The Morning
My alarm went off on race morning at 2:45am and I set about
eating, showering, and the having my mother-in-law kindly braid my hair. I had
actually managed to sleep soundly for about five hours, a new record for me on
race day! Time absolutely flew and before I even knew what was happening
we were almost late to the start. I wiggled into my absurdly tight wetsuit as
fast as humanly possible. The race started at 6am and I think we left the house
at 5:10am, speed-walking to the transition area. I got body marked, practically
jogged to drop off our special needs bags, searched desperately for a bike
pump, and then slid out of transition and toward the start just as the
announcer on the PA started getting really insistent that all athletes exit now.
I found Sean again and together we walked down onto the
beach and joined the crowd of athletes gathered on the shore. It was just
pre-sunrise, the sky getting light but the sun still not showing itself. We
hugged goodbye and wished each other well one more time, (there may have been a
few tears --- it was emotional after a year of training together to send him
off to do the thing we’d been focused on for so long!) then lined up with our
respective swim start groups -- me with the 1:15 group, Sean with the 1:30 group.
I felt the cold sand under my feet and looked around at the athletes
surrounding me for clues about how they were feeling. Everyone seemed to be in
good spirits, no one seemed particularly panicked. I was very surprised by the
calm I felt. Unlike 70.3 starts where I inevitably feel nervous and jittery,
this Ironman journey has been so long and intensive that all that was left was
an overwhelming sense that whatever would come during the day would come, and
that I was as ready as I could be.
Also, I had to pee, but I decided i’d just have to hold it.
A very wise older gentleman, an Ironman veteran, was
standing next to me and told me to enjoy my first Ironman to the fullest. He
advised me to take time throughout the day to take “mental pictures” that I
could relive in the future. He had a very peaceful presence and I was grateful
to make my way toward the front of the line standing next to him. Before long
we were fed into the start chute and then it was my time! I still had to pee
but clearly this was neither the time nor the place. I was awash with
excitement and happiness as the timer went off and I ran into the water to
begin my Ironman.
The Swim
I kept the kind stranger’s advice in mind throughout the
swim. On the way out I looked at the sun slowly appearing above the horizon,
splashing golden light across the glassy water, interrupted only by the
splashes of the swimmers’ arms, and seared it into my memory. The first loop
went by quickly and easily, with the exception of a few patches of “lake weed”
grabbing at my arms. The buoys were numbered 1-8 on the way out and 8-1 on the
way back, giving me a mental focus point. I checked my watch as I approached
the end of the first loop and was surprised to see that I was swimming faster
than my regular 70.3 swim pace. (Six minutes faster than my God awful
Honu swim time this year, by the way. Redemption!) I exited the water, crossed
the timing mat, heard someone from my entourage scream “go Crystal!” and
reentered the water for the second loop. I thought I would hate getting out of
the water in the middle of the swim but it ended up feeling like a nice little
opportunity to get mentally checked back into reality before continuing.
Somewhere in here I started second guessing my pace and form
and things got a kind of weird. I lost my little pack of swimmers and then
started getting passed. I assumed I was just fatiguing until I got about a
quarter of the way back in and realized I was tensing my hips, putting my legs
in a position that created drag. As soon as I relaxed this it was like I had
turned on a propeller. I flew by the people who had been passing me and caught
up to the group that had dropped me. It was a pretty awesome way to close out
the swim. I reminded myself to slow down a little at the end to catch my breath
before getting out of the water. I also reminded myself not to look like a
total spaz getting out of the water in hopes of breaking my bad swim exit photo
curse (it worked!)
Transition 1
I easy-jogged to the wetsuit strippers, who everyone had
promised could get even my stupidly tight wetsuit off in a matter of
seconds. I laid down on the grass as instructed as an older man and teenage
girl grabbed the suit and gave a strong pull. But instead of the wetsuit
sliding off, I just went sliding across the grass, suit and all, about three
feet. I had suspected this might happen so as they apologized over and over and
tried to figure out a plan B, I just laughed and told them not to worry. After
a couple more botched attempts off it finally came off. I thanked them and then
off I went to get my T1 bag.
The changing tent was a new experience for me. My volunteer
was so incredibly helpful -- loading my pockets as I struggled to pull my bike
shorts on, helping me put on my DeSoto skin-cooler wings, and making sure I
hadn’t forgotten anything. I was so appreciative of her calm, warm presence.
