Novice Triathlete Finishes Race on the Longest Day
After six months of training for the Ironman Triathlon World Championship and wondering whether I was in over my head, Race Day finally arrived on Oct. 10. Looking back, I prefer to call it The Longest Day:
3:12 a.m. I rise slowly out of bed after realizing that the alarm clock I set for 3 a.m. isn’t going to ring. Not to worry. I knew there was little chance of missing the 7 a.m. start because pre-race jitters would prevent me from getting much sleep. As I take a warm shower, eat a hearty breakfast and stretch out on the living room floor of our condominium, the excitement is beginning to build. The wait is finally over.
5:30 a.m. Nearly 1,400 triathletes--all dressed in skimpy Speedos and carrying caps and goggles--stand in long lines to get race numbers marked on their bodies and stop at portable toilets before tackling the 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bicycle ride and 26.2-mile run. I try to relieve some of the tension by walking around the pier wearing a World War II aviator hat and goggles to fend off sharks. While several triathletes chuckle at the outfit, many are too engrossed in the race ahead to even notice. Press photographers, particularly the Japanese, keep asking me to pose for photographs.
6 a.m. As the sun begins to climb over the hills, not a single cloud can be seen in the sky. Weather conditions the past two days had been perfect--overcast with a slight breeze, low humidity and temperatures in the mid-80s. But from the looks of the sky above, today is going to be a scorcher.
6:45 a.m. I enter the water to warm up before positioning myself at the tail end of the field. After getting kicked and thrashed at the start of last month’s triathlon in Solana Beach, I decided to take it easy at the start and not get caught in the frenzy of aggressive swimmers flailing at one another. I’m not the only one who plans to start at the rear. Triathletes already are lined up two-deep against the sea wall to make sure no one sneaks behind them. Even after the starting gun sounded, they remained against the wall until there was plenty of room ahead. I decide to take off slowly and ease my way into the field. But as the pack bunches around the first buoy, I get kicked in the face and my goggles come off.
7:45 a.m. Several minutes after passing the boat that marked the half-way point of the 2.4-mile swim, I look at my stopwatch to see how I am doing. It says 37 minutes flat. I can’t believe my time. I know I feel good, but not this good. At this rate, I’ll finish at least 10 minutes ahead of my goal of 1 hour, 20 minutes. A few minutes later, I check my watch again. It says 37 minutes flat. The damn thing stopped. So much for setting any personal records.
8:22 a.m. I walk with wobbly legs up the boat ramp, feeling great about my time of 1 hour, 22 minutes. As I make my way into the changing area, I can’t believe how good I feel after nearly an hour and a half in the ocean. No headaches. No sore muscles. No shivering limbs. I’m on Cloud Nine.
8:35 a.m. As I head out of town up a steep hill on the bike, I pass my family cheering from the roadside. I can’t contain my enthusiasm. I thrust my fist into the air and shout, “I feel good!” That line produced a round of laughs and some teasing that I’m still hearing today.
10:30 a.m. About 30 miles into the bike leg and the heat is unbelievable. The sun is roasting the top of my shoulders. Now I know what it feels like to be a marshmallow on an open fire. My feet are beginning to kill me and I haven’t even hit the lava fields yet. It’s going to be a long 112 miles.
11 a.m. I pull off the side of the road to urinate. I haven’t been on the bike three hours and I’ve had to make three pit stops already. Before the race, doctors held a pre-race meeting to warn triathletes about the effects of dehydration. If you don’t drink enough water, they said, the Ironman can kill you. They said you know you’re drinking enough water if you have to urinate. I’ve been following my plans of taking fluids at every opportunity. I had never considered the possibility of drinking too much water. Since my head and body feel fine and the only things burning up are my feet, I’m going to keep on drinking. By the end of the bike leg, I would drink 31 pints of fluid and eat a dozen bananas and 10 fig bars. I would have to get off the bike to urinate 9 times.
11:30 a.m. I finish the dreaded climb up a stairway of rolling hills into Hawi, the northernmost point on the big island of Hawaii, and the turnaround of the bike leg after 52 miles. The arduous climb into a stiff head wind with the temperature reaching 115 degrees on the highway zapped most of my energy. My feet are so sore that if a volunteer had handed me a chain saw, I would have cut them off. My plan was to get off the bike at Hawi and take a 10-minute break, rub my feet and stretch before continuing. But the cheering spectators at the turnaround point and the lure of riding downhill with the wind at my back are too much to pass up. I decide to press on. I fly downhill at speeds reaching 40 m.p.h.
