It’s March, 2000. I have just signed up for my first Ironman – first weekend in November, in Florida’s panhandle, Panama City Beach. Ironman – the one in Hawaii – had been going on for a bit over 20 years now, sustained primarily by the TV specials, first on ABC, then NBC. For some reason, viewers were hooked on the tales of suffering and adversity. Sometimes racers collapsed; sometimes they only had use of their arms; sometimes, their lives had been reborn through getting to their dream on the Big Island. The producers packaged these stories, added sultry scenes of palms waving, surf crashing, and heat shimmering from lava-black roads, and sold a lifestyle which spawned other races, in Penticton, Canada; Taupo, New Zealand; Roth, Germany; and Sonoma, California, feeding the race in Kona with an endless stream of endurance junkies. “The World’s Hardest One-Day Sports Event”, and anyone can come, once they qualified.
My own dreams weren’t yet formed. I could barely envision running 26.2 miles, much less fast enough to get a ticket to the Big Dance. But my triathlon life had quickly taken on an inescapable momentum, pulling me relentlessly towards a yet-to-be revealed goal. For now, I just wanted to see what was possible.
The next step apparently involved getting a real triathlon bike. Initially, I had just attached aerobars to my only road bike, a touring model designed for carrying panniers on multi-day trips, and commuting daily in any weather. Slots for fenders, mountain-bike-style brakes, steel frame. Certainly not built for speed. I heard that Quintana Roo, the company which had first developed the triathlon wetsuit and then created the frame geometry specific for a time-trial bike to be used in triathlon, was coming to Bellevue, Washington to custom-fit bikes for Seattle-area athletes. I made an appointment, and six weeks later, I had a titanium TT bike with all the latest components; it even had couplers inserted into the top and down tubes, allowing it to be transported, broken down, into a 26” aluminum suitcase to avoid airline fees.
That June, I did my first half ironman races, finishing third at the Pacific Crest in Bend, OR, and the next week, first at a small local race near Montesano, WA. I spent the summer doing longer and longer bike rides and runs. I completed the RAMROD (Ride Around Mt. Rainier in One Day, 154 miles and 10,000’ of climbing.) I arrived in Panama City ready to roll. The swim was two loops in the Gulf; the second loop, I found myself on the feet of a female pro (we all started at the same time back then), and let her pull me the final mile to a 1:06 split. Out on the bike course, I had a flat tire about half-way through, but still managed a 5:45 split for the 112 miles. I had no heart rate monitor, much less a power meter, and certainly no idea about how much I should eat or drink during the ride. And pacing – the very concept was opaque to me. It was just, “Work as hard as you can, for as long as you can, and hope for the best.”
The run was pancake-flat along the Gulf shore, two loops of 13.1 miles each. I started to feel sore in my hips by about mile 11; I hoped that the coming night with its cooler temperature, and a second trip around the course would revive me. I increasingly gave in to the urge to walk, and finished the marathon after about 5 and a third hours. A bit humiliating, but edifying.
Results back then were posted the next morning, on paper, not online. It took some doing, but I found I had finished about 15th out of 150 or so in my age-group. Respectable, but not elite. Over the next few weeks, I pondered the race, and realised that if I went a bit easier on the bike leg, I might be able to run the whole way. That became my goal for May, 2001, at Ironman California.
The race, was its second and final edition; 9/11 bollixed the idea of letting 2000 triathletes from all over the world ride around the Marine base of Camp Pendleton just north of Oceanside, CA. Since my sister lived a half hour away, and her photo store was about five minutes from race central, I had the luxury not only of showing up 12 days before, but also sleeping in a familiar bed, then driving to the venue early Sunday morning. A cold swim in the harbor, running to our bikes past rows of tanks, then leaving the base to run down the strand and back. I went 20 minutes slower cycling, and 55 minutes faster on the marathon. Mission accomplished. I watched the award ceremony, and discovered that 5th place in my age group was nearly an hour faster. But at 13th out of 68, with the run now mastered, I felt it was just a matter of improving my fitness slowly over the next few years, and I would be knocking on the door to Kona.
I began thinking of a five year plan; each year, knock off another 10 minutes or so. Just a logical progression – keep training every day, get stronger, fitter, and faster. After spending four years in college, another four in medical school and then four more in residency, the idea of taking things one step at a time was ingrained; success would come with persistence, I assumed.
But it wouldn’t be so easy. Despite proving that taking it little easier on the bike allowed a much faster run, it would be another three years before that lesson sank in and I was able to run the whole way again at the end of an Ironman.
Canada, August 2001. Pretty much a repeat of Florida: 1:06, 5:45, then walk home to a 12:20 finish. I began to think that maybe upping my run game might help. So I entered my first running race, the Seattle half-marathon right after Thanksgiving 2001.