See my finishers' picture here: gritty determination on a hot, hot day.
Ironman Canada, 1996 - Part I
© by Art Hutchinson
Final Preparations
Its still ten days until Ironman Canada (IMC), and I’m
utterly psyched and ready. I’d be
happy if the race were tomorrow. The
training program I set for myself last October has gone almost flawlessly.
So flawlessly that I begin second-guessing myself.
Sitting in my office in Boston, I read through a last-minute flurry of
IMC-related posts on the net. Everyone
finally has time on their hands, and Penticton on their minds.
This ethereal, ASCII-based cast of characters I’ve come to know via
e-mail is about to materialize into flesh and sweat in just a few days.
The desire to go out and grab a final endorphin fix is strong, but I heed my own advice from doing this four years ago: rest, relax, eat. Enjoy this period of high energy; it won’t last. On Saturday morning, I go out for a 90 minute ride with a friend who’s tapering for the Triathlon World Championship in Cleveland the day before IMC. We throw in some high-intensity “pickups” to keep from going crazy from all the excess energy. The ride feels unbelievably easy and smooth. Unexpectedly, this positive news from my body starts to trigger small, nagging doubts: have I tapered too early? Too steeply? Was my training really sufficient? Will I be mentally ready? I tell the doubt-demons to back off. They retreat, but don’t leave.
In the last few days before leaving Boston, final good
wishes pour in from friends and family. I’m
struck by how many people are aware of what I’m doing.
The Ironman seems to capture peoples’ imaginations in a way that
‘ordinary’ triathlons do not. This
completely selfish pursuit gradually takes on a different blush: I feel some
responsibility for these vicarious participants.
They’ll want to hear from me when I get back.
As the clock ticks down to race day, the reality of what
I’ve undertaken hits me in stages: the last swim with my Masters group,
packing up of my bike, driving to the airport, getting on the plane.
No escaping now, I think, with a shudder: this is real.
In Seattle, I set my alarm for 5:30AM, planning to go for a short ride in
order to beat the morning traffic. I
wake up. Its raining. I’m desperate to get moving, but I don’t want to do any
extra running and burn myself out. I
stretch and stew silently in the dark hotel room while my family sleeps.
Later that day, in Vancouver, the sun comes out and I have a great ride
in Stanley Park. The world seems
brighter. These legs are just going
to GO, I think to myself. Power on
command! The next morning I go for
a short, easy jog. Its one of the
worst runs I’ve had in weeks. Not
a problem, I tell myself; I never run well in the morning.
I eat a huge breakfast. My
weight is finally coming back from unhealthy training lows in July.
The pre-race buzz inside my head gets louder as we drive
from Vancouver to Penticton on Thursday. We
stop for lunch, and I toss a penny into a fountain.
I wish for a 10:29 finish. I
fail to notice that I’m throwing an American penny into a Canadian fountain.
Unbeknownst to me, this little faux pas angers the Canadian weather gods.
They mutter and grimace. This
mortal is going to suffer. Bigtime.
Entering Keremeos, we spot a sign asking drivers to be
careful while Ironman athletes are out training on the roads.
This is the first physical evidence I’ve had since my pre-race packet
arrived in April that the race actually exists.
A little involuntary shiver runs down my spine as I think about it.
Three more days! As we drive
the course over the notorious Yellow Lake climb (around the 90 mile mark), I
notice several riders grinding away on tricked-out tri-bikes.
“Ha!” I think, “This is much too far for anyone to be riding with
only 3 days left. Surely they’ll
be hurting on race day.” At the
same time, a little voice in my head whispers: “Yeah, but they’re out here
and you’re not! They must be fitter than you.
They must know something you don’t.
Wimp!” To my surprise,
we’re at Yellow Lake much sooner than I remembered from the 1992 race.
We’re inside an air-conditioned car, but that really didn’t look so
bad. I try to visualize a quick and
pleasant climb as we drive further. Entering
the radical downhill sections though, my lizard brain starts screaming:
“You’re gonna die! Aiee! They’ll
have to scrape the fragments off the pavement with a spatula!” Shuttup fool! I think; this is why you have brakes.
