“BWEEEE”!

The electronic timing chip attached to my ankle triggers the chirping noise as I cross the finish line. 11:08 something says the digital clock, which keeps running as I stop. The crowds are now cheering on the next finishers, thousands more over the following six hours.

Sport is inherently dramatic. As fans, we try to make sense out of multiple variables in order to predict the winner. As athletes, we aim to reduce uncertainty about the result by training our bodies and our minds. But we can never really know in advance what will happen on the day, and that is the appeal of sport. If the outcomes were guaranteed, would we bother?

The Vision Thing

Tuesday, January 4. Templeton Pool, Vancouver, 5:30am. Ironman training starts with a whimper. My ribs are still healing from a fall in December, and so I’m doing the first swim workout without using my arms.

The ten-second countdown is on and I’m rubbing the fog out of my goggles for the fifth time in the past minute. These lenses haven’t given me trouble before, but there’s not much I can do about this problem now. I’m right at the front, on the left end of a 200m-long mass of black wetsuit-clad humanity. I cram the goggles over my eyes, a horn sounds, cheering erupts, and 2800 racers advance into Lake Okanagan.

It’s shallow at first. Striding along the sandy bottom, I dolphin dive about seven times before the water is deep enough to swim. I get into a strong rhythm right away and head for the first turn one mile away. The low morning sun makes the large orange buoys and the white turn buoy easy to spot. To my right, the water is being churned up by faster swimmers, but I have a clear line to the corner.

Now far from shore, exhaling bubbles into the water, our muffled acoustic environment is reduced to “MBBBBWLL…[breath]…BWBBBBLLLL…[breath].

We converge on the first corner, turning to the right and directly into the sun. Can’t see buoys, can’t see other swimmers (all the men are wearing rather unhelpful dark blue caps). The bumping begins, though it’s not so rough for me as I stay to the outside of the turn. A slap on my calf, a benign heel to the eye socket, and that’s pretty much all the swimboxing I experience.

Saturday, August 6. Off Kitsilano Beach, Vancouver. I’m almost done 6k, my longest swim ever. My arms are turning steadily, but they now have all the strength of overcooked spaghetti. Glad the Ironman swim will be shorter.

Rounding the second corner and heading for the last 1800m back to the beach is pure guesswork and following the splashes in front. Alternately putting my face into dark water and squinting into bright sunshine through misty lenses makes the swim less fun. And now I have a slight stitch in my side. Whatever, keep turning the arms, it will pass. MBBWLL…[breath]…GWBMBLL…[breath]….

My fingers graze the sand and I stand up to wade to shore, pull off the cap and goggles and peel off the wetsuit with energetic support from the volunteer “strippers”. In the change tent, I take my first food while putting on socks, shoes, helmet, sunglasses, race number and stuffing gels into my back pockets. Latex-gloved volunteers slather us with thick white sunblock.

Aerodynamics

Sunday, April 17. My apartment, Vancouver. I’m on my bike, which is mounted on a stationary trainer made by “Cycle-Ops”. I’m riding a simulation of the first two hours of the Ironman Course. Sweat pours onto the floor and handlebars. By August, so much salt has made its way into the frame that the corroded headset has to be replaced.

At the mount line, we click into our pedals and roll away. Three minutes later, still in Penticton, I hear a thud and crunch of carbon and metal on pavement. Spectators are looking back past me and someone yells “Crash!” Before the race I had decided that I would help if someone in front of me was in trouble. But this is behind me. Stopping or turning to look is not safe. Keep going.

For the first hour and a half, we’re going fast, net downhill. A flapping flag confirms we have a strong tailwind. I’m wary. The field has not yet spread out and there is constant jockeying for position to draft or to avoid drafting, depending on your ethics. A surprisingly large number of riders are stopped along the road, fixing flats or dejectedly waiting for a service crew. Race marshals on motorbikes patrol the course to penalize the drafters, blockers and litterers. I tuck into my aero position, make sure to drink and eat on schedule, and head for the first big climb.

Wednesday, March 23. Cypress Nordic Ski Area, West Vancouver. The snow squeaks under our skis as we work our way up the steep trails. Kick, glide, kick, glide. In the night air, our breath freezes and steam rises from our heads and shoulders. “Another loop?” “Ok, let’s go.”

