It has been exactly 1 month since I did this race. In that time span, a lot of thoughts have occurred to me, I've been asked a lot of questions, and I've asked myself many questions. Writing about my race experience has been very cathartic in helping me synthesize a very large amount of information, memories, and emotions. It has also given me time to reflect on what has changed, what has not changed, where I stand now, and where I suppose I'll go next. I have no outline for how this is going to go, so I apologize if it meanders, but here goes nothing...
I Did An Ironman......What Now?
Almost immediately after my race had concluded, basically the next day, as I was limping around the house, visiting the event site to return rentals, pick up pictures, peruse the Ironman store...the very first question that was in my mind was exactly that...."Ok....what now?" At first it was not an urgent question, but it has become more so as time passes. I knew very soon that I wanted to do another one, and I entertained thoughts of where I'd like to race for my next one, but also I know that it will have to wait until 2012 because of the time restraints I'll be placed under during nursing school. So unfortunately, I can't answer the "What now?" question with an answer that is a year and a half away. Back to the drawing board.
With no immediate answer to that question, I moved on to other questions I had for myself. Next on the list was "What does this mean?" Again, a noticeable lack of answers were what I came up with. Uh.....it means that I accomplished what I set out to do. Goooood....anything else? I was having to coax myself to open up to myself, which is weird. OOOH...I specifically wanted to achieve this goal before nursing school and especially before I turned 30! Very good, Danny! Gold Star! But for some reason, it doesn't mean what I thought it would mean. I mean, it's convenient that the bulk of my training for this year is done and now I can focus on school. And I guess being an Ironman when I turn 30 will be nice, but I wasn't actually worried about what I'd have to show for my life when I hit that milestone. Unfortunately, when looking for a larger meaning behind something, "It's nice and convenient" just doesn't cut the proverbial mustard. And life continued...
Two weeks after the Ironman I had another race scheduled. A 50k trail race(31 miles) to help keep my mind and body occupied for a weekend. This race was an amazing experience in itself, and I learned a lot from it. It will very likely receive its own race report at some point before the memories of it fade, but that is not the goal for this entry.
Coming out of that race, I realized a few things. My body was tired. I was injured, and I needed to take a serious break from training for probably 1 or 2 months. At first, this seemed like it would be an enjoyable reprieve from the constant training that had become typical of my life so far this year. Some rest and recovery for a tired and worn out body. My ankle hurt most of the time, regardless of what I was doing, and my hip was, for lack of a better term, "wonky". My massage therapist did some work on me and agreed with my assessment that I needed to stop before anything got worse so I could heal properly. So that was that. A couple months with NO races, minimal running, and easy cycling. I can still swim, but I never have time.
Unfortunately, this break from training has ended up being the exact opposite of enjoyable. At first this was perplexing, until I realized why I had started doing it all in the first place. Back in February 2009 I started running constantly because I was hurting emotionally and needed to literally run away from it all. It worked so well that I didn't actually ever stop doing it, and now I'm an Ironman. So here I am, having been forced to stop for basically the first time in 18 months, and I'm realizing that some of those old wounds have still been sitting there unhealed since the moment I ran away from them. As if I thought that if I just ignored them, they'd just go away.....son of a......so an extremely unexpected result of becoming an Ironman is that I've had to exorcise some old demons and deal with them face to face.....and I am happy to say that I have actually made tremendous strides in that department in the last few weeks!
So moving forward with this bizarre self-psychoanalysis, I have started relying on friends to help me try and see the bigger picture. I have told my stories to so many people in person, and even more by means of this blog. Reading your comments and hearing all of your praise has been so utterly satisfying, first of all. Many of you have asked me questions that I would never have considered on my own. A very good friend of mine, though, asked me the following ones:
"How are you living now? Or better said, how do you find it possible to go on in life after experiencing so much raw emotion and euphoria?"
Holy crap! They really hit the nail on the head with that one. I hadn't considered this point until I read this. What exactly is the emotional impact of being completely overwhelmed by feeling and sensation one weekend and then going back to humdrum life the next? Whatever this impact is, I cannot put it into words just yet, but I feel it down to my core. It's an incredible emptiness, a longing. An intense desire to have something, but I don't know what that something is. It is a feeling of loss. I apologize for the crass nature of the comparison I'm about to make, and especially to any mother who has ever felt this...but I feel like this is as close to post-partum depression that I will ever feel. But the more I think about it....I've been preparing for a year, and carrying this physical and emotional burden...all for one day in history, and now my soul can't face the reality that it's over. It somehow fits. In a sick and twisted sort of way. I read an article on my favorite endurance sports blog which described the pitfalls of "Post Race Blues" and it was absolutely spot on. It was good to know, however, that I'm not alone in feeling this way.
So I'm an Ironman, I don't know what that means, I don't know what is next, and I'm depressed for a handful of reasons.....great......anything else?
There sure is. And I'll tell you about it now.
Without going into too much detail, because to do so would require pages and pages of explanation, I'll just say that growing up I had some self-esteem issues. I turned a corner on those issues in my early 20's and have been getting better ever since to the point that people I've met recently refuse to believe that I was ever an insecure guy. However, people who knew me back in the day can attest to how far I've come.
This race taught me something rather shocking about myself. While I am a very happy and confident guy, those self-esteem issues are still buried down there somewhere and though largely ignored, they are alive and well. How did I come to this conclusion?
Looking back at my recent successes as a runner and triathlete, I've noticed that I change the way I look at a challenge after I've met it. Of course, that is completely normal....everybody does that. But I do it in a rather unhealthy way. Before I did my first half marathon, it seemed like such an amazing accomplishment. Afterwards, I was tired but at the same time I realized that it was not as big a deal as I originally thought. But then I realized that a full marathon really WAS an amazing accomplishment. Fast forward to that finish line. I finished my first marathon, and again I was tired, but with the same hindsight that it wasn't as amazing an accomplishment as I had made it out to be. Same thing for my first 70.3. Of course, the Ironman....this was different. The Ironman is stuff legends are made of. This is THE accomplishment...the race that, if completed, would give me that long-sought-after feeling of TRUE accomplishment and fulfillment. If I could finish this race, I would never again doubt my ability to conquer a goal and achieve what I thought to be impossible.
Right?............Right?........Bueller?
Not so fast. Even before I crossed the finish line, the moment the realization hit that I would succeed without a doubt, some ugly man in the back of my brain said the ugly words, "Well, this race really isn't THAT big of a deal."
And there it was....the ugly truth buried way down deep in my sub conscience. It will never matter how far or how fast I race. If I can do something, then it must not be that hard. I know this is the stupidest of backwards logic, but I have to claim it as my own. Until I can truly rid myself of my teenage insecurities, I will never feel the glow of ultimate achievement. Nothing will ever satisfy the naysayers in my brain who are convinced that I'm just not good enough.
So the good news....having identified that this is going on, I can expect these thoughts upon meeting future goals, and summarily dismiss them. Similar to expecting and embracing that I will get beat up during a triathlon swim, moving forward I will look for these thoughts to make their appearance, and as they swim by kicking and throwing elbows, I will hopefully remain unaffected and calm.
So I'm an Ironman, I don't know what that means or where I go from here, I'm depressed, and it really wasn't that big of a deal after all. Man, this sure is uplifting! If you were looking for inspiration, I'm sorry but there's not much to be found here. This is the ugly side of overwhelming success. How do you follow up one of the greatest achievements of your life? Many people sink under the burden, and I can easily see how. Many people become stagnant and directionless. Aside from one race, those words could easily describe the last month of my life. For me the experience has been a lot of post-race blues, feelings of being sedentary, feeling complacent about mundane daily activities, and a whole lot of anxiety concerning my nursing program which begins in 3 weeks. It has been harder than I thought possible after something that was supposed to make me uncompromisingly happy. But very simply, it is what it is.
So do I actually have any answers? Some. I'm an Ironman and it means the world to me in a way that I still can't quite grasp. Moving forward, my ankle will heal and at some point I'll be running again pain free. If my academic schedule allows, I'll sign up for races and complete them with very modest goals due to limited time for training. I'm living a day at a time, dealing with a disappointing level of excitement and satisfaction that life gives me compared to what I felt on June 27th, but I'm making the best of it all the same. I will try to keep my insecurities in check to the best of my abilities, but I won't get discouraged if they get the better of me now and then. However, one thing I do know is that I will never again look at an "impossible" challenge the same way. Today, qualifying for Boston, or qualifying for Kona, or running 100 miles seem impossible. Tomorrow, I may feel differently.
These answers all seem so vague and the exact opposite of definitive. Wasn't I supposed to learn something big, something all-encompassing? Some absolute truth about life that only Lebowski Achievers can ever know?
My answers all seem so unsatisfying, but in the process of writing this I finally figured out The Answer.
The Answer is that it never mattered what the answers were.
This entire exercise of self-examination, of finding those dark little places inside of myself...that is the answer. The journey towards becoming an Ironman was more important than the finish line at the end of the road. Much the same, the journey to self-discovery was more important than whatever I discovered in the end.
The journey is, and always has been, the reward.
I can't think of a time in my recent life when I've been so honestly self-reflective. To look at myself without bias or preconception has been a daunting, but fulfilling task and I am unbelievably thankful to those who have helped me get here intellectually and emotionally.
It means so much to me that you've all stuck with me from Day 1 of training through race day, through 4 incredibly long winded posts about the race experience, and through this horribly convoluted clusterfuck of armchair philosophy and Bush League psychoanalysis.
So, after all that...if you still want to know how it feels to be an Ironman? I suggest you do one, and then you can tell me yourself how it feels. I believe with all my heart that if you want you, you absolutely CAN do it.
Thanks for reading!
Danny Loental
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: Part 4
The Run
I begin to stride away from the timing mat after exiting transition. Slowly....very slowly at first. Having absolutely no idea how my body, and more importantly my legs, would feel after 8-9 hours of physical activity(my longest workout EVER at this point), my goal for the run was to hopefully find a comfortable pace that I could maintain for 5 or 6 hours. I really hoped that this "comfortable pace" would be faster than walking. My fastest marathon ever was just under 4 hours. With fresh legs. What have I got now?
Something else.
