Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Ironman Austria







Ironman Austria 2011

Ten years ago, when I finished my first Ironman, I said I wouldn’t do another until I was 50. That isn’t a typo and if you don’t count a race I didn’t finish, I did.

Actually, it is a little more complicated than that. First off, for those unfamiliar with it, an Ironman is a pretty big deal. In one go you are expected to swim 2.4 miles (3.8 kilometers), bike 112 miles (180 km) and run 26.2 miles (42.2 km, also known as a marathon). Knowing this and being my usual self I started preparing a couple of years ago.

First, I worked on my run. It was my best chance to improve my overall time. You may remember my story of qualifying for the Boston Marathon which I then ran in 3:29 or so. Second, I needed a race. Unbelievably, these events typically sell out within hours. Also I wanted to look forward to the trip. Wisconsin would not do. In June 2010, I plunked down $564 for Ironman Austria. My friend Holly ran it a few years ago. Too, I hadn’t spent any time in Austria since I was there as an exchange student in college in 1981. It was time to go back, and in style. Third, I hired a coach. While my triathlon consigliore Pieter would provide endless commentary on all things triathlon, I didn’t want to abuse the friendship. Too a fixed schedule with others training for similar events might help make the hours training go by a little easier. Duane and the athletes at Trifiniti did not disappoint. Fourth, my consigliore insisted I buy a dedicated tri-bike. In the 18 years I’ve done triathlons I’d always made do with a road bike. With all this investment not to get one was just short sighted, I was told. I could go on about walking into the bike store with a $2,700 budget and walking out with a $3,300 Cervelo P3, but that would take too long. Oh, and I didn’t mention the fact that new bike would also require me to use a full sized bike box which is far more difficult and expensive to travel with than my usual travel bike.

Ironman Austria takes place in the southern province of Carinthia (Kärnten as the locals call it). It is spectacularly beautiful but sort of feels like the edge of the known world abutting as it does Slovenia, once part of Yugoslavia, a veritable Switzerland without the hype, but I digress.

The 2.4 mile swim takes place in the Wörthersee, one of those glacially carved mountain lakes that dot the Alps. It is said to be fed by a number of hot springs. Perhaps they are the source of the unique nature of the water. While as fresh and clean as it comes, the water feels silken, like the salt waters of the Adriatic not so far away. When I first swam in it a few days before the race I had to force myself to get out. You might imagine my surprise then that the first and arguably the most difficult moment in the race for me came shortly into the swim.

Standing on the beach the announcer told us to proceed to the start line which was about 100’ out into the water. I wave to Karen on the pier and get a blown good luck kiss in response. “Slowly” was what I heard and I took it a face value. “A moving start: nice way to start a swim,” I thought as we all walked into the water. As we reached the approximate location of the start line, I noticed that everyone around me was swimming. The race was on without any formal start. I picked up my pace to keep position towards the front. If I stayed out there for the first bit I would avoid the worst of the scramble of bodies that characterizes the swim start of these events. Nonetheless, I soon felt the pressure of the crowds behind me, the adrenaline, the sheer will. Combined with my own anticipation, it proved terrifying. My breathing was short and labored, my heart felt like it couldn’t beat any faster, my mind kept telling me to get out of the way by swimming to the side. I couldn’t. The swimmers around me trapped me tight. Like a gazelle hemmed in by its feeling comrades when the cheetah strikes. I was forced into a path not of my choosing. I broke into a breaststroke trying to see my way, to catch my breath. There was nothing around but arms, heads, legs, and white water worthy of a mountain stream in flood. My heart raced, breathing was difficult, I couldn’t see. This was it. My race was doomed.

“David, SNAP OUT OF IT! If there is anything you can do it is swim: SO SWIM!” I know not where the voice came from but there was truth in what it said. “Swim!” So I did. Very slowly my breath came back, my heart rate slowed down, and the panic receded. Around the first buoy, I looked up to mark the next. It was just under a castle. And everyone else was swimming way inside. While it won’t be much, my line will be faster. With my breathing my confidence came back. Gradually I realized a pack had formed around me, a school of black, clumsy dolphin-apes hunting down a school of victories. They had no hope: they were ours. I rode on top of the water.

