LooAville pics. And some thoughts about DFL

I've read/heard comments here and there about the fact that I took longer than 17 hours to finish Ironman Louisville.

I've heard/read about how lucky I was that the cutoff was extended because of the change in the swim start. I've been asked about whether or not it "counts" as an official finish.

I'm not angry about it, or hurt. I've been thinking about it. I wanted to collect my thoughts into a coherent assemblage of utterances to explain what it means that I "almost didn't finish."

About what it means to be, most of the time, last or nearly last, and why it is

meaningless.

I like this T-shirt, not just for me. It sums up part of how I feel

...about my first Olympic distance, in which I was also DFL.

...about my first half iron, in which, I believe, I was nearly DFL.



I did this triathlon with a bunch of friends and, of course, Sweet Baboo. I was also lucky enough to have some in-house cheerleaders and of course, a lot of support and cheering going on in Blogland, which still humbles and amazes me.

(That's Sweet Baboo, Me, and my fabulous mother-in-law and her husband Gordon in the top photo, right, the day before the race, in Louisville. In second photo, is Me and Sweet Baboo, and Mary Sunshine, and Dying Water Buffalo)

Some of my Albuquerque friends are fast. CRAZY. Fast. There is a picture of all of us on a previous post below, entitled, "Run, part 2"

Did you know? Ironman started in 1978 as a wager between friends about which one was the most fit: a swimmer, a cyclist, and a runner. In 1982, because the Kona race had attracted so many participants, the first cutoff time was introduced, 18 1/2 hours. Ironman.com does not give a reason for this time having been chosen, such as lactic thresholds or research or such.

The following year, it was changed to 17 hours. No reason. It is what it is.They can't let it go on forever, right? I mean, the volunteers have to go home some time.

There are some smaller iron-distance races in the US that don't have this type of cutoff system.

But there it is.

I've discovered that each person who does a triathlon, whether it's a sprint or a long course, has a different demon facing them when they step or jump or run into the water.

For some, it's the voices in their head that say they aren't good enough,
fast enough,
strong enough...
they want to silence those voices.

For others, it's more tangible: they need a goal for exercising.

Some beat back the ghosts: failures, "errors of judgement", bad decisions, guilty pleas - whatever...
"Each step or mile is like a giant eraser" that cancels out those mistakes. John "The Penguin" Bingham said that.

Some just like doing something that most people find very hard to do.


every single amateur or pro, whether they are fast or slow, will head into the same river, lake, ocean, inland sea or pool, and face their demons.

and every one of them is nervous.

They may not look it, but each hopes they trained hard enough and that they'll meet whatever goals they have...when they face the river, lake, ocean, inland sea, or pool...and most feel that they are unique in that respect.

As for me, I'll tell you a secret: according to my training times, I should not have been able to finish any long course triathlon I've ever attempted.

And yet, well... here I am. Proof that stubbornness trumps speed in many cases.



And so it was, at Louisville, we all went into the same river, toward the same same sunrise, and swam the same distance.

Then we pedaled the same bike distance, on the same road, cursing the same hills. Laughed at the same weird guy dressed like a devil. Smiled at the same folks in LaGrange going crazy with cowbells and yelling. Couldn't wait to get off the bike.

Then we all ran the same 26.2 miles. Throughout the race, we all followed the same rules, and ran, or walked, and sweated (and sometimes vomited) our guts out... and then crossed the same finish line.

Yes, some of us did it faster. But we all did the same distance

and the heavier, slower ones? Probably expended more energy.

So, who is the better athlete? The ones for whom covering the distance is easy, or the ones for whom it is hard?

What does it mean to be a triathlete?

Because if all it means is fast, then I've greatly misunderstood the whole thing.

I thought it was about challenging myself, seeing how I could make my body go, go, go! when it really wanted to stop, stop, stop! I thought it was about the feeling of accomplishment, and the fun.

So, as I said, my friends are all faster than me....

• Ricky V, finished in 12:53.
• Miquel, "Sharkbait" finished just a hair over 13 hours.
• Mark, "Bones" finished about 13 minutes later.
• Mike, "Wiz" finished in a little over 14 hours.
• Mary Sunshine finished some time before Baboo.
• Dying Water Buffalo finished in 16:17.
  
