Ironman South Africa

"Before the race I wasn’t sure I was going to finish, and during the race I was struggling like everyone else, but in the race the goal was to not fall off the bike.”

-Clememynte Alonso-McKernan (ESP), 2012 Ironman SA winner

  

Rain pre-race

The Ironman. 2.4 mile open-water swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile marathon run. As if it wasn’t hard enough. Port Elizabeth thought differently. Race morning welcomed us with gusting winds, hammering rain, and soaking the bikes, post-race gear, and all who braved the early morning start. I began laughing about 30 minutes prior to the start because it was funny. This wasn’t just poor weather; this was insane weather. Rumblings throughout the crowd said that we might be canceling the swim. I sprinted to the tent along with 300 others to escape the rain and change into my wetsuit. There was space for about 50 of us so this was a bit rough. When I tried to stand, I realized I had put my leg through the arm hole of the wetsuit. Not a great start. A quick pee and I joined the start mass to a rising sun, dancing Africans, and 1800 nervous people.

The start, and the calm before the storm, again

As if continuing the joke, the skies relaxed and the ocean calmed. It was going to be a perfect day after a questionable start. I hit the water about 100 feet back, determined to be ahead of the slower people but not crushed by faster swimmers. It retrospect, the first lap (1.2 miles) didn’t feel all that bad. I never really found a rhythm as my stroke and rotation did not feel natural, but that was common in open-water swims for me. My split when I exited the water should have been between 30 and 33 minutes. It was 38 flat. Hmm. That didn’t seem right, but not a time to panic as I could totally pick up my swim on the second lap, expending more energy now that the field had sorted itself out.

Nope. What actually happened is the sea spit back. My first leg of 300m went ok, but when we turned left for a 700m segment, all hell broke loose. The current against us, every stroke was a negative. After a few hundred meters I could see the next buoy, but every time I looked up, it was further away. I was going backwards. When I fought harder, my strokes wouldn’t catch water when I was on top of a wave and I would only feel air as I splashed down into the bottom of the swell. My breathing was only to one side as when I would try and alternate breathing to the left, I would swallow a mouthful of salty ocean water. Turing seemed to make no difference and I found myself running into people if I drafted or swimming wide and alone. It was an exercise in poor strategy that’s for sure. The last 150m was the longest of my day as I made my way along the pier towards the shore. Swimming in high swells and tides like this was like running a marathon in sand. It was like being in a washing machine and trying to swim straight. Eventually this tumble cycle caught up with me and I vomited chunks into the water mid-stroke.

Me in blue, post vomit, post swim

When I exited the water and saw my watch (almost 1:22), I nearly quit. My projected time was 1:06-1:07:30. This was way off and my heart sunk even though Sarah was right there at the exit to try to motivate me onward. Given my projected time, I am surprised that she waited around, but we were all struggling. Only 4 men broke an hour, when in most Ironman competitions, all the contenders go under 50 minutes. Six-time Ironman World Champion and eventual female winner Natascha Badmann described the swim as “brutal.” From that moment on, my resolve was to forget the time and focus on finishing this race strong, though the initial goal was to simply finish. My transition was solid (4:18) given the long distance to run between grabbing my bag, showering, changing, and getting my bike.

I hopped on determined to ride a strong bike. It was not to be. Instantly upon entering the road, the winds blasted us across the lanes. You know those large plastic barriers used to block traffic for construction or concerts that are the size of a couch? Minutes into the bike one of those blew across the road in front of us, causing riders to bend around it. It didn’t get any better from there.

Suffering on the bike. The picture looks nice, but for an indication of the wind, check the palm tree over my right shoulder bending nearly sideways. 40mph sustained winds, gusts of 60+mph.

The course is three loops with a major rise in the first 13km of each loop, rolling after that until about 35km, and very flat from there until transition. However, the cross- and headwinds made cycling nearly impossible for about 25 miles of each 37 mile loop. We plowed up the hill in large groups, barely hitting 15 mph on the first loop, and falling to 12 and 10 mph on the next two. After climbing at this slow pace for 13K of each loop, normal Ironman SA athletes welcome the summit and last major climb of the course with a 9K descent with rolling hills before the turn around. On this day, the normal blazing downhill at 40mph was replaced with a hard pedal at 20mph, and got slower with each progressive loop. Small rises that should have been ripped over thoughtlessly were all-out sprints at a crawl. Never have I been so excited to reach a checkpoint in a race as I was to hit that turnaround each time.

