June 26, 2011
The morning could not be more typical of a pre-Ironman race. I woke up before my alarm in the most ineffable mix of awake and exhausted. The simple fact that I was not allowed to go back to sleep made me feel like I wanted to, but the knowledge of what was to come likely would have prevented me from doing so. In either case, I drug myself out of bed and dressed warm for breakfast and messing around. I popped on 300, but didn't end up watching it much at all. After breakfast, I busied myself with using the bathroom as many times as I could and readying my nutrition and special needs bags. We get out of the cabin at 5am and I get up to transition by 6.
This is the first time of my 3 140.6 attempts that I don't find myself rushed and flustered. I have way more time than I need to do a handful of tasks, so I do as much walking around as I can to help kill time. It's still rather chilly in NW Idaho at this hour, low 50s, and I wonder how long it will take to warm up on the bike. Most of the morning, as well as most of the last 3 days, have been preoccupied by a general sense of dread that I'd forgotten something critically important. Up until now I have not yet found out what that was, so I have to trust that I do, in fact, have all my bases covered. Trust your instincts, man!
In good time, they close transition and herd us onto the extremely wide beach at the waterfront. I can’t help but think that it’s an incredibly strange place to put a beach, but it’s there and allows the always-preferable mass start. It takes a very long time to navigate the sea of sheeple across the one timing mat, but I make it in good time by going around most of them. I end up on the beach with about 15 mins to go, which is more time than I’d prefer to be there. In addition to my wetsuit and two swim caps, I have a silicone cap that goes over my ears and wraps under my chin. Not as warm as a neoprene cap, but more versatile and I was sure enough for today’s 56 degree dip in Lake Coeur d’Alene. With 5 minutes left, I dump most of the two gallons of hot water, which is now barely passable as room temperature, into my suit; more glad that I don’t have to carry them anymore than any benefit they may have provided. They play the national anthem… I think. I couldn’t hear anything with my caps on. We were given the one minute warning, so I dumped the rest of the water in and positioned myself 4 rows back, about 25m to the right side of the buoy line. I didn’t hear the gun go off, but figured either it had, or 1,000 people had false started; they’ll probably let it slide this time.
Upon immediately entering the water, I find it’s not as uncomfortably cold as it was yesterday, which is nice. It’s still way colder than I would have wanted it to be, but I’m confident that I can handle it. It did not take very long for the washing machine to begin. The problem with the Coeur d’Alene’s beach start isn’t the start itself, but the first several hundred yards. Despite having hundreds of yards of beach upon which to line up, all 2,400 athletes wanted the quickest line to the buoys. So quickly into the swim, we all converged. And it was violent. It was painful. It was dangerous. It was the worst swim I’ve ever been involved in. I love mass starts, I love the physicality, but I wanted out of this one. This took it to a whole ‘nother level. To make matters worse, apparently everything hurts 10X worse when you’re swimming in frigid waters. Every kick to the face, every punch to the head, every time I’d run into another, hurt like crazy. And trust me, there were a LOT of them to go around.
The only benefit of all the commotion was the draft, which seemed to more than cancel out the reverse pull of the current. Rather than stay in a pack, I found myself fighting for clean water and finding it, only to run into a pack again within a hundred yards. Nothing but air bubbles that opened up in the monster slowly eating its way south. It was a predictably large clusterfuck at the first turn buoy and I was beginning to get very sick of all the physicality. Turning and heading east was directly into the sun; good thing I had feet to follow.
It didn’t last long and we soon turned north back to town. The 1,000 yards back were less eventful and I had hoped I would be able to settle into my own pace now. It became increasingly difficult to really see where I was going, and soon found myself sighting off of the wrong buoy, off course by 30 yards! I worked my way back into the fold and looked forward to getting out of the water. It seemed to take a long time to pull myself back in, despite a pretty noticeable push from the current, but I soon began to decipher recognizable sights; namely that large inflatable swim finish awning. I soon see the bottom of the lake and touch sand for the first time since the start. I dolphin dive in and leisurely stroll out of the lake; there are too many people in front of me to sprint. I notice my watch says 37 minutes for the first lap. I don’t know if that’s good or not, but I am glad to be out of the water.
At least for a few seconds. After rounding the corner, we jump back into the water for lap two. This is every bit as unpleasant as I thought it would be. It’s amazing to me how much my feet are hurting from the short jaunt on the sand. What little stimulation the sand had on my frozen feet had been magnified to feel like a hundred knives being driven into the bed of my foot. The pack is still intact and I’m still running into someone every few minutes. And it still hurts like hell. Last time I ever neglect to cut my fingernails before a triathlon. It’s not too long into the second lap that I’m swearing and ready for retaliation after every little bump. I’m not really feeling spectacularly cold, but I’m starting to think I should have better prepared for this.
With very little patience, we round the turn for the last time and head back toward the beach and T1. By this time, I’m really starting to worry. The cold has taken its toll. I’ve swallowed way too much water and am starting to feel nauseated. I don’t think I’ll need to puke just yet, but I need to start being more deliberate when I breathe; I’m just not paying attention anymore. My depth perception is absolutely shot and every buoy looks like the last one. At one point near the end, I stop and tread water just to see how far away that damn beach is; it’s at least 500 yards. For the first time I really consider taking the DNF, if it meant being out of this and into warm clothes. After far too long in the frigid waters, and long after my mind started to go fuzzy, I finally neared the beach and was able to lift myself out of the lake. And I’m struggling to recall a time when I’ve ever been happier to finish a swim leg.
Swim time: 1:18:26
The run up the beach is a walk, and a dizzy one at that. I slam my shoulders into athletes and the barricade a few times trying to get to the wetsuit strippers. I felt like an animal, moving forward without any consciousness or sense of purpose; continuing only because I had rehearsed it so completely in my mind.
I am a shaking, wet mess in T1, which thankfully is extremely humid with the wet, warm bodies in there. It takes me a while to get everything out of my bag and onto my tremoring self, but I eventually manage it and head towards the bike. Had I to do it again, I would have spent some more time in the heated tents and regained my composure. But I did a swim-bike yesterday and warmed up pretty easily, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I had made up my mind to skip the T1 hot tents before the swim began, and was way too out of it to make my own decisions when the time came. So I climb on my bike, turn on my Garmin and begin the ride, all completely fueled by reflex.
