Ironman Kona 2015

Last year in Kona, two days after the World Championship that I’d started but not finished, I went for an easy swim at the Kona Aquatic Center.  While taking a break between intervals, I had a long chat with Karlyn Pipes, a Kona resident and pretty famous and fast masters’ swimmer (although I didn’t know it at the time) 

At Kona Aquatic Center- this year

Karlyn was friendly , and eventually I spilled my whole story --how I’d started the race fit and ready but eventually collapsed 15 miles short of the finish line.  I just don’t know what happened, I told her.  I honestly don’t know what went wrong, I don’t know what I could have done differently, I don’t know how to fix it.

She shook her head, having heard it a million times.  This island, this race….. it’s like no other and it can take the best down with no warning. She shared some stories, she gave me some tips, she helped me with my “butterfly”, and as I was getting out of the pool she said,  “the most important thing to know if you want to beat this race …. you’ve got to respect Madame Pele, and you’ve got to find a way to make peace with her."

Madame Pele, if you don’t know, is the Hawaiian goddess of fire and volcanoes.  She’s said to be ill-tempered and “wickedly playful.”  Madame Pele is the one that kicks your ass with headwinds, crosswinds, pelting rain, oppressive heat, mechanical bad luck…you name it, she’ll serve it up.  She’s fickle and terrifying, and she’ll curse you if you don’t respect her, or the Island.  So they say.

  

I’m not usually one to get superstitious or overly spiritual, but Karlyn’s words resonated with me.  The day after I’d collapsed last year, I was adamant:  “I’m not coming back to do this race again.  It’s stupid, it doesn’t suit me, it’s not worth it, and I’m done.” One day later, I was silently committed.  I need to come back, I need to treat this race and this Island with the respect it deserves, I need to make peace with Madame Pele, and I need to finish what I started.  

I am not lying or playing small when I say my primary goal in Kona this year was simply to finish the race.   I think I was too afraid of Madame Pele to hope for much more.  I wasn’t thinking about umeke bowls, I wasn’t thinking about times, I was driven solely by the desire to actually cross the finish line on Ali’I Drive this time around.

There might have been a time, earlier this year, when I wanted more, but things hadn’t necessarily gone smoothly in 2015.  I made a lot of mistakes – it’s really not worth dwelling on them at this point – but long story short, I’d already been struggling pretty mightily for a couple of months before I injured my knee/ hamstring insertion point in late June/ early July.  The injury  lingered, worsened and re-invented itself, keeping me from running in July and August before finally starting to improve enough around Labor Day that I was able to get through a much abbreviated Ironman build.    

I spent a lot of time and energy this summer stressing and crying about my injury and the related struggles that had preceded it.  For a while early on, I stayed in denial, insisting that I still wanted to do “something special” in Kona, but as the days went on and I just didn’t heal, that “something special” outcome seemed more and more unrealistic.   I think it was in mid-August, during a snotty, sweaty meltdown on my kitchen floor following a discouraging bike workout (honesty), that I finally came to terms with my situation.  After shedding probably 2 pounds in tears, I took a long breath, and remembered why I initially signed up for this race—to make peace with Madame Pele and to finish what I started.  I recommitted -- to simply finishing the damn thing.  No matter what.

At the time, I couldn’t even jog a step, and there was a fairly high probability that finishing meant a long, 26 mile walk over the lava fields. I was completely at peace with the possibility of that outcome.  I am prepared to walk the marathon, I told anyone and everyone who would listen. I absolutely meant it.   

And then, I started to heal.  

Those last six weeks before the race, my short little Kona build, they went about as well as I could have hoped given where I started.  But, I was extremely cautious in acknowledging any hints of optimism that I felt, because on the whole, I just knew I was going into the race short on training.   And, I knew Battle #1 was with Madame Pele – dealing with her winds, her fickleness, her heat (by far my biggest worry).  So I clung to my initial goal—simply finishing on my own two feet – and never really allowed myself to envision or believe that I could do any more.  

Pre- Race

We arrived in Kona the Saturday before the race, which to me, was perfect amount of time to both acclimate and unwind from the stress of regular life.   My entire immediate family came this year, which pleased me to no end. We stayed in mansion up in the mountain off of Hina Lani Road, about a 15 minute drive to the swim start but enough removed from the craziness of town that I could actually relax a bit.  It had a hammock, an outdoor shower, a pool, a hot tub, and a Vitamix, and really, that’s just about all I needed.