Noon. My feet still hurt as I play a mental game of trying to concentrate on pedaling technique and blocking out the pain. Finally, I relent and take a breather. As I sit on the side of the road rubbing my feet, a crew of medical volunteers pulls over to check my condition. I tell them I feel fine; only my feet hurt. They smile and say that with a marathon still ahead, my feet will get worse before they get better. Thanks, I needed that.
I climb back onto the bike after a 10-minute break feeling refreshed. Taking advantage of the slight downhill terrain and gusty tail winds, I pick up the pace. For the next 20 miles, I pass 60 triathletes and only one passes me. I compute my time and project that I could finish the bike leg in 6 1/2 hours. That is 30 minutes better than my goal.
1 p.m. My expectations quickly come back to earth when I reach the flatlands and the boiling lava fields. The fierce winds have shifted and are back in my face. The sun is straight up now, basking on shoulders and knees. A cut I had suffered while snorkeling the day before the race is beginning to puff up on my thigh. I keep squeezing cool sponges onto my head to ward off the heat.
1:15 p.m. The heat is getting unbearable. My feet are acting up again, my head is beginning to hurt and my body is slowly grinding to a halt. What am I doing out here?
1:30 p.m. At the 80-mile mark, I hit the wall. Suddenly, the simple act of pedaling a bicycle is difficult. My speedometer has slowed to about 10 m.p.h. and I’m beginning to feel light-headed. My feet are hurting so bad that I’m looking forward to putting on my running shoes and starting the marathon.
2 p.m. As I press on into the wind, I pass defending champion Dave Scott, who has ditched his bicycle and is just a few miles from the finish of the run, following a truck carrying a TV crew. A couple of minutes later, I pass the leader, Mark Allen. He is walking and his legs look stiff. I tell myself that Allen looks the way I feel. It’s obvious that Allen is in big trouble and that Scott will pass him in a matter of minutes. I try to cheer Allen on. “You’ve got a nice lead. Keep it up.” He doesn’t even hear me. I don’t think he knows what planet he’s on. After the race, Allen spent 24 hours in the hospital.
3 p.m. At mile 100, I begin to shake out of the funk I’ve been in for the last couple of hours. I’ve never ridden a bike more than 100 miles so the next 12 are going to be interesting. I head for town and pick up speed as I hit a couple of downhills. With spectators cheering me on, I begin to pick up the pace again. I zoom by my wife and kids so fast that they don’t have a chance to focus their cameras.
I glance at my watch and see that I will finish under 7 hours on the bike. With a decent marathon of 4 1/2 hours, I can meet my goal of 13 hours. I push it a little harder, but my body doesn’t respond. With two miles to go on the bike leg, I’m starting to slow down again. I decide to coast in and save whatever I have left for the marathon.
3:40 p.m. I change into my running gear and jog the first six miles at a slow 10-minute-a-mile pace before I begin to bog down. I hit the steep hill leading out of town and my legs stop working. I begin to walk while trying to talk myself into running for 20 more miles, but my body is not buying it. I’m faced with my most crucial decision of the day. Should I push myself to the limit in an attempt to break 13 hours and risk collapsing before the finish line? Or should I back off, forget about my time and concentrate on my goal of finishing the race? I choose the latter. But every time I stop to walk, it’s that much harder for my legs to start running again.
8:30 p.m. After walking and running for 20 miles, I’m completely exhausted. I’ve been at it for more than 13 hours now, and my body is ready to crash. I feel so tired and am yawning so much that I could lie down on the side of the road and fall asleep. I close my eyes and actually begin to doze off while walking. I’m startled when a voice from behind asks if I’m OK. Suddenly, it occurs to me that if I’m not careful I’ll sleepwalk into oncoming highway traffic. I start to run again just to stay awake.
9:30 p.m. I have been on the marathon course for nearly six hours. As I make my way toward town, I see lights and begin to hear scattered applause. Suddenly, people who are lining the streets are cheering me on. I begin to run faster and faster and pass several runners as I head for the final stretch down Alii Drive. My two sons hold a congratulations sign and my wife is cheering me on as I cross the finish line in 14 hours, 51 minutes and 39 seconds.
Race officials hand me a finisher’s T-shirt and an Ironman medal and ask if I need a doctor. I tell them I can’t believe how good I feel. I glance over at the medical tent, which looks more like a MASH unit, with triathletes sprawled everywhere being fed fluids intravenously. Suddenly, I don’t feel so bad about taking it easy during the final 20 miles.
During the marathon, I told several people this was my last Ironman. But after reviewing my split times the next day, I couldn’t help but wonder how well I would have done if I had held up better in the run. Ironman fever was beginning to set in.
In the last week, however, I’ve decided that one endurance event is enough for now. All the hard work, effort and personal sacrifice may have been worth the price of one Ironman. But I’m not ready to sign up for another one just yet.