August 25, 2013
Ironman
It's not a verb

click on photos with borders for full size photo

So on July 20, I reluctantly paid an enormous amount of money and phoned my terrified mother to tell her I'd changed my mind and I was in, like strapping into the world's scariest roller coaster and then, as it rolled away with me in it, wondering what I'd done. I lost five pounds that week from stress. I couldn't relax. I had five weeks. I decided to listen to my body and do my best. My swim times plummeted to 1:42, 42 minutes faster than February. My worst sport was turning out the best. I was swimming 77 times farther than that 1976 lap, training for an event I doubt any of those old swim instructors would be capable of. I'd redeemed myself. God is good! I went with a 100% stock bicycle so that when I got nervous on a downhill, I could ride it like a common training ride. No surprises. Nothing new, nothing high tech, I didn't even put new tires on or clean the bicycle, and I didn't care if I lost time, just so I survived.

I drove to Louisville Friday, August 23rd to a mandatory 'athlete' check in and mandatory 'athlete' briefing. This was big—an entire 66,600 square foot ballroom in the Kentucky International Convention Center was packed with 2600 of us, and families, and 3800 volunteers. It was like a Mormon family reunion (sorry Mitch). The next day there was a practice swim at the river, but I was too busy deciding what to put in bags I needed to hand the support people that day, bags I'd need before, during, and after the race. This race was the hardest to organize of any I'd ever done. I could fail at three different sports!

The Morning:

I woke at 3:30am, Sunday, August 25, drove to the river at 4:15am and followed the line of people 1 ½ miles to the start area (these are reduced photos I stole from other people).

We were marked, lined up for the swim, and sat, or stood for two hours in the dark. At my position in line I would've entered the water 11 minutes after the gun went off. The race was chip-timed, a “wave” start, so instead of everyone jumping in at one time and losing half the people through drowning, suffocating, and being stuck, head-first in the river bottom with their feet sticking up above the water, we run to the end of two parallel piers and jumped in the water two-by-two, like paratroopers. When we run across the pier our individual race time starts. So the 11 minutes wouldn't count against my race time, but the course closed at midnight, no matter when I started.

The bathroom line was 300 feet long, and I only had 30 minutes to the swim start. So I decided instead to step into the trees, remove my shoes, and do something I hadn't done since I was two. Public urination was strictly forbidden, but wetting myself was not covered in the race rules. I could also rest assured that I'd dramatically decreased my chances of being mugged (per Steve Martin). I was about to jump into the Ohio Toilet for two hours—it didn't matter. I rushed back as quickly as I could, but was interrupted by our national anthem, so I did my patriotic duty and stood at attention, not in the most honorable of conditions, hoping that lady didn't drag it out to show off her annoying vocal range. She did--I wasn't impressed. If only a fly had flown into her mouth.

When I returned to the line, it had moved, and my new found buddies who promised to hold my place in line were gone. I ran towards the back of the line, now a mile long, as quickly as possible. I was upset about that for a while, fighting to get a good spot and then losing it, but I soon told myself God was in charge. I chatted up with everyone I met. Sometimes they chatted back. I could see fatigue in the eyes of one of the many interesting fellas I was talking to and said,”Sorry I'm such a chatterbox—it's how I deal with stress,” Three young women behind me giggled. I stood by my theory that the Ironman was invented as a way for psychiatrists to find new patients. After all, we'd spent large amounts of money, and given up quality time with our Yorkies just to wake up when most people were in REM sleep, and torture ourselves to the point of collapse. We were greatly admired by so many.

Just after 7am, I looked over at the river and saw the pros swimming past us, about 400 feet out in the gloomy morning water, like neon ghosts, and I felt a shudder—this was finally happening and I was going in. I was in the back of that scary rollercoaster and the front cars were already going over the drop! Yikes! I'm too old for this!

The Race:

At 7:37am (and 42 seconds) I leapt into the nasty Ohio Toilet and desperately tried to paddle my way from shore with 2569 other swimmers. It was like Willy Wonka's chocolate river, minus everything good about chocolate. We swam into the sunrise, and my first thought was similar to my race in New Hampshire last year—the Titanic had just sunk, and all us passengers were going to die. People were climbing over each other, trying to nab that last morsel of bread before the other salmon snatched it away. Wetsuits were only allowed if you weren't interested in winning any awards or qualifying for the big Ironman in Kona, but they put the wetsuit people last, and their suits gave them a speed advantage. So I was soon hit from behind by a lot of rubbery people.

August 23rd athlete check-in August 23rd athlete check-in August 25, 5am August 25th transition area Jumping into the Ohio Toilet!

