Ironman Wisconsin: The Bike
Friday, September 14, 2007
I also made a spontaneous decision to stop at the sunscreen-slatherers. I've been blessed with olive-ish Italian skin that doesn't tend to burn and I never put sunscreen on for my long workouts this summer, so I don't know what possessed me to alter my plan -- maybe just because they were there, and so nice, and calling out to me.
I ran down the long, long, long corridor of bikes, shoes in hand, waiting until I could call my race number out to one of the volunteers. I am a stupendously slow cyclist, and I had been dreading the bike portion of the Ironman for nearly a year. The sooner I got on my bike and got moving, the sooner it would be done.
Finally, the numbers dropped into the low hundreds. "102!" I shouted, and by the time I reached my rack, my bike (yet unnamed) was out and waiting for me.
Off the helix and out John Nolan Drive, I found a steady cadence and tried to just settle in. Upon good advice from a good number of smart people who mentored me through this process, I didn't let my miles per hour climb above 17. I felt good, but I also knew that before long, I'd be struggling to keep those same mph readings in the double-digets.
You have a plan, I reminded myself. The plan was to still be fresh enough and feel good enough at the half-marathon mark to run the entire marathon. That was still a long ways off, I told myself. Doing so would take discipline. Strict adherence to my plan involved not exceeding 17 mph on the first lap, downhills excluded.
I am still slow, I thought. But then I also remembered the portion of an article that I posted on this blog some months ago: "Be prepared to get passed by a grandma on a sit-up-and-beg bike." They'll pass you on the bike, but you'll see them on the run. My plan would work, if I just trusted it. If I played this right, I'd not only see them on the run, I'd pass them back again.
Way back in mid-April, I roused myself for a rare early-morning ride, driving out near Verona to get a taste of the course. I parked near Irish Lane, rode up Irish to Caine, and then the entirety of Whalen, and back. It was harder than I ever expected it to be, and as I loaded my bike into my car that morning, the cold dew of early morning dissipating into a warm spring day, my legs shook out of fatigue and fear. Whalen road had kicked my ass. I hadn't even made it to the loop.
I remembered that morning as I easily overtook the last roller on Whalen and coasted into Verona. I knew the turns, the roads, by heart now. I knew so much more, too, and smiled, thinking about just how far away that April morning felt. About how far away the me that stood, shivering alongside my car, now felt.
Up Valley Road. You're going to feel tired here, I reminded myself. You always do. This section, through to Mt. Horeb, was my least favorite stretch of the course. The inclines were so gradual that I'd always be lulled into thinking I was "practically" on a flat. But what they lacked in incline they made up for in length, and I'd look down, and find myself struggling to maintain 11 or 12 mph -- always -- and I'd get frustrated and or panic about my speed -- always. But I had also complained as such so often to Chief of Stuff that I was certain he'd have parts of the team posted along County Road G and Route 92.
And there they were, all decked out in yellow, Newt and Leonard (my two Vizslas) along for the viewing. There was a moment, when I was still not yet upon them, when my throat caught. I still can't seem to find the words to describe how I felt then. Lucky, thankful, overjoyed. These things come close, but they don't get to the heart of the feelings this day conjured -- and would continue to conjure -- throughout.
It's like Woodstock for triathletes, I thought. So much raw physical and emotional effort, sustained over an entire day. So much goodwill. So much support. Overwhelming. Purely and simply overwhelming.
So I smiled. A huge, beaming, giddy smile. Because if I didn't, I would have cried.
I stopped in Cross Plains, the entire town decked out in a "wild west" theme. There was a saloon girl directing bikers. A guy wearing tiger-striped chaps. Even little boot/spur/horseshoe garland inside the porta-potties, which seemed hilarious. These people left no element undecorated.
Then it was on to the bitches. I heard people around me starting to lament this portion of the course. But I had a soft spot for the bitches, or maybe I just have a soft spot for climbing. Either way, riding them throughout the summer, when I hadn't seen another soul on the course for hours, I imagined the sides lined with cheering masses and the thought motivated me to sit my butt in the saddle and keep pedaling. I couldn't wait to see that...hear it...experience it once and for all.
Turning onto Old Sauk Pass Road, a guy passing me groaned, "Oh god, here we go."
"Let's do it," I said. "This is the fun part!"
