Ironman New Zealand
March 4, 2000

I went to New Zealand thinking it would be a once in a lifetime event. It's a long way to go, and it's expensive. I figured I'd do it once, then move on to other Ironman races. It turned out to be the best race I've ever done and probably our best vacation. I'm already planning my trip to IMNZ 2001. I hope to go back every year.

Travel/Arrival Stuff:

The entire trip was incredible, despite the airline snags on our outbound flights. Due to thunderstorms, our inital flight from Atlanta to Dallas was re-routed, forcing us to land in Austin and sit on the runway for 2 hours. I felt like I was sprouting an ulcer. We missed our connection to Los Angeles, and hence our flight to Auckland. So after a wasted night in an airport hotel in LA, we were on our way to Auckland the following day. Arrived Monday. Headed to Taupo Tuesday. Our time in Auckland was too brief, but really enjoyed meeting Judy Walsh from the IMNZ list, sitting by the harbor, drinking Belgian beer , and looking at all the boats in harbor for the America's Cup. On the way to Taupo, stopped off at Waitomo Caves to go blackwater rafting . Blackwater rafting = donning a diving wetsuit, boots and a helmet, and floating through a cave in an inner tube, occasionally stopping to turn out head lights and look at glow worms on the ceiling. When we initially jumped into the water, it was FREEZING. I asked our guide what the water temp was, knowing that if it was the same in Lake Taupo, I'd be in big trouble. He said it was 12. This doesn't mean much to me. OK, the water temp in Taupo better be way warmer than 12.

Arrived in Taupo Tuesday evening. Mike Bundy was already at the rental house and had dinner ready for us (yeah right).

We loved Taupo. It reminded us a lot of Penticton. Small resort town, on the lake, friendly people, geared up for the race. The lake is huge. The water is clear. It was cold too, but no where near the 12 degrees I feared. Maybe more like 19 or 20?

Near the race headquarters, there is a Super Loo, a mega public toilet complex. It is a landmark, and a conversation piece. Taupo also sports a giant fish, which reminds me of the giant peach in Penticton. Why do small towns always have a giant object?

Met IMNZ list folks at Nonnie's for breakfast on Wednesday and the Holy Cow for dinner that night.

Spent the week doing normal pre-race stuff - visiting the expo twice a day, putting bikes together, buying wetsuits, swimming once or twice. Had a nice relaxing time. Not nervous at all. I've done this before on a harder course, and there was no way it would get as hot in NZ as at my previous two Ironman races. Piece of cake.

Race Morning:

Did not sleep very well. What happened to not being nervous. Awoke at 4:30, the same time I've always gotten up for Ironman. It's COLD in the house. It's *really cold* outside.

In a flash, it was time to leave. Checked in. Loaded special needs bags. Soft ice chest barely fits into the bike special needs bag. Bag starts to rip. Ended up double bagging. OK. Bags are turned in. Ready to go. Head to transition area.

Damn. Forgot to bring bottle of water to fill Jetstream. It's in my soft cooler - double bagged and tied up in bike special needs bag. Use empty bottle to transport hose water to jetstream. That'll taste good. Load various food stuffs into bento box on bike. Man is it ever cold. Check watch. It's 6:40. Sh**. I don't even know where the swim start is! I don't have my wetsuit on! Panic. Panic.

Run out of transition area carrying wetsuit and bag of stuff (goggles, etc). Robert follows me. I follow crowd. Where is the swim start? How far away is it? Why don't I check this crap out before race day? Trot through parking lot, grassy area. Ground is freezing cold. Feet are frozen. Hands are frozen. Trot run trot run. Huff puff. See swim start. Stop at bench to dress. Hands are cold and almost useless. Struggle into wetsuit. People are watching. New Zealand Air Force is performing an air show. I wish I could watch. I'm panicking. I can only listen to Robert's comments about how cool it looks. Ok. Wetsuit is on. I'm nervous.

Head to water. Make my way through crowd, into lake. Hey, the water feels great! Not cold at all. Do 15-second warm up swim. Pick a spot, stand. Can't really see where swim start is. Don't want to be at the front. Ask another competitor for location of swim start. "That big yellow buoy", which is about 20 feet from me. Oops. Move to back. Yellow lights on shore start to flash, indicating 3, then 2 then 1 minute to start. Cannon. Go.

