When I changed out of my wetsuit (and the swimsuit underneath) into my bike gear at the first transition, I was intentionally deliberate. Doing things like putting my socks on before my bike shorts (a good tip from a commenter on this blog). Thinking. I moved slow on purpose, not wanting to make mistakes that would cost me time.
At the transition from bike to run, on the other hand, I moved slowly just because I was pooped.
The change actually went quickly. I changed into running shorts — I didn’t want even a teeny-tiny chamois hampering me during the marathon — and my LiveStrong running shirt, and put on running shoes.
That took about three minutes, I’d guess.
Then I sat there for a while longer, just not really very interested in getting up. Eating the PBJ sandwich I had put in the bag the day before. Getting a drink of water. Using the restroom. Checking email and working on a Sudoku puzzle.
Okay, maybe I didn’t do the email and Sudoku part.
Eventually, I wandered outside, my PBJ still in hand, and started running.
And that’s when I discovered — and I’m sure I’m the first person to ever learn this — that when you’re dehydrated and breathing hard, it’s not easy to swallow a bite of PBJ sandwich.
I carried the PBJ sandwich, the same bite of dry bread and sticky peanut butter in my mouth, for the next half mile.
Which made it difficult to acknowledge the cheering throng.
As I went by, one woman yelled out, “Nice tan line!” I wonder what that was about.
Confession: My Original Running Plan
My left hip flexor has been bothering me since the Death Valley Marathon last February, so running has not been a very big part of my life for the past few months. Specifically, I have only run more than ten miles a few times since February.
And most of my runs have been more along the lines of six miles.
Every week or two.
So, I figured, I’d just try to use a combination of running, walking, and stubbornness to get me through the marathon.
Specifically, I hoped that I’d be able to run the first half of the marathon, then gracefully transition to a more leisurely “run a mile, walk a minute” technique.
Which would, I had to acknowledge, probably turn into a “run a half mile, walk a minute” technique after a while. Followed by a “run a quarter mile, walk a minute” strategy, which would, at long last merge into a “walk a minute, walk a minute” approach.
Plan A Quickly Gives Way to Plan B
I managed to more-or-less run for the first couple miles, for which I was proud. And about 2.5 miles into the run I crossed paths with the Runner; she was in the home stretch for the bike ride. Which meant I had about 40 minutes on her.
I did some quick math and knew that she’d for sure catch me before the end of the race. The only question was, would I be able to hold her off for enough of the run that when she caught me it wouldn’t seem like a shame to stay with me.
So my goal was to be fast enough that The Runner would catch me at mile 23.
Meanwhile, I began planning my two different speeches for when she caught me:
If she caught me before mile 23: “This is all I’ve got; why don’t you go finish strong and then wait for me at the finish line.”
If she caught me at or after mile 23: “How about you slow down just a hair and let’s cross the finish line together?”
The problem is, it was quickly becoming evident that I would not be exactly tearing up this part of the course. Before I began the fourth mile, I had my first unplanned walking break.
And many more would follow.
It was curious, really, to experience the sensation of total power loss. I’d be doing my best impression of running, moving along at a good solid five mph, when, without really meaning or wanting to, I’d fade into a walk.
So my new plan? Run when I could, walk when I had to.
And I had to walk a lot.
This Course Is Just Plain Mean
I’d like to make it clear that my slowness was not exclusively because I am not any kind of runner at all. Part of it’s because the run course is purely hilly. Check out the elevation profile:
This double-mirror image profile is because the course is a double out-and-back. You run up a hilly road with a couple hilly detours, then down the other side, then turn around and come back to the start. And then you do it again.
So you see the same 6.5 mile road four times.
A number of people have wrinkled up their noses when I tell them about this out-and-back-and-out-and-back course, but I liked the idea of it. 6.5 miles is something I can get my head around, and I was able to say to myself, “just get to the next turnaround,” over and over. 6.5 miles is a much more manageable distance to consider than a marathon.
Plus, with this kind of marathon, I was able to see the really fast guys finishing up their second laps as I started my first.
Not that that was demoralizing or anything.