  ~~~~
  
• Sweet Baboo finished in 15:35. And then he waited...and waited...and waited.

sigh.
and,
yes,
I
was
last.

My time was 17:19.

Pirate had the best thing to say about this:

"You know what they call the last person to cross the finish the line in an Ironman triathlon?"

"They call that person an Ironman."

(BTW, I HATE this picture. I thought my arms were higher up in the air than that. and I should have kept my hat on.
Is that why some of you guys shave your head? So you look good for the photos? It is, isn't it? )

So if you've ever DFL'd, repeat this to yourself:

YOU COVERED, OR WILL COVER, THE SAME DISTANCE AS THE FASTER ATHLETES. That doesn't make you lesser. It may even make you greater.

Besides, who's to say I might not have moved a little faster if the cutoff had been midnight? I've finished every single race I've ever started that had a cutoff, even when I wasn't sure that I would start or not.

So, if you are still wondering if you "should" try to do that race or not, the answer is, well, you should.

Refuse to give up. Refuse to listen to the person or persons who fill your head with worry, doubt, or fear, no matter how much you love them and respect them, unless they have an MD. This is your race, not theirs.

This advice is especially important if the fear-monger in your head is YOU.

It won't be that I won or lost a few races that stays with me. It will be that I tried even though I was utterly terrified. (Oh, yes I was! I avoided buying a very pretty Louisville Ironman Bike jersey the day before the race because I still wasn't sure if I'd finish it or not.)

I like a little fun competition now and then, don't get me wrong. But it has to be fun, not all-consuming. As amateur athletes, what else are we doing this for, if not fun?

I mean, why are you doing this, anyway? Is it to be the fastest? I've got news for you. There is always someone faster. And if there isn't now, you'll still be looking over your shoulder in case there is. Or, are you doing this to finish? Then it doesn't matter where your place is. Statistically speaking, those that are considered "experts" in any field in which expertise can be claimed are within the top 2%. Sometimes less. The other 98% will finish after them.

So, let it go, man. Sign up for that race.

Oh, you, yes you, know the one I'm talking about.

Hell, you've been staring at the race website on and off for weeks.

Quit worrying about whether you'll do it "well" and just do it. If you don't meet your goal, well, you'll learn something, and you'll meet it another time.

...

On not being a stick insect.

There are some signs that something unusual happened this past weekend: my back is a little stiff, I have a little blister on one toe that is healing.

My weight soared to 171 pounds on Tuesday as my body retained extra water in relatiation for Sunday's mistreatement.

But, on Wednsday, peeing. All day. Clear water. All the water is leaving.

My shins stopped aching. I did a light jog/walk around the track yesterday, and some gentle running drills.

"Hey, Mrs. P, how long are you going to wear your medal?"
" You got a problem with my medal?"

"No, m'am."

One of the other teachers asked me how my weekend went. "Didn't you have, like, a marathon or something" and I said, "Yeah, something like that."

"So how did you do?"

I said that I did do a marathon, but I had to do some other stuff before I was allowed to start it." When you put it like that, you get instant attention. Allowed to do a marathon? What kind of "stuff"? In a river? How many miles? OH, MY, GAWD. IN ONE DAY??

And that's when it hit me; I can't joke about being lazy with anyone other than triathletes any more. I've been kicked out of the lazy club.

I'd already been kicked out of the diet club. You know the one: everyone sits around, eating Lean Cuisine, swapping information on the latest internet diet but refusing to exercise other than a bi-monthly salsa class, and then you say, brightly, "I've had a lot of success with jogging and biking!" And then the excuses ensue.

• "I'm 'different'"
• "I can't run."
• "I don't have time to exercise."
• "I have bad knees."

and my favorite:

• "I have to wait until I've lost weight before I start exercising."

So, what does all this Ironman stuff mean to me. Hmmmm.

I When I was in LooAville I was laying awake the night before mulling over the possibility of success, or failure, and what they'd mean to me. I imagined writing two notes to myself.

One would say, Open this if you made it to the finish line.

and the other one would say, Open this if you didn't make it to the finish line.

The first one would say, "Will you finally accept and love yourself as you are?"

The other one would say, "Will you finally accept and love yourself as you are?"

So, what's sinking in? That I'm good enough. Not in a Stuart Smalley sort of way. But in a healthy body sort of way. When I started this part of me was hoping I would wind up being thin and, well, willowy, something I used to dream about being called.

As in, "That's her over there. See her? She's the willowy blonde on the left." (I'm not really blonde, but let's not go there...)

But no more. Barbie may be pretty, but I bet she can't do an Ironman.

So, I'm not tiny. I'm not petite, with a tiny ring in my tiny belly button on my tiny belly. I'm not shivering pre-race in my tiny size S or XS triathlon suits, trying to find a size 48 bike frame. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

