Ironman Louisville Race Report: Never Give Up

Pre-race recap:

First Ironman: Wisconsin 2004. Sick heading into the race. Couldn’t consume calories or fluids during. Woke up in the back of an ambulance after I passed out half way through the bike. Later diagnosed with parasitic infection.

Second Ironman: Wisconsin 2005. Very, very rough day but managed to stave off unconsciousness to get to the finish 11 minutes before the midnight cutoff. I am an Ironman.

This Ironman: Missed 5 weeks of training this spring due to undiagnosed illness. Missed another week completely in June plus another couple of weeks of reduced training. Same reason.

Was not racing with a watch. Did not want pressure of time goals. The day was going to be hot, humid, and um, hot. Getting to the finish was job number one.

Not having access to my medicinal cookies to alleviate the side effects of my medications was a concern. It was going to make a challenging day more so. Spelled ‘POZ’ with the reflective tape on the back of my race shirt.

If nothing went wrong – like oppressive heat and humidity – and absolutely everything went right, then I thought 12 hours was possible. But really, getting to the finish line was the primary goal. At all costs.

I was only going to leave the Ironman course across the finish line or by ambulance. Quitting was not an option.

Giddy up, Buttercup.

Swim:

Pretty much according to plan. Just swam easy. Executed my planned mantra for the entire day: ‘Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.’ 

Time trial swim start meant not getting punched in the head even once during the 3.8 k / 2.4 mi swim. Nice.

Bike:

What doesn’t kill you…

Did not push the pace at all. Even though it was not yet 9 am it was hot. And humid. A lot of guys passed me in the first 40 km / 25 miles. I didn’t care. I was going my own ‘easy-does-it’ pace.

Couldn’t consume solid food anymore around mile 65 / 100 km. Only gels would go down. Hmmm…that never happened it training. Must be the heat.

A few athletes walking their bikes up the hills during the second loop. Others are lying on the side of the road. Starting to feel less then stellar myself. Heat really starting to kick in.

The guys that were kind of riding at my pace have disappeared behind me. Fewer guys are passing me. I’m going easy, holding back. Want to make sure I get to the finish line.

Self care is paramount and I’m doing it: calories, water, electrolytes. Cold water in the helmet. Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.

The last 40 km / 25 mi I start feeling a little rougher. I back off the pace a wee bit more just to make sure I’m feeling the love for the run.

Guys stop passing me. I’m starting to catch and pass some people. I ask if they notice that it’s kind of hot.

Oh yeah, it was humid. And hot. Did I mention that?

Run:

Some bad patches. Some ugly patches.

I took my medications, the ones that keep me from certain death, during the second transition. As I swallowed them I thought: ‘Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die today’.

Coming out of transition I did not feel my usual perky self. Running 26.2 miles did not seem appealing.

I thought it was hot when I was biking. Now there was no wind chill factor. Things were going south in a big, big hurry.

The heat was oppressive: 96 F / 35.5 C.  The humidity offensive: well into the 90’s. Making it feel well over 100 F / 37.7 C.

I slowly jogged about 200 metres before walking. I was not feeling well. At all. It crossed my mind that a marathon is a long way to walk.

In what will become a repeating pattern at every aid station, I put ice in a zip lock baggy under my hat. Ice down my shirt. Cold, wet sponges tucked under my shirt on my shoulders and back of neck. Fill my water bottle. More electrolytes. More calories from gels.

I feel a wee bit better and am able to start running. By mile 2 I’m feeling absolutely wonderful. Only 24 miles to go. I’m thinking that I can do this. I’m over that bad patch. Just the same, easy does it. Don’t want to count your chickens.

By mile 4 I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. By mile 5 I’m walking again. But so is almost every one else at times. I tell myself that I can manage my body by just walking the rest of the way.

By mile 6 I’m lying on the side of the road. Time is distorted. The aid station volunteers keep checking on me: ‘Do I need medical assistance?’

A little voice in my head says ‘Suck it up, Buttercup’. I slowly get up and start walking. And then running. As I go through mile 8 I reach around and give myself a little pat on the back: ‘Good job, Scott’.

I run a few more miles before things deteriorate again. More walking. More athletes lying on the side of the road. ‘That was me’ I think. I run some more.

I stop sweating. I know this is not a good sign. Somewhere around mile 15 I crumple to the grass.

I hear someone say ‘Don’t worry guys, an ambulance is on the way.’ Guys? Plural? I open my eyes to look around and see two other guys lying on the grass.