I did, however, have one nice moment. As I got to the top of Red Hills Parkway the first time, I saw the back of Cory, who had finished the bike ride ten minutes or so ahead of me. He was stopped, talking with some volunteers at the aid station.
I picked up my pace so I was very nearly running again, and then smacked him on the butt as I went by.
Then I had a brief moment of panic as it occurred to me — after the fact — that maybe it wasn’t Cory after all, but maybe another guy with the same jersey.
But it was him. Whew. (Note to self: in the future, be sure to get a positive ID on people before smacking their butts.)
I Love the Volunteers And Their Dixie Cups Full of Heavenly Nectar
I think I’ve thoroughly established that this is a hard marathon.
Luckily, there was an aid station every single mile. And even more luckily, the volunteers at those aid stations were incredible. A line of fifteen or more people would be standing there, yelling themselves hoarse for you, and offering what they held in their hands to you as if it were very very very important to them that you take what they had.
“Water!”
“Gatorade! You need Gatorade!”
“Cold sponge! Get your cold wet sponge!”
“Want Coke? You want Coke!”
“Bananas? Oranges! Grapes!”
“Want some chicken broth?”
“Powergels! Powerbars!”
Like they were getting commission on it or something.
I felt a strange sensation as I went by people who had something I didn’t want:
I felt apologetic.
“Thanks, I’m good. Sorry,” I’d say, over and over, as I went by.
At first I went with Gatorade at each aid station, with a Powergel every two or three aid stations. But before long, I hit my threshold for how much Gatorade and Powergel I can consume in a day.
I switched to Coke. Then added broth. And then added oranges.
And that became my new aid station routine: a half-Dixie cup of broth, the same amount of Coke, and an orange wedge.
And that worked perfectly for me. No stomach problems, no hunger pangs, no more weakness than I had otherwise.
I Love My “Fans”
If there’s one thing that can bring a completely spent racer back to life, it’s a cheering crowd. Or a single cheering person, for that matter. The Runner’s brother and one of her sons had — unbeknownst to me — set up camp along the course. The first time I saw them, they held up a “Go Fatty” sign they had made.
It made a huge difference to me.
Then, as I took the last turn at a roundabout for the end of the first half of the race, there was a group of women cheering for me. At that particular moment, I wanted nothing more than to walk, but thanks to them, I found it within me to pick up the pace, at least for a little while.
I Love My Training Partner (aka Wife)
And then, of course, I ran into The Runner (not literally). The first time I saw her on the course, I was 7 miles into the run and on the way back to the starting area; she was on her way to the turnaround — so about 1.5 miles behind me.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“My stomach is killing me,” she said.
“You’ll catch me soon,” I said.
The next time I saw her, I had just completed the final turnaround; she was just about to do the final turnaround.
“Slow up for me for a second and I’ll catch up,” she said, which was no problem, since she was running and I was walking pretty much everything by then.
Right at the mile 20 mark, she caught up. Her stomach was better, thanks to about a hundred Tums and Gas-X strips.
I was ready to give my “you go on ahead” speech, but she said, “Let’s finish this thing together.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “You’re obviously faster than I am, and I can’t go any harder than I’m going right now.”
“I’m tired, too,” she replied.
Honestly, we both know that she could have finished the race ten or fifteen minutes ahead of me if she had wanted to.
And I love the fact that she preferred to finish it with me.
Here we are, tearing up the course together:
Home Stretch
The Runner and I struggled on for the final six miles together. We’d run when she could convince me to speed up; we’d walk when I could convince her to slow down (or, a couple of times, when I just dropped to a walk and said, “Go on ahead, I’m done.”)
Eventually, amazingly, we got into the finish chute.
And it was amazing.
Hundreds of people lined both sides of the road. Cheering, shouting.
The Runner and I took each other’s hands and broke into a run. I would not have believed I had it in me, but there it was.
We crossed together, arms raised (Thanks, Debbie M, for capturing and sending me that video!):
Thirteen hours, thirty-four minutes.
I’m going to call that awesome.
Afterward
Right away, volunteers grabbed each of us, got blankets on us, gave us a bottle of water, and escorted us to a place where a pro photographer could get a shot of us.
