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.

So I just finished “A la Reserche du Temps Perdu”. Memory is on my mind.

Sometime in the Spring, I’d been talking to my friend Geoff about his qualifying for the Boston marathon. I was impressed. Qualifying for Boston is the gold standard of the urban Everest, a marathon. You don’t just run Boston, you have to qualify by running a marathon within a certain time. Geoff and I are about as evenly matched as we can be in athletics. I said to myself, if Geoff can do that I should be able to as well. Cheek comes naturally. And so with Nicole, a friend of many years biking in France, as my training partner and race buddy, the goal was set. Using a training program published in Runner’s World as a guide we set out (virtually - she lives in Sun Valley) to train over a four month period for a marathon where we would both qualify for Boston. Scheduling issues had us chose a course in Healdsburg. Not ideal as I knew the course to be less than flat but better than the alternatives it seemed.

August found Nicole in San Francisco and together we did a couple of long weekend runs out to Tiburon (it is just 18 miles from where I live making a ferry ride back to the city a great day trip). From there Saturdays were occupied by running with Jane, Rhonda, and Cathy and the rest of the Nike Women's training crew. I found it almost easy getting out to the Marina Green by 8AM on Saturday mornings for those runs despite what-have-you the night before. For those long weekend runs (up to 4 hours), company is key. That the Nike group set up water and food stations through out the training course also helped. Finding food and water “out there” is a hassle. Just ask Nicole. There are no supported training runs in Sun Valley.

Race Day was October 11. On the Tuesday before, I hear from Nicole that she was not joining me in part because of the challenges of running all those training runs on her own. I was on my own. Discouraged to say the least, I kept to my plan. Wednesday, I biked the course I would be running on Sunday. Good thing! It turned out that it was far hillier than described or I’d imagined. There is a fourth category: lies, damn lies, statistics, and a race director’s definition of flat. There was no way that I could run the course within the time cut-off for Boston, 3:30. So over a glass of wine (Healdsburg is in wine country after all) after my ride I weighed my options. 1) Run here and try to qualify in a couple of months at everyone’s favorite qualifier in Sacramento, Cal International, 2) Fly to Long Beach and run the flat urban race there, or 3) Drive to Susanville and run the Bizz Johnson marathon, a course reputed to be pretty good despite being on dirt (which tends to slow you down) and between 4,500’ and 5,500’ in elevation.

With no time, things had to be made to work. The race in Susanville was not full Thursday evening and I found a hotel room (Best Western Trailside -props are due: they let runners shower there after the race), almost instantly. Done, decision made. Except that Friday morning when I went to actually register for the run, I learned that registration was now offline! I would have to go to Susanville (five hours by A4, 1.8T) to see if I could get in. What if it filled up before I got there? And five hours in a car by myself when I am feeling like this? I posted on Facebook for someone to keep me company to no avail. I was on my own.

The drive up the back side of the Sierras north of Reno on Saturday was beautiful. The mountains looked like Middle Earth. Arriving in Susanville, Kelly called to wish me luck with the race in Healdsburg. “Err, I'm in Susanville and I need to see if I can get in.” I did. Leaving registration I saw a couple getting out of an Aston Martin. Nice way to go to a marathon. (I saw them the next day with Alanis Morissette who’d run the marathon as well finishing in 4:17.) Then I run into Samantha, an acquaintance from San Francisco I’d last seen at the Salt Lake City airport a couple of years before. Yes, the running world is small: Sunday I see another friend from my Bay swimming days.

Before going to sleep that night (after dinner at Susanville institution Rose's) I plugged in my GPS watch to recharge. About 4 AM I woke realizing that I'd left the timer running, which meant it wasn't recharging. Corrected that. When I woke I realized it still hadn't charged: the outlet was connected to the room switch which had been off all night. Problem: it is the slowest charging device I've ever seen. Bigger problem: I knew that with only 500 or so entrants there was no chance there'd be a pace group (in the big races there are people running pace for people interested in achieving a certain pace). That and the fact that it was the only watch I had with me made the probability of my being able to run 26 8-minute miles approximately zero.