I'm going with an easy shuffle....not too horrible. Legs feel heavy, but that's normal....luckily I have done at least a few brick workouts this season. My ankle and hip have not complained at all today...and they continue their silence at least for the moment. I notice that I'm now actually running. And what's more, I'm running at a pretty decent pace. And the most amazing thing is that I'm not really hurting that bad. I really didn't want to care what my pace ended up being on my run, but out of habit I glance down at my watch. I had intended to remove the Pace indicator from the display of my Garmin, but having failed to do so, I look and see that I'm running a sub 10:00 pace. And it doesn't hurt.
Say what?
Yes...that's right. I'm actually running, decently fast, and I'm not in extraordinary pain. I still can't quite comprehend how this is possible, but I go with it. A notion that occurs to me is that these aren't my legs. They've never felt this good in any previous triathlon I've done, so there must have been a mixup. I don't know whose legs these are....but they appear to be getting the job done. The foolish part of my brain does some stupid math and starts envisioning setting a marathon PR...at the end of an Ironman. The reality-based part of my brain dismisses the foolish part and we continue on our happy way.
The first portion of the 2 loop run course is a 2 mile out-and-back. I spot Delaware coming the other way very early in my run. He gave words of encouragement in the form of letting me know that I was looking strong and would likely catch him. Whether or not that was true...who knows? However, at the time I didn't know how far I had to go until I reached the turnaround....he could be a mile ahead...2 miles ahead....more? The important thing was that I was feeling strong. The "importanter" thing was that once again, he had planted the seed of belief in my head. Could I catch Delaware? The guy who has already done an Ironman? The guy who inspired me to believe I could do one too?
If there was a chance in hell I could catch up to him, or even dare I say it, beat him....I was going to find out. Perhaps riding on this wave of excitement, my first 3 miles were 10:00 or faster. The aid stations continued to be wonderful....the first one was tropical themed I think. Hula skirts, leis, floral shirts. I think there was some sort of water mister that was heaven to run under, though it did cause a few not-so-great side effects. 1. All the dried sweat(also known as salt crystals) on my face starts dripping and getting into my eyes. 2. My Garmin 405 has a fancy-schmancy touch bezel that becomes utterly worthless when it's wet. I make a mental note to cover up my watch when running through sprinklers from here on out.
My routine for the aid stations was either water or gatorade in my handheld water bottle(a generous gift from my good friends Chris and Karli Lockard), a cup of ice dumped into my hat, and an ice cold sponge or two wrung out on my head and shoulders. The ice in the hat proved crucial for keeping the core temperature down between aid stations, as it would slowly melt over the course of a mile and continuously drip cool water down my face, neck, and shoulders. As previously mentioned, I planned on taking in only liquid and gels for nutrition on this run. I brought my own gels because I had trained with them and knew that they caused no digestive issues for me. I had another bagel with PB+J in my run special needs bag just in case, but I wasn't sure if I'd even eat it. Solid food has never agreed with me while running and it seemed risky.
After the first out and back, the course meanders through neighborhoods for a bit before it takes a gentle climb to meet up with the road that follows the edge of the lake. This first climb is where I first begin to experience "reality" and the pain arrives. I am most certainly tired, and my pace slows accordingly....but not as much as I expected. I'm still running...still moving forward.
There is a racer who is in the Marine Corps who was honored at the pre-race banquet. He does Ironman triathlons and received accolades because he runs the marathon portion of each race while carrying a large American flag to honor his fallen comrades, which are sadly quite numerous. Judging from the video telling his story, he looks pretty fast. Shortly before the course met up with the lake, I catch up to this guy. I get an immediate boost in self-confidence to have caught somebody who I considered "fast" and I think it helped my mojo for a few miles. Of course I later found out that he was on his 2nd lap and was indeed way faster than me....but the effect was a positive one, and I was certainly honored to be running alongside him for a while.
The next section of the course that followed the lake shore was another out and back, which climbed a huge hill and turned around at around 7.5 miles(first lap). Somewhere along this section, I again saw Delaware coming back the other way. He again shouted words of encouragement, insisted I'd catch him, and I again had no frame of reference for how far ahead of me he was...I again didn't know where the turnaround was. I just kept the hope alive that catching him was possible and put one foot in front of the other. Through all of this, I was amazed that I was actually able to keep a fairly high cadence. Instead of slogging through the miles, I felt like I was dancing through the course.
Until I hit The Hill.
I knew it was there...I had ridden up it earlier on the bike. My miraculously high pace and cadence were about to meet their match. The gradient of The Hill began and I shortened my strides a bit and went into conserve mode. The agonizing thing about The Hill is that it disappears around a corner, so you really have no idea how far you have to go until you reach that blessed turnaround. My legs are not happy, no sir. I get maybe a fourth of the way up, and I spontaneously, without actually deciding to, stop running. I'm walking. I allow myself a brief rest and then resume running. It happens again....I'm suddenly walking, as if my legs are no longer under my control.
I decide to listen to my body and after some brief but tense negotiations my brain and my legs reach a compromise and we begin power striding. I imagined myself as a 30-something housewife who doesn't believe in actual cardiovascular exercise, but likes to pretend that "powerwalking" is a way to stay in shape. In my head, I've got puny 2 pound dumbbells in each hand, ankle weights, and some pastel colored sweat band, but I'm not actually sweating....I'm gossiping with my neighbor about the jerk next door who mows his lawn, but doesn't cut it short enough and it just totally ruins the whole look of the neighborhood while at the same time damaging the property values of our homes and......what? Where was I going with this?
Lord almighty....my arms are SWINGING! I am hiking up a damned mountain. Long powerful strides, big majestic strokes with my arms. I wonder why I haven't been doing this all along, as I'm passing everyone else who is walking. I powerstride all the way to the top of the hill and breath a sigh of relief that this particular torture is over(at least until around mile 20). I resume my high cadence trot down the hill and now I'm letting gravity work FOR me, instead of letting it kick me repeatedly in the balls.
Another aid station was rock and roll themed, complete with Elvis impersonators and maybe karaoke? The Ford trailer had young attractive girls dancing....awesome. A kickass house party in the neighborhood section had easily 200 people in attendance...some people playing badminton, good loud music, and people in the streets drinking, dancing, and cheering. Every time I passed I either played air drums or air guitar, which elicited more cheering, drinking, and dancing.
Around mile 10 I met one of several temporary race friends. These race friendships are a funny thing as they are based purely on having one thing in common....the same pace for some appreciable amount of time. You meet, and begin attempting to learn as much as possible about the other person. The company is so nice, as the miles pass by faster, and sometimes any break in the monotony of running is welcome. But there's a catch....every single race friendship can be immediately dissolved and ended as soon as one of you changes your pace.
Her name was Kelsey and she was a local. I don't remember how the conversation started....probably some dorky comment from me, because if I hadn't mentioned this yet, despite any pain or difficulty I've experienced thus far, I am having the absolute time of my life!
She tells me that she likes my pace, so I settle in to maintain it. I learn about her, she learns about me. We talk about racing, school, life, where we've lived, who is here to cheer us on, etc. We're both gunning for a sub-5 marathon, but at this point I'm not sure I'll be able to manage. Sure enough, we pass the halfway point, mile 13.1, and as we begin the 2nd lap, she drops me like a bad habit. Easy come, easy go. I didn't remember seeing her again for the rest of the race. A few miles into the 2nd lap I am approaching special needs. It is cooling down and I know I'm hydrated enough to ditch the handheld water bottle for the rest of the run. A volunteer tells us to raise our hands if we'd like to get into our run bag. I raise my hand and another volunteer radios my number ahead. Like on the bike, I approach the special needs stop and somebody yells out my number and beckons me toward them.
The woman holding my bag looks eerily familiar.....IT'S ANDREA!!! The same amazing volunteer who retrieved my bike special needs bag, against all odds, is now the same volunteer who has been assigned to assist me with my run special needs! I excitedly greet her, though she doesn't immediately recognize me because she's been helping hundreds of racers all day. After a brief moment of searching, she does remember though. Like before, she's got my bag open, and everything I had in it is ready for me. What do you want? Can I take anything? I grab the bagel and without any regard to my original plan, I tear into it. Then she starts asking me questions....How are you feeling? Do you want to sit down while you eat? This idea seems utterly foreign to me....sit down? But I'm racing! But then again....why the hell not? So I sit down on the ground with my bagel and a bottle of water. She then blows my mind by asking the following question.
Do you want me to rub your shoulders?
Do you want me to rub your shoulders?
Uh.....hell freaking yes. So as I sit on the ground, eating a bagel with peanut butter and jelly, a woman named Andrea who I had only met that day began massaging my shoulders. And it was amazing. I finished most of the bagel, ditched my run bottle, tossed my empty gel wrappers and grabbed some new ones. I stood up, curious if my legs would even allow such a thing. They were shaky, but they still had some fight left in them. I'm pretty sure I hugged Andrea, but if nothing else I probably thanked her 15 times for being so amazing, helpful, and cheerful.
I continued onward, meeting people occasionally, but for pretty short periods of time. Temporary friendships. Anytime a normal friendship ends, there is usually a lot of animosity...not out here. When you dropped somebody who you had spent a few miles with, nothing but positive energy came. "Hey man, it was great talking to you...you're looking really strong! Keep it up!"
As I go through miles 15...16....17....I start to notice some things. I'm passing tons of people. These people are either walking, or their pace has slowed to a crawl. I wonder if that same fate awaits me at some point down the road. Then I see the truly sad images....people aren't even walking. They're not standing. They're sitting down. They're lying down. They're unconscious and being attended to by medical personnel. Many of them are crying. They are heartbreaking to see....their day is over, or perhaps their finish is simply out of reach. At the same time though, I am filled with hope. I'm still moving. I'm still intent on staying that way, and I am still in the hunt for catching Delaware if it is even possible.
Mile 18 passes....I know I'm going to see Delaware at some point coming the other way. I get closer and closer to the turnaround and I still haven't seen him. I've got to be within a mile of catching him. Mile 19 and I still haven't seen him. Each step I take decreases the theoretical distance between us by two steps. I'm not a competitive person by any stretch of the imagination, but the thought of catching somebody I've considered to be a hero for a long time is putting fire in my stride. My pace has slowed considerably since the halfway point(especially after my long stay at special needs) but now it is actually climbing again. I'm speeding up somehow. I remind myself to write a thank you letter to whoever loaned me these fantastic legs. I approach The Hill. I still haven't seen Delaware. At this point, I'm pretty convinced that I missed him...perhaps he was in a portajohn and I didn't see him. Probably won't catch him after all. As I begin The Hill...off in the distance I see an orange jersey. Could it be? I decide that powerstriding up this hill just isn't going to cut it. 13 miles ago I walked this hill, and now I'm running up it....I've got to know. Orange jersey makes the turnaround about 200 yards ahead of me. He is getting closer now.....
