Next stop Kona
or
How I did, and then did not, break 10 hours at IMNZ

When it comes to sports, Aussies and Canadians are different. Whereas Canadians will ask you how your race went, they are unlikely to be so bold as to ask you much in the way of specifics about your time, rank, etc. And, reciprocally, Canadians will tend to provide only the vaguest generalities of “how they did”, typically emphasizing things such as the moving experience, the learning process and the amazingly supportive spectators.

To an Aussie, this smells like a dead kangaroo on the road to Mooloolaba. When an Aussie asks “How’d ya go?” he/she wants to know, and expects to hear directly, what your time was, your rank, and, well, did you get a Kona slot, mate?

Since this race report is going out to both Aussies and Canadians and Canadians in Aus, I’ll summarize for those who have day jobs and don’t want the long (“rich” I think of it) version: I had a great experience in my Ironman debut, learned a ton along the way, and was cheered enthusiastically by a great Taupo crowd all the way to the finish line. And, yes, I got a Kona slot and even made it to the podium. As for my finishing time, well dear reader, that is a matter of some controversy and to hear why, you’ll just have to read the whole story.

The Swim
Up until I arrived in Taupo 3 days before the race, I had been fearing the swim. For those of you who know me through triathlon, this may strike you as strange. I’m much more fish than gazelle. But fear was the dominant emotion. What I was fearing, in particular, was cold water, which, in past triathlons, had conspired to cause some bad cramping of the stop-you-in-your-tracks hamstring / quad variety. Plus, I had pretty much ignored the swim in my build to IMNZ, opting for a lot of “junk miles” late in the day, usually after drilling myself in one or both of the other two disciplines in the early hours of the morning. As a result, I did not have good speed in the water right up until departure for NZ. But I felt like I had a pretty good base.

The NZ army kindly started off the 1160 IMNZ competitors by waking the entire North Island with a dawn howitzer blast. Despite my swim fears, I had cheekily positioned myself on the front line hoping to catch some fast feet and get a tow around the course. And that, in the end, is exactly what happened. I was concerned about going too hard at the start and, indeed, it did feel hard for the first 500 meters or so. However, I was caught up in a pack fighting for some feet and I wasn’t about to roll over and do double armed backstroke. This was a race and I was here to race, not just to finish. After 500 meters, things calmed down a bit and the swim then seemed to alternate between periods of complete comfort (am I even working here?) and complete panic as I lost, temporarily it turned out, the feet in front of me.

At this point, I must apologize to the guy whose feet I rode for at least half the swim. I just couldn’t seem to stop touching his feet. As a matter of principle, I really do try NOT to pound the feet in front of me, but I just couldn’t seem to lay off this guy’s. At some point I realized this was creating a bit of a problem when my ride started to try to kick me, preferably in the face, and then, exasperated, finally stopped, sat up and yelled at me. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Those were my thoughts as I sprinted onto the next set of feet, leaving him behind.

In truth, the swim was beautiful, surely one of the best in the Ironman world. Lake Taupo is crystal clear and the water was an unusually warm 21 degrees. As I cruised into the swim finish, I worked on shaking my legs out and getting them ready for the all important “move to vertical” – the point of maximum cramping potential. Would I lock the hamstring, as at Madiera, knowing that with a marathon to run later in the day this could spell disaster?

No, I would not. I eased myself gingerly out of the water and began a very easy shuffle through the swim chute and on up the 400 meter circuit to T1. I glanced up at the race clock: 53:00. A good 3 minutes faster than expected. I was stoked. I was even more stoked to be cramp free. I passed Ann, the kids and my mom (who had come all the way over to see NZ, only to be dragged to an Ironman race) who gave me a big cheer and an “awesome swim” yell.

Swim: 53:00; 4th/150 age group; 61st/1160 overall.

The Bike
Out of T1 – no problems and lots of help from the excellent race crew – and onto the bike. This would be interesting. Three weeks prior to the race, I felt I was in the best bike shape of my life. I had just finished a 700km bike week, including 3 rides of over 180km, a hard crit with roadies in Cat 1, and a 90km race sim averaging 37 km/h. My recovery was great that week and I backed up the effort with runs off most of the rides. I felt ready.

Then I began the taper. As my tri friends know, I REALLY hate tapering for the bike. I’m convinced I begin to lose fitness after about, oh, 10 minutes off the bike. My best bike splits ever in short course triathlon occurred with an anti-taper: long hard rides the day before the race. But, hey, this is Ironman and taper is what you do.