T1: 7:40
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Bike
Well, it’s safe to say I should have spent those extra 5 minutes in the heated tent. I’m still operating on auto-pilot as I start the bike. The beginning miles of the course take you through downtown Coeur d’Alene and along the lake before rejoining in transition and heading north towards Hayden. My supposition that I would warm up quickly on the bike didn’t really pan out. For what ended up being the first 10 miles, I was driving drunk. My depth perception was shot. I could not ride in a straight line. I was shaking violently and struggling to breathe. My reaction time was a small percentage of what it typically is. All I could think about, the only thing I had the ability to process, was how cold I was and how long it would take to just warm up and feel better. I didn’t get any significant calories in me over the first 45 minutes, which is exactly what I was supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the 10 mile marker that I noticed I had stopped shivering, felt comfortable on the bike and was ready to settle in to my race pace. I couldn’t help thinking, where am I? How did I get here? I think I blacked out…
Regardless of how I should have handled that, it was over and I was finally feeling pretty good. My goal was to keep my power under 150 watts at all points on the flat and downhill sections of the course. For the hills, I’d throw it into my easiest gear and spin up every one of them. Having seen the hilly part near Hayden Lake I knew I was in for several hills far too steep to spin up even in my easiest gear, but the plan was to take it as easy as possible. There’s no such thing as “too easy” today, I’m going to finish this course with plenty left to run. Or that’s the plan, anyway; you know what they say about best laid plans.
I have a bottle of Infinit with 3.5 hours of nutrition in it, and another bottle waiting on my in special needs. Other than that, take in water as needed and store the rest in my SpeedFil bottle. Grab a Powerbar or banana at an aid station if needed, but the Infinit should be plenty of calories and plenty of salt. After all, I designed it that way.
The out-and-back section took about 15 miles of course before we headed north on Government Way. I had driven the course and knew the breakdown. Essentially the first 20-25 miles are flat, with a hill near the turnaround of the out-and-back. Once you pass the Hayden golf course, it’s only a matter of time before you run into 15-20 miles of pretty significant hills. Most are short, only one or two longer than a half mile; but they are invariably steep, most in excess of 6% grade. There’s just no easy way to go up hills that steep, no matter how short they are. The obvious choice is to rise out of the saddle and stomp up the hills, which is also a good way to put some distance between you and your competition. Not only is that generally never a good idea to do in an Ironman, particularly on the first loop, but my goal was to do as little work, put out as little power, as is necessary to simply cover the distance. Regardless of how you handle the hills, it flattens out quite a bit in the closing miles. The final 10-15 miles are generally downhill and have few turns, giving you a chance to make up some ground or simply to spin out your legs. Once you’re back in town, rinse and repeat.
So with my plan in hand and a body that’s now along for the ride, I take off in search of the hills. I’m pushing 20 mph in my power zones and finding it very easy to do so. In a race as long as Ironman it’s important to never get too wrapped up in how you’re feeling at any moment, so I try my best not to let it define me. I start to take in my Infinit and water and pay as much attention to the course as I can. It’s still a very mild day, probably low 60s by this point, and I’m not drinking much water. After Ironman Louisville and a spring of hot, humid base miles in muggy Nashville, I figured I’d be taking in a lot more water than I found myself needing; all the more reason to split up your calories from your hydration, in my opinion. I’m cruising along and everything feels great.
Inevitably the hilly section comes and I’m very glad to have already seen it from both the bike and the car. I was hoping to see my cheering section, which is down to simply Denise and my mom by IM #3, parked up in the middle section, but I didn’t. I was glad to hear that they never actually made it up there; it’s hard to recognize anybody in the middle of such controlled chaos. I was wholly unconcerned with how many people seemed to be passing me up the hills and was more than willing to race my own race; hopefully I’d see them on the run.
It ended up being a pretty good thing I was so lax with my bike goals, because I ended up losing a lot of time to a flat tire. The story starts about a month ago when I took my bike to MOAB for some reason or another. I racked my bike on my car and secured the front wheel to the rack fork. Upon getting to MOAB, I noticed that my wheel isn’t on my car anymore. Surprise! So now that there’s a pending product integrity claim with the manufacturer of my bike rack, and I was forced to use the only other front wheel I have; a very old, out of true trainer wheel I bought used and very beat up 4 years ago. I haven’t ridden on the thing, much less changed a tube, in months. But when it’s your only option, you work with what you’ve got. Somewhere along the hilly section, I notice that the tire is bowing out to the right in a very odd way. Several miles later, I notice it’s completely flat from what was evidently a slow leak. I finish the climb at English Point Rd where it intersects with Lancaster and pull over. I very calmly take off my front wheel and take my tire iron to it. Problem is the tire won’t lift. The old ass tire, over countless miles and months of non-use, had essentially glued itself to the rim tape. There was a spectator who wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t a whole lot either of us could do about it. I try my best to enjoy the break, but I’m starting to get a little pissed off at the situation. I eventually give him the go ahead to grab his metal tire iron and go to town on it. Just as he finishes prying the tire off of the rim tape, and wholly screwing up my rim, a bike mechanic shows up on his white stallion (moped) and takes care of it for me. He was extremely calm and upbeat, which helped my nerves quite a bit. It takes him several minutes of wrestling with it before the tire will remove, but he eventually gets it off. He shakes out a piece of glass in the tire and changes the tube for me; even thoughtful enough to pump it up with a floor pump, rather than making me use a CO2. I thank him for his help and hop on the bike, having lost 10 minutes in the process. I take it as a chance to rest, take in some more calories and relax. I sure wish it had come later in the ride when I needed it a bit more, but you can never plan for flat tires. Anyway, I keep moving, just glad to have one more problem sorted out.
I’m not much of a YouTube subscriber, myself. I realize that I’m missing out on a whole lot of pop culture, but I just can’t keep up with it. There are far too many videos out there achieving wild popularity, many of which I just don’t get. There’s no telling how many not-so-inside jokes I miss out on, on a daily basis. I certainly missed the one about the honey badger. I had noticed several times signs with this ugly, scary looking critter and the words “don’t care” emblazoned along the side. Sometimes the sign would say “big hill? Don’t care,” sometimes they would have someone’s bib number… “don’t care.” I didn’t see the video until after the race, and immediately wish I had. It would have been good for a smile out there. Check it out on YouTube. “It’s pretty badass.”
After climbing my way out of the hilly section, I tried my best to notice little nuances of the final 20 miles. I made a mental map of descents, which were squirrely and which could be hammered. Where is the wind blowing? How many turns were left at mile 45? At mile 50? How long down Government? How long down 4th? Making it back to downtown and handling the pussy little out-and-back along Northwest, I was happy to split my Garmin, but not overly happy to see I was quite a bit over pace to break 7 hours. But whatever, I don’t care. You think I care? I don’t give a shit. I just take what I want and leave everyone else to pick up the scraps. I wish I had seen that video prior to race day, -sigh-.
I’m still feeling like a million bucks heading out onto the 2nd loop. I had run out of Infinit around mile 56 and was looking forward to getting my next bottle. It took a while to get to special needs at the turnaround by Lake Coeur d’Alene, but I finally got there, switch out my bottle and grab my energy drink. I’m interested to see how the Delta E helps my plight to finish the next loop without giving up too much energy. I find I don’t really need to take it, so I just shoot it down at the Hayden Lake golf course, in preparation of the hills to come. I feel it almost immediately and it helps.
