And that was when I ruled the world

Ironman Lake Placid, July 26, 2009

Well, it’s Tuesday morning as I begin this race report and according to my family, my ‘it’s all about me’ journey ended at midnight last night. I was allowed one day of indulgence and reliving the race and then at midnight, Indy turned back into an ordinary road bike with clip on aerobars and I had to give up my glass sneakers and fairy volunteers who did everything for me. There is residue though. I still have this medal around my neck, I’m still walking delicately and I’m wondering if I can sneak in my new title into my resume – Mary P, BA(Hons), DipLIS, IM. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?

I gave you all the geeked out version of the race report (see previous blog posting) so I’m not going to go into a blow by blow account of the race. It was 15+ hours long and the day itself was 22.5 hours long, so I think I’d bore you all to tears if I told you about my breakfast, my second breakfast, the rain in the swim that set my mind recalling the 4” of rain we got over 14 hours the year before, the day long bike ride (literally – that sucker lasted seven hours and 57 minutes with only nine minutes stoppage time) and how many shotblocks I had to force down my throat during the marathon (about 30, for the record). Yawn.

Instead, I want to try and paint a picture of the experience for you. Many of you know what it’s like to spectate or participate in an Ironman and even more know about triathlons. But I know a lot of you have only seen the 60 minute edited version of Ironman on TV, so I hope I can highlight just what goes into putting this event on and supporting the racers. I’ve asked Mark to write an IronSherpa version too – his view from an equally exhausting and probably more observant perspective. My brain was pretty much mush by the end, so I missed a lot and certainly don’t have the words to describe everything I did notice. So please forgive the inadequacies of what I’m about to write.

I’m going to start at the end. At 17:00 to be precise. Actually, if I was being even more accurate, I’d say 16:59:59. 1 second before midnight and the official cutoff of the race. Anyone who finishes at midnight or later is an official DNF (Did Not Finish), and you don’t hear “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN” as you cross the finish line. 16:59:59 (17:00 on the clock above the finish line) is the time that the last official finisher came in, to a stadium that full of a thousand people literally screaming GOGOGOOGOGOGOGOGO, encouraging him to sprint the last stretch in 14 seconds. Can you imagine having to sprint at the end of an Ironman? His day started at 7am. He swam 2.4 miles in maybe 2 hours, rode for 8-9 hours and ran a marathon in over 6 hours. At some point out on the course—perhaps a mile out? Perhaps two miles out, at the point where the course cruelly turns from in front of the stadium to a lonely, dark and uphill out and back, a race official told him how much time he had left before the cutoff. Did he start running? Did he force his blistered feet to take quicker steps? Was he even aware enough to understand what he had to do? Mark and Garth and Mel and Scott and Martine and I were sitting on the grass embankment above the finish line with a good sight line to the oval. We saw this guy come running in and just started screaming our heads off. If sound can carry a man, then this crowd carried that man across the finish line. It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.

And on a day like this, what’s only one amazing thing? How about 16:58:03? Two minutes before, we were screaming and crying and clapping when a man called Matt Long came into the stadium followed by about 20 family and friends and crossed the finish line alone. Matt is the Ironman ‘Everyday Hero’ and featured in a video and at the pre-race dinner. He is a NY City firefighter who’d completed IMLP in 2005 but then was hit by a car while out cycling, shattering every bone in his leg and much of his left side, leaving him in a wheelchair and wanting to die. Eventually, he was able to walk again, but he doesn’t have use of his hip and walks with a stoop and limp. I saw him walking out on the course and when the announcement was made that he’d made the turn to the out and back (2 miles to go) with 35 minutes to go, I was seriously doubting his ability to make it (later I found out that his average minute per mile pace was 17:40, so you can see he must have had to pick up the pace to make it under 17:00). So you can imagine the atmosphere when he entered the stadium, rounded the bend and shuffled the longest 100 yards in athletics. The atmosphere was electric and there was no way I could imagine topping that – until one minute later when the last finisher entered the stadium.

