Performance wise this was the best race of my life - especially considering 3 months prior to race day I told Angie I didn’t think doing this race was in best interest of my health. I PR’d every discipline (beating my stand alone marathon time), my pacing for the race was bang on – not a second of time in my control was squandered. My nutrition was dialed in perfectly – no hunger, no cravings, no bloating, no gas. I couldn’t have executed a better race. It was perfect, except for one thing - I did not have fun.
This race couldn’t have been over fast enough for me. Mentally it was the toughest race I have ever done. Despite everything going so great, I was mentally checked-out and I don’t know why, although I do have some theories - beginning with the swim, the worst I have ever experienced.
This race isn’t as well organized as IMC. The entire transition area was loosey-goosey with body marking, special needs (not even in transition), race bags, and bikes spread out in no logical order so it was on the chaotic side. People were putting on wetsuits everywhere so Carla and I haphazardly chose a spot on concrete to suit up at about 6:20. Water temp was 16 C, no hurry to jump in early. I had just slipped my wetsuit over my hips when I felt a pop on my left leg. The inner seam of my suit had ripped. Did I panic? Nope. My one race goal was to handle anything that happened as calm and cool as a cucumber. I went to my bike, ripped off the duct tape I always keep wrapped around my seat post, and slapped it overe the hole. The tape didn’t fit entirely around my leg so to prevent it from curling off I grabbed an elastic from the timing tent and slipped it around my thigh. It held the tape in place perfectly.
Crisis averted, Carla and I walked through swim start when I then realized I had no goggles. They were in my dry clothes bag, which had been thrown on a mound of others in no order. Think cucumber. I pushed my way through a 1000 racers back into transition to find my bag. Fortunately the bag wasn’t buried that deep and I was able to find it quickly. Now, how was I ever going to find Carla again? I didn’t want to start without her. She has this ability to keep me calm and make me laugh, which I was really going to need because I did not want to get into the water. Squeezing through the swim start gate I spotted her still standing where I had left her.
We made our way to the boardwalk. No sedate saunter to the water’s edge for a short warm-up and strategic start entry for this swim. It was the march of the penguins as racers were systematically pushed into the icy, murky water below. The water was cold. Take you breath away cold. As soon as you hit the water you had to move or another racer would be on your head. The swim start was about 100m away so Carla and I headed for it. There were so many people in the water it was impossible to do anything but a stunted breaststroke. It was barely twilight. I couldn’t see the start line. I couldn’t see the swim course. Carla and I had no idea where we were placed in the water. I was effectively blind. My breathing was rapid and shallow from the cold.
All of a sudden the canon went off. No anthym. No countdown. No warning. I started to swim. Or tried to. Limbs were everywhere. If I wasn’t hitting one then one was hitting me. I needed to get my face in the water to get control of my breathing, but it was risky because you couldn’t see the other swimmers and I didn’t want to get beaned in the head. For the first 600m I wasn’t able to find any open water or get in a more than three strokes at once. I thought about Paddy and the other girls and hoped they were doing okay. I imagined Carla would be swearing. I was valiantly trying to defend any space I could get but I was under siege. My breathing was getting out of control. Panic was rising. It occurred to me that I was experiencing my first ‘Ironman’ swim. I was in the middle of a suicidal mosh pit and I wanted out. NOW.
At this point I was fighting an internal war. One side was attempting to calm myself – I was okay, I could do this, take one stroke at a time, blah, blah, blah. The other side was flashing “Danger, danger, danger, get out, get out!” I compromised. I told myself if I could get to a boat I could hold on to it until the crowd thinned out. No boats were in sight, just an ocean of swimmers all around me. I had no place to go but forward, but just giving myself permission to grab a boat was enough to calm me down.
Eventually I was able to grab 15m of open water. My breathing regulated and I was okay. Soon I had a clear path and hit a steady pace. It did cross my mind as to where all the other racers went but I didn’t want to go there. I was in a good place. Then this mean man in a boat started pushing me back to the suicide pit, saying I was inside the swim course. I had no idea where the swim course was - I had yet to see a buoy. Back into battle I went feeling like a guppie in a school of sharks. As we approached the bridge I prayed I wasn’t going to get bashed into a concrete pillar.
