In my race reports, I go more for the story than for providing all the facts. I ended that story with me beaming into the lights as I approached the finish line. I think a little post race assessment and clearing up the loose ends is in order, but without the literary qualities of my actual report.
Who was that guy I was running with at the end, and why isn’t he in my finish photo? That was (?Father) Laughlin O’Shea, from Chicago, 36 years old, who lists his occupation as “Clergy”. I don’t want to assume, but Irish=Catholic, except of course among the orange. Anyway, that explains why he so graciously held back at the end while I got my moment of glory. We congratulated each other with a warm handshake in the finishing chute. There’s a short but strong bond which forms at that point in such a long race among two dudes who have felt like quitting a mile early, but pulled each other to the end. It’s especially helpful, due to the nature of the finish at IM AZ.
A three loop course. One of the best feelings in the world is finishing the third loop, and getting to turn left towards the finish while all others are going straight along the lake, slogging through another 8.5 or 17 miles. We turn off in the middle of a large crowd of spectators, bright lights, almost a festive party. Runner’s high, not unlike finishing at Boston. But then, the worst of times: Instead of the finishing chute, we enter an uphill parking lot, unlit and deserted. exit the parking lot, still up hill, hearing a little noise now, but still no crowd or lights. Our pupils dilate to adjust, then turn left and into the klieg lamps and the stands. You can’t see a thing, no way to check you time on the clock, or even see the crowd. But noise and the race announcer pull you forward; all I hear is Mike Reilly saying with enthusiasm, “From Gig Harbor, Washington!”
Then what did you do? The first thing I did was exult as you see in my finisher photo. The next thing I did was kind of collapse to my knees at the finish. But I got up, went through the motions of releasing my timing chip, getting a medal, hat, and shirt, and a mylar blanket, and trying to convince the catchers that I was OK, just needed a chair. I sat down, looked around for Cheryl, who usually parks herself just past the finish, so I could hug and kiss with her – Mission Accomplished, Back to Kona, Winner Again, and all that – but she’s nowhere to be seen. So I sit down, and wait for Mr. Rock Tri to finish.
Poor guy, you beat him out of a Kona slot, why do you want to rub it in? Well, I recognize I am competitive and all, but I also recognize there is no competition without competitors, and also that we are all human, and have just done something very hard. I do triathlons in part to make friends, and what better opportunity than when the endorphins and oxytocin are flowing at the end of an Ironman?
So I waited until the clock said 11:29 until I saw him bob into view. I got up, went over, touched his shoulder and shook his hand. I said thank you for the race. He asked if I were taking the Kona slot, and then commented on my EN shirt, saying he had checked out our web site and was looking into joining so he could learn how to race better. Honestly, I hope he does, and I hope he beats my course record next year! Really; I like to help people get better.
Turns out he’s from Virginia Beach, ex-military, and looking forward to retiring from his second career so he can have “more time to train”. I tell him he’ll just have more time to *rest*.
At the awards ceremony the next day, we learn that there are TWO Kona slots in our AG, so he gets to go after all; that makes my day, and we part hoping to see each other on the Big Island.
Then you went home and went to bed, right? No, actually I finally found Cheryl. After we did our hugs and kisses, she said, “Your lips are dry; are you sure you’re OK?” Well, I didn’t want to feel OK, I guess, because I went and found a volunteer to take me to the med tent. There, I lay down outside on the asphalt, tried to drink some broth at the direction of my minder, but basically felt totally out of it. My legs and arms and lips were numb, I did not want to move, and especially I did not want to sit up or stand up, and just generally had flashbacks from my accident and hospital stay last year.
So I just gave up and fainted. This made Cheryl freak out, as apparently my fainting involved some eye rolling and quivering, which she took to be a seizure. I got a liter of Lactated Ringer’s, some down time on a cot, and was quite perky after that.
We made it to Rula Bula down the street (an Irish pub type place) for a beer and sweet potato fries at the EN after party. I had a gay old time telling my amazing story of winning by running down someone who actually had a marathon time which was faster than mine, basking in the limelight, and congratulating all the others who had finished before and after me. A lot better than collapsing on a bed all alone, for sure.
What did you learn from this race? I still have a ways to go to get back to where I think I can be post-accident. Swimming is the most obvious. My forearms, especially the right, are still a little weak. And my “endurance”, my ability to sustain a good pace for a long time, seems to leave me after about 45-50 minutes, and I start flailing. I think I can work on both by some focussed swimming over the winter, paying attention especially to my catch and early pull (more stable and stronger), my turnover rate (faster), and my finish (more power). Biking was my strongest element, compared to others, but if I’m going to survive in Hawaii next October, I’ll need to get a tougher mental attitude about it, with a little bit more speed, and a lot more miles in the tank. And running – running, usually my strong suit, suffered in this race because I had a really bad plantar fascia pain about 5-6 weeks before the race. In the middle of the hard part of a 2.5 hour run, while going down hill, I just could not run any more because it hurt so bad. I limped home, eventually running a bit, shortening the run to an hour. The next morning, I couldn’t walk without a cane. I did no running, just limping, for the next week. Then for the remainder of the time, I dod NO speed work, stayed away from hills, and just ran at my long run/IM Marathon pace, mostly 45-60 minutes, one run of 12 miles, and overall, about 1/2 to 2/3rds of the running I would normally do. And every step hurt. I used ice, hot packs, stretching, focal massage, and things gradually improved, but I was still hurting on race day. Once the run portion got underway, though, the pain was gone. And afterwards, it hasn’t come back, but of course, I haven’t run yet. Nonetheless, I think I’m cured, and can start up training again for real in ten days, getting back to my speedy old self. I switched away from the shoes I had been using, and think the new ones are less intrusive, and part of why I got better.
So what’s next on tap for racing? I’ve trained for 22 Ironman races since Nov 2000, an average of 2/year. I even did two this year, after my accident. 2012, I will ONLY do the Hawaii Ironman on October 13th, along with yet-to-be determined shorter races. I’m going to see if I can have a little more fun with my fitness, try some mountain biking, spend a lot of time on the roads around Aspen again, and swim outside more. Then, “when I’m sixty-four”, I’ll try a couple of tough Ironmans, in St. George, Utah (May), and Cozumel (November). Then, 2013, I age-up to 65-69, and want to go for it again full bore, but I don’t know where yet.
Anyway, this race has been a door closing for me, the door which shuts behind me all the trauma I suffered Sept 18, 2010. I’m still not fully healed, and don’t expect to be for 1-3 more years, but it’s no longer on my mind as an issue in my life. I’m on to other things.