Ironman CDA
By McQ
Four months ago at Washington State’s Chuckanut 50K I was a study in no-funski contrariness, focused so much on my finish time, I spend most of my 5 hours and 53 minutes out on the course in a high state of irritability. At my discomfort. At my inability to maintain my goal pace (a rather odious phrase, don’t you think?). At my fellow racers. Etc.
That day, when I started up the Chinscraper—the gravity-defying, mile-long slog that begins at about mile 20—a fellow runner good-naturedly asked, “Where’s the escalator?” To which I grunted and said nothing, hoping he’d go away. A few hundred yards later, after the pitch had only steepened, he cheerily posed the question: “Where’s the elevator?” To which I, swimming as I was in a pool of negativity, so, so desperately wanted to respond, “Where’s the mute button?” (i.e., Shut the h*** up!)
After that race I was bummed beyond reason for not reaching my goal (5:30), but four months later, after having one of the best days of my life at Ironman Coeur d’Alene, I thank my lucky stars for that stinky day in March. It got me out of the TIME!!! – TIME!!! – TIME!!! mindset and returned my focus back where it should be such a crazy-long undertaking as an Ironman: 1) Just finish. 2) Just have fun.
And that’s just what I did.
On a blistering-hot sunny Sunday in late June in CDA, I was the annoying guy in the ultra-upbeat mood, exhibiting cheery (and perhaps, cheesy) behavior along the way. Some samples:
At aid stations and various points along the run, I’d flex my muscles and, while still able to do so, kiss my biceps, and generally partook in sundry mock macho-man poses to spectators, volunteers, high school cheerleaders and the like, all of whom egged me on with cheers and whistles. I reveled in their support and swear I received jolts of energy from all of it. Which only made me carry on even more. At about mile 50 of the bike ride I was quite excited by a pair of ospreys—which seem to be everywhere in CDA—returning to their nest. I pointed it out to a couple of other riders. Who were not at all interested. At mile eight of the run, I spotted someone from my hometown, Alaine Borgias, there watching the race. “Alaine, I’m in Burma,” I shouted in my best J. Peterman voice. (“Seinfeld.) “You most likely know it as Myanmar, but it will always be Burma to me.”
And I totally cracked up every time I saw the Red-Hot Mamas near the start and halfway point of the marathon. There were about 10 of them, these 40- to 60-year-old women dressed kinda like housemaids (I think), and who looked like they’d broken into a Maybelline factory and, rather than cart their haul off, decided to cover their faces with as much of it as they possibly could. Wearing giant hats and oversized rainbow-colored feather dusters, they did ridiculous choreographed dances to popular songs (I witnessed “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” and Van Halen’s “Jump”).
The Mamas credo—“Dedicated to the Exploitation of Merriment and the Enhancement of the Ridiculous”—fit my mantra of the day (Just Finish-Just Have Fun) to a T. It was the perfect way to start the marathon, which, given the oven-hot 92 degree temps and relentless blistering sun, had the potential to be one of life’s epic unpleasant experiences. Instead, it was tolerable, and at times, even enjoyable.
My strategy: at every run aid station—each a mile apart—I dumped ice water down my back and over my head, stuffed my shirt with wet sponges so I looked like some ‘80s chick sporting linebacker shoulder pads. Plus I swallowed Enduralytes by the dozen. Literally. Three an hour on both the bike and run and whether that’s recommended or not, I care not; I didn’t have a single cramp. (No blisters either, which is really weird b/c I’m usually king of the bottomfoot bubbles and black toenails.)
With about a mile to go, the run went from tolerable to seriously splendid, when I could hear the crowd cheering and Mike Reilly announcing the finishers. In mere minutes, he’d be announcing my name! The last 10 blocks or so at CDA are slightly downhill and you can see the finish so if you’ve had a pretty good day, it just seems to prolong the experience. In a good way. With three blocks to go, I spotted my wife, Jen; sister, Kath, and my 7-year-old son, Baker. I grabbed Bake’s hand and the two of us chugged it in together again.
We’d done the same thing at Ironman Arizona just 14 months earlier but looking down at him this time, he looked different. So much bigger and more grown up. (I could’ve sworn it was just 15 minutes ago when I’d first held him in my arms just moments after he was born and marveled at his long eyelashes and fully cooked fingernails.) But he wore the same proud, happy, excited smile he wore in Arizona—he knew this was something special and he liked that. And being human, I succumbed to another level of joy when I saw my time—13:12—just under an hour faster than I did IM AZ. (And for those of you scoring at home, Chumbawamba’s “Tubthumper” was playing when we crossed the finish.)
Actually, my mantra had a third F to it, Family. (WARNING: Even more extreme sentimentality likely to weave itself in and out of the remainder of this report.) Ironman Coeur d’Alene is a great because not only does the town totally embrace it, but also the course passes through the heart of the city multiple times. Without straying too far from the transition area, Jen, Kath, and Baker were able to cheer me on about eight times. They went bonkers each time and after the first two sightings, it occurred to me that if they’re having a blast now just seeing me pass by, if I finish this thing, they’ll go absolutely nuts. Seriously batty, and it’ll be this terrific memory we’ll all share for the rest of our lives. I had family in Connecticut, New York and California keeping tabs on-line too. So finishing, even if it took me until midnight—which was not out of the question given the heat—had a true sense of purpose to it.
Which was a terrific feeling b/c that’s something I struggle with when it comes it comes to an endeavor such as this. For while I love triathlons and the whole mystique of the Ironman, I confess to feeling guilty and a little embarrassed given how darn time-consuming, kinda narcissistic, and selfish I sometimes feel given all the training, money and energy that goes into it. So it was a terrific feeling to have a reason for doing this beyond just my own interest. I was able to give something huge to my family just by going swimming, biking, and running for a few hours. Can’t beat that!
As for the race itself, let’s see …
I had a great swim. (For me.) Started way far to the right. Practically in Post Falls, it seemed. Race day 62-degree water felt way warmer than the 60 degrees of three days earlier when I did my practice swim. Like night and day. AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” played during our midway intermission—get out, run across the chip mat, jump back in—Angus’ crunchy chords got me pumped for the second half. Finished at 1:15. Before the race, one of the other 2,200 swimmers near me tried to jump in the water wearing swim booties, which I’m pretty sure are verboten. Two other swimmers approached her and strongly (STRONGLY) suggested she check to make sure whether they’re legal or not. (I was glad I wasn’t in her booties.) The ride was hillier than I thought. About the same elevation gain as the Skagit Century. (3,700 feet.) One hill (which is actually two since you do the loop twice) feels about the same as the one from Lake Samish to Galbraith Lane. (Bellingham, Wash. references.) Another is shorter but steeper and the second time through I saw several folks walking it. Kinda cool: some guy sat above this hill and spent the whole day playing bongos, cheering on the riders. I didn’t see this but my family did: some very bummed cyclist rode into town on his seat post holding his saddle in his hand. The heat was hot. Ninety-two degrees, no clouds, no shade. Asphalt temp had to have topped 100. It felt like you were wearing some kind of all-over hot bodysuit that you couldn’t take off. My feet were really hot on the ride; I saw a cyclist riding with his feet on top of his shoes (which were still clipped into his pedals) b/c his feet were so hot. Also saw a runner running in his socks while carrying his shoes. With aid stations a mile apart, on the run, it seemed that all I had to do when I left one aid station was run for a few minutes before I’d see the next one. And once I saw the next one, I just kind of let it draw me to it. There, I’d load up on water, ice, and sponges and head for the next one.
That’s all, folks. See ya’ out there!