Well, I certainly got my money's worth out of this race!

Pre-race: For those tuning in late, this was my first IM at the end of my 3rd summer of triathlon. I’m a definite BOP racer with the occasional MOP finish in the shorter stuff. My only stated goal was to finish. I trained hard this year, but I am really just starting out in endurance sports and am nobody’s idea of a natural athlete. It would be the first IM for my wife, too. We arrived in Madison on Friday afternoon. I had lucked into a room at the Hilton, which is connected to the Monona Terrace Convention Center. The Terrace is the nerve center of IMoo with registration as well as the changing rooms, transition area, and finish line all nearby. Registration took approximately 90 minutes, and then Mrs. PJT and I went back to the hotel to relax for a while.

I slept about 7.5 solid hours on Saturday and woke up feeling pretty good. We met some friends at the swim area around 9 and did a short 20-minute swim—the water was pretty choppy and we noticed that it was slow going fighting the water on the return. Saturday lunch was spent with fellow trifuelers RV, dn, and iron_girl along with our respective entourages, which included 4 other racers. All 8 of us would be first timers. We were all pretty keyed up, but it was great to finally meet some of the people from the forum. After lunch, my wife and I checked our transition bags and bikes and then head to a friend’s house for dinner. We were back in the hotel at 8, made some last-minute additions to the special needs bags, and tried to sleep.

I think I ended up with about 5 hours of sleep that evening. Not great, but good enough. Around 2 a.m., I started getting cold/allergy symptoms—nose was running nonstop and I was sneezing up a storm. Crud. Wakeup call came at 4 and after breakfast and a quick shower to loosen the joints we headed downstairs for the race. Dawn broke cool and gray, with a slight breeze in the air. The guy on the loudspeaker in the bike corral warned us not to overinflate our tires, as there was rain out on the course. Very soon, it was time to swim.

The Swim: The swim course is 2 loops starting about 50-100m off shore, with no stop in between each loop. The start is about 50m east of the parking ramp helix at the east side of Monona Terrace. From there, the course is a long narrow counterclockwise rectangle, with approx. ½ mile east-west sides and 125 yard north-south sides. After the second loop, you swim back in to shore and head up the helix for T1.

I had read in numerous race reports that lots of people in my projected swim time range try to start at the right side of the pack and back. Well, when we swam into the water, that area was jam-packed with people who have read the same race reports. So I headed more to the middle and back of the starting pack. At this point, the water seemed calmer than it had the previous morning.

The cannon went off at 7:00 sharp and we were off. The first few hundred yards were more or less clear, then the mass of people from my right started merging in and I took a fair number of hits and kicks. Nothing too bad or very painful, but my rhythm was definitely thrown. After we cleared the first turn, I noticed that the wind had really picked up and swells/chop was coming from the east. On the second turn for the long leg east, the chop was directly in our faces. I slowed noticeably as I pulled hard to fight the water and had to roll very far to get a good breath of air. I could tell the going was slow. I completed the first loop in 50 minutes, about 5-10 minutes off my anticipated pace. The second loop was more of the same—relatively easy going west, fighting hard coming back. Still, before all that long it was over and I was heading for shore. Swim time was 1:42,-- a good 12-15 minutes slower than I had anticipated.

What helped: goggles with wide angle vision so I could see some of the contact coming and at least brace myself.

T1: Once out of the water, I decided to walk, not run, up the helix to the changing area. No sense taxing the heart rate for a few seconds gain of time that can be easily made up later in the day, right? Also, a light rain had started and it was quite cool out. The rain would not stop the entire day. I changed into my bike clothes and doused myself with Chamois Butt’r (a life saver, that stuff). I headed out to my bike, and just as I crossed the timing mat to exit T1, I luckily looked down and saw that my timing chip was gone. Yikes! I took a few minutes of a breather as a race official near the exit took down my name and number and put a new chip on my leg and I was off to do the bike.