I’m not done yet. I struggle to my feet. Lazarus rises again. I have to get out of here before the paramedics arrive. I’m scared they’ll want to make me quit.

Some guy asks if I’m sure I should continue. I take a quick glance at the 2 guys lying on the grass and mumble weakly, more to myself then him, ‘never give up’.

Walk. Run. Walk. Run. With the occasional dry heave thrown in for good measure.

I thought of my good friend and training partner, Matt, who died 50 weeks ago after crossing the finish line in a local triathlon. I choke up. I miss him. I took a moment to appreciate being alive. And healthy enough to try to do this crazy shit.

Some uber fit guy, looking dazed and confused, asks me where it all went wrong. I said that I thought it was the heat. Or maybe the humidity.

As I approach mile 24 I decide I’m not going to stop running until I get to the finish line. I’m going to empty the tank. I start digging in to run faster. Sweating returns.

At mile 25 I pick up the pace again. Now I’m really starting to hurt. But I’m passing loads of people and that feeds me emotionally. The mantra has become: Dig in. Ignore the pain. Empty the tank.

I turn the final corner and can see lights illuminating the finish line in the distance. Cheering crowds line the street. There are still a few more people I can catch in the last 400 metres. I dig in again. I am emptying the tank.

200 metres to go and there is one more guy between me and the finish. I dig in one last time and go by him fast.

50 metres to the finish and my sun glasses fall off. I stop, turn around and pick them up. He runs past me. Fuck! I sprint all out, the world starts spinning, and pass him again with 5 metres to go.

I cross the finish line at full speed into the arms of medics. They want to put in a wheel chair. I want to walk. I win, and we walk for a couple of minutes. I think I’m going to be okay.

Then things got ugly.

I recognized the signs of impending unconsciousness and knew I needed to get horizontal. Immediately. A medic told me to keep my eyes open, not pass out. She kept tapping my arm.

They put on a gurney. They are running me through the crowd. Yelling at people to get out of the way. Every bump makes my head ache. Every twist and turn more nauseous. Blackness creeps into my peripheral vision.

We arrive within the air conditioned medical center. I am immediately cold and start shaking uncontrollably. People are pulling off my clothes. I’m being wrapped in blankets and those silver cape things.

A needle is stuck into my arm and I’m hooked up to an intravenous bag of saline. My legs, back and abdomen are cramping. They give me some anti-nausea medication. I continue to shake uncontrollably.

After the second saline bag I start to come around. One of the medics asks if I’m coming back to race again next year. I’ll decide after both my big toe nails fall off in the next few days.

I am an Ironman.

Time splits:

Swim: 1:13:19

Bike: 5:54:50

Run: 5:56:13

Total time: 13:17:05

76^th of 284 men in my 45-49 age group.

To all my friends and strangers that supported me on this journey and sent good vibes my way: thank you, thank you, thank you. You’ve helped more then you know in making it about the process and not the outcome.

And to that guy who bitchily commented on one of my previous blog entry’s that I wouldn’t / couldn’t succeed and finish an Ironman: I’ve got a finisher’s medal you can suck on. Meow.

And because life is too short not to follow one’s passions, and because I want to, I have registered for Ironman Canada 2011.

Til I drop.

Gay Games Race Report

It has been a whirlwind of racing the past few weeks. I had two races in one of the local race series and had a much improved bike segment and finished fourth in my age group in each race so was feeling a little more confident in my chances of getting onto the podium at the Gay Games.

            Making me less confident was finding out that the guy that beat me for the gold medal at the previous Gay Games (2006, Chicago) was returning. My interrupted training and lack of taper added to my doubts about podiuming in my 45-49 age group.

            Due to jet lag, I only had an hour’s sleep before the triathlon. In retrospect I definitely should have done a better job warming up as I felt very sluggish during the swim. The start was a bit rough and after about 100 metres I saw a pair of feet, slightly faster then me, I wanted to follow. Problem was some dude, swimming the same speed as me on my left, was (unintentionally) blocking my attempts to angle toward those feet and yet was not drafting off them himself. Finally I just reached across his back with my right hand to grab his left shoulder and pulled myself forward and across his back toward those feet. All’s fair in love and war. I followed those feet to past the half way point before I decided he was not taking the most direct route to the swim exit and forged my own ‘as the crow flies’ path.

