My 140.6 Mile Journey

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“They say that finishing an Ironman is a life-changing experience. I really hope that they weren’t referring to losing a pinky toe, because I’m not sure mine is going to make it through the day and that would suck.”

This is the conversation that I am having with myself as I plod through the dark and deserted streets of Panama City Beach. I am competing in my first Ironman Triathlon. It’s just after 9:00 p.m. and I have been propelling myself forward for more than fourteen hours. I am exhausted and my body is breaking down. What started out as aches and pains has evolved into a full-on civil war between my mind and my body. My mind is winning, and my body is paying the price.

I try to keep myself focused on the task at hand. I must keep moving. I must finish what I started. Today is the culmination of eighteen months of training and preparation. It’s not about an event, it’s about my life.

I am not the same person I was two years ago.

That person couldn’t run a hundred yards without being winded. That person couldn’t do a lap in the pool without stopping. That person carried around fifty-five more pounds. That person drank too much beer and ate way too much fast food. That person couldn’t keep up with his kids when they were playing.

That person couldn’t commit to this type of goal and see it through.

That person wasn’t the real ME. This is ME. This journey has proven that I am still here.

Unfortunately, none of that is any consolation to my feet, which are damaged goods. They feel as if they have been beaten with a hammer, especially my left pinky toe. Every step sends a jarring pain up my leg. And in a cruel twist of cosmic irony, it hurts more to walk than it does to run.

But when I run, I am slammed with the realization of how exhausted I am. There is just no more gas in the tank. I make a mental commitment that the next person that casually mentions that they are “exhausted” will get a full-on beat-down from me on principal alone. “You don’t know what exhausted is,” I think to myself.

Snapping out of this negative mental place, I think about my day.

I have survived a 2.4 mile swim with 2500 of my “closest” friends through a jellyfish-filled ocean. I have endured the never-ending winds on my 112 mile bike, and I have been running, walking and shuffling for just over 23 miles. “Just over 3 more miles to go,” I say to myself.

“Then you can call yourself an Ironman.”

The Morning

(all images generic from Google)

After a full and nice seven hours of sleep, the day starts with the alarm going off at 4:00 am. “Time to wake up and eat breakfast!” I chuckle to myself as I remember the first time I read the book “Be Iron Fit” by Don Fink (who would later become my coach). In the book he talks about eating at 4:00 am on race day. I remember thinking how strange it was to get up, eat, and then go back to bed before a race. How little did I know.

For all the planning that had been done days and even weeks before, things are still hectic in the morning. Quadruple-checking my stuff (even though most of it had been dropped off the day before). Getting dressed, only to get undressed to go to the bathroom (a tri-suit and multiple layers of clothing make this a time-consuming process). We finally get everything packed in the car and head to the race.

I get to the transition area and things are pretty hectic with people moving around in all directions. This is definitely not like the 70.3 race I had done a few weeks ago where things were quiet and calm. I add some last minute items to my gear bags (backups to my backups).

It was now after 6:00 and it was time to put on the wetsuit. Mrs. Iron Geek and I had spent about an hour the night before stenciling my race numbers in Sharpie on my shoulders so I could look good on race day. So it was only somewhat what funny when they mostly rubbed off while putting the wetsuit on. Even more funny to find out that I only spent about 3 hours of the race with my shoulders bare, as I was otherwise wearing clothes that covered the numbers.

Within a blink of an eye it is 6:45 and we are making our way to the beach. There are 5,000 people trying to make the same trek at the same time, so things are chaotic. The cannon goes off at 6:50 to signal the start of the pro race, and I am still not on the beach. I am definitely getting nervous.

Things start to get a little bit surreal. There are so many people and they all look the same. Each person is wearing a black wetsuit and green (men) or pink (women) swim cap. It seems like everyone is moving in slow motion. It’s almost like a scene from a movie. There is a definite tension in the air as people pace around on the cold sand, each mentally preparing themselves for their day.

