A morning that was very much the result of weeks of visualization started, predictably, 45 minutes before my alarm went off. Having slept about 4.5 hours by the time I woke up at 2:45 to pee, my first logical thought of the day was “that was easy;” I think I’m getting the hang of this whole actually getting some sleep before big races thing.
The next hour and a half was the predictable slog of eating my two sweet potatoes, filling my Rudy Project bag’s bladder with water & NUUN, putting on sunscreen and getting dressed. I missed out on an offer from another racer to hitch a ride up to transition when I went down to pay for another day’s worth of parking, but I was not ready to head up yet, so I had to let her go. Besides that, I was looking forward to the walk. I paid, went back up to the room to grab my bags and flipped on my Ironman Louisville! playlist just as I left the Brown Hotel, bound for transition.
It was dark and pretty sleepy leaving the hotel, becoming less so as I got closer to The Great Lawn. The walk was a nice chance to let my mind wander into a blither place, but it took far more time to cover the distance than I had budgeted for it. In due time, I made it to my bike, slapped on my bottle of Infinit and started to pump up my tires. I’d never tried to pump up my rear tire with my new “crack pipe” adapter for a disc wheel, and quickly tired myself out trying to do so. I gave up and walked my bike over to the bike techs, who were inflating tires with pressurized air guns. That done, I had two more stops: bike-to-run transition bag to pour water in my energy powder and to the porto-potty line. By this time, my playlist is about to finish and my phone is blowing up with messages from various friends and family members wondering where the f*ck I am.
I meet up with Marian and Denise and we walk to swim start. It’s a sea of lemmings, everyone simply following the person in front of him, and still hours before sunrise. Denise shoots some video of the walk and I give minimal effort to entertain the camera, while trying to maintain a sense of tranquility that has yet to really leave me.
We arrive at Tumbleweed about 6:00am, agree on a location to drop my bags and lawn chair and part ways. I find my friend and fellow racer Jonathan and his wife waiting in line and park up next to them. The next hour consisted of uneventful conversation and more laughter than I expected, which in turn made the wait more bearable. Besides that, a bathroom break apiece ate up about half of that hour. In due time, we heard (largely out of context) a 5 minute warning air horn, a gunshot to start the pros, intermittent screaming and a percussive cannon to officially start the race. By then volunteers had amassed and were taking charge, encouraging all family members to step out of line and allow the athletes to tighten up.
Within 10 minutes, Jonathan and I approached the dock, high fived and selected our line. Quickly reaching the end of it and crossing over the timing mat, I punched my Garmin to record the official start of Ironman 2010 and dove into the murky waters of the Ohio.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Ironman Louisville: The Swim
After several dozen sessions in the pool in which it did not happen, I immediately upon entering the water felt river water shoot into my right goggle. I wrestle with it for the first few hundred yards before cutting my losses and trying to ignore it. I then concern myself with nailing down my form early and finding my pace. The water, though measured at 83 degrees race morning, is cool against my body and in no way warmer, murkier or less comfortable than local Percy Priest Lake and I soon start to wonder what all the fuss is about.
The swim is a combination of a single loop and a point-to-point. You swim roughly 1,200 meters out until you reach a turn buoy, at which point you turn about 330 degrees and swim the remainder of the course down stream back towards transition. I split the swim up as such: warm up until I reached open water (out of the channel), pick it up a notch against the current, lock into a smooth pace and try to find feet after the turn buoy. There are swimmers of all sorts occupying space in the water; unlike mass start swims, the swimmers are seeded randomly, which causes far more time for the swimmers to sort themselves out. Not as intense as a mass start, but I still don’t prefer it.
Exiting the channel and heading towards the turn buoy, I reminded myself to keep my arm cadence high and to swim “smooth.” It was easy work doing so and I found myself largely with plenty of room around me. I check my watch at the turn; though I don’t know how far out it was, I was happy to see that I had made the trip in 26 minutes.
Making the turn and heading back, I was disappointed to see that there was still no established hierarchy of swim talent, making it much more difficult to find someone to draft off of. The trade off was that I was flying past 90% of the field without much effort. Clearly, the only logical choice was to go harder and I picked it up to more of a half-ironman swim pace. I kept looking for feet to follow and soon came to the realization that the only swimmers worth drafting off of would be ones who passed me. This happened twice, both times I kicked up to their feet and both times I couldn’t hold their slipstreams for longer than 50-100 meters. I was more or less content to continue at my smooth but rapid pace as I saw the bridges in the distance. I knew going into the swim that there were 3 bridges I’d have to swim under between myself and the swim exit. The problem was that you can see all 3 bridges after about 500 meters from the turnaround. As one might imagine, actually getting to the bridges was a process that seemed to take far longer than it rightfully should have.
As I neared the second bridge, I started sighting to my left to try to identify how much further then swim exit was. For a moment, I deduced that we had passed the Great Lawn and were in the finish line chute. Unfortunately for your naive author, I was at the time crossing the Great Lawn and quickly running out of gas. Passing under the second bridge, drawing ever closer to the third and leaving Transition area behind me, I really started to suffer. My arms started to burn and threatened to detach themselves from my body. I began to have trouble controlling my breathing and maintaining my form. I really, really, really wanted to see that big inflatable “Swim Exit” sign, but I had simply miscalculated the swim course and was starting to pay the price. What’s more, my efforts towards a more impressive swim split started to slip away as I watched 1:00, 1:05 and 1:10 slip away. I figured I’d be between 1:10 and 1:15, though I had hoped to surprise myself. By the time 1:10 had slipped by, we had made the turn past the Lawn and I could now clearly see the swim exit. I plugged away with whatever strength I had left and soon saw volunteers shoulder-deep in the water helping people up the steps; with good reason too, those steps were treacherous. The volunteer who helped me find my footing was nice enough to unzip the back of my speed suit, which helped me a lot.
Estimated Swim Time: 1:10-1:15
Actual Swim Time: 1:14:11
I climb out of the water, punch my Garmin and see that my swim split was right around 1:14. I’ll take it; still way better than last year. I wasn’t sure if it recorded my lap key, so I punch it again to be sure, remove my cap and goggles, pull off the upper part of the suit and begin my jog to transition through a wall of screaming spectators. It’s all par for the Ironman course and I don’t pay it a lot of mind. Nearing transition I hear Denise screaming, but don’t see anybody I recognize. My right foot is a bit tender as I gave myself the smallest of blisters under my 2nd toe in the days before walking untold miles in my minimalist Vibram Five-Fingers, but I make quick work of grabbing my T1 bag and heading into the change tent to the chorus of cheering spectators and my Garmin wildly alerting me that my heart rate is out of control.
Inside the tent is pretty crowded, horribly humid and featured no volunteer help. Volunteers were there, some of them helping athletes dress, but nobody so much as looked at me as I struggled to slap on my biking gear. I instead made small talk with a guy next to me and continue to dress quickly. Finishing up, I hand my gear bag and wet clothes to a volunteer and jog out towards my bike. Grabbing it and approaching the mount line, I see Amy and her camera as I jog past. I go to punch my Garmin as I get on the bike and am confused to see it say “T2.” Apparently it did read my lap the first time, and had recorded my transition time as my bike split. I have to stop the multisport, erase the memory and start another bike/run multisport workout before I can get it going again. Sill, though, within 15 seconds of mounting, I press the start button and begin my ride.