Then Scott, the IT Guy, Kenny, and Heather (who had been mountain biking in St. George that day and came into town to see the finish) took care of us.
Scott and The IT Guy collected our bikes and other stuff, including my truck, and brought it back to the hotel for us.
And Kenny gave us a ride back to our hotel. In the back of his truck:
Back at the hotel, we sat and talked about the day. And then we asked The IT Guy to go to Del Taco to get us four fish tacos and a shake, each.
Which may have been the very best part of the day.
Would We Do It Again?
I am so glad I did an Ironman. The Runner is so glad she did an Ironman. It was an incredible experience.
And neither of us plan to do another one.
Here are the reasons why:
In spite of my new respect for swimming, I just don’t love it. I never looked forward to a training swim. And I don’t think that will ever change.
For your first Ironman, it’s all about just completing. If you’re going to do a second Ironman, it has to be with the objective of being faster. Which means we’d have to think about faster transitions, maybe getting TT bikes, and all of that kind of thing. And I’m not interested in that.
We got lucky. There’s consensus that the St. George Ironman course is one of the hardest there is. And if we hadn’t gotten lucky with the weather — mild wind and cool temperatures — it would have been much, much harder. This was hard enough as it was. I don’t want to chance doing this race in 90-degree weather.
Besides, we had already said this was a one-time thing. Not that I’m opposed to reversing myself.
A “Let’s Answer a Couple of Questions” Note from Fatty:I always love reading the comments in my blog. Honestly, I read every single one. Probably multiple times. And some of the questions / comments from yesterday’s post deserve more than a comment-level response, because they reminded me of stuff I should have talked about in the first place. So before I start today’s installment, I’m going to answer a couple questions.
Q. HOW COULD YOU SWIM SO STRAIGHT TO HIT A BUOY!!! You must have done lots of sighting drills in the pool! -Ian Thompson
A. Actually, I never did sighting drills. Not even once. And hitting the buoy is only good if you mean to hit the buoy. I actually always intended to swim to the right of the buoys. I’m lucky they’re just big, soft, inflatable things or my head would still be ringing.
Q. My favorite part of that whole story was you saying someone unzipped you…I too would like to know if you expected this, if it’s customary, etc. Seems like such a kindness to extend to the “competition” in a race. -Jenni
A. I should have made it clear that it was one of the volunteers who unzipped me. You can see them in the green t-shirtsin this photo. I don’t think racers were unzipping each other; we were too busy trying to stay upright — it’s amazing how unsteady I felt for the first 20-30 yards or so!
Q. So, drafting behind someone isn’t okay, but clawing your way over their back is? IronPerson is a weird sport. – Gomez
A. I’m certain that whoever crawled over me did it on accident, and there’s a >50% chance that it was my fault — I could have been angling the wrong way and got into his/her path. You just can’t see people until you’re — sometimes literally — on top of them. In any case, thanks to the slippery wetsuit effect, s/he just slid right over me anyway. It felt curious and funny, not dangerous or scary.
Q. For those people that were hypothermic and barely able to function, did the volunteers try and warm them up or just put them on their bikes and point them in the proper direction? – Cardiac Kid
A. I’m not sure what steps volunteers took, beyond helping cold racers get dried and dressed. I do know that the volunteers were eager to help in any way that was allowed. For example, after I was suited up, I started gathering my wetsuit and other junk to stuff into a bag, and a volunteer hurried over, saying he’d take care of it and that I should go get racing. I cannot say enough nice things about the volunteers at this race (and I will definitely say more nice things about them in the next couple of posts). It makes me think: I need to do some karma balancing by volunteering at a couple races myself soon.
Q. You are a lot of work, what with the pooping and the forgetting, the runner must have patience! -George Not Hincapie A. I’m pretty sure that can be said about any woman with regards to her man.
Moving Up
Here’s me, getting ready to come out of the transition. It’s the only photo I have of me during the ride:
Looks like I’m eating. Which is pretty likely.
Anyways, generally, if I’m going to ride 100+ miles, that’s pretty much all I’m going to do for the day. So it felt kind of strange to start a 112-mile ride — with about 6500 feet of climbing, according to my GPS — thinking of it as the easy part of the day.
