Ironman Kona World Championships 2017: Race Report

Where to begin… if you've followed this blog up to this point, you know that I started triathlon from scratch in all three sports in 2013. I moved up in distance from sprint to Olympic to 70.3 and finally to full Ironman at Coeur D’Alene this year. Having already signed up for Coeur D’Alene and started training, I was surprised, thrilled, and a little terrified when I was selected for a Kona slot in the Hawaii resident lottery. I took on the challenge of completing my first two full Ironmans within seven weeks of each other with great excitement. My first Ironman at Coeur D’Alene went well (maybe now that Kona is done I’ll finally have a chance to write that race report too!) and I headed into race week at Kona feeling ready for the challenge. 

Race morning arrived and although I felt the usual nerves, I was also overwhelmed with a sense of happiness and calm knowing that I had put in all the preparation I could and that my dream was about to become reality. I was very surprised in both Ironmans how much less jittery I felt than pre-70.3. There was a definite sense of “I’ve done all I can, what will come will come.” I went through the many checklists that I’d made myself, gathered my gear, and headed out in the pre-dawn darkness. 

Body marking was underway when I arrived at the pier. It moved like a finely oiled machine. Athletes were fed into lines, tattooed, and the spit out into the transition area behind the King Kam Hotel where there were bike techs, pre-swim bag drops, port a pottys, and of course 2400 absolutely gorgeous bikes. I took care of my first two concerns, which were checking my tires and finding chain lube, because of course after detailing my bike before bike check in I realized I had forgotten mine. The pier felt electric, charged with the emotion and anticipation of so many athletes. 

I watched as the pros walked through transition toward the water, and even got to talk for a moment with Mirinda Carfrae, who had accompanied Tim O’Donnell to the start. When Mirinda Carfrae tells you to have a good race, you know it’s going to be a good day.

One by one we watched the waves go out -- first the pro men, then the pro women, followed by the age group men. Being a ballerina I found a corner to stretch out a little bit and do a few exercises to get my muscles warm and moving. And then it was time. The sea of pink caps surrounding me moved toward the steps to the sound of the Hawaiian anthem and taiko drums. I looked around at the determined, strong, beautiful faces and saw tears in many eyes. Helicopters and drones buzzed overhead and cheers echoed from the sea wall full of spectators. I have sat on that sea wall as a spectator four times, and it was a crazy feeling to see it from the other side. The sun was rising over the palms and the iconic little church on the bay and I tried to soak in every second. We swam out to the start line, treaded water for what felt like years, and I tried to seed myself back far enough that I wouldn’t impede anyone but not so far back that I’d be having to deal with a lot of passing. Finally, the cannon fired and we were off. I will never forget the roar of the cheers each time I turned my head to breathe. 

My swim went well. I was right on pace despite the decidedly more aggressive nature of the competition and by the time we reached the turnaround point I was surprised at how good my arms were feeling. Let me tell you, though: the body contact in the Kona swim is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Having done Honu, Ironman Coeur D’Alene, and many other races I thought I knew what to expect but nothing I had experienced could prepare me for the punching, kicking, and pushing going on. I usually kind of thrive on the wildness of the body contact in big swims, but this was a little much even for me. I tried to move toward the outside of the group but in my somewhat competitive swim pace group (the swim is my best of the three disciplines) there was no escaping it. Three times I was hooked around the neck and dragged underwater. I had to just relax and try my best to maintain my stroke. Eventually I found two “friends” who weren’t so aggressive and played fair, so I stayed close to them. Around 1.8 miles in my right arch cramped and I had to stop for a moment to massage it out. Every time I tried to kick again it would lock right back up, so I was forced to do the last .6 miles of the swim depending only on my arms. Thank goodness triathletes are resilient.

I love this photo because it shows how much fun I had!

