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….