T1: 5:18
The swim is a combination of a single loop and a point-to-point. You swim roughly 1,200 meters out until you reach a turn buoy, at which point you turn about 330 degrees and swim the remainder of the course down stream back towards transition. I split the swim up as such: warm up until I reached open water (out of the channel), pick it up a notch against the current, lock into a smooth pace and try to find feet after the turn buoy. There are swimmers of all sorts occupying space in the water; unlike mass start swims, the swimmers are seeded randomly, which causes far more time for the swimmers to sort themselves out. Not as intense as a mass start, but I still don’t prefer it.
Exiting the channel and heading towards the turn buoy, I reminded myself to keep my arm cadence high and to swim “smooth.” It was easy work doing so and I found myself largely with plenty of room around me. I check my watch at the turn; though I don’t know how far out it was, I was happy to see that I had made the trip in 26 minutes.
Making the turn and heading back, I was disappointed to see that there was still no established hierarchy of swim talent, making it much more difficult to find someone to draft off of. The trade off was that I was flying past 90% of the field without much effort. Clearly, the only logical choice was to go harder and I picked it up to more of a half-ironman swim pace. I kept looking for feet to follow and soon came to the realization that the only swimmers worth drafting off of would be ones who passed me. This happened twice, both times I kicked up to their feet and both times I couldn’t hold their slipstreams for longer than 50-100 meters. I was more or less content to continue at my smooth but rapid pace as I saw the bridges in the distance. I knew going into the swim that there were 3 bridges I’d have to swim under between myself and the swim exit. The problem was that you can see all 3 bridges after about 500 meters from the turnaround. As one might imagine, actually getting to the bridges was a process that seemed to take far longer than it rightfully should have.
As I neared the second bridge, I started sighting to my left to try to identify how much further then swim exit was. For a moment, I deduced that we had passed the Great Lawn and were in the finish line chute. Unfortunately for your naive author, I was at the time crossing the Great Lawn and quickly running out of gas. Passing under the second bridge, drawing ever closer to the third and leaving Transition area behind me, I really started to suffer. My arms started to burn and threatened to detach themselves from my body. I began to have trouble controlling my breathing and maintaining my form. I really, really, really wanted to see that big inflatable “Swim Exit” sign, but I had simply miscalculated the swim course and was starting to pay the price. What’s more, my efforts towards a more impressive swim split started to slip away as I watched 1:00, 1:05 and 1:10 slip away. I figured I’d be between 1:10 and 1:15, though I had hoped to surprise myself. By the time 1:10 had slipped by, we had made the turn past the Lawn and I could now clearly see the swim exit. I plugged away with whatever strength I had left and soon saw volunteers shoulder-deep in the water helping people up the steps; with good reason too, those steps were treacherous. The volunteer who helped me find my footing was nice enough to unzip the back of my speed suit, which helped me a lot.
Estimated Swim Time: 1:10-1:15
Actual Swim Time: 1:14:11
I climb out of the water, punch my Garmin and see that my swim split was right around 1:14. I’ll take it; still way better than last year. I wasn’t sure if it recorded my lap key, so I punch it again to be sure, remove my cap and goggles, pull off the upper part of the suit and begin my jog to transition through a wall of screaming spectators. It’s all par for the Ironman course and I don’t pay it a lot of mind. Nearing transition I hear Denise screaming, but don’t see anybody I recognize. My right foot is a bit tender as I gave myself the smallest of blisters under my 2nd toe in the days before walking untold miles in my minimalist Vibram Five-Fingers, but I make quick work of grabbing my T1 bag and heading into the change tent to the chorus of cheering spectators and my Garmin wildly alerting me that my heart rate is out of control.
Inside the tent is pretty crowded, horribly humid and featured no volunteer help. Volunteers were there, some of them helping athletes dress, but nobody so much as looked at me as I struggled to slap on my biking gear. I instead made small talk with a guy next to me and continue to dress quickly. Finishing up, I hand my gear bag and wet clothes to a volunteer and jog out towards my bike. Grabbing it and approaching the mount line, I see Amy and her camera as I jog past. I go to punch my Garmin as I get on the bike and am confused to see it say “T2.” Apparently it did read my lap the first time, and had recorded my transition time as my bike split. I have to stop the multisport, erase the memory and start another bike/run multisport workout before I can get it going again. Sill, though, within 15 seconds of mounting, I press the start button and begin my ride.
T1: 5:18
Ironman Louisville: The Bike
I could already tell that things weren’t going according to plan; I could hear some kind of rhythmic clicking sound coming from my bike. After some deduction, I was pretty convinced it was my bottom bracket, which I had pulled off to clean and replaced. Maybe I did it wrong; I’ll have to stop by Pro Cycling and ask Alex. Add to that, my chain was not nearly as clean as I thought it was earlier in the week and was slippery on the gears. Finally, I went into the race knowing that my chain stay rubbed against the drivetrain-side wall of my disc cover, and generally was left with the feeling that I may have caused more harm than good to my race-day well being by attempting to go all DIY in the months leading up to the race.
Quickly into the bike ride, cyclists began to fly past me. I knew going into the race that I planned to swim well and ride VERY conservatively, so I did my best to take that as a sign of a good swim and keep moving. The stretch along River Rd wasn’t really all that nice for very long. What was a flat became a false flat climb that seemed to have no end. I’ve made trips up to Louisville to ride the loops several times; I was quite familiar and almost comfortable with the loops. But, I had yet to ride the 20-some miles from transition to the out-and-back on 1694, and was quite unprepared for it. Aside from the aid station at mile 5, there wasn’t a whole lot to think about; just the bumpy road, a constant stream of riders screaming past me and fighting myself to take in lots of calories to make up for the glycogen-depleting swim.
Whereas in training, I had programmed my Garmin to show me my current speed, for the race I had programmed it to read average speed and I looked forward to seeing my average speed creep up over the back half of the race. Unfortunately, where in all my training rides I was between 16 and 17 mph, I was looking down at around a 14 mph average through the first 10 miles to 42, and I’m still climbing this godforsaken hill I didn’t even know existed. About mile 12 the gradual climb ended and the course became gently rolling, which gave me some time to enjoy a downhill at least. I kept eating, drinking and waiting for the next aid station. No aid station at mile 10. Nothing at 12. The turn off onto 1694 was around mile 18. Still nothing. I celebrate being on familiar roads once more, but I’m running out of fluids. 1694 is flat for two miles, has a one mile plummet into a valley and then a climb of untold length to the turnaround. No aid station before the descent. No aid station, in fact, until the turnaround point at mile 22.5. That’s pretty s#itty to me. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why it remains so logistically difficult to have aid stations within a predictable distance of each other. “Every 10 miles” should mean “every 10 miles,” not “11 aid stations scattered haphazardly over 112 miles.”
I was pretty excited with myself to reach the turnaround and head back towards the huge hill because it meant that between practice rides and the previous 20 miles, I had seen every part of the course. Thus began the theme of the day: the heat. The sun was out in full force at this point and began to radiate down upon me. I was pedaling along wondering how long it would be before I reached the point where my speed would start to increase, but that point never seemed to get here. I managed to keep my heart rate within acceptable zones cresting the 1694 hill, which is the biggest hill on course, and looked forward to seeing my cheering section on 393. I’m still being continually passed by people and am starting to realize that something is terribly wrong with either my bike or my body. I simply am unable to put any kind of power to the pedals; something crucial is simply missing today.