So, I'm not twenty. I don't have a twenty-something body.

So, I'm not sub-140 pounds. My weight hasn't changed much in the past two years. I'm a few pounds on either side of 160.

So, I'm stocky. I'm broud-shouldered and wide-hipped and I'm definitely NOT aero. But my body is healthy. My doctor is thrilled with the changes I've made. He doesn't say a word about my weight, despite the fact that I'm officially overweight at 5'6". My resting heartrate has dropped nearly 20 beats.

I no longer say things like, "When I get skinny, I'm gonna...." or, "I'll do that when I get thin again."

I refuse to fit myself into someone else's idea of womanhood when I shop. I will not wish that I was skinnier so I can all the cutest triathlon clothes, or buy clothes that are too small hoping I'll lose enough weight to fit into them.

I'm healthy, dammit. If someone wants my business, they're going to have to cater to me. Kiss my zaftig ass, and don't you dare call it extra large.

I'm am not, as Bridget Jones says, "an American stick insect."

I may never even get to see all the new muscles I've been developing.

But now I know without a doubt that they're there.

So that's where I am right now.

...

Short post.

So, conversation during 4th period today.

• Me: So, okay. Any questions about variables and expressions? Zack, you have your hand up.
• Zack: Mrs. Pilgrim, during an Ironman, what do you do if you have to pee?
• Me: Well, then you pee.
• Zack: But do people hold it?
• Me: Some do; some people pee while on the bike.
• Zack: Ew! Gross! They like, wet their pants and everything? I would never do that! I'd never, like go in my pants!
• Me: Zack, the first man and woman of this race got $10,000. So, the questions is, would you wet your pants for $10,000?
• Zack: No. No way. I'd never do that, not for any money.
• Priscilla: Zack, you're so full of it. You'd do it for less, and you know it.
• Another student: I'd totally go in my pants for $10,000. I just wouldn't, you know, like do all that biking and running and stuff.
• Zack: I'd do it in a cup. You know, in a cup. Then throw the cup away.

So, this is the world that I live in. Welcome back, says the world.

...

Ironman run, part 2

Okay. Well, I'm not going to know how things went until my classes start at 9 am. It appears that the substitutes haven't followed my instructions, so I had time to write this morning.

IN the photo on the right, the cast of characters, which I referred to in my part 1 run post are in this photo, which was taken by Duane.

From left to right are the Ironmen/Ironwomen and their respective Ironmates
(back row:) Ironman Bones, Ironman Miguel, Ironman Me, Ironman Sweet Baboo, Ironmom Mama Baboo and her husband
(front row:) ironmate Lorna, Ironmate Michi, Ironman Wiz, Ironmate Amy and Ironman Ricky V.

So Sunday night, as I was running/walking it occured to me that there was some sort of song, a song, that I heard on an episode of Quantum Leap when Dr. Becket became Elvis. I hummed that to myself as well as muttered nonsensical rhymes and words, none of which I can remember now, except for that song, which is one of the nicer Elvis songs, and I'm not even an Elvis fan.

Well, it was on one moonlight night,
Stars shining bright...

Blue moon of Kentucky keep on shining....

The second trip out was not as fun as the first. It was dark, and quiet, and deserted. The happy chatter of people on their second loop was gone. I'd seen the screaming crowd and then had to walk away from it; we all had. I had ten more miles to go, and it was nearly 10:00 pm. It seemed to take hours and hours to get to the turn around point, and then I knew I had 5 more miles to go, and it was nearly 11:00. This out-and-back seemed longer. Much, much longer.

On the 2nd half of the run an ambulance went flying by me about 4 times, scaring the crap out of me. There were about 36 people pulled off the course for various medical reasons. I saw people whose bodies looked like question marks, they were so hunched over and tired. I felt so, so lucky that my stomach had held up.

As I figured, by the time I reached the 21 mile mark, I was pretty tired. I wanted to take longer walk breaks but my foot only hurt when I walked, and I kept looking at my Garmin, which seemed to mock me in a snotty canned female voice with a British accent, "if you stop running now, you won't make it."

Then a new development, I could not walk in a straight line. I would start to veer off to the right. I could jog in a straight line, however. Between my feet, the time ticking down on the Garmin, and the vertigo, I kept up the running.

I was So. Tired. Not just tired from running all day, but the lack of sleep was kicking in. I felt sleepy. The aid stations were packing it up but they kept out enough of everything to make sure everyong was taken care of. They offered me a veritable smorgasborg of gels, "what flavor do you want?"

Oh GAWD I'm so sick of gels. Who cares what flavor. Just give me one with caffein.

I'd suck down the PowerGel double latte and wash it down with lemon-lime gatorade. Yum.
I had another ice-cold coke around mile 22.

I figured I'd passed 20-30 people on the run, which was somewhat comforting since hundreds had passed me on the bike, but less so this time, because I knew that I was fighting the clock, which meant that every person I passed was a potential DNF.

