Ironman Adventure: Episode 3

wherein the wind is a bitch and I attempt to bargain with God

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T1 - 11:28

So I'm out of the water. I'm staggering and dizzy and I can't feel my legs from the knees down, but praise Jesus I am back on solid (sandy) ground. I heard my cheering squad hollering my name and offered up a frozen wave as I drunkenly stumbled across the beach and up the little hill to the wetsuit peelers. I had removed my swim caps and goggles on the way, but my frozen fingers wouldn't work to unzip the back of my wetsuit. The blessed volunteers pried the goggles and caps out of The Claw (aka my left hand) and got me all taken care of in about five seconds: unzip the top, "sit on the ground!", a quick yank on the legs, each grab a bootie (MY SHOES), a hand up, and I was on my way, wetsuit-less and happy. I ran past the warming tent that seemed to be bursting at the seams with shaking, shivering, skin and bones triathletes trying to bring their body temperatures back up to normal. Seems like having a little extra "built-in insulation" wasn't such a bad thing for such a cold swim.

I made my way down the rows of swim-to-bike bags looking for my number. Surprisingly there was a pretty significant number of bags left, which meant that even with my slow, slow swim, I had beat a good number of people out of the water. A nice volunteer grabbed my bag to hand it to me, and I headed on into the women's changing tent.

You guys. An Ironman changing tent is such a bizarre place to be. I can't speak to the men's experience, but the women's tent was chock full of half-naked, dazed, goose-bumpy women. And the volunteers in the changing tents? Are saints. Seriously, if you had told me three years ago that someday I'd be standing naked from the waist down attempting to put on a pair of bike shorts while a strange woman held my arm so I wouldn't fall over and another one knelt nearby sorting through my bag of gear, I would have laughed (a little uncomfortably) and told you that you were insane. But there you have it. The ladies got me everything I needed, sprayed me extra-thoroughly with sunscreen, double-checked that I had things where they were supposed to go, and sent me on my way with a cheery "good luck - you're such an inspiration!" I made my way out of the tent and through the grassy field containing several million dollars worth of TT and road bikes, located and unracked Toofer, and headed for the Bike Out sign.

Bike - 8:06:03

I was so, so happy to finally be on my bike. As I headed out on the first little out-and-back through town, I felt GOOD. I was pedaling along at what felt like an easy pace, averaging 18 or 19 mph without really trying. I cruised up and over the one big hill on that section of the course and enjoyed the crew of bagpipers at the top, as well as the guy and girl stoically dancing in perfect coordination on a homemade stage to cheesy pop music. I hit the turnaround, went back up and over the hill, back into town, and cruised by my support crew with a cheery wave. This was going to be a great ride!

But then... dun dun dunnnn... then I made the left-hand turn onto I-95 South - the longer of the two out-and-backs with all of the infamous Couer d'Alene hills - and was hit smack in the face with a vicious, unrelenting headwind. A wind so ridiculous that I was going downhill - tucked down in my aerobars - PEDALING - and going about 13 miles per hour. UGH. So I did the only thing I could do - I put my head down and pedaled. It's a testament to my training that none of the hills seemed particularly demoralizing. They were long, sure. And I certainly didn't set any speed records. But at no point did it come close to the horror of climbing out of Bartlett on a 100-degree day. I even passed quite a few people as I was going uphill, which NEVER happens when you're a larger cyclist!

I had to make a quick stop at one of the aid stations due to some perhaps overzealous pre-race hydrating (I'm not used to racing in cool temperatures!), and a wonderful volunteer held my bike for me while I was occupied. I will never, ever be one of those triathletes who pee while still on the bike. No, no, no. I will take the 1 minute time hit, thank you very much. Feeling oh-so-much better, I hopped back on my bike and continued my long slog into the headwind.

Eventually, I came to a really strange, long section of uphill that looked SO MUCH like it was actually downhill. I even stopped at one point thinking I had a flat tire because I was going about 9 miles an hour and that basically isn't possible on a downhill when you aren't braking. My tire was fine, I guess I just needed to readjust my perception of the terrain or something. I didn't notice that particular issue on the second loop, so maybe it was just some temporary insanity or something. Weird.

So I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled and, oh finally, I reached the turnaround. And that horrible headwind became the world's most glorious tailwind. The approximately 20-mile section that had taken me about two hours to cover on the way out took me just over one hour on the way back in. I rode back up and over the same hills, but this time the painfully slow descents became the 40mph adrenaline-fests that I love so much, and I was back into town before I knew it. 56 miles down, 56 to go.