The second trip through the hills are less eventful that the first, thankfully. I’m marginally more tired and marginally more stiff, but still in no level of worry. Having already done the first lap, I know to look for mile 90. Mile 90, which is nestled right up against the turnaround on Ohio Match Rd, is essentially the moment when you take the short route back into town. There are still climbs, still turns; it’s hardly the home stretch. But generally we’re taking the short route back downtown, and mentally it makes sense to have that in mind as the halfway point.
I’ve peed twice on the bike, once early in the bike and once right after special needs, but haven’t had to go over the last couple hours. That means I’m either becoming dehydrated, or I’m nailing my hydration strategy perfectly. I don’t particularly want to drink water more rapidly and don’t want to have to waste more time in the porto john, but it’s still something worth holding in the back of my mind. I swing through cycle after cycle of good and bad patches, trying to keep drinking Infinit whenever I start to feel grumpy or flat. The second half of my second bottle is hard to get down. I’m getting extremely sick of this stuff, which doesn’t really happen in training. Take it for what it’s worth, just keep drinking, keep taking it easy. This course will be over soon enough, and the real race will begin. The hills take longer to get up, but they pass and generally leave me no worse for the wear.
Right around the time I reach the “halfway” point at mile 90 and start to head back into town, my Garmin dies. I’m now left with only my Powertap computer, which can either give me a rough prediction of speed or a far rougher estimation of cadence, depending on which mode it is in. I cycle through the two options over the last 22 miles, never really deciding which I prefer. I’m most bummed about not having a true calculation of total climbing for the day. Although the flat portions make this mentally the easiest and my personal favorite bike course of the 3 IMs I’ve done, it is probably the slowest and will certainly rival Louisville and Wisconsin in total climbing.
The stretch between mile 90 and 100 is probably the hardest. Not having my Garmin working, and not having started at 0 miles on the Powertap, I had no idea what my mileage was at any point over that section; and that’s a section I’d really like to have known my mileage. Although the stoutest of climbing is finished, there were plenty of hills left to slow things down. I began to lose big chunks of time not paying attention to what was going on around me. Like driving cross country, you just “wake up” and have no concept of how long you had zoned out or how many miles have passed. After what seemed like hours, I passed the 100 mile marker, which is always a great sight in an Ironman race. We’re now on Government Way heading back into town, and this ride will be over in 45 minutes.
The slog in is flat to mildly downhill and features increasingly dense crowds, so it passes quickly enough. I put a little power to the pedals in the final 5 miles and try to get my average speed up, more to simply get to transition marginally quicker than to improve a bike spilt that’s already pretty far gone. Getting back into town and doing the ridiculous out-and-back before entering T2, I try my best to spin my legs out and get mentally prepared to run. I feel like I’ve accomplished that. Despite a bike ride that’s more than a little embarrassing, I feel confident knowing I took it very conservatively. I’m not exaggerating to say I was a little happy to face the marathon; a little anxious. This was what I had come for. This, alone, would define whether the day, and therefore the last 9 months of very hard training, would be a vindicated one.
Bike: 7:18:07
Avg Power: 117; 73% FTP
Normalized Power: 134
Educated climbing estimate: 2,400 ft
T2 goes pretty quickly. I’m not violently shaking from a cold that went right to the bone like I was in T1. I’m also not really stiff or any kind of tired after what amounted to be a long but easy stroll on a new, unfamiliar course. The most time consuming task is taking off my base layer, but I soon slip my socks and shoes on, grab my GU and Garmin (305) and head out. Seeing Denise near the run out tent, and noticing that this is the section I came for, I say “well, here we go.” and strike out for the next 26.2 miles of quality control field testing.
T2: 3:46
Regardless of how I should have handled that, it was over and I was finally feeling pretty good. My goal was to keep my power under 150 watts at all points on the flat and downhill sections of the course. For the hills, I’d throw it into my easiest gear and spin up every one of them. Having seen the hilly part near Hayden Lake I knew I was in for several hills far too steep to spin up even in my easiest gear, but the plan was to take it as easy as possible. There’s no such thing as “too easy” today, I’m going to finish this course with plenty left to run. Or that’s the plan, anyway; you know what they say about best laid plans.
I have a bottle of Infinit with 3.5 hours of nutrition in it, and another bottle waiting on my in special needs. Other than that, take in water as needed and store the rest in my SpeedFil bottle. Grab a Powerbar or banana at an aid station if needed, but the Infinit should be plenty of calories and plenty of salt. After all, I designed it that way.
The out-and-back section took about 15 miles of course before we headed north on Government Way. I had driven the course and knew the breakdown. Essentially the first 20-25 miles are flat, with a hill near the turnaround of the out-and-back. Once you pass the Hayden golf course, it’s only a matter of time before you run into 15-20 miles of pretty significant hills. Most are short, only one or two longer than a half mile; but they are invariably steep, most in excess of 6% grade. There’s just no easy way to go up hills that steep, no matter how short they are. The obvious choice is to rise out of the saddle and stomp up the hills, which is also a good way to put some distance between you and your competition. Not only is that generally never a good idea to do in an Ironman, particularly on the first loop, but my goal was to do as little work, put out as little power, as is necessary to simply cover the distance. Regardless of how you handle the hills, it flattens out quite a bit in the closing miles. The final 10-15 miles are generally downhill and have few turns, giving you a chance to make up some ground or simply to spin out your legs. Once you’re back in town, rinse and repeat.
So with my plan in hand and a body that’s now along for the ride, I take off in search of the hills. I’m pushing 20 mph in my power zones and finding it very easy to do so. In a race as long as Ironman it’s important to never get too wrapped up in how you’re feeling at any moment, so I try my best not to let it define me. I start to take in my Infinit and water and pay as much attention to the course as I can. It’s still a very mild day, probably low 60s by this point, and I’m not drinking much water. After Ironman Louisville and a spring of hot, humid base miles in muggy Nashville, I figured I’d be taking in a lot more water than I found myself needing; all the more reason to split up your calories from your hydration, in my opinion. I’m cruising along and everything feels great.
Inevitably the hilly section comes and I’m very glad to have already seen it from both the bike and the car. I was hoping to see my cheering section, which is down to simply Denise and my mom by IM #3, parked up in the middle section, but I didn’t. I was glad to hear that they never actually made it up there; it’s hard to recognize anybody in the middle of such controlled chaos. I was wholly unconcerned with how many people seemed to be passing me up the hills and was more than willing to race my own race; hopefully I’d see them on the run.
