VIV’s IRONMAN
NEWSLETTER - #3: September 2002
Audacious Goals – big, hairy, audacious
goals – these are what Porras and Collins talk about in “From Good to Great” –
a recent best selling book on organizational leadership. The three goals I set for myself in 2002
were to move house, get a better balance in my life and do an Ironman – in no
particular order. This letter tells you
about the progress with the latter (and I promise to keep you informed if there
is any progress on the two other very exciting goals.)
Specifically – I had four stretch targets
around the Ironman race -
- To complete the Ironman Canada race – 2.4 miles open
water swimming, 112 miles cycling, 26.2 miles running
- To raise $7900 in sponsorship to go towards Leukemia
Research (this is the goal which you all helped me with, for which many,
many thanks)
- To finish a full Ironman in under 12 hours (testing, as
my best time over half the Ironman distance has been 6 hours 8 minutes)
- To qualify for the World Championships in Hawaii in
October 2002 (a quantum leap - to
enter my first Ironman, one of 14 worldwide qualifying events, and to
qualify for Kona by finishing in the top five of my age group – just a bit
of a stretch there.)
My journey to becoming an ”Ironperson” and
raising $7900 for Leukemia Research
really started in October 2001, but I will fast forward over the many weeks of
running, swimming, bike training, writing letters, skip the 4:30 am
bleary-eyed-roll-out-of-beds, and all that good stuff, to August 23 2002 –
which finds Richard (the saint who supported me so well in preparing for, and
doing, this race) and I in Penticton, British Columbia…
Ironman Canada minus Two Days:
Race Registration. Richard and I drive into
Penticton and meet the hoards of aspiring Ironman competitors and their
Ironmates. This is THE event for
Penticton, situated three hundred miles east of Vancouver, in the heart of the
Okanagan valley. Registration is in a
plush lakeside hotel, covered with sponsor banners, and with triathlon racing
bikes on practically every balcony. The
registration process involves standing in line for hours – I am transferred from
one line to another to another: show my id, get tagged with a hologram
bracelet, receive my numbered swim cap and five plastic bags for storing gear,
get instructions for pre race carbohydrate loading dinners, pre race briefings,
post race celebration dinners, on and on – logistics overload. I idly inspect
my fellow racers, some muscled up to the gunnels, others who may be carrying a
little too much ballast, and think it’s incongruous that all these athletes are
milling around in the crystal chandeliered ballroom – clutching bags, papers
and water bottles, many sporting their trophy t-shirts from other races –
Hawaii, Mexico, or Penticton from previous years. Why we have to register two days before is a source of irritation
to me, but ensures that all racers are in town, and have at least one day of
calm before the competition. As Richard
and I drive back to the Coast Inn at Apex (a ski lodge 20 miles out of
Penticton, which suits me perfectly as a retreat far from the madding crowds)
there are several cyclists out. I
silently berate them for last minute preparation, but secretly wonder whether I
should be out there riding with them …
Ironman Canada minus One Day:
There is no such thing as perfect
preparation. If something can go wrong,
it will. It’s 9 am, I’ve had a good
sleep, laid out and checked all my kit, reassembled and tested my bike,
measured out my food, prepared my special needs bags for the bike and run (of
which more anon) and Richard has even patched the holes in my wetsuit. He goes out for a bike ride and, as I step
out for a short 2 mile run the morning before the race, I am feeling in fine
fettle – confident and ready. The bugs
of Penticton know a juicy morsel when they see one though, and I get stung on
the arm by some large buzzy creature.
It’s sore, but not unduly alarming. July’s bee sting on the cheek had
caused my whole face to swell up for several days, and cost $1800 for some
Benadryl and steroid treatment courtesy of Kaiser Permanente, but this bite to
the arm seems trivial. I return to the
hotel room, and start to feel a slight itch to the palms of my hands. Five more
minutes, and I am like Lady Macbeth, constantly wringing my hands and cooling
them under a running tap. The itching spreads to my feet, and I think that this
must be some sort of reaction, perhaps an allergy to the hotel soap.... or to
my new running socks. Richard comes
into the apartment, and I greet him like some demented woman – more like Mrs
Rochester now. Immediately he diagnoses my condition as a natural histamine
reaction, finds a Benadryl tablet and advises I stand under a cool shower. In
the small sane part of me I love him for this sanguine approach to solving
problems. Meanwhile, in my hysterical
state, I strip off my clothes in a frenzy (Richard enjoys this…) to find a
score of angry red welts on my chest, ribs, legs, and groin. My wrists are
covered in blisters – a look in the mirror shows my face covered in red
blotches and I feel my throat tightening up.