According to coach Jimmy, I started the run ranked at 1656 and finished it ranked at 1556. 198 people DNF'd. 198. And this is considered low; at Ironman Wisconsin last year they had at least 400 DNF.

Then I was on my way back from the turnaround, and I passed people who were still working their way toward the turn around, and I didn't know what to say. I knew that I would just barely make it in, but these folks were a good 4-5 miles behind me. They were all tired, and all walking slowly. They wouldn't make it. They wouldn't be "official" finishers. One of them was Boo. I passed one guy who appeared to have his parents out on the course walking with him, getting him things.

But who was I to be discouraging? Maybe they'd find some last minute energy. So I just said, "You're lookin' good there!" to everyone I saw, even if their faces were nearly touching the ground, hunched over with fatigue as they pumped their arms, trying to walk faster.

Still about 3 or 4 miles out I saw a middle-of-the-night move out. I remember that. It's what you do when you're being evicted. Since the road was closed, people were carrying out mattresses and other household furniture in the dark, running and putting it in the back of a pickup truck.

Then there was 2 more miles to go.

A Ford Ironman Escape SUV, hazard lights flashing, passed me slowly, going the other way, and I was pretty sure I knew where it was going. They were headed out to pull chips. I felt bad for those people. Less than 10 miles from the finish line, after going over 130 miles all day long, some person they didn't know was going to say, however kindly they might try to be, "I'm sorry, but I need to take your chip."

As I headed down the last couple miles I started speeding up, worried about not finishing in time. I know the websight says I ran a sub-ten minute mile, but I didn't. I don't think the chip mats were 4 miles apart. The street was empty. My quads were screaming for me to stop. I was exhausted and wasn't sure how long I could keep it up, but it was already midnight.

I passed 3 walking guys who cheered me on, even as they headed to the finish line behind me. I could run faster, as long as I knew that it was over soon.

I could hear the yelling from blocks away. I'd heard it on my first trip through but now, 3 hours later, it sounded exactly the same. It was like that sound you make when you're faking a cheering noise--you know, by breathing noisily out your mouth? It was so late, that I figured it must be a recording or something. There couldn't possibly that many people still up past midnight, cheering in the last runners for Ironman Louisville. But they were. There were that many people, and right now, just after midnight, they were screaming like crazy, blowing horns, ringing cowbells.

I rounded the cornder into the bright lights in my face, the screaming crowd. Up ahead, I saw a smiling Baboo. I hadn't read his post about me at this point so I didn't realize how relieved and happy he was that I had finished.

The chute seemed reallllly long. Then I was running on the Ironman carpeting. I heard the booming voice of the announcer, and the cheering. I couldn't really see what was going on around me or understand the announcer, I was looking for a timing mat that I could cross. I saw myself on a large screen, and for some reason, it struck me how large and white my stomach was.

I crossed under the arch at the end of the finish chute and ran out of room to run, so I stopped. And there I was. The last official finisher of the inaugural Ironman Louisville, KY.

They asked me if I needed medical treatment and I said, "I don't know." Quick as a flash I was in a wheelchair and being rolled to the medical treatment place. Someone put a finisher's medal around my neck and Baboo gave me my finisher's towel (?). My muscles immediately started stiffening up. They asked me if I wanted a blanket and I said no, because I was really hot. I could feel that I was sunburned.

One or two men crossed behind me, and then that was it. They closed the finish line down exactly 17 hours after the last swimmer when into the water at 7:37 am. My time was 17:19.

I wanted to sleep but there were all these bright lights. I was in a room like a gym. Baboo gave me some pizza. Pirate called. I called Mini Baboo, and told him I was done. Mama Baboo hovered overhead for a moment - she'd been so relieved when I finished that she nearly cried. She congratulated me and then disappeared. The nurse took off my shoes and, as others have done, marveled at the insanely sexy toe socks. My feet appeared to be okay, no blisters or bruises, although I did find a small blister at the end of one toe on my left foot about a day and a half later.

As the IV drip worked its way through me, I started shivering like crazy, and they covered me with one of those mylar blankets and then a woolen one.

They asked me if I knew my name and where I was. I had to fight the urge to laugh. I was giddy at being done and being vertical and being off my feet. Sure, I knew where I was. I was in triathlon hell, but now I'm in Louisville. My name is Iron Misty.

Eventually, about 1, they sent me on my way with a liter of fluid in me, "as a precaution" even though I didn't have any symptoms of dehydration. I was just really tired. Then were told that we had until 1 to get our stuff.