Our backyard

We paid our respects to Madame Pele, all week long.  There was even a small ceremony on a beach--  the return of a piece of lava that had been accidentally taken from the Island last year.  We took our shoes off inside, always, we tried to pronounce all the street names right, I made a point every day to eat or drink something uniquely Hawaiian (mostly POG juice).  I obsessed about the weather forecasts, the wind predictions, of course I did, but I also accepted them.   It could be windy, it could be hot, it could choppy, but this time I’m ready for whatever Madame Pele brings.

Race Day

With all the fear and the anxiety I had leading into this race, it amazed me how calm, at least in comparison to years past, I felt race morning.   Race number tattoo application, bike tire pumping, bento box stuffing—I breezed through it all without really feeling the butterflies.  I found my family and Liz and Chris in the King K hotel, we posed for pictures, I gave my good-bye hugs, and we headed out for battle.  As I was leaving, my mother reminded me…..”no matter what, be safe, be smart, and just keep moving forward.”   The mantras of my day.

Brother was more scared than me!

The Swim

Liz and I hung around behind the King K for a while, trying to stay calm, but when we heard the cannon go off for the men’s start, 15 minutes ahead, we pushed our way through the crowd to get into the water and get to the line.  After a short 100 meter swim or so, we reached the start (front and left)  treaded water for 10 minutes or so, trying to save energy, trying to stay calm.  We said very little to each other, there wasn’t much left to be said.  But having my coach, my good friend right next to me in the moments before the race was tremendously comforting.  I/ we were ready.  

Team Multisport Mastery

The cannon fired with no warning and I took off, at a near sprint for at least the first two minutes.  I had a clean and fast start—a couple quick glances to my left confirmed that there was no one there, and the women to my right were fairly spread out and swimming in a civilized manner.  I gradually angled myself towards the buoy line, and just….swam.   For the next hour.  If I thought about anything, I thought about not swallowing salt water, which I suspected had started my problems last year.   

The sea was angry, my friends-- All good pics on here courtesy of Liz Wendorff- thanks!

I got out of the water around 1:04 – my second slowest Ironman swim ever– but I was determined not to let a slow swim ruin my day the way it had last year.   When I got to the change tent, I recognized a couple faces, very fast swimmers, so I was relieved.  Turns out, the swim was slow for everyone, and based on many reports, about 400 meters long.  I got out the water 2nd in my age group which, honestly, for a World Championship, kind of blows my mind.  

T1

Botched.  Forgot race number (tattooed on my arm) and couldn’t find my gear bag.  Couldn’t get Castelli Jersey on over my wet body (great call to wear it overall but a pain to wiggle into).    Pretty much par for the course, for me.  My lack of thinking ability post-swim was almost comforting in its familiarity.

Bike

I got going on the bike, ignored the hard-charging riders around me (it’s a long day, guys), and settled into my own, very conservative pace, drinking a lot, and trying to bring my heart rate down.  The first 10 miles or so are an out-and-back on Kuakini—it’s crowded, it’s frantic, and it’s dangerous in a lot of respects.   Goal for the section was to just get through—I did—and before I knew it I was spinning easily up Palani, and onto the Queen K.

I felt slow in those early miles.  I don’t mean me personally … my body felt good, my power output was on point, I’d gotten the heart rate down to where I wanted it … but I just felt like my bike wasn’t rolling fast.  On silky smooth roads, I was feeling every small bump and undulation in the road.  I started to worry that I had a flat tire.  I bounced a little on my rear wheel, but it felt fine, so I carried on, trying not to be too concerned.   Just keep moving forward.

And then, mile 28, on a fortunately flat stretch of road with no one around me, my front tire exploded.   Good one, Madame Pele.  

Immediately, I pulled over, flipped my bike over, got out the tools and started the fix, repeating over and over, “stay calm, you’ve got this, stay calm.”   I thought I stayed pretty calm; my heart rate file suggests otherwise and it’s kind of funny to see.  Really, I was worried because I had no idea what had just happened that caused the blowout.

Maybe Madame Pele was just having some fun with the day, I don’t know, but within 30 seconds, the most unlucky part of my day became the luckiest when the neutral tech support van pulled up and two bike mechanics walked over and took over the repair.  I wanted to kiss them.  They were amazed by the condition of the inner tube, which was completely shredded but fixed everything up quickly.  They inspected my tire (all good!) and reassured me that I’d be fine going forward --  “you probably had a slow leak all day, and then it just blew.”  I don’t understand the physics of it all, but that made me feel OK.  

