I woke up on race day after sleeping surprisingly well. I was sure I would have been up all night thinking about it and worrying, but I think the repetition of packing and making lists of what went into each transition bag gave me peace of mind that I hadn’t forgotten anything. Similarly, walking through everything in my head the day before made things easier.
I choked down some oatmeal, Gatorade, protein, and a Larabar, got dressed and hit transition a few minutes after it opened. Loaded all the gear onto the bike, got the tires pumped up by the guys at Landis Cyclery, and got body marked.
Still tons of time before things started, so I settled in my usual spot right near the chute. I see Mark, Alison, and Brent getting ready, but we’re all doing our own thing prior to the race. We exchange hellos, a quick comment about how we’re in for a world of hurt today, and then head our separate ways.
Swim
After the last IM, I decided that a front starting position was essential to having a good swim. I got the shit beaten out of me enough last time starting at the front that I couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be in the middle.
I was first off the dock and into the water and first out to the line to get a spot and see the pros off. Things started to get very crowded about five minutes before the start. I’m okay with the bumping and jockeying for elbow room, but I had to give the elbow to a guy who was actually trying to pull me down so he could go over me at the cannon blast that marks the start of the race.
BOOM!
Into the agitate cycle. I’m able to get a pretty good grip on the water with only a few folks ahead of me. I catch a few feet to the head here and there but nothing too bad. It’s tight, but I’m expecting it to spread out in a couple hundred meters. The usual pointy elbows to the head from those swimming next to me and a couple folks I have to swim over after they cut in front of me looking to jump on a different set of feet. New goggles were a great idea; I can see the buoys just fine although the morning sun is just a couple degrees above the water.
I’m surprised to note that it’s not thinning out after 1200m. I’m still trading elbows and swimming over people dodging from one set of feet to another. I actually have to stop to give a quick rabbit punch to the ribs of the guy holding on to my chip bracelet and just hanging on. Fortunately the chip stays on. This is crazy! It hasn’t let up from the start. I finally pick out the red buoy at the turn, but I’m still taking short strokes and guarding space. I’d really hoped to be more stretched out by now.
One more little scuffle with a guy just before the turn. I had to turn over, backstroke a couple so I could look the guy in the goggles who just gave me a fist to the calf. A fist! There’s no other way to interpret that. I also wanted to be able to see his face when I kicked him in the head ;-)
A little cranky at this point, but after the turn things spread out. I am able to start breathing every three strokes and stretch out a little more. We’re swimming with the current now and it feels easier. I don’t feel particularly fast, but I reason it’s not worth turning it on at this point to pick up a couple minutes on what will probably turn out to be 10% of my total race time. Better to save the energy.
I get out of the water right at the hour mark and shake my head at missing my goal by two minutes. I knew I wasn’t going well, but I didn’t think I’d be that slow. Through the peelers, out to the bag pickup, and into the transition tent. For some reason, none of the volunteers are interested in helping me, but there wasn’t really all that much I would have asked them to do. The ground is covered in dirt and dead grass, so my feet are just coated. I try to wipe some of it off, but end up just stuffing my filthy dogs in my socks and heading out the door. I’ve burned too much time already.
A finger-full of sunscreen from one of the girls outside the tent to rub across my nose and cheeks. I realize those girls are getting quite a show: more than a few competitors are dropping trow to change to dry bike shorts and there’s no door on the tent.
Bike
A volunteer points me down a row in the racks to get my bike and I stupidly trust them. I’m not seeing my bike and I finally spot it on the other side. Around the end of the rack, back down my rack and out the bike exit. I get to the mount line and catch the spare tire mounted between the two behind-the-seat bottle cages. It’s unusual that I have one mounted there. I usually just carry one, but I’m loaded for bear today. I catch the tire and that slows me down just enough that I impale myself on the bottle, eliciting a few “ooohs!” from the crowd watching, dismount and then throw myself over on the second attempt.