It's Delaware. I'm going to catch him. As we pass I yell, "What one man can do, another can do!" and I proceed to devour the remainder of the hill. The volunteers and spectators, at this point in the race are used to seeing a relatively slow pace from the racers going up that hill. As I come bounding up The Hill, I hear lots of cheers from them as well as other racers I am passing. They didn't know where I was getting it, but they were encouraging me all the same. I make the turnaround, get a few pats on the back for my effort, and resume the hunt, nearly sprinting down the hill. Well.....you know what I mean. At the bottom of the hill, I see him. He is about 100 yards in front of me and I'm gaining. I hit an aid station first....I get some fluid and take a gel with it. Then I see something overwhelmingly enticing. All of the aid stations have offered a wide variety of solid food options, but I hadn't considered any of them according to my original nutrition plan. I see a large bowl of potato chips, and without so much as a second thought, I grab a huge handful and immediately stuff them into my mouth. As I chomp down, the salt hits my taste buds and for a moment, time stops....children sing....butterflies dance in the air....young couples fall in love....dreams are realized....and I am tasting the best thing I've ever tasted in my life. It is maybe the closest I've ever been to crying tears of joy because of junk food. I leave the aid station behind, still running with a mouth overflowing with salty potato chip goodness, chewing and relishing every moment until I swallow it.
Delaware is right there. I can see that he is running, but I know that the pace he is holding to stay ahead of me isn't comfortable for him. He holds out for a little while longer before he stops to walk again. As I pass him, words of encouragement are exchanged between us, but I couldn't even begin to tell you what they were. It's odd the moments you remember clear as day, and the ones that are just understood to have happened.
I leave Delaware behind and I look forward to seeing him at the finish line. His run isn't going great, but I know he will finish strong. Searing jolts of emotion begin to hit me as I realize I am within 6 measly miles of finishing an Ironman. A lazy 10k. My normal campus loop. Down and back on the Trolley Trail. One moment I'm laughing out loud to myself, the next I'm stifling tears, and the one after that I'm in shock that this is actually happening. I offer encouragement to every racer I pass. I thank every volunteer. I high five spectators. As I approach the house party, I envision myself embracing some lovely young lady and planting a kiss on her, much in the style of the V-Day celebrations in Time Square after World War II ended. Of course I didn't do this, but it didn't stop me from pausing to dance with a group of girls who were shimmying in the street. One of them gave me a congratulatory hug, but I believe she immediately regretted it when she realized she was now covered in sunblock, sweat, and many of my excreted electrolytes. I continue onward...
I have vivid memories of the last 4 or 5 miles of this event. Faces I saw. Things I thought about. There is one thing I have absolutely no recollection of though....pain. I was 12-13 hours into the longest day of my life. The pain should have been overwhelming. Excruciating. Every part of my body should have been screaming for mercy. But it just so happened, that I felt no pain for the last few miles. It seems that my body had stopped utilizing carbohydrates, fat, and protein for its fuel, and had instead switched to running on pure euphoria. I was a man possessed by the greatest joy I had felt in a long time, and I was getting closer and closer to the end of a long journey.
The final turn onto the finishing straightaway nearly took my breath away. I could see the lights of the finish line off in the distance. I nearly cried again. My eyes saw, but my mind refused to comprehend, instead just playing the role of the passive observer. Attempting to understand what was going on proved to be futile, so instead I just tried to experience every moment as fully as I could. And it wasn't hard because every moment was overflowing with raw emotion. I knew my parents and brother were up there somewhere, and I wanted so very badly to see them before I crossed the finish line. I was getting closer and closer and I started scanning the crowds lining the street. I zig-zagged down the street, high-fiving 20 people at a time on one side before shooting over to the other side. I approached the final 50 yards where the grandstands started. I saw my brother and I saw my parents. I waved and loved them with everything I had from far away, and with that taken care of I turned and faced the finish line. Still in stride, I ran strong and proud, head held high, my thoughts completely absent...
The race announcer said my name and my hometown, and then said "You are an Ironman!"
I didn't hear a word of it. As I crossed the finish line, a year's worth of anxiety, self-doubt, anticipation, and fear combined with a year's worth of emotional and physical preparation, confidence and excitement to form possibly the most hair-raising rush of pure emotion I have ever experienced in a single moment. This outpouring of feeling first manifested itself in what I can only describe as a primal scream, and I believe this victory cry took the form of the word "Yeah" but multiply its meaning by 140.6. That's how many miles I had just covered. The event photographers captured this moment for all eternity. I feel grateful that they captured this moment because the exact next moment after I was photographed, I began crying uncontrollably. A volunteer placed a medal around my neck and I continued to stumble forward. Two more volunteers grabbed me by each arm and began to escort me through the post-race area.
I cannot put into words what I felt like, so instead of leaving good enough alone, I will now attempt, and fail, to describe it. It was over. That mere concept didn't sink in immediately...or a few minutes later....or that night before I went to bed. In fact, it would be a few weeks before I kinda started to realize it. My race was over. The Ironman. Done. With that fairly obvious conclusion suspiciously absent from my consciousness, and most of my logical processes on leave as well, my limbic system took over completely(science geeks will recognize that as the emotional processing center of the brain). I stumbled around with a volunteer on each arm for a few dumbfounded moments, or it could have been an hour. I didn't quite care. All I was aware of was that I had been given permission to stop running and that I had just completed something vaguely massive, but indescribable.
It was over.
I cannot put into words what I felt like, so instead of leaving good enough alone, I will now attempt, and fail, to describe it. It was over. That mere concept didn't sink in immediately...or a few minutes later....or that night before I went to bed. In fact, it would be a few weeks before I kinda started to realize it. My race was over. The Ironman. Done. With that fairly obvious conclusion suspiciously absent from my consciousness, and most of my logical processes on leave as well, my limbic system took over completely(science geeks will recognize that as the emotional processing center of the brain). I stumbled around with a volunteer on each arm for a few dumbfounded moments, or it could have been an hour. I didn't quite care. All I was aware of was that I had been given permission to stop running and that I had just completed something vaguely massive, but indescribable.
It was over.
Final run time: 4:53:27, at an average pace of 11:12/mile.
Final event time: 13:29:34
For some perspective, before the race I had made some fairly modest projections concerning how fast I thought I could finish. I determined that under the absolute most perfect conditions, if everything went right, and if I raced to my maximum potential, I could finish somewhere between 13:30 and 14:00. I beat my best-case-scenario time by 26 seconds. Of course I wouldn't even realize this until later that night because I hadn't glanced at the event clock when I finished and was forced to do the math in my head, coming to the conclusion that I had finished in a respectable 14:30. My parents tried to argue that I had actually been an hour faster, but I insisted their math was wrong and that there was no way I could have been that fast.
Back in the post-race area, my brother greeted me at the fence and we embraced. I was still crying as he told me how proud of me he was, and I thanked him for coming. I walked over to have my official finisher photo taken. I wiped the happy tears from my eyes and asked the photographer if I looked like I had been crying. He said I looked fine and I stepped forward. I put on my biggest shit-eating grin and put on my new Ironman Coeur d'Alene finisher hat before he took my picture.
At this point the volunteers have concluded that I am ok to walk on my own and I begin to walk towards the food area. I mill around for a few minutes before I see the pizza tent. Game over folks. Mine is a hunger that causes mortal men to quiver and women to faint. I am pretty sure I got 5 slices of pepperoni and then sat down to dispose of them. I also got a nice warm cup of chicken broth. I saw Delaware enter the post-race area about 10 minutes later. He looked tired, but he was standing on his own so I knew he had finished strong and proud. We sat, ate pizza, and exchanged race stories while we waited for our post-race massages. His was apparently excellent, but mine was a little disappointing....not enough pressure, but I wasn't in any mood to complain. I was absolutely overjoyed, but in a really vague way that lacked any true grasp of the situation.
After a good long while we left the post-race area and met back up with my family and with Jess. We checked our bikes out of transition and headed back towards the car. Loaded up, headed back to the house. Delaware and I hobbled inside as Jess and my parents went into full-on pamper mode. My father had gone to the store earlier to pick up a bunch of ice so we could have ice baths after the race. I soaked in the cold water for awhile and then got dressed and ready for bed. Everyone was tired....I know from experience that just WATCHING an Ironman is an exhausting experience, and I know my parents and brother were definitely feeling it, though they were troopers! Best cheering section I could possibly ask for! Love you guys!
I crawled into bed, and as midnight approached I grabbed my laptop and loaded up Ironman Live so I could watch the streaming video as the final finishers crossed the line at close to 17 hours. The last guy to cross had about 3 minutes to spare before the 17 hour cutoff time. It turns out he had raced there last year and had missed the cutoff by 5 minutes. Now, a year later, with a level of persistence I can't quite fathom after so narrow a failure, he improved his time by 8 minutes and finally got his finisher's medal. It was a poignant moment, and I drifted off to sleep...happy for so many reasons that I didn't have the energy to contemplate yet.
This concludes the race recap, but stay tuned for Part 5: The Epilogue where I'll try and delve into the personal significance and meaning this event holds for me, as well as the aftermath of the biggest race of my life.
Thanks for reading!
Monday, July 12, 2010
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: Part 3
Bike and Transition 2
If you had been reading my posts leading up to this event, you already know that two of my primary concerns today were my nutrition and hydration. My half ironman in April resulted in a visit to the med tent and 2 bags of saline via IV, all because I hadn't taken care of my food and water intake. Coming into this race, I had a plan. I also had serious doubts about this plan, mostly because I hadn't technically put that plan to the test in training. It was all theoretically sound, but every human body is different, and without training-tested results, it was all guesswork.
As I started rolling away from transition, the first thing on my mind was to get some food and fluid in my body. Nutrition and hydration aren't issues during the swim because you can't really nom on a Powerbar with your face underwater. Some people touted the water as being clean enough to go ahead and take a gulp during the swim, but I didn't necessarily trust those people and I refrained. Besides.....who knows if the swimmer right in front of you has decided his or her wetsuit just wasn't quite warm enough and just let nature solve that problem.