I get scared - will I live through this, let alone the Ironman? In an
overly dramatic way I panic about anaphylactic shock…I can’t believe an insect
sting is jeopardizing my chances of taking part in, let alone completing,
tomorrow’s race. The itching has spread
all over my body – it’s ghastly, but Richard’s prior experience with this is
calming, and the soap and a cold shower seem to be easing the irritation. Two hours later and the welts are receding,
and, as we drive down to Penticton to drop off my bike and gear in the
transition area I’ve recovered my calm and I know that I’ll be able to race,
despite this last minute incident. We detour via Safeway and pick up more
Benadryl, so that I can be carrying it during the race, just in case…
Ironman Canada – D Day:
Oatmeal and tea at 4:15 am. It’s dark
outside as we drive down to the start.
I am sure I have forgotten something – I try to remember what I dropped
off in the transition bags yesterday for Swim to Bike, and Bike to Run. I’ve got about 6 bottles of Sustained Energy
(tasteless, liquid food – like spacemen have – sugar free carbohydrates). Just
in case I run out, I have several zip lock bags with spare supplies of the
magic powder that makes this bland, but energy-packed food. The Cliff Bars have been chopped into
eighths for easily digestible portions, the salt tablets counted and stowed for
the bike and the run portions of the race. And I have put all sorts of things
into my two Special Needs bags: clothes, plasters, Advil, food, drink, books
(no, not really). The surprise this morning is the wet road. I think it’s dew at
first, then realize that it’s rained overnight. The one night that my Calfee
bike is left outside and it rains – of course.
Richard drops me at the transition area and
I check my bike, and get “marked up”. A
38 for my age is branded on my right calf. 1985, my race number, is written all
over me in indelible ink. The pens must
contain some banned substance as the ladies who are writing all over me are
giggly and appear a little light headed – not the normal behavior at this time
of day. In the transition area there is
a thread of dread amongst the racers. The enormity of what we are trying to do
this day is dawning on all of us, and pre race nerves play havoc with our
digestive systems. I stand in line for
the portaloo – once, twice, three times.
An hour and a half vanishes. I check, and recheck, my bike – dreading
that the tires will be flat, worrying whether the gears will work, testing the
brakes. At last it is time to don wet suits, goggles and hat and move down to
the lake. 2300 people dabble in the
warm water at the lakeshore. The start
line is about 20 meters out, and the serious swimmers line up behind it. The more modest hover at the water’s edge,
checking watches, giving Ironmates a final hug across the fence. Miss Penticton sings ”Oh Canada”. My watch
tells me it’s seconds before 7:00 am. Last year’s winner fires the cannon to
sound the start and so it begins – I’m facing at least 12 hours of non-stop
action – quite a full day.
The swim is monstrous - a mass start after
the peace of the soloist - and 8000 limbs are flailing. I get a rhythm, and
have it disrupted by an orca whale (no, I’m wrong, it’s a swimmer in an orca
wetsuit) cannoning into me from the left.
I have a vision of World War I movies –“ Bandits at 3 o’clock”. Even though we are all supposed to be moving
in the same direction, there are some swimmers who seem to approach the course
as a yachtsman would, tacking left and right.
Survival depends on extra sensory awareness: my mind concentrates on
avoiding the threshing arms and legs all around me, remembering to breathe,
trying to get the most out of each stroke by maximizing the reach, the glide on
the side, and anticipating those swimmers who may suddenly change their kick to
breast stroke and thwack every ounce of air out of me. I find clear water;
think things have settled down and then have an arm bash into my face, knocking
off my goggles. I tread water, replace the goggles, and then return to the
melee. I’m longing for the swim to be
over, knowing it’ s going to last for at least an hour, praying that I survive
this stage, knowing that as soon as the swim is over, my confidence will surge.