The ride through town and off to the East went well the second time, too. I zipped by my family and friends camped out on their patch of sidewalk and gave them a happy wave. Back up and over the hill, past the bagpipers, past the stoic dancers, and right into the Bike Special Needs stop at mile 62, where another lovely volunteer had my bag ready and waiting. I grabbed the bottle of my Perform/CarboPro mixture and swapped it out with the empty one on my bike, took a big bite of the Snickers I had been looking forward to for about 20 miles, and stretched a bit while the volunteer held my bike. And then, as I glanced down the line of athletes getting their Special Needs bags, I saw Julie! We both knew she would beat me out of the water, but we figured I would catch up to her at some point on the bike - and there she was! We commiserated on the horrible winds out on 95 and exchanged some words of encouragement. Then, after stuffing the remaining half of my Snickers bar in my bento box, I headed out for the remaining 50 miles.

I rode back through town, past my support crew, back up the interstate entrance ramp, and onto 95 south. Back into the headwind (which had not abated at all), and back over the seemingly endless hills. And right around mile 80, I started to get worried. To be able to officially call yourself an Ironman, you have to finish the 140.6-mile event in less than 17 hours, but that 17-hour time cutoff isn't the only one you have to worry about. There are checkpoints all throughout the day that, if you don't make it by the specified time, you are pulled off the course and your day is done. And one of those cutoffs happened to be at the turnaround on 95 South, and the cutoff time was 4:00. I knew that my slow swim and the crazy winds were going to make it a close call, but I had no idea how close it would turn out to be.

The problem, you see, was that I couldn't remember where exactly the turnaround was. Was it mile 90? 96? My attempts at doing math while racing were futile. All I knew was there was NO WAY I was not going to make it to the turnaround before the time cutoff, so I pedaled like I have never pedaled in my life. As I came up to the last aid station before the turnaround (with no idea how much farther I had to go), I saw literally a dozen athletes just standing around, taking their sweet time stretching or grabbing a drink. I couldn't believe it - we had about 20 minutes until the cutoff and who knows how many miles to go and they were chatting and laughing. Did they just not know? I still have no idea. But I flew through that aid station like it wasn't even there and continued in my dogged pursuit of the turnaround.

Up and over one hill, pushing to my limit. Up and over one more, and my right hamstring began to make a weird twingy pain with each pedal stroke. "Just hold on for a few more minutes!" I pleaded. And then finally I crested the hill and there before me, halfway up the hill in front of me and shining like a beacon (ok, maybe that was in my head), was the turnaround. I had made it with 9 minutes to spare.

I cheered as I made the sharp U-turn that sent me back north with the wind at my back and 22 miles and all the hills to tackle before 5:30 (the cutoff for the bike course). I laughed in relief with the other cyclists I had been riding near, happy that we had made it with time to spare. But everyone got a little quieter as the time ticked by and, ten minutes after we had made the turnaround, when we knew it was after 4:00, there were still dozens of athletes heading South on 95. It was heartbreaking to know that their day was done.

At this point in the race, it had sort of shaken out so I was riding around people who were basically my same speed. We built up a little camaraderie (as much as you can with the mandatory four bike lengths between you, anyway) and said cheery hellos and "see you in a few minutes" and "I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to remove this saddle from my ass" as we leapfrogged with each other over the hills back into town. As I slogged up Mica Grade one last time, the longest and steepest hill on the course (which, of course, happened to be at mile 100 on the second loop), I sent out a mental thank you to my coach for making us ride those five hellish 100-mile training rides. There were at least three or four men walking their bikes up the hill as I pedaled relatively comfortably to the top. One more screaming downhill, one last hill, and then I was back into town and on my way to the Bike Finish.

As I made the sharp left-hand turn to start down the chute to what I thought was the bike dismount, I saw a bunch of athletes walking their bikes. Oh no! Had I somehow missed the dismount line?? (You get penalties for riding your bike after the dismount line.) I slammed on my brakes and almost fell over because I was still clipped in, but managed to get a foot down at the last minute. I creakily swung my leg over my bike and started walking. "Did I miss the dismount? It must have been really poorly marked." I said to the girl walking just in front of me. "Oh, are you still racing?" she asked. "Um, yes?" I replied. She said, "Oh, then keep riding! We didn't make the cutoff at the turnaround." Well then what the heck were they doing in the chute! Argh! I swung my leg back over my bike (as did the cyclists who had come up behind me and dismounted too) and pedaled the last 500 yards to the actual dismount line. So frustrating.

I got off my bike (for real, this time) and another wonderful volunteer came over and whisked it away - full-service at the Ironman. I clomped over the line and that was that. 112-mile bike: done!