To cheap to buy official pictures, so here's my bike

All told, I stood on the side of the road for 5 minutes—it likely would have been much longer without tech support.  Looking at my power file, I’m estimating I lost an additional 1:30 to 2 minutes in the first 28 miles with the slow leak.  Madame Pele 1, Amanda 0.

Getting back going, I had no idea how many women had passed me but I was pretty sure the answer was: a lot.  Results show that I was riding in 3rd in my age group, close to 2nd, when I flatted, and then fell back to 9th or 10th while on the side of the road.   Oddly enough, I wasn’t concerned, upset, or even all that shaken.  My day wasn’t over, I was moving forward again, and that’s really all that mattered in the moment.  I just set out to continue my ride, hoping for the best.

Aside from that, the bike was uneventful.  Extremely aware that the success of my day was going to be based on keeping myself cool and hydrated, I slowed for every single aid station (about every 7 miles) and got two water bottles—one for drinking, and one for spraying all over myself.   I ate, I drank, I looked around a little, I rode incredibly conservatively, all day long.   We got pelted with rain on the way up to Hawi (bring it, Madame Pele), but it felt good, really cooling me down, and just as quickly as it had started, it stopped as we started to descend.   

I did not have one low moment all day.   I wasn’t affected by the winds, and only really felt hot in the last 10 miles or so.  It felt like a training day, and to be honest, it felt a lot easier than any of my big training days.   Most comfortable 112 miles of my life.  

T2

I felt like T2 took forever because I had so many tasks to take care of.  A wardrobe change—off with the Castelli top, on with the TriSports jersey.  Sunscreen application.  Arm coolers on, cooling towel soaked in peppermint oil around the neck, snacks shoved in pockets, hand held bottle, downing lots and lots and lots of ice water.  It felt good to sit in the shade but I hustled on out, taking one last look into the tent as I left and seeing Jana, a super talented racer who I knew was gunning for the win in our age group, about to head out too.  

Run

It was hot this year.  It’s always hot in Kona, and to me, there’s not a huge difference between hot and really hot, I struggle either way, but this year was really hot.  As I was heading out in that first mile, the race announcer was giving a bit of commentary of the Pro race going on miles up the road.  Jan Frodeno, the eventual winner, was apparently stopping at the aid stations to dunk his head in buckets of dirty ice water.  It was that hot.  

The extreme hot probably should have totally psyched me out, especially after my melt down last under much more favorable conditions, but somehow, this twist from Madame Pele almost empowered me.  Thanks, Madame Pele….You’re not going to make it easy for me to get through this race … , but maybe that’s the fun of this whole thing.

I was happy out there because I was on my own two feet and I knew I could finish that way, no matter what.  For the first 9 miles, I tried to do two things—stay cool, and smile.   Spectators on that first out-and-back of Ali’I were armed with hoses and I ran under every single one gratefully.  I shuffled through each aid station like a greedy hungry ice hippo, using both hands to grab as many cups of water (3 to 4 per mile) and ice  (as much as possible, dumped down my top, shorts, under my hat, in my hands).  Each aid station was an oasis.  

I saw my family multiple times out there on Ali’i, and in every one of those instances I did my best to smile, give a thumbs up, do whatever it took to let them know that I was OK and I was doing this thing.  They needed that, especially my mother, who’d witnessed pieces of the downward spiral last year.    And I needed it too….I’ve always found that nothing can pull me out of a moment of misery in a race quicker than a genuine smile.  

I was getting place updates -  third in my age group off the bike, and I knew I’d passed into second a couple miles into the race – but my reaction to that news was never much more than “Cool, thanks!” and then forget about it.  It’s a long race, anything can change, and I honestly wasn’t thinking at all about umeke bowls or places or anything like that as much as I was just trying to stay cool, do everything right, and click off the miles successfully.

Hi family!  I'm OK!

I shuffled up Palani although everyone around me was walking, made the turn onto the hot, exposed, desolate stretch of the Queen K, and trudged on, still not fast, but still not caring about anything except forward progress.  

Passing mile 11, where I went down last year, it was like a massive weight lifted off my shoulders.    From then on, every mile felt like a bonus.  Every time my watch buzzed (every half-mile), I had a little internal party -- “I’m doing this thing!”  It hurt, it was hot, my quads started threatening to cramp at mile 10 (thanks Base Salt for being out there!), it was lonely (no spectators allowed between miles 13 – 23), so many racers were giving in and walking, but I was doing it!   But then I’d get back to work, over and over and over, doing that internal checklist -  eat, drink, check heart rate, relax arms, run tall, turn it over, etc. etc. etc.  

