I didn’t see Cheryl again until the start of the second (of 3) loops on the run. Coming back under the New Mill Ave bridge, she ran up to me in the shade of the KMPG building, hollering, “Cody says you’re in second!”
The crowd is screaming in here; most of the spectators are massed around the bridges and along the lake to the east, on the shady terrace where the run course loops back on itself at miles 3.5 and 8.5 (and again on each subsequent loop), affording a sight of “your athlete” at least six times during the 26 mile run.
“How far back am I?” I yell back to her. She starts running along with me. I don’t realise that the fact that she can keep up with me is a sign of either (a) how slow I am going or (b) how fast she is trotting. She hesitates, and keeps jogging beside me as I squeeze her hand.
I repeat my query “How far back?” I’m yelling, because all systems are revved up after nearly 9 hours of racing.
Finally, she lets it go: “You left transition about 20 minutes behind him.” I don’t ask who; she wouldn’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. The information goes in my brain, and just as quickly leaves. She can’t keep pace, and I motor on, pulled as much by the force of the crowd as by my own internal metronome.
At this point in my Ironman at Tempe, I’m racing because I’m racing. As usual, the clocks have betrayed me. I left transition out onto the run, under a digital time clock which clearly read “6:58” and some-odd seconds. For the past hour or more, I’d pondered that time, as it didn’t seem to jibe with what I saw on my watch, nor in my run splits. It seemed too slow, based on my 1:10 swim and 5:30 bike, with 8 minutes in transitions and a 4 minute stint in the penalty box at about mile 111.5 (out of 112).
It just didn’t add up; it seemed like I should be at 6:52 or 3. Or maybe the clock was set for the pro race, which started 10 minutes before us, which would put me at 6:48 leaving T2. So the time I thought my watch showed was right in the middle, and if I stayed on pace, I would run either under 4 hours, or over 4:10, neither of which made sense given the times I was hitting for each mile – about 9 minutes and 15 seconds. So a 20 minute gap on the leader was just way too much information for me too handle at this time, apparently.
Besides, I had clearly stated my goal for this race: “Break the course record for the 60-64 AG”. Notice the Clintonesque phrasing: “Break”, not “Set”. The record was 11 hours, 9 minutes and change; so sub 11:09 was my goal. If indeed I was starting the run at 6:58, then I needed 4:10 to hit my target. And if I kept up my pace, I would meet my goal. THAT’S ALL THAT MATTERED. So I didn’t really care if I got a Kona slot or won the race; my finish time was all I cared about.
As I headed out of the transition area, and away from the bulging crowd, I had more time to settle in. Between miles 9 and 10, there is more shade from the Phoenix sun, searing even though low in the sky late in November. Another building blocks the horizon to the south, and then some trees incongruously lining Rio Salado guide us into the aid station. But first, I hit the marker for Mile 18, where Rich and Patrick have silk screened an endurance nation logo on the blacktop.
I chose my new coaches because they have exactly the same philosophy about race execution as I do. They distill it to Four Keys, but I’ll use my own words here. First, triathlons are not individual events, swimming, biking, then running. A triathlon is a single race, with a single finishing time. And for those of us who are racing, that final time is the ONLY one that counts. Everything I do – what I eat, how much and when I drink, how hard I swim and bike, and the pace I run each mile – is subsumed to that final goal. Second, you have to have a REALLY GOOD reason with a VERY SPECIFIC goal to succeed at an Ironman. Amorphous, feel good targets just don’t have enough staying power or specific imagery to be of much value when enduring all day at racing intensity. Third, IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RUN. That means two things. Most of the time, the person who has the first or second fastest marathon will win the race. And, the fast marathons are achieved not by blazing speed, but by slowing down less than the other guys. Finally, to not slow down, the effort level during the run has to constantly be raised; the racer is a boiling frog, who by the end, doesn’t realise how hard he is actually going, until, in the end, he’s totally cooked.
