Ironman Arizona 2014 Race Report

“Head down … empty mind … stabilize bike…try not to think how much longer this will last.”

This year, I’ve spent far too many hours in just that mindset. Three IMs, three bike rides into 20+ mph winds. US 95, Queen K, Beeline – they each had different names, but all felt the same, a mind numbing grind. There’s something about spending prolonged time into a wind that uncouples effort from power output. I think, for me at least, a lighter, older rider, it’s because I’m constantly making micro-adjustments in my posture to keep the bike stable. That seems to wear out my legs without actually transmitting direct power to the pedals, resulting in a much slower time for both the bike and the run.

Add a hill – on each of these three courses, the worst winds were felt while going uphill – and the race becomes a cruel joke, endless setup without a punch line.

It was somewhere between MP 80 and 85, through the Scenic View/Donkey Crossing section at about mile 95 of the Kona bike ride, that I broke down and admitted, “I am not having any fun. I don’t like this at all.” I’d wandered into a wilderness of metaphors, feeling as if I were on a merry-go-round, a roller coaster, or maybe a Ferris wheel, or some bizarro combination of all three. Not the bike ride itself, but a deeper despair – I’d been on an Ironman Ferris merry-go coaster for ten years, and couldn’t find a way off. Up and down, around and round. I’d hopped on the first time I qualified to race in Hawaii. Then, every year, every race, became about, “How am I going to get back?”

At first, it was fun. From a roll down spot in 05, to a first place in 06, more firsts, course records, a total of 9 KQs in all, many of them featuring intense efforts and demanding races to catch someone in front, or stay in front. But last month, I determined I had to get off. One last race, Ironman Arizona, and then I would do a hard reboot of my goals and aspirations, is what I told myself.

It could have been the usual feelings we all get some time during race day: “Just let me finish this race, and I swear, I’ll never do another one.” But that emotion usually dissipates somewhere around the finish line, and we ramp up for another go. This time, though, the feeling didn’t go away, and I knew that this IM AZ would be a turning point of some sort for me, an opportunity afterwards, no matter the outcome, to wind the clock again.

But first, I had to race.

My race really started at bike check-in, 2 PM on Saturday. While there were ~40 men registered in the 65-69 AG, only one might provide me with any competition. We’ll call him “Junior”, since that’s how his name ends. In Tempe, 2009, he came off the bike 20 minutes ahead of me. I’d easily run him down, as he was suffering from an ankle injury which subsequently required surgery in 2010. 2011, he won his AG at the World Duathlon Champs, and followed that with 2nd place in Kona. So he was the real deal. When I checked his bike spot (and his T1 and T2 bags), it wasn’t there. Same thing race morning, no #909. Hmm… disturbing. I’d had the same “problem” in CDA, no real competition, without which, I just don’t go as hard/fast.

Time out: what about pride, testing my fitness, honoring my training self? Yeah, I guess that’s a potential motivator. But, remember, I’m on the Kona merry-go-round, where the big deal is getting to the Big Dance. It’s so very hard to keep digging out the motivation, race after race, year after year.

I reflect on things Peter Reid and Mark Allen have said. (Not that I’m comparing myself to them as an IM athlete, just that their words seemed to resonate with my feelings.)

Reid is one of the top four men in IM history, along with Dave Scott, Mark Allen, and Craig Alexander. In the late ‘90s and early ‘00s, he waged some epic battles with Tim DeBoom, each of them winning twice. Reid won in ’98 and ’00, but in ’01, DeBoom ran him down. Afterwards, he talked about how he didn’t know if he ever wanted to feel that tortured again, as he felt in the last few miles of the marathon. The following year, he simply stopped running along Ali’i, when he passed by his condo, and went inside. It looked like he had exhausted his ability to tap his deepest, darkest sources of power. It was just so hard, and he didn’t know if he could go, or more precisely, wanted to go to the well another time. After that race, he did in fact win once more, and place second twice. He came to the point of quitting – he actually announced his retirement – but realised, he had not yet finished his Ironman journeys.

Mark Allen’s story is well known, how he strived for six years to overcome Dave Scott, even while winning every other race at every distance. Finally, he managed his first win, and gained another five, never losing again. He stopped racing when, as he said, he felt there was no longer a reason compelling him to compete.

Once again, as at IM CDA earlier this year, I figured I could “race” at a leisurely pace, really a recovery day pace, and still have a 20-30 minute cushion on the competition. It’s just so easy to say, “Why work any harder than I have to”?

