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.