Having been back in the UK for a month Hawaii seems like a distant memory; even more so the race day itself. Even the next morning heading back to the centre of Kailua, the clear-up operation is so rapid it all seems like a strange dream. The ache in your legs is evidence that you really did slog 140 miles in the heat, but now that sensation is long gone (though the sunburn will take longer to fade, and I’m still peeling), I’m finally getting round to a race report.. It’s been a while – I got a bit stuck whilst a lot of my thoughts were still around ‘What’s next?’ but now with a clearer plan for next season I feel more ready to pen some words on the race over a big mug of (Kona-grown) coffee.
So many moments along the way on this adventure did I consciously think “This is the point of no return”. Never at any point have I wanted to duck out of the race, but I like to know I could if I wanted to, that going forward remains a choice. Racking on the Friday seemed like one of these ‘no-return’ moments. I parked my bike in its numbered slot, hung up my transition bags and did a rehearsal walk-through. Before racking your bike and helmet are safety-checked, while people call out the make and model of parts of your bike and tallies are made – apparently a good indicator of the industry shares of the big bike brands. I would love to sprint through the funnel where this happens to panic all the counters… or alternatively check in an old bike with a wicker basket (would be handy for race nutrition) just to watch their faces and require them to have to make new columns for new categories (“Frame: steel, Raleigh. Pedals: unbranded. Basket…” “Basket??!” Ha.) Post bike-check I hitched a lift home (having ridden my bike in) and let the eating commence. The research I was participating in required me to record all consumption from the morning before through to two days after the race. Needless to say I needed a few extra sheets of paper…(I amaze even myself with my ability to eat).
I never expect to sleep well before a race, and Friday night was no different. Restlessness allows for extra night-time snacking and although you feel you haven’t had a wink the fact you wake up groggy when alarm 1 (of 3, not that you need any at all) goes off at 3:49am – I figure I must have slept at some point. 3:49 is earlier than I have ever got up for a race, but I thought (for a change) I would avoid having to rush, and also leave enough time for weigh-in, body-marking and the bits and pieces for the research study. All created perfect distractions. My upper arms are barely long enough for the large digits of 1998 to be branded down them. I was glad that I was weighed in pounds rather than kilos since it meant nothing to me – it is not encouraging to know before you even start that you are dragging around more body weight than you thought. Research involved more weighing, checking my thermometer pill taken the previous night was still somewhere in me and transmitting happily (it was, and I was a very-normal 37⁰), questionnaires, urine sample and saliva and cheek swabs. I did a final check of my bike and added all my bike nutrition in a bento box on the top tube, and then got my swim skin on, had a gel and got in the sea. Surely this was the point of no return.
Because of the sheer number of competitors that had to get into the water ready for the deep-water start at 7am, you couldn’t really hang around on the pier until five minutes before the start as at other races. The sun hadn’t yet broken over the horizon, so it wasn’t that warm in the water – but I consciously enjoyed feeling cold since I knew the heat that was ahead. Amidst the hushed anticipation drums rolled continuously played by two drummers in traditional Hawaiian dress. Everyone is flowing and jostling, and you may find yourself in the perfect position – only a couple of rows to the front, and surrounded by women (who I thought may be less aggressive), only to realise five minutes later those in front of you are five deep and all male. As 7am approached officials paddling on surf boards patrolled the front of the mass, shouting at people to move back to where the invisible start line should be. No one is willing to shift an inch when this would mean moving closer into the mass of bodies that will soon be chasing and swimming over you.
I have never felt so calm as I did at the Kona start. A friend had texted “…be quietly confident for we will love you whatever you do” and I think finally I have truly grasped that my identity and security are not found in my performance (but in my faith), and all I can offer is my best – and knowing this sets you free to go out there and enjoy it with the perspective that it is just sport, and we do it because it is our weird idea of fun. So fun I was determined to have.
There didn’t seem to be any count down or warning of the start – the briefing had instructed us that a cannon would sound which you ‘definitely couldn’t miss’ (true, it was easily heard for both the pro males and females’ start at 6.30 and 6.35 respectively) but apparently it didn’t work so the race was started by someone yelling “Cannon’s not working, race is started, GO GO GO!!” I heard none of this – suddenly everyone around me was thrashing and I figured I’d better get going too.
The start of the swim felt much like the start of a marathon – difficult to get into your stride, and hard to set your own pace with so many people around you. It felt slow. At least you couldn’t possibly veer off course – you had no choice of the direction you swam, being buffered either side (and front and back) by flying limbs. Sometimes people would close in from both sides, and I always maintain that people do not purposefully smack others in races but this sometimes becomes more difficult to believe. It was relentless. I hope I gave far fewer blows than I received (two of which were so hard I had to stop). Underwater looked comparatively serene – fewer fish than usual (I think they were taking cover) but I spotted a snorkelling camera man swimming on his back filming the writhing mass of bodies on the surface. It required all of my concentration to survive, let alone to race, and the memory of this experience will fuel my swim training for the next year.
My swim split, at just over an hour, was slightly faster than it felt. The change tent was pleasingly quiet with most of the field still in the water. Volunteers grab your transition bag for you, then tip it out and try to assist in any way they can to get you out onto the bike quicker. As brilliant and well-meaning as they are, I find too many cooks spoil the broth (or too many volunteers hinder slick transitions). Three or four will all be attempting to make themselves useful but having never seen the contents of your transition bag (whilst I have spent the last few minutes thinking about what I need to do in what order) it makes the whole process of de-swimskinning, helmeting, sunblocking and getting your shoes on all the more chaotic. As a result, I emerged quickly but minus the sunblock, something I am still paying for now.