Swimming upriver with my 2569 friends, into the sunrise

My “Uh Oh” moment came a mile from the finish. The swim had thinned out, I was alone in the middle of the Ohio Toilet, swimming under two major truss bridges. My spidey senses kicked in—danger. I should be looking at this from the shore. I comforted myself knowing I was wearing a life jacket. Only problem--I wasn't wearing a life jacket. I had a hard time locating buoys that marked the course and lost a huge amount of time stopping and splashing around while trying to locate a tiny red triangle in the distance through my filthy goggles.

I was already tired, but God dragged my carcass the rest of the day. I was hungry with a tight lower back. I bumped into a Mt. Dew bottle—empty! About 250 meters from the finish, I aimed for the final buoy, a kayak pulled next to me and the dude screamed at me (I had ear plugs—nearly deaf) to go straight into the shore and the current would push me down to the correct buoy—if I aimed for the buoy, the current would push me past it. The Monkees song “Going Down” did come to mind many times, only in that song, the guy got drunk and then jumped in the river. I was sober—how could I explain this to Soozi? Thousands cheered, as if I'd already finished, but I just completed the first 1:54:13 and the fun had hardly started. Bloated from too much protein drink and swallowing water, I climbed out of the water in 2482nd place, 88 from the rear. A few swimmers didn't even finish the swim in the required time. I was disappointed—I should've been about 14 minutes faster.

Swim finish

And onto the bicycle transition area...

The 112 mile bicycle race went east from Louisville past Oldham and LaGrange, the shape of a “P”, with 2858 feet of elevation gain. We did two loops of the top part of the course, 30 miles per loop. I started slow, careful about pacing since I had no idea how this would go. I needed to have a good ride, but be fresh enough to run 26.2 miles in 90F degree temperatures.

I tore a small hole in my shorts under my right thigh, and through the course of the ride it rubbed and irritated me until it made a large bruise. After that, I was numb and it stopped hurting. Food and drink were my highest priorities, so when I dropped a beef jerky, I turned around and went back to find it so I could wipe off the gravel and wolf it down. The downhills were scary for me (but not likely anyone else) and I wasted a lot of energy riding my brakes down the steep hills and then having no momentum to carry me up the other side. Still, I found myself passing a lot of people uphill and being passed by a lot of people going downhill. I was so slow on the descents that a support vehicle pulled up next to me to see if I needed assistance. I hated that, but I knew this before I entered and decided I'd rather do poorly in the race than not do it at all.

The slowest and the fastest cyclists merged as the guys in front were completing their first 30 mile loop and me and the other guys were just starting our first. It wasn't the speed that bothered me so much as how comfortable they were at high speed. I couldn't vary my line without getting in someone's way, which is probably why I completed the second loop, the one without fast cyclists hovering about me, almost 22 minutes faster than the first, further evidence that my lack of speed was not from strength but nerves. But the damage had been done and I was way off my pace, getting exhausted from the heat. I completely ran out of fluids and food at 50 miles, so the next aid stop had to really count. I pulled over and grabbed all the Gatorade and various yucky sugary foods and made sure everything was topped off. You try to be nice to volunteers but generally end up barking orders,”Perform! Chomps! Water! Bourbon! Woman!” and they scatter like cockroaches under a flash bulb, your own personal slaves, tending to your every desire. I always said “Thank you”, but unlike April's marathon, I didn't confuse them by asking for EPO.

During this extended pit stop, I topped off my tank when I heard,”Oh sh-t!” and felt a large body strike me. A cyclist had crashed into my bicycle and bounced off my back, along with his bicycle. He was on the ground in front of me, apologizing profusely. I glanced at my back wheel—it looked fine, I asked if he was okay, and took off. God protected me on that one. Had I worn my explosive vest, it could've gone so, so wrong.

Most would agree that best part of the course was La Grange, population 8082, but it looked like half of them turned up to cheer us on. There was a mile section of barriered road, and fans screamed, clapped, banged on the barriers, went nuts with the cowbells (while I assume many cows escaped in silence under the cover of the chaos), and a public address system played music while some screaming Harry Caray wannabe went nuts, like a mini Tour de France in three minutes. I loved it! We passed through there twice. I smiled and waived. I was their Queen!

I had my problems—the strap that held the microchip to my ankle rubbed it raw, my bicycle computer stopped a few times, I dropped electrolyte capsules (I was smart enough to carry extras) my gears skipped and jammed, and every seam of my tri-suit scored my flesh. We flew down L' Esprit Parkway, a fast downhill, did a sharp right onto Old Sligo Road, an uphill, I dropped to a light gear, and my chain came off and locked up my back wheel. I came to a screeching stop and had to avoid going over with a lot of cyclists swerving wildly to avoid another rear-ender. My chain fell off half a dozen times—not smooth, but I was mentally prepared for not-smooth. I didn't let it bother me. I pressed on, like a good iron man.