Turning onto 393 and transversing the mountainous rolling hills, I simply looked forward to finishing up those 4ish miles and seeing my cheering section at the Police Station around mile 40. Finally reaching them, I notice it’s much smaller than I expected: only Marian and Denise are there. Shaking my head in defeated frustration, I yell at them “it’s not my day. It’s REALLY not my day!” And it wasn’t, to say the least. Off of 393 and onto 146, I forget about the festival in La Grange until I’m right on top of it. I was already in a pretty poor state of mind going into this section and was pretty unable to take in all the energy, but I was pleasantly surprised just how many people showed. It was very uplifting to see that many people, and made that half mile or so much easier, but by that point my motivation was already quite sucked out. Motivation was sucked out at mile 45. Oh… Crap…
Eventually, I finally reached the one hill on 393, the mile long plateau and the descent just before the turn onto Ballard School Rd. I took the descent as an opportunity to stretch my back and neck and generally relax for a while. I knew going into it that there was little sense in hammering that downhill because there was a hard left turn at the bottom. I will now cease narrating every unique characteristic about the loops, but will repeat once more that for the remainder of the two looped sections, I knew the course, their hills, descents and turns like my own backyard. I gave myself one more stretch break on the last descent on Ballard School, before the turn onto Old Sligo. The best-advertised aid station was on Le Esprit Parkway, so I grabbed some more water and continued my nutrition and hydration protocols. I felt like I was getting enough calories and at least adequate amounts of fluid, but regulating body temperature became increasingly difficult to do. I started the practice of putting ice in my helmet to help cool my body. It worked for a time, but the contrast of being so hot to so cold didn’t do any favors to my comfort factor. Besides that, the rate at which the ice was melting was absurd. A two-handful scoop of ice, roughly 24 ounces, was gone in 10 minutes. Water from the melted ice cascaded over my face and cheeks as if I had put a bag of water with a hole in it on top of my head. The temperature heated up seemingly without end. I can’t even tell you at what point it became an issue because I didn’t notice it myself; it remains simply the only logical explanation of my perilously sub-par performance.
The stretch along 42 was long, hot and awful. It’s 10 miles long with nothing to see and no aid station. It’s a net downhill, but there is no noticeable descent. Most crushingly, I can feel myself crawling along at a pace not any faster than 14 miles per hour. I see my average speed slide closer to 13.5 and it finally hits me. I had put off this realization as long as I possibly could, but there WILL be no redemption here. My speed is not down because of a hard first section, this is just what I showed up with on race day. A little over halfway down the stretch of 42, I reach the 56th mile of the bike and see my time is right around 4 hours. This all but makes me sick to my stomach. The humiliation; the indescribable humiliation. How is this even possible? How can I possibly be so much slower than in training on the same roads, with better course support, on faster equipment, after fully resting and taking care of my body to the absolute letter? This defies all logic. It was at this point that I started to wonder if I’d be able to even finish this race. It was also when I swore I was not going to write that race report I promised everyone.
Finally reaching the turn onto 393 and starting the 2nd loop, I very quickly changed my mind about the day. I planned to turn in a 3 hour 2nd half, good for a 7 hour bike split and a chance to limp home with a chance at PRing the race with a good run. I suspected this plan was still pretty half baked, but I needed something to shoot for. I looked forward to seeing Denise and Marian at the police station on 393 again. The thought of that got me over the hills one last time. They were still there and telling me how good I looked; all I could think is “Lady, you have no idea what good looks like.” Off I go onto 146. Going through La Grange again, I see that things have thinned out quite a bit. There aren’t many people still out on course, and most spectators have headed back downtown for the run portion. To my surprise, I see my mom and dad out there cheering for me. I didn’t see them at all on the first loop and barely noticed them the 2nd time around. That was pretty disappointing.
This is pretty much where it stops. As much as I like the little details and as much as I think the specifics of the race are what allow them to stand out in my mind, the 2nd lap is simply covered in a fog. I just don’t remember much. Things started looking soft. I was starting to go a little bit insane out there. Not that it didn’t happen on the first loop, but more so on the second loop there were cyclists all over the road lying in the grass. Helmets off, bikes on the shoulders, lying in whatever shady area they could find. Police, ambulances and sag wagons were overworked cleaning up the mess. Each one I passed, I saw dreams crushed. Still, each one I passed made doing the same look more and more like a good idea.
I had run out of Infinit about 10 miles before Special Needs, so I took on a bottle of Ironman Perform for calories and salt. Eventually, Special Needs comes and goes and I start taking Infinit again. I continued to shovel ice into my helmet and keep going. I use the ice pack I put in my special needs bag until it’s not cold anymore. I throw it away at some point, but can’t remember where; I hope I didn’t litter. The aid station before Le Esprit (I can’t even remember where it was) had run out of water. I had my aero bottle mostly full of hot water and a little bit of extra hot water, so I kept going without grabbing anything. After climbing one of the hills on Old Sligo, I see this mass of cyclists stopping near some trucks. I panic for a moment thinking it was a time cutoff, but soon find out that there are people giving away water. They claim the aid station on Le Esprit had also run out of water, so I went ahead and filled up. The next aid station did, in fact, have water, but it wasn’t cold and hot water did me no good at that point. I grabbed a bottle of Perform simply because it was cold and headed towards 42.
Hwy 42 was something I looked forward to for a while. Before the race started, I was looking to get to the last turn onto 42, around mile 80, before I could start to complain about the bike. I wanted to ride comfortably in my aero position up until that point, then just tough it out over the last 30. Not to say my pacing strategy wasn’t shot to hell hours before then, but I still looked forward to being able to bitch about it. I split up the rest of the course into 3 parts: 10 miles to 393, 10 miles to River Rd and 10 miles of downhill/flat to transition. It was hot, it was boring, it sucked. There’s nothing to say about it. It sucked ass. I was broken. It was over for me. Just try to get off the bike without being DQ’d.
Lacking energy or motivation, I limped in over the last 30 miles promising myself I’d rest some in T2. All those people lying down on the side of the road looked entirely too damn tempting, so I promised myself I’d do it in the changing tent. Coming into T2, I saw my mom and dad snapping pictures and cheering. Any other time that would have been great, but, ya know, it just wasn’t helping right now.
I drop off my bike and walk in no particular hurry to my run bag and the men’s changing tent. There are, at this point, more volunteers than racers and I still couldn’t get anyone to as much as look at me. Not to say that the volunteers are bad, they’re amazing; but compared to my experience in Madison, I really expected a little more interaction. After a couple minutes of laying down, I slowly change clothes, slowly slip my run nutrition into my pockets, slowly use the bathroom, slowly notice I’m sunburned, slowly backtrack and get sunscreened up and slowly start to jog towards the run out. As I’m jogging, I see a CUTE girl, about my age, who passed me on the bike about two miles from transition. We exit transition on the run about the same time, but she can’t bring herself to run. She makes some comment about how she “wishes she could run like that” and I respond by saying “yeah, we’ll see how long this lasts…” I really hope she starts running soon just so I have something to look at, potentially someone to talk to. All the same, I see some familiar faces as I cross the timing mat and lap my Garmin to start the 26.2 mile boulevard of fire between me and my medal.
Estimated Bike Time: 6:00-6:45
Actual Bike Time: 8:29:24
T2: 10:37
*Note* I programmed my Garmin to automatically lap every 10 miles. Here are my splits:
Miles 0-10 39:26;
Miles 10-20 42:08;
Miles 20-30 46:45;
Miles 30-40 45:34;
Miles 40-50 44:08;
Miles 50-60 44:14;
Miles 60-70 47:40;
Miles 70-80 50:35;
Miles 80-90 50:13;
Miles 90-100 46:17;
Miles 100-110 46:23;
5:08 for the last mile and change
Quickly into the bike ride, cyclists began to fly past me. I knew going into the race that I planned to swim well and ride VERY conservatively, so I did my best to take that as a sign of a good swim and keep moving. The stretch along River Rd wasn’t really all that nice for very long. What was a flat became a false flat climb that seemed to have no end. I’ve made trips up to Louisville to ride the loops several times; I was quite familiar and almost comfortable with the loops. But, I had yet to ride the 20-some miles from transition to the out-and-back on 1694, and was quite unprepared for it. Aside from the aid station at mile 5, there wasn’t a whole lot to think about; just the bumpy road, a constant stream of riders screaming past me and fighting myself to take in lots of calories to make up for the glycogen-depleting swim.
