Read Part 1

The Swim

After entering the water, I stood at the edge of the beach for a couple of minutes, then made my way slowly up to the starting line. The start was parallel to a big TYR buoy and was marked by volunteers laying on paddleboards and floating in kayaks. Earlier in the week, I had been struck by how small “Dig Me” beach (named for the athletes who pose there hoping to be seen) was, really just a short band of sand at the edge of the seawall. Now the beach was filled with the age group men, the more reluctant of whom (like myself) were in no real hurry to start the swim. The swim buoys stretched straight out from the edge of the pier all the way to the Body Glove boat at the turn, and I knew the faster swimmers would be jockeying for position on the buoy line on the right side. So I lined up on the start line, but well to the left. Before I even had time to think about it, the cannon fired and we were off.

I started fine and after some brief commotion at the very beginning, I found myself in open water. While this was nice, as I did not have to worry about any contact, I knew that it was not a good move tactically. I would have a better race if I would be able to follow others and try to catch a draft, as I had done at IM Wisconsin. At that race I had drafted for most of the first half of the swim, and posted my best swim time to date. So rather than plowing ahead through the open water, I decided to start bearing left toward the buoy line.

Once I made my way over to the buoy line, I was able to fall in with a group of guys about my pace and had a relatively relaxing first part of the swim. I hardly had to pick my head up and sight, as we were following the buoy line (right off the volunteers on surf and paddleboards) and it was easy to follow feet in the clear water. Occasionally I would pull out to try to get around someone, but often would end up slotting back in once I saw how much harder I had to work once I was out of the draft. I had no doubt that the line was stretching out far in front of us, but I felt good and while I can never really judge my swim speed it felt like we were moving at a pretty good pace.

However once we came near the turnaround at the boat, our slow but orderly line got thrown into commotion. The age group women had started ten minutes after the men, and the faster ones were now catching us and picking their way through the line. This was the first year in which there were separate starts for age group men and women, separated by 10 minutes. I’m not sure how the faster women felt about this start, but as a slower man I found it difficult. Less than halfway through the swim, these women had put 10 minutes into me. I tried to catch a ride off of some of the faster women for as long as I could, getting on hips, following feet, and basically just trying to work my way through the field. I’m not sure how well that worked, as with the commotion and the increased chop I felt on the way back, I seemed to be swimming more erratically.

I hadn’t really noticed the conditions on the way out, but watching the race coverage later on Livestream I was struck by how much the water was rolling. Kailua Bay doesn’t really get too many waves, thankfully, but there were pretty large swells. My wife later told me that there were some large waves breaking, a bit down the shore, and she had the striking sight of surfers riding the waves while all the triathletes were fighting their way along the buoys. I felt the swells on the way back, and also probably hit the currents which I’d read about that come after the turn, pushing swimmers back out to sea.

On my way back in through the melee, I came upon a swimmer who was really generating a lot of turbulence through his kick, and figured that would be a good person to draft behind. Looking closer, I noticed that he was wearing a wetsuit, which I had thought was illegal in the race. After accelerating a bit, I pulled in alongside him and noticed that he only had one arm. I was very impressed at the strength of this athlete, swimming with one arm through the rough waters faster than I could keep pace with.

It is easy to get a bit cynical about some of the “Anything is Possible” hype associated with Ironman, and the stories of people overcoming difficulties which seem to take up a lot of the TV coverage. These stories truly are inspirational, but after a while it’s easy to get inured to them. However it was impossible not to be inspired by seeing John Maclean at the pre-race dinner. In 1995 he had become the first paraplegic to complete the Ironman here in Kona, and had been inducted into the Ironman Hall of Fame. Now after being in a wheelchair for over 25 years, he had learned to walk again. He parked his chair at the edge of the stage and walked over to Bob Babbitt, talking about his plans to compete in triathlons as an able-bodied athlete, which he would complete a couple of weeks later.

Now being out on the course, I was humbled and amazed by how strong the physically challenged athletes were. In addition to the swimmers, I would later come across another one-armed athlete on the bike. Riding a road bike, holding on with one arm, and drinking from a Camelback (to avoid having to reach for a bottle), this cyclist would drop me on one of the hills. I could not imagine handling the crosswinds on the Hawi descent having only one arm to stabilize the front wheel.

After working my way back through the chop and the lines of swimmers coming through, the Kailua pier was finally in sight. Before long I hit the sand, wobbled a bit as I stood, and carefully climbed the stairs. I had no idea what the swim time would be, but looked up and saw 1:29 and counting. I had hoped to be faster (when is that not the case?), but given the conditions, lack of a wetsuit, and my (lack of) swimming ability was neither surprised nor disappointed with the time.

Transition 1

Moving quickly through the hoses hanging down which give athletes a quick chance to rinse off the salt water, I grabbed my bag and headed for the transition tent. I was wearing a sleeved one-piece trisuit, the Pearl Izumi Octane, and so started to pull it up. Sleeved suits had made a real comeback over the last year, mainly due to the fact that numerous wind tunnel tests have shown them to be significantly faster on the bike. In essence, “skin is slow,” so rather than having fully exposed for the wind to grip on, the specially designed fabrics allow the air to flow more naturally. Couple that with the improved sun coverage for out on the lava fields, and I was sold. I’d also read the recent studies about the potential aerodynamic gains from shaving my legs, so had broken out the razor a couple of days earlier. However, I’m not sure if the gains from lost leg hair compensated for the blood loss and scabs from cutting and nicking my legs. Skin may be slow but how about scar tissue?