It ended up being a pretty good thing I was so lax with my bike goals, because I ended up losing a lot of time to a flat tire. The story starts about a month ago when I took my bike to MOAB for some reason or another. I racked my bike on my car and secured the front wheel to the rack fork. Upon getting to MOAB, I noticed that my wheel isn’t on my car anymore. Surprise! So now that there’s a pending product integrity claim with the manufacturer of my bike rack, and I was forced to use the only other front wheel I have; a very old, out of true trainer wheel I bought used and very beat up 4 years ago. I haven’t ridden on the thing, much less changed a tube, in months. But when it’s your only option, you work with what you’ve got. Somewhere along the hilly section, I notice that the tire is bowing out to the right in a very odd way. Several miles later, I notice it’s completely flat from what was evidently a slow leak. I finish the climb at English Point Rd where it intersects with Lancaster and pull over. I very calmly take off my front wheel and take my tire iron to it. Problem is the tire won’t lift. The old ass tire, over countless miles and months of non-use, had essentially glued itself to the rim tape. There was a spectator who wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t a whole lot either of us could do about it. I try my best to enjoy the break, but I’m starting to get a little pissed off at the situation. I eventually give him the go ahead to grab his metal tire iron and go to town on it. Just as he finishes prying the tire off of the rim tape, and wholly screwing up my rim, a bike mechanic shows up on his white stallion (moped) and takes care of it for me. He was extremely calm and upbeat, which helped my nerves quite a bit. It takes him several minutes of wrestling with it before the tire will remove, but he eventually gets it off. He shakes out a piece of glass in the tire and changes the tube for me; even thoughtful enough to pump it up with a floor pump, rather than making me use a CO2. I thank him for his help and hop on the bike, having lost 10 minutes in the process. I take it as a chance to rest, take in some more calories and relax. I sure wish it had come later in the ride when I needed it a bit more, but you can never plan for flat tires. Anyway, I keep moving, just glad to have one more problem sorted out.
I’m not much of a YouTube subscriber, myself. I realize that I’m missing out on a whole lot of pop culture, but I just can’t keep up with it. There are far too many videos out there achieving wild popularity, many of which I just don’t get. There’s no telling how many not-so-inside jokes I miss out on, on a daily basis. I certainly missed the one about the honey badger. I had noticed several times signs with this ugly, scary looking critter and the words “don’t care” emblazoned along the side. Sometimes the sign would say “big hill? Don’t care,” sometimes they would have someone’s bib number… “don’t care.” I didn’t see the video until after the race, and immediately wish I had. It would have been good for a smile out there. Check it out on YouTube. “It’s pretty badass.”
After climbing my way out of the hilly section, I tried my best to notice little nuances of the final 20 miles. I made a mental map of descents, which were squirrely and which could be hammered. Where is the wind blowing? How many turns were left at mile 45? At mile 50? How long down Government? How long down 4th? Making it back to downtown and handling the pussy little out-and-back along Northwest, I was happy to split my Garmin, but not overly happy to see I was quite a bit over pace to break 7 hours. But whatever, I don’t care. You think I care? I don’t give a shit. I just take what I want and leave everyone else to pick up the scraps. I wish I had seen that video prior to race day, -sigh-.
I’m still feeling like a million bucks heading out onto the 2nd loop. I had run out of Infinit around mile 56 and was looking forward to getting my next bottle. It took a while to get to special needs at the turnaround by Lake Coeur d’Alene, but I finally got there, switch out my bottle and grab my energy drink. I’m interested to see how the Delta E helps my plight to finish the next loop without giving up too much energy. I find I don’t really need to take it, so I just shoot it down at the Hayden Lake golf course, in preparation of the hills to come. I feel it almost immediately and it helps.
The second trip through the hills are less eventful that the first, thankfully. I’m marginally more tired and marginally more stiff, but still in no level of worry. Having already done the first lap, I know to look for mile 90. Mile 90, which is nestled right up against the turnaround on Ohio Match Rd, is essentially the moment when you take the short route back into town. There are still climbs, still turns; it’s hardly the home stretch. But generally we’re taking the short route back downtown, and mentally it makes sense to have that in mind as the halfway point.
I’ve peed twice on the bike, once early in the bike and once right after special needs, but haven’t had to go over the last couple hours. That means I’m either becoming dehydrated, or I’m nailing my hydration strategy perfectly. I don’t particularly want to drink water more rapidly and don’t want to have to waste more time in the porto john, but it’s still something worth holding in the back of my mind. I swing through cycle after cycle of good and bad patches, trying to keep drinking Infinit whenever I start to feel grumpy or flat. The second half of my second bottle is hard to get down. I’m getting extremely sick of this stuff, which doesn’t really happen in training. Take it for what it’s worth, just keep drinking, keep taking it easy. This course will be over soon enough, and the real race will begin. The hills take longer to get up, but they pass and generally leave me no worse for the wear.
Right around the time I reach the “halfway” point at mile 90 and start to head back into town, my Garmin dies. I’m now left with only my Powertap computer, which can either give me a rough prediction of speed or a far rougher estimation of cadence, depending on which mode it is in. I cycle through the two options over the last 22 miles, never really deciding which I prefer. I’m most bummed about not having a true calculation of total climbing for the day. Although the flat portions make this mentally the easiest and my personal favorite bike course of the 3 IMs I’ve done, it is probably the slowest and will certainly rival Louisville and Wisconsin in total climbing.
The stretch between mile 90 and 100 is probably the hardest. Not having my Garmin working, and not having started at 0 miles on the Powertap, I had no idea what my mileage was at any point over that section; and that’s a section I’d really like to have known my mileage. Although the stoutest of climbing is finished, there were plenty of hills left to slow things down. I began to lose big chunks of time not paying attention to what was going on around me. Like driving cross country, you just “wake up” and have no concept of how long you had zoned out or how many miles have passed. After what seemed like hours, I passed the 100 mile marker, which is always a great sight in an Ironman race. We’re now on Government Way heading back into town, and this ride will be over in 45 minutes.
The slog in is flat to mildly downhill and features increasingly dense crowds, so it passes quickly enough. I put a little power to the pedals in the final 5 miles and try to get my average speed up, more to simply get to transition marginally quicker than to improve a bike spilt that’s already pretty far gone. Getting back into town and doing the ridiculous out-and-back before entering T2, I try my best to spin my legs out and get mentally prepared to run. I feel like I’ve accomplished that. Despite a bike ride that’s more than a little embarrassing, I feel confident knowing I took it very conservatively. I’m not exaggerating to say I was a little happy to face the marathon; a little anxious. This was what I had come for. This, alone, would define whether the day, and therefore the last 9 months of very hard training, would be a vindicated one.