            Always a bit surreal is going from the swim to the bike. During the swim, I am isolated with my own thoughts, unable to verbally communicate, creating my own reality. Popping out of the water and there is the sudden sound of the spectators cheering and clapping. Abruptly I pulled from my internal world to the external. I very quickly strip down my wetsuit to my waist as I’m running as fast as I can – too fast – toward my bike. Perhaps twenty seconds later I’m at my bike and I feel totally sick. I don’t know if it was the sudden change from horizontal to vertical (I’m a delicate flower and very sensitive motion sickness), my lack of medicinal cookie, jet lag and lack of sleep, or just running too freakin hard for 20 seconds, but I felt soooo sick.  

            Nevertheless, onto the bike course for 4 flat loops to make 40 kms. I couldn’t push quite as hard as I would have liked because I was feeling so horrible. I was hoping it would dissipate during the bike, but no such luck. About 6 guys passed me during the bike and I figured at least 2 of them looked to be in my age group. I tried to go with them but they just rode away from me; my body was not responding – it seemed more concerned with making me feel sick. I tried as best I could to mentally block out the nausea, but it was pretty fierce.

            I quickly made my way through the second transition and out onto the run. Nausea still demanding my attention. I could see 3 guys about 15 seconds ahead running together. They became my target. Very slowly I started to gain on them. But pushing my body hard for over 2 hours was not making me feel any better. In truth I was feeling even more sick. My race became very much a mental battle during the run. My body was sending the hugest “lay down!” signals I’ve experienced in quite some time, but I kept telling myself that “bronze is just ahead, keeping digging, Buttercup”. In fact, I had no idea in what position I was, but I needed that potential to exist to keep the hurt on.

One of them dropped of their pace and I caught and passed him at about 2.5 kms. I was in a world of nearly all consuming nausea by that point and forgot to look to see his age. I kept pushing as I slowly gained on the other two. The were running shoulder to shoulder and I caught them just before the half way point. I recognized one of them from the Out Games last year - a young Danish guy (where he caught me on the bike, I didn’t let him get away, and then outran him), however the other guy, a German, looked about my age. I passed them but the German guy did not drop. I could feel my pace dropping off and realized I forgotten to grab my gels for the run. The German guy came back past me – I asked his age – he laughed and said he “wasn’t going to tell” – bugger knew I was hurting and now he was teasing me – but before I could say ‘Bitch!’ he laughed again and said “42” – I said “go get ‘em”.

I made it to the finish line a hurting puppy and re-grouped with friends but I was pretty much a mess and they had to take care of me. Nausea, shaking, goose bumps. Martin, who won the overall race (again!) asked me a couple of times if he should get the paramedics but after about 20 minutes I was feeling much better and another 20 minutes later I would never have known I was sick at all. The body is a strange, perplexing, wondrous thing. At that point I was up to checking out the results board and was tickled to get a bronze medal in my age group. It made all the hurt worthwhile.

But my week of racing had only just begun – the following days I raced the 10k road race (6^th), 800 metre swim (4^th), 5,000 metres on the track (7^th), and 5k road race (bronze!). I then hopped on a flight home to race the following weekend in the Provincial long course triathlon champs where I finished 3^rd and earned a qualifying spot on the Canadian team for the World Long Course triathlon champs in Las Vegas in 2011. Then the following weekend I won my age group at the Toronto Island sprint triathlon.

And now its taper time for Ironman Louisville. Less is more so that I’ll arrive to the start line rested and ready to tackle what is widely considering the most difficult single day athletic challenge. In spite of losing 5 weeks of training in the spring and another week in early June, I’m feeling pretty fit – but not as fit as last year, nor not as fit as I was hoping when I made my goal finish time of 12 hours. For that to happen, everything has to go right for me – the weather cannot be oppressively hot and humid as is probable, I cannot have any mechanical problems, and most importantly I need my body to be having a good day and the side effects from my meds minimal. If all that happens, I can swim 1:20, bike 6:15, and run 4:15 and add 10 minutes for transitions = 12 hours.

But that is not my primary goal. Getting to the finish line before the midnight cutoff is the goal. It has been as much an emotional journey as physical during these months of preparation and I will do whatever it takes, I will never give up and am willing to go deep, deep into an unknown world of pain to accomplish my goal, to cross the finish line. There are only 2 ways to leave an ironman course – across the finish line or by ambulance. Which will it be for me?

You can follow me online on Sunday August 29 at www.ironmanlive.com