Ironman cliches:
“You can’t win the race in the swim, but you can lose it.”
“Bike for show, run for dough.”
“In the end, it’s not who runs the fastest, but who slows down the least.”
“Keep moving forward; you never know what’s happening to someone in front of you.”
“The race doesn’t begin until mile 80 on the bike.”
“The race doesn’t begin until mile 18 on the run.” (I know, I know, these are contradictory; but, remember, it’s a long race.)
“If you hit a bad patch, keep going; it’s a long race and there’s time to recover.”
I have seen the above statements written in triathlon lore many times. And to them, I have added my own: “Take care of your nutrition and pace, and your time and place take care of themselves.”
For me, Ironman Coeur d’Alene exemplified the truth of each of these homilies.
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Starting the run down the dike road at Independence Point, Lake Coeur d’Alene, I was feeling pretty amazed that my running legs were indeed operative. I glanced at the spectators lining the lakeside path. My eyes bugged as I noticed – these people are BUNDLED UP! It looked like they were expecting snow – knit caps, gloves, lumpy coats.
“You people look COLD!” I hollered. They just stared back, glassy eyed.
I ran through the first aid station without slowing down, or taking anything. It comes a half mile into the run, and there’s another one less than a mile later. I had stopped to pee four times on the bike, clear, copious, even though I was hardly drinking any fluids – riding in temperatures of 61F, with no sun, didn’t seem to be straining my hypervolemic state, and I didn’t want to overload myself.
Just past the turn around, I saw one of my few competitors in this age group – Rob Ladewig, ex-Navy from Colorado Springs. He’d won this race a few years ago, and, last fall, I’d beaten him by about 15 minutes at Arizona. I’d been a faster runner that day, but he looked like he was cookin’ at this point.
Just as I suspected, a few minutes later he padded up behind me. Don’t ask me how I knew it was him, but I looked over my right shoulder, and said “Is that Rob Ladewig back there”?
He was wearing a blue bike shirt, and a white visored cap pulled low over his eyes. He had a grim but friendly gap-toothed smile as he said, “Yep.”
“Well, don’t worry about me; I got my slot in Arizona.”
“I know. But I got one last month in St. Croix.”
“Great! Real hot, huh?”
“Yep”
It was actually a pretty extensive conversation for two guys, exhausted at the start of the marathon in the middle of an Ironman. But I routinely seem to find competitors in my age group to chat with a bit on that tree-lined levee above the lake at the start to the CDA run.
He chugged on, going faster that I wanted to at that point. I was clocking about 9:30 minute miles, and saw him again as he came down the Bennett Bay hill, the next turn around, about 7.5 miles into the race.
I waggled one index finger at him, indicating I thought he was leading the race in the 60-64 age group.
He hollered back, with a smile, “You can catch me”, which seemed odd, as he had gained almost 4 minutes on me in the last 6 + miles. Well, either he’s playing mind games, or he knows something I don’t, as his pace still looks hot.
I soon realised that what he *actually* said was “You can catch him”, when I saw ahead of me on the hill, a gent with “61” marked on his calf. He was shuffling, but still running, up this the only steep hill on the course. I quickly calculated several things. First, I’m a faster runner than he is – this I tell from the speed of his turnover, the lift of his feet, the unevenness of his stride. Second, while I could catch him before the turn around if I ran up the hill, I usually walk this portion, and then bolt the downslope. And finally, I figured that if I shot by him on the downhill (as I was sure to do), it would demoralize him enough that he would not harbor and hopes of getting back to me, even if he did have some reserve which was so far hidden from his conscious self.
So I shifted to a walk, staying behind him, confirming that his running style indicated he would not be a threat to me, and if he did eventually pass me, well then, more power to him. I took the turn, shot downhill, and said nothing as I went by.
Along the lake, on the way out, the wind had picked up, a biting, stinging wind which felt like a strong impediment. On the way back, it was joined by a few drizzle drops, but no real rain. I trudged on, still clocking 9:30 average per mile (even with the walking, the mile with the hill was 9:48.) I stopped to pee at mile 11 (a tradition with me, here at CDA), and added about a minute to my time. That would be the last I saw of a toilet for 6 hours.
At the next turn around, a little over half way through the run, Ladewig was 7-8 minutes ahead. I dropped all thoughts of catching him, and turned my attention to my own race, which was to break 11:44:22. As usual, my watch was providing faulty information. I had lost about 15 minutes of race time in the swim due to the STOP button being pushed, probably in the scrum at the second turn buoy, so that was unreliable for giving me my time. The actual watch part of my watch had seem to be about 30-40 second slower than Mike Reilly’s pronouncements of five and one minute to go to the start, and then the gun went off early, as usual. So looking at the time of day was also fuzzy. Add to that the sheer difficulty of doing arithmetic while running at the ragged edge of exhaustion, and I had become convinced that the only way I would make it was to keep up the 9:30 pace the whole way.
