“You’re doing really great!” Cheryl hollered at me. She was running along under the Mill Avenue Bridge, as I turned out of the aide station, heading east for the last loop around Tempe Town Lake. I’d been seeing her at random spots along the 8.7 mile run course, which we did three times. It was an impossibly convoluted affair, crossing three bridges and circumnavigating two miles of the dammed up Salt River, with two extra curley-ques thrown in for further confusion.
I did feel really good … at this point. I knew I was motoring along, right at sunset, with less than three miles to go. “Twenty-five minutes!” I managed to reply. “Should be less than 25 minutes.”
But at this exact spot on the previous loop, I had not felt so confident. Despite the downhill drop into the construction zone housing the aid station, I meandered disconsolately off course to the right instead of following the crowd to the left, and the Gatorade. I pulled into a porta-potty, and took some relief as I lifted my sunglasses to check the color of my outflow – not too yellow, so fluids were probably well-topped up. But as I exited, I saw a runner who looked my age hobble by. 1976, Rob Ladewig. His IS my age – 59 and a half. He’d beaten me by 45 minutes in 2004 at Coeur d’Alene, taking third to my fourth. Though it was my first top five finish (“podium”) at an Ironman, only the top three would go to Kona that year, and it was also my first of a series of near misses at a Kona slot – I would be living on the bubble of qualifying for the next five years. At that time, he had been 7 minutes slower on the swim, about 12 minutes faster on the bike and 45 minutes faster on the run.
At this point, I was taking a calculated stroll through the aid station, stoking up on Gatorade, Coke, and salt pills. I watched him take off through the gravel to the lakeshore bike path. He did not seem to be running at a 4:03 marathon pace, as he had in 2004. Or at least, he seemed to be hurting a bit – a hitch in his giddy-up, so to speak. I had marked him as one of the guys I would have to beat to have a successful race this year.
The rest seemed to have done me some good, and I started up my run again, keeping my eye on his blue sleeveless race top, trying to gauge whether I was catching him. I could tell I was, and settled in for a steady reel-in over the next mile. Luckily, the catch seemed to come as we turned downhill into the parking lot by the Marina. I could put on a little speed with the slope, and give him some pause as to whether he would be able to catch back up, should he have a notion.
Once I got in front, I seemed to get scared. Not being able to see my competition, but knowing they are right behind me, always seems to give me a little more juice than seeing someone in front I’m slowly catching. When coming up from behind, I make much more of a conscious effort to meter out my effort, as I don’t want to blow up and get re-passed. But once in front, and not knowing our relative speeds anymore, I have to turn up the steam a bit.
On this course, that meant motoring up a little hill to the next bridge, and then keeping the pace going for another 11 miles. At this point, almost all of the faster runners were ahead of me, and many of the slower ones were on their first lap (I was on my second). On the run up to the bridge, we were squeezed onto half the bike path, with runners coming from the opposite direction. I weaved as best I could, and when I hit the top of the ramp for the 180 turn onto the bridge, I grabbed the upright railing, and swung around like a fireman ascending a pole. I hoped I could keep the pace up for the remainder of the race. Having a hound behind me foxed my adrenaline up a notch.
The day had started long before sun-up. After 12 previous Ironman races, I knew the drill by heart: Oatmeal at 4 AM, contacts and suntan lotion – warrior paint – at 4:30, round up Cheryl for the drive in at 5:15. I was calm, but having a plan helped me methodically march towards the 7 AM cannon. She drops me off a bit after 5:30, and I walk downhill into transition. Find a guy with a bike pump to borrow; luckily, that’s Don Hoover, a buddy from South Sound Triathletes. He’s a fan, and gives me a big boost of confidence for my day.
Fill the Bento Box on the bike with Hammer Gel, Zone Bar and pills. Decide to take the pills out and put them in T1 bag, along with sunglasses. T2 bag gets glasses in their case, and more pills. Out to the lake to drop off Special Needs bags. Back into T Zone for body marking. Here, I make a fateful decision. In April, 2004, just as I turned 55 into a new age group, at Ralph’s Half Ironman California, I passed on the bike a guy whom I KNEW by his name and number on his rear-facing race belt to be in my age group. Yet he had “54” on his calf. Clearly, he was trying to hide from others in his age group (like me) so he could avoid getting chased if he passed them. He was a top finisher, coming in second to my fifth, on the back of a much faster run.
Since I was 59 years, 7 months, and 14 days today, I said “60” when asked my age by the body marker. Who knows? Maybe this ruse would come in handy at some point. All I know is, I did not feel guilty. I mean, I AM closer to 60 than 59, and by the time it might matter – on the run – it would be a smeared from the swim and sweat anyway.
Now, how about a porta-potty. For some reason, the port-potty sites – there were three – were each tailed by a single line. Usually, at these big events, the cans have individual lines in front of them, each line heading for 2-4 pots. That got me to thinking – why not have the body markers move along the porta-potty line, saving us at least one step in the process. After checking out the lines, and the time, I opt for the “in the water” option, and start to put on my wetsuit.