Whereas in training, I had programmed my Garmin to show me my current speed, for the race I had programmed it to read average speed and I looked forward to seeing my average speed creep up over the back half of the race. Unfortunately, where in all my training rides I was between 16 and 17 mph, I was looking down at around a 14 mph average through the first 10 miles to 42, and I’m still climbing this godforsaken hill I didn’t even know existed. About mile 12 the gradual climb ended and the course became gently rolling, which gave me some time to enjoy a downhill at least. I kept eating, drinking and waiting for the next aid station. No aid station at mile 10. Nothing at 12. The turn off onto 1694 was around mile 18. Still nothing. I celebrate being on familiar roads once more, but I’m running out of fluids. 1694 is flat for two miles, has a one mile plummet into a valley and then a climb of untold length to the turnaround. No aid station before the descent. No aid station, in fact, until the turnaround point at mile 22.5. That’s pretty s#itty to me. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why it remains so logistically difficult to have aid stations within a predictable distance of each other. “Every 10 miles” should mean “every 10 miles,” not “11 aid stations scattered haphazardly over 112 miles.”
I was pretty excited with myself to reach the turnaround and head back towards the huge hill because it meant that between practice rides and the previous 20 miles, I had seen every part of the course. Thus began the theme of the day: the heat. The sun was out in full force at this point and began to radiate down upon me. I was pedaling along wondering how long it would be before I reached the point where my speed would start to increase, but that point never seemed to get here. I managed to keep my heart rate within acceptable zones cresting the 1694 hill, which is the biggest hill on course, and looked forward to seeing my cheering section on 393. I’m still being continually passed by people and am starting to realize that something is terribly wrong with either my bike or my body. I simply am unable to put any kind of power to the pedals; something crucial is simply missing today.
Turning onto 393 and transversing the mountainous rolling hills, I simply looked forward to finishing up those 4ish miles and seeing my cheering section at the Police Station around mile 40. Finally reaching them, I notice it’s much smaller than I expected: only Marian and Denise are there. Shaking my head in defeated frustration, I yell at them “it’s not my day. It’s REALLY not my day!” And it wasn’t, to say the least. Off of 393 and onto 146, I forget about the festival in La Grange until I’m right on top of it. I was already in a pretty poor state of mind going into this section and was pretty unable to take in all the energy, but I was pleasantly surprised just how many people showed. It was very uplifting to see that many people, and made that half mile or so much easier, but by that point my motivation was already quite sucked out. Motivation was sucked out at mile 45. Oh… Crap…
Eventually, I finally reached the one hill on 393, the mile long plateau and the descent just before the turn onto Ballard School Rd. I took the descent as an opportunity to stretch my back and neck and generally relax for a while. I knew going into it that there was little sense in hammering that downhill because there was a hard left turn at the bottom. I will now cease narrating every unique characteristic about the loops, but will repeat once more that for the remainder of the two looped sections, I knew the course, their hills, descents and turns like my own backyard. I gave myself one more stretch break on the last descent on Ballard School, before the turn onto Old Sligo. The best-advertised aid station was on Le Esprit Parkway, so I grabbed some more water and continued my nutrition and hydration protocols. I felt like I was getting enough calories and at least adequate amounts of fluid, but regulating body temperature became increasingly difficult to do. I started the practice of putting ice in my helmet to help cool my body. It worked for a time, but the contrast of being so hot to so cold didn’t do any favors to my comfort factor. Besides that, the rate at which the ice was melting was absurd. A two-handful scoop of ice, roughly 24 ounces, was gone in 10 minutes. Water from the melted ice cascaded over my face and cheeks as if I had put a bag of water with a hole in it on top of my head. The temperature heated up seemingly without end. I can’t even tell you at what point it became an issue because I didn’t notice it myself; it remains simply the only logical explanation of my perilously sub-par performance.
The stretch along 42 was long, hot and awful. It’s 10 miles long with nothing to see and no aid station. It’s a net downhill, but there is no noticeable descent. Most crushingly, I can feel myself crawling along at a pace not any faster than 14 miles per hour. I see my average speed slide closer to 13.5 and it finally hits me. I had put off this realization as long as I possibly could, but there WILL be no redemption here. My speed is not down because of a hard first section, this is just what I showed up with on race day. A little over halfway down the stretch of 42, I reach the 56th mile of the bike and see my time is right around 4 hours. This all but makes me sick to my stomach. The humiliation; the indescribable humiliation. How is this even possible? How can I possibly be so much slower than in training on the same roads, with better course support, on faster equipment, after fully resting and taking care of my body to the absolute letter? This defies all logic. It was at this point that I started to wonder if I’d be able to even finish this race. It was also when I swore I was not going to write that race report I promised everyone.
Finally reaching the turn onto 393 and starting the 2nd loop, I very quickly changed my mind about the day. I planned to turn in a 3 hour 2nd half, good for a 7 hour bike split and a chance to limp home with a chance at PRing the race with a good run. I suspected this plan was still pretty half baked, but I needed something to shoot for. I looked forward to seeing Denise and Marian at the police station on 393 again. The thought of that got me over the hills one last time. They were still there and telling me how good I looked; all I could think is “Lady, you have no idea what good looks like.” Off I go onto 146. Going through La Grange again, I see that things have thinned out quite a bit. There aren’t many people still out on course, and most spectators have headed back downtown for the run portion. To my surprise, I see my mom and dad out there cheering for me. I didn’t see them at all on the first loop and barely noticed them the 2nd time around. That was pretty disappointing.
This is pretty much where it stops. As much as I like the little details and as much as I think the specifics of the race are what allow them to stand out in my mind, the 2nd lap is simply covered in a fog. I just don’t remember much. Things started looking soft. I was starting to go a little bit insane out there. Not that it didn’t happen on the first loop, but more so on the second loop there were cyclists all over the road lying in the grass. Helmets off, bikes on the shoulders, lying in whatever shady area they could find. Police, ambulances and sag wagons were overworked cleaning up the mess. Each one I passed, I saw dreams crushed. Still, each one I passed made doing the same look more and more like a good idea.
I had run out of Infinit about 10 miles before Special Needs, so I took on a bottle of Ironman Perform for calories and salt. Eventually, Special Needs comes and goes and I start taking Infinit again. I continued to shovel ice into my helmet and keep going. I use the ice pack I put in my special needs bag until it’s not cold anymore. I throw it away at some point, but can’t remember where; I hope I didn’t litter. The aid station before Le Esprit (I can’t even remember where it was) had run out of water. I had my aero bottle mostly full of hot water and a little bit of extra hot water, so I kept going without grabbing anything. After climbing one of the hills on Old Sligo, I see this mass of cyclists stopping near some trucks. I panic for a moment thinking it was a time cutoff, but soon find out that there are people giving away water. They claim the aid station on Le Esprit had also run out of water, so I went ahead and filled up. The next aid station did, in fact, have water, but it wasn’t cold and hot water did me no good at that point. I grabbed a bottle of Perform simply because it was cold and headed towards 42.