Bike: 7:18:07
Avg Power: 117; 73% FTP
Normalized Power: 134
Educated climbing estimate: 2,400 ft
T2 goes pretty quickly. I’m not violently shaking from a cold that went right to the bone like I was in T1. I’m also not really stiff or any kind of tired after what amounted to be a long but easy stroll on a new, unfamiliar course. The most time consuming task is taking off my base layer, but I soon slip my socks and shoes on, grab my GU and Garmin (305) and head out. Seeing Denise near the run out tent, and noticing that this is the section I came for, I say “well, here we go.” and strike out for the next 26.2 miles of quality control field testing.
T2: 3:46
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Run
As tends to be typical, I find my run legs almost immediately and hit my stride by the end of the parking lot. I settle in to roughly 9 min/miles and it's completely effortless. The run course, and the bike course, for that matter, is kind of convoluted at the start and was difficult to navigate the day before. It's a bit more clear now, and I soon find myself leaving downtown Coeur d'Alene behind me and heading towards the neighborhoods. Special needs bags are at mile 14 and I think to myself how much I can't wait to get back here on loop 2 and grab my second Delta E flask; I sure hope I still have some leg left in me when I do get here.
The course spends a bit short of 3 miles (2.8) winding away from downtown and through a series of neighborhoods before spilling out into a paved running trail along Lake Coeur d'Alene. There were some pretty loud groups of spectators cheering runners on in the shaded neighborhood section, which was a nice diversion from what would otherwise be a pretty monotonous and likely torturous labyrinth slapped right at the end of the marathon. Early into the run I found, at least for a time, that those with better looking strides tend to get the most support from the crowd. That has never really applied to me before, but I was really feeling the love in the early miles. My favorite spectator was somewhere at the start of the neighborhood. As I ran past, my efficiency left her speechless. All I heard was "Nice stride. Nice. Wow..." which was likely the biggest compliment I could have received at the moment.
Exiting the neighborhood and starting the eternally long, eternally winding lakeside portion towards the turnaround, I prepared myself for my first gel of the run. My plan was to take in a gel every 30 minutes, every 3-4 aid stations, and water at every one. History suggests that off of an Infinit-fueled bike, I have plenty of salt in my system, but rarely enough water. This seemed to be the case again, but I have no signs of cramping just yet. The pace feels great and I keep bearing down for the next few miles until I reach the hill. The crazy hill I had to ride twice on the bike, the same crazy one people complained about all race week, stood looming at mile 5.5. The hill, which took you up 130 feet in a half mile, roughly a grade of 6%, slowed me down quite a bit. But I knew it was coming and kept my effort the same. I've ran plenty of hills both solo and with a group of friends, and I knew just fine how to go about tackling this one.
Cresting the hill, you actually run down the back end of it for about 3/4 of a mile before you hit the turnaround and come back. There was an aid station essentially at the turnaround that you got to pass twice. I pop my 2nd gel and wash it down with two trips worth of water. Hitting the timing mat, I'm well within a respectable pace. The trip up the back end of the hill is longer, but not nearly as steep, and I think a lot easier. The downhill seems to be a bit too steep and could really sheer your quads up if you aren't careful, but I hit level ground once more and start to work my way towards downtown. The pace is becoming a touch more difficult to maintain, but this is likely the hardest section of the course; it's extremely wide open, unsheltered from the sun and generally leaves you with nothing to look at. Luckily, race management thought to put the Ford Motivational Mile smack dab in the middle of it, roughly at mile 10/23. I'm sliding into a bit of a negative emotional pit as I come up to it, but the message lifts me up and pushes me through the final mile along the lake and back into the neighborhoods. A very large, loud, drunk crowd just past mile 11 make it very easy to keep going and I continue to make good time heading back downtown.
Two things are starting to truly manifest themselves in the closing miles of the first loop: nausea and exhaustion. My stomach, despite all its training and prior experience, is growing weary of the constant stream of sugar and salt being pumped into it; but it's doing more threatening than anything else. Much more urgently is the rate at which RPE is climbing. I try my hardest not to get too wrapped up in this bad patch, which is exactly what it was. I pop my 4th gel at mile 12.5 and just wait for it to take effect. It takes a while to get that blood sugar spike, 10-15 minutes even. I just have to hold on until then. So I told myself as I entered downtown Coeur d'Alene and once more became surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers.
As much as I was lying to myself about climbing out of this bad patch, I know I had to look like hell. What was a dull, subtle sense of fatigue had grown into a searing pain all over my body. My left arm, right at the elbow, is slowly eaten away by cramps. Cramps begin to take over my left leg as well, at the back of the knee. I pass Denise, Mom and Denise again and explain my agony. The halfway point is behind me and my Delta E is just up front. If I can just hold it together for a little while longer, I can take in water, take down my energy-in-a-flask and wait this out. I can wait this out. I trained all year for this.
Grabbing my Special Needs bag, I'm able to refill my GU packets and grab my Delta E. I decide I don't need my long sleeve shirt, so I toss the remnants of the bag with all confidence that Denise will come grab it later. I don't take my Delta E right away, figuring it would be a much better idea to wait until an aid station. When I do cross one, I take in as much water as I can stomach and pop my drink. Now all I have to do is watch and wait. Caffeine affects me differently when I'm dehydrated, so I'm not just too sure what to expect. Just wait it out. The effort is feeling marginally better, but still pretty painful. All the exhaustion culminates as I go up a gentle, sloped incline and I start to walk.
For 3 steps.
Then I'm off running down the back side. I jog the next half mile to the aid station and pop another gel. I'm still not really feeling any better, but I'm convinced a high is on the way. Taking off again, I make it a half mile before I have to take another unscheduled walk break. This time, it lasts about 30 seconds. Oh, great. Now I've convinced myself it's okay to walk. Here comes the Ironman shuffle. The is EXACTLY what I came here NOT to do. I REFUSE to Ironman shuffle this in. I took it extremely easy on the bike and saved myself for the entire first loop so that I can run this son of a bitch. If I found myself unable or unwilling to finish this properly than today was a failure.
And so, going through the aid station at mile 15.5, I told myself to run. I willed myself to run. All the way to the next aid station. I didn't expect it to be pretty. I didn't expect it to be easy. I didn't expect it to be fast. But damnit, I was going to do it.
And so after taking a nice long walk through the station, I take off along the lake. It is painful, unbearable, a bit of ridiculous and unnecessary. I want to quit a hundred times. But I make it. I make it all the way to the aid station at mile 16.5. So I stop, take in as much aid as possible and celebrate the mental victory. I'm walking out of the aid station and laying out my strategy for the next few miles. Soon enough, though I'm not sure when, I'll have the big hill to deal with. I figure I'll run to the hill, then do a 2 min walk/2 min run up the hill. That seems to work out pretty well, so I take off.
I make it about 3 steps before my body stops. There will be no more running. This is pretty much over for me. I don't even have the energy to be upset with myself any more. That last running stint took a lot out of me, and I'm happy to walk right now. As I'm walking along, I'm finding the pace to be pretty unbearable. I can feel my body starting to shut down completely. The nausea that started setting in at mile 13 is starting to take control of this vessel and dictating what and how much fuel to be taken in. Most importantly, my mind loses control completely. As it is said in Million Dollar Baby, the movie I, not accidentally, choose to watch the night before every one of these things: "The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing... Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism."