OK, maybe I wasn’t thinking of it as being easy per se, but I was happy to be doing the only part of the race in which I can claim any experience or expertise at all.
The course for the bike part of this race starts from the reservoir, goes 20+ miles, and then does two 45-mile loops before dropping into the city center for the final stage of the race.
And in that first twenty miles, there’s definitely a sorting process: the climbers from the non-climbers.
And even at my early-spring weight (i.e., I’m about 13 pounds heavier than I’d like to be right now), I’m a fair climber.
So, without really knocking myself out, I passed literally hundreds of people within the first twenty miles as we rode up two or three longish climbs.
I know it sounds like boasting when I put it that way, but the truth is, that’s entirely intentional.
So let me boast a bit here, while I can. Tomorrow’s post will contain little if any boasting, I promise.
As I climbed, I inspected bikes, and came to a few conclusions:
Cervelo is the bike manufacturer of choice for Ironfolk. And not by a small margin. I would be hard pressed to pick the second-most common bike company represented (maybe Trek?), but Cervelo seems to have that market tied up.
There was an instant affinity among those of us on straight-up road bikes. When I saw someone with drop bars and no aero clips, I’d smile and nod. And I got a lot of the same thing from others. Kind of like the way I used to get a smile and “me too” nod from people who were also driving a Honda CRX.
Everyone who talked to me was outrageously nice. Coming into this race, I had a stereotype in my head of the triathlete: all business, no fun. And for sure there were a bunch of people who were pure game face, and those people and I didn’t have a lot to say to each other, mostly because those people do not acknowledge that other people exist when they are on their bikes. However, tons of riders said “Hi,” and a lot of people asked about what I thought of the swim (I was very happy with it), whether I could feel my hands and feet yet (I could), what I knew about the course (I knew it pretty well and was happy to describe it). So, amazing news flash: a lot of triathletes are totally normal, friendly people.
The People That You Meet
I know this part of the race is a time trial. And I did not draft, even a little bit. But when people took the time to say hi to me, I wanted to ride with them. Here are a few people that stood out from the ride. I asked each of their names, but due to a peculiar mental deficiency with a common onset around the beginning of middle age, I cannot remember most of them. So these people instead get the mental descriptions I had for them:
The Garmin Guy: There was a big guy — looked about 6′1″, maybe 230 pounds, riding in full Garmin-Slipstream kit, who blew by me during the first 20 miles of the ride. I remembered thinking, “Oh, I’ll catch and pass him soon enough,” but I didn’t. He just pulled away and disappeared into the distance. Finally, at around mile 75, I saw and caught him on a climb. For the next 20 miles, I would catch him on every climb, and he would then catch and gap me — and everyone else in sight — on every flat. “I’m a trackie,” he explained, and it was clear that this guy had incredible power, and a lot of mental toughness to battle out the hills the way he did. At the final descent from Veyo into St. George, this guy flew away from me. I hope he did great in the run.
The Cervelo Roadie: I mentioned before how many Cervelos were out there, but I saw only one person riding a Cervelo road bike — a guy on a beautiful R3. I passed him on the first climb and commented on what a nice bike he had, and he said “Thanks.” Little did either of us know that he and I would never be more than a couple hundred yards apart for the rest of the ride, trading places (without drafting!) dozens of times. It’s strange to think that over 112 miles, any two people would both start and finish so close together, but he and I shook hands as we dropped off our bikes at the run transition. “Nice riding with you,” he said, and it definitely was.
The Peeing Guy: One guy — wearing a green argyle jersey — introduced himself to me and we talked for a moment; he said he reads this blog. Considerably faster than I am, he soon gapped me and I figured I would not see him again. But I did. He was riding downhill on the shoulder of a road, signaling to others not to ride behind him. It quickly became evident why: water began splashing down his leg and onto the road. “Pee break,” he said with a big smile as I went by him. Another rider, moments later, pulled up alongside me and said, “I would never do that, no matter what; I’m happy to add the 30 seconds to my finish time.” Which pretty much echos my thoughts on the matter. Still, I bet the Peeing Guy beat me by more than thirty seconds, so who am I to judge? That said, I’m glad I’m not his bike mechanic.