Always paranoid about cramps on the bike after my first two Olympic distance
tris, I made sure to chug some of my Skratch as I jogged to my bike and put my
helmet on. I still had to pee, but decided I could wait until I was out on the
bike. I clickety-clicked my way out of T1 (note to self: learn flying mount!)
and I was off!
The Bike
As I pedaled through town, the streets were lined with
spectators. I saw my family and Sean’s family and Kate and Jordan, and tried to
pretend I was cool even though I was actually struggling to get my helmet’s eye
shield to stay in place, having forgotten to put in down before getting on my
bike. Oops. Then a strange feeling started creeping into my consciousness… cold.
Like, really cold. Living and training only in Hawaii, it had never occurred to
me that I might get cold bombing through the morning air at 18mph still soaking
wet from the swim. But I was freezing! I pushed it to the edge of my
mind since there was nothing I could do about it, telling myself I will warm
up as soon as I get out of town and shade and get into the sun. My legs
felt great, I was energized, and the first loop along the lake was beautiful. I
passed some people, I got passed a few times, and was generally pleased with
how I was feeling. After about six miles it was time for a Huma gel, and I
strategically decided that this would be the optimal time to take one with
extra electrolytes to avoid any possible cramps on the upcoming hills. I
reached into my pocket and immediately fumbled it (and another gel) in my
frozen, numb fingers and dropped both of them. For a moment I looked back and
considered stopping a) not wanting to litter and b) only having so many gels to
last me through the 112 miles but it was a downhill, it was congested behind
me, and in my post-swim shaky state all I could picture was getting run over by
fifteen angry cyclists. So with a silent “shit!” to myself I kept going. |
| Clearly during one of my bursts of energy |
There was nothing too eventful until I went through town and
out onto the intimidating highway section of the course. Even then I suppose I
can’t really call it “eventful,” just hilly. Soooo hilly. The first big hill,
just as it looked, was steep and seemed endless. I will never forget spinning
away, trying to keep my cadence high and torque low, and looking upward at the
endless single file line of cyclists curling up and around the mountain. No one
seemed to be in any particular hurry. My focus was purely on not annihilating
my legs so I was content just to keep my place in line. Up, up, up. Beautiful,
surrounded by mountains and pine trees, and silent, with the air palpably full
with the athletes’ focus and intention.
The problem soon became clear: there wasn’t an end to the
hills. I knew this from driving the course, but I had allowed myself to believe
that somehow it was going to feel different on the bike than it looked in the
car. It wasn’t. It was freaking brutal. The uphills seemed to last forever and
the downhills seemed to be over in a matter of seconds. At this point my
having-to-pee problem was reaching crisis level. At each aid station I planned
to stop and then decided against it at the last minute, not wanting to lose
precious time, but finally there was no more denying it and my legs were
getting so tired that a break sounded pretty damn good.
As soon as I went I realized I should’ve done it much
sooner. I hadn’t realized how much “holding it” had been tensing all the
muscles in my upper legs and pelvis until I got back on my bike. I felt a
million times better, at least for a few miles. The nagging pain I get
sometimes in my upper calf and lower quad has kicked in early and I was
concerned what it might mean for my run, but I had little choice but to keep
going so I tried to ignore it. I had one little burst of energy that lasted
about 40 minutes but other than that I don’t remember much about that first
loop except that it hurt, and that I was short on gels due to my early fumble
and very worried about whether I’d have enough nutrition to make it to Special
Needs. I couldn’t remember whether I’d put two or three extra gels in my bag
and I prayed it was three. Somewhere in the 48-mile range my legs got that
deep, irreversible ache that signifies absolute fatigue and usually appears
somewhere around Mile 95 on training rides. I was terrified that it was
happening already, before I’d even made it to the end of the first loop. I felt
awful and lightheaded and I had taken all my gels, so in desperation I accepted
a Clif bar mini from an aid station. Luckily it seemed to be okay on my stomach
and did perk me up a bit, at least enough to make it up the last few hills.
No more than a third
of the way up the last long, 1-2 mile hill was an unmanned sign reading “Almost
to the top!” I swore at it under my breathe for the next ten minutes as I
fought my way upwards. As I crested this final major hill and relished the
thought of flying down the long descent that had terrorized me on the way up, I
was dismayed to find myself stacked up in a long line of cyclists all stuck
behind one very, very slow guy. He appeared to be coasting, although I don’t
know how he was coasting so slowly! For a mile or so everyone gamely stayed
behind him since this was a no-pass zone, but finally everyone’s frazzled
nerves won out and one by one we broke the passing rule to get by.
