Pre-Race
We broke the drive up from the Bay Area to Coeur d'Alene into a two day trip, with an overnight stay in Salem, Oregon. The kids were absolutely wonderful during both days, though we were all sick of the car by the time we reached our destination. We'd rented a three-bedroom house about a half mile from Ironman Village, since my parents, my brother and his wife, and my sister were all coming out to lend their support to my first attempt at the distance.
Over the next few days, I worked in some easy swim, bike, and run sessions, their main objectives being to sharpen up the rested muscles and familiarize myself with the course. I was frankly surprised by the number of athletes who seemed to be cramming in long sessions during these last few days, riding the entire bike course, running the full run loop, etc. Though my legs felt a bit sluggish at the start of the week, they came around nicely as race day neared, and my swim stroke felt smooth and powerful in the cool, comfortable lake (reports of limb-numbing temperatures were grossly exaggerated). I sat in on Rich Strauss' pre-race talk about execution strategies, and I cheered my son in the kid's fun run and my wife in the 5K. On Saturday, a wonderful sense of calm settled about me: Though I was still nervous and apprehensive about the unknown, I was strangely able to let go of the unimportant and roll through things that were out of my control.
Race Day
Though I wasn't able to get more than a few hours of solid sleep due to nerves, I awoke race morning feeling fresh and ready to go. I dressed, packed the final supplies into my bags, and headed down to the race start.
It took me a grand total of about 30 minutes to get through bodymarking and race prep (placing nutrition bottles on the bike, tire pressure check, special needs back check, etc.). I wandered around, checking out the quiet, nervous energy of the other athletes, affirming my site lines for the swim, mentally going through the transitions, and, oh yes, visiting the porta-johns several times.
At about 6:00, I laid down on the bandshell stage to close my eyes and meditate a bit. The broadcast system was playing an uplifting Enya song, and I was suddenly flooded with brief memories from throughout my life--the happiest moments I could remember: my brother and I playing football in our yard in the pads and uniforms we'd gotten as Christmas presents, my sister and I playing "karate kid" with a recliner in our living room, my wife on our wedding day, the faces of our three children, and scores more. It was overwhelming, and a wave of absolute happiness swept over me. Today's race, I realized, would be a celebration of life, and I resolved not to let anything wipe that happiness from me. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I sat up and began my final preparations.
The Swim
After some slow stretching and pulling on my wetsuit, I made my way down to the swim start. I chatted with some friends, took a brief warm-up, then lined up for the start about halfway down the beach, making sure to ask around me to make sure I was properly seeded. When the cannon went off, I took a final gulp, started my watch, waded in and started swimming.
Except for the characteristic thrashing of 1800 athletes churning into the water at once, the swim was largely uneventful. The contact was all incidental, with the worst occurring in the first 400 yards and around the turn buoys, and I managed to escape without major injury or loss of goggles. When I try to draft a specific person, I tend to expend more energy trying to stay on their feet than I would just swimming on my own, so I simply tried to maintain a smooth, steady stroke and stay in the middle of a group, catching feet whenever the opportunity presented itself, but not worrying if I lost them.
With a few hundred yards to go, I tried to stretch out my stroke a bit and kick a bit more, in an attempt to prepare my body for the bike. I exited the water and was pleased to see 1:05 and change on the clock. After a longish T1 (5:18) which included grabbing the wrong bag and stopping at the porta-john, I was off on the bike.
The Bike
My mantra for the first two hours on the bike was "Stupid slow, let 'em go," and on all significant descents, "I'm a coasting fool." (Thanks to Rich Strauss for these.) Many, many people passed me on the bike, and I was able to hold back for the most part and avoid the pass/re-pass game, getting drawn into other athletes' paces. The speed sensor on my bike computer had failed a week before, so I rode by cadence, heart rate, and perceived exertion alone, a strategy I think I'll retain for future races.
Coming from the Bay Area, the climbs were easy for me, both physically and mentally. The back side of the course was tougher, as I'm not particularly used to sustaining efforts on long, steady flats. On the second lap, especially, I found myself struggling to maintain focus, pedaling for a few dozen strokes and then coasting briefly. It's something I'll have to work on in the future.
The first two hours were marked by a painful knot in my stomach that worsened when I attempted to take a swig from my feed bottle half an hour into the ride. I'm not sure where this came from, but I think it's either all the lake water I swallowed or my pre-race nutrition (I pounded four Carnation instant breakfast drinks at about 2am). Whatever the cause, I worried that my race was already unraveling, but with some easing of the pace combined with, ahem, gas pressure relief, the knot unraveled and I was able to get back on track with my nutrition.
Whenever I came through town and rode past the crowds of spectators, I enjoyed cheerleading. "Way to go, Coeur d'Alene! Let's hear it! Thank you, spectators!" The crowds responded with deafening roars, and I grinned, juiced up a bit from the support. It's a tactic I heartily recommend to everybody.
