So I’d been thinking of taking this year off, just for the physical and mental rest from the kind of serious training it takes to perform well in one of these lunatic endurance events. But the sour taste in my mouth wouldn’t go away and I was already entered in a qualifying triathlon and, sure enough -- even though my heart wasn’t 100 percent into it -- when I won the qualifying slot I ponied up my $500 entry fee.
Furthermore, I’d been having health issues even before the qualifying race: a hip injury kept me from running for two weeks before that race and another six weeks after it. Then in June I messed up my lower back, followed by some very nasty neck/shoulder pain just five weeks before Ironman, at the peak of my already-reconstructed training plan. (I’ve had cortisone shots, ART treatment -- which is a kind of painful deep muscle work -- used balms and worn a neck brace at times this last month; and missed a lot of training.) Still, I felt like I had enough training in the bank that I could keep doing what was possible and give myself a chance to start the race. Oh, yes, then just as all that was starting to ease off a little, about 10 days before Ironman, I started to suffer from pleurisy, a painful inflammation of the outer lining of the lungs. As soon as I realized what was going on I ran to my doctor and got something to start knocking it down, but once again my training was compromised and -- for the fourth time this year -- I had to stop running on the pavement and make do with aqua-jogging.
Anyone who reads this far must know by now how stupid I am. Welcome to my world.
Okay, finally it’s race day. True, I had not slept the night before, anxious because I knew my training sucked big time and not 100 percent sure that last year’s issue -- cramping caused by the statin drug -- would not jump me again. The lack of sleep didn’t worry me. I told sometimes training partner Tom Solis that I’d slept like a baby the year before, so sure had I been of my preparation, and see where it had gotten me? In fact, for some reason the absolute craziness that makes “the pier” -- where the race starts and finishes and all the transitions take place -- such a circus and distraction, especially in the hours counting down to the start, just didn’t seem so annoying this year.
When they let us age-groupers (as opposed to the pros who were already warming up at the starting line) down onto the beach, I went over to the flank of the seawall, sat down with my feet in the sand and just waited for the pros to start (at 6:45) and then let most of the rest swim out to the start to waste energy and kick each other as they tread water in a pack of 1500 anxious loonies, then with five minutes to go I started to swim slowly out to the start area. The canon fired just a smidgeon before 7:00 on my watch and off we went.
Now there’s a medium tall boat out at the turnaround point which people with very good eyesight at the front of the herd can probably see, even from water level and 1.2 miles away, but I just follow the crowd. I am a very mediocre swimmer. But it really feels good to finally be at it, after months of preparation and the crazy last weeks before the race when this little town becomes the center of the triathlon universe. I’m swimming comfortably, except I begin to notice after 20 minutes that my googles are too tight and that’s going to be painful. Finally I decide to “fix this right now” and go off course to a paddleboard-riding course marshall, grab on, whip off the googles and loosen the strap. Ah, that’s better. As we near the turnaround I get a couple of little pings (scraps of dead jellyfish?) but nothing too noticeable. I’m probably in the 44-45 minute range when we make the second 90-degree turn and begin swimming back to the pier. A few more pings, one more stop to further loosen the googles and I’m back on the pier in a not-so-great 1:31:47. But my legs feel fine. No cramps, and I even swam 10-15 minutes arms-only, to save the legs for what’s to come.
While you’re swimming (or riding the bike) it’s important to think about the upcoming transition: what’s in my bag, what do I have to do. Everything that’s in that bag, or in the helmet sitting on the bike, was put there for a reason. Don’t rush and forget something that you’ll need later. So I’m handed bag #334 and I start taking off my top and go into the men’s tent, sit down and a volunteer says something like “oh, it’s you” as he gives me a hand with things, but I’m so focused on getting my swim tights off quickly, then doing everything right -- including slapping that pre-cut Phiten tape on my left knee -- so it’s a minute or two before I look up and see it’s Charlie (a fellow Masters swimmer) who is helping me. Bib shorts, jersey, socks, cycling shoes, suntan lotion on, a quick drink of water and then a 100-meter hobble on cleats to the bike where I add sunglasses and helmet and begin stashing food into my jersey pockets. Then it’s off with the bike past the mounting line, onto the bike and down the road we go.