I find myself rocking back and forth from my heels to my toes deep in my own thoughts. Doubt creeps in. I start thinking, “What am I doing here? I’m not an Ironman. I am a poser who hasn’t really put in the effort to be here. I’ve missed way too much training. I’m not cut out for this. What was I thinking?”

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and calm myself down. I tune out all the noise around me and just keep repeating to myself, “Do it for Kendall. Do it for Jolie. Do it for Cannon. Do it for Carla. Do it for YOU. Take it down.”

I hear the national anthem. Slow and deep breaths.

“You can do this. You are ready. Take it down.”

I open my eyes and see the growing light of dawn over the ocean.

“Take it down.”

The Swim

Goal Time: 1:45
Dream Time: 1:30
Bad-Day Time: 2:00

The cannon fires. “Panama” by Van Halen starts blaring across the speakers. Bodies start making their way into the ocean. While I had expected a flurry of activity, from the back of the pack it’s more like a slow walk. No one seems to be in a big hurry to get into the water. Knowing it’s going to be a long day, I take it easy as well.

Since the day I embarked on my Ironman journey, I have been worried about the swim. You hear horror stories about getting punched, kicked and your goggles getting knocked off. None of that happens to me. I occasionally run into the back of another swimmer, or have a swimmer brush against me, but nothing that violent. That is a huge relief.

One of my biggest regrets of the day is starting at the back of the swim. I have to finally accept that while I’m not a good swimmer, I am also not a bad swimmer. Starting in the back just put me behind a bunch of people that were not good swimmers. I found myself often running into a traffic jam where the people swimming in front of me were stopped, causing me to stop, causing the people behind me to stop as well.

The biggest surprise of the swim was all of the jellyfish. They had warned us at the banquet that we may run into some jellyfish, but it was unlikely and not to worry (but to avoid being stung if at all possible). Well, there were actually a lot of jellyfish on the course. I probably saw 30-40 over the course of the entire swim. And they were not “hamburger sized” as we had been warned about. Some of them were pizza sized. Having never really seen a jellyfish in real life (at least outside an aquarium where they don’t really move), I was very surprised to find out that they looked and acted just like those in the movie Nemo (which my oldest daughter watched almost every day for a span of 6 months, so I’m VERY familiar with it). While most of these glowing pink creatures were swimming well beneath the ocean surface, I would occasionally be surprised by one that I would have to do some creative swimming around in order not to get stung.

That aside (and it really was minor) the swim is uneventful. I settle in to a nice rhythm, focusing on my breathing (every other stroke) and staying long and strong. I notice that I am going the same speed as several of the swimmers next to me while taking half as many strokes. I consider that a small victory in itself and keep pulling. The first turn buoy comes up much faster than anticipated. A quick left (staying wide to avoid the mele) and it’s on to the second buoy. Another quick left and we are headed back to shore.

This swim is a two loop swim that is mostly in the shape of a rectangle, with an exit on to the beach, across the timing mat, before entering the ocean again for loop two. I exit the water and I see Mrs. Iron Geek holding up a “Because You Can” sign (my favorite answer when people ask me why Ironman). That gives me a pep in my step to get back in the water.

The second loop is even easier, with people now more spaced out than on the start. I notice that my wetsuit is rubbing the back of my neck in a bad way so I adjust it on the fly and it seems to do the trick. I find a nice lane out wide of the buoys and again focus on staying long and strong.

Considering how much I had been worried about the swim for the month leading up to the event, it is by far the best part of the day. The ocean was clear and a great temperature and it was a great day to go swimming. I exit the swim onto the beach but miss seeing the timer. I would later find out that I did my swim in 1:25. A full 5 minutes faster than my dream time. A great way to start a long day.

Transition 1

We run up from the beach, through a breezeway into a parking lot where we are handed our transition bag. The first thing that I notice is how many bags are left here. I had figured that I was one of the slower swimmers, but based upon the number of bags still waiting to be fetched by their owners, my swim wasn’t as bad as I thought.