Out on course and the speed is easy. I’m making an easy 25mph, heart rate’s low, and my cadence is good. Knees flicking at the top as I shift from pulling up on the pedal to pushing it across the top. I can feel the headwind, but it isn’t so bad tucked in along Rio Salado Parkway. Once I make the first couple turns and am heading out McKellips, I realize the wind is a lot stronger than what we bargained for.
All the Texas Iron folks at the race and I have been poring over data: temperature, wind speed, wind direction, and divining what it would be on race day. The forecast called for a high pressure ridge over Tempe on race day that would drive up the temperature into the mid-90s, but keep the wind at bay. It quickly becomes apparent that Mother Nature has welched on the last part.
Coming up the hill on Bee Line Highway, we have a block headwind going out to the turn. The only comfort is that it will be a tailwind back into town. I’m about six miles behind the first pro on the road and they are really moving coming back from the turnaround. That’s a good sign, but I’m willing to bet they were moving going uphill into the wind as well… Passing people constantly, although it’s pretty spread out. I’d learn why in a second.
Make the first turn and things really open up on the way back. A few miles past the turn and I see that I’m starting to hit the fat part of the field. Lots of bikes on the road and LOTS of drafting. Fortunately, I won’t have to worry too much about lapped traffic until next lap.
Nice! 35-40 mph down Bee Line; I don’t even think about grabbing a bottle at those speeds. I’m fine on fluids, knocking back 12 Thermolytes per hour and on pace to knock down 50 ounces of fluids and 216 grams of carbs (alternating gel or a Larabar every 45 minutes). My sweat rate is 70 ounces an hour on the bike and 96 ounces an hour on the run, so I need to stay on top of this if I’m going to survive today. It’s so windy that I don’t feel wet with sweat at all, although the salt on my skin and clothes is a give-away that I am still falling behind on the liquids.
The first lap goes by quickly and I find myself back into the hot corner where all the spectators gather because they’re guaranteed to see all the riders six times. I hear a few shouts for Texas Iron and for me from my family.
Back out on the second lap and the wind has definitely picked up. I am struggling and I resign myself to the small chainring going up the hill on Bee Line. Fighting to maintain 14mph. I’m starting to catch a lot of traffic and things are fairly crowded on the road. Every so often, it seems like there’s a noticeable increase in the temperature, like someone cranked the oven up three degrees. I feel this a couple times out on the bike and the punctuation of it makes it seem all the more miserable. Still not dripping sweat, but piling on the salt. My bike shorts are almost gray from all the salt accumulating.
The third lap brings a lot of trouble. My right trapezius is killing me. It always does on long rides in the aero bars and there’s no real good way to stretch it out on the road. My lower back is also starting to really get tight and I have to stand up and arch my back from time to time to stretch it, which exposes me to the headwind. I start to think about this not being a good idea as I notice for the first time that a handful of cyclists are actually passing me. With the run ahead, it doesn’t seem worth accelerating to defend my cycling honor.
A trio of cyclists passes me executing a perfect team time trial. They are actually taking turns at the front, looking for officials as they drop back, rest, and get into the draft of the other two ahead. Where’s an official when you need one? Or at least a camera?
Nearing the turnaround, I can’t stay in the aero bars. My back and shoulder hurt so much. At the speed I’m going, it also doesn’t feel like there’s much aerodynamic benefit to be had by tucking, although the headwind alone is probably enough to justify it.
I make the turnaround and it feels like the bike is over. Put up the spinnaker and head back down the hill, making the most of the tailwind. At this speed, it’s less than half and hour to racking the machine. I realize that I didn’t stop on the second lap for my special needs bag, and by now I’m looking for something that tastes a little different than the PowerBar gels I’ve been eating.
I stashed a pair of Carb Booms and a bottle with about 15 Thermolytes in the bag. Special needs is about 92 miles in when I stop and I get my chow, but leave the Thermolytes there. I have enough pills in my bento box to get me through, or so I think. I’d find out a few miles down the road that apparently sweat had dripped into the box and fused and melted through the capsules. I got to choke down a half open, very salty golf ball of capsules in the closing miles of the bike that required about half a bottle to wash it down.