When I rolled to a stop at 2nd Avenue to say hi to Sarah upon completing my first lap, I nearly quit. In my mind, there was no way I could ride that course again, let alone twice more. The brutal ass kicking I took in the water coupled with a horrific first loop ended my resolve. Somehow, the cost of the trip, the 39 weeks of training, and many disappointing days of races forced me to remount the bike and press on reluctantly. My butt muscles weren’t firing correctly the whole first loop so I adjusted my seat, only to find that now my hamstrings had shooting pains and I stopped just a few kilometers later to adjust it again. But from that point on, all was well.

The second loop proved to be every bit as difficult as the first. The long, arduous trek to the turnaround was both silent and deafening. Few words were exchanged amongst riders during this stretch. The phrases in my recollection are “Are you kidding me?” “Unbelievable” and &^%$. Yet at the same time the wind blasted in my ears sounding like a tropical storm. A sustained wind of 35-40mph was accompanied by 50-60mph gusts. Later in my hotel room I sat bolt upright thinking I had gone deaf until I realized that I was just no longer outside and the wind was just a haunting memory.

Because the wind was so intense from about 6K before the transition/finish until the 22K mark, it was difficult if not impossible at times to drink or fuel on the bike for the period of an hour or more. The pressure on the bike meant riders had shifted sideways in the cross wind and forward in the headwind and unpredictable gusts could move the bike and rider across the road 20ft instantly. Such conditions made reaching down for a water bottle or fiddling with opening a Gu largely inadvisable. The effect on the body was evident as consistent fueling makes for a better race. After the turnaround point, a steady tailwind allowed most everyone to sit up and consume calories and rest their legs while still maintaining forward momentum. This should have been the fastest part of the course though I did not witness any rider pushing too hard here.

               
 After turning off the main drag, the riders had a short segment heading toward the ocean. This made for some very dangerous riding as the wind was directly 90 degrees to the rider. After going with the wind for several more miles, we returned for one last stretch toward the ocean. It was perhaps the most scared have been in an athletic event. The gusts took me from the far right side to the far left side of the two-lane road in under a second, and it was by sheer luck that I didn’t end up in the ditch each time I rode this stretch. My pace dropped to nothing as I fought to keep the bike moving forward and prayed for the worst to be over. Eventually it was, and we turned along the sea for a much (relatively) safer trip back to the city, often riding between 26 and 32 mph.

My last loop did not disappoint. Winds were higher now and the climb to the turnaround was all the more difficult. At one point a pack of riders were stood up by a gust a wind. One moment we are all hunkered forward pedaling for our lives, and a second later a blast of sea air had everyone in a full stand, faces screaming in pain, yet the bikes were motionless. It looked like a sprint race where guys are doing track stands and lurching forward. The suspended motion picture then returned to full speed as the wind abated and riders, suddenly recovering forward momentum, now had to fight to regain control of the bikes, some of which had shot left and right when life resumed. The final trip to the turnaround was welcomed since I was sprint up the hill at times and nearly vomited when I glanced at the speedometer only to see a “blistering” 8 mph! I gained some confidence on the last loop, controlling the bike better in anticipation of the dangerous sections, though I did not push home as fast in the final section as before, knowing a full marathon lie ahead, and a scant few minutes gained in the final 20km of a bike are often given back 10-fold during a crumbling marathon.

My return to the city was a scramble in the wind but a welcome relief. Dismounting and free-wheeling my bike to a volunteer, I had my bag and was in the tent in about 30 seconds. After stooping to apply sunscreen (which I could not find prior to the bike) I was out. Transition was 2:32 due partly to the reduced distance to travel and less gear to acquire, but mostly as a result of just plain being glad to be free of that bike! With 26.2 miles to go, every minute spent sitting in transition hating the bike that was now over was distance on the road lost to me, and hence longer until that sweet finish line. Glad to be running, I couldn’t escape the wind. My visor was blown from my head and despite the sun on my face, I had to turn it backward.

