I don’t really know where the idea came from, but for some reason I had decided that I wanted in. I had run a few marathons, and had a few ultramarathons scheduled for early 2005 when the registration opened for Ironman Florida. The race sells out in a matter of hours, so I wasted no time when registration day came. The race fee was over $400 alone, but like so many other things in life, the initial cost was only the beginning. I had never done a triathlon at this point, but figured I had a solid year to get my act together, learn how to swim correctly, buy a decent bike and enter a few tri’s during the build up to race day. I had a stong endurance base going in from the running, and after two ultramarathons in the early spring I switched gears and started swimming, biking and running. By the end of the summer, I had finished a handfull of sprint and olympic distance triathlons, and developed a fairly good understanding of pacing, heart rate training, nutrition and bicycle mechanics. I adopted a training program for beginner Ironman competitiors, and trained on average of 8 to 12 hours per week, building to a 15 hour week three weeks out from race day. I managed to stay healthy and avoided serious burnout, an accomplishment in itself considering all the potential for training injury and illness that I encounter in my work. I lost my only training partner in early October when he was struck by a car while cycling downtown, so the two hardest training weeks were done solo. He has since recovered & is back on his feet again, but his Ironman plan dissolved in the blink of an inattentive driver’s eye. November finally arrived and we packed our bags for the Gulf Coast.
We arrived at the Summit Condominiums in Panama City Beach, a mere block away from the race location. PCB, for anyone who’s never been, is your typical day-glow tourist trap beach town. If you’ve been to Wildwood, NJ, or Myrtle Beach, SC, you can save yourself a trip. The only difference was the Gulf. A vast expanse of aqua blue-green water was the view from our balcony, a sight that almost outweighed the commercial disaster that lay outside our front door. A theme park with illuminated fake plastic palm trees and a human slingshot ride with two 200 foot tall towers - also outfitted with neon lights - was the view from the front. It was surrounded on both sides by the obligatory beach towel/swimsuit/air-brushed t-shirt/keychain retailers and some of the worst food I’ve ever eaten. The scene, coupled with a sore lower back that probably resulted from the nine hour drive and the mandatory rest days prior to any race began to take a toll on my confidence level. After hard training for weeks and months, the taper period can leave you feeling edgy and anxious, like a hamster without a wheel. An endurance athlete without endorphins is very much like a junkie without a fix - your body becomes accustomed to certain hormone levels and revolts in protest when they are taken away. Mood swings, depression and other negative physical effects are experienced during the days preceeding a race, a phenomenon affectionatey known as “taper madness”. I did a short ocean swim and a brief bike ride in the days preceeding the race to take the edge off, but you can never shake it entirely. Friday night finally arrived, and after checking the bike into the transition area and a few hours of meticulously reviewing my race supplies, equipment and nutrition plan, I set the alarms for 4am & called it a night.
Race day began at 3:45am, fifteen minutes before the alarm sounded. I woke after a great nights’ sleep, started on breakfast & obsessively paced the hallway while the coffee brewed. One banana, one whole-wheat bagel with chunky peanut butter, one bowl of plain oatmeal with real maple syrup, two cups of coffee and 32oz of Gatorade. The breakfast menu has become as psychologically important as the training itself in my obsessive little brain. Every race since my first marathon has begun exactly this way, without exception. At 5:45 we arrived at the starting area, accessible only to the competitors. After the body marking process and much milling around, I kissed Lara goodbye, grabbed my swim gear & rechecked the bike before joining the human cattle drive making its way toward the water. Twenty or so minutes later the line snaked down onto the beach, through the crowds and poured out onto the white sands of the Gulf. As I crossed the timing mat where my ankle-strapped timing chip was activated, the “BOOM” of the cannon sounded the start of the pro’s race, a few minutes before the Age Group athletes would begin. Suddenly the loudspeakers let loose the thumping intro of Foo Fighter’s “Hero” and the crowd came alive. I felt a surge of adrenaline unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life - it was like every cell in my body was suddenly electrified and fighting to be set free. I don’t remember seeing anyone else running around inside the starting area, but I wasn’t really concerned about appearances at this point. I eventually settled down and focused on the day ahead, and moved toward the left side of the crowd, aligning myself with the inside line of the swim course where I hoped would allow the straightest, most unimpeded effort. In theory, this is probably true, but as I was soon to find out, there is no such thing as unimpeded progress in an Ironman swim.
