|
Ironman
Canada 1998 Short version: I made it through my first ironman with no misery, no substantial pain, no blisters, no cramping, no injuries. I flatted once. I had a slow bike, *very* slow transitions, and a great run. I never thought of quitting. I have no desire to do this next year. Pre-Race Day highlights: - Walking across the street to swim each morning at 7:00. - Wearing Mike Plumb's wetsuit (to decide whether I wanted to wear my sleeveless or his long-sleeved on race day), bending over to pick up goggles and splitting back seam. "Hey? What was that noise? It *couldn't* be!" - Meeting folks off this list. Guess what. Bruce Grant is not an old guy. - Meeting Christian Bustos at the Bike Barn the day before the race. - Watching Eric Weiss, dressed as a chef, "compete" in the Splash and Dash (I have photos). - Fighting with Robert and Mike for Gameboy. - Watching Dave Barclay do belly flops off the floating dock. - Watching Tri-Baby sing and dance on the floating dock. - Stepping out of my room each morning, admiring the mountains and blue sky. - Eating Canadian candy bars, like Aero and Malted Milk. Don't try Mr. Big or Big Turk. Yuk. Pre-Race worries: - My bike would "fall apart" such that it could not be repaired and I'd have to DNF. - I wouldn't be able to go to the toilet before the race. - My blood sugar would get so screwed up that I'd get really sick and be reduced to lying beside the road, puking my guts out. - My quads or calves would cramp horribly. - The heat would kill me. - I'd have a 2-hour swim. Pre-Race: Alarm set for 4:30. Awoke at 4:15. Got up. Ate a bagel with cream cheese. Went down to transition to get body marked. Visited bike and pumped up tires. Placed inspirational messages in others' bike/run transition bags. Went back to room to "relax". Squeezed into my own wetsuit. Headed back to transition area, almost forgetting to take all of my cycling bottles (1 bottle frozen Ensure Plus(1000 cal total), 2 bottles frozen Gatorade, 1 bottle Diet Coke, 1 bottle ice water to put in Jetstream). Standing on beach, ready for warmup swim. Realize I'm still wearing shoes. Scan crowd for Robert or Mike. See Chris Marshall's wife Tanya. Hand shoes to Tanya. Take warmup swim. Not nervous at all. Swim: Chat with list folks, Gerry Kuse, Jay Capers, Jason, others who are starting at the back. Gun (horn?) blasts. Others start. We stroll into water, laughing, talking. Stroll. Stroll. Stroll. Laugh. Talk. Start swimming. Here I go. My first Ironman. Swimming is easy. I'm exerting little effort. Feel like I'm being pulled in a current, because I am. Swim slowly. Uneventful. Exit water, stumbling on enormous rocks, flailing my arms, doing jerky balancing movements, saying "ouch" a lot. Hit watch. 1:22:xx! Wow! I'm impressed. T1:Plop on chair in changing tent. Dump out contents of T1 bag. Sift through stuff. Volunteer tries to pick stuff up, thinking it's trash and dirty clothes. No! I'm using this stuff! Munch on Pringles. Wipe grass off back (from lying on ground for wetsuit stripping). Put on cycling clothes. Weave HRM through HRM bra. Apply suntan lotion. Brush hair and put into ponytail. Notice woman who has just come in from swim, who is probably 6 months pregnant. What's with that? Click out of changing tent in cycling attire, feeling great. Round corner to shocking sight. There are approximately 6 bikes left in transition. What the...? I have no problem finding my bike. It's the only one in my row. It's the only one in the area. This is depressing. I am truly at the back of the pack. Try not to let it bother me. Exit transition as commentator announces Jason Mayfield leaving transition. Jason is just ahead! As I pull away, the last thing I hear is "...and he lists his occupation as jello wrestler." T1 time: 19 min. (no that's not a typo) Bike: Catch up to Jason and chat a while. Worry about blocking penalty. How strict are they about riding side-by-side? Pull ahead a little. I'm getting a headache and I'm a little nauseaus. Headache gradually worsens. Glasses are too tight. Maybe too much sugar. I don't know. Try to drink Ensure, but it's still frozen solid. Keep drinking water. Headache is pretty bad. Drink Diet Coke. Take 3 Tylenol. See Mike and Robert at about 26 miles. Stop to chat. Mike informs me that I'm 3:09 into the race. This surprises me. I screwed up my watch coming out of T1 and can only judge my race time by time of day, which is set to Atlanta time (3 hours ahead). This is a lot of math for a tired brain. Bend glasses arms out. Continue. Headache gradually vanishes. Pass my friend John from Atlanta. He looks hot and uncomfortable. It really is hot. My food is unappealing. Gatorade is