The turn-around buoy was insane. Why doesn’t anyone ever swim around these things? Just as I complete the turn I got kicked in the calf and it immediately cramped. My first thought was “But I ate a banana!” I went under. A guy beside me asked if I needed help. “Boat,” I croaked. A boat was right there and I grabbed it. I stretched my calf a bit then took off. It cramped again. I considered pushing through it but decided no, I need to take care of this. I grabbed the boat and continued stretching. When it felt better I took off again. The entire incident was about 30 secs. The swim back was really choppy. I was grumpy. I was aggressive. I was swimming strong. At one point a woman apologized to me. I want to scream at her, “Don’t apologize out here, you’ll getting chewed up and spit out!” The boats guys were militant in driving stray swimmers, attempting to escape the bedlam, back into the fray.
Approaching the exit stairs I saw each set (there were about 6) was about 3-4 deep with swimmers. I slowed my pace to pee, then bee-lined for the shortest line. I grabbed the third stair and hauled my ass out of that water lickety-split. Check my time. I PR’d my swim. How? I don’t really care. I’m glad I survived. I feel beaten, battered, and mentally drained. I put it behind me and immediately began focusing on the tasks ahead. I barely had time to get my watch off before I ran into the “peelers”. They were octopuses! My arms weren’t even out of my suit when hands began grabbing and pulling me, pushing me to the ground. Surprisingly, I didn’t get cold during the swim. The neoprene hat was wonderful and the shirt Angie recommended I wear under the wetsuit worked superb (I wore a white one which isn’t so white any more).
In transition racers were changing everywhere. It was an obstacle course trying to get to the transition tent (IMC is so much more civilized). I snagged a volunteer who helped me put on my socks and shoes. I pushed my way out of the tent looking forward to the bike where I wouldn’t be mauled anymore. I exited the tent and was ambushed on both sides by people with white goo on their hands – aahh!. They grabbed my arms and smeared it on me. Aaahh! I looked like Frosty the snowman! I had to get away from people. I snatched my bike and ran.
Once on my bike, I took up an easy spin and relaxed. People passed, and passed, and passed. I let them go. I had more important things to worry about, like how I was going to get the white paste off my arms before I passed the photographer. What was this stuff, glue? I managed to get most of it off, but my body numbers smeared and I now had it all over my shorts and jersey. That done I settled into my aerobars to drink, take in the scenery and plan my bathroom strategy. Oh look, dead dog on the side of the road, how nice.
I had to pee. The course was busy, so there was always someone behind me. Porta-potty it was going to have to be. Pass an aid station, line-up at potties, no stopping. At turn-around I really, really had to go. Pass porta-potties, big line up – peeing on the bike it will be. Hit the descent (and a headwind) and was able to pee enough to get comfortable. One thing I didn’t take into consideration was that I was wearing compression shorts. Tight compression shorts. Not much gets out and not much gets in. My foresight was telling me this ride was going to get uncomfortable.
Even pedaling easy (I was staying in my small gear ring the entire first lap to keep my effort down) I was soon enveloped in packs of riders. Riders three deep beside, right on my back wheel, right in front of me. Really, people? I had to fight you in the swim and now I have to fight you on the bike? For 20k or so I was really vocal, yelling at people to complete the pass and break up the packs, but eventually I gave up. Why waste my energy? So depending on the situation I either passed them up or let the pack go. Oh look, another dead dog on the side of the road.
My calf was sore where I got kicked. Should I try and stretch it while I can so it doesn’t screw me up on the run? My ribs are aching. Am I getting a side stitch? It’s not bothering me much now but what about on the run? I go through my options. I can: eat, pee, slow down, or speed up. I try all four but nothing changes so I let it be. I start looking for the girls. Did they make it through the swim? One-by-one I see them. As Carla passes I smile knowing she’s probably swearing.