Exiting transition stellar local pro Bree Wee (the best triathlete who didn’t qualify, due to bad luck, and who may well win this race outright some day) is there, cheering, and snaps this photograph which I stole from her blog:
Perhaps it’s time for a weather report. Sunny, clear, not much wind. The tops pros will later say that the water was choppier than usual but what do they know about usual? It was on the better side of normal for Kailua Bay. It’s going to be a warm day, but you start the cycling feeling pleasantly cool and the first 10 miles are in town with lots of friends and spectators. That’s fun. I’m determined to go out slowly, knowing how compromised my training has been. Even one week ago I was unsure I could even start the race, but the swimming had become comfortable even if the cycling had not yet (and real running was often out of the question). So I’m pretty happy when we reach the Queen K Highway and begin the long ride north to Hawi Town, and my neck doesn’t feel bad at all!
Maybe I wouldn’t even need the mirror I’d placed between the aerobars so that I could simply look straight down and not have to crane my neck upwards to check on traffic. (And I actually only used it for 10-15 minutes, so this would turn out to be the case. Mind over matter? Race-day focus? Stupidity made into a virtue? Whatever, I’ll take it.)
The wind isn’t bad the next 10 miles and is still only a so-so headwind as we enter the lava fields near Waikoloa, but only a few miles later my rear tire goes flat suddenly. Oh, well. I’ve been lucky to not have that happen in a competition, but I’m using very light tires this year and very light tubes, to reduce what is called the “rotational weight” of the wheels, and I knew the risks involved. So it’s off with the wheel, and through the entire changing process (a very small piece of glass is the culprit and, yes, tougher but heavier tires would not have succumbed to this little pebble) and then I go to inflate the new tube and air rushes out almost as fast as I put it in. Nine times out of ten if this happens, it’s “operator error” and you’ve pinched the tube in your haste, but this leak is in the area where the valve meets the tube and you can’t pinch the tube there because it’s the first area that gets stuffed inside the tire (instead the tire levers are likely to pinch the tube as you force the tire’s last and tightest portion over the rim). No matter, I’ve one more tube and one more air cartridge and I do the whole thing over. Meanwhile a camera crew has pulled up in a white Mustang convertible. Fortunately I’ve fixed the flat and am just putting the wheel back on. (Nothing sucks so much as having an audience when you’re changing a flat.) Why this middle-of-nowhere flat by nobody-in-particular is of any interest to record, as it must be 100 percent cutting floor material, and even I know that, is a mystery, but I take advantage of them and hand them the damaged tubes and empty cartridges so I needn’t carry them to the next aid station.
But I’ve lost 10-15 minutes and that means the headwinds are getting stronger (being a function of sun heating land, which is starting to kick in big time). Now I’ve got to spend the next couple of hours re-passing the same better swimmers I passed in the first hour (I’d say I’m passing seven cyclists for each three who pass me at this stage, but that’s just a guess; it’s somewhat a function of being a poor swimmer but I’ll end up the bike ride on this day in only a slightly better overall position, owing to the 100 riders who must have gone by while I was on the side of the road another 50 I might have caught).
Still, physically I’m feeling okay. I’m getting cold water at every aid station (at about seven-mile intervals) and dousing my feet with it to prevent the inevitable onset of my old familiar nemesis: neuroma pain. I’m drinking my special drink, I’m eating my favorite goo and other substances, I’m taking in salt tablets. Of course, at the back of my mind I’m still wondering if maybe the statin didn’t do me in last year, maybe it’s just me? But so far so good.
The rest of the ride to Hawi was uneventful. I’m not setting any records, but there are stiff headwinds in all the usual places and things are working. The leading pros begin to pass heading back to town in the region of Hapuna Beach. After the harbor, climbing up to Hawi, the best of the age groupers and then the masses of younger triathletes start to stream by. Relatively speaking I’m in much lighter traffic. Who’ve I seen that I know? Adrian Aponte passed me just leaving Kailua, meaning he swam worse than I did. But most of the rest of the locals are up the road and, after the flat, way up the road probably.