The race leaders exit the water after 45
minutes… for me it’s 75. I scrabble
ashore, undo my wetsuit, pull it down over my bottom and collapse in front of
two grinning Canadians… they hoist my legs up, grab my wetsuit and pull with
all their might. The wetsuit off, I jump up and run to get bike shoes, throw my
wetsuit in my transition bag and charge off to find my bike. The bike transition area is half empty – I
am 1600th out of the water. Though this is not good, it’s not too
bad, as I gleefully think of all those zippy swimmers who I am going to reel
in, one by one, on the bike.
I feel I am flying on the bike after the
crawling swim pace … it’s a scorching pace for the first 56 miles - 22 mph average. I am blasting past fit
young men, and get one warning from the draft busters on motor- bikes who
accuse me of slipstreaming. I want to
point out that I am overtaking everyone, think that this may sound a little
arrogant, so save my breath and keep good clearance from other riders. The ride is beautiful – through orchards of
peach, apple, apricot with tempting roadside stalls stacked to the gunnels with
juicy fruits. We spin through strange
named towns and then the valley ride ends as we turn right for some major
climbing. I merrily storm up Richter Pass – easy after the Death Ride. There is a wonderful 5 miles of decent,
great rest time. I’m relishing it, feel
in my element, and then I bonk – it’s as if I run out of fuel… there is nothing
in my legs, and I am crawling along – with people passing me… some of the same
people who I zipped by earlier. It’s
unnerving – I wonder why I am doing this, and out loud hear myself saying
"Buck Up, Vivien". It’s a matter of gritting my teeth, and trying to
pick up my cadence. I eat some Cliff
Bar, and wait for the Special Needs bag pick up. Mile 65 or so, and I pick up my peanut butter and marmite
sandwich. It’s dry, and difficult to
chew, but it does the trick. After another 20 minutes of digesting, marmite and
peanut butter are in my bloodstream, rescuing me from the drudgery of slow
pedaling. The next phase of the bike
involves a long, steady climb to Yellow Lake.
There is something odd about a lake at the top of the mountain, but this
riddle does not occupy my thoughts for long. Local people line the route with
cowbells and hooters, cheering us on. It feels like the Tour de France – and
their encouragement helps my legs. The
final 20 miles are pretty much all downhill – a good way to aid the transition
from bike to run.
The bike stage ends for me at 2:30 in the
afternoon, and I have been on the go for 7 and a half hours. And now it’s time to run a marathon. Oh
joy. I leave my bike in the transition
area, change shoes for the run, pop on a hat (the sun might come out) and start
to trot up Main Street. I’m surprised at how happy I am to get off the bike and
start running – this has traditionally been a tough stage for me as my stomach
starts telling me that digestion has gone wrong and I end up focusing on
repeatedly sighting, and using, portaloos. So, I’m hoping that the sugar free
nutrition will work, and the stomach cramps will stay away. My cunning plan for
this marathon (my first) is to pretend it is two 13-mile runs – do the run out,
take a break, do the run back. Easy.
After the first two miles at 8-minute mile pace, I drop down to a 7 mile per
hour pace. At each mile there’s an aid
station with a running buffet of water melon, bananas, water, soup, pretzels,
sponges – with volunteers busy picking up banana skins, discarded sponges and
empty plastic cups, all the while encouraging racers. All I am thinking about is keeping a steady pace, looking for the
mileage markers, calculating my mph, having a swig of Hammer-gel, swallowing a
salt tablet, drinking some water (actually, a lot to think about..). At about
mile 5 I see the race leaders – they are on the return leg - at mile 21. And they look tired, but all have a
steely-eyed focus and determination.
These people are phenomenal – they are running 2 hour 45 minute
marathons. Mile 9 and my feet start telling me little sob stories about how
they hurt, and I remind myself that a blister or two is no reason to stop
running. The marathon route takes us
along the edge of another of Okanagan region’s beautiful lakes, flat and easy
apart from a few gentle climbs. With
the temperature in the 60s, conditions are perfect. I am passing people fairly steadily and not too many are passing
me. At the 13 mile mark we are given
our special needs bags. I gratefully
rummage for my clean pair of socks, Elastoplasts, Diet Coke and Advil. As I sit on the side of the road, gingerly
pressing a plaster onto a very angry little toe, another racer stops and asks
me for some Vaseline. I feel very
superior that I can magic this out of my bag – and leave him to anoint his
feet. Diet Coke is exactly what I need
(or is it the Advil that is putting a spring in my step…) Just after the
turnaround point I have another huge lift – Richard is there, and it is a
wonderful boost to see him – I imagine that he has had a very frustrating day
battling with traffic and closed roads and I am so happy to have seen him
during the run – it seems a lifetime ago that I waved at him on Richter Pass,
half way through the bike leg.