nauseating. Sugar is nauseating. Manage to eat a granola bar and drink ensure. Toss out one full bottle of gatorade at aid station in favor of water. Climb Richter. Don't remember much about it, except road graffiti. Not too terribly difficult. Pass lots of folks on the way up. Mile 65: hssssssss. Front tire goes flat. Have no idea why. Dismount. Remove front wheel. Stand bike up. Carry wheel to edge of pavement. Bike falls, dumping water from Jetstream and busting open remaining bottle of Gatorade. Good riddance. Sit on ground with wheel. Remove old tube. Replace with new tube. I can do this. I've never changed a flat, but everyone who rides with me flats, so I've seen it done many times. Pickup truck stops across the street. What are they doing? Guy hops out, comes running towards me with floor pump. YES! He instructs me to just sit there and eat while he changes flat. Munch on cinnamon graham crackers. Flat is fixed in no time. I thank him and he's off. Thank you Bike Barn. Finally get to special needs bag. Examine contents. All nauseating except Apple Newtons. Remove Newtons, extra headband. Apply more suntan lotion. Toss remains of special needs bag. Continue. See Robert and Mike a few miles up the road. Stop to chat and pee behind bushes. Cyclist passes and yells "I know what you're doing back there!". Finally get to Yellow Lake. Gradual climb, then much steeper. I see people pushing bikes up hill. Man I must *really* be at the back of the pack. I *will not* push my bike up this hill. I've done steeper, longer climbs, in hotter weather, higher humidity, when I was more tired than this. Still, climb is surprisingly difficult. My legs really hurt. I will not walk. I will not walk. Speed is 5mph. I know I can go 2mph without falling over. I will not walk. I will not walk. Ugh! Why is this so hard? Why does this hurt so much? Crank. Crank. Crank. I'm sick of this crap! I want this damn ride to be over with. I've gone from feeling great to feeling demoralized and defeated in a matter of minutes. *Finally* reach the top of Yellow Lake. Try to throw chain onto big chain ring, but it's already there. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! I can't believe I climbed that whole damn thing in the big chain ring!!! Shiiiiiiiiiiiii......! *$(#&@^%$ For reasons unknown, I immediately switch to the small chain ring (to make up for climbing in the big ring?), and throw the chain off. It's too far off to get back on without dismounting. Dismount, kicking my behind-the-seat bottle carrier as I swing my leg around, dragging my bike to the ground. All fluids dump out. Pick up bike. Fix chain. Try to swing leg back over, but hit bottle carrier again and knock bike to ground. Try to swing leg over top tube, but instead kick top tube and knock bike to ground. Imagine how wonderful it would feel to hurl bike into Yellow Lake, spewing obscenities that echo off the mountains. *Finally* get back on my bike, demoralized and depressed and generally pissed. The wind is so strong it's hard to get up any real speed going down Yellow Lake. Nothing near the "55mph" people bragged about from years past. Finally hit Main Street, heading towards transition. Main Street is pancake flat, but headwinds are incredible. I'm in one of my easiest gears and can only maintain a speed of 12mph. This is extremely frustrating. As I approach the transition area, the 5th place man is finishing. Enter transition area and ride through to back. Now there are approximately 1700 bikes in transition. Another reminder that I'm at the back of the pack. Dismount, walk leisurely to changing tent. Bike time: about 7:47. T2: Air in changing tent is 100 degrees warmer than air outside tent. There are more volunteers in tent than athletes. Another reminder. Plop on chair. Dump out bag. Sift through stuff. Remove sweaty, salty cycling clothes. Wipe arms, legs and face with moist towelettes. Reapply sunscreen. Put on clothes. Shoes. Hat. Race Belt. Lots of vaseline. Exit tent and head to porta potty. As I sit there I hear Lori Bowden finish. Exit porta potty and walk to run start. Jog out, saying "ouch, ouch, ouch" with every step. T2 time: 20:00. Run: My, it's warm out. And sunny. Haven't seen a cloud all day. Decide I'll "run" until after I pass Robert and Mike, then I can walk a while. Pass Robert and Mike, then immediately hit an aid station. Walk while drinking cold water. Stop and take 2 salt tablets. Walk. Walk. Walk. I have no real motivation to run. Walking feels just fine. After a while, walking gets boring so I run. I'm able to maintain a good pace. I'm nauseous, but think I can keep it under control. My plan is to walk up every hill and through every aid station, but