After the second buoy, the course enters a narrow canal, about 30’ wide for the last half mile. The banks were mobbed with spectators, cow bells in hand, cheering us on. I had feared this part of the swim but remembering the advice of others to stay in the middle, I found it more exhilarating than problematic. As I swam I could see people on shore looking at me. As I brought my arm up after the stroke, I waved briefly. The return wave was a delight.

Out of the water, I hear my name called out from one of the people with the group I was staying with. Was it Tanya? A hundred yards into the transition tent. Wetsuit off, helmet on. I looked around for the sunscreen station. There was none. I kept moving thinking maybe they were further into the transition area. They were not. Was I really going to ride for 6 hours without sunscreen? I resigned to rely on the sunscreen I had casually applied suiting up for the swim. It would have to do.

Onto the bike leg, I set my pace to my heart rate. Pieter would approve. 130 BPM (beats per minute): I could keep it there for the 112 miles without tiring out as I had in countless training rides. A slight chill was in the air but since it was only 8 in the morning there was plenty of time for it to warm nicely. Soon I began to notice I was being passed almost continuously. The deep dish carbon wheels making a strange distant-thunder type sound as they come up from behind. My relatively “Keep to your pace, David. Ride your race. It is ok: they will tire and you will catch them on the run.” I obeyed the voice but it was discouraging. I guess that is your fate if you finish second in your age group out of the water and top 10% overall. As to catching them on the run, well, that comes later.

The first of two laps goes well. The course is moderately hilly and only slightly technical. While there are a number of packs forming, the drafting is not too obvious. I make it a point to maintain my heart rate constant. Easy up, hammer down. I am passed continuously despite the wheels Greg loaned me for the race. At the aid stations I take mineral water. How can I not? It is Romerquelle, a brand I associate with skiing in Austria. I use it to wash down swigs of the highly concentrated Carbo-pro. I begin to notice that I have terrible gas. I am burping and farting as if injected with air from a CO2 cartridge. Really? This I just don’t need. It is only moderately uncomfortable but indicates digestion issues. That is a problem. I see a guy stop his bike to pee. I do the same but am further discouraged as more bikers pass me. My friends all insist a real Ironman doesn’t stop. Joanna was right: the smell is impossible to get out of your shoes. But I’m an Ironman.

Towards the end of the first lap the sky darkens. Will we get rain? The crowd is dense and loud as I pass by the start. It is a thrill. Out along the lake into the second lap I notice first Barry and then Sheena pass me. I haven’t the energy to cheer them on. Nor perhaps do I want it known how slowly I am biking. On a short steep hill I have to slow to a virtual stop as a big old tom cat skulks across the road. I imagine he is totally confused by the activity. On another rise the crowds again are going crazy right next to the slowly climbing riders. It is a wonder. On yet another I see Stacey and Ken, the owner of Endurance Sports Travel that I’d used for accommodations. Ken Glah is a legend in the triathlon world having won Brazil a number of times and as he said came in perpetually second at Kona. I think, you can’t get a better cheer. The rain never materializes. The sun is out. I worry about my unprotected skin. None of the aid stations seem to have sunscreen. I practice my German on a local climbing next to me on yet another rise.

The last descent into Klagenfurt. The crowds are gone, on to the run course where I will soon join them. Into transition after 5 hours and 56 minutes, a kid comes over to help me with my transition bag. I stare uncomprehendingly. Running shoes? What do I need those for? Oh, yeah. But I do get sunscreen lathered on by yet another volunteer. Two legs down: one to go.

Out of transition I realized I forgot to get rid of my patch kit in the pocket of my jersey. I think, I can’t get rid of it without being DQ’ed for “Abandonment of Equipment”. Ugh, I ditch it at the group’s hospitality tent hoping to go unnoticed. I look for Karen but do not see her.