T1 is kind of a blur. I remember carefully climbing the stairs, not wanting to be the one to slip and fall down because I was shaky (totally something I would do!), and I remember running for what seemed like forever to get to my bike, which was waaaay at the back of the transition area. (Clearly they had looked at previous finish times when assigning spots). I headed out on the bike feeling euphoric. In fact, for the first thirty miles or so I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I reveled at the speed after the congested swim, I smiled and waved at the spectators, and I marveled over the wide open Queen K highway after having ridden it so many times when it was full of vehicles. I was passed by many faster riders but each one just reminded me how lucky I was to be out there racing the best athletes in the world. At Mauna Lani the pros started coming back the other way and I got to watch their incredible speed up close. As we approached the climb to Hawi the wind picked up significantly, as it always seems to do. Having ridden this section probably a hundred times, I was ready for it and went to work. This was the only section where I passed quite a few people, several of whom asked me with desperation in their voices how much farther it was to the turnaround. With four miles left to Hawi, the wind was vicious.

... and I love this picture because it shows how much work I did!

I made it to the turnaround, stopped very briefly at Special Needs to grab more gels, Skratch, re-lube my lady parts, and then I was off again. I had two cheer groups at Hawi so it was a great breath of fresh air.  I enjoyed the brief tailwind on the initial descent, then the rolling hills back down to Kawaihae became a blur, with the exception of the swelling emotion I felt seeing Rick and Jamie Hoyt struggling upward on the other side of the road. I may or may not have done a heaving, out-of-breath ugly cry when I passed them. Things went smoothly until we hit Mauna Lani again and the headwind started. Living here and riding in every type of wind it can offer I can say it wasn’t the worst I’ve felt on the Queen K by any means, but it wasn’t pleasant either. Without realizing it I dropped the little group I’d been riding with and suddenly when I looked around I was alone. It was just me, the silent Queen K, and the wind at Mile 90 and the loneliness wore on my tired mind. I did realize at this point, however, that my legs felt better at mile 90 than they had at mile 56 in Coeur D’Alene. I tried to hold onto that as I pushed on through the lava fields, but it was definitely my lowest point of the day. By Mile 103 I was really struggling and starting to feel very nauseated. After an epiphany two weeks from race day that my unfocused, dizzy spells on the bike might be due to electrolyte imbalance, I had made the risky pre-race decision that I would try taking salt pills every 15-20 miles for the first time on the bike during the race. (I use them regularly on the run so it was a risk I was willing to take, and it worked like a charm -- no dizziness!) I pedaled along, all alone, repeating to myself “this is normal, it will pass. This is normal, it will pass. You won’t feel like this for the entire race.” In desperation I took an extra salt pill to see if that might help. Sure enough, within a couple of minutes I perked right back up just in time to reach the Natural Energy Lab, where (ridiculously fast) runners were already making the turnaround for the marathon. The electrolytes, combined with seeing people again, got me checked back in and I ended the bike much like I started it -- flying high with a huge smile on my face.

The run was the greatest surprise of the day. I am a slow runner, and having mentally prepared myself for brutal heat and humidity I was expecting a really slow marathon. Analyzing my performance at Coeur D’Alene I had come up with a few major tweaks to my Ironman run strategy, but given the conditions I was giving them a 30/70 chance of working. I knew that I had a 0% chance of running the entire marathon so pre-Coeur D’Alene I had already decided I needed to choose a run/walk interval. Based off of my run/walk interval at CDA and the fact that my legs had given up my mile 18, I had decided to try a shorter run interval but also less walking  (still resulting in a greater percentage of the course being covered while running) in hopes that my legs would not have a chance to fatigue as quickly. I had settle on 3:30/1:00, with a switch to 3:30/:30 once the sun went down if I was feeling good. 

Flying down Ali'i Dr. 

