Race Report: Ironman Wisconsin - Part II

Source: Trifueler Continued from Part I

I ran into transition, and again my bike to run bag was thrust before me before I could shout twice. I went into the changing room, and the extent of my situation presented itself.

I couldn't grab the drawstrings to loosen the bag and open it. I couldn't feel my fingers. And I was shaking uncontrollably.

"You're shaking uncontrollably." The guy next to me pointed out.

All around me riders were talking about the weather, the horrible ride, the wind. People were splayed out, half naked, trying to rest. Others had body-heat-reflective blankets wrapped around them, trying to conserve heat. I tried to get my hands to grab my shirt and pull it off, and they woudn't grab. A volunteer right away helped me strip my shirt and my arm warmers. I was able to take my shorts off. I put on my running shorts and a volunteer came by and put a reflective blanket on me. "You okay?" He asked. I didn't like the intensity with which he asked, and chattered as cheerfully as I could, "F-F-F-Fine. Just n-n-need a m-m-m-minute." If I was forced to the medical tent right now, I wasn't sure what I'd be told and didn't want to find out. I somehow managed my socks and shoes on, got help with my shirt and other arm warmers, and put on my running gloves. I wrapped myself back up in the blanket and headed back out the door - dry for the moment for the first time in nearly 10 hours. My first stop was at the port-a-john...I really, really, really had to pee. I'd gone several times on the bike - which was good - but each time I went for several minutes. It was crazy. I stood there in the port-a-john and peed for 5 minutes, no exaggeration. As I went, I shook and shuddered. I wrapped the blanket around me tighter. Then I thought - if I keep this blanket around me as I run, all I'm going to think about is how much I need this blanket because of how cold I am. And how if I lose this blanket I'll be even more cold. And pretty soon the only thing on my mind will be this forsaken cold. So I threw the blanket down, went back out, and a very long 17 minutes after I started it, I left transition and began the marathon on the streets of Madison.

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"Chris!" I turned to see Pharmie's husband Steve standing there, almost immediately after starting the run. I'd seen him once before, as I was climbing the helix from the swim to the run. I shouted at him, and he ran a few steps further down and aimed his camera to snap a picture. I thought - how cool that this guy, who without Ironman would be a total insignificant stranger to me - is here giving me a cheer because of the connection Ironman has created between so many of us. If he was out there waiting for Pharmie, then I knew she must be doing okay on the bike, which meant she got out of the water okay. I wondered about my other friends - TriSaraTops, QCMier, Wil, Chris, TriTeacher. How is everybody? Where are they right now? Are they staying warm? I sent them prayers and whatever energy I could, and kept running.



Right away I saw my cousin Erin and Amy's Dad on the side of the street - they were surprised to see me, and I was surprised to see them. They clapped and cheered, and I pumped my fist - I guess the rest of the Team was on the opposite side of the street, across the barricades. I wondered when I'd see the team again, and settled into running. If felt great to be off the bike, and I was warming up - thank God. The rain was unchanged from the rest of the day - constant and cold, but at least the wind chill on the bike was no longer an issue. I assessed: Aside from the cold, my body felt okay. My legs were warming up, and with my gloves on my hands were warming up as well. No GI issues at all, no nutrition or stomach issues. Awesome. I'd been improvising all day from the weather, and knew I'd continue on the run, but came back to my original strategy. I'd planned for a 10:30 pace for as long as I could - I promptly threw that out the window. I was expending a lot of energy now just for body warmth, and knew that any calories I was taking in would first be directed towards generating heat. So be it. I would run - at whatever pace - for as long as I could - that part of the plan, I'd stick to. For now, that's as much as I'd plan for.

At the first mile I took off my empty flasks, purchased this morning (which seemed an epoch ago), and told the volunteers "I need these four flasks filled." You'd think I'd just issued an executive order. Four volunteers shot out of nowhere, each taking a flask and filling it while I twisted on the covers. It took ten seconds. Wow. "You guys are awesome!" I shouted as I got back on the road.