In any case, I’d worn the Octane at my other races this year. It had seemed fast and I had been happy with how it felt both on the bike and the run. But my previous races had all been wetsuit swims, where I was able to just put the trisuit on under my wetsuit. But since Kona is a non-wetsuit swim, I’d worn the suit pulled down to my waist and had tucked the arms into my swimskin. (Craig Alexander had been disqualified from a race earlier in the year for wearing a sleeved suit under a swimskin in a non-wetsuit race.) So now in transition I pulled up the sleeves on my wet arms and shoulders, and once I did I noticed a terrible wardrobe malfunction. In sliding into my suit, the zipper (which goes from the base of the sternum to the neck) had split and was off the “rails”. There goes my time savings! I was now faced with spending the whole day fully unzipped. Not only would I look like a disco fiend from the 70s (minus the chest hair, the lack of which is natural and not a result of shaving) the wind would turn my formerly slick aero suit into a parachute. Unsure what to do (I didn’t have another change of clothes), I started asking volunteers if they had any safety pins. Nobody in the changing tent did, so I started out toward my bike, asking everyone I saw for a safety pin. I finally came across a volunteer who had several pinned into her credentials. She helped pin me up as well as she could, and then I was able to gather my bike and head toward the bike out. The lonely bike was easy to find, one of the only ones in the row, as almost everyone in my age group was well up the road by now. Finally I was on my way, after having spent over 9 minutes in transition, easily 5 more than I’d planned. But I didn’t feel rushed or upset, rather it helped to calm me down to settle in for a long day.

The Bike

Heading out on the bike I was surprised to see my family almost immediately. I later found out that they had come down from our condo to watch the swim and then had staked out a good place to see the bike out. After waving a quick hello, I started to try to settle in and start to work on the bike. I’m used to coming out well behind from the swim and flying past people on the early parts of the bike course. At IM Wisconsin, I was able to slingshot around slower riders for much of the first lap of the bike course, before finally hitting some open space. I still made up some ground in Kona, but riders weren’t coming back to me as quickly as I’d hoped. (Surprise! There are some really good athletes here.) There was also much less of the early jockeying than typically happens in most races.

Without fail, on hills (especially early in a race) I’m passed by several riders as they grind their way up to the top in a big gear, while I sit & spin and try to keep my eye on my power meter. Then at the top I go past as they coast down the other side. This happens often in Wisconsin. On one training ride on the IM course this summer I had yo-yo’ed like this with a guy on a road bike, him blowing past me on an uphill, when even in my lowest gear I’d be pushing over 300 watts, then me catching and passing him on the other side. After doing this for 15 miles or so, he finally called out to me, “You must be from Chicago. You can’t ride hills.” Taking umbrage at this (any Wisconsin cyclist knows this is a stinging insult), I simply replied, “No, I’m just trying to keep my power steady.” Not exactly a snappy comeback. Anyway, there was a bit of this back and forth in Kona on the early rolling sections in town, but once I got out on the Queen K highway, my position in the race had settled down. I was slowly gaining on people, and only occasionally being passed myself.

The first sections of the bike felt pretty easy, I didn’t notice much wind and I was moving pretty well for the power I was putting out (which was relatively low). Out on the Queen K the scope of the race became clear, as the lava fields stretched on and on and the sun moved more fully overhead. Coming to Hawaii of course I had known about the lava fields, but had no sense of how massive and extensive they were. The landscape truly is barren, with only some scrub grasses (with an occasional goat chewing on them) breaking up the black solidified waves. Overall, the climate was harsher than I’d imagined, the heat more intense and ever-present, and the surf at even the “family” beaches enough to push us around. Race day was a bit cloudy, which helped to keep conditions more manageable (especially later on the run), but staying cool would be a primary concern for the day.

Coming into the race, I was concerned about nutrition, specifically getting enough to eat. At IM Wisconsin, the day had gone very well until I got off the bike. Compared to 2013, I had swum 12 minutes faster and biked 11 minutes faster (in admittedly better conditions), and came off the bike looking to break 10 hours. But after running only a couple of miles I had no energy at all. I simply wanted to lie down on the cub and take a nap. I kept trying to tell myself to pick up my pace, but I was in such a fog that it was all I could do to keep moving. I just wanted to stop and sleep and for it all to be done. Later I would realize that these were classic symptoms of hypoglycemia, or a low blood sugar bonk, and that if I had just stopped early and taken in some calories I could have recovered and possibly turned the race around. But I had never experienced anything like this. I’d had the low glycogen bonk, where the mind is willing but the body unable to respond, but not this severe mental fatigue and malaise. I lumbered through the race, running the marathon 17 minutes slower than in 2013 and losing all hope of breaking 10 hours. Afterward, I headed to the medical tent and got a couple of IV bags, some chicken broth, and several bags of chips, which helped bring me back to normal.