Head down, just get it done

But what about the race?  You know, the reason I was there?  Umeke bowls, all that jazz?  Honestly, I can’t say I thought about it much.    I knew I was in second place in my AG for the vast majority of the run, and I’d certainly scoped out the competition at the turn around in the Energy Lab, but it didn’t change anything and it didn’t feel real—I think I was so focused on the goal of simply finishing that I never really thought to think of anything else.  

Until those last few miles.  It got really hard.  My legs were absolutely feeling my lack of run training.  I had to make a couple emergency port-o-pot stops as things stopped settling as well.  It became one foot in front of the other, let things go dark, focus on the stretch of road 4 feet ahead, just soldiering on, pounding coke and Red Bull at the aid stations, anything to keep going.  Every muscle in my body was screaming to walk--- and that’s when I finally dug into the “race” reserve.   Keep running.  YOU CAN GET A BOWL if you just keep running.

So I did.  Those last two miles or so, they’re mostly downhill, including a steep descent down Palani.  I’d probably have paid money for those to be uphill instead, as my quads screamed and cramped with every downhill stride.  I wanted to turn it up and go faster, but my legs couldn’t do it.  We turned onto Kuakini, SO CLOSE, and I was in a bit of panic mode.  I’m not moving!  I’m so close!  This is taking so long!  But I kept running because—bowl. Finally, it inspired me.  

It’s within the last third of a mile or so that you turn onto Hualailai Road, and again, go downhill.  Quads:  no, no, no.  Mind:  go, go, go.  I kept trying, feeling like I was running in slow motion, but then, right before we turned onto Ali’I Drive, Jana, who’d been within a minute or two of me all day, flew by, taking over second place in our age group.  I had no response – she was absolutely hauling and eventually finished 30 seconds ahead of me-- a ton of time to accumulate in a quarter mile, so hats off to her! 

Almost there

Yes, It’s hard to deal with a pass like that, so close to the end after 140.3 miles and 10+ hours of racing, but the disappointment lasted probably less than five seconds before the elation of Ali’I Drive took over.  The emotions hit -  as much as they could when your whole body is cramping.   I soaked it all in – the best finish line in all of the sport.   

So happy, so tired, so everything.

My time-  not my best.  Not even my best in Kona.  But on this day, it was enough.  It was more than enough.  Yeah, there have been what if's-- what if I hadn't stood on the side of the road for 5 minutes with a flat?  What if the two bathroom stops I took had been one, or zero?  But I've yet to have an Ironman go flawlessly, and when I do, maybe that's when it's time to hang it up.   I spent next to no time dwelling, because at bottom, I was so, so happy, so, so relieved, and in so, so much pain.  

I really, truly needed my "catchers."  Nothing left.

The After

Once I could kind of move, the celebration started.  For days, I alternated between thrilled, and shocked (this race, after this season?  Me?).  With my family, I relived every moment, every detail, every up and down.   I giggled through the award ceremony, as I tend to do, celebrated my birthday by hiking through a volcano,  and just felt so incredibly happy, all the way until my plane touched down in Illinois, when I felt still happy, but maybe a little deflated  when greeted with the start of winter.   Whomp, whomp.  

And then…. it was on to the next adventure!  Yes, I’m way behind on blogging!  It’s coming soon☺     

Of course, I have so many people to thank.  First and foremost, my family, for being there, all of you.  Your cheers on the day, reassurances in the days before, celebration afterwards-- it was so incredibly special to me.  Thanks to Liz Waterstraat of Multisport Mastery for getting me physically ready for this race despite less than ideal circumstances, and always believing, even when I didn't, that a good result was possible.  Thanks to my training buddies and friends, especially Kristy and Jason, who offered their spare bedroom for several training weekends in Madison, and several others  who not only pulled and/or pushed me through tough training days, but also talked me off the figurative ledge many a time when things weren't looking good.  Thanks to TriSports for taking a chance on me several years ago and for your continued support.  To the various medical professionals who got me through injury, including Achieve Ortho and Dr. Steven Mayer-  I'm so appreciative. Thanks to Gloria Petruzelli for helping me get my head in the right place, and Heather Fink for the nutrition help.  It takes a team-- and I'm so happy with mine.     