The Arizona Guy: One rider and I swapped places and chatted a number of times. He’s a reader of this blog and says he told me I’d break seven hours (he was right). He also said he had a miserable time in the swim and had even had to hold on to a kayak for a while to recover, meaning he was way off his time of an hour at the Arizona Ironman. I can’t even imagine swimming that fast.
Cory: Lynette is one of The Runner’s training partners, and Cory is Lynette’s husband. Cory and I had talked a little bit about the probability that we might wind up doing a lot of the race together. And sure enough, he caught up to me at the beginning of the second lap, and we joked together as we passed each other over and over — once again, me passing on the climbs, him passing me on the flats and downhill. It became a standing joke that each time I passed him, I’d say, “See you in about two minutes,” and I was usually right.
Where is The Runner?
One person I did not see for the entire ride was The Runner. And nobody had any information on how she was doing, which drove me a little bit nuts. Did her swim go well? Badly? I wasn’t worried about her making the cutoff anymore, because she is a stronger swimmer than I. But nobody I passed — or who passed me — had seen her. I hoped she was having a good race.
And also, I was hoping she would not pass me quite yet.
Little did I know that The Runner was having a strong race of her own, moving from 1572nd place at the beginning of the ride, to 638th place by the end of it — rocketing up by more than 900 places. In other words, she passed half the field while on her bike.
And that’s in spite of a long stop she had to make due to a loose cleat on one of her shoes. Two of the screws had come out, making the cleat swivel so she couldn’t clip out, thus earning me several Bad Husband points for not having checked her shoes before the race. Stupid.
Luckily, everything held together, and she did an awesome ride — quite possibly a faster ride than I did, if you subtract out the time she spent off the bike dealing with the cleat emergency.
Here she is, coming down the home stretch, looking very good:
Respect Where Respect is Due
I’ve made a little (ha!) fun of the way tri geeks ride, so I need to come clean here: nobody did anything stupid or ridiculous on their bikes anywhere near me.
Which is, in fact, a little bit disappointing.
Further, while very few people on their TT machines passed me on climbs (and there were a lot of climbs), I got passed dozens of times by these people on the descents.
So props to them for that.
But I’m still not even remotely interested in ever having a bike with aero bars. Maybe it’s just what I’m used to, but to me, those things are big, bulky and ugly. The opposite of what a road bike should be.
So there.
Finishing the Ride
The ride part of the race was remarkable in its unremarkabiltihoodness. I felt fine, I didn’t burn myself out, and the weather — which was my biggest worry going into the race — was cool and only mildly windy.
So after 2.4 miles of swimming and 112 miles of biking (in 6:32 by the way), did I feel like I was ready to run a marathon?
If I had ever thought to pose the question to myself, I would have answered, “No.”
But maybe that’s a teeny little superpower I have: not doubting. I didn’t even think about whether I could do a run like that.
I was absolutely, completely positive I would not be able to sleep the night before the Ironman. Why would I be able to? It’s a huge race, with a couple thousand people in it, many of which had pretty much obsessed over just completing the thing.
And besides, I’m never able to sleep before a big race. Ever.
But I slept fine, thanks to Ambien. Specifically, The Runner and I each took a quarter of a 10mg pill around 8pm, figuring (without any data to back us up, but that’s par for the course) it would wear off well before the 7am race start.
We woke up to the alarm at 3:15am. Since we had everything packed and ready to go so we could get to 4:30am shuttle in a matter of minutes, there was one — and only one — reason for getting up this early:
To poop.
It occurs to me that it may seem like I’m beginning to talk about pooping almost as much as Dug. But seriously, pooping before an all-day race is crucial. Vital. Essential.
I did not poop.
Eventually — and with many updates given to The Runner which I’m sure she was very, very happy to receive — I gave up and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
We parked the car, dropped off our “Special Needs” bags — each filled with a Mountain Dew, a Salted Nut Roll, and a Subway Club sandwich wrapped up with an ice pack — and found our shuttle to the reservoir.
