I posted a pre-race report about two weeks ago. In it, I promised to post a
race report. This is it. A shorter version appears at www.xtri.com. This one
has the dubious benefit of being relatively unedited (the benefit is largely
to my ego). I hope it is interesting, informative and inspirational (that'd be
my ego again).
Ironman Canada. Whew, that's a big mouthful. It took me about 10 years to get
from my very first attempt at a triathlon to an ironman distance race, and I
think it was just about enough time.
My first race was the 1994 Windermere loop triathlon - 2.15 km/48km/12km.
Starting in the spring of that year I went from swimming six lengths before
gasping and seeing dots to swimming 80 lengths alternating breast stroke and
something approximating crawl. By the day of the race I was pretty sure I'd
make it across the lake without drowning and I did. The bike was hard but okay
and then I almost melted into the pavement trying to run 12 km in 35° heat. I
finished, so of course I started plotting my next attempt.
Over the next several years I; finished my thesis, became a first (Bronwen)
and second time (Griffith) father and raced about 4 more triathlons. Once
Griff got to the magic age of one, I negotiated with my wife (the lovely and
talented Pam - tlatP) for the chance to try the Great White North
Half-ironman. It is a spectacularly good race and I had so much fun that I
signed up for it the next year.
When I won the entry to IMC at the post-race banquet I discovered that my
tactic of keeping the lottery my little secret was a poor choice. After a
hasty consultation and a re-appraisal of priorities I declined the slot. It
was the right choice. I'd never have been ready for a full ironman two months
later.
Over the next few years I did several more triathlons and stepped my running
distances up to try a few marathons. Then in the winter of 2003 I caught tlatP
in a quiet moment and recommended a late summer vacation in Penticton. "It'll
be great," I said, "just you, me, the kids, sand, lakes, wineries, sunshine.
We'll love it."
She bought it.
By the time we got to the Okanagan I had enticed her to agree to my signing up
for the 2004 race. In some ways having to sign up a year in advance is a pain,
but in my case it was brilliant. It was far enough in the future that it
seemed a bit surreal. Once I'd signed up though, it was immutable. I would be
going. Yippee! Of course, now I had to get myself ready too.
I did a marathon in November and qualified for Boston. My running buddy
qualified in Victoria. Of course we had no choice but to go - if you qualify,
you must go. The draw is inexorable. Just give in. It was also a magnificent
opportunity to build some serious base running in the winter. In Calgary, you
need to have a very good reason to run long in January and February. The
coldest day on which I was stupid enough to run was -30° C. It turns out that
this is a very poor way to prepare to run a marathon where the temperature at
the start is 31° C.
When I got home from Boston, I started to take my road bike out for more and
longer rides. I'd been bike commuting to work through the winter, but it's
only about 10 km one way, so I needed to beef it up a bit. I started extending
one weekly swim session in distance and duration. Over the next several months
I worked myself up to 135 km long rides (about every other week), 4000 m long
swim sessions (once a week) and maintained running long sessions of 25-32 km
on weekends alternating with my long bike weekends. During the weeks I
continued to commute by bike and run 2-3X during my lunch hour. My weekly
volume bounced from 6-14 hours of training - mostly around 10 or so
hours/week.
I have a very cool wife. For Christmas she gave me a gift that I was totally
unprepared for - a week in Penticton training with Kevin Cutjar, Barb
Scatchard, Gillian Bakker and Cal Zaryski at the Ironspirit Triathlon camp. It
was July 11-18th, which is perfectly timed for IMC preparation. The other
campers were all age groupers as well, with a variety of abilities, attitudes,
senses of humour and goals. I think the week was a success for every one of
us. It was invaluable to have a chance to ride the entire IMC bike course,
swim the full course and run most of the marathon course. Names like Richter
Pass, Yellow Lake and Cawston were no longer mysterious and frightening, just
worthy of respect. We swam in Okanagan Lake nearly every day, we rode lots, we
ran lots, we learned more.
It's hard to explain the value of this experience. There's nothing quite like
hanging out with 35 or so other people who get it. We worked out together and
tri-geeked a lot and shared pointers and concerns. Some of us were awake at
oh-dark-thirty every morning to watch the Tour. We laughed. We yogaed. We were
massaged. There was sweating. Some skin was shed. Tires were changed. We
struggled into and out of neoprene. We drank Gatorade. We ate Clif bars. We
slept well. Some of us took painkillers. We tried desperately to hang onto
Gillian Bakker's wheel. There were other, even more unlikely hallucinations.