Use ‘em.
More triathlete sightings follow until, on the ride into
town, expensive bikes, cool sunglasses, and unhealthy tans are as abundant as
bugs on the windshield. My wife
urges me to go for one final ride just to test out the equipment while there’s
still time for re-adjustments. Hmm...
she’s never urged me to go out for ride before.
I set out at 4PM and head into a hot, dry and persistent headwind along
Skaha Lake. It feels good to shake
out my legs after a long drive, but uggh... there’s a lot of traffic, and its
hot. The rhythm of a few days ago
eludes me, and I decide to cut it short. I
spin easily back into town with the wind behind me, playing tag with a few other
triathletes as we go through what seems like an endless series of stoplights.
I’m hot, irritated, and tired from the drive.
I’m impressed by the instant camaraderie of Penticton on
Ironman week. Every athlete I pass
gives a little wave or a nod. Obvious
non-athletes smile too. What a
relief from the tiresome comments and odd looks that I get at home when someone
learns of my Ironman habit: “you’re nuts!”, “how can you *do* that?”,
“is this your last one?”. I get
just the smallest inkling of what it might be like to be a member of a
misunderstood minority. What a
relief to finally get together for the annual “support-group meeting”! We just are the way we are, and we do this thing just
*because*. Accept us as we are.
We’re not going to change. We
can’t explain – except to each other.
At breakfast Friday morning, I spot top contender Pauli
Kiuru (from Finland) at the next table. Too
late to order “what he’s having.” He
looks relaxed and confident, but maybe its my imagination, impressing my own
feelings onto his cool Finnish exterior. I’m first in line for registration - amazingly quick and
efficient - then over to the beach for a lazy mid-morning swim.
I look for, but fail to spot any rec.sport.triathlon (rst) swim caps.
Happily, the water is much warmer than in 1992: one less thing
worry about. I spot some salmon,
swimming in the shallows.
Back at the hotel, I organize my transition bags and other
gear. I could go tomorrow.
How will I possibly contain myself for another 24 hours?
The carbo party only fans the flames of my anticipation; the pre-race
buzz is palpable. I chat with
several r.s.t’ers, including Wade Blomgren.
With all the noise, I think I hear him say that he’s doing IMC as his
third triathlon ever (this later turns out to be untrue)... just started in the
sport seriously this year... says he’d like to do 12 hours, maybe 12:30...
something like that. I’m
distracted as we move through the food line.
He mentions maybe doubling his Wildflower (half Ironman) time of 5:44.
I groan inwardly. Doesn’t
he know that you just don’t do that at an Ironman? I hope he finishes. I’m
confident I won’t see him. He’s
in a different age group anyway.
Saturday morning, I wake much too early and grab a big
breakfast at 5:00AM. I don’t spot
any orange competitors’ wrist bands. The
smart ones are sleeping late. Its
only old folks on bus tours, and truck drivers in the smoking section at this
hour. Sigh. Maybe I’ll catch a nap this afternoon. I stroll down to the beach in the pre-dawn darkness and sit
for nearly an hour watching the sun rise. I
wait for some fellow r.s.t’ers to arrive and meet me for a final shakedown
swim. The solitude is a welcome
change from the last several days. I
rehearse the course and the upcoming day in my mind.
Next time the sun rises, I realize, I’ll be standing at the starting
line.
An obviously drugged-out twenty-something drifter disrupts
my reverie: “Good morning, sir, want some flowers?” He lays them on the bench beside me, along with a feather.
Harmless enough. I continue stretching. Several
of us go for a short swim. Wade is
there. He looks great in the water.
I’m feeling great too. I
go a bit hard on the swim, but its less than 15 minutes.
A few of the guys in the group have done this 7 or 8 times.
Their cool confidence is almost contagious. Lots of positive energy.
We all retire to the Wild Goose Cafe, and I’m introduced to a local IMC
rite-of-passage: “The Big Ugly” - a kilogram stack of blueberry pancakes.
No problem, I think. Since
its my second breakfast of the day however, I fade halfway through.
I hope I don’t see this tomorrow.