When I finished, at about 10:10pm, I think that my family—who’d gotten up with me at 3 am—were thinking that we’d start making our way home. But I took my space blanket and laid it on the grass and sat down to watch what I knew from last year would be one of the most incredible, emotional and inspirational hours of our lives. I’m so glad I did and that I got to share it with my family and good friends. I’m even more glad that I got to watch it as an Ironman myself.

So that was the end of the day. Throughout the day, there were people and sights and sounds that touched me and will always remain with me.

The Volunteers

I don’t know how many volunteers were at this race. At least one for every racer and probably far more. At times I was treated like a small child by a firm but loving parent. At other times I felt like an elderly person with a caregiver. These volunteers were out there for hours and hours, standing, handing out drinks (Water? Gatorade? Ice? Chicken broth?), taking requests (Vaseline? Sunscreen? GU with caffeine?) and performing every service you just don’t know you need until someone does it for you. Like when I got off the bike to pee at a portapotty (yes, Team Z – I did NOT pee on the bike this time. It helped that I only had to pee once from 8:30am-1:30 the next morning. No overhydration here.), a volunteer was there to hold my bike while I did my business. And when you get off your bike finally at the end of 112 miles, there are bike ‘catchers’ (wearing latex gloves, natch) to take your bike and help you off it if you’ve forgotten how to stand. When I got off my bike, there was my friend Taneen to give me a quick hug and congratulations before catching someone else’s bike. And when you come in out of the swim, someone runs and gets your bike and in the changing tent, the volunteers unpack your transition bags and hand you items (helmet, shoes, gloves, race number, fuel belt, change of clothing, do you want these pills? Do you want the cap or the visor? Can I get you anything else?), and help you into your clothes, pack up your discarded stuff and return the bags to their rack. Then they rub sunscreen on your arms, legs and neck, all the time encouraging you, wishing you luck and being a calm and steady presence at a time when your brain has deserted you.

Let me tell you about a man called Steve Morrison. For me, Steve epitomizes the commitment of the volunteers to the racers and provided one of the most memorable moments for me.

At the half way point of the bike – as I was finishing the first loop and starting the second (about 5.5 hours into the race), I rolled into Bike Special Needs. In the morning, I’d stowed a bag with my number on it with fuel for the second loop, and other ‘might need’ items since you never know what the weather was going to do in the mountains over the course of a day. There must have been 2,000 bags there, all lined up in numerical order. I roll in, calling out my number until I’m directed to this man holding a bag. He starts pulling stuff out of the bag (double bagged in giant ziploc bags because there’s nothing worse than anticipating dry clothes and finding them soaked by the rain) and I say “Wait! How do you know that’s my bag?” He just smiles and says “Oh, something about the bullhorn.” Within seconds of having arrived, he had my bag and I never lost a beat as we exchanged bottles and refilled my bento box attached to the top tube of my bike. Then he pulls out this little baggie with a sticky, ugly melted brown mess in it. “Oh,” I said. “Those are my cookies from New Zealand. I was going to have them as a treat at mile 80.” I must have sounded pretty morose at losing my toffee pops, so he immediately rips open the bag and holds the bag with my two toffee pops laying on his open palm so I can eat each cookie without having to touch them. Then he sees that I have chocolate all over my hands (how’d that happen?) and holds out his arm for me to wipe my fingers. NO! I was not going to do that, so I grabbed my discarded arm warmers and wipe my hands. Steve then tells me I have chocolate on my chin. Damn – my team tent was just down the road and my photo would be taken. Steve then overrides my objections and wipes my chin with his hand, saying “I’d do anything for you.” I nearly cried. What a sweetheart. I asked him his name and told him how very very much I appreciated his help. The volunteers were so incredible and I literally could not have gotten around the course without their encouragement, their amazing ability to anticipate my needs and do my thinking for me right when I most needed it.