We freewheel through the Husky gas station in Osoyoos, hang a right, and shift down into the small ring. Richter Pass lies ahead. Most of my competitors are riding time trial machines whereas I’m on a standard road bike. Although I’ve upgraded it with aerobars and superb carbon wheels, it won’t be among the fastest rigs out there. Except going uphill. It’s a climber’s bike – responsive and comfortable. I spend a glorious half hour working my way past a long row of riders labouring slowly and awkwardly up the pass.

It’s fun while it lasts, and at the crest of Richter, I move over to the right and settle back into the aero bars. I know what’s coming, and it doesn’t take long. “WHUWHUWHUWHUSSSSHHH”. Tear-drop helmeted racers speed past, their disc wheels and slick frames slicing the air in a way that my bike can’t. This seesaw pattern repeats itself over the remaining 100km of undulating road through vineyards and peach orchards in the baking sun.

Sunday, June 5. Oliver B.C. I’m racing in a half Ironman, now on the bike course. My glutes and lower back are very sore and I can’t wait to get off the bike and onto the run. Checking the results later, it turns out I’m cycling faster than I ever have in a race, but it sure doesn’t feel like it.

At the special needs station, I pick up my last two bottles of Carbo-Pro. The liquid is warm and unappetizing. I choke it down anyway – those calories are essential. We’re riding into the wind all the way back to Penticton now, up and over the second long climb to Yellow Lake. I pour cold water over my head and shoulders, my jersey and shorts drying quickly in the heat. The final downhill stretch, still against the wind, is taxing. The constant hollow howl is getting on my nerves and I’m looking forward to the silence of running.

A volunteer takes my bike at the dismount line as I head to the transition tent to drop off my helmet and put on running shoes.

Sweet Emotion

Thursday, July 21. Coal Harbour, Vancouver, 6:30am. I’m flat on my back on the wet pavement, watching my left ankle rapidly inflate to twice its size. Two seconds earlier, taking a bad step running along the seawall, I hear three pops in my ankle and I’m down.  

I’m out onto the run course. Five weeks of physiotherapy, ultrasound, interferential current, ice footbaths, compression, elevation, ankle strength exercises, pool running, and easy run-walking all come down to this. Can I run? Yep! Can I run fast? Nope! Time at mile 1 confirms the negative, as do the swarms of runners passing me. “All right then. If that’s the way it’s going to be, might as well win the smile competition.”

The road to Okanagan Falls is beautiful. It borders Skaha Lake, with rock cliffs on one side and stunning views of the valley on the other. Locals get in on the act, setting up lawn chairs to watch, cranking the tunes, and cheering. Kids extend their hands for high fives, which I gladly oblige. To the hot gal in the bikini, wielding the garden hose I say “Well done, ma’am!”. I later wish I’d come up with something far funnier.

I get to the half way mark in Okanagan Falls in an underwhelming time, but I’ve gotten over that by now. I’m just so grateful that I can run at all. But wait. I’m going through the aid stations faster, keeping good form, and I’m not walking on the uphills like many others. And I’m about to unleash a formidable weapon.

The performance-enhancing effects of caffeine are well known. In their infinite wisdom, the organizers of Ironman Canada provide flat “de-fizzed” Pepsi at each aid station on the run. I rarely drink coffee or pop, so caffeine has a disproportionate impact on me. The morning meeting at VANOC where I showed up having drunk three cups of coffee has become a cherished memory for some colleagues. So, put a litre of Pepsi into me over 1.5 hours and….KABOOOM.

Three quarters of the way through the marathon, I get it into my head that it would be fantastic to run the second half faster than the first. With five miles to go, the Pepsi-fuelled rampage down Penticton’s Main Street is on. I’m running for real now, passing other runners, but also cheering on the spectators. This caffeine-induced euphoria, one of the peak athletic experiences of my life, carries me to the last miles of the race. But throwing up becomes a distinct possibility. So for the last two miles, no more smiling, no more stopping, no more Pepsi.

The final mile in Penticton is a tease. You run right up to the finish line, then turn away from it for the better part of a kilometer before heading for home. I run the last steps into the chute alone, cheering the people in the grandstands. Second half marathon is two minutes faster than the first half.

