It's official. I made it. Finished. Survived. Endured. Slogged. Persevered. The tents and stanchions are down, the bleachers gone, ice melted and streets swept. Ironman Coeur d'Alene is in the books, and I did it. It's been a few days, and the experience is starting to congeal in my mind as I look back.
Official race description? Brutal. As I mentioned in a previous post, we all knew it would be rough, with a forecast of over 105 degrees, but Sunday was downright punishing.
First, Ironman is different in not just the race distance. Most other races, you have to bring everything in to transition on race morning and stake your own postage stamp size space for all of your gear...ALL of your gear. However, I dropped Gary off in transition Saturday night, and he slept comfortably next to all the other bikes. My swim-to-bike (T1) and bike-to-run (T2) gear bags were also left overnight (minus the snacks...I didn't need the squirrels getting to them). All I had to bring in on Sunday morning at 4:00 were my snacks and frozen water bottles. Such a deal!
At the race start, I stood on the beach in my self-seeded 1:00 to 1:15 finishers group, looked up at the sky and, with tears of joy, I prayed. It was such a glorious morning, and I was so grateful to have gotten this far. I prayed for everyone involved with this day, because I knew it would be difficult -- more difficult than a "normal" Ironman race (probably best not to think about that statement). As the cannon went off, I found myself in a river of people flowing into the lake. Spotting my own open patch of water, I dove in and began my two lap, 1.2 mile loop. The water is crystal clear, and most of the way I can see straight to the bottom. I went wide on the loop to avoid the spin cycle created by the swimmers nearest the buoys, keeping an easy pace and thinking only about how much I enjoyed the swim leg of triathlon. I knew that once I was out of the water, the day would get decidedly worse, but I wouldn't allow myself to think about it.
In transition, I motored up the hill, and just took my time. My coach said he'd rather see a long T1 just to make sure I had everything for the bike rather than rush out having forgotten something. I got dressed, sunscreened up, and eased Gary out for a lovely morning ride. The bike course followed two out-and-back sections, and then repeated those sections, riding past Transition multiple times. On the first chunk, the route goes through town and along the lakeshore. The views were breathtaking and the temps so far quite manageable. Then back again through town, where I heard Dave shouting after me, "GO HEATHER!! WAY TO GO, BABY!!" He wondered if I had heard him, and I had to reply, "are you serious?" It made me smile all the way out of town.
So, next out to highway 95, where the hills came into play. The first, Mica Hill, was on the tough side, but a decent workout. As the air temps were still pleasant, we descended the back side of Mica like some kind of orbital re-entry. Then, just as I'm enjoying the downhill, it's back UP and out past the turn around point at Setters Road. This second out-and-back was around 21 miles each way. On the way back, it started warming up. I was mostly just taking it easy and making mental notes because I knew I would see it all again in a couple of hours. One thing I noticed on the first lap was that there was no water station at the top of Mica hill. In fact, the next water station was at the top of the NEXT hill. This...well, you'll see.
Okay, so I'm coming back into town to start my next lap, when due to errors on the part of the three people involved (yours truly, included), I knocked a fellow athlete off his bike. I stayed upright, luckily, but I almost took out a volunteer who overestimated her water handoff abilities. The other rider was pretty shook up, having come completely off his bike, but in the end was fine. I stopped to make sure he was okay. When I saw him get up and ultimately pass me, I was relieved. I would hate for that incident to knock him out of the event. I shook it off and started lap 2. The next loop out on the lakeshore road was still pretty, but heating up. Coming back through town, there was Dave again -- btw, I never saw him, but I couldn't mistake the voice -- yelling, "GO HEATHER!!!" The spectators I was passing heard him cheering and started cheering the same thing! It was so awesome!!
Out on 95 again, and it became a suffer-fest. The temperatures were well over 90, and I'm guessing they were climbing over 100 as I began my second ascent up Mica hill. This is when I noticed something was going wrong, and deteriorating fast. Although I had kept up my nutrition/electrolyte/hydration plan, the fluid in all my bottles was the temperature of my morning coffee. I started getting side stitches, feeling dizzy, wobbly and nauseous. Before the race I versed myself in the warning signs of heat illnesses, and recognized very quickly I was exhibiting the first symptoms of heat exhaustion. I was able to pull off the course, safely stop and get off my bike. The cramps were so bad, I couldn't stand up straight. When I tried, I would get lightheaded. I was joined for a few minutes by another woman who was obviously struggling, and if I asked her if she needed anything, she told me she had...get this...the flu. Ummm...wah? Well, she got back on her bike and kept going. Whatever.