He likely thought I was a little off. He for certain thought I was annoying. But it was fun. From the woman on the early part of the hill silently striking a drum with a beat that seemed to speak right to my legs, to the rowdy crowds at the top of the hill. I laughed, I smiled at them. They smiled and yelled back. The interplay was intoxicating. I wanted to do it again.
And I got to on the next two bitches, and then again riding through Verona. I tried to drink it all in. The sign that someone had made that read, "You're doing a freaking IRONMAN!" (Which is, really, exactly how I felt). The lone super-spectator in jean shirt and red cap who would yell, "Lots of love for you 102," or "I'm going to see you up ahead 102," or "Still loving you, 102. STILL lovin' you!" Triteacher catching sight of me late in Verona and infecting me even more with her excitement.
And my team. What can I say about my team? They were everywhere. To the point where I started to worry about them by the second lap.
"Did you guys get to eat?" I called to Carla and Brian at my second attempt at the Old Sauk Hill climb (Bitch #1).
But they didn't hear me. Instead, I now know that they panicked a bit. Carla called Melanie, who was with CoS and my parents and said frantically, "I think she needs food. Or Deet. She needs something...I just don't know what it was!"
Later, before the last of the bitches, I wanted to yell to my team, "Five bitches down, one to go!" but they kept yelling and hooting and hollering. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That night, they would ask me, "Why did you keep trying to talk to us? Didn't you have enough to worry about?"
I did. That was for sure. Remembering to eat either Clif Blocks or mojo bars at the top of every hour, to take Endurolytes every half-hour, and to down a bottle of Gatorade an hour. There was a lot of thinking going on. But I worried about them too. I worried that they were dragging themselves through the day, rushing from stop to stop, skipping out on lunch. I wanted them to have as much fun as I was having out there.
Heading into Mt. Horeb the second time, my coach, Darcy, and her husband were waiting for me at the bottom of the hill. I can't remember what, exactly, Darcy yelled at me (John was snapping pictures), but I can hear her voice even now. I can hear in it urgency, and pride, and sticktuitiveness. And she kept cheering. At the top of the hill, and almost to the aid station, I could still hear her. I thought to myself that she just had a baby, with no drugs, barely a week before. No matter how tired I was, surely, I could pedal a few more hills. A few more miles. Surely.
On my second time down Whitte Road, I saw my friend, Lisa. "Don't worry about me," she said. "You just keep pedaling. We're here for you. Joel and Ann are just ahead." I'd see them again, later on that loop (now I can't remember where it was, as the day seems to blur at points), and would yell to them, "Almost done. Then it's on to State St. where you guys can relax and have a beer at the bar!" She would later tell me that she thought I was losing it a bit. Really, though, it was so fun for me, that I wanted them to be having an equal experience.
The sixth and final bitch behind me, I spotted the couple on Timber Lane grilling out and listening to the Packer game (tied, as they informed passing racers). Wasn't I just here? I thought. It had been two hours before, but felt like two minutes. And then, bittersweet, came the realization that this was almost over. My lower back and lower regions felt like they were going to fall right off my body. And, in fact, I might have welcomed that. Things were starting to hurt. But I also knew that even if I repeated this race, I'd never get to repeat this experience...these feelings. And as much as my back and neck and whoo-ha wanted the whole thing to be over -- as much as they wanted off the damn bike, I didn't so much.
Going through the streets of Verona the second time, things were quiet...subdued. No crazy cheering. Now cowbells. No music. No people lined three-deep. There were large stretches of empty sections of white fencing. It felt empty. I checked my bike computer. I was well within the time cutoff. Barring any serious disaster, I should make it, I reasoned. In reality, my bike would have had to break in two and I would have had to run back not to make the cutoff, but I had worried about that cutoff for twelve whole months, and I was not about to stop now.
On the outskirts, I heard my name. It was Katie and Angela -- another two members of my team, who seemed downright thrilled to be out there. They were jumping up and down, seemingly (for some reason) barely able to contain themselves. Their excitement caught. I smiled, gave them a thumbs up, and called out that I'd see them back in Madison.
"You have quite the cheering section out here," a guy passing me said. It wouldn't be the first or last time someone would say that to me. I told him he didn't know the half of it.
