An orphaned post from 2005…my first Kona Qualification!
It’s hot. Baking, searing, tar bubbling, mind numbing hot. And it’s the day before another Ironman. But somehow, this time, finally, I’m calm about it. I knew a year ago when I signed up for Wisconsin, there was no reason for being here, for going to cow country in the humid midwestern late summer, no reason except to get to Kona. Of course, I’d studied the weather history: average daily maximum 73F, maybe a chance of rain. In 2003 and 2004, it had been upper 80s, almost 90. Surely there would be some break from the pattern, some allowance for my history: Florida in November melting like Iowa in August, two Canadas in the high country sun, Coeur d’Alene at 98F, and again at 88F, Xterra World’s in scorching 90F Kona winds (at that one, the women’s winner said afterwards she remembered nothing of the run, save counting to ten and starting over again, endlessly.) Surely, the triathlon weather gods would take note, and at least give me an average day.
As usual, I’d followed the National Weather Service web site’s daily discussion and forecast for the Madison area, for the last three weeks. I’d watched as the weather pattern changed from a mild, breezy prospect to ever higher chances of a sultry, center of a high pressure haze of a midwestern pavement egg fryer of a day, for Sunday only. On Saturday, I sat outside, granted in the shade, but trying for one last moment to convince my body that this weather was normal. Since May, I’d been doing all my long runs at the hottest times I could find. And I was sitting there, just trying to let it all go. Let go of any concern I had about what the temperature, or humidity might be. Let it all go except for the moments that I would find myself in tomorrow. Besides, didn’t I learn the secret at Coeur d’Alene in June? Hadn’t I discovered the last piece of the puzzle, the one remaining element I would need to take me over the top? The need to go whatever speed I must, given the conditions, to absorb the fluids and calories to make it to the end still running? It’s not about the bike, it’s not about the run, it is, the end, about having enough water and sugar to keep my muscles going for 12 hours, more or less. There is a complex trinomial equation here, solved only by actual experience, with the variables being weather (a combination itself of temperature, winds, and humidity), effort, and digestion.
In the evening, I add another little change to my routine, one I started in June at CdA. I go to Jamba Juice, and get the biggest smoothie they have, that is, the highest calorie shake available. I think it’s a “Peenya Coolata”, complete with banana and protein boost. 960 calories. This oughta clean me out, about as low fiber as I can get. In the morning, I plan to add yogurt, and an earlier Metabolol, to complete my high liquid plan for improved race day nutrition. I can’t give up on the oatmeal/brown sugar/raisin chaser though.
Morning, 9-11, 4:00 AM. It’s almost routine now: oatmeal, contacts, sun tan lotion, body glide, HR monitor, chip strap, powerskin suit. Almost no need to wear anything over that, its 73F already. Drive into town, find a parking spot downtown, and walk through body marking, special needs drop off, bike preparation (water, Perpetuum, Hammer Gel, computer reset), and T1/T2 bag check. This gives me a half hour to kill. I stretch, then lie down behind the chairs in the changing “tent” (actually a conference room inside the Monona Terrace Convention Center) to grab a few final tunes off my iPod. Amazing how there’s almost no one in here, while the place is mobbed everywhere else. At least TWO wives wander in with their husbands, while other men are stark raving nude. I guess they don’t have a clue.