So I told myself, I had lots of time to finish the race, because I had been making decent time up until this point. A motorcycle volunteer pulled over and asked how I was. When I explained my symptoms, he encouraged me to sit in the shade and offered to call medical. Although I wasn't ready to quit, I figured it couldn't hurt to have them give me the once over. Steve, as it turns out was awesome. Helping me laugh, encouraging me to have a snack, offering me a nice volunteer shirt to sit on and get my head back into the game. SAG showed up and asked if I was done. No, I wasn't. I just needed some COLD water, instead of what was now close to the boiling point on my ride. Jennifer and her daughter Melissa gave me two small water bottles to dump on my neck, back and arms, and suddenly, I was right as rain. At that point, I made two decisions. I needed to focus on keeping my core body temperature down, and just ride to the next aid station to freshen up all of my bottles. I was not done. Before I left my shady spot halfway up Mica, I was replaced by another athlete, who decided he needed the break, too. Remember this guy, because it gets scary.
Here's the problem. The next aid station was still a 15 minute ride away. The temperature was steadily climbing and I felt at times as if I were riding through a sauna. About a mile out from the aid station, the guy who stopped at my last rest stop had passed me again. Then when he had gotten about 500 feet in front of me, he stopped, got off his bike, and LAID DOWN IN THE ROAD. I mean, there was automobile traffic 6 inches from where he laid down. People who are lucid, don't do this. As I passed him, he sat up again, and asked how far the aid station was. I told him and made a mental note to inform the next race official/medic/SAG to go get him.
When I finally arrived at the aid station, they were completely out of water and ice. All they had was gatorade. Let that sink in, folks. It's well over 100 degrees, and they were completely out of water and ice. The guy? He got to the aid station and completely collapsed. Passed out, literally. The Fire Department was there as was the ambulance, so help was immediate. When I took a mental step back, here's what I saw: seasoned veteran triathletes who were nearing a state of shock and mentally broken, some volunteers doing the best they could to take care of the riders that came through, and other volunteers just as broken as the athletes. One was almost in a state of panic. Her fearful attitude was infectious -- toxic to the already charged atmosphere of the situation. The Fire Department had taken an ambient heat measurement on the pavement of 147 degrees. Other athletes have described the scene as carnage. I can't disagree.
So, for the second time in an hour, I took a deep breath. I plunged my arms, my headband and my neck into whatever melted ice was sloshing around in the wading pool filled with warm gatorade bottles, dirt, sweat and road grime. I didn't care. My first thought was, "this is actually getting dangerous. Is it time to stop?" That thought died before it was fully formed. I let go of the finish line for the moment, and thought, "No. Just get to the next aid station, then see how you feel." I got on my bike and took off, moving as fast as I safely could for the 10 miles to the last aid station at the turn around. They had water, but they were running out fast because of the conditions at the previous station. I knew if I had enough water to keep my arms and neck wet, and gatorade to keep me going, I could then make it to the NEXT aid station before going back up Mica.
If you were following my times, THAT is why I had a split time of well over 2 hours on that stretch. I was fine, played it smart, and kept moving. I made it point to keep "smelling the roses" because regardless of the temperature, the view was still spectacular. On the way back in, I met "snot-rocket" Erin. I admired her phlegm shooting prowess. Seriously. It was a sight to behold. Then the guy who embraced the suck but kept everyone positive. As I leap-frogged him repeatedly, he always had a smile and encouragement. The last I saw him, he had pulled over to help another struggling rider. Then at the last aid station before the last ascent was Shawn who had let go of any time goals, was smiling, laughing and doing his best to put a good face on an awful situation. And it was his first Ironman, too. We high-fived and sent each other off... Less than 10 miles to go. At one point on this last stretch of road, I thought, "I'm actually looking forward to going for a run!" It was as if I just needed to go for a rejuvenating, meditative fun session, just me and my shoes and the road. It was almost surreal, and it brought a smile to my face when I thought, "I get to go running!"
I made it back into transition, where I promised myself to take my time, cool off, and change before I started the marathon. When I had everything I needed, I sunscreened up again, and headed out for 26.2. The hard and scary part was basically over. Alexander and I had crossed paths on the bike, and we exited transition together. He was a machine though. Friendly, but it didn't look like he'd broken a sweat all day. Fresh as a daisy, and I resented that a little. It's a good thing he was nice, otherwise I might have tripped him.
And I'm off on my run. It's another two lap out-and-back course, but this time it's all along the lakeshore and through the neighborhoods. At least once on every block, a resident either had their sprinklers on for us to run through, or they were actively standing out there with garden hoses, spraying us down to keep us cool. Given that it was still well above 90 by the time I hit the run course, this was desperately needed. I ran as much as I could, feeling fresh after the bike, but walking as much as I ran.