Anyways, once on the bike...first things first....powerbar and get the fluids in. I carefully opened the wrapper using a technique I perfected during the Cottonwood 200, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and then sank into my aerobars holding the food and the bar with the same hand, occasionally dipping my head lower to chomp. With the aerodrink bottle right there, it was easy to wash down the very thick and chewy, protein-rich powerbar with the gatorade I had preloaded the bottle with. I finish it and take another nice gulp to wash it down...success. Now to focus on finding a nice easy rhythm and start ticking off the miles.
OH FUCK!
I immediately realize that I am not wearing my race belt, which holds my bib number. I remember seeing it in the bag. I remember Mr. Man Ass reminding me that it was sitting on the ground by my feet, as if it seemed like something I would forget. I remember politely thanking him for the reminder, but at the same time silently discarding the advice...there was no fucking way I was going to forget my bib number. That'd be just plain stupid.
...
I then distinctly remember NOT putting it on. Ratfarts. I can't remember if I left it on the ground where Ass told me it was, or if I absentmindedly stuffed it back in my transition bag and left it on my chair. If it was in the bag, it would remain there until I finished my bike portion. If it was on the ground, maybe a volunteer would see it and somehow know how to get it to me? I consider turning around to go back and get it, but I'm already 5-10 miles in, and I'm not even sure they LET you do that. I then start listing off race rules in my head. "During the bike portion, all racers must display their bib number on their back so that it is clearly visible to race officials." Shit. It's just a matter of time before some angry official on a motorcycle rolls up, sees that I have no bib number, and dis-fucking-qualifies me. What a way to DNF!
I ride on, contemplating my fate. The miles pass. Delaware goes FLYING by me sooner than I expect. He apparently had a very good swim and a speedy transition...and he's wearing HIS bib number. I would see him once more before I was running, and that was on the first out and back section of lap one. He looks strong...and to no surprise because, after all, he did Bike Across The Freaking Country this year(http://chatter.chrisdyroff.com/). Read his blog from start to finish, I highly recommend it.
The miles pass...I see race officials pass me. They say nothing. Maybe it'll be ok afterall...besides, my race number is visible on my bike, my helmet, and it's written in black marker on both of my arms. Maybe I'll just make a point to find my race belt before I start running.
Now that I'm actually convinced I'll be allowed to continue racing, I'm back into "let's race smart" mode. I'm not burning up the road by any stretch of the imagination. I'm taking my sweet ass time riding comfortably and trying to conserve as much energy for the run as possible.
And I'm trying to make myself pee. Soon. Advice Delaware had given me concerning hydration: If you haven't peed by the 3rd hour of your ride, you need to drink fluid until you do. As I said before...I've felt severe dehydration...it's not fun, and on a day like this it would spell disaster, complete failure, and possibly a medical emergency.
My nutrition strategy is as follows: Powerbar at the start(done) and halfway point. Perpetuem(carb and protein powder mixed with water to form a "drink" that has a similar consistency to pancake batter) every 15-20 minutes. Electrolyte tablet every half hour. At aid stations, I will alternate between grabbing water and gatorade. I have used Perpetuem before and it hasn't let me down, but I'm still not sure it will sit well on a day this long. One thing I am certain of is that I will be DONE with solid food with no less than 30 minutes of biking left to go. I don't need anything rattling around in my stomach when I start running. Worries and concerns abound.
I start to notice that my stomach is just feeling bloated, especially after sipping on the pancake batter. I've heard about racers who have their GI tract shut down and they either throw up from all of their food backing up, or they end up in the hospital because they don't absorb any nutrients or fluid. These worst-case scenarios play through my head over and over as I enter the hilly section of the first lap.
Lucky for me, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Once we hit this section of the bike course, my worries are at least temporarily replaced by awe and admiration for the stupefyingly beautiful scenery I am surrounded by. At several points, we are climbing horribly steep hills with huge dropoffs directly off the side of the road and sweeping views of the lake, trees, and blue skies. The legs hurt, but it's easy to ignore. Then the climb ends and we enter white-knuckle descents where one could easily reach 40+ miles per hour if they weren't a chicken-shit rider like myself. I'll ride the breaks and NOT smear my flesh across the road, thank you very much! The course turns away from the lake, but the steep climbs, hair-raising descents, and beautiful scenery persist.
Each aid station is full of happy, smiling, supportive, cowbell-banging, AMAZING volunteers. I could write a whole post about how fantastic the support was for this race, both from the volunteers and the regular folks who just came out to watch. Old couples sitting out in front of their house with lawn chairs and a stereo...blasting Michael Jackson tunes. People dressed up in ridiculous costumes and dancing around like idiots, solely to entertain/distract racers with tired legs and worried faces. Simply the best support I've ever seen for a race. Kudos to Coeur d'Alene for fully embracing this event.
Then so it was, about 2 hours into my ride...roughly 30 miles down and another 80 to go, that it happened. With no warning and completely unexpected...I needed to urinate. I had never in my entire life been so happy to have this sensation. The instant I felt it, I uncontrollably let loose a cry of joy, complete with a fist pump. "YEAH!!!!!" I don't know if any other riders saw or heard me. There's no possible way they could have known that I was on the verge of happy tears because I had to micturate. At the next aid station, I gleefully rolled up to a porta-john. "I'm going to PEE!" is what I might have announced to everyone present if I had been unable to control my inner monologue, but I was able to...only just so. This felt like the most important triumph of my day. Immediately all of my worries of my food and fluid intake not being absorbed, ending up passed out/vomiting on the side of the road.....washed away by some of the most beautifully clear pee I've ever seen. I am well-hydrated. I might have gotten it tattooed on my arm at that moment. Exiting the potty like a champion, head held high, I strode back towards my bike, stretched briefly, remounted, and rode off with a huge smile on my face.
I'm going to make it. And friends, I surely did. After peeing at mile 30, I again peed at mile 40, mile 60, and mile 75.
After the first 56 mile lap, my legs began to really feel the punishment. I was starting to feel sluggish and my pace dropped somewhat. I was not worried though, speed was not my goal for the remainder of the day. I was mainly concerned with conservation and longevity.
Shortly after the halfway point, all riders can access their special needs bag. This is where you can put extra food, drinks, clothes, or whatever you might want for the 2nd half of the ride. I had a bagel with PB+J, an extra bottle of Perpetuem, and an extra tube in case I had to change a flat on the first lap(luckily, I had NO mechanical difficulties whatsoever the entire ride). As I pulled up to special needs, a volunteer already had my bag in hand and flagged me down(someone up the road had radioed that I was approaching). She had everything out of my bag, ready to hand it to me. She held my bike while I chowed on my bagel, took my empty bottles, replaced them with my full bottles, and offered words of encouragement. Her name was Andrea and she was awesome. She has done something like 8 Ironmans and was volunteering at this one just because. Just overjoyed. Her and me. I still can't believe how amazing these volunteers are. I finish my bagel, stretch out again, and hit the road as I repeatedly thank her for her time and effort.
The second lap was very similar to the first...the hills were hard, the descents were wicked scary, and my legs were getting more and more tired. I tried not to focus on how they were going to feel when I started running. I had set a goal that I was going to try to enjoy every moment of this race, and in the midst of the hills of the second lap, I began to do that. Well....I had some help.
Three college aged guys. In various colored banana-hammock undies. With vuvuzelas. Running alongside riders. Up the steepest god-damned hill of the entire course.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
Oh. My. God. I lost my shit. This was the greatest thing I had seen all day. I applauded them and thanked them for being completely awesome as I topped out the climb, barely aware of the searing pain in my quads, hamstrings, and calves. My mood stayed high for the remainder of the ride. The hills came and went, but the smile on my face stayed as I realized I was in the middle of Fulfilling A Dream. How often can you literally and truthfully live in the moment as you fulfill a dream? I'm guessing it's not a common occurrence for most, and some people may never get to do this in their entire lives. I'm sure my teeth were splattered with bugs by mile 112, because I was stupid happy and grinning a grin that would break your grandmother's dentures.
The last 10-20 miles of the bike flew by in a blur of thanking happy volunteers, laughing quietly to myself, and loving life with an intensity that I've only felt a handful of times. Somehow, against all odds, during the biggest race of my life, EVERYTHING was going according to plan. Well, except for my missing bib number which ended up not being a big deal at all.
Final bike time: 112 miles in 6:56:43. Average of 16.13 mph. My goal was to ride between 6.5 and 7 hours.
I rolled back towards transition happier than ever. I saw my family again as I rolled up to the dismount line where a volunteer took Lucille and went to rerack her for me. Again....amazing volunteers! I strode into the transition area, a little wobbly on my legs, but with purpose. I grab my bike-to-run bag, a cup of water, and I hit the john again(Still very well hydrated!!!). I enter the changing tent and sit down. A volunteer immediately approaches me and asks if I need anything. "Well I'm very glad you asked! It seems that during T1....." I proceed to tell him the story of my Swim to Bike transition, the Man Ass, and the missing bib number with full orchestration and five-part harmony and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, do you want me to go look in your bag to see if you left it in there?" I said "Yes, please...that would be amazing." He runs off and I begin removing my cycling gear and replacing it with my running gear, I take some more time to stretch...he returns and sadly admits that he was unable to find it. I inquire as to whether there is a Lost and Found in transition for items that have been left lying around. He states that he does not know, but then offers to bring my bag to me, on the off chance that he missed it. I reply that I would very much appreciate that. He runs off again while I continue to prepare myself mentally and physically to run a MARATHON...something I've only ever done with what I like to call "FRESH LEGS". He returns with my bag. I eagerly open it up and I see my red hoodie, my flip flops, my street clothes.....hmmmm.....I tell him that what I am missing is in my Swim to Bike transition bag, and that he has mistakenly brought me my Morning Clothes Bag(no explanation will be given...the important point....WRONG BAG). He instantly realizes his mistake and SPRINTS off to retrieve the correct bag. He is back in an instant with the bag, which I open and immediately find my race belt with my BIB NUMBER! Happy Day! I thank the volunteer profusely and I might have offered to name my first born after him. The joke is on him though...I didn't get his name, and no woman in her right mind would ever willingly procreate with me! Sucker.
I double check EVERYTHING....I have what I need to begin running. I exit the changing tent and head to the sunscreen station. I forgot to mention THIS delightful aspect of the race. I hit the sunscreen station before I began biking as well, but I'll tell you about it now.