A Quick Aside
This might be a good place for me to mention the way the St. George Ironman race was executed: I have never ever ever seen a race so beautifully and comprehensively directed, explained, or executed. It ran like clockwork — everything was where it was supposed to go, staff and volunteers were all over the place, ready to help, and the whole thing was generally organized to the nines. So well, in fact, that even a guy (um, me) who has no experience whatsoever in triathlons was able to understand what was happening and concentrate on racing, instead of on making sense of the race.
So, to both Ironman the company and the race director of Ironman St. George and to all the people who helped: Thank you. You were remarkable.
Seriously, I Will Eventually Stop Talking About Pre-Race Pooping
We got to the reservoir with about an hour to spare, which was good, because the shuttle ride combined with the rapidly-dawning realization that I was about to try to do an Ironman had shaken loose what the 3:15 alarm had not.
By the time my ten minute wait for a portapotty was over, I was able to successfully complete my business.
The Runner and I then went and found my bike transition bag, because I had forgotten to put a towel in it the day before.
Then we went back and got in line for the portapotty again. This time the line was 15 minutes long, but was well worth the wait.
Suit Up. Fast.
We then walked over to the bike area — as good a place as any — to strip out of our day clothes and put on our wetsuits. As we struggled into our suits — I believe I was working my right leg into it — the announcer said it was time to line up and get in the water.
So yes, after waiting around for an hour, suddenly we were late.
Perfect.
We rushed, hopping and pulling and yanking. We then helped each other with our zippers and started the walk to the water’s edge. As we walked to the line, I put my neoprene swim cap on…backwards.
Realizing my mistake, I fixed it, then put on the swim cap the Ironman organization had wanted everyone to wear over it. Most men’s caps were orange. Mine was purple. Whenever someone asked why mine was a different color, I said it was because they wanted to make it easier for the lifeguards to identify racers who were most likely to drown.
Last, I put on my goggles — a brand new set, nice and clear. I was amazed at how much the chlorine from the pool had fogged my old goggles.
On Your Mark…Get Wet…
Then the people in front of us stopped. Nobody, it seemed, was in a rush to step into the 59-degree water.
“Oh, stop being such babies,” The Runner said, and — taking me by the hand — led me through the mass of athletes. We walked into the water — very cold on the feet and hands at first, but thanks to the wetsuit, not bad at all on my legs, body, or arms — and then swam out to our pre-chosen spot: well back from the starting line, on the left side. We figured we would not get kicked and punched and crushed right from the start that way.
And luckily, there was a guy on a giant surfboard (a windsurf board maybe?) right where we wanted to be. We grabbed on, waiting for the race to begin.
We then looked back — and there were hundreds, or possibly even a thousand — of racers still on the boat ramp. Evidently, starting from the water was not a popular option.
The Runner and I talked to each other and other racers who had chosen this spot. Nervous chatter. Each of us saying over and over, “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Reminding each other we would continue to stay put for a minute or two after the gun goes off. Let the people who are on a mission do their thing. We just wanted to make it around the loop.
Go
The gun went off, and The Runner and I enjoyed the spectacle of an Ironman swimming mass start:
Then I looked at the boat ramp. It was still full of people standing there, now walking — reluctantly, I’d say — into the water.
“Look. IronLemmings,” I said.
“I guess we’d better start swimming,” The Runner replied, not hugely impressed with my hilarity (or it’s possible that she didn’t hear — a neoprene swim cap with another regular swim cap over it tends to mute most sounds).
And we went.
Counting Buoys
The swim course for the St. George Ironman was a rectangle. 1000 meters, left turn, 500 meters, left turn, 1600 meters, left turn, and then swim for the exit ramp.
So I guess it wasn’t a rectangle. It was a quadrilateral.
Anyways.
I hadn’t expected any real way — apart from the turn buoys — to mark my progress, but the race director explained that there would be buoys every 100 meters or so. Which is incredibly helpful to know.
I began swimming, initially sighting every ten or fifteen times I breathed. Then I realized I didn’t need to anywhere near that often. As I took each breath, I could easily see whether I was parallel to or starting to angle to –or away from — other swimmers. Trusting in the wisdom of crowds, I just swam with the group.