And of course, thanks to Madame Pele--- for helping me to search for, and find, something great within.

Final Results

Swim: 1:04:18

Bike: 5:29:49

Run: 3:39:54

Total 10:21:32/ 3rd in 35-39 Age Group

Ironman Arizona 2014- Redemption

Despite having to really drag myself through several weeks of literal and figurative darkness and fear and all that stuff prior to Ironman Arizona, by the time we arrived in Tempe, I was actually in quite a good state of mind.  I knew (I'm learning!) that in order to have a successful race, I needed to do whatever I could to keep the pre-race anxiety very, very low.  My method of doing that?   I made the trip short and sweet, not flying into Phoenix until Friday morning.  I kept my head down, focused on myself, and tried to stay away from the noise, popping in to Ironman Village only to check in and handle the necessities but hustling out of there and staying away from the buzz as much as I could.  I mostly did my workouts away from the race site, skipping the pre-race practice swim in favor of the local Y and riding/running from my hotel.  And mostly, I surrounded myself with close friends and family and people who could keep me laughing

Spotted on pre-race ride.  I knew it'd be a good day.

My mood the day before the race and the morning of was ridiculously good, almost to a bizarre extent.  The pre-race mishaps, of which there are always some, were significant this time (among other things, I forgot all of my bottles of nutrition, not noticing until we'd already parked, and had to send my dad back to the hotel for quick retrieval) but for whatever reason these things barely raised the stress level.  It was quite strange, really.  The fear I had of this race was so substantial that I had anticipated being near tears with nerves beforehand.  Not so much.  I got my bike set up, I joked around with Karin and Dusty (who had all-access passes as they were handlers for a physically-challenged athlete), I celebrated when my wetsuit, which I hadn't put on in two months, still fit, and most of all, I just felt happy and excited.  Was it my lowered expectations (I truly, truly just wanted to finish)?  Was it excitement of being able to "redeem" myself?  I have no idea, but if I could bottle up that good mood for future races, I would.

Swim 
 
Headed out of transition, I found training buddy Kristy, which was good, as we had planned to swim together.  The line to get to the water was huge and I just wanted in, so I pushed and elbowed my way up to the front of the line with Kristy following closely behind and apologizing to everyone for my rudeness. We jumped into the dark and murky water, swam the 300 meters right to the front line, towards the right but not all the way.   And wouldn't you know, with 3,000 starters, I ran into a familiar face treading right in that space-- Jerome Harrison, Jennifer's husband, who made me feel a little better about not having swum a single stroke in my wetsuit in 2 months when he confessed that he hadn't been in his for three years.  The three of us chatted and joked and observed that the race was starting way late.  The nerves never came.

Without much warning, the cannon fired, I put the head down and churned out a good 60 hard strokes, then took the effort down, lifted my head to look around, and practically cheered out loud upon realizing that somehow, I'd managed to find myself almost entirely in open water.

It was about this dark when we got in

I'd heard talk on Slowtwitch, and gotten confirmation from male amateur champ Steve Johnson, that the best line in this swim was not along the buoy line, but farther right,  as the course curves a bit ("it's kinda like a banana," said Steve).  With this knowledge, I aimed myself wide right towards the shore, settling in maybe 10 or 20 feet right of the sea wall, where spectators were walking along.   And then, lo and behold, there were my parents, walking right along with me.  This made me almost giddy.  I kept waving at them as I swam and at one point they waved back.  Three cheers for my extremely "distinctive" (or ugly, whatever) straight-arm swim style that made me recognizable in a sea of black wetsuited competitors!

Love the mass swim starts.  Really

After a little of that, I realized it'd probably be smarter if I stopped waving at my family and smiling like a dork and got to work, so I spotted a couple green caps swimming close by, adjusted my angle, and hopped into their pack, riding the draft as much as I could until the turnaround.

Coming back in, I continued to blindly trust the advice of bunch of strangers on Slowtwitch and stayed far right, way out in no man's land, swimming alone.   I felt good and strong but I was so isolated out there that I feared I was way off course.  Yet eventually, the course curved out to meet me, I celebrated the smart line I'd taken, and enjoyed the easy effort all the way in and out of the water.