The Bike: I coasted down the helix and heard my name shouted out from the crowd—my mother in-law as well as my wife’s sister, brother-in-law, and our 7 year old niece Meaghan were there cheering. I would see her and her family 3 more times out on the course, and I’ll tell you, it helped every time.
Heading out to the loop, I looked down at my computer with the goal of getting my heart rate settled and getting into a steady cycling pace. No go. My HRM, which had worked flawlessly all spring and summer, chose that moment to die. Thanks, Polar! I tried a couple of resets to see if I could get a reading, and then resigned myself to the fact that I would be pacing this race based only on perceived effort and my speedometer. C’est la vie.

Once out on the bike, it quickly became apparent that I was, to put it mildly, somewhat underdressed. The rain fell steadily—never too hard, but never going away either. My shoes got soaked within minutes. I had pulled a shortsleeve jersey on over my tri singlet, and I did have armwarmers, but a head covering, leg warmers, more thermal top, and waterproof booties would have made a huge difference. I thought longingly of my thermal longsleeve jersey with hood hanging safely in my closet at home, and made a mental note to bring it along to my next long race, no matter what the forecast said.

I certainly wasn’t the only one. There were people racing in just sleeveless jerseys, swimsuits, you name it. These folks really did not look happy. Worse, there were literally dozens of riders who flatted along the way, meaning a stop to change a tire or wait for tech support would chill them even more. In a way I knew I was somewhat lucky. I tend to tolerate the cold much better than the heat. As a result, my hands never went numb and I did not go into fits of shivering.

Still, the ride was just a battle the entire way. Chilling wind, rain, muck, you name it. On almost every ride I do, there is at least a stretch where I can just settle in and enjoy the simple pleasures of riding—holding a good cadence, tucking in on the downhills, hitting a corner at speed. Not here—handling was tough, everyone was hitting the brakes on the downhills, and whenever I went faster that just meant more wind and water would hit me. I spent a lot of time, too much, out of the aerobars to stay near my brakes.

Because I was soaking wet, I couldn’t tell how much I was sweating. And because my throat was scratchy from the cold (which I mistook for thirst), I drank fluids at more or less the same rate that I did on my training rides during the summer. I figured this would at least keep me hydrated, but it had the unfortunate side effect of making me have to pee roughly every 40 minutes. I had not practiced the technique of going “on the fly� and for God knows what reason I decided against trying for the first time during the race. So this meant numerous stops in the woods and waits at the porta-potties.

Finally, because I had no HRM, I had to dial back my intensity to a pace that I knew was sustainable but would allow me to make the 5:30 p.m. cutoff. Thank goodness I had ridden the course about a half-dozen times in training, so I knew exactly where I could push it and where I needed to back way off.

Still, what all this added up to was that I biked slow. Really, really slow. I came in around 7:45--a full 45 minutes slower than I done in training on the same course.

There were some good things. Surprisingly, eating went rather well. 9 gels, a half-banana, and 2 PBJ sandwiches plus lots of gatorade kept me plenty full. Spectator support was great, even in the cruddy weather. The 3 big hills between Cross Plains and Verona were packed with people shouting, ringing cowbells, running around, and generally having a grand time. In Verona itself, there were big crowds lining the road doing the same. I also have to mention that the volunteers, both on the bike course and everywhere else, were flat-out awesome—enthusiastic, encouraging, and cheerful despite the crummy weather. I also passed Maria, aka iron_girl, on Midtown hill around mile 90 and went back and forth with her for several more miles of the ride. She looked to be doing absolutely great.

The other bikers were by and large very observant of the rules. There was some riding on the left and a lot of lost gear, but I only had 1 time where I saw (or rather, heard) someone intentionally draft. This happened on Witte road, a big descent followed immediately by a climb. On my first loop, I passed a number of people on the descent by getting low and then started passing people on the climb by using my momentum. Near the top of the hill, a guy on a road bike passed me and thanked me for the pull. Jerk. I was too tired to say anything snappy and just decided to let it go.