Swim:

This is it! I'm doing another Ironman! It's not tomorrow, it's not last week, it's now! Weeeeee. This is great! The crowd is much thinner than at IMC (since there are less than half the number of competitors). I enjoy being able to see the bottom of the lake, and to see other swimmers without having to lift my head.

I'm swimming in a small, spread-out pack, maybe 15 of us. I notice that we're way to the left of the buoys. It's us way over here, and everyone else way over there. Cut over to the right to swim the real swim course. Back on course, it's still pretty spread out. Not many people close to me.

One guy starts bumping me from the right side. Stroke stroke bump. Stroke bump. This gets annoying. He then sort of pushes me aside and swims directly in front of me (hey buddy, the buoys are the other way). Almost immediately after he gets in front of me, he stops dead to look for buoys. Argh! I go around his immobile body. He then starts swimming, on my left side. Stroke stroke bump. Stroke stroke bump. This time on the left. Again he cuts in front of me and again he stops dead in the water. Grrr. Again I swim around him. He starts swimming again, coming up on my right. Dammit. I'm not putting up with this for another hour. I swim ahead until i'm swimming directly in front of him, and I pee.

The rest of the swim is uneventful. We swim from the main part of the lake into a river. I can see docked boats on either side, and propellers and stuff under water. I know the end of the swim is near. I look up and see people on the hill. Swim directly to exit steps. Never have to stand up. I swim directly towards two pair of legs, standing on the exit steps, which drop a foot or two below the surface. When I get close, they grab me under my arm pits and yank me to my feet! Woo hoo! No jerk-walking over rocks like at IMC. Swim time 1:23. Not a PR, but not bad.

Transition 1:

My goal is to have faster transitions than last year. Sub-13:00 transitions. Surely I can do that.

I have my own personal helper in the changing tent. She dumps out my stuff, helps me with wetsuit. Wetsuit comes off in a flash. No clothing change - skinsuit all the way. She offers to put my socks on, but I decline. Munch on Pringles while I put on socks, apply sunscreen. I am meticulous about sunscreen application. This adds time, but I know it's necessary. Should I wear arm warmers? Ask my helper if it's warming up any. "Oh yes, it's warmed up quite a bit.". Hmmm. I'll wear them anyway. I get cold easily. Probably my best decision of the day. T1 time 9:34. Slow for most, great for me.

Bike:

See Robert and Frank & Judy Walsh immediately after exiting transition. They yell something. I can't believe how cold I am. I'm freezing! Had this been a training ride I would have worn a long sleeve jacket. Bike computer shows 51 degrees.

Head out of town, up "the" hill, to start the longest part of my day. Maybe the cold air was energizing, or maybe I just felt great, or maybe I needed to warm up, but I went out pretty hard on the bike. In retrospect, too hard. Passed many people on the way out on lap 1. Big ego boost. I feel like a million bucks. But man am I cold. It gets even colder as we head down into the lower areas surrounded by trees.

Taking bottles from the aid stations is difficult, since they're on the left side. And the road surface is fairly rough, but as Mike Randall told me, I got used to it. Don't remember much about lap 1. I believe it took 3:10. I remember feeling like I could count on at least a 6:30 bike time, hopefully faster.

Lap 2. Back at "the" hill. Don't feel as good as I did the first time, but still okay. Start climbing. Hear something hit the ground. My Thermotabs. Cannot abandon Thermotabs. Stop. Dismount. Lean bike on "metal" post. Find out post is plastic, and breaks under the weight of a fairly light bicycle. Water dumps out of jetstream. Retrieve Thermotabs from road. Why did this have to happen on a hill climb? Run bike up hill to driveway, mount, continue. Spectators have had plenty of time to look up my race number, so I depart to many people calling my name, cheering me on. The crowd support here is wonderful.

Special needs is at the top of the hill. Volunteer sees me coming and runs alongside with contents of my special needs bag unpacked - my soft ice chest, laden with ice, 2 water bottles, 1 diet coke, 1 sandwich, 1 energy bar, 1 small pkg Pepperidge Farm Chessmen cookies. She also has my CO2 cartridge, spare tube (which she thoughtfully unwrapped for me) and i don't know what else. She meets me just past bag handoff. She is very friendly and really wants to help.

