I love it when someone takes me out on a new ride — whether it be a trail or road route close to home, or somewhere far out of town. Adding a new place to be on my bike is always great.
That said, I think there’s a good reason why, 95% (oh yes, I totally keep track my new v. old ride ratio; don’t you?) of my rides are on the same trails and roads I’ve ridden and known for years.
The fact is, the more I know a route, the more I love it.
Why? Well, the first reason is because the better I know a route, the better I am at riding it. I have a sense of how to mete out my effort. I know when I need to conserve energy on a climb because it ends in a false flat, and when to let it all hang out. I know the best, cleanest lines. I know what’s around the next corner without ever seeing it.
But the real reason I love the rides close to home is because they’re piled high with memories.
Let’s Talk
Yesterday afternoon, The Runner and I got out our mountain bikes. I admit I was giddy, because it was the first day the whole year I felt like I could wear a sleeveless jersey.
Not that I’m giddy about the prospect of sleeveless jerseys in general, mind you, but I was giddy about finally — it’s been a long winter — having a day when wearing a sleeveless jersey wasn’t an act of defiance.
“Should I bring an iPod, or are we going to be talking during this ride?” The Runner asked.
It’s a fair question. While I’m normally pretty talkative (though nowhere near as talkative as you might suspect from reading this blog), when I’m riding I often stop talking; I get absorbed in the ride.
“Leave the iPod at home,” I hazarded, not really sure I’d be able to back up that promise of being a good conversationalist.
Turns out I didn’t need to worry. I talked pretty much nonstop during the ride, just narrating things that had happened on the same route over the course of years and years of riding.
A First
As we climbed up Hog Hollow — a long, moderate dirt road that becomes narrower, steeper and more technical as you go up, I recalled that this was the first “away” mountain bike trail I had ever been on. By which I mean, up until then, the only trail I had ridden was Lower Frank, near my house in Orem.
Dug had persuaded me to come try out something different — go out to Hog Hollow, climb it, and then drop down the other side to the Sliding Rock.
Back then, none of the Corner Canyon stuff existed. In fact, back then, the whole Suncrest subdivision where Dug now lives didn’t exist, either.
I don’t remember the descent, in any case. All I remember from that ride is the climb. At the time, it just seemed impossibly steep and unbearably long. And ridiculously technical. I recall telling Dug that I needed to stop and take a break three times on that two-mile climb.
It’s strange, I thought, how your perceptions change. Now I think of the Hog Hollow climb as nothing more than a convenient on-ramp to get to the real attraction: Corner Canyon Park. It’s a good warmup, but hardly taxing, even on a single speed.
But it’s still a good memory of branching out for the first time, along with the feeling of triumph when I reached the saddle.
I could have also told The Runner about the many times the group of us would race to the top of Hog Hollow, and how I never tried to hang with the group — I was too slow. Or I could have told her about the time Jeremy filled Dug’s innertube with water for one of those races.
Another First
Being at the top of Hog Hollow really only means you get a short break before more climbing to Jacob’s Ladder.
As we get to the top of Jacob’s Ladder, I start thinking about another first — my first descent down Jacob’s Ladder.
Now, Jacob’s Ladder is about 3 parts jutting rock, 4 parts packed earth, 2 parts erosion gutters, and 6 parts pea-sized gravel. All on a sharply descending, often off-camber fin.
Yeah, it’s kind of technical. Nowadays, I love the descent. Even though I’ve crashed hard on it, I know that (almost) every time, I can fly down. The thrill’s worth the risk. (Except when it isn’t, of course.)
But it hasn’t always been that way. I remember the first time I rode Jacob’s Ladder, I was with a group of riding buddies, and as they disappeared off the front and I looked at the rocky ledges and loose sandy gravel in front of me, that I had a long walk in front of me.
And I took my time about it, too. Muttering the whole way, angry at them for showing me a trail that — eventually — I would come to love.
A Third First
A drop down Ghost Falls brought us to Clark’s, one of Corner Canyon’s main arteries. My first time up that trail was also the first time I had ever ridden a single speed. I remember Rick Sunderlage (not his real name) happily chatted (meaning that he wasn’t working hard at all on the climb) the whole way up, talking about how much he loved single speeding and how this was a perfect trail for it and wasn’t it awesome the way you had to stand and rock the bike for big chunks of the climb?
Or at least I think that’s what he was saying. I had a hard time understanding everything he said, what with the sound of blood pounding in my ears.
Meanwhile, I was wondering if Rick would be offended if I vomited on him. I certainly hoped so.