During the second lap, as I made my way onto Upriver Road, I noticed a slow leak in my rear tire. I stopped and filled it with CO2, hoping to find tech support for a quick change. It held through the hills, though it made the descents a bit sketchy and nerve-wracking. The miles went by, but still no tech support, and I didn't want to spend my last CO2 cartridge yet, for fear of flatting. Finally, I came on a tech support team at the second-to-last aid station, and they changed the tire for me (though it took a bit longer than I would have liked).
Turning off of Seltice and onto Northwest Blvd for the return to transition, I shut it down and sat up in the saddle, stretching and preparing for the run. During the last couple of miles, I'd felt some fatigue in my quads and an occasional sharp twinge in my right knee. I knew I'd left quite a bit in the tank for the run, but I was still curious whether I'd find myself hanging around T2, collecting myself for a deathmarch to the finish. Total bike: 6:26:04.
The Run
My concerns, it turned out, were unfounded. I'm lucky to have a body that reacts well to running off of the bike, and when it came to the bike-to-run transition in the Ironman, it fell simply back to habit. I ran through T2 in 3:26, grabbing a cup of water and changing smoothly into my run gear (simply changing shoes and swapping a visor for my helmet). I pounded two gels and chased them with water. I happened to be the only athlete exiting the tent at the time, and I found myself briefly surrounded by six women slathering me with sunscreen. If I was ever tempted to stay longer in T2, that was the reason.
My strategy for the run was simple (and, again, borrowed largely from Rich Strauss): Run from aid station to aid station, walking the last 10-20 yards of each station to ensure getting enough calories and hydration, alternating water/Gatorade and water/Coke. I had measured out the first couple miles of the course in half-miles, for better control of early pace as I tend to take it out too fast, and, indeed, I ran the first half-mile at a pace I knew would be unsustainable. I backed it off and fell into a pace that varied between 8:40 and 9:30 per mile.
I'm proudest of my run performance. I was absolutely unrelenting in my focus, not allowing my mind to wander any further than the next aid station. Each mile was simply a task to accomplish, and as tough as it frequently was to get each task done, I was enjoying the work. Every mile, I passed people I'd seen fly by me on the bike. Sponges and ice water in my shorts helped keep me cool. Increased focus and purposeful breathing helped me through side stitches and a blister at mile 20. When my embattered mind reasoned that it was okay to walk the turnaround hill on the final lap, I reminded myself that I'd walked the hills at Auburn for the sole purpose of saving my legs for this run and there was no way I'd cheapen that sacrifice by walking now. Though I was too focused and tired to keep up the cheerleading I'd performed on the bike, I did dance my way through the Hawaiian aid station on the short turnaround, and I received valuable hugs and kisses from my kids as I passed them in town.
I was hit with a side stitch in the last mile of the race, but I ran through it, knowing that the finish was just a short way away. I turned thankfully onto Sherman Ave and saw the throng of spectators crowding the finish chute. Wearily, I put out my hands and high-fived the kids, looking for my family. Unfortunately, Rhys had fallen asleep and Parker had chosen that exact moment to go potty, so I waved to my wife and 9-month old, my brother, my sister, and my dad and ran alone across the finish line, arms raised in triumph.
Run time: 3:56:48. Finish time: 11:37:16.
In Summary
I wasn't emotional when I crossed the finish line, or when I received my finisher's medal. I spent several hours following the race burning off adrenaline, chattering about the day and basking in my achievement. It wasn't until after the two-day drive home, when I finally unpacked the sweat-soaked jersey and tri-shorts, the running and cycling shoes, and realized that Ironman Coeur d'Alene was officially moving from the present to the past, that these artifacts were still stained with the day's efforts. I looked at the running shoes and said to myself, "These are the shoes that carried you to a sub-4 run split in the Ironman." It was at that point that I got choked up, realizing what I'd accomplished. The finish time itself is meaningless. What I'm ultimately proud of is the way I rose to the challenge and executed the race, especially the run.
I'm heading back to Coeur d'Alene next year. I was a bit ambivalent in this decision. Coming away from most races, I'm left with a series of questions and doubts about execution and what might have been, the woulda-coulda-shoulda game, but after Coeur d'Alene, I'm left with one simple challenge: get fitter, stronger, faster. I'm lucky in one respect: To my surprise, my wife was the one who broached the subject on the second day of our drive home, saying that she'd enjoy a return trip in 2006. Ultimately, the reason I accepted the challenge was, well, because it's a challenge, and if I can manage to make a substantial improvement to my finish time while maintaining my execution, I can perhaps entertain thoughts of qualifying for the big show in Kona at some point in the future.
The important things remain, though. My family has been the centerpiece of my success. There's no way I could ever have pursued this, let alone achieved it without their love and support. The amazing volunteers and organization in Coeur d'Alene were absolutely incredible. I was dubious about the value of my entry fee, but having witnessed it first hand, I had no qualms about anteing up again. Finally, a big thanks to all who supported my fundraising efforts for Children's Hospital and Research Center at Oakland. We were able to raise $4,055.73 for a very important cause.