We reach Hawi and my feet still feel good. Spectators have been a lot more prevalent this year and course marshals who know me say hi as they motor by, and I hear my name from time to time, even up in Hawi. I pull over there for my “special needs” bag which has a refill for my nutrition drink globule (which hangs off the back of the saddle with a tube leading up to the aerobars; think of a Camelback for bikes and, no, not many people use this gizmo). I’d thought about putting extra air cartridges and tubes into the bag and now wish I had, since I’ve been running on no spare and no air for 30 miles and have another 54 to go, but I’ll settle for new nutritional goodies. I probably lose three minutes getting everything sorted, but then comes the nicest six miles of the trip: downhill with a favorable wind. Wow, I’m really fast.
After that the road bends left with the coastline and the tailwinds become crosswinds. Lots of people come out of the aerobars and grab the wider “cowbars” to endure the stronger gusts here, but this is home court and I start to cruise by people. We reach the harbor and begin the sharp climb up to the Queen K. This is where the shit really hit the fan last year. I’d already been cramping, but as I got out of the saddle to work this hill (which is a most of a mile long) some muscles just above and below the knee, on both legs, muscles I’d never known existed, cramped big time. I had to slow my peddling radically and, going uphill, I was certain I was going to fall over for lack of momentum but somehow I’d found a tolerable middle ground and eventually made my way miserably to the top. This year, even before I start the climb, I know that’s not going to happen because none of the precursors (headache, minor cramping, etc.) have appeared. Sure, I still expect some minor cramping issues in the final miles, the muscles being tired of seven hours at the same intensity, but I go up that hill with authority.
My feet are hurting a little, as the previous aid station was out of plain water, even warm water, so I couldn’t cool my feet, but it’s not five-alarm fire time yet, so even that is better than I could have hoped for. From the top of that hill it’s about 34 miles to the pier. These can be painful miles on long training rides, as the wind always “clocks” and the north wind becomes a south wind (headwinds BOTH ways ... pretty nice, huh?) owing to the changing cold land/warmer water turning into hot land/colder water and shifting the winds. But this is expected and I’m feeling okay still. I pass training partner Tom Solis at the top of the hill, which really surprises me. He says the wind and the hills have gotten to him. Although he’s 65, he’s usually a much stronger cyclist, which is his best discipline, and he has left me in the dust on long rides many a time. Maybe I’m not doing so bad, I begin to think.
Another nice thing happens now: medium-high clouds settle in for the next hour. You could see them coming leaving the harbor, and you will see them disappearing way off south, but it’s about 2 p.m. and you’re about to head into the black lava fields once again, so this is a real bonus!
About 20 miles from T2, I finally have to stop (just below Scenic Point, at my favorite guardrail) to spray “Kool n Fit” on my poor feet. This is probably a four-minute break, off the bike, off with shoes and socks, etc. At this stage on many long rides, and especially when racing the Ironman distance, just hauling your leg over the top tube to dismount can bring on cramps. I’m mindful of how I go about it and it pays off.
Now I get to re-pass a few more cyclists and get into the often ugliest part of the long ride. But I feel good. In fact, I think I’m going faster than I’ve gone all day. I pass my main training partner, James “Dusty Roads” Best, who looks spent. I ask how he’s doing and he says he’s just holding it together, or words to that effect. With about eight miles to go, near the airport, the wind has done its usual second flip-flop (this one is probably due to the topography of nearby Hualalai Mountain and now a nice tailwind is finally at my back as we pass in front of the notorious Energy Lab, where the run course crosses the Queen K and drops to the beach below. From here on in I’ve got runners going up and down the highway on my left. (This is about the time that the lead male runners, having had a 15-minute headstart of course, are finished with Ironman! Lucky bastards.) Last year I’d crossed the road to the run aid stations twice to get ice to put on my cramping quads; I was totally cooked. But this time I was feeling great, like back in 2006, and I just kept breezing by one cyclist after another. It had been at least an hour since anyone passed me. The neck is beginning to feel sore, but the feet feel good and I’ve not had the slightest hint of a cramp.
[Note to self: one of the Salt Stick dispensers malfunctioned near Hawi, ceasing to work and depriving me of four of six leg/fatigue capsules; made do with extra gel and nutritional tricks and had more stuff on board than I needed but options are always nice.]
Back into town, back to the pier, and the announcer is cheering in Chrissie Wellington, the repeat women’s winner. I dismount carefully, hand off my bike and helmet, take off my shoes and run around the pier toward transition bag 2, stripping off my jersey as I go and stopping to pee at the end of the pier (I like the way that sounds, misleading though it may be). Inside the change tent I remove bib shorts, head cover and socks, then put on running gear, carry bag, headband and hat [Note to self: when you don’t start the run until 4 p.m., you don’t need the cap, but it has a supportive message for a local cancer patient so I kept it on until dusk; the additional suntan lotion could equally well have been skipped].