Outside, I take a final stop at the porta pot, then sit down to put on the lower portion of my T1 wetsuit. It takes a good five or ten minutes to put on correctly. Then I head over to the downhill helix from the roof of the parking garage to the swim start. On the way, I run into the Professor (that’s what Larry, at the gym, calls him – his real name is Jonathon), who was doing his first Ironman. He’s my age, and I’d been watching him learn how to swim at the Bally’s pool where I do most of my training. He’d been following the Total Immersion method with all the little drills. But learning to swim in your fifties, learning how to swim for speed and endurance, that is, must be a very frustrating challenge. I know it’s taken me six or seven years to get a half way decent long distance stroke, and I spent my youth on swimming teams, and three years as a summer time coach. In any event, he was there with his wife, walking down the helix from the transition area to the swim start. I introduce myself, remind him of who I am, and we chat it up a bit. I tell him he’s ready, he should just stretch out and relax as he swims. Easy to say, hard to do, I know. I feel very calm, and in control, knowing just where I need to go, and what to do. My two piece De Soto wetsuit is great for this situation – the sun is already out, and walking along in just the bottoms keeps me cool. Past the timing mats, I ignore the plea to “keep moving into the water”. Mike Reilly has an urgency in his voice, sounding like they know they’ve got a bottleneck with over two thousand people having to pass thru a ten foot wide portal, then line up for the swim, all in less than 20 minutes. But I seem to glide right thru the crowds. Past the portal, I take the time to put on my top, strap on the goggles, and place my cap jauntily over my left ear, the one with the silicon ball in it, preventing waterlogging and deafness there. Once ready, it’s into the water, which is – you’d never guess – hot. They claim its 73 or 4, but I bet it’s closer to 78/9. I’ve never swum in a full suit, much less the warmer two piece DeSoto, in water this hot. I hope I don’t boil over.
The swim is two narrow counter-clockwise rectangles, 800 meters by 100 meters – plenty of space to the first buoy to allow us to sort out and avoid crowding ourselves. Just like in Coeur d’Alene, there is a broken spot in the middle of the line up. Here, they have a water ski jump platform about a third of the way across the start line. I line up just to its left, about one or two rows back – there seem to be about five rows worth of people, and, just like at CdA, more than half the crowd is way off the the right. In my spot, I hope to be protected for a bit by the jump platform from the swimmers angling in to the buoy line.
As it turns out, most of them stay over there. More and more triathletes, even experienced ones, seem to be avoiding the melee swim starts, and trying to get clear water. Me, I want to have people around me, just not on top of me. I sight off of them – sort of like “Ask the Audience” in “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”. Since it’s very hard to go against the general flow anyway, and since the sum of everyone else’s sighting is probably pretty accurate, I just look around me and try to avoid bumping into people on either side, unless they are obviously going cross-grain from the general direction of all the caps in front of me. And of course, I want to find some feet to swim behind.
It all works perfectly for this race. I don’t get bumped, I don’t get lost, I don’t work too hard, I find feet which pull me down each front and backstretch. The only thing is, I am HOT! So I feel like I’m going easy, not wanting to burn up. I get out at about 1:08:30, within my narrow range of 66.5 – 69.5 for the IM swim. My average heart rate, though, is not nominal – it is 141, way above my usual 131 for the swim. I don’t think I hurt anything by going at that pace – it felt easy, but my poor cardiovascular system was working overtime trying to keep my skin temp cool. Hopefully, water and evaporation will accomplish that on the bike, at least until it reaches 87F. Then, I know what happens.
T1. At IMMOO, this is all part of the fun. The transition goes up a spiral parking ramp, four levels, then inside to an air conditioned convention center, where the conference rooms have been commandeered for the changing areas. I walk up and out of the lake, and into the arms of a WAY over eager wet suit stripper. I have already taken off my top, and am in the process of trying slip my shoulder straps down. In a misguided effort to help, he grabs the narrow strap and gives a sharp tug, while I’m trying to tell him to just wait. He rips the thing off – I mean he literally RIPS my shoulder strap, luckily only in one place, not two. Next time, I’ll just take it off myself in the change tent, it’s faster. I’ve got to let that pass, though, as it’s in the past, and worrying about it after the fact won’t get my to the finish line any faster. I WALK to the base of the helix (everyone else is running), and then RUN up the helix, on the inside. Hard work, but I must pass 100 people while I’m doing it. My swim is at the front end of the top of the bell shaped curve – about 1-2 people get out of the water every second. Since my T1 time is less than 7 minutes, and most everyone else is 8-10, I may very well have passed more people here than I did on six hours of the bike.
