write this? This is the epitome of everything I’ve been afraid of for the last 3 years, the most evil manifestation I could possibly have foreseen.

There I was, holding the trash can, having seen the last of my running nutrition over the last 4 hours. My vomiting stint was completed, but the nausea was still there. I picked my head up slightly and began to assess the situation. Vomiting was my last option. Having done that and still not feeling better, only one option remained. The only thing I could do at that moment was to find a space on the sidewalk and lie down. I would lie down until someone came and got me. I had all but ruled out feeling better, so for that eternity of a second or two, I took my hands off the trash can and prepared myself to lie down. I was not waiting to feel better; I was waiting for someone to call EMS.

I quit.

At that moment, in that situation, I knew I did not have what it took to run another 6.5 miles. No amount of time was long enough. I could not force myself through this anymore. No matter how long I trained, no matter how long I’d been racing that day, no matter how much I had put into this, I couldn’t go anymore. So I quit. For that moment in time I had DNF’d. And there was nothing in the world I could do about it. The moment, though, did pass. I did feel better, and I did keep going. But the horror of that realization; it will haunt me forever.

The next 5.5 miles were just the horrid death-march I’ve only seen twice in my life: at the end of WildFlower and at the end of the Country Music Marathon. I would jog with a lean and then walk. Time stood still. Only minimal progress was made. I had no idea how slow my pacing was, but I didn’t care; I was more than willing to take what my body would give me. I had no worries about missing the cutoff time and being disqualified and I did not fear my stomach acting up again as there was nothing in it. All that remained was the longest 10k of my life and nothing to make it any less repulsive. The never ending trek down the Temin Bike path towards the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr and the Ford Motivational Mile eventually parted ways and I was interested to see what the board would read this time. Passing the giant Ford semi, the screen read “197 P. Allen. Fetus Fold.” once again. What to say about it? Nothing. There are only 4 miles left. Next stop: Camp Randall.

I caught Jeremy somewhere on the way back to the stadium and told him what had happened. I told him about the hill on Observatory and the pit-stop on State St. He shared that his friend soon dropped him and he planned to walk most of the remaining time into Downtown. I walked and talked weakly with him for a little while, but soon the time came to bid farewell to him. Saying, simply, “I gotta go man,” Jeremy wished me well and said he’d see me at the finish line if not before. More than likely not before.

I had run past 4 or 5 aid stations before I tried eating again. I would get into a habit of taking one pretzel and washing it down with water. It was a less than ideal nutrition plan, but it was manageable and got something in my system. I knew deep down that it would not solve my problems, but something is always better than nothing. At one point I also tried a cup of broth and a peppermint candy. Both seemed to work for a time, but not for very long. I trudged on. Inching my way closer to Downtown I thanked what few spectators were still there and kept hobbling my way there. Past the Temin Bike Path. Past Camp Randall Stadium. Past the quick elevation changes along the pedestrian walkway. My body was out of energy, and any kind of effort was simply a physiological impossibility. I marched along the course guided only by orange cones and lines on the ground. I was not even motivated to finish, not motivated by the crowd or the shirt or the medal or the tattoo. I had no motivation. But, frankly, as long as I was moving forward I didn’t need any. I marched and marched and marched, jogging as much as I could, walking when I had to, stopping once or twice to center my thoughts, just wondering how much farther could this course possibly span. I knew I was getting closer and closer to the turn off onto State Street. Every street looked like State and nobody seemed to know how far away it was. My Garmin was still on, miraculously, and I checked it periodically to see that I was 24.5 miles into my run. It had to be close.

Eventually, the road bended to the left and I saw it. Couldn’t see the street sign, but I just knew it was it. I turn right onto State St. As I’m turning, a spectator told me to look up. All I saw was the Capitol Building, standing tall, fully illuminated with floodlights from below. “You’re almost there!” The sight of the building made me weep. I hobbled up the uphill street whimpering, tears in my eyes. Every spectator was cheering me on, encouraging me by name. They could see my face; they knew how emotional it was for me. I was passing walkers; I knew I would not walk again. My whimpers became louder when I turned onto Mifflin in Madison’s Downtown Square and ran past the final aid station a half mile from the finish. I ripped off the glow sticks on my race belt and struggled to hold back the tears, struggled to dry my eyes for the magic that was the turn onto MLK Blvd. I heard “All Around Me” by Flyleaf play in my head. It was exactly what I had envisioned the finish would be like: an out of body experience. The energy of the crowd all around me, my outstretched fingers feeling the finish line on them, the awe and disbelief of finishing the toughest single day endurance event in the world. As I neared the end of the street, more spectators cheered. “Just two more turns! Just two more turns and you’re there!” The crowd was growing now, and getting much louder. The darkness vanished into white light and incoherent noise. I turn onto Martin Luther King Blvd. I see my family. I see my friends. I see the finish. “I’m alive!” I scream “I’m alive! I’m alive!”

Running under the black Ford inflatable sign, I knew I was on camera. I was in the finish line chute, and I was all by myself. Adrenaline surged through my body. I roared with excitement. I jumped for joy. I pumped up the crowd and turned them into a frenzy. I slapped high fives as I neared the finish. There’s no tape, which disappoints me but takes nothing away from the moment. The finish line is just in front of me. Cameramen bend down and get ready to take my finish line picture. I cross the line, close my eyes, lift my arms and give out the biggest, manliest roar of my life. I’m an Ironman. Oh, myyyyyyy Gooooooooood!

Run Time: 6:43:40

Total Race Time: 15:27:18 (A new personal record! haha)

Two volunteers soon catch me and walk me from the finish line through the finisher’s area. She briefs me on where the food is. She asks me my t-shirt size and hands me my finisher’s shirt. She grabs my finisher’s hat and hands it to me. She directs me to the volunteer handing out medals and allows her to place it around my neck. She asks me if I’m okay and directs me to a photo backdrop where they get a finisher’s picture of you in all your new schwag.

Exiting the finish line area, I find my sister and hug her. Then I see my mom. I hug her as well. And cry. I cry harder than I’ve cried in my adult life. Tears and spit and snot pool on her shoulder. It’s over. It’s all over. Denise comes down and I hug her. Then Binkley and Beth. I stay in the area and take pictures for a long time before heading back to the bleachers to watch the last hour of finishers. 20 minutes later, I see Ben finish. I do my best to catch him in the finisher’s chute, but I never did see him until the next day. I stay until the last official finisher just minutes before midnight. Then, midnight strikes, the day ends, and I’m ready to head back to the hotel. Nothing left to say. Nothing left to think. Nothing to wish were different. I’m an Ironman. And that’s all I’ve ever hoped to be.