Let’s see, how are we doing on time? The first transition took 8:30, and the cycling took 7:06:35; the second transition will take 10:40, which surprises me. Subjectively it felt like the first transition was the longer one, but there’s no arguing with the clock. Add all that to my swim time and it is now 8 hours 57 minutes and 15 seconds into the race as I cross the timing mat and start the marathon. Just for the sake of perspective, Australian Craig Alexander has already won the race in 8:17:45, 40 minutes less than it took me to reach the start of the run. And Wellington came in at 9:06:23. Given the ugliness of my training year, I was hoping to make it home (you can stop the sentence here if you like) in a time of 13 hours if everything went well, and told Kunzang to expect me in the 13-14 hour range as we drove down to the pier at 4:45 a.m. for “body marking” (a great aid in identification when you wash up on shore). Although this would constitute a “personal worst” (slower than my two previous finishes), I would feel good about anything under 14 hours.
So I’ve got my red racing flats on, along with long white compression socks and lots of anti-friction stuff right on the feet, but I notice as I put on the second shoe that the socks are labelled L and R, but aren’t on the respective feet. Should I change them? No, let’s get rolling.... I mean, who ever heard of left-footed and right-footed socks? What possible difference could it make? (Back of my head is thinking, damn, wish we’d had a chance to do the proper training runs and figure out these gear issues.... Oh, well....)
Friends and family and volunteers who know me are shouting encouragement in the first 200 meters. And there’s Bree again with that camera. Let’s steal another photo from her blog:
When I see Kunzang I ask her to have the neck brace handy “just in case” when I pass through town again more than an hour hence. To her question about how I feel, I answer, “a whole lot better than last year” when I would have still been suffering back on the Queen K, and even when I got back it was all I could do to walk over to the massage tent with every muscle in rebellion, my race day over way too early.
I’ve also put some balm on my neck in T2, so that feels okay. In fact, as I start the run, I’ve got no complaints. After a kilometer-long “run around the block” in the center of town, you start south on Ali’i Drive to the first turnaround point. As we hit the first couple of mile markers I start noticing the time on my watch so I can figure out my pace. Gotta say I’m very “old school” on the watch. Most people are wearing heart monitors, and I’ve done so in the past. Most have speedometers on their bikes and many have power meters, which show how many watts they are putting out on the bike. Like I said, I have a watch. I know I’m just under 9 hours starting the run, and I’d rather it be 8 but you play the cards you’re dealt.
I see in the early miles that I’m running about 8:00 per mile. Let’s put that in perspective. My fastest standalone marathon pace was 5:48 for 26.2 miles. That was in 1983, 25 years ago exactly. I can run 7:05 pace these days, again for a standalone marathon; my average pace in the 2006 Ironman was probably 8:45, and that is considered fast for an old man. But my running training suffered badly. Five weeks out, I ran the only 20-mile training run I could squeeze in. It felt okay, but it was after the initial on-the-bike neck problems had surfaced, and during the last five miles I had a couple of sharp twinges of pain. Two hours after I finished I couldn’t move my head. I missed two entire days of training, and logged only 7 1/2 hours of training that week (compared to the 23-25 hours a week in The Plan) and I ran out of time to make up for that even as the pain issue began to subside, because then the pleurisy jumped me. So, logically, eight-minute miles were way more than I could sustain through the rest of the day, but -- no matter what speed I started at -- it was going to get gritty and difficult after sundown. I was running very easily and decided not to make any compromises. In other words, it would take more energy to slow my pace than to maintain it, and it would accomplish nothing. Easy decisions, I like ‘em.
The out-and-back on Ali’i is about 4 1/2 miles each way, so you get to see who’s in front of you and you can roughly figure how far ahead they are. Adrian was the first one I saw and he was at least 4-5 miles ahead of me, and he’s young and a good runner so that was a no-brainer. Next I think was Laurie Beers, who is one age group younger than me, but has made the podium in her age group and was smiling like someone who had it today. Perhaps in between them, still miles ahead, was Geof Thorsen, nominally from Australia but he’s here very early every year and trains with his fellow geezers and even came here in May to qualify at our race when he missed getting a slot at an Australia race. He too had some issues that kept him from doing his running training properly, and before the race he just said “we’ll see” when asked how he’d do. Somewhere in the dark I would pass him, as he finished in (spoiler alert) 14:08 and change.