The changing room is capacious, with plenty of seats, and quiet, too. I race to the chairs closest to the exit, dump my bag, don my helmet and glasses, pocket my pills, roll my socks onto my feet, grab my shoes and go, asking a volunteer to put my swim stuff into the bag. A quick pee at the sani-can on the way to the bikes (NEVER pass up a chance to pee in T1 at an Ironman!), I grab my bike and shift it to my right hand, still carrying my shoes on the left. This sucker is LONG! 2079 bikes along the narrow roof of the Monona parking structure. All the way to the top of the downhill helix. There, just before the timing mat, I stop with a couple of other smart guys and put my shoes on, walk over the mats, clip in, and roll down the hill. Like I said, under seven minutes, a minute better than I’d hoped, given the distance, climbing, and strangeness of this T1.
They call the Madison course a lollipop, or a stick and a loop. Ride out of town, a gentle up and down into Verona, then do two loops of a 38 mile course, and ride back to town the same way you came. The course has a reputation for hilliness, but in actual fact, there is first a gently rolling, rising section to Mt. Horab, a hillier middle section to Cross Plains, and then another easier ride back to Verona. Repeat. My plan to do all my long rides around home in Gig Harbor was the right idea. Our terrain is the same, but without any of the flatter parts! What I couldn’t replicate, of course, was the heat that day. The outward stick and first loop went along just fine – riding easy, I kept it at about 3 hours, without any strain, and looked on target for the 6:06 I’d planned on. But when the temp shot over 87F the second time thru Verona, I knew I needed to back off on the effort, or I’d never get the water and fuel I’d need for the rest of the day.
Apparently, many others didn’t understand this. More than 200 people were brought back from the bike course that day, having given up or broken down DURING the bike. I saw them passed out or just zonked on the side of the road, lying in the shade, looking not defeated, but just blank. I knew that feeling from CdA in 03, when I stopped for five minutes under a tree, and gave up after a 6:24 bike, not even starting the run. That race, in 98F weather, with less humidity, had the highest Ironman dropout rate – over 15%. That is, until Madison 05. Nearly 20% didn’t make it to the finish line today.
Me, I no longer feel like I’ve got something to prove, or demons to exorcise about quitting at CdA. Now, I do an Ironman a moment at a time. No past, no future, just an endless now. As the saying goes, when you wrestle a gorilla, you don’t stop when you want to, you stop when the gorilla wants to. I just try to pace and fuel myself at the level I know will work for what’s happening on this day. And thank goodness, I’ve experienced enough different conditions, and especially hot conditions, to know what that level is for almost anything up to steam room temps.
So I’m going slower on the bike, but keeping up with the Perpetuum, Hammer Gel, and Gatorade. A little water to top up, and a lot of water over my head. There is wind, but it is a loop, and for every head, there is a tail. And, the secret I’ve been saving – the stick back into town is mostly downhill, and more important, with the wind. I don’t speed, just use this to save some strength. Keep the pace going, and end up in T2 at about 2:42 PM, slower than I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve passed no one, and have not been passed, by anyone in my age group. And I don’t care. I just want to represent myself well for these conditions. In the end, I guess, I do have something to prove.
T2, while retracing our steps (without going back down to Lake level) in and out of the Convention Center, goes much faster. I unclip before going up the helix, pop off my bike at the top, and run inside in my socks. A volunteer grabs my bike and racks it for me. Inside, a quick pop of some pills (salt and Race Cap), on with the visor and wrist band (for my drippy nose), on with the shoes, an attempt at peeing, and out I go. Move the legs, make them run, get the thighs loosey goosey, the first mile is a gentle downhill. Aid station number one, improbably, comes about 4 minutes into the course. I start my pattern there: walk; Gatorade – chug; water – chug; water/ice, pour over head, down the front and back of tri suit; sponges – under shoulder straps of suit. At the second or third station, I switch from drinking water to drinking Coke. Every time I see chicken soup, I take it. When there’s shade, I take it. When there’s sun, I live with it. When there’s a hill, I slow up it. When it’s down – down I’m good at, I can actually make up time on most everyone going downhill. I think it’s the hills where I live, running them all the time, and the weight lifting to ward off the thigh pain.