Round about this time, I decide it's time to go to the bathroom. Whether or not I can really expect to go is irrelevant. I'm just looking for any excuse to get off my feet. I find myself hoping to God that there is somebody in the next porto john that I find. There is, and I think you all know what's coming now...
I lay down in the grass and just stare at the sky.
I'm broken. This is over.
I have no idea how long I laid there. I tell people 10 minutes. Which is probably an exaggeration, but it also includes what happened after several minutes of resting; I drag myself up and into the bathroom. Where I continue to sit, with no plan or even hope of moving and continuing on this stupid hopeless task.
I've taken the DNF and don't have the mental wherewithal to even give a shit.
After a period of time had passed, I exit the bathroom and start walking. I have no idea why I always decide to keep moving forward, but that's the way it seems to work out; my body is hard wired to finish the race even when I forget why I want to finish in the first place.
I start the climb up the hill towards the turn around and have no need or desire to talk to anyone. After some quick calculations, I estimate that it would take my 3 hours to walk the next 9 miles from mile 17 to the finish line, which would put me in right around 10:15pm. I call my cheering section and tell them not to expect me any time soon, shed a tear or two, and start that lonely, cold, embarrassing walk. Oh God, why am I here again? Why does this have to happen every time? What am I supposed to learn from this?
I'm pretty quick to find out that the worst isn't over quite yet. The nausea is becoming pretty bothersome, and I'm trying everything I can to take care of it. After mile 15, I was pretty convinced I could not take in any more gels, so I switched to just cola and water. I had packed some Pepto Bismol pills in my special needs bag for just such an occasion. I had popped two Pepto pills at mile 17, which I suspect was roughly a half hour before the aid station at mile 17.5. So I pop another two in my mouth and try to wash it down with some cola. Only problem is, I gag on them. And puke my brains out.
Don't think the irony is lost on me...
After 4 or 5 good heaves, I clean out everything that remains in my system and the nausea lifts for the first time in hours. So along I walk, up the hill and down again, until I reach the next aid station. I take in a swig of cola and make it roughly 10 feet before I puke that up, bringing me to my knees this time. I start walking and stop again after 3 steps for more dry heaving. Ya know... for good measure...
Making the quick turn, crossing the timing mat and entering the aid station for the last time, I decide to try some chicken broth this time. This ends up being the worst offender of all. Almost immediately, my stomach decides to expel this as well. Here's the scene: I'm on my hands and knees in a section of gravel just to the side of the walking path, puking up chicken broth that never had the opportunity to even be cooled off; all the while crawling to one side because having my face in the vomit pile is making me more nauseated. Heaving again and again and again until my eyes well with tears and I fall over on my side exhausted from the effort.
Sound like a good investment of $575, 9 months worth of training, $1,000 worth of travel and lodging and a week off of work, huh?
Having finished my 5th stint of vomiting, I decide to stick with plain water indefinitely. Luckily I found that I could, in fact, keep water down and wasn't in any real danger of death. So off I walk, 6 miles to go and as much time as I could ever need to do it. I have a great view of the sun setting from the lakeside walking path. Seeing the sun set may have been beautiful to a normal person, but since my ultimate goal was to finish in the daylight, it's one drawn out slap in the face from whoever was in charge today.
It takes me a while to find any company, and my sob story didn't keep company around me for too long. The rest of the course was simply a progressively colder, progressively darker, progressively lonelier walk. I had no ability, nor any motivation to try to improve my pace. Because today was already done. Every goal I had set for myself had slipped away. The only thing I had left to do was to be an official finisher, and even at my pace I would have two hours to spare.
I eventually start to find an appetite again and start to take in cookies, pretzels and whatever assorted treats the stations had to offer. I run into a fellow broken down racer and we are able to walk and talk for a while, which made the final mile up to the neighborhood go by a bit faster. The large, loud, drunk crowd that had helped me so much at mile 11 just upset me at mile 24.5. They were still out there giving it their all and I had given up 2 hours ago. I wanted so much to just be out of earshot.
At some point I started to feel better, and realized that my walk could be expedited. I shifted from a leisurely walk at 3 mph to a bit of a power walk at 4 mph for equal parts wanting to break 15 hours and just wanting to be finished and off course. Walking a 15 min/mile isn't asking too much of my body at the time, and I had no reason to want more than that. So I power walk through the neighborhoods, past the special needs bags, through the final aid stations and back onto Sherman at mile 26. As I inched closer to the finish line, the spectators became more dense, loud and frivolous with the words "almost there." It dawned on me right around then that this was the first time I'd ever been this close to finishing a race and still walking; still not giving a flying fuck how I looked or what my finish time was. It was a little embarrassing, but I hadn't run a single step since mile 17 and I sure wasn't going to start now. Saving face simply wasn't necessary. Best try to look humble.
The finish line crowd is extremely loud and trying their best to give me the strength to run the last 200 ft, as if I was vying for a Kona slot and about to be overtaken. I waved and gave more high-fives than I had wanted to give. I just wished that people would stop paying attention to me and give some more love to the two women behind me, who were still running, and likely have been gutting it out for the last several miles. I yield the finish to one of them and still manage to cross before 10:00.
And still manage to PR by almost a half an hour. That almost makes it worse.
Run: 6:11:52
Total Time: 14:59:49
I have to be shuttled through the finish line festivities: the medals, the t shirt, the hats, the space blankets. I try to be happy. I am happy. I'm happy I finished the thing. I'm happy I didn't take the DNF. I'm happy I still managed to beat my previous best time.
And yet, I'm not. I didn't deserve what happened today. Maybe I deserved it the first time in Wisconsin. I was happy with that finish. Maybe I deserved it the second time in Louisville. I made some big mistakes and left feeling like I had really learned something. But not this time. This time it wasn't enough to just finish, just to PR by a marginal amount. This time I expected better. This time I expected my plan to work. My training went well. My nutrition went well. My pacing strategy was dead on. I did everything right. And I still found myself completely breaking down, found myself deeper into the pain cave than I'd ever been, so deep that my body took over and ended my day for me. And so early in the race.
In that moment, and in the eternity of moments I had to myself while walking in the last 9 miles, I decided that I was done with Ironman for a while. It had been made pretty clear to me over the last 3 hours that Ironman simply wasn't in the cards for someone like me. All Ironmen need time away from the distance from time to time, and I've never really taken that for myself before.
And why shouldn't I? I invest way too much into this sport to be shuffling in 15 hour, night-time finishes. I sacrifice too much to be humbled to walk in broken and cold every... single... time... I participate in one of these. At that moment, I had become completely self assured that I was finished with 140.6 for a very long time.
