trifan
Aug 26, 08 8:42
Post #1 of 1
(237 views)
|
|
For those doing Louisville...
|
Can't Post
|
|
You may or may not have read my race report from last year titled, "the stubborness of triathletes.." It dealt with the difficulties I had and about my ride in the ambulance. I used that experience for a paper I had to do for a college writing class. Anyway, I thought I would share the result in the hopes it might keep you from making some mistakes that I did and help you to have a better IMLOU experience. Be warned, it's long. I wish all of you the best of luck and hope you enjoy your race.
Water, wheels and weariness: Surviving an Ironman
They are simply distances. Chosen numbers placed in order that, over the years, have sent countless humans on a journey to push themselves to their utmost physical and mental limits.
The first number, a 2.4-mile swim, represents the distance of the Honolulu open water swim. The second number, 112 miles on a bicycle, comes from an around-the-island bicycle ride, and the last distance of a 26.2 mile run is the long-held standard marathon. Combined they become an Ironman.
To some, an Ironman is a race, an opportunity to place higher in their age group, beat a personal best, or qualify for the National Championship in Kona, Hawaii. To others, it’s an endurance event designed to challenge their abilities, their endurance and their mental strength. To them winning is not possible, or even considered. Finishing is all that matters. Sure there may be some smaller goals—complete the swim in less than an hour and a half, maintain 16 miles per hour on the bike or run at least half of the marathon—but the fact is the ultimate goal is to finish within the allotted 17 hours, able to raise your arms in victory and hear the announcer shout your name when you pass under the timing clock and feel the crowd’s cheering roar on those last 25 yards. The noise is deafening, even if you’re nowhere near a winning time. Children and adults alike stand shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, hands outspread to high-five you as you pass.
Adrenalin pushes away every ache or pain you carried throughout the long, hard day. Your head buzzes and you can’t keep that silly grin off of your face. For a brief moment that you will never, ever forget, you feel like a rock star. And while the moment is glorious, sometimes the getting there takes a heavy toll—a price paid in long training hours, intense suffering, nagging self-doubt, and utter down-to-the-bone exhaustion.
While the city of Louisville still sleeps, I begin my journey to that long-awaited finish. By the light of pale flickering streetlamps, I make my way upriver, walking barefoot on a sidewalk towards the swim start where other Ironman hopefuls will wait along the shores of the Ohio River. I arrive an hour before the start and line up on the short concrete boat dock that reaches over the water’s edge. Chatting with fellow triathletes, I try to calm my pounding heart and fluttering stomach. But it’s no use. The atmosphere sparks with the nervous energy of 2,000 athletes stretching, spinning their arms like windmills and generally psyching themselves.
Time passes quickly and 7:00 am soon arrives. After a few words from the race director and a pause to sing the national anthem, a cannon boom sends us jumping lemming-like in twos and threes into the murky water.
We immediately begin swimming upstream— an extra challenge that feels unnecessary given the day’s agenda. However, I enjoy the water’s coolness and the bright pink color just now seeping into the morning sky. We struggle upstream for just under a mile, turn around a buoy and head downriver. I’m surprised the downstream current doesn’t feel stronger but settle into a steady rhythm, concentrating on enjoying the moment. In just under an hour and twenty minutes, I thankfully clamber onshore and trot up the grassy field to my where my numbered bike is parked.
The bike course offers us a nice warm up with a 12-mile stretch of flatland. Then it’s on to the rolling hills of Kentucky. I purposely keep my effort low: it’s a tough course with varying headwinds and I don’t want to empty my tank before ever starting the run. I focus on the scenery—sprawling horse farms, fields of deep green tobacco and tall, wavy corn—and it works for a while. Hours pass spent in near silence, broken only by the mechanical hum of hundreds of bikes. Talking takes energy —a commodity that will all too soon be in short supply.
At the 60-mile mark, I pull into the “special needs” area, a pit stop where we access a bag stuffed with whatever we put in it the day before. I dig into mine and pull out a peanut butter sandwich and Pringles potato chips. It feels great to stop and stretch. While I straddle my bike stuffing the salty chips in my mouth, a rider coasts up next to me, stops and puts his head down on his handlebars. I asked if he’s okay. In broken English, he says he doesn’t think so and suddenly passes out, toppling over sideways like Arte Johnson on a tricycle. Several volunteers and I rush to help. One fellow rider, who obviously has medical experience, keeps asking the rider questions and directs others to bring the fallen cyclist some cool water. We also move a table umbrella over to shade him from the sun. I stay about 10 minutes and see that the rider will likely be okay, but am certain his race is done. I remount to finish the last 52 miles and quietly hope I won’t end up like the foreigner—delirious and incoherent—but can’t shake the feeling that it could happen to any of us at any time.