Exiting transition with a smile glad to be free of that bike. (check the wind sock)

My pace for the first 10K was just under 8 min/mile, a pace that I knew I wasn’t likely to keep but I also wouldn’t blow up at either. Being a relatively flat course, the wind provided the only external factor, and I was feeling surprisingly good after such a strenuous bike. As good as the first 8 miles of a marathon in the Ironman can feel, I was flying high, especially after seeing my buddy Shawn go by on his bike when I was at the 10K mark.
My glory didn’t last too long after the start of the 2nd loop. After seeing Shawn on the out-and-back just 7-8 minutes ahead of me (but down one lap) I started to waiver a bit. The only significant climb on the course had no spectators on it, so things were pretty lonely as I started into a funk. Crossing halfway in about 1:45, I had a fine pace going but 13.1 miles left to brave. To this point I had not yet walked and in chatting with a fellow racer, we debated where to finally stop. Luckily, experience kicked in (or maybe it was my all-energy gel diet) a few miles later and I started the last loop confident of a strong finish. I had thought I would finish the lap and walk a bit on the rise to the turn around. But I was told to just get up there and get the white bracelet (signifying a runner on his last lap) and all would be good. But after I battled up that rise, it was downhill for a while, so no walking there. Of course, then there was the crowd – several miles of loud, drunken fans pushing people on, so why walk there? No, my walk break would come on the hill to the university – that windy, desolate climb where all fun stops and you are reminded just how long this race is. But wait, that hill is the last obstacle on the course, so if I crest it, I don’t need to walk at all. And crest it I did, but only to see an ominous black sky on the horizon.

A guy is trying to talk me out of walking (I am starting lap 3, he lap 2).

The thing is I never walked in this marathon, a feat I am proud of both because of my fitness level and my pacing and fueling. However, I define walk as more of a state of mind than a pace, because the course tired to slow me to a walk. Moments after seeing those dark storm clouds coming over the course the rain hit with a vengeance. Sharp, stinging rain blew in sideways (and once we turned the corner, head on) causing all life to be sucked from us. Dusk was falling and it was a low point for many athletes. I only soldiered on because I was wearing the white band (last lap) and saw many wearing red (first lap). One guy said, “Well, we started in the rain, might as well finish in it too.” It was a heavy reminder that the weather wasn’t going to cooperate once on this race day.

Rounding the turn to the finishing road I saw Shawn ahead. When I caught him, we exchanged words of encouragement. He hobbled a bit with some knee pain, but after about 500m of talking, I bid him farewell and pushed it home. I had a scant 3K to go which felt like nothing after 11 hours into the race, but proved to be quite a distance. And suddenly I was in the finishing chute, slapping hands with kids, and squinting into the bright lights. There was no more wind, no more rain, no more bike or ocean. There was only that finishing tape and a very loud voice saying, “Justin Walker, welcome back. You are an Ironman!”

                     A medal, a water, a picture and escort to the massage tent. I happily laid down for the rub down, and to this day am convinced that it upped my recovery by a week. Having never been a fan of massage, I may be trying it again. Also, I am not one to eat post race, but famished from the effort I scarffed a few slices of pizza, soup, hot chocolate, a hamburger, and a muffin before the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion caught up with me. The shivers set it and I started to zone, missing Shawn finish by just a few minutes. I then had to walk our bikes back to the shipping zone and on to our hotel, which felt quite good despite the cold.

Wetsuit rubbage left a scar and took longer to heal than muscles!

I’ll end this relatively long race summary with a reflection. The course was great, the fans spectacular. The weather just sucked. Time was not a factor, nor do I care about the time. Overall, I finished some 9 minutes slower than my first attempt 7 years ago, yet everything about this event – how I trained, the skills I gained, my pacing, my control, my effort – was superior this time. Given an even playing field, I am certain I could have been between 1 hour and 1:30 faster, and that would have been satisfying. My recovery was immediate and I consider this excellent preparation for Western States, not to mention a very positive indicator of my chances to do my best there.