We then make our way into the changing area (the ball room of the host hotel). Inside of this changing area looks like a MASH tent. Bodies are everywhere . Hundreds of them. People are sitting in chairs, sitting on the floor, leaning up against the walls. Some people are naked, others are changing. It is literally bedlham. Luckily I find an open seat and sit down to my bike gear. A quick change into my bike shoes and a bike jersey and I am out of the door.

Time in Transition - 12:04 (Estimated at 15:00)

The Bike

Goal Time: 7:00
Dream Time: 6:30
Bad-Day Time: 7:30+

I walk out of transition and there is Mrs. Iron Geek again with her sign cheering me on. It is a huge boost. I get on my bike and the longest part of the day is underway. I start picking off slower riders. Dozens of them at a clip. I’m averaging 20 mph and feeling great. I am passing about 10 riders for every 1 that passes me. This day is going to work out after all. I feel like whistling.

I start to have visions about shattering my dream time on the bike. My dream goal is based upon a 17 mph average and I am taking it easy going at 20 mph. It must be my fancy helmet and wheels. I mean, I just beat my dream time on the swim; I’m obviously going to shatter my goal on the bike. I am going to crush it today!

I again laugh to myself as I realize that I have the exact same thoughts in almost every race that I enter. I always start off great; have visions of shattering of my goals, only to realize that my goal times were dead on. I deflate my big head a little by reminding myself that a lot can happen in the 107 miles that are left.

Exactly 1 mile later, “a lot” happens. We turn to the north and into a pretty nasty head wind. What had been more of an annoying crosswind gusts that occasionally tossed your bike around in the first part of the course, was now directly in my face. It feels like I am riding through water. My average time drops to 12-15 mph. I am now getting passed by 10 riders for every 1 that I pass. Grim. Serves me right for thinking this was easy. Cocky bastard.

Two days before, while scouting the course, I was sharing with the world how wonderfully flat this course was. None of those pesky hills to slow me down. This was going to be awesome. I officially retract any and all positive statements related to a flat course. Flat courses suck! On a hilly course, if you stop pedaling down a hill and you coast. On a flat course, if you stop pedaling, you stop. While it seems counterintuitive, I would much rather ride an Ironman distance on a hilly course than a flat course. (“The More You Know…”)

With an unrelenting head-wind, the course starts to take its toll. At somewhere around 20 miles into the bike, the course turns to the east. Every biker that is travelling at roughly the same pace as me is looking for solace with this direction change. We have been talking for the last 5 miles about how turning east will make such a huge difference.

Turns out it doesn’t. It doesn’t get better at all. I’m no meteorologist, but I would say that these particular winds were coming out of the north-east that day. Just enough to ruin the north bound travel and just enough to ruin the east bound travel. Did I mention that roughly 45 of the first 56 miles were either north bound or east bound?

At mile 32 the race leader passes me in the other direction. He wasn’t hard to spot with the motorcycle cop and the Ford Edge sporting the 8’ wide chronograph with his time on it. That and the fact that he was FLYING. Damn it must be good to be a gangstah.

At about 52 miles or so into the course, still fighting into the headwinds, the road goes to shit. There are cracks in the road every 6 feet, deep enough that the bike bounces, sometimes violently every time I hit one. I get out of my aero bars because my entire body is jarred when hitting some of these. Well isn’t this just special.

By mile 54 I am ready to throw my bike into the woods and walk back to Atlanta. “Ironman is fucking stupid. This sucks and I want my money back. Somebody tar this frigging road!” I say on the inside.

This is when I pass the “Special Needs” pickup section on the other side of the road. In an Ironman race you are allowed to leave any items you may need at the halfway point of the bike and the halfway point at the run. My mood instantly gets better as I have packed my special needs bag with EXACTLY what I need.

I make the turnaround at mile 55 and race back to my special needs bag. I stop, get off my bike and walk it onto the grass. I reach into my bag and dig out a glorious 8.4 ounces of liquid heaven. If there is one thing I need right now its “Wings” and this very warm Red Bull is just what the doctor ordered. I sit there on the side of the road, leaning against the frame of my bike, sipping a warm Red Bull, watching other bikers go bike, and I could care less.

