THE RUN
In T2, I’m feeling fairly good. I’ve been paying close attention to dousing myself with water fully at each aid station, taking in all my Hammer Gel and Perpetuum, dropping all my Race Caps and salt tabs, and topping up on Gatorade and water. I blast though my very favorite part of an Ironman, the moment when I take the contacts out of my eyes, and throw them away. As I turn out of the tent towards the run start mats, I see Even Evensen off to the left, getting his shoulders slathered with white sunblock lotion.
“Hey, Even, you still feeling good?”
“Al Truscott, is that you? I’m just so glad to be out here.”
“Well, see you down the road.” And I’m out the door. A half a mile later he comes by me, and asks, “Are you a runner, Al?”
Now, I’ve certainly never THOUGHT of myself as a runner, but, I decide to tell him the truth. The Whole Truth.
“I never ran a step until I was fifty.”
“Well, you look pretty good for starting so late.”
“My best stand alone marathon is 3:25, and I finished Boston just this past April.” Now, why am I telling him this? Do I really think I can have any effect on his performance if he knows my speed? I don’t know, maybe if he thinks he’s faster than me, he’ll blow himself up; and if he thinks he’s slower, he won’t try to catch me.
“I’m just doing the best I can; I’ve got all these pins in my back, and it makes me kind of stiff anymore when I start to open up.” He has caught up to me, and we’re arriving at an aid station, which he runs through, and I walk, as per plan.
But then at the next aid station, he’s slowed up, and I catch him again. While walking, then starting up the Ironman Shuffle, I get to telling him,
“You know, Even, you don’t have to worry about me; I’ve already got a Kona slot from Wisconsin. Really, to be honest, I’m here on only 7 weeks of training.” Now I’m really trying to psych him out? Or just being open, honest and friendly.
He asks if I’ve seen other people in our age group. I told him I was passed by one or two others on the bike. And that Richard Nordquest is usually somewhere along here, slightly ahead of me.
“Yeah, I think we’re about 4th or 5th.” I start to pull away from him for good – his stiff legged gait has one speed it seems, while I’m still in my warm-up mode. “Well, good luck, Al.”
“You too, Even.”
……….
Richard Nordquest has gone to Kona something like 18 times. Five years ago, at my second Ironman, he was on the podium, having gone about 10:35 and qualifying for Kona, while I did my personal best of 11:43, and was wondering how I would ever be as fast as those guys up there. Then, the last two years here at Coeur d’Alene, I passed him on the run somewhere in the first mile or two, after he would bike by me somewhere on the second lap.
I came up to him at mile 3 or 4. As I went by, I said, “Well, it took me a little longer to catch you this year.” He smiles as I float by, wondering, I guess, just who I am.
Then, through the neighborhoods, running in the 92F heat, pouring water on my head, ice down my shorts, sponges under my top, Gatorade and race and salt caps down my throat. Trying to stay in the race. Splitting 9:30 pretty steady to the Turnaround Hill (which I walk up).
On the way down, I saw Even and Richard walking up together – we all smiled and waved, and they wished me well. Now THAT’S a big boost – I get the feeling they think they have no chance to catch me.
Back into the neighborhoods, seeing Cheryl at the turn in, I smile, give her a hug and kiss, and tell her what I’ve said each time I’ve seen her, “I’m feeling good, feeling OK today” Meaning, I’m feeling like this is a race, even though it’s really supposed to be a Training Day.
But then about mile 10-11, as usual, I start to slow down. Not because I run any slower, but because I walk a bit more. Then, when I hit the shade at the start of the second lap, I really walk. A lot more. Almost 50/50 walk/run until the special needs. Then I completely stop in the shade, to change my socks and put on a new wrist band. The others are soaked.
I think, “Well, I guess this is it. I suppose I’m not racing anymore.” The decision feels good, feels right. After all, the Big Plan is Hawaii this year. I do NOT want to disrupt my ability to start big time training again within 2 weeks, so I don’t want to destroy myself with an all out race for no reason (I’ve already got a Kona slot, after all). I do have to start running again, as I’m going by the big crowds lining the Lake, and through downtown. Don’t want to embarrass myself in front of all those people.