Perhaps it is the chips, or the heat. Or maybe the culprit came early when I inevitably swallowed some Ohio River water. Maybe it was none of these or a combination of all—whatever the source, my stomach comes under attack. A slow swelling of nausea grows as I pedal into the wind. At first, I hope to diminish it by switching to drinking only water instead of my sports drink, but the queasiness persists. For the final 25 miles I struggle to maintain my composure and momentum. Each turn of the pedal takes an effort and I pray for the ride to be done.
A couple of miles before the bike finish, I can no longer trust myself to safely steer my Litespeed so I dismount and lie down in the shade of a tree. I almost cry in frustration seeing other riders pass, knowing I’m so close to the bike finish. After about 10 minutes, I pull myself up from the itchy grass and get back on the bike. I’m not so faint headed and my gut has issued a reprieve. Cruising into the transition area I gladly hand off my bike to a volunteer. At that point they could throw it in the river and I probably wouldn’t care. A clock outside the changing tents shows about seven and a half hours have passed. It’s longer than I anticipated, but not a disaster either.
The oppressive 95-degree heat prevents me from running at first so I walk, determined to keep forward movement. A little over a mile later my father-in-law waves to me from across the road and yells that my wife took my two young boys to the bathroom. I’m disappointed I miss them but know I will see them again later. The run course now takes us away from the waterfront and towards downtown Louisville. It’s a two-lap straight out and back street that seems to stretch forever but in reality is only seven miles to the turnaround. I push through, talking with fellow sufferers, thanking the aid station volunteers and switching between pitiful shuffling and grim determined walking. It’s been said misery loves company and I have both in spades. I’m surprised to see at least 70 percent of us walking. I envy those who still manage to run.
Time crawls and the hours, like the road, seem to go on and on. In dismay I watch the sun sink over the city. I’m discouraged because by this point in my 2003 Ironman race in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho I was finishing the race; whereas now I still have 13 long miles to go. And if that’s not enough, in what can only be deemed a cruel joke instigated by the race organizers, the second turnaround, the one that takes you back for an additional 13-mile loop, comes within a block of the finish. Arrows on the road show me I have to turn right to begin my second loop but I clearly hear the jubilant screams and yells coming from the finish line and wish with all my being I could go straight to those sounds like a moth to the flame. But I cannot. I have not yet earned it.
This fact drives my doubts and despair home, triggering a physical and mental cascade into a literal and figurative darkness. For the next six miles I barely manage a zombie-like shuffle. Painful blisters form on each foot, undoubtedly caused from wet running shoes. I walk more than I run, and even my run is more of an old-man shuffle. A glance at my watch tells me that at 9:30 pm, it’s already way past my kid’s bedtime. Fellow competitors throw encouraging words my way: “Looking good! Way to go. Almost there.” I manage a weak smile and wave in return but secretly wish they would shut the hell up. Misery loves company, but sometimes it likes to be alone too.
On the fraternity houses front lawns that line this street, students grill burgers, drink beer and enjoy loud music, seemingly oblivious to what we’re going through. They
appear to be having a good time. I, on the other hand, appear to be an extra from Dawn of the Dead.
I question why I am here. What is the point of all this suffering? A t-shirt? A certificate that will end up tossed in a drawer anyway? I spent a year training for this race and it comes to this? I worry that my wife and kids are worrying about me. I wish I could call them and tell them it’s still going to be awhile, that maybe they should just go back to the hotel and sleep. I know my boys want to cross the finish line with me, a moment of glory shared. In despair I realize it probably isn’t going to happen.
By now the nausea and dizziness have returned from vacation and are unpacking their bags. I try the coke, pretzels and chicken broth at the aid stations. They don’t help. I think about making myself throw up but put it off afraid I will lose valuable nutrition or possibly pass out. At the 19-mile mark aid station, I see the flashing lights of a parked ambulance getting ready to take a runner back to the med tent. I ask them to check me out since I am so clammy and faint. I have fainted before from heat exhaustion before and it scares me it could happen again, though with the temperatures now in the low 80s I don’t think it likely. They sit me down to take my blood pressure. Big mistake. The sudden inactivity unchecks whatever stops I have on my gut and I quickly yell for a barf bag. Like Old Faithful, I spew a fountain of liquid into the paper bag. Strangely enough, it’s not really gross or foul, just a lot of water and Gatorade. Wiping my mouth I experience an epiphany; I should have done this much sooner. My head clears, my stomach quiets and a surge of energy kicks in.