The sunblock station consists of 4 or 5 volunteers, all wearing gloves, with industrial sized JARS of sunblock that contain plunger-type nozzles that you would expect to dispense ketchup or mustard at McDonald's. As I approach this station, my father's sense of humor being alive and well in my soul, I state out loud, "Hello, I'd like to be slathered in mayonnaise, if you please!" I think I got a giggle from the lady, but she PPBBBBTTHTHTHTH squirts out a loving pile of the stuff onto her hands and Goes. To. Town. Arms. Legs. Neck. Face. Ears. The works.
I'm ready. I'm about to tackle the final challenge in my yearlong quest to become an Ironman. I have a water bottle. I am coated in SPF 50 bazillion. I begin to trot towards the transition exit. My brain is in full-tilt self-diagnostic mode.
"Body parts...report in! Arms! Check. Stomach! Check. Feet! Check. Legs!"
"Legs! Report in! What is your current status?"
I cross the timing mat and take the first step of a marathon.
Do I have any legs left?
To be continued...
If you had been reading my posts leading up to this event, you already know that two of my primary concerns today were my nutrition and hydration. My half ironman in April resulted in a visit to the med tent and 2 bags of saline via IV, all because I hadn't taken care of my food and water intake. Coming into this race, I had a plan. I also had serious doubts about this plan, mostly because I hadn't technically put that plan to the test in training. It was all theoretically sound, but every human body is different, and without training-tested results, it was all guesswork.
As I started rolling away from transition, the first thing on my mind was to get some food and fluid in my body. Nutrition and hydration aren't issues during the swim because you can't really nom on a Powerbar with your face underwater. Some people touted the water as being clean enough to go ahead and take a gulp during the swim, but I didn't necessarily trust those people and I refrained. Besides.....who knows if the swimmer right in front of you has decided his or her wetsuit just wasn't quite warm enough and just let nature solve that problem.
Anyways, once on the bike...first things first....powerbar and get the fluids in. I carefully opened the wrapper using a technique I perfected during the Cottonwood 200, keeping both hands on the handlebars, and then sank into my aerobars holding the food and the bar with the same hand, occasionally dipping my head lower to chomp. With the aerodrink bottle right there, it was easy to wash down the very thick and chewy, protein-rich powerbar with the gatorade I had preloaded the bottle with. I finish it and take another nice gulp to wash it down...success. Now to focus on finding a nice easy rhythm and start ticking off the miles.
OH FUCK!
I immediately realize that I am not wearing my race belt, which holds my bib number. I remember seeing it in the bag. I remember Mr. Man Ass reminding me that it was sitting on the ground by my feet, as if it seemed like something I would forget. I remember politely thanking him for the reminder, but at the same time silently discarding the advice...there was no fucking way I was going to forget my bib number. That'd be just plain stupid.
...
I then distinctly remember NOT putting it on. Ratfarts. I can't remember if I left it on the ground where Ass told me it was, or if I absentmindedly stuffed it back in my transition bag and left it on my chair. If it was in the bag, it would remain there until I finished my bike portion. If it was on the ground, maybe a volunteer would see it and somehow know how to get it to me? I consider turning around to go back and get it, but I'm already 5-10 miles in, and I'm not even sure they LET you do that. I then start listing off race rules in my head. "During the bike portion, all racers must display their bib number on their back so that it is clearly visible to race officials." Shit. It's just a matter of time before some angry official on a motorcycle rolls up, sees that I have no bib number, and dis-fucking-qualifies me. What a way to DNF!
I ride on, contemplating my fate. The miles pass. Delaware goes FLYING by me sooner than I expect. He apparently had a very good swim and a speedy transition...and he's wearing HIS bib number. I would see him once more before I was running, and that was on the first out and back section of lap one. He looks strong...and to no surprise because, after all, he did Bike Across The Freaking Country this year(http://chatter.chrisdyroff.com/). Read his blog from start to finish, I highly recommend it.
The miles pass...I see race officials pass me. They say nothing. Maybe it'll be ok afterall...besides, my race number is visible on my bike, my helmet, and it's written in black marker on both of my arms. Maybe I'll just make a point to find my race belt before I start running.
Now that I'm actually convinced I'll be allowed to continue racing, I'm back into "let's race smart" mode. I'm not burning up the road by any stretch of the imagination. I'm taking my sweet ass time riding comfortably and trying to conserve as much energy for the run as possible.
And I'm trying to make myself pee. Soon. Advice Delaware had given me concerning hydration: If you haven't peed by the 3rd hour of your ride, you need to drink fluid until you do. As I said before...I've felt severe dehydration...it's not fun, and on a day like this it would spell disaster, complete failure, and possibly a medical emergency.
My nutrition strategy is as follows: Powerbar at the start(done) and halfway point. Perpetuem(carb and protein powder mixed with water to form a "drink" that has a similar consistency to pancake batter) every 15-20 minutes. Electrolyte tablet every half hour. At aid stations, I will alternate between grabbing water and gatorade. I have used Perpetuem before and it hasn't let me down, but I'm still not sure it will sit well on a day this long. One thing I am certain of is that I will be DONE with solid food with no less than 30 minutes of biking left to go. I don't need anything rattling around in my stomach when I start running. Worries and concerns abound.
I start to notice that my stomach is just feeling bloated, especially after sipping on the pancake batter. I've heard about racers who have their GI tract shut down and they either throw up from all of their food backing up, or they end up in the hospital because they don't absorb any nutrients or fluid. These worst-case scenarios play through my head over and over as I enter the hilly section of the first lap.
Lucky for me, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. Once we hit this section of the bike course, my worries are at least temporarily replaced by awe and admiration for the stupefyingly beautiful scenery I am surrounded by. At several points, we are climbing horribly steep hills with huge dropoffs directly off the side of the road and sweeping views of the lake, trees, and blue skies. The legs hurt, but it's easy to ignore. Then the climb ends and we enter white-knuckle descents where one could easily reach 40+ miles per hour if they weren't a chicken-shit rider like myself. I'll ride the breaks and NOT smear my flesh across the road, thank you very much! The course turns away from the lake, but the steep climbs, hair-raising descents, and beautiful scenery persist.
Each aid station is full of happy, smiling, supportive, cowbell-banging, AMAZING volunteers. I could write a whole post about how fantastic the support was for this race, both from the volunteers and the regular folks who just came out to watch. Old couples sitting out in front of their house with lawn chairs and a stereo...blasting Michael Jackson tunes. People dressed up in ridiculous costumes and dancing around like idiots, solely to entertain/distract racers with tired legs and worried faces. Simply the best support I've ever seen for a race. Kudos to Coeur d'Alene for fully embracing this event.
Then so it was, about 2 hours into my ride...roughly 30 miles down and another 80 to go, that it happened. With no warning and completely unexpected...I needed to urinate. I had never in my entire life been so happy to have this sensation. The instant I felt it, I uncontrollably let loose a cry of joy, complete with a fist pump. "YEAH!!!!!" I don't know if any other riders saw or heard me. There's no possible way they could have known that I was on the verge of happy tears because I had to micturate. At the next aid station, I gleefully rolled up to a porta-john. "I'm going to PEE!" is what I might have announced to everyone present if I had been unable to control my inner monologue, but I was able to...only just so. This felt like the most important triumph of my day. Immediately all of my worries of my food and fluid intake not being absorbed, ending up passed out/vomiting on the side of the road.....washed away by some of the most beautifully clear pee I've ever seen. I am well-hydrated. I might have gotten it tattooed on my arm at that moment. Exiting the potty like a champion, head held high, I strode back towards my bike, stretched briefly, remounted, and rode off with a huge smile on my face.
I'm going to make it. And friends, I surely did. After peeing at mile 30, I again peed at mile 40, mile 60, and mile 75.
After the first 56 mile lap, my legs began to really feel the punishment. I was starting to feel sluggish and my pace dropped somewhat. I was not worried though, speed was not my goal for the remainder of the day. I was mainly concerned with conservation and longevity.
Shortly after the halfway point, all riders can access their special needs bag. This is where you can put extra food, drinks, clothes, or whatever you might want for the 2nd half of the ride. I had a bagel with PB+J, an extra bottle of Perpetuem, and an extra tube in case I had to change a flat on the first lap(luckily, I had NO mechanical difficulties whatsoever the entire ride). As I pulled up to special needs, a volunteer already had my bag in hand and flagged me down(someone up the road had radioed that I was approaching). She had everything out of my bag, ready to hand it to me. She held my bike while I chowed on my bagel, took my empty bottles, replaced them with my full bottles, and offered words of encouragement. Her name was Andrea and she was awesome. She has done something like 8 Ironmans and was volunteering at this one just because. Just overjoyed. Her and me. I still can't believe how amazing these volunteers are. I finish my bagel, stretch out again, and hit the road as I repeatedly thank her for her time and effort.
The second lap was very similar to the first...the hills were hard, the descents were wicked scary, and my legs were getting more and more tired. I tried not to focus on how they were going to feel when I started running. I had set a goal that I was going to try to enjoy every moment of this race, and in the midst of the hills of the second lap, I began to do that. Well....I had some help.
Three college aged guys. In various colored banana-hammock undies. With vuvuzelas. Running alongside riders. Up the steepest god-damned hill of the entire course.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
Oh. My. God. I lost my shit. This was the greatest thing I had seen all day. I applauded them and thanked them for being completely awesome as I topped out the climb, barely aware of the searing pain in my quads, hamstrings, and calves. My mood stayed high for the remainder of the ride. The hills came and went, but the smile on my face stayed as I realized I was in the middle of Fulfilling A Dream. How often can you literally and truthfully live in the moment as you fulfill a dream? I'm guessing it's not a common occurrence for most, and some people may never get to do this in their entire lives. I'm sure my teeth were splattered with bugs by mile 112, because I was stupid happy and grinning a grin that would break your grandmother's dentures.
The last 10-20 miles of the bike flew by in a blur of thanking happy volunteers, laughing quietly to myself, and loving life with an intensity that I've only felt a handful of times. Somehow, against all odds, during the biggest race of my life, EVERYTHING was going according to plan. Well, except for my missing bib number which ended up not being a big deal at all.
Final bike time: 112 miles in 6:56:43. Average of 16.13 mph. My goal was to ride between 6.5 and 7 hours.