Now I was headed back into town. I felt like I should be
feeling relief, but all I felt was dread that I had to do this whole thing
again. My legs ached in that deep, tired way and had no power whatsoever, and
the thought of seeing spectators made me anxious instead of excited. I honestly
didn’t know at that point whether I’d be able to get through the second loop,
but I reminded myself of my race motto (“the only way I’ll leave the course is
with a medic because I passed out or a course marshall because I missed a cut
off”) and kept pushing. I tried with moderate success to enjoy the easier,
scenic first out and back of the second loop. As I passed the point where I
dropped my gels I spotted them lying untouched on the road and once again
considered stopping to pick them up but decided against it for the same reasons
as I had the first time. When I reached Special Needs, I almost cried with joy
when I saw that there were three gels. Still vastly insufficient, I knew, but a
relief. I actually got all the way off of my bike and stretched my legs for a
few minutes, trying to come to terms with how I was going to get through
repeating the Highway 95 section of the course. There wasn’t really a good
answer, so I just got back on and kept going. I saw my mom, sister, niece,
Kate, and Jordan at the corner going back through town and for a moment felt a
little happiness.
The quiet, focused energy that I had found so mesmerizing
the first time up the big hill was gone this time. It just hurt, and it seemed
to go on forever. All of the uphills seemed longer, and the gears I had ridden
them in the first time around were much too hard this round. I was in a very
negative head space for much of this portion of the ride, to be honest. I
didn’t really want to keep going… in fact I didn’t really want to ride my bike
ever again, but I knew I’d regret it forever if I quit so on I went. I gave up
trying to keep any particular pace and just focused on the “forward is a pace”
idea. Someone had told me to remind yourself that whatever you’re feeling
during an Ironman, it probably won’t last, so I clung to that thought, hoping
that I would start feeling better again.
My memories of the second loop are vague -- a
cyclist/vehicle crash with ambulances present as I came down a hill, pain,
feeling lightheaded and having to stop at an aid station and sit stationary for
a moment to regain my bearings, more pain… I finally made it to the aid station
at the bottom of the final big ascent and stopped one last time to clear my
head and ready myself for the climb. A volunteer who appeared to be no more
than ten years old ran to get me water and another mini Clif bar, and I gave
her my red volunteer appreciation bracelet as a thank you for her kindness. Her
excitement made me smile for the first time in 80 miles.
Resolute and at least temporarily refreshed, I got back out
in the road and hit the hill. It was hard, but my pitstop had drastically improved
my mood and suddenly it seemed manageable again. A quarter of the way up the
hill my mood got another boost when I saw that the inaccurate and taunting
“Almost to the top!” sign that had driven me so crazy on the first loop had
been dismantled and thrown in the bushes. The thought of an irritated,
exhausted athlete taking the effort to get if their bike and tromp through the
weeds in their bike shoes just to throw that stupid sign into the bushes made
me giggle for the rest of the race. Whoever you were, dear Angry Athlete, I
salute you.
A little more riding and I hit the last major descent. This
time there were not many other cyclists around me so I relished the thought of
flying down the hill at high speed, but before I could get going I saw another
ambulance parked on the side of the road in the middle of a sea of shattered
bike parts. I couldn’t see the cyclist , but the sheer destruction of the
bikewas sobering. A newly planted Ironman sign warned cyclists to come off
their aerobars on this hill to avoid high speeds, so I popped up to sit.
Suddenly it kicked in that I had only a few more miles to go
and no more big hills. I was going to make it! There was no one around and I
cruised down that huge hill feeling the wind in my face, looking at the
scenery, and smiling a big goofy smile. The dry heat, the landscape, and the
smell of hot ponderosa pines reminded me of going to my grandmother’s house up
in the hills of Montana and I felt her athletic, warrior spirit carry me. This
is another one of my “mental pictures” from the race.
 |
| So happy to be off my bike! |
Then I was back in town to cheers and cowbells, and the
moment I had dreamed of had arrived: I got to get off of my bike! I bid
farewell to Beastie and handed it to a volunteer, then headed for T2. My family
and friends later commented on how good I looked at this point, smiling and
happy. What they didn’t know was that I was only smiling because I was so
thrilled to be off my bike!