Local Harry “The Hammer” Yoshida was next over there in the back-to-town lane. Great cyclist and swimmer, but not a fast distance runner. I’d make up those two miles fairly soon, I figured. Doug Wilkerson was up there somewhere, someone told me, but I didn’t see him. (We may have passed in an aid station, on opposite sides of the tables, going in opposite directions. I am all business in the aid stations, having a couple of pills out of my tote bag and in my hand, grabbing water, taking them, then a cup of ice and a cup of Gatorade which I combine; occasionally just taking ice and putting it on my quads inside the compression running shorts.)
Kim Kiser, who has had an equally evil last month of injury (a tailgate into the back) and is doing her first Ironman, was next over on the return side I think, with hubby Kris not far away on his bike. So far so good, we both report.
It was mostly overcast and not seeming very hot at all to me. I think there was even a little sea breeze (the pros start the marathon at mid-day ... imagine that the next time you’re feeling hot and sweaty). Sure, the hat was extraneous but the message outweighed the heat factor. The extra suntan lotion became a project where I’d grab a sponge or two and start wiping it, and my race number, off the arms and eventually off my face, etc. just to increase skin breathability.
Oh, and somewhere around 3-5 miles, my left foot started feeling a little hot, like there was a little something extra in the shoe, but it came on slowly and didn’t feel like it needed immediate attention.
Soon came some encouraging words from John Dermengian, a physically challenged athlete on the sidelines this year with some health issues and packing to move back to the mainland. Talk about pushing the limits, John certainly does. And not long after his crews’ hangout came the first turnaround point, maybe 5 1/2 miles into the 26.2. Still good. Did John say something about my red shoes when I came by again? Someone did. They’re not made in China. That’s all I care about. John was also up at the first in-town turnaround on the bike course. Even spectating is an all-day affair.
Okay I’m a little concerned about the potential for blisters or neuroma pain in the feet now, but I’ve got extra ointments on board along with various salt tablets and nutrition so I’m not too nervous about it, and I’m clicking off the miles heading back to town, passing Harry on schedule, taking on moderate liquids and nutrition at each aid station (every mile, more or less) without stopping and -- hey, think about this: I’m not having the slightest hint of cramping. Even on my best day so far, 2006, I was fighting cramps with the ice-on-the-quads routine at every other aid station. This time I’m just doing it once in a while ‘cause it seems like a good idea and it feels nice.
Half way back to town I see Dusty heading out and happily he looks pretty good and says he’s doing okay. (The next day I’ll learn he was a little dizzy for a while in this section.) The fans are great this year, and more numerous than ever. I think the town is appreciating visitors more now that we see fewer of them.
So as we put the first 9-10 miles under our belt approaching town, we’ve got one little doubt to deal with (the feet, but that’s under control) and one big plus in the no-cramps issue. Back into town you turn and retrace your course over a half mile where on the opposite side of the course you have two groups of people: slower people still just starting out, and faster people on the final happy mile of the event, about to turn right on Ali’i and be carried home by the pandemonium in that last lovely quarter mile to the finish. “Wish you were here? You bet.” I pass locals Rob van Geen and Mike Hamilton here, as they walk up a slight grade.
At “the hot corner” you turn right and climb a fairly steep half-mile up Palani Road to the Queen K. Kunzang is there and I toss her the cap (now a tradition) and turn down the neck brace (but it is great to have the option, let me tell you). It is just starting to get a little dark out. More friends, more encouragement. (Even out on the bike course, at intersections in the middle of the lava fields, there were groups of mostly European fans with flags and signs and cowbells cheering everyone this year.) Believe me, it helps.