I rolled back towards transition happier than ever. I saw my family again as I rolled up to the dismount line where a volunteer took Lucille and went to rerack her for me. Again....amazing volunteers! I strode into the transition area, a little wobbly on my legs, but with purpose. I grab my bike-to-run bag, a cup of water, and I hit the john again(Still very well hydrated!!!). I enter the changing tent and sit down. A volunteer immediately approaches me and asks if I need anything. "Well I'm very glad you asked! It seems that during T1....." I proceed to tell him the story of my Swim to Bike transition, the Man Ass, and the missing bib number with full orchestration and five-part harmony and he stopped me right there and said, "Kid, do you want me to go look in your bag to see if you left it in there?" I said "Yes, please...that would be amazing." He runs off and I begin removing my cycling gear and replacing it with my running gear, I take some more time to stretch...he returns and sadly admits that he was unable to find it. I inquire as to whether there is a Lost and Found in transition for items that have been left lying around. He states that he does not know, but then offers to bring my bag to me, on the off chance that he missed it. I reply that I would very much appreciate that. He runs off again while I continue to prepare myself mentally and physically to run a MARATHON...something I've only ever done with what I like to call "FRESH LEGS". He returns with my bag. I eagerly open it up and I see my red hoodie, my flip flops, my street clothes.....hmmmm.....I tell him that what I am missing is in my Swim to Bike transition bag, and that he has mistakenly brought me my Morning Clothes Bag(no explanation will be given...the important point....WRONG BAG). He instantly realizes his mistake and SPRINTS off to retrieve the correct bag. He is back in an instant with the bag, which I open and immediately find my race belt with my BIB NUMBER! Happy Day! I thank the volunteer profusely and I might have offered to name my first born after him. The joke is on him though...I didn't get his name, and no woman in her right mind would ever willingly procreate with me! Sucker.
I double check EVERYTHING....I have what I need to begin running. I exit the changing tent and head to the sunscreen station. I forgot to mention THIS delightful aspect of the race. I hit the sunscreen station before I began biking as well, but I'll tell you about it now.
The sunblock station consists of 4 or 5 volunteers, all wearing gloves, with industrial sized JARS of sunblock that contain plunger-type nozzles that you would expect to dispense ketchup or mustard at McDonald's. As I approach this station, my father's sense of humor being alive and well in my soul, I state out loud, "Hello, I'd like to be slathered in mayonnaise, if you please!" I think I got a giggle from the lady, but she PPBBBBTTHTHTHTH squirts out a loving pile of the stuff onto her hands and Goes. To. Town. Arms. Legs. Neck. Face. Ears. The works.
I'm ready. I'm about to tackle the final challenge in my yearlong quest to become an Ironman. I have a water bottle. I am coated in SPF 50 bazillion. I begin to trot towards the transition exit. My brain is in full-tilt self-diagnostic mode.
"Body parts...report in! Arms! Check. Stomach! Check. Feet! Check. Legs!"
"Legs! Report in! What is your current status?"
I cross the timing mat and take the first step of a marathon.
Do I have any legs left?
To be continued...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Highway rant...
Dear fellow driver,
When I merged onto 435 westbound today, I saw you. I saw you throw your hands up in frustration. I saw you pound your steering wheel. I saw your mouth moving. I couldn't hear your words, but I can only assume they were colorful in nature.
I am a good driver. I've never been in an accident in the entirety of my 14 year driving career. I know how to merge into traffic, and I am aware of the shortcomings my car has when it comes to rapid acceleration. Namely....it doesn't. All the same, if you've ever driven on highways before, you realize that sometimes merging into traffic just isn't pretty, no matter how hard to try to prevent interrupting the flow of traffic.
Words cannot express how sorry I am for impeding your forward progress on this day...the day that you had important things to do, and not enough time to do them. Clearly, on this day, every second counts in your busy life. Please know that I will not forget this day, and I will carry this burden with me for a long time.
....
That brings me to my next point.
You were driving on a four lane highway. Of the four lanes you could have chosen to drive in, you chose the far-right lane. The lane that everybody uses for entering and exiting the highway. I'm not so certain that you can really be justifiably angry at me when you could have been in ANY of the other 3 lanes where cars just drive in a straight line at the speed limit. In those lanes, nobody is frantically trying to accelerate to or deccelerate from highway speeds. At least in one of the other lanes, if somebody in front of you was driving too slowly for your taste, your highway hissyfit would at least be justified.
I guess I just hope that you were able to successfully vent some of the frustration in your life that was not caused by my driving. Because it is pretty obvious that there's a lot of it.
Thanks for listening,
Danny
On a completely unrelated note:
1. Accident on the highway= "That's a shame. Hope nobody is hurt."
2. Secondary accidents on the highway caused by idiots gawking at primary accident= "That's completely stupid. They should be ashamed."
3. I do it too and therefore am part of the problem= "Embarrassing and sad to admit."
When I merged onto 435 westbound today, I saw you. I saw you throw your hands up in frustration. I saw you pound your steering wheel. I saw your mouth moving. I couldn't hear your words, but I can only assume they were colorful in nature.
I am a good driver. I've never been in an accident in the entirety of my 14 year driving career. I know how to merge into traffic, and I am aware of the shortcomings my car has when it comes to rapid acceleration. Namely....it doesn't. All the same, if you've ever driven on highways before, you realize that sometimes merging into traffic just isn't pretty, no matter how hard to try to prevent interrupting the flow of traffic.
Words cannot express how sorry I am for impeding your forward progress on this day...the day that you had important things to do, and not enough time to do them. Clearly, on this day, every second counts in your busy life. Please know that I will not forget this day, and I will carry this burden with me for a long time.
....
That brings me to my next point.
You were driving on a four lane highway. Of the four lanes you could have chosen to drive in, you chose the far-right lane. The lane that everybody uses for entering and exiting the highway. I'm not so certain that you can really be justifiably angry at me when you could have been in ANY of the other 3 lanes where cars just drive in a straight line at the speed limit. In those lanes, nobody is frantically trying to accelerate to or deccelerate from highway speeds. At least in one of the other lanes, if somebody in front of you was driving too slowly for your taste, your highway hissyfit would at least be justified.
I guess I just hope that you were able to successfully vent some of the frustration in your life that was not caused by my driving. Because it is pretty obvious that there's a lot of it.
Thanks for listening,
Danny
On a completely unrelated note:
1. Accident on the highway= "That's a shame. Hope nobody is hurt."
2. Secondary accidents on the highway caused by idiots gawking at primary accident= "That's completely stupid. They should be ashamed."
3. I do it too and therefore am part of the problem= "Embarrassing and sad to admit."
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: Part 2
Swim + Transition 1
A horrific and terrifying sight greets my eyes. The lake has spontaneously transformed into an angry monster, foaming at the mouth as it swallows hundreds of swimmers in the blink of an eye and daring the rest of us to follow like lemmings. The water is literally boiling...churned up by the fiercely competitive guys and gals who are trying to win age-group awards to qualify for the world championships in Kona.
Then there's me. Still on dry land. My plan was to follow some advice I had received from a fellow racer concerning my first mass swim start. "Over the course of 2.4 miles of swimming, 10 seconds doesn't matter. When that cannon goes off, slowly count to 10, and then enter the water calmly." Best advice of the day. I counted....slowly. 1.......2........3.......
.....8......9.........pause..........10. Ok.
I begin to walk into the 60 degree water. It hits the feet....cold, but not bad. Thanks to my full wetsuit, I won't feel it again until it hits my face. But when it does.....oh boy. 60 degree water certainly has a kick to it. Luckily, Del and I had both swam in the lake a few days earlier and knew exactly what to expect. A minute or two of "Oh dear God" and then your body warms up with activity and you never notice the cold again.
Face down into the water. Start swimming. But oh yeah.....all these people. I guess just do your best. Stroke....breath.....stroke.....bump....kick......elbow.....stroke.....breath.....stroKICKke.....
breaELBOWth......there's really no way around it. If you stop, you get the swimming version of "trampled". So you don't stop. You "trample" other people because it's better than the other way around. Everybody is jockeying for some space to swim in, and after an unknown amount of time, I find it. I lift my head to sight for the buoys and Holy Crap there's nobody in front of me. I don't know how long this will last, so I make the best of it. Lengthen out my stroke and gliiiiiide. I find a rhythm FAST, and now to get my breathing under control. Long, slow exhales underwater and slow, relaxed medium deep inhales when I turn up to breath...each time trying to find the same cloud that I looked at last time. It's a silly mind trick, but it forces me to take my time and not rush the breath. Gotta find that cloud....look at it....has it changed at all since I first looked? Sweet....good rhythm, and easy, controlled breathing.
Every now and then I bump into somebody, catch up with somebody I have to pass, have my feet tickled by the person behind me, or my favorite...being behind somebody who doesn't sight at all, who is swimming damn near sideways across my path. Makes me giggle.
Somewhere in that first out-stretch of the first lap, I realize something profound. I'm having fun. A lot of fun. This startling revelation is coupled with me realizing that I'm SMILING underwater while I'm swimming. The realization that I'm HERE and DOING this has filled me completely with the joy of living and I'm almost giggling to myself.
The swim course is 2 laps. 900 meters out, 100 meters across, and then 900 meters back. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. At the start, the pack of 2400 racers was spread out across about 50-100 yards of beach. There is ONE turn buoy 900 meters out, and every single one of us is swimming roughly in that direction. Translation: This is going to get rough, just the way Alex Trebek's mother likes it.
My plan was to take the turn buoy WAY wide to try and avoid some of the inevitable carnage. It worked......kinda. Approaching the first turn buoy, I'm a good 20-30 feet wide and it still closes in...much worse than even the beginning of the race. Out here, there is no option of waiting for everyone else to pass. Stopping means instant clobberification. Yet it is nearly impossible to maintain your stroke because there is somebody in front of you kicking like a maniac, somebody behind you is pawing at your legs and pushing them down, the person to your left has hooked your arm while coming through on their stroke, and the person on your right isn't sighting and is swimming into you. I'm not sure there is a name for the style of swimming I was employing around that corner, but I'll suggest a few....The Flail, The Orgy, The Knife Fight In A Phone Booth, and the Freestyle Drown. It's all I can do to keep my cool...I keep telling myself that this is normal, I am fine, it will be over soon, calm thoughts, quiet mind, happy place...over and over.
I hear a woman yelling....no.....screaming. And not just "Eeek I'm scared" screaming.....this was full-fledged "Holy shit I'm going to die here, please somebody help me" screaming. I could hear the hysteria, the fear, the utter panic of her most basic survival instincts trumping her higher brain functions. I wanted to help, but knew that I couldn't. That's why there are lifeguards. Luckily she was near the inside, where an army of floating helping hands would be there to pluck her out of the water, or at the very least give her a place to rest while she caught her breath and contemplated whether or not she wanted to finish this race.