Actually stopping for that minute or two in special needs (and taking a leak behind the transport truck because there was a line for the johns; don’t tell the race officials or the Salt River Indian Police) did wonders. I had an opportunity to stretch out a little and I felt better for it.
I did manage an “Oh Shit” moment in the last 10 miles. I was coming up on another group of three riders that were making a pretty neat operation of drafting. Pretty ballsy, given the density of spectators, officials, and course marshals, but that’s another story. I’m moving a few miles faster than they are so I’m about to take the left and pass when the guy in the lead hits one of the temporary road signs. This is one of the type you’d pass in the construction zone on your way to work: about three feet by two feet on a rubber stand and supported by a couple sandbags. He hits it with his handlebars and knocks the thing over. I am already looking for room to bail out without hitting the oncoming riders, because this cat is going down and probably taking the two riders sucking his wheel down with him. That will be three bikes in yard sale configuration in front of me.
This does not look good. I’ve seen people hit cones, water bottles, and other much smaller things with disastrous results. Usually the front wheel gets turned sideways toward what the handlebar just hit, the rider’s center of gravity continues on the straight course carried by momentum, and bikes and bodies start flying. There’s that nasty sound of expensive carbon fiber breaking and aluminum pedals scraping on the asphalt.
I have no idea how, but he manages to stay upright! Not as religious as seeing Lance offroad it in the Tour, but this was up there with the most impressive shit I’ve seen on a bike. Sufficiently adrenalized, I pass Jesus and his two apostles. I may not have noticed, but this same guy may have been seen walking water on Tempe Town Lake during the marathon to cut a little distance off the loops…
Riding the rest of the way in went by quickly and I found myself easing into the 180-degree last corner into transition, working off my bike shoes, and stepping off at the dismount line. Lots of volunteers there and one took my bike. I later found out I was 76th overall at that point, but that was as close as I would get to the lead all day.
Run
Picked up my T2 bag and jogged into the tent among a few cheers for Texas Iron. A nice kid volunteering unpacked my bag, lay out my gear, and filled my water bottle. Another volunteer gave me a little Vaseline, which I put on the underside of my arms because I always get torched there on long runs. Spray a little more sunscreen all over, despite already feeling the sunburn on my lips, thighs, and calves, and head out through the same tent exit I’d done so a few hours earlier.
My quads are cramping just above my knees with every step. I grab a sponge at the first aid station at two-tenths and try to find an 8-minute pace. I cross the first mile marker at about 8:30, bolt down another gel pack and quickly barf that and all the liquids I’d managed to down in transition. This probably isn’t the end of the day;, I have time to get the fluids and Thermolytes back. I get moving again, pop a couple Thermolytes, and drink a little water from the bottle I’m carrying.
Next aid station has ice and I add that to my bottle along with some more water. I cross the river at the west end of the course and the sun and heat are just blazing. I miss the mile 2 marker, so I don’t know my split, but I definitely know it was not eight minutes. Across the river and heading east again with a slight downhill. I’m trying to regain the fluids I lost, but still feeling sick to my stomach.
I walk up the hill under the bridge, relishing the brief bit of shade before turning on Mill and heading south across the bridge, around the corner and through transition that marks the half-lap. It’s loud here and it helps pick me up a little. I get through the next big aid station, take a swig of Gatorade and puke again about 30 steps later. This is actually getting serious. If I can’t keep liquids down, I can’t go on. Net negative fluids on a day like this will have me in a medical tent within six miles.
Next mile marker reveals that I’m over 10-minute pace now. I’m watching my 10-hour aspiration and a chance at Kona disappear up the road. My goal of 10:30 doesn’t seem to be too far behind it at this point.
