By Raymond Britt
It had been fifty-one weeks since I qualified for the Ironman Triathlon World Championships in Kona. With Ironman Wisconsin as the first US Kona qualifier for 2004, I wondered if I could do it again. The fitness seemed there, but the track record wasn’t quite where I had wanted it to be. Until recent weeks, my race season had been a solid one, but just not quite as good as 2002, and I hadn’t had the breakthrough race that I was searching for. Ironman Wisconsin was the key race of the year, and I needed to hit it hard – this was the one that mattered.
As the final days approached, I typed out my vision for the race. I studied it. I internalized the message to the point that when someone would ask for my thoughts on the upcoming race, I’d find myself repeating sections of the typed text verbatim. The words were becoming the game plan for the breakthrough race I had been seeking.
Those words, written two days before the race, began with a sense of realism:
“This Sunday’s Ironman is held in and around the university town of Madison Wisconsin. Last year I did not know what to expect, everything started badly, and I fought my way back to earn a Hawaii spot, somewhat to my surprise. This year, I am focused on qualifying for Kona 2004, but also aware that the field is more competitive and it will be a harder task. There are only 9 Kona slots available for the more than 280 competitors in my age group.”
While my racing season had been pretty good, 2002 had been better, at least until August. Only my 6th place M40-44 at the Chicago Triathlon two weeks earlier had exceeded 2002 performance. And training levels seemed to be better in August. So the trend was good, but could it carry through to Wisconsin?
My pre-race words were less than optimistic about the swim, in an effort to prevent the temporary depression that typically sets in after a middle-of-the-pack swim result:
The 2.4 mile swim is a two rectangle loop in Lake Monona, and was terrible for me last year. It was messy, my goggles leaked and fogged up, I went off course, and I exited the water five minutes slower than at Lake Placid. I was supremely unhappy with myself, and that’s not a good way to start a 10.5+ hour day. I hope not to repeat the scenario this year, but the swim is my least predictable event. If I can go 1:12:xx as in Lake Placid, I’ll be pleased.
At 6:55am, I joined 1810 other athletes in Lake Monona and positioned myself near the front of the pack, but wide right from the crowd. The cannon urged everyone forward at 7:00am, and we were off. This was it . . . time to make things happen! Within the first sixty seconds, in the middle of the congested, churning, frothy water, my heart sank as water began streaming into my goggles. Last year’s frustrating swim flashed in front of my eyes, with memories of having to empty my goggles every hundred meters or so. Was it going to happen again?
From the start, it appeared so. I was forced to pull up three times in the first few hundred meters to empty water and try to get a tight seal. Negative thoughts began creeping in, and I quickly searched for something positive: what could possibly be good about this little challenge? Answer: decide that a little running water in the goggles keeps the fog off the lens; hey! I can see the next buoy better! No more going off course! Repeat after me: Stay Positive.
As things began to clear up, I was able to better relax and concentrate on decent form. I was reaching and extending, and it worked. I was also very aware of swimming more efficiently on my side and flowing. Buoy after buoy passed by at what seemed like a good pace. As I swam the northward leg for the final time, catching glances of the Monona Terrace building brimming with spectators at a distance on my left, I began wondering what my swim time might be.
Approaching the swim finish, I felt fast, but I’ve felt fast before and seen 1:15:xx and hated myself (not really, but you get my point). Squinting at the clock a few meters away, at first all I saw was the 1 and the 8, and honestly thought: it could either be 1:18 or 1:08 and I wouldn’t be shocked. What did it say?
When I reached the clock, it said I had reason to be happy: 1:08:54, my second best swim ever, and only 14 seconds short of a personal best. This put me in nearly the top third of racers, 673rd out of 1810 participants. A terrific way to start.
The swim-to-bike transition is the longest and most bizarre in triathlon, going from the beach up a four-story parking garage helix to a top floor transition area inside the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Monona Terrace building. Then a run of about 150 yards across the whole parking lot to the other side to start the bike. Expect 0:08:30 for transition, hopefully onto the bike course as the clock reads 1:21:xx. If it’s slower, it’s beyond my control, and I’ll have 9+ hours to gain time back.
