My alarm rings … it’s 3:00 AM. There is no sleepiness, just adrenaline. I hop out bed, brush my teeth, eat, and change. There is no pause, just action. I step out of my hotel and my heart stops — it’s raining. Not mist or dew, real rain. The weather forecast (surprise!) was wrong. Of all the scenarios I prepped, I missed a rainy race start. How does setting up your gear in the rain work? How do I get into a wetsuit when I am wet? Looking back, this is only the first of many highs and lows for the day.
Driving to the race, takes longer than I planned. I forgot what happens when 2,000 athletes arrive at the exact same parking lot at the same time. Still, I’m not too far behind schedule. Fortunately, the rain has stopped. I drop my race special needs bags at Transition 2 (T2) and board the shuttles for the 20 minute ride to Transition 1 (T1) and the swim start. In spite of the cooler temperatures and the damp air, I’m already sweating. I misjudged the humidity at 4:30 AM. I probably shouldn’t be wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants.
Arriving at T2, I find my bike, load up my food and water bottles, and inflate my tires. Then, I wait. After about 30 minutes, the announcer begins to call swim times. We are to walk 1.2 miles from T2 to the swim start with our expected swim time group (we are to self-seed). While I expect a 1:50 swim time, I go with the 1:30 to 1:40 group (I just want to start a bit earlier). Arriving at the swim start, I find chaos. Apparently the self-seeding plan has vanished. There are about 20 lines and “they” tell us to get in one. I pick in the shortest (who wouldn’t) line thinking I’ll go earlier. Instead, they started on the left and clear one line at a time. My line is 3rd from the last. I’m a back of the pack athlete and just gave most of the field a 30 minute head start.
Swim (1:42): The whistle sounds and I walk down the boat ramp to enter Keystone lake. There’s a knot of swimmers standing the middle of the ramp acclimating to the water. It’s only 68°, not a problem for me; so I quickly dodge left and find my rhythm. Since I’m used to swimming in the ocean, I am surprised by the nice “fresh” water. My only concern is that the water is a bit choppy. Nevertheless, my swim is uneventful. As I exit the swim running up the boat ramp, I notice the clock. I’m about 1:40 and am ecstatic. Who would have guessed that I could swim so fast?
T1 (0:17): My elation quickly evaporates. It’s raining and about 80% of the bikes are gone. The rain creates a changing puzzle. How do I squeeze into cycling shorts and compression socks when I’m wet? When I practiced (without rain), I used baby power to dry off (it’s an amazing trick). Now, I’m drying off and spraying baby powder everywhere hoping my cloud of baby powder is enough to fight the constant rain. The good news is that the baby power trick mostly works. Still, it’s hard, but I get it done.
Bike (7:10). Even in the rain, the bike puts me in my happy place. At mile 3, I pull out my first nutrition bar only to hit a bump and watch my bar fly off into the road. This becomes a common theme all day — bumpy roads, rain, and grit.
My first success is avoiding the “Death Trap” Water Tower Road (named based on its defining feature — the water tower). The Death Trap road is rough with a steep downhill leading into a 90° turn (after the race there were reports several crashes in this spot). With the wet roads and rain, my brakes barely work. Somehow (thank God), I survive the steep hill and sharp turn.
For the next 50 miles (miles 10 through 60), I race up and down the rolling hills with periodic drizzles. The beauty of being in the back is that I only pass people thus boosting my self esteem. The illusion derives from never seeing any fast people because that are so far in front of me. But, I take self-esteem boost, smile, and pretend I’m a break away rider in the Tour de France.
Miles 60 to 80 wipe the smirk off my face. Turning south, the rain begins (again), this time coupled with a strong headwind. I tucked low to grind away — and grind — and grind. By mile 80, I’m soaked and my back and shoulders are sore. Looking back, I rode this section really well, but paid the price — I was getting tired.
By mile 90, I am beginning to see people pass me. While the rain has stopped, my fatigue is real. Still, I show strength on the final hills and finished close to 7 hours. Like the swim, I am ecstatic with my time.
T2 (0:09). As I enter T2, it begins to rain (again). Fortunately, I only need to change my shorts and shirt. Still, I feel grimy from the deep layer of dirt collected over the past 112 miles.
Run (6:24). For the first 6 miles, I feel good. The rain stops (and never returns) and I make a few friends. Everyone is in a good mood — happy to be off the bike and out of the rain. The overcast skies keep the weather cool and the humidity down. Between mile 8 and 10 my run begins to fall apart. My hip begin to ache. My legs lose their snap. I shift to a run/walk strategy. Then I shift to a walk/run strategy.
By mile 13, I realize speed walk is faster than any run/walk or walk/run strategy. Shifting to an all walk strategy, I begin to feel defeated. 13 miles is a long way to walk. I enter the “dark place” people always talk about. It’s the place where you question everything. Is walking a failure? Why am I doing this? Is this really fun?
Somewhere around mile 20, I pass two runners (or walkers). Apparently, one is a coach and the other is his athlete. The coach continually speaks words of encouragement and keeps saying “there still time, you’re going to make it”. These are the words I need to hear.
Yes, I’m walking. Yes, I’m tired. And yes, I’m slow. But, I’ve always know that I would walk, be tired, and be slow. The coach’s words do wonders for my psyche. I’m going to finish. I’m going to be an Ironman.
At mile 26, I see crowds and the finish line lights. And, I run — not fast, but still run. I’m in the finishing chute, on the red carpet, surrounded by spectators. I see the finish line, raise my arms, and hear my name — “You’re an Ironman.”
Total Time : 15:42
Riding Thru Bees 