The gun sounded, and soon two thousand triathletes turned the Gulf of Mexico into a giant washing machine. I dove in after wading past the breakers and attempted to settle into a stroke rythm. I was immediately informed that my rythm would include the thumping of kicks to my face, head and shoulders, fists pounding against my calves and hamstrings, and various body parts slamming into my ribs as wayward swimmers t-boned at random. I had been forwarned that the swim is a slug-fest and had anticipated some turbulence, but this exceeded my expectations. It was total chaos. Luckily, the pre-race jitters and adrenaline worked in my favor, and I started to enjoy the madness of the battle. The swim became a pattern of stroke, sight, fight off attack, surge, stroke, sight, etc. By the time I arrived at the first turn of the rectangular course, the bottleneck of dozens of swimmers rounding the same buoy at the same time became impassable. I swam smack into a rubber wall of humanity, only to pop my head up and see what looked like the remains of a soccer riot when it hits the fence. No swimmer had more than elbow room, at most. It was so compacted that forward progress could only be made by remaining upright and swimming doggy-style or fluttering your hands down at your waist like a clown fish. I spun around to get a better view and laughed out loud at the absurd situation I found myself in. A kick to the back of the head quickly returned my attention to the task at hand, and I surged into the first space that opened up in front of me. After the first 1.2 mile lap the crowd began to thin out and I was able to find my groove, swimming smoothly and focusing on technique. There was one more brief run-in with a swimmer who signaled his desire to pass by repeated punches to the back, but my elbow to the face that signaled my reluctance to allow it seemed to resolve the issue. As the second lap came to an end, the rippling floor of the Gulf shore finally came into view, and I pulled my body out of the surf feeling charged and fresh. The wetsuit strippers peeled me out of my rubber skin & sent me running to the swim to bike transition area. Swim time 1 hour, 5 minutes.
The transition was slow and deliberate, as it was my last chance to gear up and get everything right for the next 6 hours on the bike. Eat, drink, jersey, socks, shoes, helmet, shades, hear rate monitor, energy gels, and off we go. Volunteers were in the change tent to help speed things along, but I still managed a T1 time of 7 minutes from the swim exit to the bike start.
The bike leg began along Thomas Drive on Panama City Beach, and soon turned north through Panama City, and onward into the countryside of the Florida panhandle. I focused early on my race strategy and controlled my pace as my heart rate settled into the proper range. The race plan was fairly simple, keep the effort easy and the heart rate low for the first 60 miles, move into race pace from 60 to 90 miles, then allow brief periods of higher effort as needed after 90. I reminded myself that Ironman isn’t about going fast, but rather not slowing down, and that my race pace wouldn’t be determined on race day, because it was already programed into my legs and lungs. The nutrition plan was a bit more complex, and requried a little more attention. I wrote the formula on a piece of paper and taped it to my handlebars as a reminder: 2 large sips of Gatorade Endurance every ten minutes, 2 large sips of Slimfast Ultima every 30 minutes, and 1 energy gel packet with water every 45 minutes. This combination would give me approximately 400 calories and 1.5 liters of fluid every hour - less than half of what I would burn but reportedly the maximum the body can absorb in an hours’ time. Clearly the math does not work in your favor, as a huge calorie defecit develops while the race wears on.
The miles peeled off quickly, as they tend to do on race day, interrupted only by dodging the occasional bike crash and refills at the aid stations every ten miles. There were at least four crashes that I encountered, some involving only cyclists, others involving motorcycles and cars mixing with the cyclists. The injuries were reported as a few broken ribs and fingers, a broken pelvis and at least one concussion, but no major traumas or fatalities. Drafting became an issue on the couse as well, where large packs of riders would work together to gain an aerodynamic advantage, despite the no drafting rules and course officials monitoring on motorcycle. A few cyclists were pulled over and penalized with a four minute time delay, but the majority got away with it. The course was fairly monotonous; gently rolling hills surrounded by pine trees, hay fields and farmland, that eventually gave way to civilization as we closed in on the hundred mile marker. The pace quickened as we made our way back through Panama City, and I focused on finishing strong, passing a large chunk of riders over the last 12 miles. The headwind that welcomed our return to the beach provided a good three miles of sandblasting from Gulf winds scouring the shoreline. I arrived at mile 112, handed off the bike to a volunteer, and shuffled to the transition area to prepare for the marathon. This transition was a brief three minutes, as it only required peeling off the helmet and shoes, and sliding on my Mizuno’s and visor. I had not imagined that I would feel so energized and fresh coming off the bike, but I exited T2 ready to run a marathon, even with the excessively long warmup still vibrating through my spine. Bike time 5:45, 19.4mph average.