Head down to the entry, find the front of the line, wait for Mike Reily to let us out, then move to the dock for the plunge in. Tempe Town Lake is basically what you might get if you dammed two miles of the LA River. There is a rather steep concrete slope into the “lake”. Most folks did as told, jumping in from the dock. Some of us walked along the concrete edge, scooted down to water level, then stood up on another ledge about a foot below the surface Since we had 15-20 minutes to go before start, and would have to tread water once we got in, I shuffled as far along this ledge as best I could, eventually getting in, and roaming around on the right side near the announcer, about 3-4 bodies back.
“Boom!” No announcement, no countdown, just off we go. I hit my watch, and start to swim. The usual melee, but eventually I settle in and find my stroke. An hour later, I’m back beneath the Mill Ave bridge, and readying for the final 400 meters home. We have to climb out of the water up some steps plopped over the edge, turn left, and find a wet suit stripper. I go all the way to the end, grab my suit from them, and head up the grass strip several hundred meters to the transition entrance. During this portion, I must pass fifty people, as I am running full on, and they are all shuffling up the hill. I think I gain 30 seconds this way.
Grabbing my bag, I race to the changing tent, see it’s crammed full, and plop on the grass outside, throwing on helmet and glasses, stuffing my pill pack into my back pocket, dry off my feet, don socks and shoes, then turn around to the porta-potty to pee. Then out to my bike, and under the blow up exit arch, passing another 15-20 people in the process. Why are these guys so slow?
Out to Rio Salado, and I flick my watch to change the lap. I try very hard to rein in my speed and heart rate. Finally, after about five miles, HR is under 130, and I’m cruising along at 19-20 mph. There is a wind in our face during most of the 18.5 mile outbound journey on this three lap out and back course. There is plenty of opportunity for an “Ironman Draft” (three bike lengths instead of the legal four), and one is almost stuck in packs of three-ten riders, all angling for the proper placement based on relative speed.
This could be a very boring bike course, were it not for the 2200 other people surrounding me, and the aid stations every ten miles. And the rumble strips lining the gradual uphill that is the last ten miles to the turn around and back. And whoa, once we hit the turn around, the speed goes from about 15-17 to 30-32, as the wind shifts to our back, and the slope heads down.
Back at Rio Salado, I see Cheryl standing in the median just at the Sun Devil Stadium (ASU football field). It’s just so friendly, and loving, to have her scream for five seconds as I go by every couple of hours or so – makes me think she’s actively involved, when in fact, she is desperately bored during the interim.
The second lap goes by a little slower, as the wind picks up on the way out but mostly because I make two stops just past the turnaround, to pee, to take some pills, and to pick up special needs and fill up with Perpetuem. Without those stops, my times for the three laps would be 1:49.23, 1:50.30, and 1:50.00 The third lap is made a bit easier by a calm wind, allowing for a faster outbound trip, and a pack of women, who drag me along for most of the return trip.
This whole bike ride, indeed this whole race, has been predicated on the assumption that I CAN bike and swim faster than I think I should, and still have a good run. I’ve already dropped four minutes from my last IM swim time. On this bike ride, I’m having a hard time gauging my speed, in part because I don’t really use my bike computer to check my total time, and in part because I think I am eight minutes slower than I actually am, having apparently NOT started my watch at the swim gun, but rather starting it as I exited the swim. So my total time is confusing to me, until I hit the transition area for the second time, drop my bike and helmet into the arms of the bike catcher volunteer guy. I finally get caught up and see the time is “6:50” as I leave transition for the run.
“Let’s see, 1:08-9 for the swim (which I’d seen on the clock as I came out), 5-6 for T1, that makes about 1:14, leaving, oh, 5:36 for the bike, I guess.” (My bike split would be 5:31, nearly 20.5 mph.) This is MUCH faster than I thought I could do, and I seem to be able to run “OK”, so I concentrate on keeping the pace easy and totally aerobic. My first mile passes in 8:47, and I get passed by a 50 y/o guy, taller and a bit heavier than me. I catch back up to him as we cross over the first of the nine bridges. He stays with me for the next mile, asking about my pace and planned finish time.
“My idea is to take it VERY easy at the start, and have enough left to finish strong,” I say. “I think I’m going too fast, so I’m going to slow down a touch. Go ahead if you want.” Since he’d been with me for a mile, I thought he might want to pace off of me.
“I don’t think I can. I’m really hurting.”
Oh-oh. That’s BAD news. Either it’s really true, and he’s in trouble at mile 2-3, and will walk a lot. OR, he’s psyching himself out paying too much attention to the normal strains of running after 112 mile bike ride. In either case, he’s toast.