Swim: 59:02/ 5th in Age Group

T1
I didn't see a clock getting out of the water and hadn't started my watch, so I had no idea how the swim had gone.  A very helpful spectator shouted "you're under an hour!" which widened my smile as that is always the goal.  T1 has been a weakness of mine this year, I've gotten lost so many times, so when I arrived to the bags and a volunteer already had found my bag amongst the piles and was holding it out for me, I was perhaps overly thankful ("thank you, thank you, so much for not making me find this on my own!").  I got through the transition pretty quickly and then was happy to see All-Access Karin as I exited the tent to find my bike.  "I found my bag!!!"  I yelled to her.  Small victories.  She jogged behind me as I turned down the correct  row for once and ran straight to the volunteer who was holding my bike.  "And I found my bike!!!," I continued to narrate.  Has there ever been anyone so damn happy about getting through transition?  I am not so sure.

Mutual Friendly Feeling Friend Livetweeting My Success

Bike
If there's one word to describe my plan for the bike it was:  conservative.  I had power targets, but after the Kona meltdown, my primary goal was to ride as easily and in-control as possible so as to give myself the best chance to digest my nutrition properly and to set myself up to have a good run, which I have never been able to do at the Ironman distance.  This was not, in any way, a day to take anything even remotely resembling a risk.

Once I started rolling, it became immediately apparent that this was going to be a much tougher day than anticipated.  The wind was already gusting strongly, and I knew it would only get worse.  So I hunkered down, prepared myself mentally, and set out at a sustainable pace, repeating over and over "easy, easy, easy."   I settled in, tried to take it all in, had a little Fan Girl moment when I saw World Champ Mirinda Carfrae out doing a training run along the Beeline, laughed at how pretty much every guy that passed me was wearing the same damn race kit, and just had a grand ole' time.

Who wants to help me get aerodynamic before next season???!!  Yikes.

At the turn-around for the 1st of 3 loops, an amazing spectator let me know that I was the third female amateur coming through, about 1:50 down from the lead, which was good news but didn't change anything-- I was still trying to be conservative and do my own thing.  At this point, the course was still quite empty, with only much faster guys flying by me from time to time, so I let it rip on the downhill, staying as aero as I could and trying to get the speed up.  I passed Girl #2 pretty quickly and figured Cathy Yndestad was the leader.  I've never raced Cathy before or even met her, but if you race in the Midwest you know Cathy.  She's been tearing it up for years and by all accounts is a really, really nice person, too, and those are the sorts of individuals who people just know.  She's also a very strong swimmer, it was no surprise that she was leading the race, and as I told someone the day before, "there's a good chance I won't see Cathy all day-- she'll be off the front from the gun."

Making the turn-around to start Lap 2, I was still in an awesome mood, smiling and waving when I saw first my parents, then Katy, Carolyn & Bill, then Jennifer Harrison, then Karin & Dusty, then my parents again, with my dad now yelling out "P-2, P-2" which has become a joke between us ever since Mont-Tremblant.

Grand ole time.  For now

Lap Two was harder, with the wind picking up and things getting a bit more crowded as I caught up with the back-of-packers starting their first loop, but I kept to the plan, still felt decent, and was surprised that it wasn't worse. 

Lap Three was even worse, with the headwind making the gradual 18-ish mile climb feel like one of the mountains I tackled while riding in Spain in 2012 and sucking all of my will to live.  My power dropped, my whole body ached from trying to steady my bike in the winds, and that climb to the top seemed like it would never, ever end.  I started watching the pro race coming back down, just really, really wanting to see people I knew descending back into town because it would mean I was at least getting closer to the top.   I knew Maggie was ahead, racing in her first pro race and wearing a bright pink helmet and at moments, all I wanted to see in the whole world was that damn pink helmet because it'd offer tangible proof that this stretch would, in fact, end at some point and I wouldn't be climbing into that wind for the rest of my life.

I did buy the pictures and will replace this

Close to the turn around, I looked ahead and spied a girl wearing a black Lifetime Fitness kit (with a guy riding just inches of her back wheel).  It was Cathy.  That moment shocked and excited me, as I thought I was going so slow that there was no way I was making ground on anyone.   I took a minute to let the guy that was clinging to her wheel know that it was pretty pathetic to be blatantly drafting off a girl (I'm not usually confrontational like that at all, but....it was pretty pathetic), and passed, knowing that Cathy was a great racer and there was no way she'd just let me go.

We turned around finally and as we got a tailwind combined with a downhill, it's like the whole world shifted.  My will to live immediately returned, but that last climb had taken so much out of me that I decided that I needed to take the last 18 miles nice and easy.   I settled in, taking in nutrition and trying to relax.  Cathy flew by, at which point I reminded myself not to relax too much. I hung a legal distance back from her for a few minutes and then passed again, half expecting that leap frog game to go on for the rest of the ride (it didn't).  By the time we reached town, I thought I'd dropped Cathy, but as I getting off my bike slowly and like a total rookie, she rolled right past with an expert flying dismount, got to the line first, and bolted off to transition.  Game on.