I look forward to the big and little landmarks – the students on State Street, the huge Camp Randall football stadium we run thru, the railroad tracks, the path along the lake (with the “Penguin” aid station – my favorite, we pass it four times), the cop at the start of the second State out and back, who keeps giving us the Green Bay score – we pass him four times as well. Come to think of it, we pass most everything four times on this two loop course which is actually a series of out and backs repeated twice. Because it’s urban, there’s always something happening, something new to see. And all around me, the steady “plop, plop, plop” or “shuffle, shuffle, shuffle” of the other runners and walkers. There are two in particular I keep running into. One is an early twenties guy from the UW (Wisconsin), whom everybody calls “Bucky”. I finally figure out that Bucky is what they call their mascot, the Wisconsin Badgers. He runs some and walks some. In the last few miles, I pull away from him, after urging him to stay with me to the end. Another guy, late thirties, keeps passing me. I finally ask him what’s going on, and it turns out, while he’s obviously a faster runner than I am, he stops at EVERY porta pottie, peeing incessantly. Good for him, at least he’s well hydrated. We have what amounts to a five minute conversation over the course of four hours. And I also run away from him at the end.
I’ve got to confess something here. Remember Jimmy Carter? When he was running for President in 1976, he gave a Playboy interview, trying to humanize himself. Of course, they asked him about extra marital sex and he said, “Well, I HAVE lusted in my heart”. Meaning he was tempted, but remained true to Roslyn. Well, I was tempted by this course, but in the end remained true to the tri. There was a spot, along an out and back which was actually separated by a median strip of trees, and a little more than 1 mile total length. And, for some strange reason, there was no timing mat at the turn around, like there was at State Street. One could theoretically stop at the start of the out and back, where there was an aid station, pop into the porta pottie, wait a minute, and then SKIP the out and back, saving 10-20 minutes (depending on if you did it once or twice). Lord, it looked tempting. When I pulled up to the “T” the second time thru, I checked it all out, after having realised the first time thru the lack of timing mat. I planned my ruse, and thought how it all might be feasible. But when it came time to actually do it, I was feeling better and better. The run was getting EASIER. I lusted in my heart, but only there. I loyally ran down to the end of the path, turned around, and came back to the T.
Now I had less than five miles to go. Back to the Stadium. Back to the spiral staircase/pedestrian overpass at the hospital on Park. Back to the bohemian student neighborhoods. With three miles to go, I started to think about turning on the jets. I gave it a go when I saw someone ahead I thought was in my age group, who seemed to be going slower than me. As a matter of fact, I KNEW he was in my age group, as I’d read his number on an out and back. The fact that he might only be on his first lap occurred to me, but didn’t stop me – I was going to catch him. In the end, a bad choice – I only had a mile and a half of fuel in the jets, and had to labor to make it up the hill to the Capitol, around the corner, and down the finishing chute. 12:33, my slowest Ironman ever. But, I felt good, proud, and strangely happy. I’d negative split the run (second half faster than the first), and kept up with my nutrition and fuel, and conquered whatever psychological demons I may have had about racing in the heat.
At the feeding tent, I met up with the bathroom guy, and we shared war stories for a bit. I was sitting with my top down, my skin gasping for some coolness now that the sun was well and gone. Eventually, I made my way to the results computer. I found my name, and read my place. FOURTH! DAMN, I’M GETTING TIRED OF THAT NUMBER. Three times in a row now I’ve been fourth at an Ironman, finishing just out of the Kona circle. Yeah, I get to go on stage, get a plaque, and some free socks and wrist bands. So that feels good, but I REALLY WANT TO GO TO KONA, YA KNOW!
Oh well, I’ll get over it. I think I’m still making progress, and I can take what I’ve learned here into Idaho next summer, and vault up another 20 minutes, who knows? Give it one more shot and all. God, I’m such a junkie.
