> Race Report: Ironman Coeur d> '> Alene 2004
>
> The finish of Ironman Coeur d> '> Alene is about as perfectly staged as any
finish could be. You can hear the noise when you are still a mile away. It gets
louder as you run the last few blocks. Anticipation mounts as you bear left
where the route to the finish diverges from the course for those with another
lap to run. You turn the last corner onto Sherman Avenue, and the spectacle
sprawls before you. You are all alone in the middle of a vast and vacant
four-lane road that pours its black tarmac down the hillside towards the lake.
Half a mile ahead, where your sight lines converge, there is a boiling mass of
people. You know the finish line is somewhere in there, but it is impossible to
pick it out amidst the massive, heaving, multi-colored throng. As you do the
ironman shuffle down the road you can hear, above the background hubbub and the
pounding rock music, the frenzied calls of the race announcer whipping up the
crowd. They respond with loud thumping on the crowd barriers and rhythmic chants
of Go, Go, Go. You slowly draw closer to the mob; it seems like a dense
confusion of bodies with no way through, but as you approach a narrow passage
opens before you. There are faces smiling at you, people shouting for you, many
outstretched hands as you enter the human chute. You catch a glimpse of the
clock; there is time for high-fives with some of the kids, a smiling salute to
the crowd, and perhaps even a tear or two as you approach this culmination of
great effort. Then it> '> s time to straighten your shoulders and look good for
the camera, you hit the red carpet, and you run those last few meters between
the packed bleachers through a bedlam of noise. There is the arch, you push
through the tape, the brown timing mat beeps, and as you collapse into the arms
of the catchers the announcer booms: you are an Ironman once more. For me, it>
'> s Ironman number four and my first sub-12 hour finish.
>
> They hold you up while the chip is cut from your ankle. Somebody drapes a
medal around your neck; a t-shirt is stuffed into your hands. The kindly
catchers make you talk; they are trying to figure out whether to take you to the
medical tent or deposit you near the food stalls. I> '> m for the food; the cold
pizza holds no attraction but many mugs of hot chicken broth go down the hatch.
Kelly, who came in almost an hour ahead, is not so lucky: she is on a stretcher
getting her third bag of IV fluid, and they shake her awake whenever she
threatens to drift off. Maybe that is the price for winning your division.
>
> Things had not started well. Days before the race I discovered that my hotel
reservation had been cancelled without notice. I was resigned to camping at the
KOA when Doc, suffering similar misfortune, located a vacant rental home in
which to squat. Paying $40 per night to sleep on a carpet reeking of cat urine
seemed pricey, but we had no choice; it worked well and proved to be
companionable. The drive to CdA was also less than relaxing, thanks to WSDOT
having converted most of I-90 into a construction pit. There was plenty of time
for the country-and-western radio jocks to get me in touch with the heartland
and sagebrush as they filled the airwaves with patriotic fervor and lonesome
souls. You know you> '> re in Marlboro country when the bullet-riddled pick-up
ahead has a bumper sticker proclaiming that God, Guns and Guts are what made
this country Great. The fact that the bullet-holes are fake stick-ons makes the
sentiments no less heartfelt.
>
> The race featured the usual IM North America preliminaries: the race expo
cunningly designed to promote consumer excess, the presentations by various Gods
of Ironman, including Dave Scott and Paula Newby-Fraser as well as reigning
world champion Lori Bowden, who was scheduled to race, and the pre-race videos
and pasta feed. The early morning swims inevitably turned into mass exhibitions
of stunning hard-bodies, and more of the same littered the roads as I did my
reconnaissance of the run and bike courses.>
>
> Race day dawned to flashes of lightning and claps of thunder; we cowered in
Kelly> '> s van until the skies cleared. Body-marking was enlivened by a barker
advertising tattoos and body-piercing while-u-wait, as well as unusually
lascivious remarks on the part of the markers. Morale thus boosted we went
through the normal routine: load food on the bike, have a potty stop, deposit
special needs bags, have a potty stop, etc. It was a relief when we got close
enough to the start to don wetsuits and make our way over the timing mats to the
beach. A quick dip in the water was all we had time for before we were called
back to the beach for the anthem, the noisy TV chopper, and the dull boom of the
starting gun.