I swam on. The second turn buoy came really fast, and I couldn't actually see it because of where the sun was. A fellow swimmer actually said out loud, "Hey, there's the turn buoy." It's pretty rare to hear other swimmers actually speak because there's just no room for it. No explanations, no apologies, no howdy-dos. But I was glad to hear it...I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, I had completely missed it. Happy to be wide, I turned back towards the beach and found my breath and my rhythm again.
Fast forward some happy uneventful swimming...I'm at the beach...first lap DONE! I come up on the sand, cross a timing mat, hear the happy chirp of the computer as it confirms it has detected the racing chip that is around my ankle. I spot Jess cheering me on, and I smile. As I turn around to run back into the water, a man is standing there with a stopwatch calling out splits.
"We're just coming up on 38 minutes..."
I do an exuberant fist pump and maybe shout something out....not terribly sure. I did a half Ironman in April, and my time for the same distance in that race was 41 minutes. I'm swimming faster than I've ever swam in my life. I hit the water again, excited to keep the pace high, especially since the pack has thinned out significantly for the second lap.
I'm not a swimmer. Never have been. But today, I'm motherfucking Michael Phelps. I'm the goddamn Mark Spitz. I move through the water with so little effort, that I'm beginning to wonder if this really is just the cruelest race dream I've ever had, and that at some point I'm going to wake up and realize I haven't even begun yet.
No...that's stupid. I'm here, and I'm straight-up rocking this swim. The buoys pass, but time stands still(this is a common theme throughout my day, FYI). I've got space, and I'm moving. The second time out is uneventful....until......
I realize that I forgot to swing wide of the buoys. I am about 5 feet from the turn buoy, and it's getting crowded. Fast. Despite the thinned out pack, it's still just as violent here at the turns...especially this close to the buoy. More elbows, more kicks, more desperate attempts to swim MY stroke, only to have my arms hooked and impeded. I honestly wonder how any of us are actually progressing forwards, as we all seem to be spending more effort injuring one another than swimming. I guess the pack moves forward through combined willpower, but eventually the first turn is over and I jockey for position to take the next turn much wider.
I got punched in the face. By a lady.
Of course it was unintentional. But all the same, it's an interesting experience to feel blinding anger one moment, and to completely recover back to my peaceful swimming nirvana the next. My inner dialogue went something like this, "Oooohhhmmmmmmm......ooooohhhhhWHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!Oooooohhhhhhmmmmm........oooooohhhhhhmmmmmm".
And that's just the way it goes.
The second turn went smoothly, and I angled back towards the beach. My arms were getting really sore at this point, but nowhere near what I would consider fatigued. Knowing that I could probably swim a few more miles if I needed to was incredibly comforting, but I had about half a mile to go. For a good portion of the previous year, I was terrified that I'd be unable to complete the swim portion. Heartbreaking to imagine having to give up so early in my day after spending so much time and money preparing for it. Turns out, once I hit the water, there wasn't a doubt left in my mind.
The final stretch flew by and before I knew it, I was at the beach again. I crossed the timing mat. This time I saw my family as I exited the beach. If I could have taken time to study my mother's expression, I'm sure it would have said, "Dear lord, thank you for not letting my son drown."
Total swim time - 1:17:23.....beat my goal by over 2 minutes.
First stop, wetsuit peelers. All I can say is "deadly efficient". These people don't mess around. To say they "help you to the ground" is the polite way of saying they "just about shove you onto your ass". They grab your wetsuit and RUN. Wetsuit pops off, and By the Power of Greyskull, they LIFT you off the ground, hand you your wetsuit, and may as well have slapped me on the ass to get me running off towards transition.
I entered transition, grabbed my bag, and ran into the changing tent. I found an empty chair, and suddenly realized that there was no room for modesty here. Buck-nekkid men EVER'WHERE! I sat down, intent on keeping a clear mind and not forgetting anything important. I start fishing items out of my bag.....towel first....dry feet....uh.....helmet? Gloves....socks......bike shoes.....there's a naked ass 4 inches from my face. Now he's bending over for something....OH he stumbles, nearly landing on me, but he catches himself. Accidental man-on-man lapdance averted! He apologizes, and I make an inappropriate joke. He laughs heartily and continues to get ready, wishing me good luck racing before he leaves......nice guy.
Ok where was I? Man ass. No, that's not it. OH YEAH, get ready to ride. I finish up, stuff all my swim stuff back into the bag. The volunteer tells me to just leave it there, they'll take care of the rest. I hit the urinal before I exit the tent, and then I goose-step(because of the cycling shoes) to the bike area. I quickly find Lucille, she's sitting there just like I left her. Take a few minutes to stretch. Unrack my baby, run towards the transition exit. I see my family again at the mount line. With a wave and a smile, I mount my trusty steed and take the first pedal stroke of what will be the longest bike ride of my life.
I clip in and start rolling, feeling pretty good about my transition. It wasn't amazingly fast, but I'm confident that I did everything I needed to do and I didn't forget anything important......
.......or did I?
To be continued.....
A horrific and terrifying sight greets my eyes. The lake has spontaneously transformed into an angry monster, foaming at the mouth as it swallows hundreds of swimmers in the blink of an eye and daring the rest of us to follow like lemmings. The water is literally boiling...churned up by the fiercely competitive guys and gals who are trying to win age-group awards to qualify for the world championships in Kona.
Then there's me. Still on dry land. My plan was to follow some advice I had received from a fellow racer concerning my first mass swim start. "Over the course of 2.4 miles of swimming, 10 seconds doesn't matter. When that cannon goes off, slowly count to 10, and then enter the water calmly." Best advice of the day. I counted....slowly. 1.......2........3.......
.....8......9.........pause..........10. Ok.
I begin to walk into the 60 degree water. It hits the feet....cold, but not bad. Thanks to my full wetsuit, I won't feel it again until it hits my face. But when it does.....oh boy. 60 degree water certainly has a kick to it. Luckily, Del and I had both swam in the lake a few days earlier and knew exactly what to expect. A minute or two of "Oh dear God" and then your body warms up with activity and you never notice the cold again.
Face down into the water. Start swimming. But oh yeah.....all these people. I guess just do your best. Stroke....breath.....stroke.....bump....kick......elbow.....stroke.....breath.....stroKICKke.....
breaELBOWth......there's really no way around it. If you stop, you get the swimming version of "trampled". So you don't stop. You "trample" other people because it's better than the other way around. Everybody is jockeying for some space to swim in, and after an unknown amount of time, I find it. I lift my head to sight for the buoys and Holy Crap there's nobody in front of me. I don't know how long this will last, so I make the best of it. Lengthen out my stroke and gliiiiiide. I find a rhythm FAST, and now to get my breathing under control. Long, slow exhales underwater and slow, relaxed medium deep inhales when I turn up to breath...each time trying to find the same cloud that I looked at last time. It's a silly mind trick, but it forces me to take my time and not rush the breath. Gotta find that cloud....look at it....has it changed at all since I first looked? Sweet....good rhythm, and easy, controlled breathing.
Every now and then I bump into somebody, catch up with somebody I have to pass, have my feet tickled by the person behind me, or my favorite...being behind somebody who doesn't sight at all, who is swimming damn near sideways across my path. Makes me giggle.
Somewhere in that first out-stretch of the first lap, I realize something profound. I'm having fun. A lot of fun. This startling revelation is coupled with me realizing that I'm SMILING underwater while I'm swimming. The realization that I'm HERE and DOING this has filled me completely with the joy of living and I'm almost giggling to myself.
The swim course is 2 laps. 900 meters out, 100 meters across, and then 900 meters back. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. At the start, the pack of 2400 racers was spread out across about 50-100 yards of beach. There is ONE turn buoy 900 meters out, and every single one of us is swimming roughly in that direction. Translation: This is going to get rough, just the way Alex Trebek's mother likes it.
My plan was to take the turn buoy WAY wide to try and avoid some of the inevitable carnage. It worked......kinda. Approaching the first turn buoy, I'm a good 20-30 feet wide and it still closes in...much worse than even the beginning of the race. Out here, there is no option of waiting for everyone else to pass. Stopping means instant clobberification. Yet it is nearly impossible to maintain your stroke because there is somebody in front of you kicking like a maniac, somebody behind you is pawing at your legs and pushing them down, the person to your left has hooked your arm while coming through on their stroke, and the person on your right isn't sighting and is swimming into you. I'm not sure there is a name for the style of swimming I was employing around that corner, but I'll suggest a few....The Flail, The Orgy, The Knife Fight In A Phone Booth, and the Freestyle Drown. It's all I can do to keep my cool...I keep telling myself that this is normal, I am fine, it will be over soon, calm thoughts, quiet mind, happy place...over and over.
I hear a woman yelling....no.....screaming. And not just "Eeek I'm scared" screaming.....this was full-fledged "Holy shit I'm going to die here, please somebody help me" screaming. I could hear the hysteria, the fear, the utter panic of her most basic survival instincts trumping her higher brain functions. I wanted to help, but knew that I couldn't. That's why there are lifeguards. Luckily she was near the inside, where an army of floating helping hands would be there to pluck her out of the water, or at the very least give her a place to rest while she caught her breath and contemplated whether or not she wanted to finish this race.
I swam on. The second turn buoy came really fast, and I couldn't actually see it because of where the sun was. A fellow swimmer actually said out loud, "Hey, there's the turn buoy." It's pretty rare to hear other swimmers actually speak because there's just no room for it. No explanations, no apologies, no howdy-dos. But I was glad to hear it...I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, I had completely missed it. Happy to be wide, I turned back towards the beach and found my breath and my rhythm again.
Fast forward some happy uneventful swimming...I'm at the beach...first lap DONE! I come up on the sand, cross a timing mat, hear the happy chirp of the computer as it confirms it has detected the racing chip that is around my ankle. I spot Jess cheering me on, and I smile. As I turn around to run back into the water, a man is standing there with a stopwatch calling out splits.
"We're just coming up on 38 minutes..."
I do an exuberant fist pump and maybe shout something out....not terribly sure. I did a half Ironman in April, and my time for the same distance in that race was 41 minutes. I'm swimming faster than I've ever swam in my life. I hit the water again, excited to keep the pace high, especially since the pack has thinned out significantly for the second lap.