A Stunning Epiphany
And here’s the thing: just about every section of every road or trail I normally ride is like this for me now: I’ve got an anecdote for pretty much every little bit of everywhere I ride.
Which means, I suppose, I’m becoming (have become) that old guy on the group ride. You know, the one who’s always going on and on about the good ol’ days.
A Final 100-Miles-of-Nowhere Note from Fatty:Thank you again to everyone who sent in your 100 Miles of Nowhere Race Reports. I posted several of them, and read all of them. And I have a few observations to make now:
My readers are more interesting than I am. You all took a silly idea — ride 100 miles on my rollers, by myself, in the dead of night, to show that I am bullheaded — and have turned it into an awesome event in interesting places, raising money for an important cause, and having fun in the process. I love the way you have taken this incredibly dull thing and made it rock.
My readers have great support.I noticed that many, many of the stories had two important components: a person who did the actual riding, and family members who supported, awarded, promoted, and rode with the rider. I found it incredibly touching to see that so many of you have families who are willing to get behind your endeavors — no matter how twisted they might seem.
This is definitely going to be an annual Spring tradition.Until I read your writeups, I was thinking that I ought to move this event to the dead of winter, when going nowhere for 100 miles on rollers wouldn’t seem so criminal. Now, however, I see that the 100 Miles of Nowhere is becoming a primarily outdoors event, and I like it. So we’re going to keep it in May.
You people inspire me.My own 100 Miles of Nowhere was a bland affair compared to most of the reports I got — me, The Runner, and The IT Guy spinning in the basement, watching Season 2 of Dexter. Staring at the screen and watching the miles tick over. Next year, I’m going to step up my game.
You people motivate me.Reading your reports and feeding on your enthusiasm has made me want to work harder in the fight against cancer. Watch for more on this very very soon.
I’m (Not) Too Sexy for My Shirt
From time to time, I talk about being a beloved, award winning, hall-of-fame superstar blogging celebrity. But we all know that I’m being ironic, right? Because after all, Internet fame is not like real fame.
And cycling blog fame is not even like Internet fame.
So I’m maybe step-famous, twice removed.
But some strange stuff is going to be happening to me in the next couple of weeks. First off, tomorrow night I am going to be in a fashion show. As a model.
For crying out loud.
Specifically, I will be one of the models at the Cycle and Style Show at the Gallivan Center in SLC, tomorrow night. I will model a couple of different bike outfits, and apparently a couple of different bikes.
I’ll be photographed and everything.
I’m trying to generate some enthusiasm for my catwalk debut, but the reality is I’m mostly experiencing pure dread. My dread stems from the following:
I am middle-aged.
I am paunchy.
I have no modeling experience at all.
I am not what you would call “good looking” by model standards. Or by any other standards. I am short, my face works asymmetrically, and my eyes are droopy. In short, I am not good looking.
So this should be a lot of fun for me. I’ll report on my experience Monday. Probably with photos.
Unless, of course, my humiliation is severe enough that I choose to instead change my name and move to Australia.
I Am Going to California
Thanks to FatCyclist.com readers, Team RadioShack, and Johan Bruyneel, I’ll be flying to California next weekend to ride with Johan during the Tour of California TT on Saturday.
It’s been five months, and I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around that fact.
What’s really cool, though, is that Amgen’s Breakaway from Cancer initiative is so closely tied to the Tour of California. They’re doing some great things in supporting those who are affected by cancer, and I’m looking forward to learning more and helping them in their quest.
And you may want to check back here next week to see a kinda cool (cough cough) way you might want to join me. (Hint: “Kinda cool” is a little bit of a severe understatement.)
A Note from Fatty: A huge thanks to everyone who has sent me their stories from the 100 Miles of Nowhere. I’m going to be spending time today compiling my favorites, and posting them tomorrow. I’ll be putting a new story up every hour or three, so each one I post will have at least a little while as the lead story. In other words, tomorrow will be a good day to check back often.
Another Note from Fatty: As I was posting Parts One, Two and Three of my Ironman story, a lot of you — along with me — were asking for The Runner’s take on the day.
So here’s her story; it’s a good one. Enjoy!
The Backstory
Back in the spring of 2000, I was vacationing on the beautiful big island of Hawaii when the Ironman seed was planted. I had never done a triathlon and the furthest I had run was 22 miles, in a failed attempt to train for the St. George marathon. As I walked the beaches of Kona, looking out at the ocean where the IM competetors would swim and drove down the the Queen Ka’ahumanu highway and saw the occasional cyclist on the lone stretch of windy road, something clicked.