This is not over yet.
I ask to be let out to continue the race but the medic says that once I’m in the ambulance they’re required to take me to the med tent. They stick an IV needle into my hand and drive off. My fellow passenger is laying on the gurney with an IV as well. At least I’m sitting up I reflect, but it’s of little comfort. I grow so depressed knowing I am only seven miles from the finish but don’t have the strength to argue with the medic. On the ride back I stare into the darkness out the window, fighting back tears.
Via wheelchair, I’m taken into the med tent a block from the finish line where a triage nurse leads me to an empty cot. The med tent is in actuality a large hotel conference room with white curtains partitioning off areas. It is crowded. At least 50 athletes lie on cots in various stages of exhaustion. Nearly all have an IV line dangling beside them. One guy is projectile vomiting into a bag. Another groans from severe muscle cramps in his legs. Most have the stunned deer-in-the-headlights vacant stare. I wonder if they see that in me. The nurse lies me down and asks if I’m okay. Yes. “Muscle cramps?” No. “Headache?” No. “Okay, then as soon as the bag is empty you can go”
I borrow her cell phone and call my wife. She is at the finish line with my two boys, my six-year old curled up in a towel sound asleep on the sidewalk; my nine year old still looking for his dad to come down the finishing chute. My voice cracking, I tell them I’m okay but I’m in the med tent and could they please come get me.
In about an hour the bag is empty and they release me. I don’t say much as we walk to the car with my family. Passing close to the finish line I hear the announcer call out names and the crowd’s riotous response. My depression darkens.
Once in the car an idea forms like a faint ray of light in my blackened and broken soul. I grab onto the idea like a float thrown to a drowning swimmer. Perhaps my race isn’t over yet. I turn to my wife and ask her to drive me to where the ambulance picked me up. I am going to finish the journey I began so many hours earlier. To my surprise, she doesn’t try to talk me out of it.
Because of the many one-way streets and road closures, it takes 45 minutes to find the approximate spot and I end up about a half mile back from the 19-mile mark. But I don’t care. I get back on the course, elated and begin running. Not a shuffle or a walk, but an all out run. For the first time that day I feel great. Liberated from my doubts and depression, I claw my way out of the valley at a pace of about a mile every ten minutes. There is hardly anyone around at this point. When I left this area earlier, it teemed with competitors. Now I see only one or two in the distance ahead. I know I will likely be tagged a Did Not Finish (DNF) because of my little ride in the ambulance but it doesn’t matter.
I continue to run the last seven miles in the dark and mostly alone. It is past midnight and the aid stations are packing up. Even the college revelers have gone to bed. The rhythmic slap, slap, slap of my shoes on the pavement is all I hear. The initial buzz of energy is slipping away but I don’t entertain the thought of stopping, I am determined to salvage my race. A half-mile from the finish I come upon an athlete stumbling along in a daze. Two women are beside him, urging him to keep moving, telling him he’s almost there. I pass them, too tired to offer words of encouragement. Besides, maybe he just wants them to shut the hell up too. I later learn he ended up spending a week in the hospital with kidney problems.
When I finally approach the finish line there is only a handful of cheering spectators. My wife is there but my two boys are back at the motel with my in-laws, sound asleep. The finish line clock tells me I am ten minutes past the 17-hour cutoff, but the announcer calls out my name anyway. I don’t get the same thrill I’ve had at other races; just a numbing relief. Results-wise, I am a non-finisher. But I know otherwise. Though I went the distance, all 140.6 miles of it, I realize that at some point my race wasn’t about the numbers, hearing my name, getting the shirt or even for my family —it was a battle against myself; my doubts, my pain, my frustration.
Ultimately, I did not let this race beat me. I could have quit and put an end to the suffering. Others did, why not me? After all, there’s no shame in calling it a day when plans, goals and bodies fall apart. Yet, through perseverance, or perhaps just plain bone-headed stubbornness, I made it. Bedraggled, exhausted, but intact, I emerged with renewed strength. A strength I knew I could one day call upon again should it be needed. And really, who needs a t-shirt when you’ve got that?
|
MAIN
RULES &
LOG
