The Roll Down is one of my favorite rituals at Ironman races. Less than 15 minutes long, it provides a microcosm of the whole IM roller coaster of emotions. “Roll Down” refers to the allocation of unclaimed qualifying slots available at each official Ironman race around the world (there are 24.)
Each of the 23 regional Ironman races is allotted qualifying “slots” for entry into the Ironman World Championships, held annually on the second Saturday of October along the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii. Say 100 slots are available at the race. There are distributed amongst the various age groups based on how many racers in each age group. If an age group has 10% of the total racers, it will receive 10 slots. Every age group in which one or more people start the race receives a minimum of 1 slot.
So in that age group with ten slots, the first 10 finishers, at 9 AM the morning after the race, have the option to sign up for the Kona race. If any of them do not sign up, those unused slots are then “rolled down” to the next finisher at the 11 AM event. “you must be present to win”. If your name is called three times, and you don’t answer “YES!”, it rolls down to the next person.
I’ve seen slots roll down almost to the bottom of the list, but usually, they’re gone to the first available athlete. Anything can happen, and emotions run high. Friends want to see their fast buddies make it in. The audience applauds everyone who gets lucky. Tears flow when, hoping against hope, someone two or three places down gets the call from the gods. Disappointment is palpable among those who, finishing on the wrong side of the bubble one place out of the automatic qualifying group, hear the words, “All slots were taken, none are available,” monotoned by Marc Roy, who presides at all of these as Ironman’s head timer.
Immediately after finishing my race at Coeur d’Alene, still in the finisher’s area after shucking of the overly solicitous catchers who wanted to baby me into the medical tent, I sat down at the bottleneck through which all finishers come to get food, massages, etc. I was hoping to catch sight of Chip, the second place finisher in my 60-64 age group, and congratulate him on sticking with his race to the end, and thank him for pushing me. I also wanted to let him know I would not be taking the Kona slot, as I had already qualified at Arizona last year.
But after 13 minutes, I still hadn’t seen him, and I wanted to get going with my evening of misery and recovery.
Next morning, getting in line to check out my finisher’s photo, Rob Ladewig strolled up in a bright red shirt with vive lines of big white text, all caps, on front, reading “TRAIN, TRAIN, TRAIN, TRAIN, TRAIN”. Smiling, he first congratulated me, and I returned the favor, as he had clearly improved his run pacing strategy, slowing down very little this year compared to his last tow races against me. He still needs to learn how to swim, though.
He launched into a story from his recent race, Ironman St. George (Utah), 7 weeks earlier. I soon figured out he was trying to explain how he had missed out on a roll-down slot, but not in the usual way.
Turns out, Rob had finished 4th according the the initial results published on line. But the first place finisher was actually listed in the wrong age group, and Rob didn’t find this out until the awards ceremony, which is AFTER the roll down. So Rob didn’t go to the roll down, assuming that at 4th place, he had no chance for the one slot in that AG.
But (he’s really third, remember), the winner (Joe Anderson, the guy who let 4 people pass him buy at mile 23 while he snoozed on someone’s lawn in the 06 IM CDA, the first race I won, on a day when the temp hit 95F and we all just gave about gave up) did not take the slot. AND, a second slot was added to the AG, in a complicated formula used in the not infrequent circumstance when no one finishes or takes a slot in the oldest age group. So Rob, who was 3rd, would have had an assured slot at the roll down, had he been there. Bummer! And he’s still smiling, but clearly hoping that ol’ Chip, whom he just couldn’t run down (more power to Chip!), doesn’t show this morning.
I suggest that he might not, as he is a local, and does not do IMs very often – this was his second – so he might not either (a) know I already have a slot, so the 60-64 one is his for the taking and/or (b) know about how the roll down process works, or that it exists at all.
As another aside, that St. George slot rolled all the way down to 7th, taken by Ben Ewers. Now, Mr. Ewers was leading the IM at Arizona last November, riding 19 minutes faster than me and having just that big a lead over me starting the run. But (he claims) his running is hampered by an on-going calf or hamstring injury, and I ended up smashing him by over 30 minutes at that race, taking his Kona slot away from him. So he may feel justice was served in his case; it was deferred for Rob, whom I also beat there.
Now, I’m pushing for Rob, who is truly a Nice Guy, and certainly deserves to go to Kona. After I score my finisher shot, Cheryl go over the the tent where the roll down happens. We hook up with Dick Nordquest, whom Rob passed for 3rd during the run, and who was harassing me as always on the bike before bailing on the marathon. I told him Rob was there, and al about his tale of woe and intrigue at St. George, and would certainly snag the spot if #2 didn’t show. Dick, who’s gone to Kona 21 times, and always seems to find a way in, didn’t seem to worried – after all, he’s got another chance at Canada in August.
So, Chip is not there, Rob gets his slot, and his family is jubilant. Dick may be miffed, but he doesn’t show it. And Benjamin Ewers, Jr. is smiling somewhere after his St.George coup. We head towards the awards banquet.
That’s ANOTHER little IM ritual I’m growing to love. The top five in each age group are asked to line themselves up off to the side of the stage, to be trooped up by Mike Reilly, given our plaques, photographed and applauded, then back down for a little schwag.
It used to be we had to organize ourselves, but now they’ve got a whole army of folks with pre-printed signs telling us just when and how to arrange ourselves. It’s a great chance to get in a little chatting and trash talking, and make a few new friends.
For instance, there’s Dick Weinbrandt, who’s five years older than me, and who usually wins or places second. He’s a lean, twinkly looking guy, either an ex-hippie or a very successful entertainment industry type, I can’t tell which, with a good looking head of hair, very little grey, set into a 9 inch long pony tail in the back. He’s ignored me over the years, despite my attempts to talk with him on the bike when we meet up (which happens less often now as he’s starting to slow down,), but this time he acknowledges me, and I introduce myself, we shake hands, and in the couple of minutes we have, I get to learn a bit about his approach to training for the 4 big races he’s going to do this fall between Oct 9 and Nov 29: Kona, IM Florida, Half Ironman Champs in FL, and IM Cozumel. He lives in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, so he claims it’s all a plan to keep warm for as long as possible.
Amazingly, Chip IS at the awards ceremony. When I let on as how I already had a slot for Kona, and it rolled down to Rob, he came up with three different responses: he didn’t know the slot was free; he didn’t want to go to Kona unless he won it outright, and he … just seemed embarrassed by the whole thing, and was trying to cover up his miscue. We welcomed him into our little clan anyway.