…
The next morning, I take another look at the results, trying to fathom whether there’s any hope the first two guys might not take a slot. But before I plunge into the details, I send off an email to my family: “Thank you guys for caring about my Ironman performance, and following me even though you were not here. Being here all alone makes it even tougher than the race (and the weather) already are. The rigors of the event require me to suppress emotions for so long, through stuff that I really want to break down about. Knowing that you’re behind me, no matter what, helps carry me on.”
Checking out the results, I notice first all the dropouts. Then, I see I’m 399 – both the highest overall finish for me in an Ironman, and my highest percentage finish as well. My swim is good, my run fantastic relative to the field. In my age group, I have the third fastest swim (#2 didn’t finish), the sixth fastest bike (# 1 & 5 DNF), the fourth fastest run, and the fastest overall transitions. Not bad. But, the first guy (who swam 58 minutes!) is from Appleton, and, more important, the second is from Mexico. Why would anybody come here from Mexico, finish second, and not take a Kona slot? I mentally give it up (writing an email to the tri club back home), and head on to the awards banquet. There, the people at my table, who at first had seen me as just an anonymous old guy, after I get my stuff on stage, are now all, “Wow, can I see that?”. They seem genuinely impressed by my effort. I know that the FIFTH guy was an HOUR behind me, and all I did was survive. No racing here.
As the meal ends, I notice Jonathon a few chairs away. We chat again, He’d dropped out on the bike. He thinks maybe he’ll try again, but at Vineman, not CdA (which is STILL open to registration). I talk about my resignation over Kona, but as Marc Roy announces the start of the roll down, I tell him, “Well, I’m going to go over there and see, just as a matter of course. But I don’t think there’s a chance”. I don’t tell him that I’d overheard the first and third place guys (or what I thought were the first and third place guys) talking about the third place guy’s chances at a roll down slot. I assumed the first place guy, from what he was saying, was going. I totally spaced on the fact that the guy from Mexico was not there. Or maybe I thought he’d signed up, but had to catch a plane.
I sit down near the roll down table. The pros roll way down, of course. People either have slots, or don’t want to go. The 30-35 year old guys is a killer. About six slots go untaken, and after five are snapped up early on, Marc starts calling out names and numbers with no response. He gets up to 16 or something, and I mumble – this one’s not going to get snapped up – nobody this low is going to be here. Maybe … but, WHOA, number seventeen grabs it, it rolls down 9 slots I think. What a break for that guy! He got the roll down gods’ pixie dust today.
Up towards the older age groups, with fewer slots and more free time, there are no roll downs, so Marc quickly gets to “Men’s 55-59, there are two slots, neither was taken, so they roll down to …” Now Marc is all business about this, no smiling, totally deadpan when he does this (same thing every race for this guy – he’s BORED with the roll down), so there is no excitement or drum roll except inside my brain, where fireworks are going off. I’m having trouble thinking, “Did he actually say NEITHER was taken, oh my god he did say that, it’s me, I got it I got it I GOT IT.” “Yowzah” I shout out loud as he starts my name and I run up to grab my certificate and break out a beatific beaming smile.
Now, of course, I have to go thru the rigorously confusing registration process in order to lock in my spot. They give us a packet of stuff, including a product brochure, which a guy from some foreign country looks at, and starts filling out. It’s just an order form for T-Shirts, not the actual registration, for god’s sake! To do that we have to wander over to the table where people are paying their money for the opportunity to later sign up on line. (Like I said). The instruction sheet is ominous: “After 30 days from the date of your qualifying race your application will only be available on line at this specific link … [fractured your syntax, did you?] … Once your application becomes available online, you have only 15 days to complete your application or you will forfeit your slot …” I just got in by the skin of my teeth, and now they’re threatening to dump me? And on and on (the grim story of this process is found here). In any event, what I have to do now is find the place to pay $485 (check, cash or money order only) so I can get my highly secret and most valuable Certificate Number, which will be my secret code to actually register for the damn thing.