The plan my coach Rich Pady and I developed was for me to ride in HR Zone 2, with pushes into low Zone 3 on the hills and on the headwind stretches. Out of T1, I cruised along the flats of Lake Terrace Blvd, feeling fine, low RPE, etc…..until I looked at my HR: 181 bpm. That is approximately LT for me, a good 20 bpm above where I wanted to be and a completely unsustainable level. What to do? Keep moving forward, mate, it’s a race. Up the 6km climb out of town, HR still way elevated, trying to keep it steady and just spin. At that point, I was passed by a fellow 40-44 year old. Scott Budd said the name on his race number. Damn, not the vision I had been working on in training.

In addition to my elevated HR, the outward stretch to Reporoa was notable for one other thing: I was freezing my ass off. Or more precisely, I was freezing my hands off, which were like claws, completely numb. The weather forecast was promising warm temperatures, but I had evidently made a bad decision in leaving my gloves and arm warmers out of my T1 bag. How I wished I had them now.

At the turn 45km turn, my split time was 1:15. Fast, but I had now been passed by 2 40-44ers and there was a HUGE train right behind me. Still, I kept to plan: hold back, get your HR down, build into a strong 2nd half bike leg. After the turn, back into a building headwind, I experienced the worst part of the entire race. Riders starting going by me, a lot of them. My HR was still well into the 160s, still too high. A race marshall drove past and told me to ease off as a passing rider went by. I did. That allowed another rider to catch up and pass by. I eased up again so as not to draft. Another rider went by. Lather rinse repeat.

What to do? The safe (smart?) move was to ease right off and save myself for the 2nd half. But that was a big train behind me and I was being spat out the back of it. So, are you racing, mate, or just trying to finish? Remember that 200km ride up Mt. Tamborine? Remember the hurt you’ve been putting on the roadies over the last month. You’re a biker. Get your ass in gear. Click, bigger gear. I pulled out and rode past the entire group. I decided not to look at my HR monitor any more on the bike.

Down the hill into town, past my cheering family. Ann’s role, in addition to checking me out of the medical tent if necessary, was to try to give me my age group placing each time I went by. I wanted to know where my Kona competition was so I could make some real time decisions if need be. “Fourth” I heard her holler. OK, six Kona slots in the 40-44 AG. I’m in the game.

At special needs, I stopped to load up my fuel for the 2nd half of the bike leg. Lots of riders went by (were any in my age group? I couldn’t tell) but I wanted to make sure I had my secret weapon: real food. In training, I had done a lot of experimenting with the usual suspects: bars, gels, sports drinks. I hate them all, without exception. Instead, I opted for an iconoclastic mix of honey sandwiches, chocolate milk and, the most amazing high-tech race fuel of them all: gummi worms. “Snakes” my kids call them. An IV drip is how I think of them. Consume steadily over the duration, a couple at a time. Question: What is the difference between 400 calories of snakes and 400 calories of gels? Answer: 10 bucks.

On the outward (3rd) leg of the bike, my decision to hold back early seemed to begin paying off. Now I was the passer, not the passee. The early heros were fading, just as Rich predicted. One 40-44 early speedster down. Now I’m 3rd. I hope. At the 135km turn, I saw Scott Budd just 100 meters ahead. I went by him like I meant it. 2nd now? The last leg was a definite struggle. The wind was well up now and right in our face. And the rough roads were taking their toll on my back and on my mind, especially as my speed fell ever lower chugging up the climb before the descent into T2. The only consolation was that I knew I was relatively fast….in the end, only one person passed me on the 2nd 90km loop. That’s what Rich had told me would feel good. It did, but as I rode into T2, I was a bit dispirited. I rode by my cheering family, but this time no AG placing from Ann. I’m 2nd, right? Hmmm, maybe not. Maybe she doesn’t want to depress me by giving me my true placing thus causing me to give up, or worse, make some desperate bad pacing decision in the early part of the run. Sir Doubt was creeping into the picture, especially as I checked my bike split and saw that I would be significantly slower than my predicted (hoped for?) time of about 5:10. Friggin’ taper.

Bike: 5:19:05; 8th/150 age group; 81st/1160 overall.

The Run
The weird thing is that I had been looking forward to the run all week. It’s weird because I’m not much of a runner. I had had a great run build leading up to IMNZ, focused almost completely around race specific pace and technique. I ran almost exclusively off the bike in training. Even my long runs, which peaked at 32km, were done for the most part after 60-90 minutes of JRA (just ridin’ around). And I was seriously lean. My AeT pace had gone from about 5:00 / km to about 4:40 and my tempo (low Z3) pace had gone to about 4:15. Would I get to show that off and reel off a negative split on the run? Or would I be stuck in the mode I refer to as “The Economizer” – an old man, 100rpm shuffle that I use to minimize leg impact and lower my HR on long runs. After an uneventful T2, I was ready to find out.