Later in the day, I take my bike over to the transition
area. As I’m standing in line in
my cleats, I feel my cartilage-torn knee (of ten years) hurting for the first
time in months. I stretch, but it
still hurts. Grrr! This last-minute glitch scratches the veneer of my
confidence. Later, I realize
it hurts because I’m standing in my cleats.
Duhh! I take them off and
the pain subsides. As we move up in
line with our bikes, the guy behind me repeatedly bumps my back tire with his
front tire. This happens over and
over every time the line inches up. I’m
more irritated than I should be - a symptom of pre-race tension. His
girlfriend notices my irritation without my having to say anything.
She tells him to back off a bit. He
seems oblivious.
My bike checks out fine, and I park it in the rack in the
pre-designated slot. Good
placement; not too far from the transition area gate.
On the walk back to the hotel, I feel a sudden sharp twinge on the bottom
of my foot. Arrgghh!
What is it with me today?! I
stretch and try to relax... the pain subsides.
My wife is concerned: “Should you ice your knee?”, she asks.
I settle for ibuprofen. Walking
in the parade later that afternoon helps with the various aches and pains, and
buoys my mood considerably. Competitors
and families congregate and march by country, with signs and flags.
Scott Tinley rides his bike through the parade holding a sign of his own
that says, simply, “Scott Tinley”. He’s
in the right place too – before Switzerland, and after Saudi Arabia.
The Peoples’ Republic of Tinley! I
love it. Playful.
That's the way to approach this, I think.
I remind myself to have fun. This
is why my wife insisted on putting the smiley face on my aerobars several years
ago. Grim and sour just won’t do
it. The distance is serious enough
as it is.
I caucus with my family over where we should eat the
critical pre-race meal. “How
about the Pasta Factory?”, I ask, having heard its good from Jeremy Eden, who
lives here, and is doing the race for the 7th time tomorrow. Great idea. We
all hop in the car. Duhh... the
line is out the door and down the block. The
kids are hungry. Now what?
I try to stay calm, but it comes across as aloof.
I can’t waste energy on these little crises right now.
My mind is completely focused on tomorrow.
Not fair to my family, but I’ll try to make it up to them in September.
Its 6:00PM. Where will I be
by this time tomorrow? Finished
with the race and getting a massage – I hope.
We settle for a Chinese place, closer to the hotel, and I pile the rice
high, avoiding the spicy dishes. I
remind myself that Dave Scott did his record-setting 8:01 at Ironman Japan on a
pre-race meal of plain rice. I
forgot exactly how I know this, but I remember reading it somewhere.
I decide that I’ll take it easy and settle for 8:02 if its a hot day
;-).
My fortune cookie reads “Good news is coming soon”. I drop the message into my race morning bag, with plans to tape it to the center of my aero bars for inspiration. Back at the hotel, the magic moment passes when there’s less time remaining until the start of the race than the race itself will take to complete. A sobering thought. I used to note such moments when I ran the mile in high school. A lot less waiting then. Maybe five minutes. We goof around with the video camera while I affix “Team Psycho” temporary tattoos to my shoulder and calf. Rituals over, I set my alarm for five AM. I’m in bed and asleep by 9 o’clock.
Race Morning
Not surprisingly, I’m wide awake at 3:00AM.
I try gamely to sleep some more, but know right away that its a futile
effort. OK, I’ll settle for six
hours of sleep. I’ve gotten by on
much less before. Not like I have a
choice. I do a quick body check: no
aches; feeling good. I put on
several layers of sweat clothes to stay warm, waiting for my metabolism to
kick-in against the air conditioning. This will be the last time all day that staying warm is a
concern, but this doesn’t become obvious until the race is underway.
My family is still fast asleep in the small hotel room.
I retreat to the bathroom for a quick, light breakfast and last-minute
musical psych-up session with my portable CD player and headphones.
Lying in the dry bathtub, I munch on a dry bagel, sip a glass of orange
juice from our cooler. Two times
through Queen’s “We Are the Champions” has me glowing with positive
energy. To round out the program, I
throw on The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” - one of my longstanding
favorite pre-race tunes. I’ve
listened to this hundreds of times while doing intervals on my indoor bike
trainer. I smirk inwardly at the
irony of the lyrics “won’t get fooled again”: this is my second Ironman,
and I’m confident that I’ll avoid the problems I had last time.