Uh, okay... So, we walked very gingerly to 5 or 6 blocks to get our bike and bags. Baboo stayed behind a bit to get a pizza, but they had lots leftover and everyone was leaving so they just gave him a whole pizza, and he caught up with me at transition. I noshed on the pizza all night and for breakfast the next day.

We walked our bikes back to the hotel. My legs were so stiff and sore I felt like I had leg braces on. My right foot hurt like crazy, the worst care of hot foot I've ever had.

My right foot and stopped hurting. I think it was a really bad case of hotfoot and then, when I got off the bike, all the nerves were trying to come back online. Baboo has marveled at my marathon time, and I suppose I have, too. My only marathon in January was 6 hours, and at Ironman Louisville, it was 6:20, after 112 miles of Kentucky hills and 2.4 miles of the Ohio river.

For now, I need some time to let all this marinade. I don't think it's quite hit me yet. Sitting here at my desk, waiting for my first class to start, I'm wondering if the substitutes did what I asked them to do.

Later on I'll get a message, and then I have to come back here to open house night. I figure I'll get to sleep around 8 or 8:30, and then I'm hoping for 10 hours of continuous sleep.

I'm overwhelmed at all the comments and emails I've gotten. It made me cry. I'm overwhelmed at the love and support of my friends and especially of Sweet Baboo. But then, he overwhelms me most of all; that's why I married him.

You guys, though, you really gave me something special. I loved reading the comments as people were tracking me through the race. I've done that before for other runners, and each time I ran over a timing mat I imagined that maybe somebody somewhere had new numbers pop up on their computer screen.

I'll write something less rambling and a little more concise when I get my bearings. It's lunch and I've already had one administrator in here checking to see if I have my objectives on the boards, etc. It's back to the real world for now, I'm looking foward to laying down and letting this all sink in without immediately falling asleep.

...

Ironman Run, Part 1.

I composed this last night on the plane in between naps. I've been napping pretty much since I crossed the finished line. I nodded off in public yesterday several times, while waiting for my inlaws at the Louisville Slugger museum, while sitting at the coffee shop, while riding in the car to the airport, while sitting at the airport...

I'm a little embarassed at how long this is, but I wanted to get it all down before I forgot it.

In t2, I walked painfully and stiffly. It had been a long day for the volunteers as well. They asked me my number as I went past them but stood, almost dazed, as I walked over to my bag and headed for the changing tent. I sat down - oh, how glorious, to sit in something that supported my entire butt...I was feeling a bit disoriented but then one of those fabulous changing tent volunteers appeared and asked if I wanted help, and then I started crying. I was so tired. She helped me off with my various clothes, completely drenched in sweat. I had a little cry fest for a few moments and said, "I'm so tired. I'm just so tired. God, my ass hurts." Over, and over again.

I pulled on my shorts as best I could - a note to all, you might include a small towel in all your transition bags, because you might be sweaty after a 112-mile butt whooping.
Five minutes after I arrived in T2, they closed the bike course. My bike time had been 8:55. I now had less than 7 hours to cover 26.2 miles.

I put on my bra top, which immediately rolled up and I had trouble getting it on, and my Garmin heart strap, and my Garmin, and then turned my attention to my feet. Me feet were worrisome - all white from being in wet socks all day; would this finally be the day that I would get blisters? I hoped not. the volunteer unrolled my socks, and marveled at their sexy toe goodness, as most have done, and then I pulled on my socks and shoes and stood up.
And nearly fell over. My right foot hurt SO BAD. It felt like it had been hammered. My quads screamed. And now I was supposed to run a marathon?

Behind me, a woman I had played leapfrog with on the bike appeared. Her name was Boo, short for Barbara, but I never caught the rest of it and wish I had. She chattered and bubbled as though she was just starting this whole thing, and said that she was a slow runner, so I decided I needed her as company. We wound up being walking buddies for about the first 9 miles of the marathon.

We headed out. I was walking stiffly at first but then my legs started loosening up. It was down town and late afternoon so much of the street was in shade, thank goodness. Although it never got as hot as it has been before the race, it felt hot. My plan was to walk the first could miles and then start my 5 minutes on, 5 minutes off routine. However, my right foot hurt so badly I was wondering how I would run at all. I spent the first mile or so sipping ice-cold cola and carrying my bottle of gatorade.

I saw people around me walking slowly, slumped over. Many were holding their stomachs, so I decided to avoid all solid food. I took just about anything liquid I was offered, and drank constantly.