My first few miles were strong, between a 9:30 and 11:00 pace, but I felt good. My legs were solid under me, and my heart and spirit were aligned. Around mile 6 I saw the Team for the first time on the run, lining the right side of the road, spread out into 3 small groups. I high-fived my mother and Jay as the team erupted in cheers, then stopped to hug the others as I approached them. I have twenty people out here, twenty people, who braved the same elements I did all day. Who've stood around in cold and rain for a glimpse of me. Who now wander all over downtown, strategizing where I'll be next, estimating times, coordinating efforts like a military operation. These were amazing people, doing something amazing for me, that meant so much and that carried me through this day in ways I can never explain. Seeing them now, on the run, I felt like stopping to tell each and every one of them how much I loved them, how amazing they were, how grateful I was. I thought of the rest of the team, far away but still there with me, still moving me forward, t-shirts and blue wristbands binding us all, becoming Ironman. Together. I felt like their representative.



But at about mile 9 of the run, I had to stop to walk. It wasn't survival, but it was getting close, so I made the decision to walk now and digest. I was feeling low on energy, the calories I'd been taking in working hard against the cold before they could be deployed for exercise. I took in some fruit and a cookie at the aid station, and when they were gone I reached to wash them down with some Gatorade from my belt. Immediately upon touching my lips I spit it back out. The body goes through complicated and not-always-explainable trauma after this many hours of exercise - nevermind the elements - and at this moment, here and now, Gatorade was no longer welcome. It was wholly rejected, and I knew that if I tried to take in any more, I'd be throwing up - and that could doom my race. Shit. I grabbed a water instead, and sipped it while I walked slowly, allowing my body to digest. Assess: I'll need a new source of sodium. And I'm going to have to find a way to take in more calories - the cold is sapping them away. Problem - my body tends to be pretty finicky about the amount of calories I can take in when running. Solution - walk more. Problem - when I walk, as I'm doing right now - I quickly get cold. I was drenched from the unrelenting rain - not a break from it all day, with periods of harder rain. The situation was creating a feedback loop that I couldn't find a way out of.

I tried running again into mile 10, mostly just to keep warm, but soon felt the entire bottoms of my feet shuffling against the ground. I'd decided to no longer check my pace or race time, and just let it come without any pressure. But I did check my pace now, and saw I was "running" at a 16 minute pace. If you go out right now and walk around the block, you'll be faster than that. Things were shutting down, and it wasn't good. My body was looking for excuses to quit now. I went back to a slow walk. I tried to actually do the math - if I walk at a 20 minute pace, can I still finish in under 17 hours? I went into a port-a-john to pee, and leaned my head against the wall and shivered. I started spinning and feeling hazy, and thought - if I faint right now, they may honestly never find me. I was cold and I felt terrible. And I was looking for reasons to feel cold and terrible. I was succumbing to the challenges of the Ironman, to my inherent mental weaknesses. The cold and rain were unexpected adversaries to a day already so difficult, and I was faltering. Seriously, seriously faltering. I left the port-a-john and kept walking. Just move forward, I thought. I waited for a plan to come. Any kind of a plan.

I stumbled into the Team at around mile 12 or so, and handed my useless fuel belt to Amy's mom or Dad. It had to be clear that I wasn't doing well - I didn't have the energy for a grin or smile or even much of a high-five. Amy's mom said, "You can do this." It wasn't a shout. It wasn't cheering. It was a point of information, and I stored it away - it might help me make a plan. A little ways down the road I saw Amy and Kaylie, and tossed another useless piece of Fuel Belt to her. They asked how I was doing - I told them, "I'm doing the best I can." Amy yelled, "It's all will now babe, it's all will!" I grabbed it and hung onto it. Might be part of a plan. Later they'd tell me how I was at least 20 minutes behind what they'd been expecting, and both Amy and Mike, who are very familiar with watching my triathlons, were getting very concerned. Finally I saw the rest of the Team and threw up my hand wearily for a high-five. I was spent. My cousin Erin jogged along beside me and asked if I was okay - I repeated the truth: I was doing the best I could. I saw Ben behind the camera, Sara cold and huddled within a leopard print blanket, both shouting encouragement. Patric and Todd where clapping for me, trying to help me along. Uncle Mike and aunt Pat clapped, Pat bouncing on her heels, wanting to do the hard work for me. Grandpa swung his fist, stoic and solid, and I wished I'd felt that solid right then. I thought of Grandma, 86 years old and out here until lunchtime, in the cold and misery. Michael snapped pictures while Alicia cheered. Susan and Mike clapped, but with concern.