In the end, my family deserves this medal. They were with my every step of the way, and supported every late night at running club, early morning bike, after work in the pool, and altering vacation plans to fit run and bike courses. It was a huge sacrifice but it costs a lot to be an Ironman, and is worth every second.

                                                                                   

Event	Predicted	Actual
Swim	1:05-1:07:30	1:22:03
T1	5:00	4:18
Bike	5:15	6:14:56
T2	3:00	2:32
Run	3:20-3:30	3:38:14
Total	9:48-10:10	11:22:06
Place	------------------	112

The Hay is in the Barn

With two weeks left to go, there is no more major work to be done. Nothing can be gained in the time remaining, only lost. And I must say that I am ecstatic about the way that I have made it through. I have had illness and stress fractures on far less intensity and volume and this time, things have gone relatively well.

After the 5K and the Argus, I had a down week, and then the final push. Within a period of 6 days I had to do my longest training in each event. It started with a marathon on a very hilly course. I needed to keep things in check so I did lap 1 in 1:38 and felt fine. The first half of each loop had long uphills but the second half had blistering downhills, turning legs into hamburger. When I hit the last 10K, I started to let gravity take over and shaved 6 ½ minutes off the pace in the final kilometers. I crossed in 3:14:59 and felt pretty good. It was my 3rd straight marathon with an even or negative split, showing I am in complete control of my running.

Two days later I hit the pool for an over distance swim - 4K of flipping and swimming; 160 lengths in that empty pool. It was mind-numbingly boring but I made it, and my time of 1:13:55 equates to around a 1:10 Ironman swim. But this was in a pool with turning every 25m (which is slow). When I have the energy of race morning, a wetsuit for buoyancy, and being able to draft off people, I expect that I can go faster.

A few more workouts and Saturday morning came, bringing with it a century bike ride. I began with 20 miles on the trainer – a feat that would normally kill me but with 100 miles to do, it didn’t seem that bad. It had rained all night so when I joined the club for the standard 50 mile jaunt into the hills, the roads were wet and a wind kicked up, leaving my toes and hands frosty most of the way. The group I joined was fast and we 6 soon broke from the pack. At about 38 miles I stopped to pee and spent the next 20 minutes hammering to reconnect with them. It was the hardest I have ever ridden, but I caught up, and when I did, sat on the last-placed wheel. The top three took off again but we didn’t chase and I cruised in with group 2 and onward home, having completed 71 miles. My buddy, Chris, joined me for the last 29 miles. He rides once per year so his support was moral, not physical, but the sun came out and it turned into a nice day. I lead him the whole way, stopping on the top of hills to wait and chatting with him on the flats. When the final tick of the computer said 100 miles, I knew that I had one of the best biking days ever. The pace wasn’t as fast as my race needs to be, but this was about completing the work, not about time. Yet it was still a solid sub 6 hour effort.

So by completing my longest sessions in each of the three events within 6 days, I proved to myself that I am ready for Ironman. But doubt still remains – Will I swim efficiently enough? Will I crash or flat out on the bike? Will I cramp? What if my run goes to hell? What if it is rough or windy? A lot of that I can’t control. I know that I don’t put in the miles on the bike or run that I need to in order to be a star, but I am doing what I can and hoping for the best. The letters you remove from the word “Impossible” to make it “possible” are IM – IronMan.

Overall: I have trained since August 1 specifically for this event. I have done numerous races but all geared toward the Ironman. My 4 marathons since November will help, as will the 40 I have completed. When I need to draw on experience to make it through, it will be there. I have done 4 triathlons this season and the rhythm is there. My bike races have helped me not just survive the time on the bike, but pace myself as well. I have recovered from each race and workout well, never needing extended rest. I have been in the hospital several times for crashes, had food poisoning, an allergic reaction, stomach issues, and twice for eye surgery, yet I keep on keeping on.

The Swim: I have focused greatly on the swim this year. My workouts, though possibly shorter in duration than before, are all about speed. I have made targeted improvements in my form; specifically my hand position in the water, my roll, and my catch and release. I should be a stronger, faster swimmer, but the improved efficiency will be the best benefit to my overall race, leaving my primed for the bike and run, not choking on salt water with an upset stomach. My best workout was a 30x50m where I did them all in under 50 seconds, the last few in under 45, and one of them in 38 seconds. I did a 4K straight.