I focus on what I have left to do in the
final stages of this race. The horizons
that I can focus on need to be much closer now – it’s good to remind myself
that I have done 130 miles so the last 13 or so are a small percentage. All I have left to do, I tell myself, are 13
repeats of 1-mile runs at 9 minute pace with 30 seconds rest at the aid
stations. I must be mad to fall for this logic – but I do. Mile 21 – and I see Richard again – he’s on
his bike and rides beside me for a minute or two – it’s bliss to hear his words
of encouragement and to know that in half an hour or so it will be all
over. In my head I keep doing the
calculations to check that I will finish in less than 12 hours. It will be close
– maybe 11 hours 45 minutes I think. 2
miles to go and I abandon the aid station stops – I think I can keep it going
without any more water, salt tablets or hammergel now. As I run back down Main Street there are
feelings of déjà vu – was it only a few short hours ago I was coming along here
on my bike? I can see the hotel on the
lake front – the finish – getting closer and closer. Now all I am thinking about is how to put my right foot down
without antagonizing my little toe and the blisters, how to breathe, how to
keep running. I review my contingency
plan for the run stage. Triathlon rules say you can crawl in the run portion of
the race: if I have to, I will. The finish
is now only a couple of hundred yards away – I know there is a right turn to
run along the lake front for the finishing stretch. I think that I must have missed the mile 25 marker, and as I hit
Lakeshore Drive I am expecting to turn right and sprint the last few yards. But no. Please, please say it isn’t so – the
runners in front of me are all turning LEFT, away from the finish. In my studies of the course before the
start, I did not look at the details of the finish of the run. Big mistake – very big mistake. I have to turn left with the other runners
and see ahead of me the 25-mile marker – that means I have another mile and
some…this is heartbreaking. I’ve got to
run half a mile away from the finish, go around a silly little cone in the
road, and then retrace my steps. It’s
funny, I have felt fine up until now, and with less than a mile to go I just
want to stop and give up – I thought I had done it. My horizon now is one step at a time – I look at my watch as I
get to the cone and turn around – it’s 6:48. I have 12 minutes to run half a
mile. I know I can meet my goal of under 12 hours, but it’s going to be closer
than I thought. These last few minutes
are better – I am running towards the finish and know for sure there are no
more detours. There’s a tremendous buzz
in the air: the shouts of encouragement from spectators, the commentator
reading out racers’ names as they cross the line, music blaring. I can see the finish – one final kick from
my tired legs for the last few yards. I
cross the line in a time of 11 hours, 54 minutes and raise my arms in victory.
And then stop at last. It’s over – what
a huge relief. I am an Ironperson.
Two helpers approach me with
congratulations and my finisher’s medal. They walk on either side of me,
supporting me gently. I feel like Red
Rum at the end of the Grand National – being shepherded into the winner’s
enclosure (Winner Viv? Well, I’ve conveniently forgotten about the other 700
odd competitors who beat me..) The big difference between Red Rum and me though
(apart from the fact that he had four legs, I have two, and that he won, and I
came seven hundredth and something) is that he had a spring in his step as he
approached the winner’s enclosure and I can’t say the same for my gait. My two
human crutches help me collect my gear and take my shoes and socks off. My right sock is red with blood, but losing
a little toenail and getting a few raw patches on my feet is a minimal price to
pay for an Ironman title. I clean up my
foot and then ease myself into one of the 24 open air Jacuzzis that are
available to racers. As I lie back for
a few minutes of stillness, I catch snippets of war stories around me – one
chap crashed on the bike and separated his shoulder – he is out on the run at
the moment, determined to finish, as he is not going to enter another Ironman. A guy gets in beside me and he is on some
sort of IV drip. He looks rather pale and ill – not good. Another racer is gobbling up pizza and
guzzling soup as he enjoys his communal bath.