With no other options, I let the watch charge while getting ready. My friend Lani texted me good luck. From the bedside information booklet I learned that the trail for the run was sponsored by Rails-to-Trails, a not-for profit supporting the conversion of old railroad tracks to recreational trails that Bet, my mother, had been a big champion of. It occurred to me that perhaps I wasn’t on my own.

At 7:30, the watch battery was 35% full, not enough to rely on for length of the race and I had to get to the start. All the great messages in the world weren’t going to solve that issue. It was then I remembered that in my car was an inverter which converted 12V cigarette lighter power to 110V (years ago my friend TJ had given it to me – I’d never thought I'd never used it but there it was). I plugged it in for the 5 minute ride to the start. Battery charge was 37 % when I arrived. Wait! The bus that takes us to the start (26 miles away on a pretty twisty road) must have cigarette lighter plug! It did, and over the 1/2 hour plus drive the battery got up to 50%. The dawn was beautiful.

About 8:50, we left the bus (it was maybe 40 degrees outside so hanging in the bus was great) and approached the start. The organizer, famed for his crotchetiness, called those interested in qualifying for Boston, to come up to the start line. That was my goal: I followed his direction.

The start was the lowest key start I can remember. Something like, "Ok. go." And I was off, running to Boston. Along with 450 or so others. The first few miles are gradually uphill. I hardly noticed. My main thought was to keep it slow. Everyone had told me, "Don't run fast when you start. It will feel great but every second you run fast then you will regret later." The GPS told me my pace. GO slow, Dave. Ugh. Hard to run slow when you feel great and every one around is running like the wind. Soon, maybe by mile 8, I found no one really around me. I was on my own, again.

The miles went by pleasantly though. The trail was in great condition, the trees and weather perfect. I need not much more. The miles went by. At miles 4, 10, 14, 18, and 22 I ate a Gu. Water was available every two miles. No stopping: just a cup, the top squished together so the water wouldn’t so readily splash out as I ran along. Not a few spectators were surprised when I asked them to take my cups long after most runners had abandoned theirs. The miles passed under foot without complaint.

Around mile 14 or so a number of people passed me. I kept reminding myself, the race begins at mile 20, and let them pass. It worked. I think I caught all of them before the finish. At mile 20 there was a small dip as we went around a burned out bridge. Even that small hill hurt. I don't think I ever fully recovered. (But I did pat myself on the back for choosing this race – the one in Healdsburg would have been brutal). Concentration was getting difficult. "Keep your pace, Dave." It wasn't easy. At mile 21 or so are a couple of tunnels. They are dark, lit by small lanterns. Vertigo after the bright sun hit me. A few words are exchanged with the occasional person nearby. That's about it. Mile 23 my heart rate begins to spike to 170, close to my max. It didn't occur to me until later that that this was the classic sign of dehydration. The now noonday sun is strong at 4,500’. I can’t think of anything except trying to keep my pace up. I knew it was going to be close. I messed up on the display on my watch and couldn’t see my elapsed time, just individual mile splits. Had we started at 9 exactly? If so…I ran the calculations as best I could. It was going to be a close thing. I’d have my PR (personal record) but would I make Boston? Funny, with the exhaustion the thought of not making Boston didn’t bother me much. How deranged was I? Still, I didn’t want to disappoint my friends. I dig deep.

Mile 26. I pour it on. It isn’t much but I get my mile split down to 8:10. It is all I can do. All those 7:50-something miles previously better be enough. I’ve been gaining on a couple of guys but won’t catch them now. The course turns onto a small path into a grove of immense trees. A few people clap and cheer. There is the line! 3:29 and change. I cross at 3:29:33. Boston!

All rights reserved by the author. October 2009, August 2010

Boston Marathon

3:29:47

The three blood blisters on my toes will go too eventually, along with one or two toenails, the last physical vestiges of the run, at least for my body. My quadriceps are now, a week later, almost better. Stairs down have lost their sting. The memories began to fade in earnest Thursday, rudely pushed aside by a classroom of grade-thirsty students, a letter of termination and the cramped anticipation of the plane back to SFO.