Mentally, I was also hanging in there. I knew I was cold and tired, but not hypothermic (score one for racing with insulation at 193 lbs!). I knew that I was going to get negative feelings because of the weather and my pace, but I kept telling myself that things would get better, that I would warm up in T2 and stay warmer on the run.

T2 The changing room was a mass of guys in mylar blankets trying to warm up. A couple of them were clearly suffering from hypothermia—shivering uncontrollably, staring off into space. I took my sweet time drying myself off and putting on a full new set of clothing. For my feet, I caked on the bodyglide to hopefully avoid blisters on what was sure to be a wet run. I dressed in a sleeveless jersey, longsleeve shirt, shorts, and a running hat—pretty much all the dry clothes I had. It was only as I got up to leave the changing room that I had my first attack of the shivers. I headed to one of the bathrooms in the Terrace and ran warm water over my hands, jogged in place a bit, waited a few more minutes, and then headed out on the run.

The Run I had taken a mylar blanket from T2 with me and kept it for the first 2 miles of the run before I started to warm up. Not easy to run clutching one of those suckers and having in flap around like a cape, so I ditched it as soon as I felt reasonably less cold. After the race, my wife mentioned seeing 1 runner who had stuffed the mylar under his shirt and around his torso. Now why didn’t I think of that?

My plan for the run was to try to run aid station to aid station at and get in a short walk at each while I ate & drank. With the HRM left in transition, I was relying on a watch to keep my mile splits under control. I needn’t have worried; my body did a fine job of keeping things slow. Right around mile 3 I heard the sound I was dreading—heavy sloshing coming from my stomach. This was going to mean more walking, less eating as I tried to get the digestive system working again. My pace slowed considerably, taking longer walking breaks than I wanted to—everything felt fine except the stupid stomach.

Between mile 11 and 12, I finally caught sight of my wife for the first time since the start. She was working on Mile 14 on her second loop and told me later that she had been very concerned that I had not passed her on the bike (which usually happens in our races). I didn’t have time to say much more than hi, but if felt really good knowing she was doing well out there.

Again all along the run course, spectator support was outstanding. I saw several friends along the way cheering us on. Ben, a friend who recently had gotten into tris, jogged along side me for about ½ a block and asked if I would be up for doing this in 2 years (I think he has caught the bug and is planning an attempt). I don't know that I gave him an answer. As I hiked up State Street to the mile 13 turnaround, I spotted 2 more friends. One of them whacked me hard on the back and told me in no uncertain terms that she expected me to be running when I passed their spot going the other way in a few minutes (I was. I was too scared of what she might do if I had been walking again).

An aid station volunteer at Mile 14 was handing out garbage bags, and I gratefully took one as a makeshift raincoat/insulating layer. The crowd of athletes was definitely thinning out on the second loop, ones and twos where there had been dozens my first time out. Also, it was getting colder.

Around mile 20 I took a 5 minute walk in a deliberate effort to finally settle the tummy. It worked. Miles 20 to 23 or so were along a path on Lake Mendota—and the wind and rain blew in noticeably harder off the lake. As I tackled that stretch for the second time, I was feeling really good about my prospects of finishing.

It was at that moment that a guy collapsed about 200 feet in front of me. By the time I got there, 2 or 3 people (I’m pretty sure they were athletes and 1 looked like an MD) were administering first aid and one had called an ambulance. I asked if there was anything I could do, and the call went out for extra clothes for the guy. Along with some other racers, I volunteered my garbage bag. MD guy: “I don’t want you to freeze and pass out too.� I pulled the bravado routine with an “I’ll be fine, I’ll just keep running� line and took off my garbage bag and handed it over. For the next couple of miles, all I could think about was not stopping so that I wouldn’t freeze and keel over with 4 miles left in the race. The ambulances were there tending to the guy when I went by 10 minutes later.