After 9 minutes, I have eaten a gel and drank my Red Bull and I get back on the bike. I am in a much better mental state of mind (no longer thinking about walking to Atlanta). I have come to the realization that most of the return trip should be filled with tailwinds, as it mostly an out-and-back course. The glass is now half-full.

The rest of the bike goes much better. There are a couple of big rolling hills, but it is mostly just really, really boring. Just miles and miles of long, straight and flat course. If you take out my Red Bull Break and a 3 minute pee break I take at mile 88, I would have averaged almost 18 mph on the bike for miles 55-95, above my expected average for the day.

With 106 miles in the books and only 6 left, the course turns back along the ocean. I’m now back on the same stretch where I had been passing riders like crazy earlier today. Now the streets are mostly empty and the winds are whipping. My average speed drops down to 10-12 mph.

It’s lonely and miserable. All the good vibes and positive mental attitude that I had gotten over the last 50 miles have blown away like the sand on the beach. There is nothing subtle about this wind, it is brutal. No one is out in this wind and there aren’t a lot of other riders around. I can see the hotel where transition is, but just like in Vegas, it’s a lot further away than it looks. These last 6 miles take forever.

I finally pull back into transition 7:11 after I had left. 11 minutes over my goal time. I am VERY happy to be off the bike. Unfortunately, Mrs. Iron Geek is nowhere to be found.

Transition 2

I drive my bike up to a nice volunteer and yell, “Get me off this thing!” Like a magic genie, she grants me my wish and a nice young man appears from nowhere and takes my bike (Don’t I get a valet ticket?). I am ushered to the transition bags where I am yelling “1366! 1366!” A nice volunteer hands me my bag and says, “You’re actually 1336 sir.” Why I guess she’s right. (Good thing there’s a sticker on my helmet)

I am then ushered back into the changing room. It’s much different than earlier. It’s almost empty now. I grab a chair and take a seat. A nice volunteer asks me if I need help. “No thanks.” I say. A few seconds go by and another volunteer asks me if I need help. “No thanks.” Another nice young man comes up and says, “I’m going to give you help. You look like you need it.” I realize that I am in a fog and have been fiddling with my helmet for a few minutes.

He dumps my stuff on the ground and starts organizing it. Shoes out and fresh socks placed in each shoe. Running belt with gels are out. I direct him on which clothes I am going to wear and which he can put back in the bag. He finds the bottle of Aleve. “Would you like some of these?” “Yes PLEASE. Three of them.”

I am dressed and out of there in less than 10 minutes. I have no idea how that is even possible. I owe that young man a drink (If he’s even old enough). I could have easily been in there for a half hour without his help.

I walk outside and down the chute. I walk up to the volunteer and ask, “That sign says ‘Run Out’, can you point me towards the ‘Walk Out’?” He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “Get a move on 1336. It’s time you go get this thing done.” I suppose he’s right, so I get a move on.

Time in Transition - 9:50 (Estimated time 15:00)

The Run

Goal Time: 6:00
Dream Time: 5:00
Bad-Day Time: 7:00+

As I run onto the main street, I am surprised by the number of spectators. You would think that there was some type of sporting event going on. People keep saying, “Have a great marathon!”

There are about a billion things that you can say to someone leaving their second transition in an Ironman event that are encouraging. ‘Have a great marathon!’ is not one of them. I’ve got to run 26 miles? You have GOT to be KIDDING ME! Somebody get me off this ride, I think it’s broken.

I start to run. I look for Mrs. Iron Geek in the crowd, but I don’t see her. Bummer. There was probably a mix up on my time on the web site (I later found out that there was).

My pace feels incredibly slow, but the magic watch on my wrist says I’m running at a 10:30 min/mile pace and that my heart rate is 142. Amazingly, I keep to my strategy of 11 minute run with 1 minute walk for the first 3 miles. I am actually amazed that my body would do this after that brutal bike. Go me!