So heading into Kona, I was determined to get off the bike in better physical shape, which meant eating and drinking more. While this carried the risk of gastrointestinal distress, I had seen in training that I was able to tolerate significantly more calories than I had raced with previously. So I had started the day with a (refillable) bottle on my aerobars, a bottle on my down tube, and a bottle in my behind the seat bottle cage. In addition, I had a couple of gels and Clif bars in my “bento” bag on my top tube, another bar taped under my seat, and one stuffed in the pocket of my suit. It soon became clear that I did not need to carry so many bottles, as the aid stations appeared much more frequently than I had expected. I didn’t touch the bottle behind my seat until near the Hawi turnaround, almost 60 miles into the ride. Instead at each aid station I’d grab a bottle of Powerbar Perform energy drink, squeeze it to fill the bottle on my aerobars (as well as drench the bars and front wheel) and a bottle of water I’d stick on the down tube. I’d drink the Perform but use the water to dump on my head, neck, and arms, wetting the arm coolers to provide some evaporative cooling. I have no idea how many calories I consumed, but it was enough to keep me alert and engaged throughout the ride, without any GI troubles (then or later). My bike ended up a sticky, smelly mess, coated in a mixture of Perform, sweat, and other bodily fluids. But with constantly drenching myself on the bike and later on the run, I finished wet but less disgusting than in previous races.

So while the early part of the ride felt nice and I seemed to be moving well, that all changed once we headed out past the airport and neared the resort area of Waikoloa. That was when the headwinds hit. I’d hear later that it was one of the windiest races in years, with sustained winds of 20+ miles per hour, with gusts around 40 mph. At the time all I knew was that I’d run into a wall of air which I was fighting to get through. In no time my speed dropped from 23 mph down to 14 mph, and with it my power. For reasons that make no sense to me, I’d noticed on training rides that I had a hard time keeping up power into a headwind. This is odd, since the extra resistance should be like riding uphill, where I have no trouble keeping up power. Perhaps it’s the noise in my ears or the demoralization factor, but whatever the cause it would lead to trouble on the day. This was a fully preventable or trainable difficulty. I’ll have to seek out rides on extra windy days (or maybe a windtunnel?) before coming back to Kona in the future (if I’m lucky enough to get back).

It was near Waikoloa, where I was in the midst of strong headwinds, that I saw the line of male pros coming the other way and heading back into town. With a strong tailwind at his back, I was able to pick out Sebastian Kienle leading the race (and he would go on to win). He flying down the road, low his bars with his head tucked, legs spinning furiously in his biggest gear. I looked forward to hitting this tailwind on the way back. Unfortunately, by the time I got back to this section of the course going the other direction, the winds had shifted. Rather than the trade winds blowing in from the coast, there was a headwind coming down from the mountains. An out-and-back course with headwinds both ways! For seemingly the whole ride back to the airport I faced stiff head and side winds, which was incredibly draining. In my previous Ironman races, by about mile 100 I’d been very ready to get off the bike. That point happened much sooner in Kona, as I grew tired of pushing into the wind and hearing it whipping through my helmet and roaring in my ears.

Other than the severe winds, the rest of the ride was relatively uneventful. I have yet to be able to hit my goals in Ironman races, apart from my very first at Coeur d’Alene. That first race was the one which I “raced” most intensely, paying attention to splits and intervals, and trying hard to hit particular time goals. But in doing so I went out way too fast on the run, and after hitting a hill at six miles my plans were out the window and my race was more about survival. In the two IM Wisconsin races, I had a general power plan in mind for the bike and ran by feel at what felt like a sustainable pace (apart from the delirium I discussed earlier). My plan in Kona was to ride steadily out to the turn at Kawaihae, then pick up the power on the climb to Hawi, knowing that I’d ride the descent cautiously, then hit it again once I got back on the Queen K heading to town. I was able to pick up some power on the climb, hung on for dear life on the descent, but the winds ground me down on the way back.

Transition 2

In my race preparations I was really split about what my purpose for the day would be. Part of me thought that the year had been a buildup to this day and that I would be a great chance to see what I was capable of if I really pushed. I had no real hope of placing very highly in my (very competitive) age group, and I was surely one of the slowest qualifiers in my age group, having taken the final slot at Wisconsin in a relatively less competitive year. But I still hoped for an iron distance PR and a solid race. But another part of me viewed the race as more of a “victory lap”, a chance to see what the Kona craziness was like and to be a part of it. Even if I raced to the best of my abilities, I would be far down the rankings, so what would it matter if I placed 58^th (where sub-10 hours would land me) or 188^th (where I ended up)? Once I was finally past the airport and nearing the end of the bike course, and my Garmin was reading over five and half hours for the bike split, my mind was made up. Sub 10 was not possible, but if I pushed hard in the marathon I thought I could finish around 10:30, or I could run easily, try to enjoy the race, and finish whenever I did. I opted to go easier, lost all thought of racing, and just went for a run.

TO BE CONTINUED...