The last 25 miles of the bicycle were much faster than the first 87, and I passed quite a few cyclists despite being blocked by cars on open roads while trying to pass. Although not a stellar or even notable bicycle ride, I completed it in 6:56:01 and moved up 400 places in the standings. I told friends that if I could get through the bicycle ride, I'd be able to do this. When I stepped off the bike, I knew the run would be the hardest part yet, I had no excuse now. Prior to the race, I estimated a two hour swim and a seven hour bike. When I jumped off my bicycle, my race time was nine hours, two seconds—with all the chaos, I missed my predicted time by two seconds. I should've predicted better.

The run was flat, about 213 feet elevation gain in 26.2 miles. It went out from the Louisville Riverfront, and the only landmark I knew of was Churchill Downs, home of the Kentucky Derby. I just didn't care when I ran past it. It looked like a generic stadium.

When I started the run, the people in front of me looked bad, like a zombie movie, no arm swing, a snapshot of that old Wide World of Sports "agony of defeat" skier just before he collided with that wall. It felt like entering an oven. The hottest temperature of the day was at 5pm, almost exactly when my run started. I passed quite a few people in the first 2 ½ miles, and I didn't even run the whole way. My stomach was getting upset from consuming nothing but liquid and yucky gummy-bear food, all sweet except for the four beef jerky. My knees were seizing up and although I soon found the energy to run, I couldn't do it very long before my knees began locking up, forcing me to stop or risk a total lock-up of legs. Imagine a cockroach after missing the “RAID!” alarm.

Volunteers were everywhere—they had sponges soaked in ice water, Gatorade, chicken broth, Coca Cola, water, chips, pretzels, and lots and lots of liquid. It was torture, and the miles went by so, so slowly. I was well under a ten minute mile from the start, which would've put me at the finish line at about 13:42, far below the cutoff of 17 hours, and well below my optimistic finish time of 15 hours. But cramps had me running less and less until I could only sustain a run for 72 seconds at a time and then a speed walk. If I ever do another Ironman, I need to learn speed walking. I would count my steps and always at 60 the tightness began. I could force myself until about 72 steps and then had to stop running. It was very frustrating again, because a few times I really picked up the pace in the run, doing what felt like a seven minute mile pace, but at that pace I could only hold off the cramps for about 15 seconds.

At ten miles I heard,”Hey Mike!” and looked to the sidewalk to see a ghostly figure in white, smiling and shooting pictures of me. It was my second cousin, Jake. My cousin, Soozi, my counselor, drove to the race with her son Jake, to surprise me. I have the best cousins! For a few moments I thought Mom was right and I actually had died, but if it were heaven there would be no pain, and Jake would be a beautiful dark-eyed lady, so I knew I was still in my private hell. Then I thought, I hoped that Amy had changed her mind after 4 1/2 years and in my trial, just like the 2007 Half Marathon, she'd show up at the finish and cheer me across the line. I never give up hope that love will win, but my cousins didn't make the pain less, they just made it more worthwhile. I tried to force a smile when I saw Soozi and said,”Hi Doc!”

It lifted my spirits, but the running got harder. The cruelest part of the run was at 13.1 miles when we got to the finishing strait, and a few thousand folks were cheering, cameras flashing, loud music, like a rock concert, people yelling,”You've got it! Almost there!” The road split—a sign had an arrow pointing straight saying,”Finish” and one pointing right saying,”Lap 2”. I was on lap one—about 200 feet short of the finish, I cut right and started my second 13.1 miles.

The sun was low and the heat subsided a bit, helicopters were buzzing the course, shining spotlights on us. I looked straight into the air and suddenly, everything started spinning. I quickly looked down and decided to never, ever do that again. But I thought and thought and thought and I just knew I would cry when I crossed that line.

I was on my 72 second run, 72+ second walk pattern for a while, and then was able to push up to 90 seconds of running. About four miles from the finish, I drank Coca Cola. I carried a caffeine pill the whole way, but since I felt impending colonic rebellion, I thought a jolt of caffeine, although good for energy, would not be a good idea since it is a diuretic! But Coke was gentler, and soon I felt my legs loosening up and was able to push my runs to over two minutes before I was forced to walk. Along the route there were people lying and sitting on sidewalks, either taking a break, or one particular guy, lying down with emergency personnel treating him just two miles from the finish. I felt I had it in the bag, but seeing this made me value every step God gave me that took me just four feet closer to my goal.

