PRE RACE PARANOIA
An Ironman is a bit like a wedding: “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue…”. I’ve got a lot of old rituals to keep, and I’m always trying out something new. Often, one forgets things, and borrows from friends, and I don’t know anyone who is perpetually upbeat about the whole affair – feeling down is part of the game.
Even though I’ve been at this game for 8 years now, the only things “old” in my equipment stash are my bike and shoes: both entering their seventh season. Of course the bike now sports new aerobars and wheels, and a new drive train (chain rings, bottom bracket, cassette), but I think this is the old part of my equation. Much of my attire is “new”: my red racing visor, sunglasses, tri top and shorts, runnings shoes and socks, biking “cooling” sleeves, and wet suit have each seen only 1-2 races before this Ironman. I’m using a coaching service (“borrowed” workouts?) for the first time in prep for Ironman Hawaii. And I’m still in my first year of my secret weapon, my Altipower hypoxicator, which uses blue soda lime crystals to suck out carbon dioxide in its rebreathing apparatus.
An Ironman is different from other triathlons, not only because of the daunting distance, but also because it introduces two or three new disciplines, in addition to swim, bike, run, and the transitions between them. Pacing, hydration, and nutrition are the keys to success on race day. Because every body’s needs for these are different, and vary depending on weather and terrain, one can’t always rely on experience to get them right on race day. Each Ironman is a learning opportunity, and the subtle balance among effort, drinking, and eating, so easy to understand and experiment with in shorter races, becomes an all-consuming obsession for the Ironman.
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Weather service predictions start to gain a little bit of accuracy about 6-12 days out. So the final two weeks before an Ironman, we all become weather seers, obsessing over the subtly changing forecasts as the day comes closer. By the weekend before, it became obvious that the unsettled, cooler weather regime of the previous 5 weeks would start to break down soon, and give way to a high pressure influence, raising temperatures above seasonal norms, and providing no cloud cover for our race. By Tuesday before, the back room discussion at the NWS confirmed that race day temps would be somewhere between 87 and 92 F, with the peak of the heat wave probably coming Sunday evening into Monday. This would also mean a morning wind in our faces as we pedaled back into town of the last 15 miles each loop of the bike leg. Those not prepared for this or understanding its effects on one’s race plans would risk a serious blow up starting about mile 85 in the bike, which would put their marathon times at grave risk.
While I am no fan of heat for this race, I have learned to make peace with it. Once again, as last year in Madison, I would be ready. I would not be one of those who pulled up short on the bike, or, worse let the heat conquer my concentration on the run. A whole series of obvious little tricks, systematically applied, would be my allies here. Water showers at every bike aid station. Strict attention to taking in about a quart of fluid every hour. Ice and sponges at every opportunity on the run. Little things like that were going to make a big difference on this day. Sun tan lotion in all the right places also helps. (Lesson #1 from this Ironman: when you switch from a one piece to a two piece race outfit, your lower back might get exposed – suntan lotion is needed there, just as much as on the nose and neck and backs of the shoulders.)
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The days before an Ironman flow by almost as an out of body experience. For most of us, we’re in a vacation environment, yet unable to relax and enjoy ourselves. I remember at the start of my family’s cross country bike trip, the night before feeling a sense that I was about to totally immerse myself into an unknown, hermetically sealed process, which would totally consume my every waking (and sleeping) hour. While this was a voluntary undertaking, trying to herd our 5-8 member group across 3400 miles on bikes with an RV in tow over two months seemed impossible to contemplate. Even one day at a time was hard to do. My sense of excitement and anticipation was overpowering – both the process and the end point required that we solve as yet unknown problems, and that we pay attention to mundane details with a religious fervor. Simply procuring and devouring food required the logistics of an army. Add to that keeping the RV gassed, watered and sewered, making sure bike tires were pumped, rendezvous were arranged and met, heat was dealt with, a place to sleep at night was found and arranged – the list of tasks was endless and Sisyphean. I know now that we finished, but at the start, while I was sure our goal was doable, I knew that its accomplishment would require total attention to the exclusion of the outside world, such as reading newspapers, paying bills, and learning math.