So, as I pass their logo, reminded that I am allowed to “start racing” at Mile 18, and everything prior to that is preparation for racing, I think back to the swim, the warm-up for the day. I’ve been nursing (and keeping quiet about) a rotator cuff pain for the past 6+ weeks, wondering if I would survive another 2.4 miles with a left shoulder which hurt every time I lifted it out of the water after the first ten minutes or so. Today – nothing. Not only didn’t I think about it, I didn’t feel it, and still don’t.
We cross the Priest Road bridge, the 5th of 12 bridge crossings in this maze of a marathon course, and I turn right, heading down hill. It’s almost 4 PM, and I whip my visor back around to the front, as the sun is nearing the horizon up front off my right shoulder. Another aid station, another decision: water, coke or Gatorade? I’d started with water the first 2 or 3 times, then alternated between Coke and G since then. Tough to mix them, even though I usually take two cups and walk as I drink. ANother thing my coaches support. It wasn’t until I started strategically walking (the same phrase they use) the aid stations that my marathons became “fast”, and I became a real racer, competing for the top spots no matter where I went.
Left up the parking lot hill, under the freeway, and out onto the south bound Mill Ave bridge, back into the crowds again. Down through transition and out onto the back side of the second lap.
And so it goes, first along the lake, then over a bridge, then up a hill, rinse, repeat every two miles. I hit mile 11, and again mile 14-15, previous places in years past when I have felt a little down, and taken my pace down a notch – “hit a bad patch” as they say. Never happened this year. I just kept grinding along, by now pulled along with the mass of runners crowding the little paths, some on their first, others on the second, and a few finishing up their final lap. At about mile 16, I see the Coaches at a spot where there is both shade and a chance to see runners coming and going. They acknowledge me, let me know “You’re right on target.” Quiet, understated, but valuable nonetheless.
Up the Papago hill, the first two loops, there is a guy with a sign “You are a running machine”, who cheers encouragement at each of us. I miss him the third time around, because although I do feel like a machine, I really need to be reminded here at mile 23. It would be so easy to slow down; I’d still probably get my 11:09, but there is this evil taskmaster somewhere in my skull, whom I’ve never met, who won’t let me do that. I am a running machine.
Half a mile later, I zoom downhill under the freeway into the “Pirate” aid station (they are all dressed like pirates, I finally realize the third time through.
Cheryl is standing there with her Aunt Glenn and they both have humongous grins. Raising one finger each, their hands look to me like those foam fingers at a football game as they shout, “You’re leading by 8 and a half minutes now. You’re number ONE.”
Although I’m ready for anything at this point, I still can’t quite believe it, so I make them repeat it. Still running, I fist pump, holler “Yeah” over and over, and slow down for some Coke. To celebrate, I walk a few extra steps this time, start up again, and realise that with less than 3 miles to go, the only way I;’m going to lose is if I start walking. Any old jog will do from here on home.
But the brutal monsters who runs my races doesn’t let that happen. I just stay at the pace the day has given me, and meet up with a couple of other third lappers near the mile 25 marker. They are almost half my age, and so they pick it up a bit faster at the end. We each space out nicely for an individual finish photo, as I take the last, unkind hill up to Rio Salado and the finish line.
10:56:42. A minute slower than last year, but still 13 minutes under the record. And sub 11 hours at age 60. Two weeks ago, two other guys did about 10:56 at IM Florida, and another fellow went about 10:45 last year there, but that’s it, ever, in the US. So I guess I’m now an elite age-grouper for real.
Here’s how you feel at that level:
- If someone were to put a gun to my head, and said, “Run!”, I couldn’t do it.
- Ecstatic at meeting my goals of winning 2 IMs with two course records in one year. Just totally out of my mind with self-satisfaction and humility.
- As if to remind me to STAY humble, my stomach throws a few dry heaves up at me while I’m resting, trying to find my voice an my breathe.
So; back to Kona again. I don’t know any more if that’s a bonus, or a penalty. “The good news is, you get to go to the Big Island again. The bad news is, you have to race there.”
But first, a good long rest. It’s been a long season, and a great year.