Highly motivated by an unexpectedly good swim time, I sped through transition hoping to knock a minute or two minutes from last years’ T1 time of 0:08:31. The process was a blur, but I do remember entering the bike course with the elapsed time clock reading 1:15:something, about six minutes ahead of my plan. In fact, my transition time was 0:06:28, nearly two minutes better than last year. With this great start, I felt in perfect position to execute my bike pre-race bike vision:
“I want to explode on the bike course (‘explode’ being a relative term, given the distance and the need to preserve for the run), and I would like to shave several minutes compared to last year. I would be thrilled to come in somewhere between 5:28:xx and 5:33:xx, better than 20mph. I will have a carrot to chase; my local training partner — who’s very close to me in terms of ability — will probably exit the water about 6-7 minutes before me, and I’ll benefit by trying to catch him on the bike (and he’ll benefit by trying to stay ahead!).”
I took off in search of speed and my training partner, Barry Schliesmann. In no time, I was flying out of town on John Nolen Drive, picking off riders one by one. The bike course consisted of approximately 17 miles out to a two-loop 39 mile route through beautiful farmland and supportive towns, before retracing the 17 miles back to Monona Terrace. As I passed markers every five miles, I could see I was riding well. I reached 20 miles in 54 minutes, or 22mph. This was great, but I knew the wind and the upcoming hills would bring that speed back to reality. Four miles later, I caught Barry, impossibly early. It turned out we had similar swims, and he had entered the bike course less than two minutes ahead of me. He was also a little tired; he had reason to be.
Barry had delivered a 10:21 at Ironman Canada two weeks earlier. He had also missed his Kona goal by 6 seconds, as he was blocked by a family going through the finish chute, and could only watch helplessly as he was passed by a runner who shot through the family to ultimately take that last slot. The 6-second miss capped a frustratingly star-crossed race season for him, and he was back at Ironman Wisconsin on a mission for Kona 2004. I thought something great was possible for him.
Tired or not, Barry stuck with me, and we soon settled into a well-known scenario. We had done long non-drafting training rides all season, trading the lead every two miles or so. This was the first time we got to try it in a race, and it was great. We flew through the town of Mt. Horeb, roughly mile 30 on the west side of the course, and cruised through the next five miles of roller coaster hills, including the triple threat rollers on Witte Road, still averaging 21.6 mph.
Reaching the north end of the course at mile 40 after some fast descents on Garfoot Road, I felt ok, but I was beginning to have trouble. My right iliotibial band had unexpectedly been tightening up, and would not let go. By mile 45, riding on a narrow road through a farmer’s property on Birch Trail, a guy at the side of the road was counting off ‘. . . 207 . . . 208 . . .’ as we rode past. It didn’t take long to figure out that he was counting places, and that’s where we stood in the race. It seemed like excellent positioning to me, and it kept my mind off the ITB pain as we ascended past encouraging costumed cheerleaders and taunting devils on the longest climb of the course: Old Sauk Pass. Two more steep climbs stood in our way before we steered into the excitement of Verona.
The town of Verona throws a huge party on Ironman Sunday, and between trips to the barbecue pit, people lined the town’s main street to cheer riders in a Tour de France-like party atmosphere. Thousands of screaming people, photographers and TV crews greeted us as we reached mile 56, halfway home. It should be an uplifting point in the race, and it was, briefly, for me. Unfortunately, I was rapidly feeling the first signs of an approaching bonk, signs that my race was beginning to fall apart way too early.
I had unintentionally not taken in enough Gatorade early on, and I was beginning to pay the price. Before the race, I decided to use only one bottle cage, to be more streamlined, assuming I’d reload at aid stations every 10 miles. The first aid station was 17 miles from the start, so I got behind because I had expected one earlier. Then I foolishly skipped taking a bottle at the 2nd and 4th aid stations because I hadn’t completely finished the bottle I was carrying, and I was feeling good. I reasoned that I didn’t want to be carrying extra weight, even in liquid form. Foolish rookie mistake by this veteran; saving a few ounces of weight was having too high a cost.
Shortly after Verona, the dehydration began to hit hard. I was feeling sore much earlier than usual and really getting thirsty. Staring at my empty Gatorade bottle, in a panic, I realized I had many miles to go to get to the next aid station, at mile 70 in Mt. Horeb. I tried to stay near Barry, but he slipped out of sight for good while I was fading and trying to control the damage. As the sun rose and the temperatures climbed into the 80s, I felt like I was drying up in the desert. Everything had been going perfectly. How could I have let this happen?