I wanted to experience this for myself.
Shortly after returning from Hawaii, my life took a turn. My husband was sick and unemployed. I had to find employment and try and keep my family life in some type of order. Ironman triathlon training was not in my realm of thinking. It was all I could do to just keep me and my family above water.
At this time my good friend and training partner Lynette started competing in Ironman Races. She would travel all over the world doing IM races in exotic foreign countries. When I wasn’t working, I would train on the bike and run with her. I would do “brick” workouts with her. I felt like I was training for my own Ironman.
My Ironman at this time in my life were the trials that I was enduring. As the years passed, my life returned to “normal.” Exercise had saved me. It was my escape from the realities of my world.
In April of 2009, I received a phone call from Lynette, informing me that Ironman was coming to St George. Here was my chance! I would never have the money to go somewhere exotic to compete in an Ironman. How could I pass up the opportunity to do an Ironman in my own backyard?
I somehow managed to scrape up the $550 and clicked YES on the internet registration form! I was in and committed. I had 13months to train.
Not a problem, right? I had successfully completed the Leadville Trail 100 mountain bike race four times, completed the 200+-mile LOTOJA cycling race, ran in a dozen or so half marathons and one full marathon. Along the way, I had also completed several sprint and Olympic distance triathlons. I had little doubt that I could finish the bike and run.
But the swim? That was a different matter.
Like many runners, I started swimming when I was recovering from a running injury. This was quite the feat when you consider that I didn’t know how to swim at all.
In the beginning, it was a chore to even swim one length of the pool. Thanks goes out to my friends Bry Christensen and Jilene Mecham for their patience with me in the pool in those early years. Needless to say, I never became much of a swimmer. I could swim forever, but I could never go very fast–I was the energizer bunny of the swimming world.
I knew my swimming needed some serious work. So in October of 2009, I joined Golds Gym and began swimming 3 times a week at 0500. I would have to be to work by 0700. Now that shows dedication… Getting up at that awful hour to do something you hate! Sadly to say, I never really got any better at swimming. My swim time only got slightly better after 7 months of training! In retrospect, I probably should have hired a swim coach.
After Fatty and I got engaged, I ramped up my Ironman training. One weekend in January, we had gone to St. George to try out the bike and run course. It was on the run course that Fatty made that ominous statement–the statement that would change the course of his training over the next several months: “pfff….this ironman training isn’t very tough. What’s all the fuss about? Anyone could do an Ironman!”
Within days of that post, the Timex rep contacted Fatty, offering him a slot in Ironman-challenging Fatty to practice what he was preaching! Being an awesome fiancé, Fatty wanted to know what I thought: would I rather have him cheering me on the sidelines or competing along side me? What a sweetheart.
I, without a doubt, wanted him by my side (relatively speaking), suffering with me!
St. George Ironman
Now for the story that you had asked for…
Saturday, May 1, 2010 started early…0315 to be exact. I awoke from the best pre- race night of sleep I’ve ever had. One quarter Ambien was the bomb! The reason why Fatty couldn’t do his “business” in the bathroom prior to leaving the motel was quite possibly because I was in the bathroom all morning; I have no problems with pre race pooping. Just say the words, “Swim…Bike… or Run” and my overactive bowels kick in.
The Swim
As we boarded the buses, my thoughts and fears were centered on the swim. Actually those fears had permeated every fiber of my being for the past 13 months and had now had come to a head. I was a wreck and had been for days. In fact, the last thing I said to my coworkers as I left work on Wednesday, was that I hoped I wouldn’t drown. It sounds overly dramatic, but I was serious.
And if I didn’t drown, would I make it out of the water before the cutoff? 2:20 to swim 2.4 miles…could I do it? After all, the last time I swam 2.4 miles in the pool, It had taken me 1:50.
I know from past experience in open water swims that I tend to panic and hyperventilate; during one of my previous triathlons, a man on a kayak came up to me and asked me if I was okay. Of course I was okay, I had said. What might have given him the idea that something was wrong–the gasping for air and the frantic doggy paddling I was doing?
Would I panic today when the cold water hit me? Should I add 20 minutes on to my 110 minute projected swim time for a panic attack? That would put my time at 2hrs and 10 minutes.
And what about swimming in a straight line? The lane lines on the bottom of the pool are monotonous and boring….but they keep me swimming straight. During another swim portion of a previous triathlon, a man on a kayak had to chase me down; tapping me on the shoulder with his oar, he told me I needed to turn around…I was swimming in the wrong direction! After redirecting myself, he chased me down again and told me I was still off course! Uuggh!