Except for the aid station I run the hill, but most people are walking it. At the top you turn left onto the Queen K for the second long out-and-back segment. This time, instead of passing along the coast through residential sections you are basically in the middle of nowhere, with just some low-key commercial things at the intersections (where aid stations are usually located) and long stretches of nothing. The light is starting to fade, and so are you. Mile 11, mile 12, mile 13, just about half way now. I checked my pace for miles 2-12 and figured it at about 8:25 per mile. It will drop off more, I know. It’s a long slow haul up to the Energy Lab turnoff, which is around a corner and out of sight. I am passing people (in fact, it seems no one has passed me, but I’m a decent runner even undertrained and I am an hour back from where I would be if pigs were flying their usual routes, and there would be some faster runners up there but but but but). Among those I encounter about here is Kim Kiser, with Kris again visiting on his bike. She’s doing very well.
At some point, just for the hell of it, I take a cup of cola at an aid station. Sugar, caffeine, fizz -- what a great combination, they should try marketing this stuff. It works for a lot of people at this stage of things. Others opt for chicken soup, but I’m a vegetarian. Anyway, the cola works for many but alas I’m not one of them. That’s why I’ve got antacid tablets on board. One minute of stomach problems, take tablet, one minute later they are gone. Sometimes experience is useful.
About here I come to the happy realization that my feet feel reasonably good now. Perhaps the surface temperature has come down. Some luck involved here: I hadn’t worn the racing flats in months, never with those compression socks and of course never in combination with that anti-friction stuff. But it worked.
Eventually, about 14 or 15 miles into the run, I come up very slowly on a woman wearing day-glow lime green short shorts that read “Kona” on the back. But she’s not from Kona. I go by her but when I slow for the next aid station she goes by me. I catch up again slowly and strike up a conversation with the usual stuff: nice pace, how’re you doing? where are you from? She’s Stacey Berdan from Tweed, Ontario (I didn’t get it until the third guess), in her early 40’s and we run a mile or two or three chatting alongside or passing then getting passed as we deal with aid stations. Something she consumes at an aid station in this stretch doesn’t work for her and she has to stop. I keep going a little then the lightbulb throbs dimly to life and I stop too. Tums, anyone? She is astounded that some idiot would be carrying such a thing and gratefully chews one and we get back up to speed.
It is now dark enough that runners are carrying glowsticks being handed out at aid stations to forestall head-on collisions, but it will get darker. They have a generator and lights and music when you finally get to the turn into the Energy Lab. And there’s Lesley Cens-McDowell, 10 times winner of her age group, directing traffic and checking on me as we cross the highway. It’s certainly past the bike cut-off time so we needn’t worry about late cyclists going by, and the wheelchair athletes still on course have running lights, thank goodness.
I’ll tell you right now it is humbling when you’re on your bike, flying down from Hawi, and you see a hand-cycle athlete grinding up the hill, into the wind, riding about 12 inches at most above the hot asphalt. It puts you in your place in a hurry.
It’s now full-on dark as we drop down the mile to the beach, turn right along it, through the special needs bag area (where someone calls out your number so they can have your bag ready when you pass by again on the other side of the road) and suddenly you’re at the furthest out aid station and finally the lighted turn-around area with its beeping timing mat. How dark is it now? You could be running next to your twin here and not recognize one another. There’s a moon behind the clouds, but it’s just not enough. You have to trust the road (another time when being local pays off) because you can’t see where your feet are going.
After the turn I pick up my special needs bag, sit down in a chair and slowly pick through it: no, no, yes I’ll try that, no, no, yes. Trash and unwanted stuff goes back in the bag, a couple of minutes of down time and off we go again. I think it was in this next mile that I passed Doug Wilkerson, about on schedule when you account for our training or lack thereof this year. He was spent but managing just the same. Well, duh. Who wasn’t? Anyway, it’s great to see familiar faces in the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?
It’s getting easier to walk the aid stations, and the pace, as always -- even in my best year -- is tailing off of course. I find the concentrated hand flask of Hammer “sustained energy” drink I’d put in the bag works for me when mixed with ice water, and then I find the cola-flavored energy jelly blocks (must get correct name here someday) are also palatable even 19 miles into the race. (I’ll munch on them for another three or four miles before tossing the last half of the bag aside.)