Time: 5:19:07, 1st in Age Group, 2nd off the bike, and about a million (or 10-15) minutes slower than anticipated due to the wind 

T2
Entering transition with Cathy and knowing that we were both 1-2 in the Amateur race and 1-2 in our age group certainly lit a fire under my ass.  We both transitioned in under 90 seconds, no messing around. I'm pretty proud of that one, especially because that included actual tying of shoe laces for me (no speed laces in this race, the first time I've ever done that).  

Run
As Cathy and I headed out for the run right with each other, part of me was excited (this is real racing and it's what I live for), but a bigger part was absolutely terrified.

Photo by Kerry Yndestad.  Right out of T2

With Kona fresh in my mind, and with a history of pretty epic blow ups in Ironman marathons, it's fair to say I was confronting some serious demons during this race and especially this part of it, and I absolutely knew that the only way I was going to successfully fight this battle was to start slow, so very slow, manage my emotions, and put the blinders on.  I knew that's what I needed to do.  But given where we were, running right together in first and second place,  putting the blinders on was way easier said than done.  Honestly, at first, I was just saying over and over in my head, "shit, shit, shit."  I didn't want a race like this, and I was panicking, knowing that starting neck-and-neck with my closest competitor and getting involved in a "race"  with 26 miles still to go, could very, very easily cause me to make huge mistakes that would ruin my day.    

We ran this close for a loooong time

Shortly into the race, we ran past Sonja on the sidelines, who I've raced but never actually met.  I knew her as pretty much one of the top (and certainly most experienced) amateur Ironman racers out there, and she had simple words that really resonated (and I'm paraphrasing because I don't remember the exact quote):  "this is the front of the amateur race here, but just settle in, take it nice and easy."  I started repeating those words in my head.  Just settle in.  Nice and easy.  Stay calm.  Then I saw my parents, who reminded me of the exact same things, "find your own pace.  Just run your own race."

That's what that whole first 4 miles was, as Cathy and I ran step for step -- doing whatever it took to settle into a sustainable pace and stay calm and happy.  At one point I started talking to Cathy, chatting really, telling her she'd killed the swim, commenting on the windy bike.   She wasn't much in the mood for talking, I get that, and after the race I sent her a note to apologize for what may have been perceived as playing head games (I absolutely wasn't, I just was trying to find some way to distract myself from what was really going on).   I gave the thumbs up every time I saw my parents, waved at Liz, Chris, Jennifer and Karin when I passed them at mile 4, I thanked almost everyone who cheered for me, I chatted more with other runners I encountered, and I smiled and smiled and smiled until I could smile no more.   In hindsight, I did overcook the first 10 miles a bit and I could have paced better, but I felt really, really good, and I just went with it, stretching the lead to about 2 minutes or so in that first 10 miles.

Still lovin' life at mile 4

 At mile 13 or so, as I started the second loop, things started to hurt.  It's hard to explain, but suddenly I just felt tired, slow, and like something wasn't right.  My pace slowed, my mood plummeted, and frankly, I freaked out.  This was a very familiar feeling for me, and I just knew it was happening again.  I was melting down.  I was losing it.  AGAIN.  Just like every other Ironman.  I started having those horrible thoughts, wondering if I was going to finish or if I'd have to walk it in.  I could feel myself starting to give up, to give in.   I almost cried.    At mile 14, I ducked into a port-o-pot, took a really long time contemplating life, contemplating Ironman, and trying to convince myself to hang in there and to ride it out.

Once I got going, I saw my parents (they were everywhere), and again, they knew exactly the right thing to say:  hang in there.  Keep moving forward.  Just get to the next aid station.   And so I did, moving slowly, my head filled with cranky thoughts, but moving forward, nonetheless.

Somewhat less happy (Photo by Kerry Yndestad)

My low stretch lasted for several miles, and it was a huge mental battle between the voice saying,"yup, you ALWAYS melt down in Ironman racing and you're doing it again," and the voice saying, "this doesn't have to end badly just because it always has.  Problem solve.  Figure out what you need.  You can do this."  As this battle raged on, I just kept moving forward, at moments feeling cautiously optimistic that I could pull through, but at more moments feeling on the brink of defeat.  When I saw Liz at mile 18, she was cheering loudly and telling me I looked great, and my response was to give a big ole thumbs down.