Finally I approached the 13.1 mile turnaround, and my already dim spirits plummeted. In front of me was the finish chute. Thousands of cheering souls. The thumping music, the bright lights, the jumbotron screen. Mike Reilly, the voice and announcer for Ironman, was cheering finishers home, where they were being met by friends and family. It was heaven. But I was instructed just to the left - back into purgatory. I was only halfway home. And the worst was yet to come.

On the other side of the turnaround, I stopped and picked up some chicken broth. Sweet Jesus was it good. It was lukewarm and salty and different, and I wanted to just stop and take a damn bath in it. As I walked along, sipping my broth, an Ironman volunteer approached out of nowhere with a garbage bag with armholes. "Would you like some rain gear?" He asked. I knew that all day long, other racers had improvised solutions to the unexpected weather. Some had had family run into a drugstore on the actual course and pick up a poncho, or gloves, or anything to help. I'd thought several times of the thermal Under Armour shirt my friend Mike was carrying around with him, that I'd given him to have for me after the race, "in case I felt cold". But the rules were: No outside help. It wasn't enforceable, and had I received that kind of help from my family in the front of the entire Ironman corporate staff, I imagine not a one would have argued. But I'd determined long before the start that those were the rules I was playing with. I felt nothing critical at all of the athletes who got help - one runner had Amy run in and buy him a coffee - and probably they were smarter than I. But, it was what it was, and that was my choice. So when somebody on the inside offered to help me, I gave him whatever slight smile I could and stammered, "That would be great."

I passed the team again on the turnaround in my new wardrobe, gave them a weak smile, and my cousin Erin jogged beside me and told me they'd see me at the turnaround on State Street. Around mile 20. I was honestly unsure I'd get that far.



I continued "running" through mile 14, but it was just an exaggerated walk to try and keep warm. I spent mile 15 - a long and lonely stretch away from spectators - actually trying to sleep. It was a mostly straight road, and I tried to close my eyes for as long as possible while I ran. My mind drifted around, drunk in its exhaustion, as my body shuffled on autopilot. The broth had warmed me for a few minutes, but now it had just left me intensely thirsty. I made it into the mile 15 aid station and grabbed two cups of water. I drank most of one at the station, grabbed an orange, and walked while I sipped the other water. I tried to assess just what the hell was going so wrong. I wasn't in nutritional crisis, so that was okay. I didn't feel dehydrated, and I was still having to urinate every few miles, so I was okay there. My body hurt, sure, but nothing I couldn't overcome. So...what? I was cold. Well, look around. Everybody's cold. The words came unbidden from my lips, out loud, for anybody to hear. I was glad to hear them - they were the first bit of logic I'd encountered in a very long time. So I was cold, and it was my mind...my heart, my spirt - that was in crisis. My body was following their lead, but I had plummeted into some dark, irrational place where my mind was trying to excuse itself from this process. I was justifying why I needed to walk, or sleep on the run, or how I was entitled to feel this miserable. I wondered - was everybody feeling like this? Would they? Am I alone right now, or do they all do this? Is this part of it? I was afraid. This was uncharted territory for me. I'd never asked so much of my body, and didn't know if I was strong enough to do this. I didn't know if my mind, so sick for so long, was well enough repaired to take charge of a weary and battered body. I didn't know if my heart, so scarred from such tremendous breaking, was resilient enough to pull me through.

You can do this.

It's all will from here, babe.

I walked into Camp Randall, where the Badger's play, and that Voice returned.
I want you to run around the football field. Don't walk it, run.
"Okay," I said. "How fast?"
Doesn't matter. Just run it.

I picked up my pace and stumbled around the field. My legs felt thick and alien. Still, I was doing something. For the first time in what seemed like hours, I was doing something. When I reached the exit, the Voice said, "Great job. Go ahead and walk it out." Had you been beside me, you'd have heard the Voice same as me, as it came from my lips. And I spoke as plainly to it as I would to you right now. I didn't know what the Voice was, and didn't care. It seemed to have its shit together where I plainly did not.