>
> The start of this year> '> s IMCDA was by far the roughest swim start I have
experienced. Perhaps the fact that we started standing close together on a
fairly narrow stretch of beach and were thus packed tight and deep from the
beginning led to the mayhem. Whatever the cause, the result was like being at
the receiving end of an extended underwater beating by a gang of neoprene-clad
thugs. Fists and feet were flying, bodies were shoved aside and under, elbows
mashed into teeth and heels connected with ribs. I hardly dared put my head in
the water, and when I did all I saw in the froth was bodies smashing into each
other as their owners fought for space. It was brutal, and in the circumstances
it was almost impossible not to contribute to the brutality. There was no point
in backing off, since that only resulted in the guys behind trying to swim over
or through you. To quote Doc> '> s subsequent public announcement in the
transition tent, I must apologize for all the pushing, poking and kicking I did
out there, but it seemed necessary at the time.
>
> Somehow I survived the battle unscathed and made steady progress, the pressure
easing up as the field spread out. By the time I reached the first green turn
buoy, at 800m, I could swim fairly freely, and after that I had only brief and
intermittent skirmishes, mainly with a few erratic navigators. I enjoyed a nice
draft behind a cooperative set of feet on the first homeward leg, while somebody
else took a liking to my own twinkle-toes on the second lap. Whoever that was
made a wise choice; my navigation was so perfect that I was brushing the buoys
with my hand as I made my way past them. The water was calm, clear and
pleasantly cool, making for a very enjoyable and relaxing swim once things had
settled down. I was surprised to see 1:10 on the clock as I emerged onto the
beach, since I was certainly not expecting a PR after the traumatic chaos of the
start.
>
> The day was gorgeously sunny, and the huge, noisy crowd lining the swim exit
and beach was providing tremendous support. The pictures show a big smile on my
face as I made my way through the swim exit and mats on wobbly legs. The wetsuit
peelers did their job efficiently, my bike bag was where it ought to be, and
soon I was in the tent putting things on my head and feet. In a misguided
attempt to be helpful one of the volunteers turned my carefully rolled-up socks
inside-out, not realizing how anal we triathletes are about getting the details
arranged just so. I stayed calm. Cheerful ladies smeared great gobs of sunscreen
on exposed body parts, I sprinted my trusty blue-and-yellow bike diagonally
across transition following a shortcut between the long racks, and we were off.
>
> The enthusiastic crowds lining the downtown streets prompted some rapid
acceleration through the initial stretches, but things quietened down once we
hit the wide lakeshore out-and-back. Time to settle into a sustainable rhythm,
check all systems are running smoothly, and start the fueling routine. Part of
my race strategy was to take it easy on the bike, hoping that this would
translate into a significantly better run time - in my last two ironman races I
had been forced to walk almost the entire marathon. So I didn> '> t get
competitive at all, and just cruised along except when I had to push briefly to
get out of questionable drafting situations. Nevertheless I soon passed Doc, and
not much later was passed by Omar on his way to the sixth fastest bike split of
the day in under five hours.
>
> There are only four climbs on each lap of the course, the first two over a
minor bump you traverse on the initial out-and-back along the lakeshore. The
first aid station was located on the bump; heavily congested but fun, with
everybody full of fresh enthusiasm. That was soon followed by another pass
through downtown and the cheering crowd lining the roads there. The crucial
downtown corner is a fairly hard righthander at the bottom of a long straight
downhill stretch, just outside transition, and the influence of the raucous
crowd was to cause various competitors to go into that curve just a bit too hot.