I gasp for air as I try to stuff sandwich down my throat. Munch Chessmen cookies. Man are they good! Sip diet coke. Long for porta potty, of which there is none. She wants to put spare tube in my saddle bag, but I tell her there is no room. I only packed it in case I used the tubes I was carrying and needed another. "But you won't get it back if you don't take it!" That's okay. She tries to find a place on my bike to put soft ice chest. "I'm not going to take that with me. There's no where to put it." "But you won't get it back!" "That's okay. I knew that beforehand". This upsets her, that I am going to have to forfeit this stuff. Stuff more food in face. She asks where I'm staying and promises to deliver my unused special needs junk when her shift is up. And she did! I tell you, they've got some great volunteers there.

Continue on my way. Lap 2 is most definitely harder. I notice the hills. I didn't notice any on lap 1. It's getting really hot now. Once it passed 60 degrees, temperature skyrocketed. Not a cloud in the sky. I feel like I'm deteriorating. I've been losing as much food as I've been eating. A ziploc bag of pickles, mistakenly tucked under my race belt instead of into my skin suit back pocket - gone. Quik Discs, blown out of opened bento box. Cliff Bar, gone, but I can't remember how.

Find porta potty and stop. Much on food while waiting my turn. Whew, I'm getting tired. Wish I had more food. Continue on. Each hill is harder than the previous. Each hill is like a new experience, since I don't remember any from lap 1. Approach aid station. I really need to consume sports drink, since food supply is low. Toss 2/3 full bottle of Replace before aid station, to be replaced by full, hopefully cold, new bottle of Replace. I yell "sports drink" as I approach. "We've only got water." That's not good. Continue on, with only water, and little food.

Finally hit turnaround and head back. 140K, 160K, I'm getting there. Next aid station has Replace. This is a relief, although I'm probably beyond help at this point anyway.

Last 13 miles are grueling. Uphill, uphill, uphill. Where was all this on lap 1? I slowly inch past a man, climbing a long hill. He says out loud "Where were all these damn hills on the first lap? I don't remember any of them." What are you? Clairvoyant? Last 10 miles seemed to take 3 hours. Would it never end? Where was my energy? Possibly strewn along the road with my lost race food.

Finish bike in 6:57. What the hell happened? A 7-hour bike? What's wrong? This isn't even a hard course. I'm stumped and very disappointed.

Transition 2:

Plop on chair. Again, I have my own personal assistant. I must smell awful. I don't feel too good. Suntan lotion, Pringles, vaseline, the usual. T2 time 10:05. Well, if I never get faster on the bike or run, at least I can shave off time in transitions.

Run:

I cannot run. I walk out of the tent, toting a small canister of Pringles. I see Robert, just as I get on to the run course. I try to jog, mostly for show. Too difficult. This is not good. I've got 26.2 miles ahead of me, and I feel like I normally do at mile 15 or 16 of an Ironman run. Oh well, I've got a lot of time left. I can only do what I can do.

Munch Pringles while Robert walks/jogs beside me and tells me how strong I look. I feel like crap. I don't know if I'll be able to run.

Head out of town, beside the lake, towards the first hill. Convince myself to jog to the first hill. It's not that far. Just jog to the bottom of the hill, then you can walk up it. I somehow push my body from walk to jog and force myself to stick with it. Man is it hot. What was it I said about there being no way it would get as hot here as in Canada? It's well into the 90s.

Every step is a struggle. My body wants to quit and my mind won't allow it to. I make it to the base of the hill and walk up, stopping for cookies and water at the aid station. Lots of folks are out cheering. A bunch of most-likely drunk guys, dressed as rainbow clowns. Folks at restaurants or bars. People in their yards, or just standing beside the sidewalk. Most yell "good on you" (with the emphasis on "on"). Probably heard this 100 times or more. Took me a while to figure out they were not saying "go on you".

Man I feel awful. I really just want to walk for a long time. But I won't. Walk the hills and aid stations. Jog the rest. You can do it.

It's hot. People have kindly turned their yard sprinklers on for the runners. I go through every one, and each time worry about sunscreen washing off. But I desperately need to cool off.

Distance markers are in kilometers, so I have no idea what pace i'm jogging. Probably better that way. I don't even know how many kilometers make up 26.2 miles. Why don't I check this crap out before the race? I have no idea how far I have to go. The mental math required to do this is incomprehensible at this point. Then again, what else do I have to do? I work through it and figure on 42K. I confirm this with a guy with an Australian accent. I can only imagine what he must have thought when I asked "how long is this run?"

Finally, I'm heading back into town to finish lap 1. See Paul Huddle by the lake. He tells me that people are talking about me on the internet. I tell him I feel like crap. "It's not how you feel, it's how you look, and you look great!" This is probably the only time I smiled during the grueling event called the "run".

I finish the first lap in 2:40. Hmmm. A 5:20 marathon. Not bad. I can live with that. Get special needs bag and sit on log fence. Food looks pretty disgusting. Try to eat Pringles. A spectator comes and sits down by me, tells me it must be great to be finished. I'm not finished. I'm half way. Oh. I ask where a trash can is, to dump my special needs bag. He tells me he'll hide it in the bushes for me so i can get it after the race. Ok. He threatens to finish my Pringles as soon as I'm out of sight.

Start jogging again. Unlike IMC, I do not feel like I'm "headed home" after 13.1 miles. I'm headed back out. And it ain't no fun.

At 7:49 pm, the sun set over Lake Taupo. It was pretty. I wish I was fast enough to view it from my hotel room, instead of on the course. Mike Bundy is already finished. I envy him.

I plod along in the dark. I fall into the self-pity crap, which I swore I would not do. If this is the best you can do, maybe you should just give this up. A 7-hour bike? What the hell is that about? Another near-6-hour marathon? And this isn't even a hard course. I feel awful. I'm near the tail end. I am the most pathetic being alive. No, actually you're not. You're doing a friggin Ironman, and you know you're going to finish. You won't make a 5:20 marathon, you won't make it in under 13 hours or 14 hours, but you've been out on this run course for over 4 hours, with basically no energy to start, and you're still going. You're not giving up because you never give up. How many people can do this? How many people have Ironman finisher's medals. At this point, I realize that it is probably easier for me to finish a race, at any cost, than to drop out. Mentally, I could not take a DNF (unless I was injured or suffering from intestinal distress to rival a bad case of dysentery) , so I will push my physical limits to the end. And this is what I am doing. So shut up and keep going.

I continue to plod. I know that some day I will get that sub-14:00 Ironman, and maybe even a sub-13:00 Ironman, but it won't be today. I can live with that. I still have a slim chance at a PR.

As I approach the final aid station, I hear someone approach. She passes me. Dammit. I do not consider myself to be competitive, but I am SO SICK of being passed by someone in my age group, right before the finish line. This happens to me all the damn time! It happened at IMC '99. It's probably happened in every race I've ever done (I say to my furious self). Dammit. I don't know that she is in my age group, but she probably is. Looks like it anyway. As we get to the aid station, she wants Coke. I want nothing except to pass her and put some distance between us. I blow through the aid station, passing her as she asks several people for Coke.

For the second time today, I am actually *running*. The first time was a brief stretch when I ran with Mike Bundy, who was finishing his second lap and I was finishing my first. I hear her catching up, I turn to see her pass me, but it's not her. It's an Asian man. Ok. Then I really hear her approach. NO dammit! I'm not letting you bullies kick sand in my face any more! There is one more big hill between me and the finish line and I'm running it. She'll run it, so I will too. Where is this energy coming from anyway? She hangs with me for a while then says "it's amazing how people can pull out so much energy at the end of a long race like this...." she fades as I pull away.

I pass the "1K to go" sign and continue running, fearful to let up and have her pass me at this point. She's actually way behind by now, but I'm afraid to believe that. Keep running. Man, I really feel like crap. This end-of-the-race surge is killing me. I'm tapping into energy stores that I really don't have. 1K sure is a long way. Finally get to the point where I can hear the finish line crowd. Then I can see the finish! Kids hold up their hands for me to high five them. I'm so weak I'm afraid I'll fall over backwards if I do. And what if it slows me down and she passes in the finish chute! I run, feeling like I'm dying, through the hands, the cheers. I see my finish time - 14:24:xx. A PR. A very painful PR.

I cross the finish line and use every remaining bit of energy to hold my arms up for the photo. Although I feel like death, as Huddle said, it's not how you feel, it's how you look.

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