As headed into the 2nd mile, Boo suggested we try a run, and so I did, and found that when I ran, my foot didn't hurt. It only hurt when I walked. I was also surprised to find that I could run, and at a decent pace, too - somewhere between 11:20 and 12:20. However, I was also smart enough to realize that how I felt right now was not necessarily how I was going to feel 20 miles from now, so even though I was temped to do 10 minutes at a shot, I stayed with my plan. According to my Garmin, after the first mile and a half, my average pace was about 14:20.

I looked at my Garmin and figured out that I had to keep the 5 minutes on, 5 minutes off routine in order to finish on time.

At the first aid station they offered pretzles, bananas, gatorade, ice cold sponges, ice water, chicken broth, cola, and I forget what else. Oh, encouragement. They offered lots of that. "You look great! You're gonna do this! You're aweseom! Did I tell you that you look great?"

I saw someone - it may have been Mary - who told me that Baboo was looking for me; he was very worried because I had been gone so long on the bike and was ready to leave the course looking for me. Soon enough I saw a very worried Baboo who was happy and relieved to see me. He was about 6 miles ahead of me on the out-and-back part of the course. Then I saw Bones and Miguel and Iron Pol running in, headed toward the finish line, and each asked me if I knew Baboo was looking for me. I saw Mary Sunshine two more times on the course, and she was looking great and smiling. She made it look easy. Maybe, like me, she was happy to be off the bike!

The run course starts with a quick out-and-back near the transition area and then angles up onto the main running path down 3rd street. By the time you get to 3rd street you're about 2 miles down the path already. Then you do about another mile to the main out-and-back part of the course. The out-and-back is about 5.5 miles each way that you do twice. Then you run into a little loop near the finish line, turn right, and head back out onto the out-and-back.
3rd street was completley shut down for this event.

As the sun sank into the hills I realized that I was wearing my prescription sunglasses and hoped it would be lit enough to make up for that. It was a party atmosphere on the sides of the road, people camped out in lawn chairs. LouAville LOVES their spectator sports! Plus, since it was a southern town, everyone called me, "girl." Emotionally, I started feeling better. I felt less hopeless, and a little more energetic, as the coke-cola worked its sugary caffeinated magic.

I saw Wiz ahead of me and caught up to him. He asked me if I knew Baboo was looking for me. His stomach was going bad, but he was on his second loop. He was walking, staring straight ahead and seemed barely able to even talk. Eventually he went over to the curb to sit down. He was on his second loop. Miguel told me later that Wiz saw me moving ahead and and decided, well by golly, if she was going to try and finish, then he was going to finish.

Around sunset, after the turnaround - maybe around mile 12 or so, Boo fell behind. I wanted to keep walking with her, as she was good company, but I also knew the numbers: how much time and distance I had left and what I had to do to cover it. I never got her real name, so if you know her or are her say Hi, so that I can thank you for keeping me company and encouragine me!

I kept up my 5 minutes on, 5 minutes off routine and during my walks, I drank Gatorade constantly. I had a Power Gel every 2 miles and I don't mine telling you that I don't care if I never see another gel again. Yes, they sustained me. Yeah. I'm pretty sick of them. But I grew surprisingly fond of Gatorade. I drank it like crazy.

Now here's the part that's really f***ed up:

As you come down the first out-and-back you run down the same street that leads to the finish line. It is in front of you. You can hear the announcer's booming voice over the cheers of the screaming crown. Strangers are screaming like crazy and waving cow bells at you, screaming, "you've done it! You're an Ironman!"

You try to explain that, now, you're just on your first loop, and could they tell you, please, how to get back out onto the course? and they wave cowbells and you, screaming like crazy. Eventually I saw a friend, Michi, and leaned over and hollered, "how do i get back out?" and she told me to run to the right.

So I did. I ran to the right. As I turned away from the lights and cheering, I headed down a largely dark and empty street, leaving the screaming crowd and booming announcements behind. It grew fainter as I headed back out on to the course, now dark, quieter, and more deserted, about 2 people every block or so, walking along, some more energetically than others, but all were walking. I wanted to finish. I wanted to walk. But I knew that if I didn't run half the time, I never would.

When I'd came into T2, I'd mulled over the idea of just handing in my chip. None of my fantasies, equipment failure, not making the bike cutoff, had come to fruition, so I was thinking of just bagging it. I finally decided to keep going, and by mile 15, I was damned if I was going to not finish now.

...(To be continued, probably after work today. Sorry! 9th-grade Algebra 1 awaits...)

Part 2 of the run, and the finish line.

Spanked by Kentucky