I apparently was successful in transmitting this thought to the unnamed sorcerer in my right hemisphere who actually controls my race performance. He kept me plodding along, a little bit harder with every mile. It was working, and we kept the pace up. By the time we hit the lake for the second time, actual rain had joined the wind, and I was VERY glad I had kept my “wings” on from the bike ride. These are sleeves attached to each other across the upper back, draped over the shoulders like a short shawl with arms. Still, my arms were the coldest part of me. Hot chicken broth, offered at most aid stations, was now my friend and salvation. About mile 18, we agreed that with the rain, and the pace, and the temperature (by now down to 50-52), I could afford to skip every other aid station, and maybe gain about a minute or two as a result of not walking during the drinking.
The second time up the hill, I past Rob farther UP (he was coming back down) than last time, indicating I was now less than three minutes behind. So I was gaining on him. I was way too far gone to figure out how fast I was closing the gap, which should have been a simple calculation, say, about 5-6 minutes in 6.5 miles, or a little over a minute a mile. And that at that pace, I would catch him by mile 24 or 25 (the hill encompasses the space between mile posts 21 and 22). No matter, Mr RH was fully in control at this point, and we kept chugging chicken soup every two miles, and running a steady pace, now a little faster than 9:30s.
Past the lake for the last time, water was starting to pool on the asphalt from the rain, and my shoes and socks got soggy – blister weather, but what could I do about it. My feet felt fine as I wiggled my toes, so I dropped that worry from the log book. I kept my dark glasses on, protected from the wet by my visor, and used the lack of light to induce a coma like state of simply running, with that same knee grinding, thigh busting pace. I really wanted to just stop and go to sleep, but as I crested the little hill just past the mile 23 aid station, I saw Rob’s white hat bobbing in front of me. Or at least it looked like him. I figured even if it wasn’t, that was the guy I was going to try and catch, to keep me on task.
I rounded the corner off Lake Coeur d’Alene Boulevard into the neighborhoods, floating like a zombie past Cheryl and Annie, who were screaming wildly, either to attract my attention, or to keep warm, I couldn’t tell which. I gave an upward flick of my hand to acknowledge them, mainly because Cheryl has told me that if I DON’T let her know I hear her, why should she bother. She reports, that, unlike what I *felt*, I looked strong, and clearly pre-occupied with the race (well, THAT was true).
The neighborhoods section, about two miles long, is a series of rapid turns, some as short as a block long, offering little chance to see more that 100 yards ahead. But I could see that I was gaining, and that I might catch him somewhere in mile 24. The same spot where I caught Joe Anderson in 2006 in 92 degree heat to win that race; where I caught another guy last year to move from 4th to 3rd ( still miss out on a Kona slot by one place); where I had caught Stan Grochowski to win the 2008 Tacoma Half-Marathon; and where I had caught Faron Reed in last year’s IM Arizona to get my second place and snag a Kona slot.
“I don’t f___ing believe! I’m actually going to catch him,” I said, clearly loud enough for the lady I was passing to hear. I was not noticing or talking to her of course, and she was polite enough to ignore me.
As I rumbled up behind him, I thought about what to to. Should I stalk him, collect my bearings and strength for a few minutes, and then try to motor on ahead breath? Should I just pick up the pace, and totally kill myself for the last mile and a half, as I had done in Arizona (where I’d won by 9 seconds)?
Luckily, Mr RH had the answer.
As I came up behind, I said, “I thought about stalking you for a while, but I guess I just have to go my own pace. See you at the finish.” I didn’t speed up or slow down, I just kept ticking off the steps, trying to hold enough in reserve should there be the need for a finish line sprint.
I kept slightly accelerating the next 1500 meters to the top of Sherman, and then tried my best to put on a controlled sprint down to the finish. I had sneaked a peak at two of the last corners, and didn’t see his white hat bobbing behind – apparently, he was spent, and was operating on auto pilot just as I was. Suddenly, I remembered the clock, as I had stopped making age-group record calculations in my quest for the win. Through the drizzle and gloom, it looked like 11:41. I hit the carpet signifying about 50 yards to go, and finally accepted that I had both goals in hand. I started sprinting harder, pumped my right fist skyward, and shouted “Yeah!!” over and over. No thought to finish line picture poses, or decorum.
11:42:02. First place. Both goals by the hair of my chinny chin chin.
(To be continued)