The Spectators

What can I say about the spectators? There were thousands upon thousands of them. Here are just a few that I remember:

• The intellectually and physically disabled guy in a wheelchair sitting in his front yard who rang a cowbell whenever his parents told him that a runner was passing by.
• The elderly gentleman in an electric wheelchair who sat out at the end of his driveway quietly clapping and cheering on tired runners for the entire marathon (and I was out there for nearly 5.5 hours).
• The couple who sat out in their front yard on one of the hardest stretches of the bike course holding their two pet goats Henry and Tony (“I’m such a long way from New York City,” commented the cyclist ahead of me). I saw them twice, so I know they were there for at least four hours.
• The four young women who spied the name on your race bib and started chants “MA-RY! MA-RY! MA-RY!” to push you along for the final four miles.
• 'Garv’s Inspiration Zone’ with an electric 12”-tall dancing Santa out front and signs placed on the road with “You are entering a no-walk zone” and “OK, you can walk now” a long 10 yards further on.
• The screaming fans lining Main Street as you came in for mile 10 or mile 23 offering high fives, “You rock! You are looking strong! You are an Ironman!” and calling out your name like they knew you personally and were there just for you at that moment.

As I ran down Main Street for the final time, I was so close to the edge of melting down that I simply couldn’t allow myself to express how I really felt to these fans and the volunteers for fear that I’d just stop and weep. Even now, as I write this, tears are running down my face. I ran down that stretch of road just saying ThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyouThankyou. It’s all I could do and so very inadequate.

Team Z

Aw geez. NOTHING I write will be able to come within a country mile of describing this team adequately or articulate how much they meant to me out there and throughout this past year. But if I can complete an Ironman, I can bloody well try and describe something of what it’s like to be a part of this team.

• When it started raining before the swim start (see previous statement about the memories of last year), Kai stands up and shouts “THIS IS TEAM Z WEATHER. WE TRAIN IN IT, WE RACE IN IT.” He made us laugh and also reflect on the truth of the statement. We do train come rain, come shine. We can do this.
• Having Es and Jason (newly minted Ironmen themselves two weeks ago) drive 9 hours on Saturday to cheer us on, helping attend to our needs like re-applying bodymarks, collecting special needs bags, photographing our finish (how the HELL did you sweet talk your way into the finish area, Jason?) and generally screaming their heads off. And then turning around at midnight to drive home to their lives and their work back in DC. It meant THE WORLD to have you guys there. We trained together for a year and it wouldn’t have seemed right not to have you there with us.
• Teaka – thanks for you and DJ driving all that distance and the CRAZY happy dance as I was bombing down the hill at the start of the second hill. You win the enthusiasm award! I wore your top thinking, hoping that it will bring you luck in five weeks as you tackle Louisville and become an Ironman yourself.
• Timra and Steve for—again—driving all that distance and appearing at the oddest places to give me a hug or yelling out my name. And the kangaroo who I hugged as I went through the green gauntlet for the last time? Inspired even if you did get the wrong country.
• All the family members of the individual racers who were welcomed at the Team Z headquarters, dressed in TZ green and who may have started the day as strangers, ended it as fully fledged Z’ers and IronFamily. I remember running passed the tent and highfiving every single TZ hand and thinking “I don’t even know who you are” but their screams were as loud as any other for me. They learned all our names of those of us racing and provided encouragement at random times out on the course. Just when I needed it most, there was a green Team Z shirt and some wonderful stranger jumping up and down calling out my name.
• Iwan’s Mom who hugged me with Melody down the finishing straight and said “I love you” even though we’d never even been introduced. To have that from a complete stranger, but particularly from someone who came from my region of the world was a beautiful way to finish the race (and Melody? You were my heroine during the training weekend when you turned up with oil at the exact moment I needed it, and now you were the last Team Zer I hugged before I finished my first Ironman. You are a heroine for allowing someone who smelled like me bury her head in your shoulder!)

When I turned away from the stadium on the last loop at mile 24 and the noise of the finish line, I found myself looking forward to seeing you guys – it was all worth it to hear the cowbells and the horns and see all the green. I’d spent the last few weeks before this race worrying about everything else except the race itself – my stupid broken elbow, my ridiculous situation at work, my life. I spent the last few days before the race worrying that I wasn’t worrying enough. I was superbly (if I say so myself) calm and collected. Even during the race I almost never allowed myself to dwell on the magnitude of what I was accomplishing. I was concerned that I was just a cold hearted person with no capacity to ‘feel’ anymore. But when I went through the Team Z gauntlet for the last time, less than 2 miles to go, I found myself with my hand over my mouth, literally trying to hold in my emotions lest I fall down and melt into a puddle of salt and tears. I found that I could breathe in, but couldn’t breathe out. All that came out was some primeval wheeze. I was hyperventilating for the first time in my life and it took me a good 100 yards to collect myself so I could carry on.