Shortly thereafter, I passed my friend AJ, who was starting his first loop.  He asked how I was feeling, I either said "bad" or "horrible" or "this totally sucks,"  I can't remember, but he offered me a container of BASE Performance Salts, assuring me that he had plenty.   I know, I know, I know, nothing new on race day, but I was pretty desperate at that time, had dropped my own stash of salt at some point, and had heard good things about this product, so I took the chance and started using it.

Maybe it was the BASE, maybe it was the Coke that I'd just started taking at every aid stations,  maybe it was the short walk breaks I'd started to take as I was drinking that Coke, maybe it was just seeing AJ, but starting at mile 19, everything turned around.  It was like some miracle from the Ironman gods.   For the first time ever for me, I managed to pull myself out of an Ironman run funk.  My pace picked back up, my mood improved, the smile came back, when I saw my parents again they said, "oh, you look so much better."

Drama on the Ironman Blog (which is so cool!)

I spent that last 10K thinking of nothing more than continually moving myself forward and staying smooth.  I'd been cautious all day, to be sure, but after that low, low several mile stretch, I was now downright scared, acutely aware of the little "Black Cloud of Failure" that was hovering over my head.  Even though I felt pretty good, I held back hard, anticipating and expecting another low that could be even worse.  I was getting updates that my lead was extending, but at that point, I really didn't care.   I wasn't racing anyone else anymore, and in a way, I'm not sure I really was, all day.  I was battling myself, my own demons,  my own fears, and my own past, and while I was winning that battle, it just wasn't quite over yet.  

Head down, grinding it out (Photo by Kerry Yndestad)

It wasn't until mile 25 that I truly believed I was going to finish.  I did pick it up at that point. I ran through the last aid station instead of walking, I let myself really work. All day long, I never let myself think about the sub-10 goal that had been the original impetus behind doing this race.  I didn't have a watch with my total time running, I never calculated my splits, I never asked anyone if I was on track....that really wasn't what today was about.   But as I approached the very end, maybe 100 meters from the last turn that would take us to the finish line, I saw Liz on the side of the road, jumping up and down, as excited as I've ever seen her.  "You are so close to ten hours!"  she screamed.  "You can do it but you have to go!  Go now! Go!"

I had a moment of shock but then I took off like a bat out of hell, recalling my days as an 800 meter runner and countless quarter and half mile repeats I'd done on the track this year.  I took that last corner hard, I got up on my toes and pumped my arms, seeing 9:59 on the clock and sprinting, sprinting, sprinting as fast as I could, eyes glued to the clock, watching the seconds tick by, sprinting more, not even pausing long enough to remember to fist bump or raise my arms or jump or do any sort of celebration whatsoever, but just trying to cross that line before it clicked over to 10....

And, nine hours, fifty-nine minutes, and thirty-four seconds after I'd started, I crossed that line, grinning ear to ear, thrilled about the time, thrilled about the win, but so much more than anything, thrilled that I'd defeated my own demons, that I'd hung tough when the fears threatened to defeat me, and that I found the strength to fight and to bounce back from the lowest of lows, not just today, but in all the days before.

Bonus points for both feet off the ground (Photo by Kerry Yndestad)

I don't know who it was (and if you're reading, please tell me) but seconds before I crossed that line, I heard someone yell out, clear as a bell, "redemption!"  And really, that's what this was for me.  Sweet redemption.  I couldn't be happier.

Run:  3:36:20
Total:  9:59:34, 1st in Age Group, 1st Overall Amateur

Too happy to remember to pose

The After
And that, finally, is a wrap on 2014.  As for 2015, I have new ideas almost every day but am leaving a lot of question marks on my calendar for a while.  I'm too busy eating pizza and drinking wine.   With the extent to which I've been gorging on pizza, you'd think it was a food I'd deprived myself of in some way during the season-- not so much.  Pizza was my night-before long ride dinner all season long.  What can I say, I just really like pizza.   Kristy said it best when she wrote that she'd be taking a "fat and happy offseason."   Indeed.

 

Speaking of Kristy, who has been a great training buddy this year, she won her age group by over an hour, and will be heading to Kona next October.  And.....after a little hemming and hawing (the memories are still a little too real), I decided to take my slot, too.  At least I have one training buddy lined up (with more likely to come)!  So, ALOHA!