The climb back up to the Queen K is okay and I pause very little through the aid station at the top. Lesley asks if I want her to call Kunzang and tell her I’m on the way. “About an hour more?” she asks. “At least,” I reply. With the aid station walks and special needs bag sit-down, I’m taking at least 10 minutes per mile now I am guessing and there are seven more to go. One or two runners pass me, but mostly I’m going by folks. At some point, just after walking an aid station, I find Kim Kiser again. Let’s see: I’d passed her a few miles back, then she must have returned the favor during my sit-down with the special needs bag, then I’d probably just gotten by her in the dark ahead of that aid station, and she me again in the aid station? Like I said, it’s dark out there. We share some words and then I’m off again with about five miles to go. She doesn’t seem to be following.
There’s not a lot to say about the next three miles except that I’m glad I had done this before and knew what to expect. Mile 22 to mile 23 seemed really long, but the final miles were “shorter” than in years past. I grab a glowstick at some point. Miles later I get rid of it after climbing through the construction area to the top of Palani and getting back into the lights of the town with a little more than a mile to go. The long downhill stretch is not easy on the quads, but this is not breaking news. I check my watch when I’m back on the flat of Kuakini Highway. I’m at 12:54 and an unseen number of seconds. I’m not getting under 13:00 tonight, which is okay. I’ve still most of a mile to go, and my pace is probably over 10 minutes per mile.
Lots of encouragement here, from spectators and athletes who’ve already picked up their bikes and gear and are walking them back to cars or hotels. Right turn on Hualalai (gee, I live just 3 miles up this street). Right turn on Ali’i. It’s taken me two full years to get back to this stretch of road, even if I go up and down it three times a week at least. Hands extended to slap. Not feeling bad at all. Over the line. Here’s a greeter with a towel, here’s Patrick aka Dolphin Boy (“I’ll take care of this one,” he says). There’s Kunzang. Hey, Roberto, how goes it?
I go through the usual post marathon/Ironman chemical slump, but not bad: no medical tent, no IV, no feinting, no bleeding, stomach a little unhappy but we meander over to the massage tents, get the first table (no waiting! it’s okay to finish after the top of the bell curve!) and, when I’m able to, I lay down on my stomach for a greatly appreciated massage.
Now, some 48 hours later, I feel so damn good I’m afraid I might even try to do another one of these in the dreaded odd-numbered year coming up. No. No. No. Bad Daniel. Bad, bad Daniel. Don’t even think about it.
Lessons: nailed the hydration, must stick with Hammer drink products and Neverreach or similar delivery system. Peed at T1 (okay, in the bay, I admit it) and T2, running not too yellow at home that evening. Race Day Boost and Liquid Endurance (about three-quarters of recommended regimen) caused no harm. Gatoraide Endurance mixed with ice worked on run. Eating Sharkies half hour before start was okay, did not incite namesakes to attack, being vegetarian product and all that. Did Anti-Fatigue caps and Sports Legs (before and during) along with Salt Stick brand capsules (during). That PowerBar smoothie flavor was only real solid I took on board, and it was more palatable than their other flavors.
Oh, my finish time was 13 hours, 2 minutes and 55 seconds, placing me 41st of 59 fellow idiots in my age group, and number 1321 out of 1731 who started the race (just under 95% would finish). Given that these folks are mostly “the best of the best” at this Ironman thing, and my training and the flats, and my general lack of intelligence, I am quite inexplicably pleased with myself and will not commit suicide again this year. File under: knows almost enough to be dangerous to himself, but -- as the Hitchhiker’s Guide describes Earth, “mostly harmless.”
That Stacy (who hails from upstate New York, and doesn’t take to be called Canadian for some reason) got in at 13:10:22, and I see now that her splits were within a few minutes of me at each discipline, which is remarkable just from a numbers point of view. I never caught Laurie, who did a great 12:54:13. Adrian stayed ahead as well, coming home in 12:43:10. Kim got in at 13:12:58, suggesting those last five miles really tested her back, which had been through you’ll-never-run-again surgery long before the tailgate thumped her.
Among my usually suspect training partners: Dusty came along in 15:08:23, having encountered hydration issues, and Tom, who has had achilles problems, clocked in with a respectable 15:36:21. Geof came in at 14:08:39. FYI, they close the course at midnight, which is 17 hours after the starting canon. If you’re still out there after that, you’re officially on your own.
SPECIAL OFFER: to anyone who read this far this photo essay will now mean a little bit more to you:
http://ironman.com/lee-gruenfeld-looks-back-on-the-2008-ford-ironman-world-championship-through-the-lens-of-a-camera
Cheers.