Transition 2
Many athletes I spoke to before the race had stressed the
importance of staying in the now -- don’t think about the run while you’re on
the bike, just focus on the mile at hand. Well, I had so effectively
conpartmentalized the race that this was literally the first time it occurred
to me that now I had to go run a marathon, and the only thought that appeared
in my head was, “how the fuck am I going to do this?” Slightly nauseated and
with legs feeling like aching anchors, I ugly-ran out of T2. It felt awful.
Again I dreaded what was ahead, and again I reminded myself that how I felt
would probably change.
The Run
My plan had been to run 5:00 walk 1:00. When I looked down
at my watch I was doing an 11:00/mile pace, which I judged to be too fast, so I
forced myself to slow down a bit. I still felt like death. I trudged along to
the first aid station where I took a big gulp of warm, chlorine-filled water
that made me gag a little. I prayed that it was an isolated incident and that
chilled, fresh tasting water was not a Hawaii luxury. Luckily, the rest of the
aid stations were great.
 |
| #uglyrun |
You can see how I was feeling in my first few race photos. I
couldn’t even be bothered to smile for the photographer. Somewhere around Mile
9 my body started to settle in and cooperate, but the first 8 miles were very,
very rough. Pain and nausea aside, the run course was actually very pleasant. I
had been dreading a three loop course, but as it happened an 8 ½ mile loop is
actually very manageable and gives you the illusion of being in control of each
repetition. 8 ½ more miles is much easier to stomach than 26.2. The first part
of the loop wound through the lakeside park, then into some neighborhoods
before hitting the scenic boulevard skirting the lake to the turnaround. The
views along the lake were really breathtaking, with sparkling blue water and
wooded mountains. I do remember that it was very hot, however, as there was
little shade on that first loop. It took every ounce of self control I had not
to jump into the lake, shoes and all. I reminded myself that I trained almost
exclusively in 90+ degree weather and put it out of my mind.
 |
| Way too much pain to smile |
The neighborhoods were where Coeur D’Alene truly shined as a
race venue. Hundreds and hundreds of local residents had turned the entire
residential section into a giant party, with music playing, hoses set up on
ladders to provide cool showers as desired, and constant kind words from the spectators.
These people were not volunteers, mind you, they were just the amazing
residents of this wonderful town. The “Happy Fun Corner” provided a constant
stream of jokes, laughs, and commentary courtesy of a guy who had set up a
microphone and speaker in his front yard, and the increasingly intoxicated
inhabitants of several houses played Ironman-themed drinking games while
providing boisterous encouragement.
I had been concerned about Sean coming off the bike because
he’d been fading farther back each time I’d seen him instead of catching me as
expected, and at Mile 7 we crossed paths and my fears were confirmed. He had
started throwing up at Mile 26 of the bike and hadn’t gotten any nutrition,
including water, to stay down since then. He was walking and looked like death.
I was so nauseated, tired, and in pain that when I actually cried a little bit.
After the sweatiest, most disgusting hug in the history of our relationship, we
parted ways and kept moving.
 |
| Finally smiling, loop 2 |
Finally at Mile 9 the nausea went away and my heart rate and
breathing were fully under control. My legs were still like anchors, and would
remain so throughout the run. The bike had simply taken all they had, but as
almost any Ironman will tell you, finishing is more mental than physical, and I
once I was feeling better mentally I dragged my anchor legs mile after mile
with a big smile on my face. My 5:00/1:00 interval had turned into a 5:00/2:00
interval somewhere along the way, but I was still moving. I saw Dexter Yeats, a
new acquaintance who at 73 years old is an incredible inspiration -- she was
steady and determined. I was stopped by a man with one leg who was balancing on
his good leg while he adjusted the prosthesis on his other one. He asked me if I’d
hold his leg, and handed me the prosthesis, which I took without hesitation,
totally in awe of his badassness. Then he started laughing and said “just
kidding! But thanks!” and grabbed his leg back. I couldn’t help but laugh back!
I danced my way through the Base Salt Tent where they had awesome music
blasting. The second loop was fairly enjoyable, all things considered. The only
concern I had was that Sean had faded so much I hadn’t seen him all the way up
until the park, and I actually worried he might have been pulled off by
medical. When I finally saw him, I resolved to do whatever I had to do to catch
up to him (by getting ahead a lap) so that I could help him along.