One pro didn> '> t make it round and smashed headfirst into an age-grouper going
the other way, resulting in numerous broken bones. I must admit that I also put
on some speed to entertain the crowds, but I took it conservatively in the bend,
only pushing hard again upon exit.
>
> Not far outside town, around mile 15, you encounter the first real hill, a
steady two-mile climb. That is the entry to a fun, wooded, winding and rolling
portion of the course, made more interesting by a succession of tight curves on
fast downhill sections. It is easy to overcook those bends, and despite
plentiful warnings on the approach there were several accidents. On my second
lap I had to swerve to avoid a big crimson pool of blood and a wrecked yellow
bike lying in the apex of the most deceptive curve. The other big climb lies in
the middle of this woody stretch; a fairly short but steep grind completely
exposed to the sun. The cheering spectators lining that climb got little
response from me as I toiled to the top in granny gear, head down and sweat
pouring onto the road, but their presence was greatly appreciated. Even when you
are focused elsewhere and don> '> t make eye contact you are aware of the
encouraging atmosphere. In most other places I tried to acknowledge the
spectators, and inevitably found that just the slightest smile and a wave of my
fingers on the aerobars resulted in redoubled cheering and energizing applause.
>
> The aid stations were wonderful, featuring costumed volunteers, loud music,
and targets for your empty bottles. Much had been learnt from last year> '> s
very hot race; this year the Gatorade was chilled, and the supplies were
duplicated so that if you missed on the first pass you got a second chance just
down the road. I appreciated that when I missed one crucial handoff from a very
young lad who dropped his arm as I reached for his bottle. I fear I unthinkingly
uttered an expletive; I hope it didn> '> t spoil his day. The one problem was
the single aid station located on the left of the course. This resulted in chaos
as riders unaccustomed to taking supplies with their left hand wobbled around in
what is usually the passing lane while the rest of us were making technically
illegal passes on the right. I knew that this station was coming and carefully
planned my intake so as not to have to collect supplies at that point, but it
was still a very hazardous stretch of the course.
>
> Once you emerge from the hills, around mile 30, the rest of the course is
essentially flat. This is a course where a disk wheel pays dividends, and I
noticed virtually all the pro> '> s riding Zipp disks. The flat out-and-back on
Appleway, a brief excursion from Idaho into Washington State, featured the same
headwind as last year. Instead of fighting into it I told myself to slip through
it, and that mysteriously worked. The smooth pavement and largely uninspiring
scenery of this homeward stretch blurs the memory, though there are enough
corners and other oddities to keep things from becoming a drag. The two oddest
features are a bizarre winding loop through a greyhound track, and a road
crossing via a railroad trestle covered with wooden s> lats. I noticed one rider
extracting himself from the haybales at the sharp entry turn onto this bridge.
The passage through a residential area of Post Falls is rather pleasant, with
lots of spectator support, and from there it is simply a ride through the
country back into town, from where you get to do it all one more time.
>
> Despite my low-key approach to the ride I found myself making steady progress
through the field, often passing packs of riders who were not too scrupulous
about the drafting rules. One fellow irritated me by hanging off the shoulder of
the guy ahead of him for miles. When I finally passed him he tried the same
thing with me, to the point where I had to tell him that what he was doing is
illegal; he muttered disagreement but got off my wheel. I was not unhappy to see
a DNF beside his name when I checked the results later.
>
> Other than the incredibly stimulating trips through those massive downtown
crowds, and the need to close my mind to anything but forward progress on the
second ascent of that short steep hill at the infamous mile 80, I recall little
of the second loop of the bike course. We were fortunate to have a slight
tailwind on the way home, which combined with temperatures 10 degrees lower than
last year made everything feel very much easier. I felt completely relaxed when
I rolled into T2 at exactly 2pm, with 7 hours on the clock. I had effortlessly
put in a split just under 5:45 that inadvertently was also a PR. My only regret
was not passing Kelly on the bike, thus depriving her of the opportunity to pat
me on the butt as she is wont to do when she inevitably passes me on the run.