As I left transition I was still riding the high from the end of the bike and started out all smiles. My dad, who died in 2009 from cancer, was a marathon runner and from the beginning of the run I made a conscious effort to invite him to run with me in spirit. I started out flying (at least for me) and mile after mile I kept my pace. The late afternoon sun had dipped fairly low in the sky and Ali’i Drive, famed for its sauna-like atmosphere, was actually shaded and filled with spectators cheering and shouting encouragement. It was beautiful running along sections of beach and the breeze was pleasant. I actually enjoyed this section immensely and couldn’t believe how good I felt as I returned into town and headed up Palani. When I saw my husband on the sidelines I asked him which pros won and he was so surprised I was even coherent enough to be asking questions he couldn’t even remember the answer! 

Coming up Palani

As I headed out on the highway toward the energy lab the sun was close to setting and the sky was beginning to turn beautiful shades of yellow, pink, and purple. I was, much to my surprise, still holding my pace. Assuming that at some point soon my legs would blow up, I kept calculating “okay, if I run the last X miles at a thirteen minute mile pace, what will my finish time be?” but mile after mile I kept the pace. Each mile I would make this calculation and each mile I would toss it aside. When I reached the Natural Energy Lab it was dark and I was finally beginning to feel real fatigue in my legs, but I kept pushing. One of my ballet students was working the aid station there and she had been waiting for me all day. While she had been waiting, she had apparently told every single volunteer about me so I got a hero’s welcome when I arrived. Right here my “race brain” was showing, as I had calculated that the Energy Lab was at Mile 16, then there was 8 miles back to the finish. As I approached I realized my math didn’t make sense, that 26-8 is EIGHTEEN, not sixteen, and had to fight through an extra two miles that I was not mentally prepared for. Ugh. Luckily at the end of it I got to go through that same aid station again and enjoy my tiniest cheerleader running beside me for a few moments before taking off into the darkness. 

Back on the Queen K the combination of silence and darkness was eery. I had a headlamp but many others didn’t, so even if there were runners around me they were just quiet footfalls in the darkness, impossible to locate. This is where I had to dig deep. With five miles to go I was determined to keep my mile times similar and get the significant PR dangling in front of me. My legs ached, my feet felt like every fiber in them was bruised, and time seemed to be crawling by, but I kept pushing. I had to keep a close eye on my watch to stay at a steady pace, because what felt fast was quickly becoming slow. I asked my dad again to help me. My heart rate and breathing were well under control and my mind was clear, so I ignored the pain and kept going. 

Then finally, the lights of Kona reappeared on the horizon and the finish was within sight. One last hill up to Palani, and then I had it made it. The spectators stopped saying “you can do it!” and instead started saying “congratulations.” I forgot the pain in my legs and feet. Once again I was flying. I turned onto Ali’i Drive and was overcome with memories and emotions. I thought of the first time I tried to swim and had to stop after 25 meters, and how I couldn’t run even close to a mile at my first run workout. I thought of my first sprint triathlon and how uncertain I was that I could finish. I thought of my dad, my husband (also an Ironman), and all the incredible people who helped me get to this point, and I readied myself to soak up every second of the finish line.

Then I was on the red carpet and lights were everywhere. The fence was lined with cheering spectators for a quarter mile. I saw all of my ballet students who had come to support me, and my husband and his family, and my mom. I heard Mike Reilly call my name and say “Crystal Hirst, you are an Ironman!” as I passed underneath the arch and crossed the finish line victorious and with a PR nearly an hour faster than my previous race. Emotion took over and I turned around to look back at the chute one more time, and as I did I heard Mike’s voice say to the crowd, “I think Crystal needs to hear it one more time from all of you. Crystal --” In a thunderous roar the crowd yelled back, “you are an Ironman!” Time stood still. It was a moment I will remember and revisit for the rest of my life.

To those of you who look at an Ironman race and wonder “could I ever do that?” the answer is yes. This process has taught me that our limits are truly only what we allow them to be, and that “can’t” is temporary. You can truly do anything you put your mind to, as long as you are willing to put in the work to get there. 

If you’d like to read more about my triathlon journey starting all the way back from my very first sprint tri training session, feel free to explore this blog! Mahalo nui loa to you all.