I tried to pick up my pace, but about a quarter of the way
through the third loop I was hurting a little again -- mostly my feet, which
felt beaten to a pulp. The sun was setting over the lake and it was
mindblowingly beautiful, and I was trying to focus on that instead. At Mile 14
I felt a riiiip and bid adieu to my left big toenail. At Mile 18 I
walked almost the entire mile, briefly succumbing to the pain, and this was
when I started talking to fellow athlete Josh. Josh had a mechanical
malfunction on his bike and had completed that entire God awful bike course
with only his three middle gears. He was, understandably, quite irritated and
said he was just going to walk the rest of the race, telling me that we had
plenty of time to make it to the cut off doing so. Talking to someone was a
wonderful respite for my tired mind but I kept picturing Sean back there
somewhere suffering, so at Mile 19 I told Josh that I had to go get my husband
and took off once again on my raw, bruised feet.
As I neared the neighborhood section I came upon an older
woman who was standing, apparently immobile, and crying out in pain each time
she tried to move. I stopped and asked her if I could do anything for her, and
she told me that she had suddenly started having blinding pain each time she
tried to take a step with one leg. Despite this she kept trying to move, each
time making the most horrible noises… After staying with her for a few minutes
I asked her if she wanted help to a medic station and she said no, she wanted
to keep going. We hugged each other before I started running again. I later
found out that her leg, which had a stress fracture she wasn’t aware of, had
completely fractured due to the repeated impact and she was flown out for
surgery the next day. Thinking of her, and of Sean, I pushed as hard as I could
possibly push all the way through the neighborhoods. At one point, just when I
felt I might pass out an incredibly adorable, fluffy golden retriever puppy was
thrust into my face by one of the residents who had been outside playing music
all day.
“You look like you need a puppy!” He said.
WIthout a word I cuddled my face into the soft fur and
looked into its soft little eyes, and then Mystery Puppy Man pulled it back and
said, “Okay, now get running!” So I listened.
It was dark now, and I made one last push. I passed the
beach where we had struggled to swim in our wetsuits earlier in the week and
marvelled at how beautiful it looked with the moonlight dancing on the water.
The streets were quieter now, and had a unique and special feel. Then out of
the darkness came Sean, well in front of where I expected to see him! He had
made a friend and seemed much better. I was so relieved I almost cried again.
After a hug and a few words of encouragement between us, he took off for his
last loop as I headed toward the park and the finish line.
I was a mile from the finish when I heard a “hey!” from
behind me and turned to see Josh! He had changed his mind about walking! We
joined a little group of people walking the last hill, realizing in awe and
surprise that we were at Mile 25. We were going to make it! Our group all broke
into a run, excited and energetic once again despite our tired bodies. The
trail through the park that we had traveled three times reached the fork, and
this time we turned right toward the finish. Over a little bridge, and then we were
in town, running down the main street lined with cheering people. I could hear
music and Mike Reilly’s voice, and the lights began to come into view. I slowed
down a little to savor every moment, to take my final mental pictures of this
epic day.
As I came down the finish chute I heard someone scream “CRYSTAL!”
at the top of their lungs and there was my mom, jumping up and down and waving
her arms like a madwoman. I ran to hug her and no hug has ever felt so good. I
honestly can’t remember a time I’ve seen her more excited. I turned back to the
finish line and ran the last few steps to become an IRONMAN.
Somehow as soon as I crossed the finish line my mom was
there too! I asked her how she got inside the chute and she said, “I don’t
know! I was so excited I just ran! Am I not supposed to be here?” It was
awesome to have her with me as I got my timing chip removed, received my medal,
and had my photo taken. I checked the tracker and saw that Sean was making
better progress and that he was projected to finish within the cut off. I
limped as quickly as I could back to our rental house, took a quick ice bath
and shower, put on my finisher shirt, and limped back to the finish line to
cheer him home.
I have never been prouder of my husband than I was watching
him come down that finish chute to cross the line, knowing the battle he’d gone
through to get there. I took a lesson from my mom and just ran past the
security people without a word into the finish area to meet him. Being reunited
after this feat felt better than our wedding day.
So there it is! We did it! Hard to believe that this journey
we began eight months ago has reached this victory! It was worth every second,
every moment, every workout. I AM AN IRONMAN.