And yet, several days later, there are complications. I've already signed up (yes, and paid for) two Ironmans. Is it worth it to take the partial refund? Is it worth it to put my Iron-tour plans on hold indefinitely? Maybe take some time to myself for a change? Maybe divert a little more effort into my family, my friends, my job, or -gasp- myself?
Only time will tell, I guess. Only time will tell.
The course spends a bit short of 3 miles (2.8) winding away from downtown and through a series of neighborhoods before spilling out into a paved running trail along Lake Coeur d'Alene. There were some pretty loud groups of spectators cheering runners on in the shaded neighborhood section, which was a nice diversion from what would otherwise be a pretty monotonous and likely torturous labyrinth slapped right at the end of the marathon. Early into the run I found, at least for a time, that those with better looking strides tend to get the most support from the crowd. That has never really applied to me before, but I was really feeling the love in the early miles. My favorite spectator was somewhere at the start of the neighborhood. As I ran past, my efficiency left her speechless. All I heard was "Nice stride. Nice. Wow..." which was likely the biggest compliment I could have received at the moment.
Exiting the neighborhood and starting the eternally long, eternally winding lakeside portion towards the turnaround, I prepared myself for my first gel of the run. My plan was to take in a gel every 30 minutes, every 3-4 aid stations, and water at every one. History suggests that off of an Infinit-fueled bike, I have plenty of salt in my system, but rarely enough water. This seemed to be the case again, but I have no signs of cramping just yet. The pace feels great and I keep bearing down for the next few miles until I reach the hill. The crazy hill I had to ride twice on the bike, the same crazy one people complained about all race week, stood looming at mile 5.5. The hill, which took you up 130 feet in a half mile, roughly a grade of 6%, slowed me down quite a bit. But I knew it was coming and kept my effort the same. I've ran plenty of hills both solo and with a group of friends, and I knew just fine how to go about tackling this one.
Cresting the hill, you actually run down the back end of it for about 3/4 of a mile before you hit the turnaround and come back. There was an aid station essentially at the turnaround that you got to pass twice. I pop my 2nd gel and wash it down with two trips worth of water. Hitting the timing mat, I'm well within a respectable pace. The trip up the back end of the hill is longer, but not nearly as steep, and I think a lot easier. The downhill seems to be a bit too steep and could really sheer your quads up if you aren't careful, but I hit level ground once more and start to work my way towards downtown. The pace is becoming a touch more difficult to maintain, but this is likely the hardest section of the course; it's extremely wide open, unsheltered from the sun and generally leaves you with nothing to look at. Luckily, race management thought to put the Ford Motivational Mile smack dab in the middle of it, roughly at mile 10/23. I'm sliding into a bit of a negative emotional pit as I come up to it, but the message lifts me up and pushes me through the final mile along the lake and back into the neighborhoods. A very large, loud, drunk crowd just past mile 11 make it very easy to keep going and I continue to make good time heading back downtown.
Two things are starting to truly manifest themselves in the closing miles of the first loop: nausea and exhaustion. My stomach, despite all its training and prior experience, is growing weary of the constant stream of sugar and salt being pumped into it; but it's doing more threatening than anything else. Much more urgently is the rate at which RPE is climbing. I try my hardest not to get too wrapped up in this bad patch, which is exactly what it was. I pop my 4th gel at mile 12.5 and just wait for it to take effect. It takes a while to get that blood sugar spike, 10-15 minutes even. I just have to hold on until then. So I told myself as I entered downtown Coeur d'Alene and once more became surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers.
As much as I was lying to myself about climbing out of this bad patch, I know I had to look like hell. What was a dull, subtle sense of fatigue had grown into a searing pain all over my body. My left arm, right at the elbow, is slowly eaten away by cramps. Cramps begin to take over my left leg as well, at the back of the knee. I pass Denise, Mom and Denise again and explain my agony. The halfway point is behind me and my Delta E is just up front. If I can just hold it together for a little while longer, I can take in water, take down my energy-in-a-flask and wait this out. I can wait this out. I trained all year for this.
Grabbing my Special Needs bag, I'm able to refill my GU packets and grab my Delta E. I decide I don't need my long sleeve shirt, so I toss the remnants of the bag with all confidence that Denise will come grab it later. I don't take my Delta E right away, figuring it would be a much better idea to wait until an aid station. When I do cross one, I take in as much water as I can stomach and pop my drink. Now all I have to do is watch and wait. Caffeine affects me differently when I'm dehydrated, so I'm not just too sure what to expect. Just wait it out. The effort is feeling marginally better, but still pretty painful. All the exhaustion culminates as I go up a gentle, sloped incline and I start to walk.
For 3 steps.
Then I'm off running down the back side. I jog the next half mile to the aid station and pop another gel. I'm still not really feeling any better, but I'm convinced a high is on the way. Taking off again, I make it a half mile before I have to take another unscheduled walk break. This time, it lasts about 30 seconds. Oh, great. Now I've convinced myself it's okay to walk. Here comes the Ironman shuffle. The is EXACTLY what I came here NOT to do. I REFUSE to Ironman shuffle this in. I took it extremely easy on the bike and saved myself for the entire first loop so that I can run this son of a bitch. If I found myself unable or unwilling to finish this properly than today was a failure.
And so, going through the aid station at mile 15.5, I told myself to run. I willed myself to run. All the way to the next aid station. I didn't expect it to be pretty. I didn't expect it to be easy. I didn't expect it to be fast. But damnit, I was going to do it.
And so after taking a nice long walk through the station, I take off along the lake. It is painful, unbearable, a bit of ridiculous and unnecessary. I want to quit a hundred times. But I make it. I make it all the way to the aid station at mile 16.5. So I stop, take in as much aid as possible and celebrate the mental victory. I'm walking out of the aid station and laying out my strategy for the next few miles. Soon enough, though I'm not sure when, I'll have the big hill to deal with. I figure I'll run to the hill, then do a 2 min walk/2 min run up the hill. That seems to work out pretty well, so I take off.
I make it about 3 steps before my body stops. There will be no more running. This is pretty much over for me. I don't even have the energy to be upset with myself any more. That last running stint took a lot out of me, and I'm happy to walk right now. As I'm walking along, I'm finding the pace to be pretty unbearable. I can feel my body starting to shut down completely. The nausea that started setting in at mile 13 is starting to take control of this vessel and dictating what and how much fuel to be taken in. Most importantly, my mind loses control completely. As it is said in Million Dollar Baby, the movie I, not accidentally, choose to watch the night before every one of these things: "The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing... Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism."
Round about this time, I decide it's time to go to the bathroom. Whether or not I can really expect to go is irrelevant. I'm just looking for any excuse to get off my feet. I find myself hoping to God that there is somebody in the next porto john that I find. There is, and I think you all know what's coming now...