The run course is in the form of a flattened “Y” the arms of which you run twice after running up the leg. I figure that each arm will take me an hour. A four hour marathon: sweet. I feel great for the first couple of miles even though my heart rate is much higher than I’d like. It wont come down. At about mile 6 my rate is in the 160s, totally unsustainable. Walking the aid stations helps a little. I give Karen a brief kiss as I pass the hospitality tent the second time. It is great to see her. Aaron was probably just finishing. Joanne was probably just getting off the bike.

The course follows the same canal as the swim but into town. It is beautiful, shady and crowded with runners and spectators. I see Tim in his Tri-Terrier jersey running the other way. Through the old wall into the inner city there is a bell hung just within reach before the turn around. I grab for it and miss. Around the dragon (St. George’s I suppose) on the main square and back. I grab the cord and get a strong ring. Mile 13, I pass Karen again. The run is beginning to bite. It wont be pretty I now realize. Not only is a 4 hour marathon (and a sub 11 hour race) beyond me, I may be walking soon and my hope for a personal best time only that.

My heart rate comes down but now it is too low: 130. My speed is at best a 10-minute mile. I need more. I can’t find it. The gas continues making any intake of food impossible. I need it, I know. But the idea makes me ill. A little water here and there is all I can do. Pains come and go. I debate what to say to Karen when I pass. I choose to say nothing. I will finish. The last Ironman distance race I did I did not finish, stopping on at mile 16 of the run, mentally unable to go further. It will not happen this time. I run on. Focus. Run. In desperation at my lack of nutrition, I begin to take Coke at the aid stations. It goes down. I grind on, channeling my running-friend Julianne, who eats ultra-distance runs for fun and believes breakfast should start with a least a two-hour run. Otherwise, I am more surprised by how little I think of anything.

A triathlete with Kain Performance catches eye of my Golden Gate Tri Club jersey. It is the only comment I get on it all day. On the run a number of people have called out to me by name. It was not a secret female all –Austrian David fan club I’d just discovered. The bib number we all wear has our name and nationality. Still, I take not a little energy from the thought.

At the bell on my final pass I make another leap CLANG and back down on a very tired leg. I manage just to break my fall. A hoot as I pass Krista, another Kain runner staying at the same hotel. Three more miles. I push and my speed increases slightly. I call down to the engine room for more but that is all she can make. 500 yards to go, a guy I think is in my age group passes me. I try again to speed up. Out along the lake in the final sprint to the finish I hear Karen cheering me on. Ah, I was wrong, that is the best cheer. I give her five. Into the stadium-like finishers’ chute. The crowd is loud: the energy fantastic. I hear my name called out. I try to find a gap in the group of finishers so the photographer can get a good shot but there are many runners coming in. I’m in. Finished!

The smile on my face in the photograph that was taken says it all. I’m thrilled! A volunteer gives me my finisher’s medal and asks, “Are you OK?” Yes. Yes, I am. Floating along with the other runners I see Karen. WooHooo!

My first words are, “God, it was a suffer-fest out there. It is so not my distance.” We see Tim with Jess. He has showered and is working on his second beer as a reward for his first Ironman. I like his style. Later I see others and learn my time. Aaron ran a 9:06, just missing a spot for the Kona Ironman. Sheena and Barry both had great races. I am surprised I beat my previous best time. Joanna was still out there on the run when I thought, “You know, I could have done that faster.” Next time. Karen looks at me dubiously. “If that’s what you want.”

Statistics:
Time/Rank overall/Rank age group
Overall: 11:29:41 / 1395 of 2450 / 94 of 216 (Personal best after all: by 8 minutes!)
Swim: 00:59:05 / 205 / 2
Bike: 05:56:42 /1373 / 80
Run: 04:21:12 /1395 / 94

T1 Swim-to-bike transition: 7:30
T2 Bike-to-run: 5:10

Thanks again to all who were a part of this with a special shout-out to Aaron, Joanne, Sheena, Barry, Tim, Mark, Stacey, Ken, Karen and the rest of the Gut Drassing gang. You made the adventure unforgettably great.

Copyright reserved by the author.




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