Sometimes I wish there was a flight data recorder to capture all the feelings, emotions and thoughts that occur during the Ironman bike ride, especially during the bad moments. The mind scrambles in a million directions as the body approaches Apollo 13 territory: there’s been an explosion, now the question is — how to get back to earth in one piece from here? How do I not only survive the next few miles, but how can to put it back together to support the rest of the race? During some of these worst moments, I tried to find positive things to keep me going: images of friends made me smile; music constantly ran through my head, I was trying to absorb positive energy from the people, the action, and the sights and sounds around me. Dealing with these moments can be brutal, but they are also defining.
As I finally approached the next aid station in Mt. Horeb at mile 70, a rider passed me and asked how I was doing. I told him honestly: I’m bonking. He sneered back with words to the effect of ‘you’re not going to make it,’ and sped by as if I was history. It made me mad, which was a good thing. It gave me the jolt I needed; I knew I’d prove him wrong, and noted his number. I was going to blow this guy off the course by the time the day was done. Just not at that minute; I needed to down 48 ounces of fluid, fast, and here was the aid station I had been hazily dreaming about for the last 30 minutes.
Aid station by aid station, I slowly pulled myself out of the deepest bonk I’d ever experienced on a bike course. I overcompensated — I took two 24 oz bottles at every station, and tried to force myself back to normal. I staggered through the rollers, the steep Old Sauk Road climb, and the two others, and it was coming back, but not fast enough. I normally take pain reliever and salt tablets at mile 100, but I gave in and took them at mile 90. Good move. All of a sudden, I started feeling better, and by the time I reached Verona for the second and last time, at mile 90, I was riding out of the saddle and thinking about making up time.
There’s nothing like passing the mile 100 marker on an Ironman bike course, and feeling strong. After 40 miles dragging myself out of the hell of dehydration, there I was, heading back toward Madison, picking up speed again. The old me was back, passing rider after rider. The guy who sneered at me? I caught him at mile 105, and left him in my dust. Take that!
In the last miles on the bike course, I checked the readings on my bike computer, and they looked great. My speeds were coming back up, and it looked like I was going to have the ride of my life after all. All the long training rides, the speed of my new Softride Rocket, and the vision I had outlined before the race were coming together. As I had hoped before the race, I did in fact explode on the bike. It’s just that I didn’t intend it quite so literally, the good with the bad. Pulling up the four-story helix to enter the second transition, I had done what I set out to do: at 5:32:10, I had shaved several minutes off my 2002 Wisconsin bike split, and had delivered my fastest Ironman bike ride ever.
When done with the bike, back up the four story helix, change to running shoes, and out onto the two-loop 26.2 mile run course through the hilly state capitol and university areas. Because of the long transition zone, expect a 0:04:00 T2.
With the 112th fastest bike ride on the day, I had passed 466 riders, and when I handed my bike to a transition volunteer I was in 172nd place overall. Buoyed by this success, I sped through the second transition as fast as I could. I changed into the same Brooks Trance running shoes that had carried me to a 3:37 marathon at rain-soaked Ironman USA in Lake Placid a month earlier, put my Met-Rx hat on, and ran out the door having spent only 2:07 in transition. As happy as I was entering the run course for the first time ever with less than seven hours elapsed in an Ironman, I knew one thing: everything that had happened to this point suddenly didn’t matter. It all comes down to how fast you can run the marathon. And I wanted to run a fast one.
I want to run my fastest Ironman marathon and that means I need to run faster than 3:33. I was too foggy to read the pace on my watch last year, but I need to pay close attention to times each mile. I need to average 8 minutes per mile to run a 3:30:xx. I think this will require pushing harder than I ever have before, so I hope I’m feeling decent when the time comes.
I had to admit I was feeling better than earlier in the day, but not as good as when I ran that 3:33 in Lake Placid 2002. Just shy of 2:00pm, I entered the run course with the temperature above 90 degrees, knowing that the next words I wrote before the race couldn’t have been more on target:
“At this point in the race everything’s up in the air, and it takes a perfect balance of previous effort, conservation, nutrition, hydration and conditions for a perfect run. All I can say is I will be going as hard as I can, and the clock will read whatever it reads at the end. The point of the journey is not to arrive; anything can happen.”
I knew that I had not maintained that perfect balance and that a perfect run would, in fact, require pushing harder than ever before. This was going to be interesting.