I check my watch. Hmm... not
quite 4:15AM. I still have a full
hour just to sit here, stretch and think. I
muse about falling back to sleep on the floor.
Lets see... if I managed to wake up by 7:30 AM, I could get to the beach
by 8:00 AM, (an hour *after* the start), repeat my 1:05 swim from 1992 (under
much less combative conditions), and finish comfortably under the 9:20AM cutoff.
Cool! I snap back to reality.
No way am I going to fall back to sleep with this level of nervousness.
At 5:00 AM, I can’t stand it any more.
I grab my bags and walk down the hall to find my brother.
He drives me to the Hogs Breath Cafe and I order coffee.
I agonize momentarily: should I go for the “Ironman Blend” or the
“Kona Style”? Confidently, I
choose the Kona Style. If I have an
amazing day, maybe I’ll *be* in Kona in two months.
Yeah right. I stroll down
Main Street, wish my brother and sister-in-law goodbye, and breeze through
check-in logistics. Here we go!
I’m glad to have made myself a detailed checklist of
pre-race activities. Pen and paper
in hand, I scurry around the still-dark transition area, re-arranging my gear
and making last minute preparations. I
take a few sips of coffee, and hand the nearly-full cup over the fence to my
brother. By 6:00AM, my checklist is
ominously complete. I try to hand
my floor pump over the fence as well, but before I can do so, several people ask
to use it. I’m happy to oblige,
but the cumulative effect is to delay my pre-race preparations.
I start to fume slightly; smiling all the while.
A tap on the shoulder and I see a familiar face: Wade!
We shake hands. He appears
neither nervous nor calm. Same as
me. We chat briefly about nothing
in particular, then drift off to our own pre-race routines: sunscreen, stretch,
drink water, pull on wetsuit. I
synchronize my watch with the official race clock, just so I won’t be caught
off-guard at the start. I remember
to rehearse the walk up from the beach through the transition racks to the
changing tent: through the timing tables, sight off the small maple tree, veer
left, two racks up, second level. Simple
enough.
I glance around, searching for other familiar faces.
No luck. I spot a woman in a
wetsuit with one arm. Wow!, and *I* was worried about the swim. She looks confident
and relaxed; I overhear her telling some other competitors that the run is the
toughest part for her (as it is for most people). With only ten minutes left until the start, I figure I ought
to establish a place for myself in the water.
I walk past a pair of bagpipers near the beach, dressed in red wigs and
kilts. What an incredibly
emotion-stirring instrument. I get
more little shivers down my spine. Entering
the water, I see Ed Wong, who I know from the carbo party festivities is one of
only three people who has done this race 12
times. He doesn’t know me
from Adam, but I decide to stick by him in positioning myself for the start.
He must know what he’s doing. Its
a new starting configuration for everyone, and he moves around several times,
trying to find the best spot so as not to get trampled or blocked.
I shadow him like an incompetent detective.
More and more people pour onto the beach and into the
shallows. Its yellow caps as far as
I can see. This is going to be
nuts! With less than five minutes
to go, I put on my goggles and... something is wrong!
Shit! I squelch a rising
panic. The rubber collar has
separated from the plastic eye cup on one side.
“Chill out” I tell myself. This
is not earth-shattering. There are
*much* bigger problems in the world than *your* goggles.
Anyway, its fresh water. I
remind myself that Karen Smyers once did an entire Ironman swim with no goggles
in the ocean and came out OK. After
a minute of fumbling, the problem is fixed.
I turn on my heart rate monitor. During
the playing of “Oh, Canada”, I try some biofeedback: trying to keep my pulse
under 90. It seems to work. I do a few shoulder pinwheels... loose, warm, good.
I look to my left and see an extraordinarily fat guy stuffed into a
wetsuit. Wow!
And there aren’t any teams here. I
hope he makes it through the run. At
the last minute, I remember to move my wedding band to my middle finger.
On longer swims, my fingers sometimes go numb, and I don’t want to lose
it midstroke.