For me, on the other hand, this race is ALL about the run. Knowing how fast/hard I can bike and still have a steady run in me at 9-9:30 minutes per mile for 4+ hours. Knowing that I want to BUILD the run, increasing the effort level, if not the speed, gradually, throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. And especially ignoring whatever signals my overworked thighs, calves, and hips try to send my brain’s way, begging for attention and pity. Those pain signals are not part of the picture, as far as I am concerned. Once you start paying attention to them, they’ll whine like an underfed toddler, and badger you until you finally walk just to shut them up.
So they’ll have to wait until after 6 PM to get any sympathy from me.
The sun in Phoenix is real, and relentless, but at this time of the year, it’s not at all that high in the sky. That, plus the several spots of shade along the course, and the low humidity, conspire to help me remain in a moderate climatic zone, not needing any extraordinary cooling measures. Oh, I do take 12 ounces of fluid every mile, and pour water on my head at the aid stations. But no ice in the shorts, no cool sponges under the shoulder straps. My front zipper isn’t even pulled all the way down.
The soon to be opened Metro light rail runs across the lake right through the middle of the course, and in anticipation, a number of high rises have been built on the south side, providing man made shade with each. Some trees have been planted along the lakeside paths, and in the park we amble through. And several bridges give some respite from the sun as well.
Cheryl keeps appearing a random spots along the course, taking advantage of the multiple loops and bridges to wander back and forth and give me a bit of encouragement every 30-45 minutes. I take full advantage of her, and at mile 13, give her my sopping wet wristband, and at mile 21, drop off my now useless sunglasses with her.
By that point, I have resigned myself to letting my body run the show. It’s clear my poor abused leg and hip muscles are going to get zero sympathy from whatever part of my brain is running things. It’s certainly not my conscious, crying mind. Whenever THAT guy wakes up, he looks around, sees what’s he’s doing, feels the legs, and goes screaming off somewhere, hiding his eyes and ears so he doesn’t have to participate in this torture fest.
The aid stations DO seem to be coming up faster now, and I contemplate skipping one, or at least not walking through one. Then, somewhere around mile 25, where the bike path goes from concrete to dirt to concrete several times, and there’s a little metal cabana with chairs bolted into the grown diverting out path, I spy a runner who foolishly has left his race belt facing backwards. # 1935, “Reed”. He has on a yellow race top, and is walking, talking with a similarly clad younger man who says, “When do you want to start running again – where the dirt stops.” Genius Al wakes up, and quickly deduces the following: (a) this must be Faron Reed, another fast guy in my age group, who has won an Ironman before, (b) he is having trouble, because he is walking, and his club buddy is trying to convince him to get going again, and (c) I need to get ahead of him as fast as I can and stay ahead.
I am pretty much running “all out” (or as all out as one can after 10+ hours of hard aerobic activity) at this point anyway, so this gives me motivation to keep the pace up. And to giggle a bit at the number “60” on my calf, and hope that it fools him. In a minute or two, I hit the finishing crowds, figuring less than 4-800 meters to go, or 2-4 minutes max. I really start to go into a tunnel now, hearing nothing outside of my breathing and show flops, seeing nothing other than the space in front of me, to make sure I won’t run into anyone.
I realize that I don’t have to worry about anyone careening into me from the left, starting out on his or her first loop, as I have passed the bike cut-off time (but not by much). My only navigation chore is to make sure I don’t hit anyone as I turn left myself to the finish, while others are going right on their 2nd or 3rd loop. This occupies my entire mind for about 20 seconds, and then I am all of a sudden all alone, running up hill to the final left hand turn into the finish.
A teen-age volunteer seems intent on occupying the very space I want to turn into to make that corner. No voice left, I wave my left hand to try and get him to move. I enter the straightaway; a few intrepid souls reach out for a high five from me. No energy for even that effort. I steam forward, and finally see the finish clock. Somewhere, I vaguely sense Mike Reilly is shouting names and “You … are … an Ironman!” The clock says Ten Fifty something. 10:55! Youwza!! WAAY under 11 hours, never thought I could do it, must be a 4:05 marathon, how did I run so fast that last five miles, here I am don’t quit the finish tape comes up but the girls can’t get it out in time so I blast through without it no one behind me to mess up my picture I JUMP as high as I can and shout for joy, and fall into the catchers’ arms.
After spending the first minute catching my breath, and the second getting rid of my chip, donning my medal and T-shirt and convincing them that, after 15 Ironman races, I think I’m now OK, I grab a mylar drape, and hear Cheryl screaming on the right. I rush to her in tears of joy, and give her a GIANT hug, saying I never thought I could do it. She’s yelling something about “Second place!”.
Apparently, she’s got Cody on the phone, and he’s got Ironman.com on line, and is reporting I beat the third place guy by NINE seconds. Top two get KONA, WE”RE GOING TO THE BIG DANCE AGAIN!!!
What a day.