05.4.2010 | 12:20 pm
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-shirts in 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.
Hey, I went from 979th place coming out of the water, to 544th place by the time I finished the ride. That’s 400+ people I passed.
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.
It was simply what’s next.
Comments (83)
05.3.2010 | 12:08 pm
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.
Comments (59)
05.1.2010 | 9:52 pm
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:
One and done.
Comments (144)
04.30.2010 | 8:07 am
Tomorrow’s the race. To my surprise, I am not at all nervous.
No, I’m just kidding. I’m a huge bundle of nerves. But, amazingly, not quite as bad as yesterday morning.
Here’s why.
When we got into town, The Runner and I went to the Sand Hollow Reservoir, put on our wetsuits, and waded into the 58-degree water, as light rain and a few snowflakes fell around us. We then proceeded to go on a twenty-minute swim.
And it wasn’t bad.
Sure, my hands, feet, and face got cold, but tolerably so. And thanks to the neoprene swim caps I bought for us earlier this week (recommended by Lynette, an experienced triathlete friend of The Runners), my head wasn’t cold.
And all that insulation in the Aquasphere wetsuits that make swimming in a pool so unbearable? Well, that insulation makes swimming in cold open water amazingly good. As in, my arms, legs, and trunk were all perfectly comfortable.
After swimming for just a few minutes I found that I tend to pull to the left. That was easily corrected; I started thinking in terms of always swimming in a slight arc to the right and I wound up going dead straight. I sight every fifteen strokes or so, and am pretty much having to do no correcting at all.
So: I’m still a little freaked out about this race. But not as freaked out.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be in the water. Starting my race.
And somehow, typing that makes it seem more real, and suddenly I have a real need to go take a poop.
Follow The Runner and Me, and Say Hi
I now know both The Runner’s and my race numbers:
- The Runner (Lisa Rollins): 405
- Me (Elden Nelson): 1607
So tomorrow, go to ironman.com to follow our progress. If I understand correctly, you can even type in a message of support to us there, which we’ll be able to see during the run. And that would be pretty cool to see. I’m guessing we’ll both be needing some support by then.
Tomorrow’s the big day.
And typing that makes me need to put my head between my knees and breathe deeply, to keep from passing out.
Comments (164)
04.29.2010 | 1:01 am
The awesome thing about doing a race for the first time is that you don’t have to worry about whether you’ve beaten your personal best. You’re just there, hoping to complete. Oh sure, maybe you’ve got a particular finish time in mind, but it’s really just a number you picked because people kept asking you for a number.
That’s how I am about the St. George Ironman this Saturday. When pressed, I say 15 hours is my finish time goal. But I would be perfectly happy with a 16:59.59. In fact, that would be a kind of awesome finish time.
So, as you would expect, I have really thought this race through. Every little detail.
And now, I will share my excruciatingly ingenious Ironman race plan with you.
The Swim
I am very, very scared of the swim part of the race. First, because I have no real experience with open water swimming. And second, because I have no real experience with open water swimming while thousands of people with very strong legs try to kick me in the head.
So, I plan to tread water for a minute or so after the gun goes off, letting anxious, faster swimmers get well ahead of me, so I won’t be in their way and I won’t get a concussion.
After that, I will swim with one goal and one goal only: finish before the time cutoff.
Oh, and finish with enough energy to do the rest of the race. So I guess that’s two goals.
The Bike
Provided I finish the swim in time, I plan to slowly change into my bike stuff. Which means I’m being dishonest with myself right now; there’s no way I won’t do this change in a blind panic.
Still, panic or no, I plan to eat something while I change. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich and about 16oz of energy drink sounds about right.
Then the bike ride begins.
There’s been a lot of speculation about what kind of bike I will ride. And by “a lot of speculation,” I of course mean that two or three people have posed the question in the comments section here.
I’ll be riding my beloved Orbea Orca outfitted with Shimano Di2 and carbon tubeless wheels, with no TT-specific modifications — no aero clips, no deep dish wheels, nothing like that. I’m going to ride the bike I love the way I love to ride it. I figure that any theoretical advantage a different, more aero setup would provide is more than offset by my total ineptness at using any of these things.
I’m sure I’ll be the only one out on the course who’s inept at using aero bars and has trouble with deep wheels in a hard wind, though. Right?
I’ll start the ride with a couple bottles of CarboRocket and — since the weather is supposed to be on the cool side (high of 67 – 69), I don’t expect I’ll have to refill more than once. For that, I’ll use whatever they’ve got at aid stations — water, weak Gatorade, whatever.
For food, I’ll be eating Clif bars (White Chocolate and Macadamia Nut) and Clif Shot Bloks (the new Tropical Punch flavor is awesome). I also plan to have a Subway Cold Cut Combo stashed in my bag for about halfway through the ride.
White bread. Extra mayo. Extra extra extra mayo.
I will also chant, over to myself, “rein it in, fat boy. Rein it in. You’ve got a marathon to do after this.”
Whether I am successful in keeping my jets cool will, I’m pretty sure, determine whether I’m able to do any running at all.
Sometime during this ride, I expect to pass The Runner, who will probably have started the ride about 5 – 10 minutes ahead of me.
When I pass her, I plan to grab her butt, albeit briefly. I believe such contact is explicitly allowed for by the race rules.
My objective for the bike portion is to do it in as close to seven hours as possible. If I’m much slower, it’s been a windy day. If I’m much faster, I’ve done a bad job of keeping my promise to myself to save something for the marathon.
The Run
When I finish the bike ride, I will change very slowly. I will eat. I will put on running shorts. I will probably wear my LiveStrong shirt for this portion of the event.
And then, I plan to run the first two miles, then take a one minute walking break.
After which, I will take a one minute walking break after each mile run.
Until after the halfway point, at which time I will re-evaluate and may begin taking a minute walking break after each half-mile.
And for the final five miles, I may well just revert to walking. It’s a very likely possibility. In fact, let’s go ahead and call it a probability.
Also, I will drink a little bit at each aid station. And I will eat three Shot Bloks every half-hour.
Sometime during this walk-run exercise / torture, The Runner will almost certainly catch me. We have agreed that if she catches me with fewer than five miles left to go, we will try to finish together. If she catches me with more miles to go than that, she should give me a friendly punch to the left kidney as she goes by. I will then collapse in a friendly heap.
I think 5.5 hours is a reasonable guess for a finishing time for me. So: 2+7+5.5=14.5 hours. with a total of half an hour in aid stations, that’s fifteen hours.
Ta da.
Reality Check
I should point out that I have no idea what I’m talking about. I think that my absolutely safest prediction for the race — the prediction that will almost certainly come true — is that everything will happen differently than I have predicted above.
I’m betting that I’ll have a good story to tell on Monday.
PS: If you’re going to be in St. George and want to get together at the pre-race dinner or something, email me.
PPS: If you’d like to follow me live during the race this Saturday, I’m racer #1607. There should be live coverage on www.ironman.com.
PPPS: Wish The Runner and me luck, OK?
Comments (149)
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