How much time would I need to add for swimming in the wrong direction? Would I even make it to the bike and run portions? Do you understand the fear and anxiety that I was experiencing?
Fatty tried to sympathize with me, but since he has little experience in triathlon swimming he hardly understood. All he would tell me was I would be fine; The Aqua Sphere wet suit would carry me through the swim.
Through the entire training process, I have always been a little jealous of Fatty’s swimming ability. The first time he got in the pool, he was able to swim a mile! He kept up with me and wasn’t even breathless! I knew Fatty would do fine! I also knew he loved the idea of the wetsuit and how it made him so sleek and fast–like a super hero, I think he said.
But the wetsuit didn’t make me feel like a super hero; it made me feel like a sausage in sausage casing!
As we pushed our way through the crowd of triathletes dressed in wetsuits, I struggled to put my neoprene swim cap on. My friend Angie looked over and laughed at me….she said I had put in on wrong. I thanked her, took it off and put it on again. Fatty then informed me that I still had it on wrong.
Boy, was I thankful I had that funny-looking neoprene hat that I didn’t know how to put on, though. The water was 58 degrees, after all.
When we finally got to the water’s edge, no one was getting in. What the heck? Didn’t they know it’s better to get in and get acclimated?
I dragged Fatty into the water and we swam out to the start line. We positioned ourselves in the back and hung on to a kayak. It was an incredible experience to see almost 2000 people, most of them running down the boat ramp, entering the water and starting to swim. After a few minutes, I looked over at Fatty, gave him a quick kiss, told him I loved him, wished him luck and started swimming
After taking several strokes, I looked up to see Fatty’s purple cap way out in front of me. That was the last time in many, many hours that I would see him. I knew he was off to a terrific start!
My swim was actually uneventful, which is good. I never panicked. My breathing stayed nice and calm. I only got kicked and hit a few times, nothing scary or catastrophic.
As for swimming straight, that was a different story. I would zig-zag from the buoys to the boats. Nothing too dramatic–the man on the kayak never had to chase me down.
I was swimming with a pack of people. It was a bigger pack at first and quickly dwindled as the faster swimmers pulled away. I didn’t feel like I was the last person in the water, because there was always a person swimming near me. My fear of not making the cutoff faded.
Then, as I was making the final turn of the swim leg and I could see the boat ramp ahead of me, the leg cramps set in. My calves and my feet were very unhappy. I tried to flex my feet and legs and push against the cramps, but then my kicking became erratic. As I was coming into the boat ramp, my left foot curled up into a claw-like position.
I was glad it was over. I don’t know how much more I could have taken. The cramps were definitely becoming worse!
As I stumbled up the boat ramp, I was confused. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do? I walked up to a man with a helpful look on his face and just stood there. I had forgotten how to speak. He was kind enough to help unzip me. He was a little leary of pulling down my wet suit. In retrospect, I think he was scared he might pull off everything I had on.
Thank heavens the wetsuit came off and the bikini stayed on. I hate to say it, but I don’t think I would have cared or noticed at that moment if it had come off.
As I exited the water, I did notice the gigantic clock on the boat ramp with my time on it. I don’t know how Fatty could have missed it. He must have been a little delirious too. My time was 1:36. Awesome! I was way ahead of my projected swim time, and I was alive!
My brother and son were there, yelling encouragement. They informed me that Fatty was only about 20 minutes ahead of me! Twenty minutes?! He must be having a fantastic day!
As I was handed my T1 bag by a very helpful volunteer, I realized how cold I was. My hands had no dexterity. I was still slightly confused as I dumped out my bag of stuff.
I immediately grabbed my Fat Cyclist bib shorts and DZ nuts and headed for an outhouse. Once inside that stinky, dirty, and very small building I realized I was sopping wet and very cold! I was quite the sight, I’m sure, balanced over that stinky hole in the toilet, trying to put DZ Nuts on my chamois in my lycra shorts and then pull them up over my very wet butt with my very numb hands!
I eventually succeeded, exited that small building, put on my Fat Cyclist jersey and attempted to put on my arm warmers. I might add that was very hard to do too with numb hands and wet arms. I didn’t even try to put on my cycling gloves over my clawlike hands.