As I exited the T2 tent, a volunteer grabbed my arm & slathered sunblock on my arms & shoulders. If I wasn’t ready to run at this point, the acid sting of sunblock rubbed into a friction burn on the back of my neck erased all doubt. With the “kiss of the wetsuit” I shot out of the transition area, where Lara was waiting & cheering me on. I gave her the thumbs up and a smile, and started into the first of twenty six miles that separated me from the distinction of “Ironman”. Within the first few hundred meters, I could see that my race plan was holding up, and that I had a strong marathon ahead of me. I slowed the pace to reel in my heart rate to the target level of 145bpm and to counter the inevitable overpacing that follows the cycling leg of triathlon.I settled into what was, according to my heart rate and my exertion level, an 8:30 minutes-per-mile pace, only to find out at the first mile marker that my pace was actually 7:10. I have run enough marathons and ultramarathons to know that even 5 or 10 seconds per mile above what you have trained for can have disasterous results, so one can only guess what it could mean during an Ironman event. I quickly decided that my heart rate data would not dictate pace, even though every long training run had been done at this rate, and settled down to a 8:30ish pace. The rubberlegs that usually follow the bike dissipated quickly, and after 3 miles I was able to start taking in water & Gatorade on schedule. The marathon course was a double out-and-back that began at the start/finish area, wound through the beachfront neighborhoods, and looped back at the end of the state park at the eastern end of the island. Aid stations were staged at every mile of the course, furnished with water, Gatorade, cookies, fruit, chicken broth and a host of other items that I couldn’t stomach. The run plan was essentially the same as the bike; water, Gatorade and energy gel, and no solid food. I carried two gels in my jersey, one for mile 5 and the other for mile 10, roughly 45 minutes apart. After the first turnaround just before mile 7, I had a breif period of nausea that soured my taste for the gels, and the gel at mile 10 was my last for the day. The remainder of the first half passed without incident, and I walked only twice while choking down the gels. I arrived at the halfway point exactly 2 hours into the marathon, right on target for my “best case scenario” of running a four hour marathon, feeling strong.
The second loop began with as much excitement as the first, as I realized my day was turning out to be a huge success. I had reached the point where finishing was all but guaranteed, and with a time well below what I had anticipated. The last 13 miles became more of a victory lap, and I decided to take my time and enjoy the remainder of the day. I stopped clocking my mile splits, and walked through every aid station, taking time to thank the volunteers and supporters along the way. I found Lara again around mile 15 and had a nice walk with her as well. The final turnaround in the park ushered in darkness, as the sun slipped away at mile 20. I maintained a good pace between aid stations, even drank a few cups of Coke along the way, now that the gels were out of the picture. The reality of the situation finally began to sink in, and it brought mixed emotions. I was overwhelmed with excitement and the feeling of accomplishment that comes from achieving a lofty goal, but somewhat sad that it was all coming to an end. For the past year I had structured every workout, every race and even my work schedule to fit into making this day happen. I had devoted so much time -hundreds of hours, to take on Ironman, and here it was about to happen. And it was also about to end. The training and focus that been such a constant in my life for the past year had become part of my identity, and it was hard to imagine life without the structure and discipline that came with it. The brief period of melancholy was quickly replaced with excitement again as the glowing neon towers of the amusement park near the finish came into view just after the twenty-fifth mile. Only a mile to go.
I picked up the pace for a strong finish and glided to the final turn, just a hundred meters from the chute. The final fifty meters were a sprint uphill into the hotel parking lot, packed with cheering supporters, and one final turn to the finish. As I rounded the turn, the spectacular view of the finishline chute and time clock came into view. The sound from the loudspeakers almost broke me; “and from Charleston South Carolina…Clinton Adams, YOU ARE an ironman!” I slowed to a trot, collected hi-fives from the crowd and let out a good howl, pumping my fists as I crossed the line. The clock read 11:15, a full 90 minutes faster than I had anticipated. The marathon time was 4:12, my slowest ever, but the unexpected swim and bike splits more than made up for it. I was met instantly by a volunteer who placed a finishers medal around my neck and a foil heat blanket around my shoulders. Another volunteer grabbed me around the waist and escorted me to the medical tent, asking the standard questions to determine my physical and neurological status. The only question I had for him at the time was how to find the pepperoni pizza the other finishers were gorging on. After taking down two slices, a cheeseburger and three cups of chicken broth, I found Lara at the finishline and enjoyed a few moments of stillness. The excitement of the finishline was too much to resist, and I soon made my way back to the fence to cheer for the other racers as they finished.
There were Ironmen and women of all ages, races, nationalities and body types. I saw athletes in their teens, and others in their seventies. I watched the women’s winner dominate the same run course as an overweight twenty-something girl who could muster only a slow and painful walk. I saw a young professional triathlete reduced to tears, kneeling on the pavement, and an elderly age grouper finishing with a smile in his 4th Ironman of the year. Just as every athlete has their own reason for racing, they have their own standard for victory. We raced with the elite professionals, but ultimately competed only against ourselves and our limitations. The Ironman is full of inspirational stories, and certainly mine is not one of them. I was inspired by the company I kept for those eleven hours while I made my way to the finish. Other competitors pressed on for another six or seven hours after I had already made it to the hot tub. Some took even longer, finishing after the midnight cutoff and receiving no official recognition despite conquering the distance. A few generous people gave their medals to the unofficial finishers as they crossed where the official finishline still stood, unmanned. Some juggled the demanding schedules of a busy family life and professional careers while training on a time budget, just to make it to race day. Some took on the challenge after surviving life-threatening battles with cancer and heart disease. These are the truly inspirational individuals that make the Ironman such an amazing event, and I feel privelaged to have had the opportunity to compete along with them. It was a beautiful day.