The cramps remarkably seem to have gone away, although I can’t imagine it’s from the low volume of fluids I’m managing to take in and keep down. I cross over the bridge on Rural, down the steep hill that makes my knees scream, and back onto the trail along the lake shore. A little bit of shade under the overpass at 202 Loop and along the shaded portions of the Papago Park trail. Out to Curry and the high point of the run course. It’s not terribly steep, but steady and totally exposed to the heat and sun. The barren rocks, jagged boulders, and brown color look like the surface of Mars. The wind that tortured us on the bike, true to form, has abandoned us and taken with it the promise of at least cooling us down a little on the run. My pace has slackened to a 12:30 and I question whether it might be faster to drag myself snail-like by my lips…
Down the hill, back across the trail, across the Rural bridge, and along the path to transition. I think I’m starting to get back to a net positive fluid balance. That’s relatively speaking of course, because I sweat far more than it’s possible to stomach, but I think I’m knocking down around 60 ounces an hour, which is more than I thought I could, but probably reasonable in light of the fact that I was scrambling to get water down and catch up for what I’d lost to puking. I don’t think I’ll have to visit the medical tent, although all I want is to step into transition and call it a day.
I can hear my family cheering for me as I lumber past transition for the second lap. My form is going to hell. No matter how much I shorten my strides, I’m landing heel first and hitting the brakes with every step. My mind is spinning with calculations of how far I’ve gone, how fast I need to go, and trying not to firmly grasp the number of miles still yet to go. The only mile that seems important now is the next one. The next sign. If I make that one, I’ll try for another.
I see Mark, Alison, Brent, and Glynn out on the course and yell for them, but none of them look very good either. I couldn’t tell you where I saw them or how far along they were; or I far along I was for that matter.
I’d later hear Brent yell to me on my final half lap. I looked down to see him laying on the grass and looking up like a wounded colleague from Band of Brothers. I didn’t know the details at the time, but he’d blacked out a couple times on course before wisely calling it a day. He’d say something like “Carry the torch, I’m out…” that probably might have struck a bystander as melodramatic, but I didn’t snicker. We’d ridden the long version of the Kerrville loop together. He had run me into the ground in the following day, notching about 10 consecutive 7-minute miles. It was all I could do to catch him, run beside him for about a mile, then blow up so famously that I almost literally had to walk in. I know how much he’d trained, thought about how fast he’d go, and worried about what might go wrong. Amazing how many months go into getting ready for this, and how many flaws in the tracks there are on race day that could send you flying off the rails.
Glynn apparently couldn’t keep anything down starting on the second lap of the bike and was still recovering from a calf injury that would probably kept most people from even toeing the line. Mark would nail down a very respectable 11:50 in his first attempt at an Ironman on a day that saw 20% of the field pack it in. It was later revealed this race had the third highest number of abandons of any Ironman event in history. I never saw Barbara, but heard she finished a little over 14 hours and Alison came home a little over 15 hours, despite significant asthma problems on course.
I’d discover that John Dunham, another Austinite in my age group whom I am constantly trying to better in the local races, finished a handful of minutes before me. Based on the splits, we’d passed each other at least half a dozen times and I’d never noticed.
The second lap went past about the same as the first, without the puking. I added oranges to my diet just to have something other than gels. I’d catch Tereza at one of the aid stations and waved, but didn’t say anything. She was on a very bad day.
She is a pro and two days before the race when I’d talked to her, she was sick. She fell on her bike in the parking lot before her race and still was determined to give it a go. She’d started 15 minutes ahead of me with the rest of the pros and I didn’t catch her until the third lap of the bike. I was surprised when she slowed from a jog next to me around mile 6 and asked how I was doing. I related my stomach problems and she suggested that I might be overdoing the salts. I’d backed off at her suggestion and we’d leap-frogged each other a couple times on the run / walk.
I don’t know what kept her going, but at mile 24 I passed her for the last time and told her we were almost there. She said 2 miles was still a long way, but she managed to finish sometime behind me. I can’t imagine the pressure she must be under as a pro and it’s incredible to see some of them on good days and bad days, all on the same course. The occasional flash of Michele Jones, Heather Gollnick, or James Bonney as they glide by like they’re on a training run, and the masses of people around you pounding step after step. The pros really are amazing people, no matter which day you catch them on: a good one or a bad one.