The Bike: Compared to most, my mileage is probably pretty low. But I have gotten out most weekends for a 50 mile or more effort, and done some longer races. Last IM, I hated the bike and just survived in the race. Not that I love it now, but I am better able to get through the rides without the energy depletion and loss of concentration.

The Run: I have gone from an overzealous kid to a veteran. When I first started this crazy sport, I had run only 4 marathons, and most of those disasters. Now I have run 40, winning 3 of them, placing 2nd in another, and owning the pace I choose to run in most everyone of the last 10. I did a 3:05 on 19 miles per week. But my best was a hilly marathon where I nearly jogged a 3:15. Throw on my ultras and I know what it is like to run. If I can come off of the bike/swim in a good time with my reserves intact, I will run well enough to have a good day.

“I find I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey who conclusion is uncertain.”
                               -Red (Morgan Freeman); The Shawshank Redemption

Walkers Go 1-2; 2-peat

In the annual AISJ 5K, there has been only one name of late – two people, but one name. Last year, Justin Walker took the overall individual title with Sarah winning the woman’s title with 3rd place. This year, no one separated the two and the Walkers went 1-2 to repeat as male and female winners of the race.

I planned the course and helped the logistics this year so many hours went into communications, route construction, and setting up the course. If fact, the morning of, I spent all my time up until the gun running around doing last-minute set-up, and no warm up. After a typical blazing start, doubt crept in when not only the usually ambitious student body lurched out in front, but a staff member went to the front. He looked Kenyan with ripped calf muscles and he was way out in front, but didn’t seem to know the course. He kept slowing and looking around at each turn. There was no way I could let him go out too far. By about 600m I had surged and joined him. It looked to be shoulder-to-shoulder, whitey and African pressing the pace tape-to-tape. But just as soon as I joined him, he was gone; not just back, but fading fast. I worked the course alone from there, running at about 75-80% for most of the time and pushing certain portions to my benefit. While winning a race easily with little effort brings no satisfaction, it was exciting to be snaking through the final turns and seeing Sarah over my shoulder. I crossed in 18:30, 1:29 ahead of Sarah who broke 20 min on the cross-country course. We were both very pleased with our times for the effort and terrain.

The next day I rolled onto a plane and flew to Cape Town for the Cape Argus Cycle Tour. I had a fairly early start time but it wasn’t enough. The pace was fairly slow and hundreds of riders were bunched up for most of the first half of the race. It was touch and go in many places with some crashes and sketchy moments. I tried to stay out of trouble early on. As we crossed the halfway point, a break occurred in the pack and I hammered to get caught up to the next bunch. But the wind was strong and soon the group rejoined. We yo-yo’ed for a while and slowed desperately in a long, exposed stretch leading up to the big climbs. As we arrived at Chapman’s Peak, people were all over the place. I blew by most of them on Little Chappie’s, even without trying. Then we hit the main climb and I blasted up, determined to hammer this whole climb and work my butt off. My climb was impressive but many people caught up on the descent as I was unwilling to take any unnecessary risks. All that remained was one, long, hot climb. With that pain behind me, it was a scant 10 miles to the finish. The crisp ocean air was a welcome relief from the hot, blowing wind that was a part of most of the ride. We wound through the streets and neared the finish. I got up toward the front of the bunch trying to make a go of the sprint. But I went way too early and was picked up easily by the pack a hundred meters from the line. My time was about 3:10, and I am very pleased with that considering the terrain, weather, and the pace of my pack.

All races are done. Time to focus on the Ironman.

WTF is Wrong With Me?!?! and FML were considered as alternate titles for this blog. Let me give you a brief overview of all the crap that has happened since we last spoke.