At somewhere around mile 2 (The course is a two-loop out-and-back, so it’s actually at miles 2,12,13,and 25) I come across a set of houses that are throwing an Ironman party. They have Christmas lights stretched across the street between two houses, the music is bumping and there is a disco ball. People are dressed up in all sorts of bizarre costumes and literally throwing a dance party in the middle of this marathon. I run underneath the disco balls lights right through the “dance floor”, around Cat Woman and the no-shirt guy.

The first time that I crash their party, they are blaring LMFAO Party Rock. That has officially become my anthem for Ironman Florida. I’m pretty sure it was playing at least two times of the four that I passed through the party. “Every day I’m shufflin’”

The run weaves through the residential neighborhoods along Panama City Beach. I am very surprised by how many people are out cheering. There are people that obviously here to support a participant, but others (like my Party Rock crew) that are just here because they live here and want to offer support.

The other big surprise is how many aid stations there are. After my horrible aid station experience with Ironman Augusta 70.3, I was pleasantly surprised at the number of stops. Some were for the “out” section of the course and others for the “back” section, but those volunteers would help out runners headed either direction, so there was plenty of opportunity to get your drink or eat on.

At about 5 miles into the run, the pain in my feet that had started earlier in the day on the bike starts to take center stage. It is now more than a “little nuisance pain” and it is getting worse by the minute. My left pinky toe is starting to throb and I don’t think it’s a blister. Great. How am I going to go to work with a cane?

Run/Walk becomes more of a Walk/Run. I move faster when I can, and slower when I can’t. It’s like trying to drive a car that’s out of gas. It may start and run for a bit, but then it sputters and stalls. That is exactly what I feel like.

The sun sets about ¾ of my way through the first loop of the run. As I make my way back towards the finish line (and the turnaround for me), people start congratulating me on my sub-12 hour finish. While I appreciate their support, each one is a small dagger as I just nod, knowing I still have turn around and knock off another 13 miles.

Just as I’m about to make my turnaround, I see Mrs. Iron Geek. She comes running across the street to meet me. I give her a kiss and tell her that I want to go make the turnaround and timing mat and I’d be right back (it’s 100 yards away). Considering it’s been 10 hours since the last time that I saw her, seeing her is a huge lift to my spirits.

“This loop is going to take me a lot longer,” I tell her, “My feet really hurt.” She offers a ton of support and tells me that it doesn’t matter. I’ve got 5 hours to go 13.1 miles. I am going to do it and she is very proud of me. She says she’ll see me at the finish line. I put on my long sleeve shirt (that had been around my waist) and head back out into the night.

The second 13 mile loop is a much more solitary and lonely experience. There are much fewer people out, both competing and cheering. It’s dark and a little chilly. I plod my way through the streets of Panama City. Alone with my thoughts, I reflect on the last 18 months. What a journey.

I am struck by how different everyone that I encounter is. Old and young, small and large, men and women, each person is out here for their own reasons and has their own stories. It’s hard not to be impressed by people you’ve never even met, knowing they are about to be Ironman finishers.

With a half mile left to go, I can see the finish. Fueled by the lights and sound of the finish line, my energy increases 1000 fold. I have been abusing my body for the last 15 hours salvation is right around the corner.

As I come down the finish line chute, I am overcome with emotion. The pain that has been racking my body melts away.

It’s been 18 months. I have trained hundreds of hours. I have missed out on tons of family time with my three kids. I have spent thousands of dollars along the way and I have been stressed out beyond belief.

I have wanted this so badly. I haven’t wanted to believe it was actually happening until the very end. I couldn’t let myself believe until I could actually see the finishing arch in front of me. As I run down the final 50 feet of the finishing chute, it sinks in: “I am really going to do this!”

I did this journey for me. I did it for a healthy life and a good example for my kids. I did it to prove that I can accomplish whatever I set my mind to. I did it because most people didn’t think I could. I did it because I can.

I cross the platform. The clock reads 15:16:04. People are cheering and clapping. I feel like I’m floating. I have a stupid looking grin on my face that stretches from ear to ear.

“Hey Todd! You’re an Ironman!”

(took it down)