My form is now about as bad as I’ve ever seen it and all the mental checklists I’ve trained with and practiced aren’t worth a thing. Each step is stiff-legged, heel-first contact. I imagine myself hitting the brakes with every landing, then fighting over my center of gravity. I can talk myself into leaning forward and shortening my strides a little, but this lasts for a few steps before I’m back to clomping along like a Clydesdale.
Cola sounds really good, but I tell myself I can’t start that until the third lap. As dehydrated as I am, I need to limit the diuretics. This feels like I will never finish and the mile markers seem to be running away from me, along with the hordes of people that are now passing me.
I see my family again at the second lap and John Lewis is there cheering as well. I mouth “I’m sorry” to my family as I pass and feel as slow as I did three years ago when they had to wait an interminably long time for me to stumble over the line.
It feels the same now and I’ve long ago stopped taking splits on my watch at the mile markers. 10:30 is gone now too. I’m wondering if I’ll break 11 hours, and a little concerned that I might go slower than the 11:43 I posted three years ago.
Retracing the same loop three times feels like torture in the later laps, but every once in a while you pass a volunteer that recognizes you from a previous lap and they have been counting. They know this is your last lap and give just a little bit of encouragement that buoys your spirits.
I find that I have made a critical error with my race number. They give you two numbers, one with your first name and a second with your last name. I didn’t see the point in swapping race belts, so I just used the one with my last name on it and turned it around from back to front for the run. So I constantly hear cheers for “North,” or people being terribly clever and saying things like “good job North, keep heading west!” Kinda cute the first couple times, but a little old many times over and many miles in…
I stop for my special needs bag on the second lap to get something different to eat than what they’re serving on course. I realize that as I root through the bag, I’m actually sitting down on the retaining wall behind which they’ve arrayed the bags. Shit! I’m sitting down! If there’s one thing you don’t do during an Ironman, it’s sit down. Well, you also don’t walk, but I gave up on that one long ago. I’m hoping I don’t show up on any video or pictures walking, because the Texas Iron folks are merciless…
The last lap heralds cola and it tastes like the best thing I’ve ever had. A couple stations later and they actually have cookies. I nearly maul the poor girl with them on the tray and do a pretty good Cookie Monster impression. The caffeine however does something bad to my stomach and although I’m not going to puke, I do end up doing something horrible behind a big pile of construction dirt just off course. Whenever they need that fill dirt, some poor bastard’s in for a surprise… I’m a big advocate of taking along a kit consisting of a Ziploc bag with a small bottle of hand sanitizer and napkins, a compact cloth, or something else to keep you from using executing a Cool Hand Luke maneuver on course. Sometimes nature calls between Port O Lets…
The miles alternate between coming quickly and dragging on seemingly for hours. The count in the high teens is a little easier to take than some of the early low numbers. Once I get past 20 miles, it seems like they don’t move at all. I come through the stretch of the course that winds along the side of transition and one of the volunteers asks me how I feel. All I can manage at this point is to shake my head.
I manage to run the hill over the top of the course and realize this is actually the first time I was able to actually carry the whole thing. The aid station in the shade of Loop 202 feels so good that I just want to lay down in the shade. Just past that, I pass Adam, of Jack & Adam’s fame. I am walking at this point and I’m embarrassed to look him in the eye, having told him a day or two before that I was hoping to break 10 hours. I tell him, “Today is not that day, but I only have two miles to go.” He says something encouraging and is nice enough not to give me a hard time about dragging ass. The aid station at the marina has actual Coke. Not Sam’s Club cola…Coke! The littlest things mean so much. Across the bridge on Rural and I see the 40K sign and it is the second-best sight of the day, bettered only by the finish line I was headed for.
There’s no lifting the tempo for the last 1.2 miles to finish strong. All I can do is maintain the pace I’d been struggling to maintain. No finishing with a flourish. I see my parents at the final turn and I wave to them before I enter the chute, check over my shoulder to make sure some zealot isn’t going to run me over with a Carl Lewis finishing kick. The damn clock is reading 11:04. I didn’t even break 11 hours. The finishing tape feels good sliding through my fingers as I cross the line. I remember to look up for the picture after catching hell from Darlene for looking down last finish.