Starting second lap I see Scott bending down fiddling with the camera. Should I call out as I go by? I don’t bother, my throat is hoarse. Got passed by the lead male pro at 70k. I picked up my pace. I peed whenever I got the chance. One time I grabbed the water to rinse off, only it wasn’t water it was Infinit. I applauded myself for catching the mistake before I bathed myself in it, how awful to lose my fuel! I put the bottle back but missed the cage and dropped it. Bonehead. Lucky me I had extra powder in my jersey. Funny, it’s not there. S*$%! I put it in my run bag. Bonehead. I laughed. What can you do? I had enough gels to get me to special needs.
Heading into special needs it started to rain. And hail. And lightening. Oh look, a tumbleweed is blowing across the road just like in the movies. COME ON, REALLY?! This is the frigging desert. It rains three days a year and this has to be one of them! I put my head down and continue to pound it out. What can you do? Pee of course. Chrissy Wellington passes me at 100k. She’s fast. My butt’s not happy and I’m fidgety on my seat.
Third lap I pick up pace again staying one gear easier than I have to. I enjoy the tailwind and speed knowing I’ll have the wind the last 30k. I’m passing everyone. At turn-around the wind has picked-up, the road is wet, and pelatons are still boxing me in – while in their aerobars - this is an accident waiting to happen. I’m still feeling really good but I drop back choosing to stay safe. Whatever energy I don’t burn on the bike I’ll use on the run.
Coming into transition I do a final pee not caring if anyone is my way. I see I’ve PR’d my bike. Who cares. My butt is so raw all I want to do is get off my seat. I take off my cycling shoes and run in socks because the ground is slippery. Grab my run bag, enter the tent, toss of my shoes, rip open bag, slip on runners then grab everything else and head out, putting on items as I go. Exiting the tent I make sure to dodge the psycho sunscreeners.
I start the run fast so I slow down. People are passing me like crazy. Demoralizing crazy. What lap are these freaky people on? Check my watch. Still too fast. Even though it kills me, I slow down. First lap takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R. I really need someone to run with. Look around. No one. COME ON! I spend two-thirds of the race fighting people off and now there’s no one! And of the people I do pass or run by no one is talking. There’s no chit-chat. No banter. Just silence. These people are all demon racers from hell sent to torment me. And why the heck do my feet hurt so bad? They feel like they’re on fire and my toes are cramped.
Cresting the top of the only hill on the course I pull out a gel and suck on it. I’m looking down and happen to see written on the sidewalk ‘Photographer ahead’. Oh, great. I prepaid for my photos I want them to be good. I stick the unfinished gel back into my fuel belt, tidy up my clothes, tuck all my hair under my cap, straighten up my form, paste a smile on my face then speed up. After I pass him I pull out the gel to finish it and wonder why I sped up. It’s a still photo. Bonehead.
Second lap I increase pace but not by much. I can feel my right quad wanting to cramp. None of the announcers have been calling my name as I pass, even when I’m on my own. In fact, no one is, not even the spectators. It makes me grumpy. I look down at my number and see that the entire corner is sheared off so the only part of my name left is ‘ndy’. Maybe I’m the Wendy, Sandy, Andy, Mindy that gets called out when I pass. I feel a bit better.
I have Infinit on me but decide not to use it. Stick with gels as primary fuel, I don’t know why I decide to do this. Take water at the aid stations - following Carla’s advice to take a substantial drink, not just sip it – alternating between cola and chicken soup, let me amend that, not chicken soup, broth. Whenever I asked for soup the response was, “We don’t have soup but there’s broth at the end”. I want to slap my head. Will this race ever end?
Pass through special needs calling my number. Getting closer to my pickup spot and see nobody moving to get my bag so call louder. I pass by still calling. I look back and some guy is holding out my bag shaking it. I call out, “I’m not running back for it.” He lets out a little huff clearly not happy he has to run my bag to me. Well buddy, I’m not happy I now have to run with this bag until the next aid station and it’s all crap anyway.
A little over two hours into the run I’m surprised my glutes and hips are pain-free – this is typically the time they start cramping. In fact, I realize my glutes haven’t complained once this entire race. Very odd since they’ve complained every workout in training and I’ve spent 5 months in physiotherapy trying to get them to shut-up. I figure they’re sleeping and that’s why my quads are starting to ache. Which makes me realize the ache I had in my ribs on the bike is gone and my calf isn’t crampy. Guess that’s why you don’t waste energy worry about things not in your immediate sphere. What I can feel, is a little rub on the back of my shoe. Probably a pebble I picked up on the dirt path. This is my take-care-of-things race so the next aid station I stop and slap on a blister pad instead of ignoring it.