After coming off a 3:05 marathon on 19 miles per week, the universe was pissed at me. After all, aren’t there many slightly overweight middle-aged people out there that run twice that far, week in and week out for years and still never come near 3:05? Yep, and now Karma is going to slap me in the face for it. My stomach pain returned with a vengeance at the end of January and off I went to the doctor for the scans and tests. Some swollen glands and excess of fecal matter in the colon (which is odd since I am the most regular guy in the world). That is it. Oh except for underactive thyroid. Yep. I am not an overweight, depressed, constipated woman, but I have an underactive thyroid. Go figure.

After my uncomfortable stomach in an Olympic triathlon where the guy has the heart attack, I jump into the 116K Ride for Sight and find myself in the biggest barnburner this side of Paris. We are cooking for the first 20 miles, often well over 30mph and averaged 26mph for more than an hour and a half. I let the pace go to pee and worked my ass off to rejoin, which never happened because the pack blew up and I ended up never getting a pack, just stragglers, and then some monster hills started making the carnage even worse. Still, I was looking at the fastest bike of my career. And then there were 4K left. I am in a pace line, 2nd position, and the guy in front of me stands to stretch. He weaves left. I am there with no shoulder to use (just a 1ft drop off) and our wheels touch. I go up, then down to the ground, and two guys behind me slam right over me. I am a bloody mess, no British pun intended. My handlebars are cracked in two, my front wheel is off. When I watch the Tour on television, I am always baffled by how long it takes guys to remount the bike. The race is leaving you! But now I know. It is because falling off your bike at 21mph hurts like a mother $%^$@#! I go shower, nap, and awake to find my wrist is immobile.

After a stint in the emergency room, I am now cleaned up, bandaged, and with a negative x-ray, free to go. My wrist doesn’t return mobility for another day and is only 90% after a week but my season continues. I throw in a half marathon for fun, that is, until I find out it is the hardest one in the city, with sickly winding climbs and punishing descents. What was supposed to be an easy long run turned into a leg-melting 1:37 half, good for 1:30 on another course. Then, my face starts to itch and soon my whole mug is consumed with a flaming sensation and puffy eyes for 5 days. Back to the hospital. No cause. Non-descript allergic reaction. More medication.

Raccoon Eyes from an allergic reaction

I week after the half, I head to Pretoria for their marathon. I am there at 5:15am for the 6 o’clock gun but it takes 40 min to park, then I have to run 1 mile, past the start line to the registration, pick up my number, and then run back to the start. When I get there, the runners are long gone. I have missed my first race start; only really big fat people remain in sight. By several K the pack thickens until it is a swarm and I am 40 feet to the side of the road in the grass passing them all. It too, gets hilly but I get to see a herd of zebra on the run, which is pretty unique and the one shimmer of light in this tale. My time on my watch is a much-too-hard for the time 3:24 but the clock reads 3:32 as I was 8 min late starting. No chip time. I back this up with a 50 mile ride the next morning and see a lion; my dead legs rejoice.

Now it is time for the half Ironman. My test for the big dance. It sits between weekends of a marathon & 50 mi bike and the 5k race & Cape Argus ride (110K over the mountains). It will be the pinnacle of my training. Can you see where this is going? Wednesday I call in sick, exhausted and with a cold I have had for 3 weeks. Thursday I start to feel ill after dinner. On the drive home that night, I get dizzy, whip the car to the side of the road, lunge out, and vomit 4 times. Sarah drives me home and rolls me to bed. I wake 2 hours later for a bout of 7 heaves into the sink and toilet. This continues once per hour – run to the bathroom, hurl 5-7 times, limp to bed. Around 4am, the problem heads south, and Sarah wakes at 6 to me squatting on the toilet, hurling into the garbage can. The smell was less than pleasant. I don’t go to work Friday. The expulsion of everything liquid slows then dies by mid-day, but I am weak and cannot eat. 36 hours till race.

I wake Saturday morning feeling better but not whole. I leave and make the 6 hour drive to the race. The day is spent in the car or in bed as I sip liquids and test whole foods. I sleep well – it is the first time in a day and a half – and rise early for the race. Wait, I am feeling ok! Not great, and only some drinks, a banana and a piece of bread but I am moving. It is freezing out, windy, but no wetsuits are allowed. The gun goes off and thankfully the water is far warmer than the air. However, there are numerous boats anchored in the way and only 2 buoys for the entire 1900m swim so sighting is a little difficult. I figure with my food poisoning I can't afford to gamble so I start in the back of the pack, something I have never done. I trade getting swam over when up front for getting stuck behind a wall of slow people so nothing has worked for my swim start yet. But I focus on rotation and draft as much as possible in the swells and soon I am heading for home. I limp out of the water and split my watch – 26:03?!??! Can that be right? I shaved 6 minutes off my half Iron swim…maybe the course is short. Whatever, time to hit the bike.