It was glorious. Then there were 6 weeks to go till IMC - remember IMC?
TlatP and I had rented a condo in Okanagan Falls for a week and a half
starting the weekend before IMC. That gave us time to settle in, calm down,
taper a bit, hang out with the kids, stress out a little. Ride a bit, run a
bit, swim a bit. Dig sand castles at the beach. Visit some wineries. Like
that.
Then Ironweek really started. I registered, the kids ran the fun run. I ran
the Underpants run (ein, zwei, drei - FLEX!). My mother, mother-in-law and
sister arrived. I scoped the expo, dropped off my bike, attended the pre-race
meeting and went back to OK Falls to stress for a while and then sleep (ha! -
I kill me). The alarm went off at 4:15.
TlatP drove me into Penticton and dropped me off near Main Street. I got body
marked. It was still dark and quite cool. The volunteers were cheery and fun -
how do they do that? I was jittery. I drank some gatorade and contemplated
eating some Clif bar. I visited my bike. I pumped up my tires, but not too
high. Filled up my bottles, zeroed my trip meter, wished some friends good
luck and got into my wetsuit. Then I started the long slow walk to the swim
start. Bagpipes. They're the instrument that should be played in advance of a
prisoner heading to the gallows. We filed onto the beach over the timing mats.
It was so friendly on the beach. We had about 20 minutes to go. I looked for
the family without success. Then I started talking to my fellow ironfolk.
Shook some hands. Wished everyone luck. Laughed at our nervousness. It was so
friendly on the beach.
The cannon went off and we were all on. Time to get started. It was very
livable for the first 25 metres or so. Then the washing machine started to rev
it up. Suddenly all of those friendly people I had been laughing with up on
the beach wanted to kill me. I'm a grownup though, and I've done several
triathlons. I know it always gets better. Sooner or later it opens up a bit.
Turns out it doesn't work that way in a race with 2166 swimmers. It was a
crowd of arms and legs from start to finish. Most of the contact was over by
the first turn, but it was still plenty tight. My goggles started to leak
about 1200 metres in and I had to flip over onto my back about three times to
empty them. My poor vision then became even poorer and I had to rely mostly on
my spider sense and faith that the feet I was following were going the right
way. This was especially true about half way through the second leg when the
sun peaked out from behind the clouds and made for a blinding glare all the
way to the second turn. From the second turn to T1 I swam a bit harder and was
able to see the big orange buoys. I think this is where I started to swim
serpentine though. Eventually I got to land.
When I stood up, I put my goggles on my head (just like Kevin told me),
scooped water into my wetsuit by the neck (just like Kevin told me) and
started running with high knees while unzipping my wetsuit (just like Kevin
told me). Kevin said nothing about how blurry your vision gets after swimming
with water in your goggles for 3860 metres. I couldn't see anything. I was
almost past the wetsuit peelers before I realised that the lovely people
standing there wanted to help me. I promptly lay down in the sand and lifted
my feet. I'd be rubbing sand away from my lower back for the first 30 km of
the bike. I picked up my swim to bike bag and ran to the change tent, cleaned
my feet with my towel, put on socks and cycling shoes, filled my pockets with
food and tools, stuffed my swim things into the bag and ran to my bike. It
took forever. Then I missed my rack by one and had to duck under the racks. I
put on helmet and glasses, finessed my bike out of the rack without spilling
my gatorade and ran to the exit. I was in no mood to stop for sunscreen.