But there it was, 3:29:47, 14 seconds off my previous best marathon time, and good enough to qualify me for Boston in 2011. At the finish was a finch squawking congratulations incongruously from his perch inside the support of a surveillance camera, the only possible refuge on the otherwise inhospitable wall of an office tower, enough to make me smile. It was a feat.

The scene at the finish line was orchestrated beautifully. With 25,000-odd runners coming in you needed organization. The buses which contained our bags were strung out in numerical order at the end of the food stands garlanded with only bananas and hard bagels. The plastic foil sheets, and our hard earned finisher’s medals were handed out by armies of dazed volunteers. I was about the 7,000th person to cross the line. Their day was not yet half through.

I crossed the finish line spent but elated. The last stretch on Boylston St. seemed long. It always does. At the end of a race like that my world is very small. Maybe a person near me comes into focus but only enough for me to avoid them. The rest is a fog. The finish line itself I only remember from photos. At this point though I was able to run close to 8 minute miles. Better than at Bizz Johnson where I’d qualified. Experience matters.

There were a few little ramps in the road over the last couple of miles, in a car you wouldn’t notice them. I felt them acutely. I was done with up.

The done had happened earlier. Miles 21, 20 and 18 had all been at least 15 seconds slower than my desired 8 minute mile pace. They are hilly miles and the downhill part are the worst, eating into your strength with the illusion of ease. Your quads never again have the same spring to them. The ups were really nothing, especially since I’d spent many training miles focusing on just that in the Presidio. The sky was overcast by now, the Eastern weather proving its ability to change in the space of a couple of hours.

At Wellesley, where Bet went to college, I got a kick from a stranger. I stopped to kiss one of the many, many girls screaming at full volume with signs begging to be kissed. I’d been warned by my friend Julianne to not do so but I couldn’t just run by, could I?

In the miles between 12 and 1, the course winds through a number of small towns, forests and ‘burbs. The sun was out, a cool breeze blowing: a classic New England Spring day. The trees were in early bud, waiting perhaps for 27,000 runners to pass before they jump out in full bloom celebrating our feat? The crowds here were thinner here than towards the finish but still just as energetic. The tradition is to hold your hand out to get a friendly 5 from the runners. I’d given up by mile 15 but in the early miles I tagged a few. I almost went back at about mile 3 to tag an old invalid woman in front of a hospital I’d passed before seeing. She looked so forlorn there with so many people around, her hand out and no obvious connection with runners or others. It wasn’t the first time I would choke up on that run. Running with so many others is a weird thing. Few really see you as an individual. Those that I could connect with I did. A quick look in the eye, a pointed finger and a smile. It worked both ways. But mostly you are on your own. Just part of the stream.

One of the most notable aspects about the first few steps in the run is that everyone is running the same pace, eliminating the usual bump and weave of most running races. There is a downhill section immediately after crossing the start line, marked by the drone of beeps indicating that your timing chip attached to your shoes was registering. It took about 10 minutes to get there from where my group’s staging corral was located. Each corral contains people with approximately the same qualifying time, allowing that even paced start.

As pair of F-15s buzzed overhead at the end of the national anthem, I ditched the last of my extra clothing to the gathering pile on the side of the road. I would run with only gloves and arm warmers as extra protection. The rest of my clothes had been packed up and dropped off. Good thing I had them though: the 2 hour wait before the start had been cold. Fortunately, it’d been sunny and I’d heeded the advice of friends to bring a plastic sheet to keep the damp from the lawn at bay. It’d been a cold time but wearing everything I had and lying down I’d enjoyed as much of the sun as possible and stayed out of much of the wind. I knew a few friends might be there at the start but I wanted my quiet and stayed anonymous.

The flotilla of buses lined along the edge of Boston Commons were a sight to behold. After being loaded, they left in waves of 20 or so for Hopkinton. Waiting to board were legions of very fit people, I among them. The atmosphere buzzed with the nerves of runners in the early morning light. The anticipation was physical. I was going to run Boston!

David


All rights reserved by the author. April 2010