Finally, I start my third lap. It’s dark. Real dark. I hope I don’t trip on something and fall on my face dark. My feet are a throbbing mass of pain. I still don’t have to pee, even with all the fluids I’m taking in. I’m not hungry. I have no cravings. I don’t have to fart. My gut is absolutely silent. Probably sleeping like my glutes. I have no idea what my pace or HR is, or the time. It’s so dark my watch is useless. Passing through transition I looked for Scott so I could dump my fuel belt but I couldn’t find him. Where was he? Having supper with the Ironman Director of Opertations and his wife (which they paid for).
With 5 km left a lady asked another what time it was. “6:50”, she says. I have to admit, my heart sank. With all my PRs that day (I knew I was on course for a run PR) and the great race I was having, I wasn’t going to go sub-12 hours. “Thanks for letting me know, lady,” I thought as my pace faltered. I was mad. So be it. At least I can try for a 4:30 run. I picked up the pace. My quads were not happy. Crossing the final bridge I met up with Joz. She didn’t look like she was hallucinating or loopy. I told her I’d see her at the finish line.
The last 3k was lonely and dark. I wanted to trip every person who passed me, especially if I had seen them walking earlier because the only time I walked was when liquid was going down my throat. Running the final leg to the finish I still wasn’t feeling any race excitement. There was a momentary spark when I took the final turnoff for the finish line but it quickly died when I found myself in a dark parking lot. I shouldn’t be this grumpy so close to the finish.
As I hit the last corner into the finisher’s chute the only thing I felt was a burning desire to get this damn race over with. I did hear Mike Reilly call my name (although he said it wrong) and I remembered to smile as I crossed the finish line (which had no ribbon) although I really didn’t feel like it. My catchers seemed to expect me to be jubilant so I tried to pretend I was happy, but really I didn’t feel anything except how much my feet hurt. I was beginning to wonder if I had stress factures. I wasn’t too stable on my feet so one of the catchers took me to the athlete area (which was super small). She asked me if I wanted a massage but I declined. I could barely stand the pressure of her hand on my arm. All I wanted was water. She took me to get some. There was no place for me to sit. I finally stole a seat from someone who was saving it for someone else. This isn’t a movie theatre, dude, no seat saving!
Then my catcher left. She left. She just left me there. I was going to need food. I was going to need the bathroom. How as I going to get up? How could she just leave me here? I did all that work and I’m just dumped? At IMC you don’t get dumped! Then I spotted Scott, my wonderful husband, at the exit searching for me. Always there when I need him, I knew he wouldn’t dump me.
I lumbered out of my chair like I was pregnant and made a pass by the food picking up what I could. When I reached Scott the tears flowed. He didn’t say anything. Just tucked me under his arm and let me silently cry while he gently guided me to the bathroom to get changed. I released every emotion I had accumulated over day. That god-awful, horrible swim. The raw chaffing on my butt. The pain in my feet.
I really don’t know how anyone can do an Ironman without a ‘Scott’ by their side. He got me cleaned up, took care of all my race equipment, and helped me back to the run course where I plunked down in a chair to watch Carla and the other girls finished. Carla looked as happy as I did coming in. I cheered as she passed and she muttered, “This is a f*&%ed-up race.” I laughed. I wasn’t the only who had a hard time.
The most exciting part of the day was watching Joz come in. There were some tense moments not knowing if she was going to make it. To see her running out of the dark with such a fierce look of determination on her face was a goose-bump moment. Watching Chris Daniels stumbling after her trying to keep up was an America’s Funniest Home Videos moment that had me laughing until the finish line. It was a great way to end a mentally exhausting day.
When I returned home my eldest daughter clung to me. I assured her I was home to stay and would spend all of the next day with her. She asked if I had to exercise. I said no. She cheered. It’s time to rest.
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