An Ironman, while only one day, requires much the same narrowing of focus, with the added thrill of knowing that your body is going to get seriously abused to the point of collapse. And you don’t really know how it will all come out.
So you turn to the only source of succor available – the other athletes. Knowing people who are actually racing, as opposed to friends/family who are on the other side of the looking glass, is a godsend. I’ve come to enjoy listening to all their tales of anxiety-spiked confidence ahead of time, and their delicious, devious explanations of just how their day went, and how it did or didn’t meet their expectations and goals. Everybody’s got a story at the Ironman, and they all want to tell it.
So I tried asking people what their plan was.
Exaggerated cool: “I’m just going to see what the day brings, try to enjoy myself, think of it as just a long training day.”
Obsessed with details: “What do you put in your special needs bag? I’m trying to figure out whether I need another 600 calories there, or if I can just go with the bananas and Gatorade for the whole bike ride. “I don’t really like Gu, I prefer PowerGel.”
Worried about missing the One Secret: “I saw that new aero water bottle people put behind the seat. Do you think that’s faster than a bottle between your aerobars?”
Angry at the world: “Why do they have us take our special needs bags all the way down THERE?”
Excessively Kona conscious: “Last year it took a 10:19 to qualify – with this heat and the higher numbers in the my age group, I think they’ll be one or two more slots. I just missed the roll down by two last year.”
And when they turned the question on me, here’s what I had to say, (somewhat sheepishly): “Well, I’ve already qualified for Kona at Wisconsin last year, and just did Boston, so I really only started training the third week in April. I’m only 7 weeks into my actual training program, and I’m just taking a one-week taper, so I’m going to experiment with some pacing and nutrition ideas for the heat.” Translation: I have no idea what I’m going to do, I hope I can find the motivation to actually Race when the hammer comes down in the marathon.
THE START
“Hey, Pat! You found me!” Among 2270 wetsuit-clad triathletes, what are the odds I would see my closest friend among them at the water’s edge just five minutes before the gun was due to go off? Probably quite good, as I’d also seen Richard, another compatriot from the South Sound Tri Club, coming out of the water just as I went in for my warm-up. An Ironman is really just a mobile small town, ratcheted into existence for 3 or 4 days every year.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Pat grinned back at me through his goggles and his greying mustache. He kept smiling. “You wouldn’t tell me where your secret starting spot was, but when I was out in the water, I looked back and saw this … gap in the crowd right here.”
‘Right here’ was about 20 yards from the far left edge of the start line, which extended several hundred meters to the right along the shoreline of Lake Coeur d’Alene. I had brought Pat out here yesterday morning, for his orientation swim, and explained about the “tri-modal” appearance of the start: a bunch at the far left, on the direct buoy line to the first turn, 800 meters away – these would be the ones who thought they had a chance to go real fast, and wanted the shortest route to keep their time down; a bunch in the middle, those who wanted to get a good start, but didn’t want to be in the melee along the buoy line; and a bunch at the far left, those who were simply afraid of being caught up in the chaos of a mass start in an Ironman Triathlon. The folks in bunches 2 and 3 hoped they would be free of turmoil as the gun went off, but their start would be cruel joke on them.
But Pat and I were starting in my secret spot, where few swimmers dared to go. Given the correct trajectory, our first 2-400 meters would be relatively calm, as long as we kept up a brisk pace. I’m sorry, but I won’t get any more specific than this about my spot, as it’s worked for me two years in a row, and I don’t want it to get too crowded in the future.
“No helicopter”, I shouted at Pat, who looked quizzically in the sky. “Usually at one of these things, they’ve got a helicopter overhead at this point, for pictures and TV shots. Makes me think I’m at a Really Big Race, when there’s a helicopter at the start.” What we got was the national anthem, a few quick breaths, and hand shake, and “Good Luck” to each other. Then the cannon boomed.