Every so often, I would run into someone’s feet. And every so often, someone would run into my feet. At first that freaked me out. Then I got used to it and stopped worrying about it at all.
Except for the one time someone clawed his or her way over the top of me. That was kind of freaky.
Within moments I lost The Runner — we knew we wouldn’t be able to hang together for this incredibly anonymous part of the race — and my only companions were the sound of my breathing and my mental tally of buoys.
I should point out, by the way, that I never even once got the buoy count right in my head before I came to the next turn.
Although I am quite pleased to say that I was swimming a straight enough line that I hit buoys three different times.
The Longest 100 Meters
I would never ever have expected to say this, but during the swim, I … I … I got into a swimming groove. At least three or four times I cocked my head up to take a breath and was surprised to see another buoy to my left.
But there was one stretch that I didn’t think would ever end. And I’m not sure why.
Maybe it’s because I sighted the buoy too soon, when it was really far away. Maybe there was a current. Maybe I was starting to sag. Regardless, I found myself sighting for that buoy over and over and over, and it just never seemed to get any closer.
Finally, I started swimming harder, determined to get to that thing, no matter what. And of course, eventually I did.
And then the next one seemed to come about thirty seconds later.
Home Stretch
It seems perfectly obvious to me now, but I never considered it until it happened: after the last turn — so you have about 800 meters to go (guessing here) — you can see the boat ramp.
And that is probably the most encouraging thing I could ever have imagined.
The thing is, though, the distance to that boat ramp is deceptive. You see the shore, but you don’t really take into account that it’s a long way away still.
But still: it’s getting closer.
I chugged away, swimming toward the ramp, with no idea whatsoever how long it had taken me to swim that far. I wasn’t worried though; it seemed unlikely — with as many people surrounding me as there were — that I had missed the cutoff time.
I reached the ramp — wading the last 10 feet or so, thinking it might make it easier for me to get used to being upright again — and stumbled, giddily, up. Someone yanked my zipper down and I peeled down the top half of my suit.
I think there must have been a clock nearby, but I didn’t see it, so I asked the man next to me: “How’d we do?”
“1:20, I think,” said the man.
“No way!” I said. Here I am, saying “No way!”
Seriously, that was way beyond all my expectations and hopes. Looking at my stats for the race, I came out of the water in 979th place out of around 2000. About as mid-pack as you can be.
Change
I walked to the men’s changing tent, which was stuffed to the gills. As I walked, I noticed a strange tingle in my feet, which I gradually became aware was the feel of rocks and asphalt as I casually walked on them.
It took a moment to find a chair, but then I matter-of-factly began to change into my bike clothes. Happy. Content. The part of the race I was most afraid of was behind me; the part I knew how to do was next.
And then I looked around.
People all around me were shaking, shivering, completely unable to use their hands. Some looked truly hypothermic.
“Strange,” I thought to myself, because I wasn’t cold at all. I finished changing, waving away help from volunteers.
Later that night, The Runner would describe a similar scene from when she was in the women’s change tent: people shivering, cold, and unable to function, while she felt great.
And that’s when we both realized we owed Aqua Sphere a huge “thank you.” Neither The Runner nor I really know anything about wetsuits, but the fact is, we both had great completion times considering our lack of Ironman experience. And more importantly, our suits kept us warm and comfortable in 58-degree water.
The day after the race, I found Justin — the guy from Aqua Sphere who had set The Runner and me up with wetsuits — and told him how great they had worked out. The Runner interrupted by just giving Justin a big hug.
Which I think got the point across nicely.
I found my bike and headed out. One event down, two to go. The day was sunny, the wind was mild, and I felt fine.
I could tell: this Ironman thing was going to be easy.
PS: Thanks to The Runner’s brother, Scott, for taking all the photos in this post.
Just a quick note now before I begin to eat everything that has ever existed. The Runner and I finished the St. George Ironman today, crossing the finish line together in 13:34.
For the next 36 hours, I would like you to think of me not simply as “Fatty,” but as “IronFatty.”
I’m sure some of you are wondering whether we will be doing another Ironman. To that, The Runner and I offer the following answer:
