I rushed down the finish line shoot, pumping my fist and feeling like a conquering hero – what great feeling. Fifteen minutes later, I was shivering under a blanket wondering why I ever wanted to take on an Ironman.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The day started at 2 a.m. As planned, I got something to eat, and went back to bed for a few hours. Everything had been laid out the night before, so when the alarm went off again at 4 a.m., all I had to do was grab food bags from the fridge. My wife had to wake up our sleepy kids and put them in the car (they were great and supportive on a very long day).
We arrived at the transition area and I set up my bike. Then, I got my numbers drawn on me, said good bye to the wife and kids and started walking to the swim start (the start was adjusted to almost a mile away because the current was too hard).
I was nervous – worried about the bike ride (my wife says it's the most nervous she's ever seen me). I'd never biked more than 80 miles and was usually pretty darn tired after those rides. I had confidence that I'd make the entire 112 miles, but wasn't too certain what I might have left afterwards. I have to admit it kept me from completely enjoying the morning.
Unlike the typical Ironman start, we were lined up single file for the swim. We entered the water around two at a time by jumping off a dock. As a result, it wasn't very congested at all. I swam to the outside and rarely was in contact with a body. The swim was relatively easy and I did pretty well considering that I didn't exert myself. I came out of the water feeling pretty good and ready to take on the ride.
The transition area at Louisville seemed pretty long. I didn't mess around and it still took me 7 minutes from swim to run and 14 minutes from bike to run. You really have to go a while to get to the bikes and change tent.
After changing as fast as I could, I jumped on my bike and headed out. Initially my heart rate was high because of the swim, but eventually it calmed down and I settled in. Thirty minutes went by and I started to think – "geez I still have 6 ½ hours of this – how am I going to do it. How am I going to stand it?" I made myself only think about that moment. However, throughout the day – it was a constant battle to not think about the enormous amount of miles that lay ahead.
Two hours later, as we headed into the LaGrange festival, I saw my first ring of salt appear on my shorts. For me, it meant that my body was working a little harder than it should and I needed to get more salt in me. Even though my heart rate was low, I had this sense that my body was fatiguing more quickly than it should. I really was trying not to think about it, but I started then to worry about how I was going to take on the challenge of the marathon.
It was also around then that I saw people start to pull over after cramping up (or to throw up). I don't enjoy someone hurting – but it was oddly encouraging to see that others were having a harder time of it than me.
The bike ride is fairly solitary. There are spectators but they are spread out and you whizz by them. What you are left with are the cyclists around you who usually grunt "to your left" or make a quick comment about how a hill is hurting them. As the day progresses, cyclists grow even quieter, putting their head down and simply watching the road in front of them.
But going into LaGrange was different (we went through twice), folks were lined up on the street cheering. It's uplifting and you had to smile as you went by. Unfortunately, you go by quick. I barely saw my wife and saw her on only one of the trips through. Then it was back to the road and your thoughts.
My thoughts were growing more concerned (of what thoughts I could process). Once I made it around the first loop of LaGrange, I knew I'd complete the bike ride. But the big question was at what price? I'd never gone beyond 80 miles in a bike ride and I found myself incurring problems that hadn't come up in training. My head was starting to swim and despite my planning, the nutrition wasn't going well. My stomach was beginning to get upset and I could tell I needed more salt in my system. My feet started to get numb and sore from the pedaling. I was very uncomfortable and every minute on the bike seemed to creep by. I wanted off so badly. I saw people walk up hills with their bikes – it started to look like a good idea.
The last part of the ride is flat and coming back into Louisville. It was an easy stretch and it gave me time to try and get my thoughts together. I knew that once got off the bike, I could walk the entire way and still make the cutoff. However, I wondered if my body was going to be capable of doing even that. I had this feeling that if I pressed it, things would just start shutting down.
I came down River Road and into the bike finish. I was happy yet reserved. I was anxious to see what I had left. Stepping off the bike, I could feel I had a blister under one of my feet. My stomach was nauseous and my head was in a fog. The good news was that I felt I could at least walk to the finish. However, I'd have to be careful not to push it too hard.
The bike to run transition at Ironman Louisville takes forever (it took me 14 minutes). It's a long walk to the tent (some of it done with a bike) and a long walk (and I was definitely walking) back. Despite the slow time, I didn't mess around too much, talked briefly to my family, got some sunscreen put on me and had to go back to get my sunglasses – then it was out to the run.
I forced myself to run the first mile of the marathon – and my legs felt pretty good. But my stomach was in pain and every step made me want to throw up. I started to walk. I walked the next 4 miles. My stomach didn't feel any better. I started to think how crappy it would be if I walked the entire Ironman course. I didn't feel like that would be very "Ironman" of me. I needed to run a decent portion of it, otherwise it would cheapen the experience – this was my rational as I started to run after mile 5.
It was here that I discovered the oddity of my stomach issues: If I ran, the stomach pain and dizziness would go away. As soon as I stopped, it returned. So I would run to an aid station and stop, feel sick again and spend the next half mile or so trying to convince myself to run because it would feel better (which was a hard argument to win because it didn't make sense). This head battle went on for most of the race while I also started to put food in my stomach that, from past marathon experience, I knew worked for me.
Around mile 20, my stomach was starting to feel better. My legs were still not too bad and I started to run from station to station.
Walking in the Ironman is pretty common – particularly in the latter stages of the race – more people than not are doing it. Competitors are just tanked. As I picked up the pace in the last 4 miles I evidently stood out from the spectators. They started calling out my number and telling me I was an Ironman and that it was awesome that I could finish as strong as I was. This of course encouraged me and I picked up the pace even more. Rather than walk through stations, I grabbed water and kept running. I could feel the finish line coming. I could hear the crowd and music. I was going strong. I was doing 7:30 miles for the last 3 miles. I was going to finish this thing.
You turn a couple corners onto 4th Street and it's there that you hit the crowd. They are loud, close and uplifting. I pretty much sprinted to the finish. "I did it. It did not beat me. I was strong enough." were my thoughts as I ran down the shoot pumping my fist. Then I hit the line and the volunteers grabbed me and put a medal around my neck. They propped me up and told me my family was yelling at me, posed me for pictures for them and then got me something to drink.
After they took me to get my picture taken for a finisher shot, I told them I thought I was ok and they left. My family then came around and congratulated me. They had flowers and presents. They were probably happier than I was.
And that was because I could feel that I was fading. I've done plenty of marathons and never felt this tapped out. I knew that I needed to refuel quickly or I was going to be in trouble. We walked to the food area and I tried to get some pizza in me. Despite knowing I had to eat, I couldn't. Things started to get fuzzy and I told my wife we needed to get me to the medical area. It was there that an hour with an IV stuck in me allowed me to gain my senses.
I felt good enough to gather my bike and take it home. Doing this usually simple task was my last show of "will" of the day. When I got home to bed, I was in a deep sleep in a second – too tired to reflect on the day.
So it's done. Two days later I'm still tired but feeling pretty good. I've gone through many emotions from pride, to wanting to do better, to never wanting to do it again to thinking about doing it again someday. It'll take some time to sort out.
For now, I'm going to enjoy not having so much of a hectic schedule. Tonight (although it'll hurt really bad) I'm going to play catch with my son and not work out. That sounds pretty good right now.
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