For the past five years, I have been taking with me to every Ironman a now-tattered envelope containing a blank check and a passport photo. Back in the day, you needed to submit a photo when you registered, so they could check it against the you who registered, and the you who showed up at the race. Seems some people were paying other faster racers for qualifying spots, either just for the $, or because the qualifier already had a spot. And they so want to be “fair” in their allocation of slots. Don’t talk to me about E-Bay auctions, the “CEO Challenge”, and sob stories for the NBC Ironman show. If Kona slots are so precious and sacred, why do they throw those things around? Anyway, I’d always assumed lightning might strike and I could get in. But it took four years of doing the miles to translate my speed into the endurance to get near a roll down. I faithfully took the check and photo (now no longer needed) to each race, and felt a little sad when it went home unused to rest in the “Triathlon” folder in my drawer again. This morning, after looking at the results, I ALMOST went to the awards lunch without it, figuring I had no chance and why carry around the symbol of my frustration? But I tucked it into my shirt pocket at the last minute, thinking, hey, you’ve been dreaming this long, don’t stop yet.
So here I am, waiting with a couple of other lucky souls at the round table where Paula Newby-Fraser and Sherry Bramblett are ready to take my money. Paula (natch) has more people lined up by her, so I sit by Sherry, fill out the check, give her my particulars, and snatch the precious certificate, with the magic number “IM-0108” on it. This I won’t ever forget or lose, I vow, until I’m old and grey (which I already am, so who knows?)
I float out of the ballroom, and wander around the Monona Terrace, knowing I have to talk to SOMEBODY, but not knowing whom. I make it to my car in the parking structure, overlooking the lake. It is WARM here, still, even in the shade. I drop off my stuff, cruise into the corner to catch a breeze, and whip out my cellphone.
Cheryl first. I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times now, and it’s always the same, but this time, it’s extra special, because I’ve already told her the result, and she’s got NO IDEA what I’m about to say, which is something on the order of “Guess what, we’re going to KONA!”, and then, of course, I well up with a lump in my throat, and she’s so happy to hear it, she knows more than anyone what this means to me. I go on through Shaine in Connecticut, and Cody in Seattle, and Leigh in Cardiff, and they’re all there, and they all want to come. I realise that a big part of why I’m so happy is that I get to be an excuse for anyone who wants to come to the island of Hawaii and have a big party. Annie, of course, is in school, so when I get back inside, I sit down and log in to the free wireless in the Center, to let her in on the secret. Then I remember the South Sound Tri Club, to whom I’d sent the race report, and give them an update:
“Well, the roll down gods shined on me this time, and I’m going to the Big Dance in Kona, 2006.
Thanks to everyone who has helped and supported me this year as I’ve gunned for this spot, especially Andy, Richard, and Don Hoover. Also, thanks to Tom Herron and Pat and Joan for believing in and encouraging me over the years.
After yesterday, at least I know what the conditions will be like – the IM gurus all said the conditions were more than “Kona-like” – gusty winds and temps up to 94F.”
Next, I head to the Ironman Store, before they break it down and head for home. I snag a Finisher’s vest, and scoot downstairs to the photo shop. They have shut down and are packing for home, but I talk the head clerk into showing me my shots. I buy a bike pic, and pass on the finish line – who wants to see his worst time ever.
Down here in the soon-to-be empty meeting room, which faces floor to ceiling windows right at lake level, I call Cheryl up again to try to mellow down. The photo folks are carting their boxes out the door at the opposite end of the room, and the reps for the next meeting are moving through, planning where to put their tables and charts. The carpet and drapes mute this all to whispers, and Cheryl pops on the line.
“You know”, she says, “I’m thinking how lucky our kids are to have seen you go all the way through this. They were all really too young to see you working your way to become Medical Director, what it took in terms of luck, and opportunity and perseverance and ambition. This time, they’ve seen you go from nothing – you know, we all went up there to Goodman that New Year’s day when you did your first run. And saw how hard you had to work to become a runner, and how disciplined you had to be to train for an Ironman. They saw your ambition grow, and heard you announce your plans and your goals. Went through all the successes and failures up to now. And this seems so perfect a way to get in, because, really, most good things have more than a little luck behind them. You worked hard, you had your goal, and then you had your luck, too. I hope they all learn something from this.”
I sure have.