I continued walking as I left the stadium. Okay, now let's power walk. Pump the arms, pick up the legs, let's go. I did as instructed, and started to do more than just stumble. The "rain gear" was seeming to help - it was keeping my body heat trapped, and while I certainly wasn't dry, it at least provided the illusion of combatting the rain, and maybe that in itself was helpful. "It's all will now," I repeated Amy's words, not sure if I was talking to myself or the Voice, or what the difference was.

This is Ironman. The Voice said. Not all the bright lights and shiny toys. This is what you trained for, right here. This is when you find out what you're made of. Right here, right now. You asked for this. You asked for the privilege of it. This is what it is.

I thought about coach Rich Strauss, who constructed the training plan I'd followed. He says you need a "One Thing." That thing that you pull out of your back pocket when it gets horrible, to keep yourself going. I thought of my One Thing: To be, and not just to appear to be.

The fulcrum between us. The Voice said.
"Ah." I said. "It's you."

If you walk this thing out, the Voice said, "You may finish in time. You may even get a medal. But you and I both know that you'll only be appearing to be Ironman. And that's not how we're going home.

I continued a healthy power walk, starting to feel a shade better. The conversation was giving my mind something constructive to do, and there seemed to be a plan in the making. Some strategy to get out of this thing that had gone to hell in a hand grenade.

Okay, see that sign? I want you to run from that sign all the way down to that light pole down there. See it?
"Sure. Just, jog or whatever?"
No, throw it down. Whatever you've got in there.
I reached the sign and started a run. I focused on technique, which I'd abandoned several miles ago. I flew by the other walkers and shufflers, and my rain jacket rattled in the wind and rain. It felt...great. Strong. Possible. When I reached my stopping point, I slowed to a power walk.
No, just walk easy right now for a minute.
"I think I have it in me to power walk this, though."
Yeah, but we need calories. If we're stupid right now and blow up, we'll be in much worse shape. Just take it slow here while the body recovers.

Good plan. I walked slowly a short while longer, then at the aid station the Voice thought I should have one of everything. Store up, it said. I passed mile 17, and approached a long and lonely stretch of trail that follows the lakeside. It was a horrible trail this night - the trees shook additional rain on us, and the water and wind off the lake were even more cold. Besides, it was extremely dark. Ironman had set up huge portable lights every quarter mile or so, which brightened huge sections, but in between it was black as night as runners now wearing phosphorus glow necklaces bobbed down the trail.

I was starting to feel resurrected. I could feel myself clawing out of this abyss I'd fallen into, slowly but steadily. Okay, the Voice said, let's run from this light to the next one. So I did, then I'd power walk to the next light, and then run again. I'd continue this cycle and interject periods of slow walking to recover. The calories I'd taken in were paying off, and I was feeling its energy course through me now. I was coming back. Mile 18 passed by, and I left the trail now and headed towards State Street. I knew the crew would be around there, waiting for me. They had to have sensed how poorly I was doing last time. They must have been concerned.

A steep incline stretched for a third of a mile or so, and behind me a spectator was trying to rouse some runners to follow him up the hill. They did, and the three of them were running up. As they passed me he encouraged me to jump along, but I told him I needed to stick to my game plan. I want you to walk this entire hill, the Voice had said. Give your main muscle groups in your legs a rest while some other ones work, and there's no sense running up hills at this point. Good plan. On the other side of the hill, then, was a descent. Open it up, the Voice said. Free speed. So I flew downhill, another third of a mile or so. I kept running at the bottom until I reached the next aid station just onto State Street. I grabbed a water and a Gatorade, and mixed just a bit of the Gatorade into the water and sipped. This wasn't the Voice's idea, it was mine. I was retaking control of Ironman. I power walked as I sipped, and approached the Team. They were cheering as usual, but I could sense trepidation as they tried to discern my state of things.

I held out a hand and nodded my head as I walked quickly past them, still sipping. "It's okay," I said. "I'm back in the game." They went wild, and I could hear them buzzing as I continued on, "He says he's back in the game! He's back in the game!" and "He's going to finish this thing, and strong!" I smiled - wow, how long had it been since I'd smiled? - and threw down my cup of water and started running. I'm proud of you. The Voice said, and left.