As I was finishing my ordeal of dressing, another swimmer came and sat down by me. A volunteer was wrapping a blanket around her. Her lips were blue and she was shaking uncontrollably. That’s when I realized that some people were really suffering from the cold water swim. I sang a quick praise to the people of Aqua Sphere for their awesome wetsuits, and another to Lynette for suggesting we buy neoprene swim caps.
I would later find out I was the 1500th person out of the water. Nineteen hundred swimmers had started. That meant there were only 400 people left in the water.
Which meant I had the potential to pass a lot of people on the bike.
The Bike
As I hopped on my bike I had a huge smile on my face. I had survived the swim and was now on my bike, and I felt fantastic.
The first 40 miles felt great. I was constantly in the “fast” lane, passing people. I must have hurt a lot of egos that day with my age — 42 — tattooed on my calf and a “Fat Cyclist” jersey on my back as I passed men of all ages and sizes.
At mile 52 I pulled into the “special needs” station. I had been looking forward to sitting down, eating my subway sandwich and drinking my Mountain Dew.
As I pulled up to the lady holding out my bag, I stopped and tried to unclip from my bike. Thank heavens my right foot unclipped or that poor lady would have been doing more volunteering then she had expected in the form of being a cushion for my fall. My left foot wouldn’t unclip. I looked down at my foot and realized my cleat was still clipped into the pedal, but my shoe was coming off my clip!
Oh no.
I was worried I might break the cleat completely off the shoe. Then I would have been in a real pickle! So I remained clipped in, while standing on one leg and trying to open my bag and extract my sandwich.
Needless to say I was a little shaky.
The volunteer was nice and tried to hold me up right while I negotiated my sandwich. After taking a bite, I realized how stupid I must look…dah…take off your shoe, Lisa, and sit down. So that is what I did.
A nice man helped me remove my foot from the shoe and I sat on the road and ate my sandwich. As I looked around, I realized I was the only one sitting and eating. Those crazy people…didn’t they realize they have 50+ miles to go on the bike and then a marathon to run? Why don’t they stop and rest a minute? Are they trying to win, or finish?
The sandwich was a little dry, but the Mountain Dew tasted fantastic, and so did the Cheetos. As I was preparing to leave, I realized my water bottles were just about empty. I thought this “special needs area” would be an aid station with Gatorade and water.
Wrong.
So I decided to feel my water bottle with Mountain Dew (bad idea?), then I had the nice volunteers help me get my shoe on and my butt back on the seat, and I was off!!
The descent into St George and into the second loop of the course was fast and fantastic. The wind was at my back. I got into a nice tuck and was flying. My speeds were often in excess of 45mph. But for some reason, those TT bikes would still go sailing past me like I was standing still. As I was descending and resting my legs, I wondered if I should have taken that break after all. I had plenty of time to rest my legs before the 2nd loop started.
The start of the 2nd loop was good. I could tell I was a little more tired and a little slower. As I went through the park in Ivins the wind started to pick up. I thought to myself, “This could be real bad. Oh well, at least I got one loop done without much wind.”
On the other hand, I was still passing people. The people that could catch me were nice and we chatted briefly. (?)
Then, at mile 80, I felt a funny twinge in my stomach that quickly turned into pain. Every time I took a breath, it felt like a knife was being jabbed into my rib cage. Oh crap. How will I ever be able to run with two knives jabbing into my belly?
Over the next few miles, the pain intensified. I tried to take slow deep inhales with long exhales. The pain felt like a double side ache. I actually felt like I was blowing up like a huge balloon.
Where was all this gas coming from? The Mountain Dew? The Shot Bloks? The Pro Bars? The Subway? The fruit snacks? I had to get rid of this gas or I was going to explode!
Then I remembered I had GAS-X in my jersey pocket. I had read an article on Wednesday before the race that said GAS-X is a must for triathletes to help aid in stomach discomfort that they can experience during the event. I actually laughed. I’ve never suffered from stomach problems in any of my training runs or events. My friends and I actually have a tradition of running 8 miles to our favorite bakery, eating hot, greasy apple fritters and drinking mountain dew before running back the 8 miles home. I’ve never gotten sick from that; I actually am faster on the way home.
But while I was packing I found some GAS-X in my medicine cabinet and because of the article, I threw it in my bag. Lucky I did.
As I pulled up to the aid station in Gunlock, I pulled out the GAS-X and took the two that I had with me, as well as 800mg of Ibuprofen. The gas subsided a little as I proceeded up the two big climbs on the ride.
As I made the final descent into St George, the gas had eased off significantly. When I took a deep breath, I know longer felt like I was being stabbed with daggers. The pain was still there, but tolerable. My problem was that I was scared to eat or drink anything! I was scared that it might bring the gas back with a vengeance.