Hwy 42 was something I looked forward to for a while. Before the race started, I was looking to get to the last turn onto 42, around mile 80, before I could start to complain about the bike. I wanted to ride comfortably in my aero position up until that point, then just tough it out over the last 30. Not to say my pacing strategy wasn’t shot to hell hours before then, but I still looked forward to being able to bitch about it. I split up the rest of the course into 3 parts: 10 miles to 393, 10 miles to River Rd and 10 miles of downhill/flat to transition. It was hot, it was boring, it sucked. There’s nothing to say about it. It sucked ass. I was broken. It was over for me. Just try to get off the bike without being DQ’d.
Lacking energy or motivation, I limped in over the last 30 miles promising myself I’d rest some in T2. All those people lying down on the side of the road looked entirely too damn tempting, so I promised myself I’d do it in the changing tent. Coming into T2, I saw my mom and dad snapping pictures and cheering. Any other time that would have been great, but, ya know, it just wasn’t helping right now.
I drop off my bike and walk in no particular hurry to my run bag and the men’s changing tent. There are, at this point, more volunteers than racers and I still couldn’t get anyone to as much as look at me. Not to say that the volunteers are bad, they’re amazing; but compared to my experience in Madison, I really expected a little more interaction. After a couple minutes of laying down, I slowly change clothes, slowly slip my run nutrition into my pockets, slowly use the bathroom, slowly notice I’m sunburned, slowly backtrack and get sunscreened up and slowly start to jog towards the run out. As I’m jogging, I see a CUTE girl, about my age, who passed me on the bike about two miles from transition. We exit transition on the run about the same time, but she can’t bring herself to run. She makes some comment about how she “wishes she could run like that” and I respond by saying “yeah, we’ll see how long this lasts…” I really hope she starts running soon just so I have something to look at, potentially someone to talk to. All the same, I see some familiar faces as I cross the timing mat and lap my Garmin to start the 26.2 mile boulevard of fire between me and my medal.
Estimated Bike Time: 6:00-6:45
Actual Bike Time: 8:29:24
T2: 10:37
*Note* I programmed my Garmin to automatically lap every 10 miles. Here are my splits:
Miles 0-10 39:26;
Miles 10-20 42:08;
Miles 20-30 46:45;
Miles 30-40 45:34;
Miles 40-50 44:08;
Miles 50-60 44:14;
Miles 60-70 47:40;
Miles 70-80 50:35;
Miles 80-90 50:13;
Miles 90-100 46:17;
Miles 100-110 46:23;
5:08 for the last mile and change
Ironman Louisville; The Run, Part I
As I cross the mats and start my run I see my parents again. I tell them to meet me at the end of the bridge; I’ve got an important message to give them, but am currently more interested in talking to a friend of mine I didn’t expect to see out there. Mike Phillips, who posts on the Tri-Talk Forums with me and who also ran the Memphis Marathon with me, was volunteering most of the day and jogged with me for a while giving me encouragement and advice. In 2008, he did Ironman Louisville as his first Ironman, and ended up pretty much exactly where I found myself: humiliated, beaten up and questioning whether I could finish by midnight. He said he “never thought he’d be a 16 hour guy” and neither did I, so I was quick to take his words to heart. He told me to walk the bridge, eat, drink and run whenever I could. So, that’s what I did.
I hit the 2nd St Bridge and started walking. I was ready to take Mike on his word and knew my body needed fluids, salts and ice, but it also set me up for my biggest shock of the day: I really started to feel good. Coming off the bike was just horrific and I doubted heavily whether I’d be able to make it by midnight. After a quarter mile of jogging, I received a gentle reminder from my body that running, in fact, is not my weakness anymore. I’ve actually gotten quite a bit stronger at it, so this day might not end up being such a waste after all. Reaching to top of the bridge, I got to the aid station, sucked down some Ironman Perform and slipped ice in my hat and wrists. Then I started running. The bridge wasn’t nearly as bad as I had envisioned it would be, and I quickly found myself at the turnaround near the Indiana state line. Heading back towards the aid station, I passed that girl I wished would hurry up and run with me, but she was still walking; damn. Reaching the aid station, I repeated what I had done prior, laying the foundation of an easily repeatable pattern for each aid station on course and jogged down the hill looking forward to seeing my parents again.
This was a pretty crucial part of the race for me. Seeing my parents at the end of the 2nd St Bridge would be the last time I saw them until mile 14. Over the mind-erasing last 30 miles of the bike, one of my few conscious thoughts was what I would say to my mom as I ran by. Thinking about it made me tear up and shake with chills. It was all too obvious to me by that point that I had found myself in survival mode once more, and that I needed to start asking for God’s help to get me through the day.
So, jogging down the bridge, I see my mom taking pictures. I run up to her and ask her for a favor. She says yes, so I deliver to her the speech I had rehearsed on the bike. I take off my glasses, bury my head in her shoulder and ask her to pray for me, because I can’t do this by myself anymore.
Leaving her, I headed towards 3rd St and the start of the two loop, out-and-back marathon section. Heading down 3rd towards the turnaround point 6 miles up the road, I really did feel great. At that time of day, the only runners that were on that part of the course were the sorry souls who just escaped the bike cutoff, like me, and were largely physically broken by that point. So, from the very start of the run to the very end of the run, with few exceptions, I was flying past the entire field. The first 3 mile flew past without me really noticing it. Before I knew it, I was popping my first gel at mile 4. I passed Denise somewhere in there; I’m sure she said something encouraging, but I was in the zone. I kept going, kept eating, kept drinking, kept icing, kept running 10 min/mis between aid stations, walking the stations and kept praying that this high would last as long as possible. It did last a while, much longer than I’ve heard from fellow racers. Still, as I knew fully well, it did pass, around mile 8, and dumped me into the most painful low of the day.
I knew from asking another athlete that the turnaround was right around mile marker 8/20, so I didn’t waste valuable energy worrying about where it was. Coinciding perfectly with reaching the turnaround, my legs very quickly became heavy, my smile very quickly inverted and my body very quickly reminded me that it has put up with a lot of my shit today and that I shouldn’t expect this run to be easy. The Ironman shuffle sets in. My running slows. I can no longer run all the way to the aid stations and start walking as soon as they get in sight. I remember a tip I heard on a podcast that if you’re ever in a race and find yourself “running” slower than 12 minute/mis, then you may as well be walking and conserving energy, rather than “jumping up and down, without really getting anywhere.” All to say, my pace dropped pretty considerably. My Garmin auto-lapped each mile and showed me my split, so I was able to watch my average pace per mile drop from 11:30 to 12:30 to 14:00 to quite a bit slower than that. Reality was setting in, in a very painful way.
Similar to the end of the bike, the trip back downtown on the first loop is a haze of pain and self-doubt. My only entertainment is seeing my pace drop off severely, seeing racers all around me walking, sitting, lying down, being carted off by ambulances and on gurneys. It’s chaos. All I know to look forward to is the Ford Motivational Mile and Special Needs bags, both somewhere around the 12 mile marker. In the interest of space, I’ll skip over the hour and a half it took me to backtrack towards downtown; sufficed to say it was all blood boiling on hot asphalt in the summer heat.
Reaching the Motivational Mile near mile 12/24 meant that I was very near downtown and the halfway point of the marathon. I run over the mat, but do not hear the customary beep of the computer reading my chip’s information. Sure enough, I look up on the screen and see no motivational message bearing my name. I’ll have to be satisfied with the half-naked cheerleaders in cowboy hats dancing about, pretending they’re having a great time. I can’t help but wonder how much money they get paid to do that? They’re out there about 10 hours and never really seem like they get tired. Surely they rotate out.