This year the bike started out on Lakeshore for about 1.5 km, then doubled
back to Main before heading south. It was some crowded. I kept calm and
reminded myself that the ride to Osoyoos was the warmup. The real effort
starts at Richter Pass. I ate, I drank, I spun my pedals. I warmed up and
dried off a little and started to look around at all of the people I'd be
seeing off and on again for the next several hours. McLean Ck Rd was where I
first realised how interesting it was going to be trying to descend hills with
a crowd of people that all wanted to go fast too. If you didn't get out into a
passing position early, it was next to impossible to get by slower riders on
the downhills. It was very hard to stay legal and not irritate other cyclists
although we mostly did. Richter Pass was fun. Lots of women were passing lots
of men who let their egos get in the way of their race. They'd stand up and
work hard to keep up or pass. In the front third of the race there are many
very good female cyclists. They have a real advantage climbing given their
generally favourable power/weight ratios. I mostly let them go. By the way,
the view up the Okanagan valley while climbing Richter Pass is stunning. Over
the top and down the back I got to pass a few folks, most of whom were just
tucked and cruising. I never spun out and reached a top speed of about 72
km/hr as there was a bit of a headwind. The rollers out to Cawston were an
exercise in frustration. If you hammer down them you can gain quite a bit of
easy elevation on the next one. I kept finding myself trapped by riders
blocking. Arrrgh. I even stopped at the top of one of them to pee and try to
find some quieter roads. It didn't work. My back started to feel quite stiff
in this stretch and I spent much of the out part of the Cawston out and back
sitting up to try and rest it. After special needs (where I alternately loved
and hated my corn chips and loaded up with Coke) I found that an extreme
aero-position that nearly hyperextended my back provided for a good stretch.
By the time I got to the false flat that leads to Yellow Lake my back started
to feel much better. I passed many people on the Yellow Lake climb - I suspect
that many of them had used up most of their climbing jam up Richter. The trip
down from Yellow Lake to Kaleden was especially fun. I got up to 77 km/hr in
this section. The roads were a bit quieter by now too, so that passing was
quite a bit easier. The ride into Penticton was largely uneventful other than
the kind fellow who asked me to pass before he stood up to pee. He must have
been one of the friendly people on the beach.
T2 was a bit less hectic than T1. There were a bunch of people in the change
tents sitting on chairs staring into the middle distance trying to convince
themselves to head out on the run. I wiped my feet, changed socks and shoes,
dumped the stuff out of my jersey pockets, slapped on my hat and charged out
of the tent all the way to the port-a-potties, peed, then ran to the sunscreen
volunteers. I knew by now that my neck needed attention. When they were done I
headed out on the run.
You know the drill. You've swum 3.86 kilometres. You've biked 180.2
kilometres. Now all you have to do is run a marathon. The key is to be smart,
start at a reasonable pace and try to maintain as long as you can. Eat
properly and drink what you need - soon you'll be home. I ran the first mile
in 6:55. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Then I settled down a bit. My cheering crew
went nuts as I passed them on the first leg of the out and back and then again
as I came back and turned south. As I ran out of town I was feeling much
better than I had expected and was passing lots of people. I tried taking
gatorade at every aid station and water and a gel at every other aid station.
That didn't last long. I skipped a couple of stations (all together now: Don't
Skip the Aid Stations!). My run was still quite strong now but my splits were
heading away from 7:00 miles and towards 8:30 miles. Then 9:00. Then at about
12 miles I started to hallucinate. It looked just like my sister Alison
wearing a Carmen Miranda fruit hat and singing. Turns out that's exactly what
it was. She ran alongside me for a few hundred metres then turned her
attention to another runner who was certain he was hallucinating too. The rest
of my cheering squad was at the turnaround where I got kisses and decided I
hate corn chips. I also neglected to pick up the E-caps I had cleverly put in
my special needs bag. On the way out of town I met up with Alison again, got
another big boost and headed back to Penticton. About 16 miles I started to
feel my right hamstring cramp, stopped to do a little self-massage and started
up again with my brand new "hamstring protection" stride. Or maybe shuffle.
Whatever. Miles continued to tick by, more cramping came and went and I spent
about a kilometre talking with a co-worker who tailed me on his mountain bike
(there was no pacing). It was getting a bit lonelier all of the time, but I
was still passing more people than there were passing me. With about two miles
to go I found something more like my manly marathon stride (shuffle) and
rocketed (staggered) down Main Street. I made the turn onto Lakeshore and saw
my cheering squad again. From the turnaround back to the finish line I felt
really good. I'd been wondering most of the day how it would feel to cross the
finish line (if I got there). Would I cry? Would I be staggering? Crawling?
Hanging on? When I got there I heard nothing. Apparently Steve King was
announcing my finish. The crowd was making noise, but it was all quiet inside
my head. I raised my arms and screamed incoherently. I was going to get there
in good style. I felt a huge rush of gratitude and accomplishment. I crossed
the line.
Darryl Parry IMC 2004 #1072