But it’s not a good idea to not fuel before the last leg of an Ironman, either.
As I made the last turn off of Bluff Street onto Diagonal Street, I saw Fatty. He had a big smile on his face and he looked great. I still had a few miles left on the bike and I still needed to transition, and Fatty was 2.5 miles into the marathon! I would never catch him!
The Run
The T2 transition went smoothly. A nice volunteer helped me take my shoe — the one still stuck in the pedal — off and took my bike. I took my time changing. The gas pains were returning , so I took a few more GAS-X that I had in my transition bag. I also had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in my bag, so I took that with me for the road.
When I left the changing tent and started running, I saw my brother and son. I ran over to them and hugged them. It was so nice to see them, and their hugs energized me!
While I was running to the first aid station I attempted to eat my PBJ sandwich. I had the same problem Fatty did: the peanut butter got stuck in my mouth. Needless to say, the PBJ sandwich ended up in the first garbage can I came to!
The first few miles were slow. I felt like I was running with lead legs. My goal was to run a mile and walk a minute. I quickly changed my aspirations to “run when I can, walk when I can’t.”
The aid stations were phenomenal! There was a rock band at one, loud 80s music being blasted from another. All the volunteers were fantastic!
As I started to climb the hill at Red Hills Pkwy, Lynette’s daughter Mckenzie was there cheering me on. She was fantastic. She ran part way up the hill with me, encouraging me every step! I asked if she had any Tums she could spare; I was a quickly expanding balloon. She didn’t have any, but said she thought her dad, Cory, did. I started searching for Cory in the returning runners. My stomach was beginning to balloon out again.
Then, when I reached the top of this particular hill, a funny thing happened: I farted.
I was embarrassed at first, hoping no one had heard it, but the relief I got was amazing. I have never been so happy to fart in my life. I apologized to anyone I passed and passed gas by!
As I descended down to mile five, I ran by my son and brother again. This time they were holding up signs and cheering me on! I love you Guys; you rock!
Right after I passed them, I saw Fatty coming the other way. He was still looking strong and still about 3 miles ahead of me! We gave each other a quick peck on the cheek and professed our undying love for each other and kept running! I also explained quickly to him why his wife looked liked the Goodyear Blimp, but that I thought I had found a solution and that I prayed the condition was only temporary! He looked relieved.
Right after seeing Fatty, I passed Cory. He didn’t have any Tums with him, but he had some in his special needs bag. I asked him to grab me a couple. At this time he was only about a mile ahead of me.
As I ran/walked past my brother and son for the second time, they decided to join me on the trek up the next hill. It was so nice. I explained my gut problem and how the GAS-X was helping, but I didn’t have any more. They said they would run to the store and buy me some for the next time around. What guardian angels they are.
As I descended into St George to start my second lap, I could hear the announcer calling out finishers’ names! How sick and wrong to do that to us poor slow people! It was demoralizing to a degree, but at the same time, I knew the end was in sight…only 2+ hours of running left.
As I came to the turn-around point to start the last thirteen miles of the run, I was able to get a few more GAS-X from my special needs bag. I quickly downed them. I then caught Cory who also gave me a few Tums! Within a mile, I felt better. I actually picked up the pace and started passing people again.
As I came upon my brother and son, I was running strong. I told them I didn’t need the GAS-X at the moment; I was feeling good. They informed me that Fatty was only a few minutes ahead of me! wow…could I actually catch him?
At the turn around point at mile 20, Fatty was leaving it and I was entering it. I yelled for him to slow down so I could catch him. It didn’t really look like it was going to be a problem since he was walking.
The Final Six Miles
Fatty and I had spent months speculating on how we wanted the Ironman to end. In our dreams we would meet up around the half way point on the marathon and finish together. And here we were at mile 20 and together. It sounds like a sappy love story with a happy ending and that is exactly what happened.
The last 6 miles could have been horrible, the demons might have showed their ugly faces, but it didn’t happen. We walked when we had to, we ran when we could. When we came upon my brother and son, they accompanied us on our trek up the hill.
We laughed, I farted, we had almost made it. What a fantastic Ironman experience.
As we crossed the finish line together, I couldn’t fight back a gigantic smile! Elden and I had accomplished what we had set out to do. We had trained hard and we exceeded all our expectations.
We fought this battle and had won!
I’m sure Elden and I will have more mountains to climb, but together we can do anything! I love you Elden and I’m so proud of you!
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.