At each aid station, I filled my arm cooler sleeves with ice and water. I was soaked for most of the first lap, which powered me for the first half marathon. Run aid station 5 had an alien theme. It was like walking into a party in Roswell. The high energy and fun made you forget for a little bit that the next section was straight uphill. As I walked/ran, I kept a really good pace -- under 13:00 minute miles overall until I ran into Mark at the last aid station before town. He walked with me as I decompressed about the horror show on the bike ride. Then, a block away, I saw a familiar figure walking across the street. Dave had been waiting for me to come back through, and I ran a sub-6:00 interval to him and threw my arms around him. The three of us chatted for a block before I left them to finish the first lap.
I turned around, ran back past the guys, and started out on my second loop. It was getting cooler, my legs still felt fresh, and my only thought was, I'll finish if I take one mile at a time. I took in the beauty of the course and started thinking about the journey to get here. Running now more than I ran, I knew I would make it. My thoughts shifted to managing the fading light, as I needed to dry out from the sprinklers before I got cold. It was still hovering around 80, but getting dark. Each aid station buoyed my spirits, and I'm smiling and laughing with my fellow athletes and the volunteers.
The last two miles were back through the neighborhoods in the twilight. Many of the spectators had turned off their sprinklers and some were packing up to go inside. It was quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Just me and my feet, which were aching, but the joy I felt at that moment almost surpassed what I would feel only a few minutes from now. A teenager was sitting with his skateboard in front of his house, told me I got this. I smiled at him, thanked him and said, "you are a lucky guy to live here." He smiled back, and said, "Right?"
The crowd was getting louder, Mike Reilly getting closer. As I made the final turn onto Sherman street, I had six blocks all downhill to the bright lights and red and black carpet. Running straight down the middle of the street, I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear. I couldn't go any faster if I tried, but I didn't feel any pain. Only joy bursting from every pore. Sherman was lined with spectators, and I swerved to high-five a whole block full. As I hit the mat, I'm shreiking at the top of my lungs, bounding across the finish line overwhelmed and almost in disbelief at what I had just done. I am an Ironman.
This was a smart race. Not fast, but I knew it just couldn't be. I was smart, and I recognized the angels that lifted me up to keep going. I had to revise how I looked at this race. It became about survival rather than conquest. Of the 2,012 athletes who signed up for the race, 1,700 checked in. 100 or so of those Did Not Start. Of the remaining athletes who toed the start line, about 370 Did Not Finish. Twice I thought I would DNF. My heart breaks for those who didn't get to cross the finish line. I got to know several people, and most of them DNF. At the risk of sounding callous, and downplaying a far more serious condition, I can only compare it to survivor's guilt. Other athletes were far more prepared than I, in far better shape. How could little ol' me get through this race? I don't need anyone to answer this question, I just find it interesting how each of us handled the day.
In all the Monday morning quarterbacking, the bike station snafu got the most criticism, although I have to say I am not surprised that aid stations were running out of supplies. I felt that instead of ordering MORE ice and water pre-race (which obviously didn't do anything if you can't get it to the people that need it), there needed to be at least one more aid station in each direction on the bike. Otherwise, this race was perfectly run given the conditions. I'm disappointed that the weather did not cooperate with my plan, as I believe I could have finished 90 minutes faster given ideal conditions. That, however, is not the point of Ironman. You accept the conditions given to you or you go home.
I enjoyed my time out there. I loved the training process, but the cost is so very high that doing another one seems impractical. Like I said in an earlier post. I would love to experience this again, but I would have to think long and hard about what I would have to give up to do so. Is there another 140.6 in my future? I honestly don't know, and frankly that is not a decision I would make for a while. Would I go back to Coeur d'Alene? In a heartbeat, yes I would. For now, I will relish what I was able to accomplish, and bask in the gratitude for the unfailing support of everyone -- all of you -- who got me here.
I got my medal, and I'm thinking of painting flames and a pool of lava on it. I'm happy with my experience, and will always cherish my time on this journey to becoming an Ironman. The highs and lows of training tempered me and made me stronger. I can honestly say that this is the hardest thing I have ever done. The race itself wasn't, but the road to get here was. I now know I can go at least this far. Some athletes feel the need to do at least one more, because the first one may have just been a fluke. I think I understand that, but I have a hard time agreeing with it. One hundred forty and six-tenths of a mile under your own power, even once, does not just happen. I'll never say never about Ironman 2, but I'm not rushing out to sign up for my next Ironman branded event.
I am an Ironman.