Well, pride. I want to prove to myself what I can do. But I’ve already done that here on this course; I have yet to do that to my satisfaction in Hawaii. So the goal today was: get to Hawaii. Then, next year, for the first time since 2006, I will have IM Hawaii as my A+ race, training all the year’s efforts towards doing well there. I need to crack the Kona code, not turn myself inside out one more time simply getting there.

So, that was a good frame of mind for slouching along. But there were three points in the race when I was aroused out of my torpor, enough to feel like I was racing.

#1: Coming off the Beeline the second time, I was passed by an OF, #910. This would have made him an AWA, one number higher than Junior – was he in the same AG? I hadn’t really checked out all the numbers that closely, all I knew was he looked old and he was biking a lot faster than I was. He also looked a lot beefier than I am, and I told myself, “if he can out run me after biking like this than more power to him,” and let him go. Turns out he was the 70-74 champ, and he ran 40 minutes slower than me.

Point # 2: Coming out of T2, I had just finished with my Go Bag, and was running past the Special Needs section, at the end of which stood the EN tent. Rich, Tim Cronk, and JT Thompson all popped out to give me advice/info:

Tim: “You’re number one off the bike.”

Rich: “Just stay steady; you’ve got all day to do this.”

JT: “You’re 20 seconds up off the bike.”

Finally! Some motivation. Even so, Rich’s words were what I followed. I just tootled along at my mid Z1 HR, hitting 10 minute miles, not worrying at all about what might be happening behind me. I have a lot of confidence in my run on race day, and am willing to ramp it up to whatever pace is needed for a win in that situation. I’ve done it many times before, I’ll do it again.

#2A, again at the EN tent on the way back, now at mile 4.

Tim (Excited): You’re 4 minutes up on second place [my T2 was 3:28, his was 7:46], and he looks like he’s draggin’ You got this, just keep it up. BUT DON’T JUST MAIL IT IN!”

Rich (Laid back as always): “Stay steady. Just do your thing.”

And that was pretty much my race until about mile 22. I never entered racing mode, just kept going as if I were on an easy long run.

#3: I was taking my first extended walk in the middle of mile 22, when another OF, all decked out in white calf sleeves, white wings and arm sleeves, with skinny calves and sunken cheek bones – a real runner, who certainly looked old. The next couple of miles were: under the freeway, up the “hill”, then back down and under the freeway again, with two aid stations along the way. I decided, well, let’s see what we’ve both got here. I slooowly started ramping up my speed, and began to catch him by the underpass. There’s an S curve there, and I took the inside line on the second sweep, passing him. I skipped the aid station, running hard all the way thru (remember, only 3 miles left here). Then, a minute later, we hit the hill, and I kicked it up a gear. “If he can keep up with me up this hill, then back down, props to him, he deserves to beat me.” Down the hill, I ran by my wife Cheryl with a thumbs up, and skipped the aid station there. I kept up a fair effort all the way to the Priest Street Bridge, and then eased way down as the bridge went down hill. A good two mile surge ought to do the trick, I figured.

And it did, until the finish chute. In the last 50 meters, as I’m running at a good clip towards the bright lights, I feel on my left a presence – I look, it’s Mr White Sleeves. Oh, no you don’t! I kick up. He returns the speed and inches ahead. Oh, man, what are you doing, you better not be in my AG! I pull even, and we cross the line seemingly together.  [Photos show me over first, but in the results, we’re both given place #715, same time.] I turn my head back to find him. I want to shake his hand, give him a smile, but he averts his gaze, stony-faced. OK, then.

The finisher catches me. I’ll need about a minute to recover from that interval, during which time Rich finds me and takes over, getting me in quick order foil wrap (it’s cold!), Chocolate Milk, a picture for the EN crew, and a visit with Tim, Heather, JT, and Cheryl. I’ve won, comfortably. It turns out by finish line nemesis was 55, and from Iceland, maybe explaining his stony visage?

Anyway, I’m back on the Kona merry-go-coaster, but this time with a new attitude. I’m going to make Hawaii the focus of my year, and not worry about getting back there again until after that race is over. Having reached Medicare Age, it turns out that the competition thins out remarkably. Out of 38 entrants, 11 DNS, and 7 DNF. And those who did finish were mainly just surviving, not racing. Only two of us went under 5 hours for the run; #11-19 finished between 15:45 and 16:45; and my transition total of 8:36 was 4 minutes faster than anyone else, with most of the top 10 between 13-16 minutes.

Having been at this game for 15 years now, and turning 65, I think I can begin to take a different approach than going all out, every chance I get. First of all, there are now 16 IMs in North America. And, realistically, there are fewer than 10 men in this hemisphere between the ages of 63 and 68 who are as fast or faster than I am. So I should be able to qualify easily if I want to, and turn my attention solving that race in October.