Anyway, off to downtown, still suffering. The sun is finally starting to set and I don’t have to put such a premium on make sure I grab ice at every aid station. So much for my goal of being a daylight finisher; that’ll have to wait until next year. How many times will I have to put this off until next year? The end of the loop and the start of the 2nd half of the run isn’t until after mile 14, so there’s a bit more trudging back downtown than I would have rather done. I pass mile 13, pop my 4th gel and finally get to the special needs bags. I grab my pepto tabs, some more salt pills, and a half a flask of heavily caffeinated gel, which should provide me with the rocket fuel I need to propel me to the finish line in a huge hurry if it comes to that. My body is tired and perilously oscillating between dehydrated and hyponatremic. For the most part, I’m able to tell the symptoms apart and fuel accordingly at the aid stations, and am very glad to pick up some more salt tabs as I’m about out. What’s more, I see spectators start getting thicker and the noise starting to grow louder. I quickly lost count of how many athletes told me that I was “almost there.” All I could do was weakly respond
“not really.”
“First lap?”
“Yeah…”
“Well keep at it.”
Turning onto 4th St and seeing the finish line is harder than I thought; harder than I could have imagined it would be. I want to be finished so badly. The last 6 miles had been complete agony, and I had no reason to think that the next 12 would be easier. Upon that discovery, I looked at my watch to see how my pacing was. My first 8 miles had been very fast, very smooth, but I hadn’t banked as much time as I was hoping. I did the first 14 miles in 3:15, and it was 8:30, meaning I had 3:30 to finish the 2nd lap. I knew I was over halfway done, but it wasn’t until that point when I was able to give myself credit for being halfway there.
So, here we are: dehydrated, body threatening cramping, totally exhausted, still 12 miles to go, half of which is the last 10k of a marathon at the end of an Ironman Triathlon; and now, on top of everything, I have to start thinking about RUNNING FASTER or I may not be allowed to finish.
I’m fighting back the tears of utter panic when I pass my mom and sister heading back onto Third St. “It’s gonna be close,” I whimper hopelessly. “It’s gonna be really, really close.” “We’ll be here…” they respond.
Oh, God, please don’t let this happen to me.
Mile 1: 12:39;
Mile 2: 11:21;
Mile 3: 11:24;
Mile 4: 11:40;
Mile 5: 11:20;
Mile 6: 11:57;
Mile 7: 11:26;
Mile 8: 12:21; (turnaround)
Mile 9: 12:33;
Mile 10: 12:40;
Mile 11: 14:27;
Mile 12: 14:08; (motivational mile)
Mile 13: 16:22;
Mile 14: 20:17; (downtown)
I hit the 2nd St Bridge and started walking. I was ready to take Mike on his word and knew my body needed fluids, salts and ice, but it also set me up for my biggest shock of the day: I really started to feel good. Coming off the bike was just horrific and I doubted heavily whether I’d be able to make it by midnight. After a quarter mile of jogging, I received a gentle reminder from my body that running, in fact, is not my weakness anymore. I’ve actually gotten quite a bit stronger at it, so this day might not end up being such a waste after all. Reaching to top of the bridge, I got to the aid station, sucked down some Ironman Perform and slipped ice in my hat and wrists. Then I started running. The bridge wasn’t nearly as bad as I had envisioned it would be, and I quickly found myself at the turnaround near the Indiana state line. Heading back towards the aid station, I passed that girl I wished would hurry up and run with me, but she was still walking; damn. Reaching the aid station, I repeated what I had done prior, laying the foundation of an easily repeatable pattern for each aid station on course and jogged down the hill looking forward to seeing my parents again.
This was a pretty crucial part of the race for me. Seeing my parents at the end of the 2nd St Bridge would be the last time I saw them until mile 14. Over the mind-erasing last 30 miles of the bike, one of my few conscious thoughts was what I would say to my mom as I ran by. Thinking about it made me tear up and shake with chills. It was all too obvious to me by that point that I had found myself in survival mode once more, and that I needed to start asking for God’s help to get me through the day.
So, jogging down the bridge, I see my mom taking pictures. I run up to her and ask her for a favor. She says yes, so I deliver to her the speech I had rehearsed on the bike. I take off my glasses, bury my head in her shoulder and ask her to pray for me, because I can’t do this by myself anymore.
Leaving her, I headed towards 3rd St and the start of the two loop, out-and-back marathon section. Heading down 3rd towards the turnaround point 6 miles up the road, I really did feel great. At that time of day, the only runners that were on that part of the course were the sorry souls who just escaped the bike cutoff, like me, and were largely physically broken by that point. So, from the very start of the run to the very end of the run, with few exceptions, I was flying past the entire field. The first 3 mile flew past without me really noticing it. Before I knew it, I was popping my first gel at mile 4. I passed Denise somewhere in there; I’m sure she said something encouraging, but I was in the zone. I kept going, kept eating, kept drinking, kept icing, kept running 10 min/mis between aid stations, walking the stations and kept praying that this high would last as long as possible. It did last a while, much longer than I’ve heard from fellow racers. Still, as I knew fully well, it did pass, around mile 8, and dumped me into the most painful low of the day.
I knew from asking another athlete that the turnaround was right around mile marker 8/20, so I didn’t waste valuable energy worrying about where it was. Coinciding perfectly with reaching the turnaround, my legs very quickly became heavy, my smile very quickly inverted and my body very quickly reminded me that it has put up with a lot of my shit today and that I shouldn’t expect this run to be easy. The Ironman shuffle sets in. My running slows. I can no longer run all the way to the aid stations and start walking as soon as they get in sight. I remember a tip I heard on a podcast that if you’re ever in a race and find yourself “running” slower than 12 minute/mis, then you may as well be walking and conserving energy, rather than “jumping up and down, without really getting anywhere.” All to say, my pace dropped pretty considerably. My Garmin auto-lapped each mile and showed me my split, so I was able to watch my average pace per mile drop from 11:30 to 12:30 to 14:00 to quite a bit slower than that. Reality was setting in, in a very painful way.
Similar to the end of the bike, the trip back downtown on the first loop is a haze of pain and self-doubt. My only entertainment is seeing my pace drop off severely, seeing racers all around me walking, sitting, lying down, being carted off by ambulances and on gurneys. It’s chaos. All I know to look forward to is the Ford Motivational Mile and Special Needs bags, both somewhere around the 12 mile marker. In the interest of space, I’ll skip over the hour and a half it took me to backtrack towards downtown; sufficed to say it was all blood boiling on hot asphalt in the summer heat.
Reaching the Motivational Mile near mile 12/24 meant that I was very near downtown and the halfway point of the marathon. I run over the mat, but do not hear the customary beep of the computer reading my chip’s information. Sure enough, I look up on the screen and see no motivational message bearing my name. I’ll have to be satisfied with the half-naked cheerleaders in cowboy hats dancing about, pretending they’re having a great time. I can’t help but wonder how much money they get paid to do that? They’re out there about 10 hours and never really seem like they get tired. Surely they rotate out.
Anyway, off to downtown, still suffering. The sun is finally starting to set and I don’t have to put such a premium on make sure I grab ice at every aid station. So much for my goal of being a daylight finisher; that’ll have to wait until next year. How many times will I have to put this off until next year? The end of the loop and the start of the 2nd half of the run isn’t until after mile 14, so there’s a bit more trudging back downtown than I would have rather done. I pass mile 13, pop my 4th gel and finally get to the special needs bags. I grab my pepto tabs, some more salt pills, and a half a flask of heavily caffeinated gel, which should provide me with the rocket fuel I need to propel me to the finish line in a huge hurry if it comes to that. My body is tired and perilously oscillating between dehydrated and hyponatremic. For the most part, I’m able to tell the symptoms apart and fuel accordingly at the aid stations, and am very glad to pick up some more salt tabs as I’m about out. What’s more, I see spectators start getting thicker and the noise starting to grow louder. I quickly lost count of how many athletes told me that I was “almost there.” All I could do was weakly respond
“not really.”