First I want to say how blown away I was by the virtual cheering that went on while I was slogging way across the Kentucky Hills. I'm overwhelmed by it all. Thank you so much!

Second, I've never seen such enthusiastic volunteers in any race. They treat you like royalty. The race is also well-organized and well-run.

Here now, what I can remember about the swim and the bike.

2.4 Mile Swim
This was a great way to start off my experience. Due to the increased flow of the river they had moved the swim start to a more protected inlet next to "toehead island" and the type of start to a first-come, first served seeded start. There is a map of the swim here, which will open in a new window.

The race director had said at the pre-race briefing that the course and cutoffs would be adjusted to when the last swimmer went into the water, so if you're a slower triathlete you'd be better served by being one of the first in the water. That was all the encouragement I needed; I was the eighth one in!

At the beginning of the swim, after the pros went off, the official Kentucky Derby bugler played their "first call" signature song (http://www.fmaalumni.org/qt/_firstcall.wav) marking the beginning of a sporting event and then they seeded us off rapid-fire by running us over the timing mat and off the end of the dock in rapid-fire, "Go! Go! Go!" much like I would expect skhydivers to be fed out of a plane.

I hit the water running and started swimming against a little bit of current up the island, out past the islend into the river current, and then eventually up and around the two buoys at the end, and then down river. I had a pretty good swim, about 1:31. I was pretty motivated to bank as much time as possible for what I knew was going to be a long day on the bike.

I came up out of the water, and there were people there to haul you up. They had been trained to help you with your wetsuit, so since it wasn't wetsuit legal they just unzipped the back of my fast-skin. I was on surprisingly steady legs right away and ran up the chute and down the other side to where my swim-to-bike transition bag was hanging on a numbered peg (we wen't allowed to have items at our bike) and ran into the woman's changing tent.

I had placed my bike shoes on the aerobars of my bike because there was so little room in the bag they gave me with the hydration pack already in there, and the ground, which meant I was going to be putting them on over wet feet. I was hoping they'd dry off in my shoes, forgetting that nothing ever seems to dry when you're this close to a larg body of water. Things just kind of stay damp all the time.

When I entered the changing tent, one person assigned herself to me and helped me on and off with things, putting my swim stuff back into the back I had just vacated and asking how she could help me more. It was the closest I've come to being treated like a pro. I was still damp and so getting dressed in spandex biking clothes was hard. I grappled with my hydration pack and put that on as well, and when finally dressed and ready ran out into the bike racks, where I was surprised to see a lot of bikes still left. I grabbed my bike shoes and put them, my helmet, and ran my bike up the long exit shoot and out onto the road.

112 mile Bike
This is what nearly broke me. Here is a map of the bike, which will open in a new window. We traveled out 42 via River Road, and then there was a short out-and-back returning to 42 before you entered the "LaGrange Loop" which you did twice, before returning to 42 and heading back into LouAville.

The bike was every bit as hilly as the bike profile imagines, and it feels like you're in the Sierras. Long screaming downhills are great but eventually I stopped enjoying them because I knew, I always knew, there'd be a long steep uphill on the other side. Toward the end, when I would crest a hill, I was in tears because my quads hurt so bad, and I had run out of ways to sit comfortably on the saddle.

There was just no end to the hills. I have it on good authority from someone who asked to be nameless that actually, the new bike course at Couer d'Arlen was much easier than this; this was actually what one might expect from Kona. The sun defied the weather prediction and was present most of the day, blasting down on us so that when pedaling uphill in my small chain ring my face was blazing hot.

I also sweated like crazy. I abandoned may nutrition plan and instead just drank solid gatorade all day, making sure to take calories every hour form my Carbo-pro and occasionally drinking plain water with that. Each aid station had a bottle dump as you came in; you would toss your old bottles and then grab a bottle from a waiting voluteer. When you grabbed the Gatorade endurance formula, they had already taken off the seals and opened it for you, and then you stuck it in your bottle cage.

The water was always cold. They also offered bananas and all manner of foods but I was largely focused on the gatorade because it was so hot. I munched on some pringles and fig newtons from time to time, but I estimate that in addition to the 64 ounces of accelerade in my back that I drank 6-8 bottles of gatorade and 2-3 bottles of plain water. I would also occasionally pour some of the plain cold water over my head and back.