My first lap is difficult but I don’t hammer. It is very hilly and I am keeping pace with everyone I have caught and no one is going past. Lap two goes the same, yet I shave a minute. This is going well. The wind is strong in my face and it starts to rain. Yet, I am on pace for a 2:30 bike on and very hard course and I have kept it chill thus far. Now I need to shine. I start to focus on my pedaling and glance left to the historical site where Nelson Mandela was captured. And like his quest, mine is about to be interrupted.

Wham! The thud of my body is quickly followed by the scraping of metal on road. I skid for a moment and then begin to roll. Maybe my tire blew. Or maybe it was a perfect storm of the headwind, the rain, and the sweat-sunscreen concoction dripping into my eyes. It was probably just a momentary lapse of focus and down I went. After the sirens stop whaling in my brain, I hobble back 10m to lift my bike from the road. I take note of the yard sale I have created and pick up all the loose items. My original thought as the pain starts to settle in is that my race is done. But I finally stand up and start to change my blown tire. After all, I need this race to get in some good distance. My bike pump doesn’t work – did I break it in the crash or does this POS that I have never used in all the time I have had it fail me now for fun? Some air goes in but not enough to ride on. Surely I will pinch flat on a tire like this. But no matter. My helmet is cracked and my sunglasses – picture this – are still on my head but both lenses have been knocked out. I am bleeding from no less than 10 places and the cuts are starting to stiffen. I want to finish but I think best to head back.



My slow wheel of shame gets me into the parking lot just as my front wheel grinds into my fork. Something is clearly wrong. I fling the bike in the car and walk to first aid for a cleaning. I figure I had better not waste the day so I go for an hour run, blood dripping, but at a respectable clip. It isn’t a total loss. I know my swim and bike would have been solid, and I can judge by my legs on my run that my fueling was decent and I could have had a good day. But it was not to be. A long drive home stiffens my scabs, a shower makes them scream, and I have a scant few hours to see if my bike is terminal before it loads a plane to Cape Town for next weekend’s race. Lucky to be alive, I am asking Karma if we are even yet. My left side of my body is more scab than skin.

 

  

Post-race wounds captured

We All Have Bad Days (Just Don’t Make Them Your Last)

Near-death experiences on the triathlon circuit.

There were many opportunities to call it good today. The signs were all there to pack it up and go back to bed. I didn’t listen to them, and if I had, I would have missed out on one of the most sobering moments in my career.

Although the race was only a scant 28 minute drive from home, a 6:00am departure was barely enough to get to the line on time. Registration for the race cost me 1 hour of standing there. In perhaps the slowest line I have ever been, the clock clicked closer to 8am as I inched toward the front. Once I got within sight of the table, I had to dash the 400m back to the car for cash. The day license for the race was 70 rand; I swore I had paid that online. After my panic-stricken sprint for a half mile to get funds, I arrived back at the table, thankfully before my spot was up. Having only brought 70 rand – enough for the license, I was informed that I had paid that online, which would have made my sprint worthless were it not for the timing chip rental of 80 rand, 10 more than I had on me. After some smooth negotiation, I was able to register for less and get marked up.

The race was delayed long enough for me to drop my bike in transition and use the toilet, though the line was too long for a sit down experience. Unfueled, heavy, and under hydrated, I wadded into the water, hoping things would improve. They didn’t. At the gun, I hit the start for the interval timer rather than my stopwatch. So for the duration of my swim I was treated with 8 seconds of beeping every minute. Sound sure carries underwater. In the end, I climbed out of the lake with no idea of my swim time.