Once I turned off of the lake path, the breeze died down a bit. I passed Mile 23 and knew for certain that I was going to make it with time to spare. I fell into step with a woman named Michelle. We chatted and exchanged bits of life stories (hers more interesting than mine), and before we knew it we were in the final mile. She warned me that her kids would be joining her for the finishing stretch. I said no problem, I would hang back and let her go first for the pics. Time didn’t matter to me and she had carried me the last few miles anyway. She said the same thing and encouraged me to go first. Before it came to a real argument, her kids decided the issue for us, because they took off with her in a full sprint about 2 blocks from the finishing line.

Coming down the finishing chute was surreal. Bright lights, rain, crowd screaming. I didn’t hear the classic catchphrase over the loadspeaker, but I didn’t care. I had done it.

Another friend was volunteering as a catcher in the finishing area. She took me to get my photo snapped, made sure I got my swag. She commented that this year’s finishers looked to be in much better condition than last years group and asked if she needed to do this race. (She’s an accomplished AG triathlete who has talked about giving IM a go in the next few years). I looked at her for a second—hidden in that question was another one: was this worth it to you? Yeah, I said.

Oddly enough, finishing wasn’t quite the rush I had expected. There were numerous times in my training where, to finish a particularly tough run, I would visualize during the last few hundred yards that I was crossing the finish line in Madison. Nearly every time, I would get a surge of adrenaline and end the workout with a near-euphoric burst. The actual feeling at finish line was quite different. For one thing, I was much more tired. And cold. Happy, yes; a feeling of accomplishment, yes. But it really didn’t feel like I had pictured it—just more subdued. Talking to another finisher later that week, I learned this is not unusual. The demands of the day (and, in my case, night) can really leave you closer to spent than with tons of energy to celebrate.

My wife, her family, and my parents were waiting beyond the finishing area. We snapped a few photos and I had to head inside to warm up. After getting our gear back to the hotel, I took a warm shower and we headed out for a beer and a burger. It tasted pretty damn good.

The Aftermath
Final times were 1:42:36, 15:52, 7:44:08, 5:45:31 for a total time of 15:50:59.

My wife commented afterwards that we had to earn every inch of the course. She was right. Someday, I may have a long race where it’s 68 and sunny, and I’ll be sure to appreciate it properly when that happens, but I suspect that over time this one will mean more.

Despite the #1 goal being to finish, I had, of course, estimated a finishing time prior to race day. It was something shorter than what I ended up with. Part of me immediately started with the recriminations: what if I’d been dressed warmer, gone a little harder on the swim, biked more in training, had a working HRM, learned not to stop on the bike for calls of nature? Another part of me had to step up and say “quiet. You did what you set out to do, enjoy it.�

And now, a couple weeks later, I am. I didn’t understand until after I had finished, but the feeling of accomplishment really comes from the dedication in the year leading up to the race. The early mornings, late nights, heat, humidity, cold, bugs, wind, rain, ice, nagging aches and pains. The hundreds of hours of time, the money, the sacrifices (food, social life, participation in other sports), and just the sheer amount of work. Any single day is easy enough to live like an Ironman in training; it takes some real desire, stubbornness, and humility to do it for the better part of a year. I’m not saying the race isn’t tough—it is. There are problems to be solved along the way and a clock to beat. It’s just that the race is only a part of the whole thing. And it might not be the hardest part.

So I’m enjoying it, but the race also left me hungry. I know there’s time to be gained out there for me (there certainly wasn’t much more to lose!) And I can get it both through better execution, better training, and more years of experience. So I’ll be back. Not right away--I have other goals, in tri and in life, for the coming year--but health willing I’ll be doing this again sooner rather than later. And here’s the thing: I’m very happy about this. I love doing tris, and I’m excited that doing an Ironman isn’t the end of the road, but just another mile marker along the way. Now, I get to try to do one faster than the one before--and because of that I'll get to take more risks and see what happens. What could be better than that?

P.S. A quick note of thanks to my wife (who I know reads these posts): Hil, I suppose it is possible that I could have done this without you, but I doubt that I would have. And it certainly wouldn’t have been as much fun. Thank you. I love you.