And what can I say about the figure silhouetted against the lights, standing in the middle of the road blowing a fading horn with a dog entangled around his legs? Half a mile to go and Ed stops me, hugs me fiercely and points at the Team Z tent, and says to me “That’s your true finish line.” And how right he was. I remember little of the final finish line, but I remember hugging everyone on the right hand side of the Team Z gauntlet and weeping as I left you all, carried the final stretch on a cloud of screams and emotions and love. Is that too corny?

My Fellow Racers

Oh lord – I saw some of you zero times (Chris ‘The Machine’ Wren who is literally one of the fastest Ironmen in the world but who over the past year has been one of THE most supporting and inviting and unassuming fellow triathletes as I’ve trained for this race), some of you multiple times. Some I saw running, some I saw walking. Some I only saw with dismay and realized that your race was over, but then saw you again sitting in the stands ringing a cowbell with incredible enthusiasm (HOLLY!!!!) as your team members did what you’d hoped to do that day. You toed the line. You WILL be Ironmen one day. Some I saw finish after 2, 3 or 4 attempts. All had a kind word for me, no matter how well or badly your race was going. Heidi, you were the first person I hugged on July 21, 2008 after we got our golden ticket to this race and I loved every moment I saw you on the course. You rocked it, babe. Paul, thanks for picking up the pieces of my bike and helmet when I fell and for lifting me off my feet for a bear hug before we started the race. KC – thanks for letting your daughter stay up so late and be a part of this race – it was awesome to high five her as I finished. Iwan - you had the toughest day of your life out there, but were always so encouraging of me. Your hug after you finished and found me was so full of warmth and generosity while you must have been hurting so badly. Thank you. Kiaora, mate.

My IronSherpas

My poor family. I made them get up at 3am and we didn’t get back to bed until 1:30am the next morning. But they never complained and threw themselves enthusiastically into the day and their jobs as volunteers and chief cheering squad. It’s funny, but I don’t remember seeing them much, but I’m told they were at various spots and I even highfived Mark a couple of times without even knowing it. So much is a blur and your brain really does separate itself from your body at some point in the day. They typed in a sign to be displayed electronically at mile 8 and 20 on the run, but unfortunately, technology failed and I got a cryptic “You’re looking T!” Someone else got my “Give ‘em a taste of Kiwi” which must have been an even greater puzzle for them! But I did love my hand written sign that said Kia Kaha and Arohanui on it. I certainly felt the strength and the love.

And thank you Martine for taking my virgin IronSherpas under your wing and showing them where to go, texting Mark with my splits while he was on his four hours of electronic silence. Letting us park in town and being so supportive of me. And even though you're a racer Scott, you were so encouraging of me throughout the year, I think of you as an honorary IronSherpa.

And that was when I ruled the world.

Would I do this again? When I was out on the marathon, I certainly would have said 'No.' I also realized that some things that had been said to me (like doing an IM marathon is easier than doing a standalone marathon) were obviously false and I thought to myself, I’m not sure I’d recommend this to anyone. Mark of course says that I’ll do another one day and he may well be right. But right now, all I want to do is travel to Louisville, Florida and Arizona to try and pay back to my friends what they gave to me on Sunday. Maybe one of those will spark the bug again.

Thanks to modern technology, there were several people around the world watching as I crossed the finish line. My friend Laurie says that the Coldplay lyric “And that was when I ruled the world” was playing as I crossed and somehow that seems so very appropriate. I do feel as though I can do anything and in a funny way as though I have a responsibility to live up to my title (Ironman, in case you’d forgotten!). It’s a tall order, but I’ll give it a go. Positive ways to fill my days, a fulfilling job, continuing the fitness and sports, and a plan for the future.

If I can train for and complete an Ironman, what can’t I do, eh?