The ultimate experience is waiting for me though – I have always wanted
to be wrapped up in aluminum foil and now is the time. I get one of those space blankets as I get
out of the Jacuzzi – the ultimate garb for an endurance athlete. Now I really
have made it! Doing the littlest things
is an effort: my legs seem to have abandoned me. They are probably filing a
legal case against me for abuse. I get
changed slowly and make my way to meet Richard at a restaurant by the finish.
I’m 15 minutes late (not that bad for me…).
It’s wonderful to see him, and as we climb the stairs to the restaurant,
he almost has to lift my legs up for me (they are still working on their legal
case). Dinner is reckless – a vast
pizza which I devour ravenously. We
watch racers slowly coming home to complete the race – a few dads who are
racing are joined by their children as they run the last few steps over the
finish. The range in finish times is vast - some racers will take 17 hours to
complete the event, the pros took a mere 8 and a half. (There are only 20 odd
people who finish under 9 hours though.) It’s 9 pm and time to go home – I
retrieve my bike and Richard and I leave Penticton – with many Ironmen and
women still in the making as they complete their marathons. They’ll be coming in right up until
midnight. I wish them luck and leave them to their mega endurance event, glad
that mine is over and looking forward to my well earned rest.
September 2002:
It’s over two weeks since Race Day. I am
still recovering – catching up on sleep and food and doing some training too.
The good news: I met three out of four of my targets for Ironman. The bad news: I missed qualifying for the
World Championships by 14 places and 40 minutes. Honestly, I’m feeling a bit of
anti climax – it’s all over, now what?
Richard and I have been talking about next goals – we are both going to
do the Wildflower Half Ironman in May 2003, and I will enter the lottery for
Canada Ironman 2003 and leave it in the lap of the gods whether or not I return
to Penticton. As I reflect I keep
thinking about the lessons from the race – both as a triathlete and as someone
trying to live life right. Some of the lessons are new, most are reinforcements
of lessons I keep repeating and not learning.
Mostly I’ve learned that I love physical activity in beautiful, wild
places and I need to always challenge myself. I know that, if I am to do
anything really well, it’s all about planning and preparation and tenacity in
execution – anyone can do anything if they set their mind to it. I did this race for more than athletic
achievement though – I did it to raise funds for Leukemia Research. I am very
proud of the fact that, with your help, I raised over $8000 in funds. Thank you for your support and
contributions, and for all your words of encouragement. And long term, who knows what is next… just
don’t be surprised if in October 2003 or 2004 you get a postcard from me, with
a postmark from Kona, Hawaii.
Lots of Love
Vivien
PS For those aspiring Ironmen/women, here’s
a snapshot of what worked and did not work about my Ironman preparation for
this race. But be warned – this is addictive stuff.
·
Training Plan: 44 weeks, averaging between
12 and 15 hours per week: 20 miles of swimming 1,200 miles running, 4,000 miles
on the bike, 88 hours of weight training. Getting up at 4:30 am 3 days a week,
and spending most weekends doing at least one big ride or run. Working on endurance, strength and speed.
o
What Worked: Strength training twice a
week. One day off a week. Introducing
speed work three months prior to the competition. Reading a book on swimming
technique (Total Immersion) and applying it to improve my technique.
o
What Didn’t Work: Swimming – I only really
started swimming three weeks before the race. Track work – I only did one track
work out! Biking – I never did a 112 mile race before – or practiced
being able to maintain 20 mph plus for that distance.
·
Nutrition Plan: Conversion from a
chocoholic. They say a successful
Ironman is ultimately about the right refueling. Continuous replenishment of liquids, salt, energy in such a way
so that the body can digest and use the food easily, quickly.
o
What Worked: Giving up sugar, caffeine,
alcohol, fizzy drinks, and puddings. Eating 3 proper meals a day, with two
snacks. Major food stuffs: peanut butter, macadamia nut butter, cashew nut
butter, almond butter, peanut butter filled pretzels. Race day – take salt
tablets and sugar free carb drinks
o
What Didn’t Work: Totally giving up sugar,
caffeine, alcohol, fizzy drinks, puddings (I did succumb, probably on a weekly
basis, to at least one of these)
·
Sleep Plan: At least 8 hours per night
o
What Worked: I love it when I do get a
decent chunk of sleep. I did get into the routine of being in bed and asleep by
11 pm (occasionally)
o
What Didn’t Work: Getting up at 4:30 am
when I went to bed at 12 midnight (on more than one occasion)