The ride back into Madison seemed to take forever. I saw my team again on Whalen going the reverse direction. I saw the crew from the barn where I board my horse at the intersection of Whalen and Fitchrona Road, waving signs that would later appear on Gino's stall door. I saw the, by now, all too familiar message in faded white paint on the road: "Last hill. Amy, Tina. Now, run!" All summer I had ridden over that message. And each time I did, I imagined what this exact moment would feel like. I imagined having my summer behind me, two laps of the Verona loop behind me, and a marathon in front of me. I imagined how I would feel, what kind of day I was having. Now, the day was here. I was tired. But I was still moving. I was doing it. And it felt like the greatest thing in the world, even then, at the tail end of 112 miles.
I was suddenly thirstier than ever, but for fear of a sloshing stomach on the run, sipped only lightly on Gatorade and tried to alternate with that and water. Soon I was cruising through the parking lot of the Alliant Energy Center. And after that, down the outside lane of John Nolan Drive, watching the Capitol's dome and Monona Terrace grow larger and larger in view.
I had feared the bike portion of the Ironman for so, so long. Up until that day, up until that second loop, I didn't know if I would actually make it. The numbers told me so, but just like the day of the Dairyland Dare, I didn't let myself believe them.
But now, I was approaching the helix of the Terrace. I was approaching the helix of the terrace much more than an hour before the cutoff. People at the top of the helix were sounding a horn and yelling, "Way to go 102! You're doing it! You're going to do this!"
I melted. I don't know that I've ever experienced a more pure relief and joy than I did at that moment. I had finished the Ironman bike. Tears poured down my cheeks. I was smiling and laughing and crying huge, hiccuping sobs.
A volunteer caught me, concern in her voice. "Are you okay? Just hold on. We've got you. You okay?"
I let them guide me off my bike. Still sobbing. Still smiling.
"I did it." I said. "I can't believe I did it."
The volunteer just looked at me. I'm sure she was used to dealing with all sorts of emotions and reactions at that point, but she still seemed perplexed.
"I just can't believe I'm finally off my bike," I finally said, offering a bit of a truce...a sentiment she'd understand.
"I'm hearing a lot of that today," she said, helping me fish the remaining two Mojo bars out of my bento box, and guiding me toward T2.
Although I had brought my sobbing under control, I still had tears streaming down my cheeks when I heard someone call out to me from behind the fencing going into T2. It was Thomps. I don't know what he said, or if I said anything in return. But he reached out his hand, and although it was filled with a fist of Mojo bars, I held mine out too. He had been there throughout the day, and farther back throughout this journey as mine -- as a non-present (or, at least, on the nights I was there) founder of the Wingra Wednesday night swim group, then as a commenter on my blog, and then as a real, live, in-the-flesh person sitting next to me at the Friday-night WIBA dinner in July offering needed encouragement and sound advice.
Back in August, after I missed the entry for the Racine half-iron and after seeing the results and speedy average bike splits, my confidence solidly shaken, Thomps emailed me:
"The courses are very different. Racine is flat, flat & flat. Moo is relentless. One hill after another. Training on the course is a mixed blessing. You will gain valuable experience about the course, learning where to accelerate or cruise. But, the downside is your average mph will play with your head. So, don't fret about it. If you keep moving forward, you will have enough time to finish."
That email, those words, stuck with me and repeated in my head so many times throughout the day. So, it was only fitting that Thomps was the person I saw at the end of my most feared, most mentally-trying leg. You-will-finish. Even when I couldn't let myself believe it, others believed for me. For that, I'll be forever indebted.
Into T2, I had two thoughts on my mind. One: Hebrews 12:1 ("We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...let us run with endurance the race that is set before us") and Xt4's related suggestion that you slow down, slap hands, hug, and just for a minute, appreciate your people who have been out there all day cheering for you without any interaction or payoff whatsoever, once you get started on the run. And two, the quote, "Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you've already done."
Out of the Terrace, OAR's "Love and Memories" -- a staple on my running playlists -- was blaring as I started the run. It was still a great day.
Bike Time: 7:42:12
T2: 5:34
Posted by Erin 9:58 AM
I've been reading your blog for quite some time now. Perplexed a bit as to why anyone would want to put themselves through such torture. But I'm understanding a little now. What you have experienced and learned in the past year...what a year. And to share it all with us - thank you for that.
It's been so fun reading your writings. Congratulations on becoming an Ironman!
Loved the quotes, I have added them to my list of motivational snippets!
Do not worry about the sobbing. We watched people come in for the last 30 minutes and almost all of them were in full sob mode. Something about finishing the bike must be very emotional. I'll be crying like a girl at rec night I'm sure when my time comes.
Great job and when we saw you on the bike you looked very strong still. No signs of tired and you were smiling.