“First lap?”
“Yeah…”
“Well keep at it.”
Turning onto 4th St and seeing the finish line is harder than I thought; harder than I could have imagined it would be. I want to be finished so badly. The last 6 miles had been complete agony, and I had no reason to think that the next 12 would be easier. Upon that discovery, I looked at my watch to see how my pacing was. My first 8 miles had been very fast, very smooth, but I hadn’t banked as much time as I was hoping. I did the first 14 miles in 3:15, and it was 8:30, meaning I had 3:30 to finish the 2nd lap. I knew I was over halfway done, but it wasn’t until that point when I was able to give myself credit for being halfway there.
So, here we are: dehydrated, body threatening cramping, totally exhausted, still 12 miles to go, half of which is the last 10k of a marathon at the end of an Ironman Triathlon; and now, on top of everything, I have to start thinking about RUNNING FASTER or I may not be allowed to finish.
I’m fighting back the tears of utter panic when I pass my mom and sister heading back onto Third St. “It’s gonna be close,” I whimper hopelessly. “It’s gonna be really, really close.” “We’ll be here…” they respond.
Oh, God, please don’t let this happen to me.
Mile 1: 12:39;
Mile 2: 11:21;
Mile 3: 11:24;
Mile 4: 11:40;
Mile 5: 11:20;
Mile 6: 11:57;
Mile 7: 11:26;
Mile 8: 12:21; (turnaround)
Mile 9: 12:33;
Mile 10: 12:40;
Mile 11: 14:27;
Mile 12: 14:08; (motivational mile)
Mile 13: 16:22;
Mile 14: 20:17; (downtown)
Ironman Louisville: The Run, Part II
It would be pretty irresponsible of me to say that I felt “better” on the way out. The cramping was still there, I was no less tired or worried about my impending DQ, but making the turn and heading back out on lap 2 granted me a shift in focus. I was no longer forced to look at the finish, knowing how eternally far away from it I was. More importantly, I had a VERY clear objective: I had 1:45 to get to the turnaround and 1:45 to get back. It’s hard for me to calculate what kind of pace per mile that is, so I will myself to stop thinking about it until the turn. I, once again, took comfort in the straight and narrow path with little to look forward to.
The panic of being downtown was all it took. I had come too far to fail now. Heading back towards Churchill Downs, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Clearly, I had come out of whatever low I had been in prior and the only thing I could think about was banking as much time as I possibly could. By that point, night had fallen in Louisville. The approaching blackness made the stoplights shine brighter by contrast. As much as I looked forward to caffeine supplementation at mile 19, there was no reason not to put in heroic efforts now. Worse case scenario, it may be the difference between a medal and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on; best case scenario, it may take the pressure off the last 10k. So, off I went, picking off stoplights. I would run to one intersection and walk to the next. I could feel my body accelerate. I can feel my running pace speeding up. I can feel my walking pace speeding up. I can see my mile splits coming down again. 20 minutes; 15 minutes; 13 minutes; 12 minutes. I’m hauling ass down 3rd St as if I’m running away from all the demons of the turnaround, all my hopes and fears and self-doubt. And I’m making pretty good time.
The nausea sets in about a mile into it. It doesn’t slow me down so much, but it does start to make me worried. My New Year’s Resolution was pretty well publicized this year, and I want so badly to keep it: do an Ironman Triathlon without throwing up. I’m pretty confident the task would have been much easier had I finished 2 hours ago, rather than finding myself with 3 hours still left. Using past experience, I know that sometimes it’s best to just puke and get it over with, so I start to devise a plan. I can’t risk throwing up vital energy, so I make my plan to vomit as soon as I see the mile 16 aid station. Mile 16 is the location of my 5th gel, and final non-caffeinated one. It’s best to throw up before I take it to give myself every opportunity to keep that one down.
I reach the aid station and stop off in the porto-potty. I say a quick prayer and prepare myself. This is it: this is going to happen now or not at all. I take a deep breath, lurch back and… burp violently. So long, nausea; let’s get moving again.
I take my final gel, toss the flask, pound some water and keep going. I’m starting to lose track of the time here, things are becoming a blur. I remember reaching Denise and Marian again and telling them to go downtown for the finish. I remember turning onto Southern Pkwy and being really bummed out that there were no more stoplights to pace my efforts. I started picking out light poles, roughly every other pole, and doing the run/walk thing with them. All I think about is getting to the turnaround. I feel like I’m banking time here, but I won’t know until mile 20. I left downtown at 8:30, so I have to be at the turn by 10:15. I keep going, keep digging, fuel minimally to stave off dehydration, cramping and bonking.
Getting to mile 19, I know I’m almost there, but I’m excited to take my next gel. The gel flask I picked up in Special needs has two gels in it, mixed with 200mg of caffeine. This is my secret weapon, the last little bit of stimulation that will push me over the final 10k. I play Russian roulette with my nausea again, and win again, so I pop the gel. I hate the way the caffeine makes it taste, almost spicy, but I get it down. I feel it almost immediately. I fight off what must be a placebo effect and wait for the caffeine to hit my system. The buzz soon comes, but it’s hard to tell if it really makes me hurt less. What I do realize is that it seems to give me a headache, so I’m conflicted as to whether I want to take this last one. Stomach’s holding and I’m still moving; this is a good thing.
Finally, I can see what looks like the turn. They’ve handed me a glow stick by this point, though my first one didn’t have a connector piece. I had to shove the stick in my pocket for a mile before I could grab another one to put around my race belt. As I reach the 20 mile marker and near the turnaround, I see a man walk up to a volunteer. The volunteer, seeing the man, says “Hey, it’s the Grim Reaper! Didn’t expect to see you here so early!” I make the turn and look at my watch. I can’t get over the conversation I just heard. I recognize this guy immediately. As I pass him after making the turn, I say “I didn’t think I’d EVER see you on a race course.” He laughs, but I’m frightened and want nothing more than to be as far away from this guy as I can. This guy works for the WTC. Ironman has cutoff points. One such point is at the 20 mile marker. You have to be past the turnaround and heading back downtown by 10:30, or the “Grim Reaper” throws up his hands and informs you that your day is over.
But, I look at my watch. I gave myself until 10:15 to get to the turnaround. It’s not 10:30. It’s not 10:15. It’s not even 10:00. My watch reads 9:50. I had ran that 10k in 1:20, and had 2:10 to run the next 6 miles. I’m overcome with relief. To see myself now: when the pressure was on, my body came through. I can walk every inch of 6 miles in 2 hours with time to spare. This race was over. All that was left was the finish. I thank God for that and tell myself that I only have to eat and drink enough to avoid total system shutdown and this was in the bag. I’m so happy. I’m telling everyone I see: “we’ve got 2 hours. Two hours to run 6/7 miles (depending on which direction they’re going). We did it guys, we did it!” For a while, everyone seems happy. Soon they start to get annoyed, so I stop bringing it up. I do my best to soak up every moment of this last leg, trying to remember all of it forever.