I wanted to run the last mile. I heard the crowd calling to me from the finish at the famous Fourth Street Live, and I felt success! I didn't pull it off, but I was able to run the last kilometer, fueled by the forbidden Coca Cola. The last half mile is totally inspiring--thousands of people reaching out to give high fives, loud music, cowbells, flashing lights, just like lap one, but I was on lap two! All the uneasy symptoms came up again and I was feeling some serious stomach distress coming up, so much that I pulled my arms in so I didn't feel the jolt, jolt, jolt of all the high fives. I didn't want anyone to touch me, and instead of feeling like crying, I felt like I was on the largest dose of Prozac I could imagine. I had no emotions, but I reasoned to myself that this would be one of my finest moments. I crossed the line in 14:21:57!

Post Race:

I was an Ironman! I was ferrous! No more long baths. From this moment on, my life would be better, I would be respected! I'd be a hero! Then I felt like I was going to do something horrible in front of a thousand people, live television coverage, and Jake and Soozi shooting videos of me. A volunteer ran to me, like they do with everyone, a nice, warm, tall, smiling Mr. Rogers guy, and he put his hands on me to make sure I didn't fall. He was kind and presented my finishing medal and said,”Congratulations! Can I get you water, sports drink, do you need any medical attention? How do you feel?” But he was in my personal space. He gazed into my eyes, patiently awaiting my answer, when I said,”Please stop touching me.” He backed off. I needed air.

I wouldn't say it was the hardest physical endeavor I've ever undertaken. I knew I was okay, but I could barely walk—my feet burned, my knees almost locked up. I felt I would do something embarrassing but this time a jump into the Ohio River couldn't cover it up. Soozi reached over the barrier to slap my shoulder and congratulate me, but I was so nasty, with river grime, bugs, sweat, salt, snot, blood, food that missed my mouth but stuck to me, she would've been more sanitary spooning lunch out of her garbage disposal. After that, no one touched me. Jake stayed with me when Soozi drove back to Evansville. We went to the medical area to see if they could help me walk. I had to walk to the convention center to get my bag with my morning clothes (and wallet and keys) then to the river to get my bicycle, then to the parking garage to find my car, and it was about 10:30pm, dark, and I didn't know my way around Louisville. But first, I needed to walk. They laid me down, put my feet up, and I felt 80% better already, and the nurse was acceptably attractive. I asked her,”Do you like touching sweaty guys?” My pulse rate checked out, but I needed to let my legs recover. She removed my shoes and socks when we discovered the source of much of my pain—my two big toes nails were bloodied and swollen with blood. That explains why I felt like someone was standing on my feet! After they removed the shoes and socks, the pressure and pain dropped quite a bit.

The volunteers offered me sports drink and sugary food and I said,”I doubt anyone here wants MORE sports drink! I've been drinking that nasty stuff since 3am this morning!” I looked over my shoulder and the lady on the cot behind me was eating pizza! So they brought me chicken broth, which finished off my recovery. I borrowed a nurse's phone, called Mom to let her know I wasn't dead, then asked to be released. They stalled, and about then the guy lying next to me passed out in his wife's arms. A nurse was desperately looking for the doctor and I said,”See? I'm fine! You need me to leave so you can deal with serious cases!” They were actually wonderful people, and they handed me a release paper and I got out of their way. They still had 300 runners on the course, so their night was not over yet. The numbers showed I had passed 496 people in the run, but still didn't come close to cracking the top 50%. There were 2570 starters (24 were pros), 222 didn't make it to the finish, and I was placed at 1585th, the bottom 38 percentile. My best performance of the day was the first 2 ½ miles of the run where I was place in the top 26% of the 2477 survivors.

Jake had found where the bags were and helped me to them, we had some free pizza, found my car, and drove to the river to retrieve my bicycle. The guard for the Great Lawn, the seven acres that contained all bicycles and remaining bags, and transition areas, wouldn't let us in. Some spotlights had gone out and although there was plenty of light from bridges and the city, he said,”The organizers will get the lights on as soon as possible—they don't want you to hurt yourselves.” I said,”Uhhh...we just completed an Ironman—do you think we're afraid of slipping on some grass?” We messed with the guard—it was fun. He said,”We are very concerned about your safety,”and someone muttered,”They weren't when we swam across the Ohio River.” Fun—we waited about 20 minutes, ran across the wet grass, got our stuff, and there were no fatalities from grass falls that night. My day, my biggest day since I started competing in May 1988 in my very first race, a sprint biathlon, (Art won that—beat me by seven minutes!), ended at 2am, after 22 ½ hours. Now I have to deal with the cultural shock of losing my nemesis. Every single day since January I thought about this day, dreaded it, looked forward to it, both. It hasn't sunk in because until a year ago, I never even considered an Ironman. It's one of those races where you do it, and then you are it. Glad it has a cool name.

I'm so blessed to have so many people praying for me and supporting me with their words, and I'm so blessed that the Lord gave me this privilege, gave me the ability to even consider doing something like this. All praise be to God! My toes hurt. Still waiting for those volunteers to bring me that woman.