I ran through the turnaround and passed by the Team again, knowing I wouldn't see them again until the finish. We were having fun again. Mother shouted "IronMAN! as Grandpa held his arm out for a high five.

Time to pick it up and set it down, Grandpa.

I blazed back to life, running through miles 19 and into the Ford Motivational Mile around mile 20. I'd stop to walk for short rests, then power walk for short bursts, then open it up for most of the mile. I wouldn't think about anything but this mile, the here and now. In the days preceding Ironman, people could make signs of support for athletes, and during this mile they were staked into the ground. Thousands and thousands of personal billboards of support for the athletes out here lined the road. Then, as I came back from a turnaround at the end of the road, I stepped on the mat which triggered the message on the jumbotron screen that my aunt and Mike had devised at the kiosk in Ironman Village a few days ago. It read: "You are our hero."

I'd never felt like a hero before.

I laughed out loud, a joyful noise, and picked up my pace. I'd stop less frequently now to walk, and mostly only through aid stations. I thanked every volunteer I could find for being out there as I passed through. Later I'd learn that the president of Ironman had considered closing down the run course halfway for fear of hypothermia, and was especially concerned that the "civilians" - the aid station volunteers and police - would start dropping from the cold, and then they'd have some major issues to contend with. They sent an alert out to all the stations, asking for their honest assessment of their durability to see this through, and, "To a man," he said, "they said, 'We're out here as long as they're out here,' and with that kind of attitude there was no way we were shutting this down."

As I power walked through an incline in mile 23, I met up with another athlete.
"Man," he said to me like he'd been waiting for me all along, "I can't wait for a hot shower."
"I hear that," I replied. "And a pizza."
"I'm going back to my hotel and getting a big bacon cheeseburger, and french fries, and a malt."
"Hell yes," I laughed. "I haven't had french fries since Christ was a child."
We laughed some more, and as we reached the crest I wished him a strong finish as I flew down the other side. Now the energy was different. Now, we all of us on the road knew something awaited us. It felt tangible now. Impending. Inevitable.

At exactly the mile 25 marker I shed my rain gear and ran. No more walking now, no more aid stations. This was my mile. This one would live on longer than I will, and I wanted to do it right. All around me spectators shouted words of congratulations now, rather than encouragement. The crowds were thin because the thousands were now all in the finish chute. I wound my way around downtown, the backside of the Capitol building now into view, now hearing the roar of the crowd, the dull thumping of the speakers getting louder.

"Well done, Ironman!" They'd shout as I floated through downtown towards the finish chute I couldn't yet see, but knew was coming.

"Looks like an Ironman to me!" A man said as I high-fived him.

"A left turn and a right and your life will change forever." Said another as I made my last turn. Before me the crowds thickened behind barricades that separated us. I high-fived anybody and everybody. It was pure euphoria. Stupid adrenaline. This is what it feels like when you die, I thought.

I finally turned right at the huge Gatorade bottle, and went underneath the Ironman gateway and into the finish chute. The bleachers alongside me were lined with thousands and thousands of roaring fans, screaming and jumping and shouting. Music thumped and blared from the huge sound system. My image was broadcast over the huge jumbotron screen as bright lights glared down onto us finishing athletes. My legs took off from under me and I was sprinting, winding my arm around and around in celebration. I caught up to the woman in front of me, on accident, and we both stopped, not wanting to interfere with each other's finishing moment. I stepped back and held my hand out, a gesture of "After you", and laughed at the civility of it in such an insane moment. After she passed they held the tape back up for me. I was smiling as I took the final steps across the finish line and broke the tape in 14 hours, 53 minutes, and 27 seconds.



I had become Ironman.

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A sweet little old woman grabbed me right away, a "catcher", who was assigned to get me through the finish area. "Are you okay?" She asked. I laughed. "I'm outstanding, how are you?" She laughed, and we approached a volunteer who placed a finisher's medal around my neck. I bowed my head to receive the honor, a gesture not just of practicality for her to place the medal, but of respect. Then I reached out and held her head. She didn't know what to do, so she reached out and held mine, and for an instant we stood there, holding each other's heads, until finally I pulled her to me and kissed her cheek.