I lay down in the grass and just stare at the sky.
I'm broken. This is over.
I have no idea how long I laid there. I tell people 10 minutes. Which is probably an exaggeration, but it also includes what happened after several minutes of resting; I drag myself up and into the bathroom. Where I continue to sit, with no plan or even hope of moving and continuing on this stupid hopeless task.
I've taken the DNF and don't have the mental wherewithal to even give a shit.
After a period of time had passed, I exit the bathroom and start walking. I have no idea why I always decide to keep moving forward, but that's the way it seems to work out; my body is hard wired to finish the race even when I forget why I want to finish in the first place.
I start the climb up the hill towards the turn around and have no need or desire to talk to anyone. After some quick calculations, I estimate that it would take my 3 hours to walk the next 9 miles from mile 17 to the finish line, which would put me in right around 10:15pm. I call my cheering section and tell them not to expect me any time soon, shed a tear or two, and start that lonely, cold, embarrassing walk. Oh God, why am I here again? Why does this have to happen every time? What am I supposed to learn from this?
I'm pretty quick to find out that the worst isn't over quite yet. The nausea is becoming pretty bothersome, and I'm trying everything I can to take care of it. After mile 15, I was pretty convinced I could not take in any more gels, so I switched to just cola and water. I had packed some Pepto Bismol pills in my special needs bag for just such an occasion. I had popped two Pepto pills at mile 17, which I suspect was roughly a half hour before the aid station at mile 17.5. So I pop another two in my mouth and try to wash it down with some cola. Only problem is, I gag on them. And puke my brains out.
Don't think the irony is lost on me...
After 4 or 5 good heaves, I clean out everything that remains in my system and the nausea lifts for the first time in hours. So along I walk, up the hill and down again, until I reach the next aid station. I take in a swig of cola and make it roughly 10 feet before I puke that up, bringing me to my knees this time. I start walking and stop again after 3 steps for more dry heaving. Ya know... for good measure...
Making the quick turn, crossing the timing mat and entering the aid station for the last time, I decide to try some chicken broth this time. This ends up being the worst offender of all. Almost immediately, my stomach decides to expel this as well. Here's the scene: I'm on my hands and knees in a section of gravel just to the side of the walking path, puking up chicken broth that never had the opportunity to even be cooled off; all the while crawling to one side because having my face in the vomit pile is making me more nauseated. Heaving again and again and again until my eyes well with tears and I fall over on my side exhausted from the effort.
Sound like a good investment of $575, 9 months worth of training, $1,000 worth of travel and lodging and a week off of work, huh?
Having finished my 5th stint of vomiting, I decide to stick with plain water indefinitely. Luckily I found that I could, in fact, keep water down and wasn't in any real danger of death. So off I walk, 6 miles to go and as much time as I could ever need to do it. I have a great view of the sun setting from the lakeside walking path. Seeing the sun set may have been beautiful to a normal person, but since my ultimate goal was to finish in the daylight, it's one drawn out slap in the face from whoever was in charge today.
It takes me a while to find any company, and my sob story didn't keep company around me for too long. The rest of the course was simply a progressively colder, progressively darker, progressively lonelier walk. I had no ability, nor any motivation to try to improve my pace. Because today was already done. Every goal I had set for myself had slipped away. The only thing I had left to do was to be an official finisher, and even at my pace I would have two hours to spare.
I eventually start to find an appetite again and start to take in cookies, pretzels and whatever assorted treats the stations had to offer. I run into a fellow broken down racer and we are able to walk and talk for a while, which made the final mile up to the neighborhood go by a bit faster. The large, loud, drunk crowd that had helped me so much at mile 11 just upset me at mile 24.5. They were still out there giving it their all and I had given up 2 hours ago. I wanted so much to just be out of earshot.
At some point I started to feel better, and realized that my walk could be expedited. I shifted from a leisurely walk at 3 mph to a bit of a power walk at 4 mph for equal parts wanting to break 15 hours and just wanting to be finished and off course. Walking a 15 min/mile isn't asking too much of my body at the time, and I had no reason to want more than that. So I power walk through the neighborhoods, past the special needs bags, through the final aid stations and back onto Sherman at mile 26. As I inched closer to the finish line, the spectators became more dense, loud and frivolous with the words "almost there." It dawned on me right around then that this was the first time I'd ever been this close to finishing a race and still walking; still not giving a flying fuck how I looked or what my finish time was. It was a little embarrassing, but I hadn't run a single step since mile 17 and I sure wasn't going to start now. Saving face simply wasn't necessary. Best try to look humble.
The finish line crowd is extremely loud and trying their best to give me the strength to run the last 200 ft, as if I was vying for a Kona slot and about to be overtaken. I waved and gave more high-fives than I had wanted to give. I just wished that people would stop paying attention to me and give some more love to the two women behind me, who were still running, and likely have been gutting it out for the last several miles. I yield the finish to one of them and still manage to cross before 10:00.
And still manage to PR by almost a half an hour. That almost makes it worse.
Run: 6:11:52
Total Time: 14:59:49
I have to be shuttled through the finish line festivities: the medals, the t shirt, the hats, the space blankets. I try to be happy. I am happy. I'm happy I finished the thing. I'm happy I didn't take the DNF. I'm happy I still managed to beat my previous best time.
And yet, I'm not. I didn't deserve what happened today. Maybe I deserved it the first time in Wisconsin. I was happy with that finish. Maybe I deserved it the second time in Louisville. I made some big mistakes and left feeling like I had really learned something. But not this time. This time it wasn't enough to just finish, just to PR by a marginal amount. This time I expected better. This time I expected my plan to work. My training went well. My nutrition went well. My pacing strategy was dead on. I did everything right. And I still found myself completely breaking down, found myself deeper into the pain cave than I'd ever been, so deep that my body took over and ended my day for me. And so early in the race.
In that moment, and in the eternity of moments I had to myself while walking in the last 9 miles, I decided that I was done with Ironman for a while. It had been made pretty clear to me over the last 3 hours that Ironman simply wasn't in the cards for someone like me. All Ironmen need time away from the distance from time to time, and I've never really taken that for myself before.
And why shouldn't I? I invest way too much into this sport to be shuffling in 15 hour, night-time finishes. I sacrifice too much to be humbled to walk in broken and cold every... single... time... I participate in one of these. At that moment, I had become completely self assured that I was finished with 140.6 for a very long time.
And yet, several days later, there are complications. I've already signed up (yes, and paid for) two Ironmans. Is it worth it to take the partial refund? Is it worth it to put my Iron-tour plans on hold indefinitely? Maybe take some time to myself for a change? Maybe divert a little more effort into my family, my friends, my job, or -gasp- myself?
Only time will tell, I guess. Only time will tell.
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