I remember at some point I found Mike Phillips again. I tell him about what’s going on so far and he has little to say other than to marvel at how much time I’ve made up so far. I mention to him that I’m battling nausea that comes and goes and immediately remember that I brought pepto tabs for this very reason. FML. I immediately take out two of them and pop them in my mouth. There’s no aid station anywhere, and they quickly coat my teeth and the inside of my mouth. I can’t swallow them without any water. FML, X2. He tells me that I’m making great time and if I can keep any semblance of that pace up that I should stop worrying about finishing and do it already. He says he’ll meet me at the finish line; I can’t wait to see him again.
The high I’d been riding since mile 15 stuck around for a very, very long time. I ward off bad thoughts until about a mile after the turn. I start to notice all the people going the other way. With as much time as I had remaining to go 5 miles, they had as much time to go 7. When I reached mile 22 and had only 4 left, they still had 8, and far less time with which to complete it. I start to say silent prayers for them, those valiant souls who must know deep down they have no chance of making it. It all comes crashing home for me when I see a familiar face. Somewhere around mile 22, I see that good-looking girl I saw coming out of T2 and on the bridge; the one who wishes she had the strength to run and the one I was wishing would run with me a bit. I saw her walking on my side of the road, walking in the opposite direction… wearing street clothes… with no medal. She may as well have had DNF stamped on her forehead.
Oh God, oh crap, oh damn, oh no, oh SHIT, oh FUCK, oh GOD, oh SHIT, oh DAMN, OH… CRAP… This is real, man. This is TOO REAL FOR ME. I want OFF THIS RIDE RIGHT NOW, MAN! This is NOT FUN ANYMORE!!!
Not only that, I’m starting to bonk. And hard. Harder than I’ve ever bonked before. Being so concerned with cramping, I hadn’t been taking in much other than water. With the realization that I had plenty of time to reach the finish by midnight, I thought the caffeinated gel was more risk than it was worth, so I tossed it without taking the last one at mile 22. So roundabout mile 22, I completely run out of blood sugar. My glycogen is gone. I’ve got nothing left. About this time I start walking next to another racer and we start talking. She’s from New York, or Chicago or Oklahoma or somewhere, I don’t know. Not that I’m not trying to listen, but I’m SUFFERING! It’s just so uncomfortable. It’s like running when you’re tired; everything about your body is telling you to just slow down. Problem is, when you’re walking you can only slow down to not moving at all, which is not getting me any closer to the aid station and getting sugar in me. I walk with my new friend in absolute agony, allowing her company to tow my sorry ass to the mile 23 aid station. I’m bitching and complaining every step of the way, mind-bendingly impatient. She puts up with me partly because she likes the company and partly because she couldn’t go any faster if she wanted to. We are necessary evils to each other.
After what seems like a month, we reach the mile 23 aid station, and I bid her farewell. I know once I get calories in me, I’ll feel well enough to start running again, but I’m going to be damned if I’m going to miss this station. I grab a fistful of cola and drink it down. I grab some Ironman Perform and drink on that. I take a cup of water and a Powergel and park up next to some spectators. Quickly explaining my predicament, they invite me to sit with them and offer me a beer. Everyone’s a comedian… I sit there, finish off my Ironman Perform and go to work on my Powerbar gel. Those who know me personally know I absolutely loathe Powerbar gels, so it’s not unlike doing shots of hard liquor getting it down the hatch. One of the spectators is talking to me about how upset he is they changed the on-course drink to Ironman Perform. I’m not really paying attention. Just eat and leave. Just eat and leave. I cut him off saying that I have a race to finish and they bid me well.
With a renewed energy, I grab a banana piece and continue running my lamp posts. I’m backtracking to the Ford Motivational Mile, interested to see what it says this time. I get there to find it completely shut down. Talk about a freakin’ buzzkill. Talk about people giving up on you. Just when you think that every spectator, every volunteer, every police officer will be there alongside you no matter how long it takes, you get to the one part of the course that’s supposed to give you the MOTIVATION to finish and you see them rolling up tarps and packing their computer. So lame.
There’s nothing to look forward to between now and the finish. 3rd St is cloaked in darkness and few people remain. I looked forward to running the stoplights again, but being that 3rd St is a one-way street, all the stoplights faced the opposite direction; I could not see them until I was right on top of them. Getting past mile 24, I knew I was getting close. I was inspired. I did a lot more running than walking. My walking became almost nonexistent. I continued to run past people just happy to get to the finish. Passing mile 25, I see that I have 10 minutes until 11:00pm. I try to run the entire mile, but only make it about a quarter of the way before I decide it simply isn’t worth the effort. I try once more and stop one more time before unleashing the final kick.
One volunteer tells me I’m two turns away, which inspires me even though the same thing could have been said three miles ago. Someone else tells me I’m 4 blocks away. That’s enough for me; I start to run and vow not to stop again. I pass Broadway, and glance less than a block down to see my hotel; I’d be there soon enough. I continue to run toward the turn onto Chestnut. My right arm starts cramping at the inside of the elbow. I extend it and run with one arm bent, one arm hanging at my side. I keep going. My right calf begins to cramp pretty severely. I drop my right hip to take off the strain. I’m running like a stroke victim (no offense to a friend of mine whose wife is a stroke survivor) down 3rd St when I turn off of it for good. I turn onto 4th St just two blocks away from 4th St Live! and all I can see is the spotlight. I make my way closer and notice that I’m all by myself, which is the only way I’ll have it.
I enter the wall of spectators. I can feel the texture of something other than asphalt under my feet for the first time in 6 hours. And I hear it. Screaming. Nothing even close to sensible. And I see Mike Reilly standing in the chute, having come down from his booth to salute the late finishers. I pump my arms. I roar at the skies. I slap high fives, giving Mike Reilly one personally. Ten feet from the finish, I stop and violently pump my arms three times, fully taking in the moment and the accomplishment. Upon the third fist pump, my right calf locks up completely and I almost fall face first across the line. I catch myself, stand up for the photographers and give them what has to be the worst finish line expression I’ve ever had.
It takes all of about 5 seconds for Mike Phillips to find me. He’s quick to hurry off the other volunteer, telling her that we’re friends and that he wants the honor. After grabbing my medal, hat and picture, we meet up with my cheering section for the typical empty-headed conversation about what an incredible experience the finish was. Mike bids farewell saying he hopes next year he doesn’t know anybody racing so he doesn’t have to stay up so late! I silently hope he gets what he wants, and we all (sans Mike) head to the Convention Center for food and to retrieve my Morning Gear Bag.
Estimated Run Time: 4:30-5:30, though I admit this was no-man’s-land and didn’t know what to expect
Actual Run Time: 6:02:36
Mile 15: 14:48;
Mile 16: 14:49;
Mile 17: 13:18;
Mile 18: 12:29;
Mile 19: 12:55; (caffeinated gel)
Mile 20: 13:57; (turnaround, and see Grim Reaper)
Mile 21: 14:24;
Mile 22: 13:56;
Mile 23: 17:54; (bonking episode)
Mile 24: 17:25; (no Motivational mile)
Mile 25: 13:25;
Mile 26: 12:10;
12:27 for the last little bit, of course forgetting to stop the watch immediately upon finishing
Estimated Total Time: 12:30-13:30
Actual Total Time: 16:02:06
So what is my opinion of Ironman #2? I’d be lying if I said I had a strong one. There are great things to be said about parts of it, sure. But this whole experience was just one huge punch in the stomach for being such a cocky asshole all year. It totally caught me by surprise, and I simply hope I never have to experience something like this again. I’ve got a long way to go still.
I’m happy with my swim, happy with my run and thrilled at my ability to reach deep enough to get the job done when the need arose. Other than that, I really, really want this to never come up in conversation again.
I get another chance in 10 months. Lots to do… Lots to do….
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