>
> It was almost exactly 2:05 when I stepped onto the run course. I had gone into
the race thinking I could go under 12:30, but now a sub-12 time seemed very
feasible - all I had to do was go just under 5 hours for the marathon. I did
some quick mental arithmetic. My walking marathon time is 5:45; I had to cut 50
minutes off that; my fast walk is about 3 minutes per mile slower than my slow
jog, so to save 50 minutes I had to run about 17 of the next 26.2 miles. So my
immediate goal became to run at least the first 16 miles and then do whatever I
had to do to make it to the line within my target time.
>
> Just because I was feeling quite good didn> '> t mean it was easy to run; my
legs were really dragging. I had to push myself hard to run through the first
two-mile out-and-back. If it hadn> '> t been for the dense mass of spectators
urging me on, and the aid stations giving me an excuse to linger without too
obviously wimping out, my progress would probably have degenerated into a walk.
On the other hand I was quite sure that my running legs would return if I just
kept at it, and sure enough they did eventually come back to life at around mile
3. I soon developed a routine: jog a mile to an aid station, pour cold water
down my back, throw some ice into a mug of cola, grab a chunk of snicker bar,
consume the cola and bar as I walk to the end of the station, then take off for
the next one. I kept expecting it to be hard to start running again, but it
actually seemed easier to run than to walk.
>
> I had come to suspect that my digestive unhappiness in previous ironman races
reflected hunger rather than actual turmoil, and decided to focus on getting
some solid food down in the course of this run to see if that would help. This
race featured the new Marathon Snickers bars, and I tried to get a chunk down
the hatch whenever I could. It really did seem to help, and I never got that
hollow feeling in the gut that I experienced before.
>
> The running came to feel easy, and I found myself doing 10-minute miles,
including the time spent getting aid, which seemed very satisfactory. I even had
the unusual experience of passing people on the run. I paid little attention to
others on the course, to the extent that I hardly noticed any of the other dozen
or so Bellinghamsters in the race despite the fact that we must all have crossed
paths numerous times on the out-and-back course. The prett> y lakeside scenery
also passed largely unnoticed, with all attention fixed on getting to the next
aid station and generally just making steady forward progress. That old tunnel
vision just kept getting tighter as the day grew longer and fatigue began to set
in.
>
> As I went through the halfway point in about 2:15 I could feel a growing
weariness in my legs. But I was once more amidst the big crowds at transition
and that first out-and-back, and the next mile after that was through the
equally heavily populated downtown area, so pride kept me going after a
reasonable fashion until about mile 16 with 2:45 on the clock. That left me with
just over two hours for the last 10 miles, which seemed manageable. In
retrospect I have to wonder whether I might not have been able to go under 11:30
if I had been willing to push myself harder at this point. However, I was now
mentally attuned to that 12 hour barrier, I knew I could make it by doing little
more than walking, and I gave in to that lure and walked. This feeling that I
could perhaps have done better takes some of the shine off my PR, though the
memory of that last painful downhill shuffle to the finish line also makes me
think that such thoughts are perhaps unrealistic. I guess I won't know the
answer to that one until next time I toe the start line on an ironman race.
>
> Those last miles went by slowly. From time to time I managed to break into a
jog, but I now found myself being passed by many others. The miles and the
minutes kept ticking by and I stayed on pace, picking things up a bit whenever I
could and watching the clock closely. I hit the 25 mile mark with 15 minutes
left. Close but fairly safe; time to squeeze out whatever I had left, which
wasn't much. The finish line stayed out of sight but within sound as I jogged
the last blocks, and as I turned onto the top of Sherman Avenue I heard the
announcer call out the time. I was going to make it. I had all that long
straight sun-beaten stretch of road to the finish to savor the moment, the slow
pace forced on me by my tottering legs providing ample opportunity to absorb all
the sights and the sounds, as the cheering human chute to the line brought my
first sub-12 hour ironman to an emotional end.
>