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.