I caught up with the Team in the family area, and embraced every single one of them. We cried and laughed and hugged, and I felt honored to be among them. They'd had their own experience this day, I knew, while I'd had my own - but together, we'd shared something extraordinary. This was so much more than simply a race, for all of us. Somehow, I think, it brought us all closer. It was one of those situations, rare in life, where it seemed scripted for purpose. If the sun had been shining, if the weather had been perfect, they and we wouldn't have had the same experience. If any one of them hadn't been there, it wouldn't have been the same. Whatever one expects in Ironman, I didn't necessarily expect to be so inspired, so motivated, so carried through by this group of people. My race was measured by when I'd see them again, and my finish line was determined by when we'd all finally be together. I'll say it again: I felt like their representative out there, and we joked how each of them should wear the medal for a day, and we should pass it around like the Stanley Cup. I will never be able to express my love, or thanks, or humble gratitude at the Team for being out there in the wind and cold and rain all day, and I think each of us will remember it for the rest of our lives.

Mother, Jay, Amy, Marlyn, Debbie, Kaylie, Mike, Susan, Michael, Alicia, Pat, Mike, Erin, Sara, Ben, Patric, Todd, Grandma, Grandpa, and Dad: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you all.



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I woke myself up with groaning that night, my legs were in so much pain. Amy rubbed them out a little and I took some Tylenol, and slept a little better the rest of the night. The next few days my legs were devastated, and it was Tuesday before I could walk up stairs without clutching the handrails for life. My feet made it out generally drama free - not even a blister, but my ankles are shot (not sure how that happened), and every fiber of everything else just hurts. But each day they'll get a little better, I know, and by this weekend I'll probably be moving okay.

People are wondering what's next, including me. Presently my plans are only to let the hair grow back on my legs. I've eaten the last few days for the enjoyment of food, rather than for its precise nutritional context. I've slept well for the first time in ages. I have some recovery to do.

I'm looking forward to playing basketball, something I haven't done for these past two years of training because I didn't want to somehow hurt myself. I'll lift some weights this offseason, and run a few short road races, I think.

I don't know what next triathlon season has in store, and I'll starting thinking about that soon and try to get a plan before Christmas.

Regarding another Ironman: Ironman for me was a life decision, not a triathlete's decision. It took me 3 years to do, because that's how I chose to do it. It was, in all honesty, the greatest day of my life. I feel changed by it in ways I can't describe or understand yet. I feel different on the other side of it. I had so, so much fun. Even when I was in the abyss, it was just part of the story for me. I loved every second of it, even when I was a shivering mess. Every single second. It felt transcendental, holy somehow. And, if I'm to consider my Ironman journey, it makes perfect sense that the race itself would be a battle against more than my myself. Of course the Elements made their appearance. Of course I had moments of haunting. It was as it should have been, in every perfect way.

That said, then, as I sit here right now, no part of me feels unfulfilled about Ironman. There are no outstanding issues, no unfinished business. The triathlete in me right now is not considering another Ironman. Maybe one day he will, but not right now. And my life took an extraordinary 32 years for this Ironman to be forged. Another Ironman as a life decision seems right now far away, if not unlikely. There are other adventures to have in life right now. Things to do now that I'm made of Iron. Things I wasn't capable of before, perhaps. So the short answer to "will you do another" - I don't know. Not tomorrow. And that's okay. I'm learning that life is best approached like the Ironman race itself - just let it come to me.

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I imagine I'll have a lot of processing to do after Ironman, and I suppose I'll share it here as well as anywhere. I don't know what plans there are for the blog, other than an outlet for my thoughts and experiences now as an Ironman. I'll have probably much to say in the coming weeks, and maybe a little less to say after that. Maybe I'll keep you apprised of my life as a triathlete in general if you're still interested, even as one who's not in active training for Ironman. I'm not sure what's next, but I promise to keep you informed.

Thanks again for everything everybody. All of your support, your well wishes, your notes of congratulations. It has meant the world to me, and I hope we can continue our friendships here in this "virtual" world. Meanwhile, may your wheels run true, your legs turn strong, and the wind be always at your back.



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