It was a long and difficult day. Between mile 40 and 80 my bike computer stopped working, so I had no idea how fast I was going or my average speed. My resolve, and my energy level, were dropping dramatically. Emotionally, I was in bad spirits and much less invested in finishing what had now, in my mind, become "this stupid race." I had been passed by nearly every person in the race, including going up hills, and at this point, I. Hated. Everyone.

At mile 60 I finally pulled over, went to the bathroom, and got my "special needs bag" and had a coke, which lit a fire under my ass for the next 25 miles or so, but the hills got to me, sure they did.

Eventually, as the day went on, I trying not to cry and was really wishing for mechanical failure, so that I could leave the course with dignity. There was just no end to the hills. There were few flats or places where you could just lay in your aero bars and fewer chances to get up out of the saddle and stretch. Eventually I just started screaming my favorite curse words at the next hills, but as my energy flagged I just muttered, MOTHERF$%&R whenever I saw the next hill.

As I passed through the LaGrange loop, I had to smile - people were out and screaming like crazy. They rang cowbells and honked horns. More than one an SUV pulled up next to me out in the country and someone honked and rang a cowbell, which I'm sure was meant well but scared the hell out of me at the time! People were in the front yards, in front of churches, in front of elementary schools with signs and pleanty of cheer, and it only slightly abated as late as 3 in the afternon. There was some serious cheer love in LaGrange Kentucky yesterday!

Men argued with wives as they were going into church, according to Baboo, who heard at least one argument about how "we can go to chuch any time; there's this sporting even going on, and we need to cheer for the people in it!"

In the last 25 miles I was hauling ass to make it to transition before the bike cutoff, plus I was angry. Angry at my weak legs and those damned, unending hills. In the middle part of the course, my desire to leave the course with mechanical failure was thwarted by ever-present and helpful bike mechanics who seemed to almost pop out of the bushes.

I wished ferverently for my crank to fall off. They checked it and found it tight. I said that my tires felt soft. They said they were fine. They fixed my bike computer and I realized how much the hills were taking out of my time. I started pedaling like crazy, ignoring the growing pain in my right foot, my ass, my hoo-hoo, and the clear signs that I was pretty-badly sunburned on my back. I passed one woman who had simply pulled over and was standing there, motionless, with her head in her hands, fifteen miles from the finish.

At the same time, beginning about mile 70, I was wishing someone would come and pull my chip. Oh, how I wanted that to happen! In my fantasy, I would be all dramatic and sink to my knees, being all like, "no! No! I wanted to finish!" while secretly being relieved and wandering down to the finish line to drink cool drinks and wait for Baboo to come in. In another fantasy, I simply walked into transition and handed them my chip and said, "Fuck Kentucky. Fuck Ironman."

But that never happened. I hauled ass in, averaging 16-17 mph on the last 20 miles, and they nodded at me all the way to the end, and shut down the bike course about 5 minutes after I arrived. As I ran through the "bike in" entrance a volunteer asked me, "can I take your bike?"

Fuck yeah, buddy. You can take my bike. Take it away. I don't ever want to see it again, or its evil seat. My right foot hurt like hell; for the past 30 miles my middle toe felt like someone was hitting it with a hammer; I don't know what that was all about. My feet were white on the bottom from having been in wet socks all day. My ass felt like I'd been spanked continuously for 9 hours. Which, of course, I had. I'd been spanked by Kentucky and it's "rolling hills."

Note to the viewer: do not put "sore butt" or "spanking" into the Google image search. Just. Don't.

later: The run, part 1 and the run, part 2 (and finish)

Race Day Haikus 発句

Remember when you were little and your mom used to yell (or maybe it was your dad, or grandparent, or whomever) SHUT THE DOOR; DO YOU THINK I WANT TO AIR-CONDITION THE WHOLE NEIGHBORHOOD?!?!

Well, apprently someone with childhood issues from that sort of exchange is working them out, because, indeed, they are air conditioning the whole neighborhood here in LouAville.

We went down and visited the area where the finish line will be set up, and found that it has "out door air-conditioning". I'm torn; I don't know whether to be horrified by the global warming ramifications of this or somewhat thrilled that my finish line will be air conditioned. It will be nice for the people waiting, which means I might get a lot of screaming when I come down the chute (knock on, em, where is some, okay, WOOD) from the folks who are there, cool, and have been partying all night. What the hell; I'll get it however I can take it.

We've requested a 2:45 am wake up call.

My transition bags are hanging on pegs in a sea of 2000 other transition bags.

My bike is racked in a sea of 2000 other bikes.

I'll leave you, for now, with my last pre-race haikus:

In a sea of bikes

mine waits for me to find it

and ride to last place



~~~~~~~~~~


It's all over but


the sweating, swearing and the


shouting of my name.

...











....