Afterbwee

The Ironman experience doesn’t end when you cross the finish line. Volunteers escort each runner to the recovery area to have their official photo taken and to get food and drink. This I do, flanked by two matronly ladies I could lean on. I am now feeling really weak (from a monstrous sugar low or caffeine withdrawal probably), and so at my request they lead me to the medical tent.

I just want to sit there, and a volunteer brings me a cup of hot chicken broth and thermal blanket, which makes me feel better. But what a scene in triage! Beside me, a burly DNFer sits holding his own I/V bag. Across from me, a weepy young woman clutches her stomach while another retches agonizingly into a bag. A cycling casualty limps past, shorts and jersey torn and bloody. Prostrate at my feet, a young guy drifts in and out, eyelids fluttering as a nurse briskly orders his legs lifted and a gurney to be brought. Slouched silently in the corner, a man wearing a Superman cape stares vacantly. It’s time to leave.

As more people finish, the entire zone begins to looks like a kind of “Night of the Living Dead – Penticton”. Hundreds of emaciated corpses, shuffling about, looking for sustenance. I linger, chatting with a few friends, eating whatever I don’t have to walk to get. Then I stumble over to get my bike and gear and spend an agreeably pathetic long time walking back to the hotel. I’m surprised to find I’m the first to return to my room, but my roommates arrive shortly after. One, quite fresh after getting an I/V. The other, silently curling himself into the fetal position on his bed. Showering awkwardly offers a glimpse into my geriatric future. Cleaned up, I/V Man and I make our way to the adjacent Denny’s for takeout burgers, also bringing one back for Fetal Man, still slackjawed on the bed.

At 11:00pm I/V Man and I drive back to the finish area to pick up Fetal Man’s bike and to cheer on the final competitors racing to arrive before midnight. The atmosphere is electric, the crowd thumping the bleachers loudly as each new Ironman approaches. I’m glad we’re there.

The following day we pack, grab a calorific meal at Wendy’s, and spend a pleasant, hot hour drifting down the Penticton canal on inner tubes. The awards reception passes without incident. Two beers and we’re done.

What about you?

I don’t need to sermonize to you about dreaming big and achieving goals. We all do it, lucky us, and it’s awesome. It is good to keep things in perspective too. Paraphrasing my dad, “Sport is the most important unimportant thing there is.”

However, some of you are reading this because becoming an Ironman lurks in your mind. So let me help you get rid of some excuses.

“I’m not in shape”: Winner Jordan Rapp was nearly killed in a hit and run accident last year. A passerby had to stick his hand in his neck to keep him from bleeding out.

“I’m too old”: Sister Madonna Buder, 81, missed the time cutoff from bike to run. But don’t feel sorry for her, she’s racing another triathlon next weekend.

“It’s expensive”: Yes it is. But especially if you already are a cyclist or are a rower, you know it’s worth it.

“I have young kids at home”: At the pre-race athletes dinner, the MC asked all the competing moms stand up to be recognized. I didn’t count, but it was easily hundreds.

Credits

Encouragement

I still find it hard to believe so many of you were interested in my adventure, right from the start. In a positive way, I felt some pressure to put on a good show, and I believe this resulted in a better performance. Thank you!

Coaching

Calvin Gehlen (finishlinecoaching.com) took a goldilocks approach. Not too little. Not too much. Just right. Being new to Ironman training, I wanted a basic program, and that’s what he provided. My dream was safe in his hands.

Kris Hildebrand is responsible for my evolution from a sea cucumber to something approaching a real swimmer. Because of him, I gained the confidence to line up at the front of a 2800-person mass swim start, and to beat nearly 2500 competitors out of the water.

Cycling Gear

Cycling equipment can make triathlon a very expensive hobby. My good friend Colin Darling, who also works for Different Bikes in West Vancouver, helped limit the damage to the pocketbook. The IMC ride was dedicated to him and his wife, Lee.

Training Partners

Each of these people trained with me at least once in preparation for Ironman Canada in 2011. Their good humour made them a joy to spend time with, even when there wasn’t much talking happening. If I forgot you, call me on it and I’ll owe you a beer!