My legs felt a bit tight heading out of T2 but overall I felt great. I had fueled up on the bike, had no stomach / GI issues, and I was pretty sure I had drunk enough water on the bike. And I had a fresh load of Snakes. Love those Snakes.

As planned, I hit the Economizer button to start and just focused on high cadence and breathing down my HR. The goal – the most important goal I had set for the race – was NOT TO WALK. No walking. JKR: Just Keep Running. My early pace was good, ranging between 4:35 and 4:45 per kilometer. I passed by my family who cheered enthusiastically. Still no AG data from Ann, though. Hmmm.

About 5km into the run I felt a slight twinge in my hamstring. A couple of kms later, there it was again. At that point I knew with lightning bolt certainty what I had suspected (but hoped against) all along: there is only one run mode in an Ironman. Negative split? Hah, ignorant newbie! It’s the Economizer for you, Bud, all day long – and into the night if you’re still out there! Gradually my pace slowed and my HR fell below AeT as muscular fatigue set in. I got on the Pepsi and never left it. Pepsi and water. Pepsi and water. And a steady drip of Snakes.

My pace slowed even further on the hills back into town. But no cramps. At the top of the longest hill an Ambulance with flashing lights was tending to an athlete lying on the side of the road. Damn. It was getting warm and the race was taking its toll. The Swedes were walking. Other pros too. I looked down at the guy on the stretcher and caught a quick glimpse of his name and race number: Scott Budd, my 40-44 year old dance partner on the bike. Speedy recovery mate, sorry it had to end this way for you. Near the half way point I again shuffled past my family trying to smile. 5 year old Owen held up a sign that he had scrawled himself. It said: “I know how to make you go faster: Eat Lollies”. Lollies, the Aussie word for candy. Snakes. I took his advice.

Somewhere around 30km I began to do some calculations, which led me to a rather troubling conclusion: If I didn’t hurry my ass up the road, I wouldn’t break 10 hours – one of two outcome goals I had set, along with securing a Kona slot the “pure” way, i.e., no rolldown. I began to run through the water stops. JKR. Inside the last five km, I recalculated: yup, I was going to be really close to 10 hours.

With a kilometer to go, the third placed Pro woman went by. The cheers continued to grow as the finish area came into sight. Spectators caught my name as I went by: “Go Tony”. And then God decided to play a cruel joke. I entered the finishing chute – maybe 50 meters to go – and I looked up to see the race clock: 9:59:45. The race announcer called out my name, told them I was from Canada, and then urged the crowd to spur me on, to somehow motivate this poor bugger to get to the line “sub 10 hours” -- a universal benchmark in the amateur Ironman world. The crowd responded with a big roar. I was sprinting now, tears welling up in my eyes. 9:59:53. Tick. Tick. My first Ironman had come down to this, a sprint to the finish. Not to beat another athlete. I wouldn’t – couldn’t – have sprinted for that. No, to beat an abstract, arbitrary, social construction called “sub 10 hours”. I gave it everything. I looked up: 9:59:58. I raised my arms. Then, the tape. Had I made it?

Run: 3:39:49; 12th/150 age group; 117th/1160 overall.

The Denouement
The results wouldn’t be posted until Sunday morning. Somehow in the confusion and hubbub of the race, I never saw my family at the finish. They had missed me going by on the penultimate run leg and had concluded I had dropped out of the race. Ann was in the medical tent looking for me as I went across. So I walked home, 4km along the shore, finisher’s medal dangling from neck, smile on my face. I received lots of offers to “join us for a beer”, lots of congratulations. I was feeling great. In fact, a little too great. Did I give it enough? I’ve felt worse after _ Ironmans. That question, like the questions surrounding my disappointing bike split, could wait. All I really wanted to know now was: Did I break 10 hours? And did I get a Kona slot?

Sunday morning the results still weren’t posted so I stood in line to collect my race photo. And then there it was, in color: the finish line shot with the clock overhead. Hands raised, I’ve hit the tape in the photo. The clock says: 9:59:59.

Twenty minutes later the results were posted. Third place in the 40-44 AG. I’m on the podium. Kona slot. 70th overall. Yeah. Run my finger across the page to the finishing time: 10:00:01.

That night at the awards presentation, I’m called up to receive the 3rd place trophy for the 40-44 AG. The MC – the race announcer it turns out – reminds the crowd that this is the guy who we cheered on to the finish line right at the ten hour mark. “His time”, the announcer says, pausing for effect, “is 10 hours and one second”. His voice sticks on the “and one second” like a tennis shoe sticks to a piece of bubble gum. The crowd groans. Greg Welch hands me the trophy, shakes my hand, and says, “wow, so close”.

Gotta like that about Ironman. It keeps hitting you upside the head, even after you stop.