run the rest, if possible. Walk walk walk. Run run run. Enjoy the cheers of spectators. It amazes me that so many people sit in their front yards in lawn chairs in this heat. I appreciate their support and cheers. Some of them look up my name in the roster and call out "Go Jane" or "Go Jane from Atlanta". I thank each one of them as I pass. Run with a girl named Jennifer for a while. She complains of feeling "barfy". We have something in common. It's her first IM too. She comments "I knew this would be difficult, but I didn't know I'd feel so bad." Mike and Robert catch up to me on tandem bike they've rented from Bike Barn. They hip hop me for a while on the course, cheering me on, taking pictures, telling me I look strong. I feel strong. I'm running a lot. Nausea gradually disappears. I pass IronPete (Priolo), who has about 6 miles to the finish. He's sitting on the asphalt. Staring at the ground. Mike is sitting with him, telling him not to give up. I hope he doesn't give up. I know he's disappointed that he didn't make his goal time, but I really hope he doesn't give up. I'm glad I wore my Tri-DRS singlet. Many people recognize me and call my name as they pass going the other way. I would not have recognized most of them otherwise. Finally the chicken broth hits the aid stations. It must be 6:00 pm. I lost my tolerance for solid food many hours ago, and all sugar is still repulsive, so the broth is a big treat. I temporarily abandon my vegetarianism and drink the chicken broth at every aid station from mile 6 on. It's the only thing keeping me alive. Very few people are running. The further into the course I get, the fewer runners I see. At many points, everyone in sight is walking in silence. Heads low. Plodding along. Just trying to make it to the next aid station. Fortunately, the sun is rapidly sinking behind the mountains. Although I never really set a time goal, I had delusions of finishing before dark, but now I just think about getting to the run halfway point before dark. Reach the run turnaround in plenty of time. Run with Ron Adams for a while. It's nice to have someone to run/walk with and talk to. I'm starting to pass people I saw on the way to the turnaround. I must be moving at a decent pace. Darkness falls when I'm at 15 or 16 miles. Pass Tri-Baby who's traveling at a leisurely pace, helping another athlete survive her first IM. Tri-Baby is not only strong, she appears to be completely *unaffected* by the race. I see no difference in her at that time than when she was singing and dancing on the floating dock. This is truly amazing. By mile 18 I'm really starting to feel the fatigue, although I can still run quite a bit. Continue walking hills, walking aid stations and drinking chicken soup. It's wonderful having Robert and Mike out on the course. Sometimes they ride beside me in silence, sometimes they ride on ahead, sometimes they walk with me through the aid stations. Always telling me I look strong. Somehow I end up at mile 23. Not much further. Not far at all. Still cannot predict my finishing time. Don't really know how far I am into the race, since I only have Atlanta time of day to go by. By mile 24-ish I decide that I'll come in just after 15 hours or just after 16 hours. I'm still not sure. Mile 25. What a beautiful sign. Nothing can stop me know. If every muscle in my legs cramp I can still drag myself on my elbows for 1.2 miles. Tri-Baby passes me, running with a new-found friend. I try to keep up with them, hoping to cross the finish with them, but decide the effort is too great and I don't feel like pushing it. As I run down Main Street by Hog's Breath, people are cheering and high-fiving me. I like high-fiving the kids, but the older guys slap my hand so hard it throws my arm back. I round the corner and people are cheering. I run as fast as I comfortably can. Cross the finish line in 15:12:39. Run time 5:39. I don't know if I'm elated. More relieved. Finish line volunteer hands me my t-shirt, medal and IMC towel, and walks me around finisher's area, asking me questions about how I feel. I feel pretty bad. Very nauseas. I sit down and get more and more nauseous. I ask for an IV. After taking my blood pressure (hooray for low blood pressure) they decide I need one. After nearly fainting from them inserting the IV into my hand (I am *the* most squeamish person on Earth), I roll over on my stomach, puke a bunch, then fall asleep. After about an hour in the medical tent I head back to the hotel, eat some pizza and dive into bed. I'm too tired to appreciate my accomplishment. Thoughts: The race was
well organized To all of you whom I met in Penticton: I miss you. It's depressing being home. |