I'm not a swimmer. Never have been. But today, I'm motherfucking Michael Phelps. I'm the goddamn Mark Spitz. I move through the water with so little effort, that I'm beginning to wonder if this really is just the cruelest race dream I've ever had, and that at some point I'm going to wake up and realize I haven't even begun yet.
No...that's stupid. I'm here, and I'm straight-up rocking this swim. The buoys pass, but time stands still(this is a common theme throughout my day, FYI). I've got space, and I'm moving. The second time out is uneventful....until......
I realize that I forgot to swing wide of the buoys. I am about 5 feet from the turn buoy, and it's getting crowded. Fast. Despite the thinned out pack, it's still just as violent here at the turns...especially this close to the buoy. More elbows, more kicks, more desperate attempts to swim MY stroke, only to have my arms hooked and impeded. I honestly wonder how any of us are actually progressing forwards, as we all seem to be spending more effort injuring one another than swimming. I guess the pack moves forward through combined willpower, but eventually the first turn is over and I jockey for position to take the next turn much wider.
I got punched in the face. By a lady.
Of course it was unintentional. But all the same, it's an interesting experience to feel blinding anger one moment, and to completely recover back to my peaceful swimming nirvana the next. My inner dialogue went something like this, "Oooohhhmmmmmmm......ooooohhhhhWHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!Oooooohhhhhhmmmmm........oooooohhhhhhmmmmmm".
And that's just the way it goes.
The second turn went smoothly, and I angled back towards the beach. My arms were getting really sore at this point, but nowhere near what I would consider fatigued. Knowing that I could probably swim a few more miles if I needed to was incredibly comforting, but I had about half a mile to go. For a good portion of the previous year, I was terrified that I'd be unable to complete the swim portion. Heartbreaking to imagine having to give up so early in my day after spending so much time and money preparing for it. Turns out, once I hit the water, there wasn't a doubt left in my mind.
The final stretch flew by and before I knew it, I was at the beach again. I crossed the timing mat. This time I saw my family as I exited the beach. If I could have taken time to study my mother's expression, I'm sure it would have said, "Dear lord, thank you for not letting my son drown."
Total swim time - 1:17:23.....beat my goal by over 2 minutes.
First stop, wetsuit peelers. All I can say is "deadly efficient". These people don't mess around. To say they "help you to the ground" is the polite way of saying they "just about shove you onto your ass". They grab your wetsuit and RUN. Wetsuit pops off, and By the Power of Greyskull, they LIFT you off the ground, hand you your wetsuit, and may as well have slapped me on the ass to get me running off towards transition.
I entered transition, grabbed my bag, and ran into the changing tent. I found an empty chair, and suddenly realized that there was no room for modesty here. Buck-nekkid men EVER'WHERE! I sat down, intent on keeping a clear mind and not forgetting anything important. I start fishing items out of my bag.....towel first....dry feet....uh.....helmet? Gloves....socks......bike shoes.....there's a naked ass 4 inches from my face. Now he's bending over for something....OH he stumbles, nearly landing on me, but he catches himself. Accidental man-on-man lapdance averted! He apologizes, and I make an inappropriate joke. He laughs heartily and continues to get ready, wishing me good luck racing before he leaves......nice guy.
Ok where was I? Man ass. No, that's not it. OH YEAH, get ready to ride. I finish up, stuff all my swim stuff back into the bag. The volunteer tells me to just leave it there, they'll take care of the rest. I hit the urinal before I exit the tent, and then I goose-step(because of the cycling shoes) to the bike area. I quickly find Lucille, she's sitting there just like I left her. Take a few minutes to stretch. Unrack my baby, run towards the transition exit. I see my family again at the mount line. With a wave and a smile, I mount my trusty steed and take the first pedal stroke of what will be the longest bike ride of my life.
I clip in and start rolling, feeling pretty good about my transition. It wasn't amazingly fast, but I'm confident that I did everything I needed to do and I didn't forget anything important......
.......or did I?
To be continued.....
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: Part 1
It has been over a week since I did this event and I'm finally putting "pen" to "paper" to try and encapsulate everything that happened, how it felt, and what it all means to me. It's going to take awhile, but I'm going to try.
Race Morning
I had an expectedly restless night of "sleep", also known as waking up every 30-45 minutes to look at the clock to see if it was time yet. My alarm was set for 4:15 am, so the sun would not have been up yet, and I had to actually LOOK at the clock to confirm that it was not yet time. Think back to your childhood, trying to sleep on Christmas Eve, except imagine it as if you were terrified of presents.
My final premature awakening occurred at 4:00 am. I figured that was good enough and decided to give up and started getting ready. Oddly enough this involved lying back down, not to sleep, but to do some slow and deep stretches. Time passed, but only just so...it felt like an out of body experience, very dreamlike despite being more awake than I've ever felt in my life. Maybe more alive than I've felt in a long time. And dreamlike. Yeah, I know.
This was The Morning. 2.4 swim, 112 bike, 26.2 run. Today.
I eventually heard stirring in the house, giving me the impression that Delaware was also up and about, getting ready. Upstairs....bagel.....OJ....something else which I ate but don't remember what it was called, what it looked like, or tasted like. Mystery food. More stretching, more massaging my left calf, hoping to alleviate any potential achilles pain later in the day. Worries.
I begin to find all the little notes I've left for myself from the previous night.
"Get bottles out of freezer."
"Don't forget your Garmin." (Delaware did this a few years ago before his first Ironman, so I made a point to learn from his mistake)
The rest of the morning is way less clear....I have no recollection of doing many of these things, but I have solid proof that they actually happened: packed bags, loaded the car, drove to the event site, dropped off T1 and T2 bags, loaded bottles on bikes, possibly used the toilet(1 and/or 2). Del and I donned wetsuits and went to meet up with Jess and my family. Some lighthearted conversation, joking, pictures, hugs, well-wishes. Time seemed frozen, though this has been disproven as evidenced by the fact that the race did eventually happen.
Del and I say our final goodbyes and join the long, somber funeral procession of neoprene-clad athletes trudging towards the beach entrance. I wouldn't have flinched to hear a priest giving us our last rites. We're a little late getting there for my preference, but we cross the pre-race timing mat with 10-15 minutes to spare. Light conversation with other racers, squishing sand between my toes, looking very likely like a deer in the headlights. I remember to have some quiet time before the race begins, because it proved a very successful technique in my 70.3 in Galveston. To escape the world, I squat down and close my eyes. Breath in. Out. Calm thoughts. Quiet mind. I even check my own pulse to make sure I'm not overexcited.....60-70 bpm.....perfect. While I'm in my quiet place, a very odd notion strikes me.
This is it.
What?
This. What you're about to do. The thing you've been wrapping your mind, body, and soul around for the last 11 months(and in a certain sense, for the past 22 months). You are about to begin an Ironman.
I stand up. Del is standing there, looking prepared, focused, and confident. I actually said the following words.
"Is this really happening?"
He replied that it indeed was.
If anything else was said, I don't remember. We were far enough down the beach that we couldn't hear the announcer's voice. Apparently there was some kind of countdown and then they fired a cannon.
All I was aware of is that, all at once, everybody on the beach started running into the water.
Chaos.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Progressive vs Conservative
Just to prove that this blog isn't COMPLETELY about my athletic endeavors...here's a little late-night political thought.....almost let this one slip, but I had to get it down before I went to bed and ultimately lost it.
Conservative thinkers: We've been around the block. We've been working hard our whole lives. We've paid our dues and we've paid our taxes. WE KNOW HOW THINGS REALLY WORK. We were once young like you. We were full of hope and dreams of a fantastic world where the poor were fed, the uneducated were taught, the water was clean, the air was pure, and the world was peaceful. We've been down that road, saw that those ideas don't/won't/can't work. The sad reality is that things have always been this way and will continue to be this way, so we've gotten used to it. "We understand how the world works."
Progressive thinkers: We recognize that you have worked hard your whole life. We respect that you've paid your dues and worked your ass off to get what you have and get where you are. We get that you are comfortable with the status quo, the current system that you mastered in order to carve out your happy existence. We, however, are not satisfied with "how the world works". We are more concerned with "how the world COULD work". We still dream the impossible dreams. As convinced as you are that this is The Way, we refuse to accept that this is The Best Way. Feed the hungry. Insure the uninsured. Find an energy source that DOESN'T pollute everything it comes into contact with. Cure terminal illnesses in 3rd world nations. Negotiate peace when threatened with violence. "Solve the fucking problems of the goddamned world."
I can identify with thinkers from both sides. Both have their pros and cons. Maybe because I'm still somewhat young and optimistic, I tend to lean towards the progressive side of things. Things COULD be better. Why are conservative thinkers so set in their stubborn knowledge that none of these ideas could possibly work? Are they nervous that some of them could actually work and somehow disturb their peaceful existence?
And the big finish.....this is why I turned the light back on and got out my laptop.....
Conservatives are progressives who gave up the dream that the world could someday be a better place.
Peace and hair grease.
Conservative thinkers: We've been around the block. We've been working hard our whole lives. We've paid our dues and we've paid our taxes. WE KNOW HOW THINGS REALLY WORK. We were once young like you. We were full of hope and dreams of a fantastic world where the poor were fed, the uneducated were taught, the water was clean, the air was pure, and the world was peaceful. We've been down that road, saw that those ideas don't/won't/can't work. The sad reality is that things have always been this way and will continue to be this way, so we've gotten used to it. "We understand how the world works."
Progressive thinkers: We recognize that you have worked hard your whole life. We respect that you've paid your dues and worked your ass off to get what you have and get where you are. We get that you are comfortable with the status quo, the current system that you mastered in order to carve out your happy existence. We, however, are not satisfied with "how the world works". We are more concerned with "how the world COULD work". We still dream the impossible dreams. As convinced as you are that this is The Way, we refuse to accept that this is The Best Way. Feed the hungry. Insure the uninsured. Find an energy source that DOESN'T pollute everything it comes into contact with. Cure terminal illnesses in 3rd world nations. Negotiate peace when threatened with violence. "Solve the fucking problems of the goddamned world."
I can identify with thinkers from both sides. Both have their pros and cons. Maybe because I'm still somewhat young and optimistic, I tend to lean towards the progressive side of things. Things COULD be better. Why are conservative thinkers so set in their stubborn knowledge that none of these ideas could possibly work? Are they nervous that some of them could actually work and somehow disturb their peaceful existence?
And the big finish.....this is why I turned the light back on and got out my laptop.....
Conservatives are progressives who gave up the dream that the world could someday be a better place.
Peace and hair grease.
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