Gregg Ambrosi, Emlyn Bolton, Dory Boyer, Sarah Blizzard, Dan Blondal, Veronica Brenner, Jim Close, Colin Darling, Lee Darling, Stephane Delisle, Rod Edmiston, Magnus Enfeldt, Chloe Gendron, Steven Herbert, Lisa Kwiatkowski, Pat Malaviarachchi, Kathy McKay, Kelsey Miller, Yui Nishimoto, Christiaan Piller, Deb Robertson, William Schuurman, Robynne Shannon, Erin Thrift, Jennifer Westoby, Dick Woldring

Groups

The Exceleration Triathlon Club, led by dynamic husband-and-wife duo of Kristine Chambers and Kris Hildebrand, was my great discovery of 2011. Right in my neighborhood, the club makes sport fun for youngsters. Volunteering to help kids gain a passion for physical activity has been the best way for me to give back a little for a very selfish pursuit.

Thanks to the Vancouver Open Water Swim Association, people can safely train and race longer distances out here in ways not available to most of the world. Yet another British Columbia advantage.

Medical and Physiotherapy

Dr. Dory Boyer, a friend, running partner and rabid Olympic pin collector, as well as an orthopedic surgeon and sports medicine pro, quickly assessed my ankle injury and assertively encouraged me to tackle rehabilitation. The marathon could not have gone as brilliantly as it did without his counsel.

Samuel Cornell at PT Health in Vancouver helped turn my eggplant-sized (and coloured) ankle into something functional in just five weeks.

Ironman Roomies

Staying three-to-a-room with two complete strangers, right before the big event, has its risks. Fortunately, Fred Hines and Yui Nishimoto were cool, gave great advice to an Iron newbie, and didn’t snore. What’s more, these guys went fast – Yui broke 11 hours, and Fred qualified for Kona with a sub-10 performance.

 

 

Numbers for the Nerds

Temperature on August 28, 2011

• 20°C water
• 33°C air

Distances

• 3.8km swim in Lake Okanagan.
• 180km bike loop from/to Penticton through Okanagan Falls, Oliver, Osoyoos, over Richter Pass, Keremeos, Cawston and Yellow Lake.
• 42.2km (26.2mile) run from Penticton to Okanagan Falls and back.

Ranking

• 331 of 2832 overall. (There were 2598 finishers).
• 66 of 313 in M35-39 age group.

Times

	Swim	Transition 1	Bike	Transition 2	Run	Total
Pre-injury Estimate	1:05:00	0:05:00	5:45:00	0:05:00	3:45:00	10:45:00
Actual	1:06:20	0:04:57	5:42:54	0:03:18	4:10:48	11:08:14
Pace	1:45/100m		31.5km/h		9:35/mile

Race Day Nutrition

Item	Quantity	Total Calories
By 5:00am on race day (Race start at 7:00am)
Peppermint tea	1 cup	0
Cinnamon and spice oatmeal	2 x 40 g packages	300
Banana	1	100
On the bike
Carbo-Pro (3 scoops) and Thermalyte Meta Salt (3 capsules) mixed into water	4 x 600 ml bottle (2.4 litres).2 bottles in first two hours.2 bottles in last two hours.	1200
Water	2 x 500 ml bottle (1 litre).Between hours 2 and 4.	0
GU Chomps	4 x 60 g packagesOne package in each of the first four hours.	760
GU Gels	4 x 32 g packages.Approx. one every hour.	400
On the run
Water	24 x 150 ml cup (3.6 litres in four hours). Every aid station except the last one.	0
GU Gels	5 x 32 g packages.Four in the first half marathon.	500
Pepsi (non carbonated)	10 x 100 ml cup (One litre in two hours). Every aid station from mile 14 to 23.	500
TOTAL FLUID		8 l*
TOTAL CALORIES		3960**

* Despite this intake, I did not pee at all during the race, nor did I need to.

**That’s about 7.5 Big Macs.

2011 Training (34 Weeks January to August)

Type	Hours
Swimming	75
Cycling	116
Running	70
Cross-country Skiing	26
Racing	10.5
TOTAL	297

• Average Hours Per Week: 8 (Is that really all it was? Can coach Calvin Gehlen and I get an efficiency award or something?)
• Biggest Week: 13 hours
• Number of scheduled run and cycling hours not done due to injury in March: 11
• Number of scheduled running km not done due to injury in July-August: 101km.
• 27 hours trained for each hour raced at Ironman.