The two-loop Ironman Wisconsin run course is unique in that it circulates through the center of Madison and its university, while other courses tend to mainly lie out of the main town. I had intended to run fast, and the first few miles went much better than the 8 minute pace I had wanted. My first mile, to and away from the Capitol was my fastest in an Ironman marathon: 6:41. Too fast. I eased back on the second, taking my first pit stop all day, and clocking a 7:56 on Spring Street, heading towards the football stadium. At this point, I finally caught up with Barry, who had entered the run course a couple minutes ahead of me. I passed him quickly but had the sense that he would hold on for a solid finish.
The next two miles to Observatory Drive were at 7:33 pace, and I began to wonder how fast this run might be. The combination of impending soreness and the steepest climb of the day led me to walk part of mile 5, and it came in at 9:24. But I got back on track with the next two miles, running 8:03 miles past wonderfully supportive spectators on State Street, and onto the shaded lakefront bike path.
But as soon as we approached blazing sun in an open field, the gears began grinding as hunger and dehydration became problems again. Mile 8 was an 8:22, and I knew I was slipping fast. At mile 9 on Walnut Street, both quads seized threateningly, and I knew if they didn’t get better, I was in trouble again. Feeling like I was now running in quicksand, I began ignoring my watch, and focused on simply trying to save my run.
I had been carefully taking in at least a cup of Gatorade and a cup of Cola at aid stations every mile on the run, but it wasn’t enough. There were probably also lingering effects from the bike bonk that were coming back to bite me. I began shuffling from aid station to aid station, downing a nausea-inducing combination — Gatorade, Cola, Water, GU gels, and where possible, chicken soup. At mile 11, I drank three cups of the soup to try to rebuild my sodium levels. The wheels were coming off my marathon, and I was hoping that something in that blend would help.
I moved on — I hesitate to call it running at that point because I don’t think I was going very fast. But I did notice something important: no one had passed me, and I seemed to still be moving faster than others. I returned to the Capitol, registering a 1:50 half marathon time but I didn’t even notice. I was just adhering to the last part of the pre-race plan: “I will be going as hard as I can, and the clock with read whatever it reads at the end.”
As the intensity of the heat increased, and more people around me stopped running altogether, I remembered that in similar conditions at June’s Ironman Idaho, 230 out of 1574 participants were unable to finish the course. Barry had raced there, too, and his 4 hour marathon was 100th fastest overall. So I had the feeling that even though I was going slower than hoped, it was due to conditions, and I had the very real chance of placing well in the marathon.
Miles 14 to 19 were a complete blur of tunnel vision to me, except for the wonderful spectators calling out support. There were apparently many xtri.com readers out there and I really appreciated the shouts of encouragement all day. They helped me come back to reality and I finally glanced at my watch again with 9:20 elapsed in the race, and about seven miles to go. For some reason, at that moment, a spark ignited the fuse. It was as if I had been given a new battery. I lit up inside, and said to myself: ‘now or never, time to Lean Into It.’
The next seven miles were going to determine if I was going to earn a spot to Kona 2004 in this race. Last year at this same point, I had the distinct feeling, with no real reason, that I could get 10th in my age group. This year, I also had a distinct feeling, but it was about overall placing. I was feeling like 80th overall was possible, compared to 139th overall in 2002. I didn’t really see that many people ahead, and no one had yet passed me. Well, one person did speed by me at mile 17, but ten minutes later he had passed out at the side of the road, and I never saw him again.
The final three miles of Ironman Wisconsin were slightly but painfully uphill, culminating in a short but steep climb to the Capitol. As I approached the last few hundred meters, I spotted and tried to pass what seemed like an endless number of runners. Unsure of who was on their first or second lap, as much as it hurt, I had to try to pass each one. Coming to the final right hand turn onto MLK Drive, and seeing the finish 100 meters away, I remembered Barry’s 6-second near miss in Canada two weeks earlier, and couldn’t take any chances. I broke into a full-on sprint for the finish, and charged over the line in 10:38:24.
I had no idea at the time, but I had just completed the breakthrough run of 2003 that I had been seeking. I had run the 57th fastest marathon overall, and had finished in 62nd place overall, by far my best Ironman finish ever. The best part: 6th place M40-44, and Kona 2004 Qualification. Icing on the cake: twenty-two minutes later, my training partner Barry Schliesmann crossed the line, and realized his Kona dream, too.