A quick transition and I was out on the road. Splat! One Gu packet fell from my new tri top onto the ground. Cursing, I stupidly thought I could scoop it up on the next lap. A mile later the lone remaining Gu packet fell out of the other pocket leaving me without for the rest of the race. I saw those damn packets smashed each time I passed. Cursing this time at Profile Designs who was responsible for not only my lost Gu but my constantly slipping aero bars attached to my handlebars, I rode on. It was a four-loop out-and-back course and each loop was slightly rolling with a strong headwind on the way back in. Instantly after mounting the bike, a sharp stomach pain hit me and stuck with me the rest of the day. It didn’t debilitate my ride so much as suck the life from it. While I held a decent pace (~23.1mph), I did not make the progress I hoped and lost some spots to competitors I normally might outride. My pedaling lacked life and I was content to just ride to the finish, hoping the run would go better than the rest of this day had gone.

It didn’t. Right away the stomach cramp became a sharp side stitch worthy of high school cross-country camp after a summer of no running. The entire 10k was spent speeding up until the cramp bit and then backing off till I could run without it hurting, and adjusting from there. No slouch on the run, I still moved well, and split a 42 flat run, which, minus the issues, could have been much faster. All in all my time was acceptable and I know I could have done more. I actually walked away from the race feeling like I hadn’t really even pushed that hard. But it wasn’t over yet.

Due to the large number of races occurring, athletes must leave their bike in transition until all competitors have cleared the course. This meant an hour or more of sitting around, sweaty and cold. The timing chip had sliced a nice gash in my ankle and I started to shiver, again cursing anyone and anything that got me here. I changed and walked to the car to wait out the bike issue because the sky had just opened up and the rain was coming down in a spray of icy water. As I moved back up the course, a runner was screaming “Medic! Medic!” so I naturally looked around to see a cramping or puking runner. What I saw was much worse.

Already halfway across the street, I doubled back to where two others surrounded a fallen male runner. But cramping he was not; his body was limp and he was face down on the pavement. I picked up his head off the ground and we pushed him to his back. He was very cold. There was talk about moving him out of the rain but there was a more immediate problem – he wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. My hand was on his neck expecting to feel the rapid heartbeat of a dehydrated or exhausted man. I felt nothing and he was completely unresponsive. My head was spinning trying to think back to the training on how to deal with this and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt incapacitated – too ignorant to know what to do. I looked around hoping for medics but none were in sight. The two guys agreed to start CPR and one started pushing on his chest. The other yelled at him not to do that and cupped his hands in a straw-like formation and tried to blow into his mouth, as if he didn’t want to touch lips. The first yelled at him that no air was going in and started doing chest compressions anyway. The other said it was supposed to be 30, not 5 compressions. I looked back and forth between the two as if at a fast-moving tennis match, although the contestants appeared to be two retard monkeys vying for who could screw up the 3-step CPR they teach to prepubescent teens desiring to become babysitters.

Maybe it was the cold head in my hands or perhaps the shock of the thought of no pulse meant he would die, I finally snapped out of it. I yelled at the guy to push more and faster and for them to keep going. My only thought – aside from where are those freaking medics!?!? – was that bad CPR was better than no CPR. I should have done it myself but maybe I didn’t want the responsibility of trying and failing. What was the right thing to do? Could I let this guy die and live with myself? I don’t know. In spite of our futile efforts, the man gagged, his white tongue protruding from his purple lips, and heaved a breath like those people with sleep apnea. I held his wrist and felt a strong pulse. We pushed him to his side and heard another gasping breath. The bumbling, chunky medics had somehow unwedged themselves from their chairs (did I mention that we weren’t more than 200m from the finish line, though out of sight, and at least 5 minutes has passed?) and arrived. I backed out of the way and handed the guy’s sunglasses to a bystander friend of his. Not knowing what else to do, I walked away, thinking if he was going to die, I wasn’t going to watch while the medics administered oxygen and he faded into nothing.

An hour later I had my bike and grabbed a medic. She said he was awake when they sent him to the hospital and should be fine. It really puts the race in perspective as some things just aren’t worth it. So this guy Greg and I both had a rough race. I am just glad it wasn’t the last for either one of us. My time and place? Who cares? I was just glad to walk back in my front door.