……….
As I take the Sherman Ave uphill, I pass a 30-something guy in a white tank top with “Chipchase” on the back. It must be an Army shirt, as people he passes on the sidewalks call out “Go Army!” At this point, he’s walking, I’m running.
As I go by, I hear, “Hey, Al, you’re looking good. Keep it up.”
I figure he must be one of the Tri Club Fort Lewis guys, the ones I ride with whose names I mostly don’t know. I smile and wave, which is about all I can do at this point. I don’t know it now, but this guy is my running peloton. He jogs up past me a few minutes later, and says a small encouraging something, and off we go. We pass each other, the runner going by the walker, like this for the next 8 miles, telling each other to “Stay in the race”; “There you are again”; “We can do this.” Some of it penetrates my brain, but, really, all I’m trying to do is just cruise as best I can on autopilot. Try not to overheat, try not to go any slower than I have to.
If you’re paying attention, you’ll see people you know all over the place on this run – basically, it’s four out and backs, so the opportunities are legion. I see Richard all four times; each time he’s running and (thank God) so am I. I see Guy LeMire 4 times – he’s walking, I’m running. But he’s smiling, so he hasn’t quit yet.
At the next turn onto Lake Shore, I hand Cheryl my wet wrist band.
“Oh, this is what I’m good for? You give me this rancid smelly thing?”
“That’s what love’s all about, you know.” I stop and give her a hug. “I’ve shut down my race. I’m still feeling good, and I want to stay that way, don’t want to burn up for Hawaii. It’s OK, I haven’t quit, I’ve just shut down the race.”
She looks like she understands, but, frankly I don’t see how she could. I have no idea myself what I’m saying at this point.
……….
The sun is relentless, cruel. I’m starting to feel a searing burn on my shoulders. I should have stopped with Even in T2 to get some lotion. I see a lady in the aid station with some, and know I should stop. But why make this go on any longer than it has to. Just keep going. It’s only skin – I can grow some new.
Chipchase and I are still in touch, bungeeing back and forth, keeping each other in the race, whether we want to be there or not. Up the final hill, about mile 23, Ford has set up an “Inspiration Station”, consisting of a misting tent, a pad reading our timing chips, and a signboard which prints out each of our names as we go by, with a little canned inspirational blurb like, “Congratulations, Al Truscott of Gig Harbor, WA. You’re looking good.”
I’m not inspired, just exhausted. An aid station looms, so I start to walk. As I do, a guy runs by with “56” on his calf. I inwardly groan, realising the hidden competitor within me will probably want to stay with this guy. Some other protective part of my brain won’t let me kick into gear. While the two forces are battling- “Keep walking? Start running?” – the guy inexplicably stops two steps in front of me.
For some bizarre reason, I introduce myself, “Hi, I’m Al” I say, bending slightly to look at the number/name bib around the front of his waist.
“Joe” is all he can say.
“You’re looking good, Joe”, I mumble. He says nothing. His eyes are blanks.
“Joe Anderson of Ogden Utah, You’re looking good” the blinking lights of the Inspiration Station spell out. I walk thru the aid station, and on up to the top of the last real hill.
Down the other side, I veer off into the grass, and run in the shade along the ditch there by the side of the road. At the bottom of the hill, I know I’ll see Cheryl one last time. I haven’t seen Chipchase since I met Joe. I look up at the road, where the other runners are going both directions, some on the first lap, some on the second. I vaguely scan for Joe, not knowing what I’ll do if I see him. I feel like a spectator. I’m feeling better, though, going down hill and in the shade. I vow to run every time there’s shade, and only walk along the little bike path by the cemetery.
Cheryl is barely a blur as I go pass her. The last three miles go by in a bigger blur. No Joe in sight. With 1.2 miles to go, a little breeze kicks up off the lake, and I swear the temperature drops 5 degrees right there – all the way down to 87! I find the energy to keep running up the little rise out of the neighborhoods, onto Sherman Avenue and it’s all downhill from here into the finishing chute.