Volunteers on me instantly. They don’t seem to have any reservations about grabbing a sweaty, salty person and they are nice as can be. I get my medal, they hand me a shirt and a hat. I almost get myself committed to the medical tent for stumbling a little, but talk the triage guy out of it. Darlene is here and she slides up next to me. I get to take my post race picture with her. It seems appropriate because she helped get me here and put up with my absenteeism, obsessive / compulsive traits, restrictive diet, and cranky temperament during the taper.
It’s kinda funny that Darlene is willing to get next to me, because now I get to see how salty I really am. I am just covered in it. My jersey has accumulations so thick that I can actually grab a pinch! Sponging water over my head out on course has created huge veins of salt along the front and sides of my jersey. I can’t imagine how I could have taken this much in over the course of the day, but in retrospect I have actually taken in almost an entire bottle of Thermolyte and countless ounces of the Gatorade High Endurance.
My family gathers around, but I can’t recall what we talked about. It’s about a mile back to the hotel and my ankle, which hadn’t bothered me at all during the race, starts to hurt to the point that I’m actually limping. Darlene and her sister are nice enough to get a couple bags of ice for me and I jump into an ice bath as soon as we get to the room. I sit waist deep in the ice water for about 20 minutes, shivering, but it turned out to be one of the smartest things I did all day. I wasn’t sore that night and really didn’t suffer too much in the days that followed.
Epilogue
Looking back now I am extremely disappointed with what I did, but I can’t imagine how it could have unfolded differently. All the preparation, arriving to the race, improbably, healthy, and the expectations I had made me sure I was going to go well. To end up shaving a scant 39 minutes off the previous attempt, when I was injured, leaves me with a little anger that I am hoping to apply to the races for the rest of the season. In talking with my dad, maybe I need to find a race venue that is a little cooler, so the fluid loss will not be as big a factor as it was in Arizona.
The swim and bike were actually executed fairly well, despite faltering a little into the wind on the last bike lap. I maintained control on the swim and didn’t let the excitement get the better of me. My transitions were a little slow. It really came down to the run. Despite getting sick, my real problem was my head. I just couldn’t seem to convince myself to maintain pace, or on some occasions, even to run. Could I have gone faster? Certainly. How? I have no idea. I thought I was trained and ready for it, but I still don’t know how I could have wringed out the hour I needed on the run.
I don’t know if this is the distance for me, but I am happy to have done it again and I have only developed a deeper respect for the distance, those that finished ahead of me (some a staggering two hours ahead!), those that finished behind me, and all that is required to get through an Ironman.
The numbers come out at around 60 minutes for the swim, 5:16 on the bike (21.6 mph), a lumbering 4:37 marathon (10:30 mile average), and a couple slow transitions thrown in for good measure. 11:04 total time, 33rd out of 266 in my age group, 203 out of 2000 starters, and about 1700 finishers.
Complete race photos from Action Sports Int'l: http://jakenorth.smugmug.com/gallery/4989312_drisp#302990846_DLKNm
Race Day
Swim
Bike
Run
Down the hill, back across the trail, across the Rural bridge, and along the path to transition. I think I’m starting to get back to a net positive fluid balance. That’s relatively speaking of course, because I sweat far more than it’s possible to stomach, but I think I’m knocking down around 60 ounces an hour, which is more than I thought I could, but probably reasonable in light of the fact that I was scrambling to get water down and catch up for what I’d lost to puking. I don’t think I’ll have to visit the medical tent, although all I want is to step into transition and call it a day.
Volunteers on me instantly. They don’t seem to have any reservations about grabbing a sweaty, salty person and they are nice as can be. I get my medal, they hand me a shirt and a hat. I almost get myself committed to the medical tent for stumbling a little, but talk the triage guy out of it. Darlene is here and she slides up next to me. I get to take my post race picture with her. It seems appropriate because she helped get me here and put up with my absenteeism, obsessive / compulsive traits, restrictive diet, and cranky temperament during the taper. 
Epilogue