At the start of the cycle I saw a few guys I had met in the previous few days (and who I knew were fast) which concerned me slightly (that I should be going more steady!). The first third of the cycle was fast – every time I glanced at my watch it read around 28-30mph – although it is more useful to look at people around you for a better idea of whether you are going the right sort of speed. Mainly guys: check; overtaking more than being overtaken: check. With so many quick swimmers in the race much of the field exit the swim within ten minutes of each other, meaning the bike course is a bit congested at the start. I always ride paranoid of appearing to be drafting and very careful to keep the required 7m gap between my front wheel and the back wheel of the rider ahead, but it is immensely frustrating when others don’t respect the rule that once you enter this imaginary box, you have committed to overtaking the rider in front. Instead, people slot into it meaning you have to drop back to not appear to be drafting. At one point a literal peloton came past – perhaps fifteen or twenty riders appearing to move as a single unit. If the draft busters (referees on motorbikes) happened to pass as the peloton was passing me, I’d be penalised as any other rider appearing to be part of the group. You feel the effect of the draft sucking you along as they pass, and realise what an advantage those in the middle of it must have. It takes conviction to not get swept along with them, and it is tempting as you think so many people together couldn’t all be penalised. And anyway, whole-class detentions at school were kind of fun... Sure enough I saw all of those guys again, huddled under a penalty tent gazebo, serving their four-minute penalty for drafting. The referee marks your race number with a red pen, and at the sharper end of the field it was interesting to see so many marked numbers. I’m glad that so many penalties were handed out, since being so windy the course lends itself to drafting, though so much of my concentration during the bike was focussed on making sure I could never even be appearing to draft – nor unintentionally gaining any advantage from others passing.
Many people say never try something for the first time in a race. Rules are made to be broken, usually. Having never once grabbed a bottle whilst still riding, I decided after pulling over and stopping the first time that I needed to refill my bottle that now was the time to learn how to refuel on the fly. It went surprisingly well, and (to my knowledge) I caused no crashes. The feed stations were pretty hazardous at the best of times with flying bottles and swerving riders.
The bike course was windy – being famed for its high winds I’d have felt cheated if it weren’t – and although head winds seemed to most hinder your crawl along the long, straight return from the turnaround point at Hawi, the crosswinds are those most feared for their potential to blow you off your bike. At no point did these winds compare to those I had experienced in South Africa, which had the added psychological challenge of knowing what you’re about to expect on the second and third of the three-lap bike course.
I usually find the last 30 of 112 miles drag, and this was especially true since the headwinds made the last section much slower than the rest of the course. I ran out of electrolyte tabs so had to resort to Ironman Perform – which I think equals tequila or neat soy sauce on the inedible-flavoured drink scale. With a marathon ahead you can’t afford to take in suboptimal levels of electrolytes or calories, so I didn’t have a whole lot of choice but to get it down.
T2 always seems deceptively straight forward. You leave your bike with a ‘catcher’, run all the way around the outer edge of transition, grab your bag and sit down in the (again, pleasingly quiet) change tent. Socks and shoes on, and then I’m left wondering what else I should be doing. I also donned a visor having never worn one before, not even in a little run (breaking the rule again). My hands and legs were already stinging from the sun, so I thought my face probably needed a break too.
The start of the marathon felt ok. I took a gel from the first aid station which was so disgusting I spat it straight out… and then nearly slipped on it. So I made the decision to stick to my own gels (I’d picked up four with my race belt in T2) and take only drinks at feed stations. Despite my body screaming for liquids and carbs, my tummy was feeling less cooperative and I feared a very long marathon ahead if this were to continue. I started getting shivery which I have only just figured recently is usually something to do with electrolytes. The run course is along Ali’I Drive, out to Keauhou and back towards the pier – roughly 10 miles – before heading out back on to the Queen K to the Natural Energy Lab and back. After 3 feed stations I started learning the drill: ice into sports bra, ice into shorts (you tend to rattle a lot), throw all available liquids at face with mouth open as wide as possible to maximise chance of some hitting the bull’s-eye. I would love to see a video of this – it must look hilarious – but as Tom Lowe told me a year ago (and it wasn’t till Kona that I truly understood): there is no dignity in Ironman. Still, I draw the line (in pencil) at toilet-related things, so ran to a portaloo (rather than going as you go as some do…) and felt far better by the time I was heading up the steepish hill of Palani Road. I was even starting to enjoy it for the knowledge that I was so close to the end – although still 16 miles away I was closer than I had ever, ever been before (I always remind myself of this at any point during a race or training). Finishing seemed more of an inevitability, and doing so strongly a possibility; grasping that and knowing that you can maintain a decent pace for the next two hours whilst imagining the feeling when you get to the finish line spurs you on. It was this point that Pete Jacobs, the eventual winner, was running past in the opposite direction, around 2 miles from the finish. Seeing Jacobs looking so comfortable, as well as wishing myself to where he was, gave me the boost needed to get to the top of the hill.
Heading out towards the Energy Lab was definitely where the lone training and high boredom tolerance pays dividends. You cannot see the end of the road stretching into the distance. [Until this year I had no idea what the ‘Natural Energy lab’ was – I thought it was maybe a stretch of the run with feed stations perhaps sponsored by a wholefoods company or something – I’d have loved some dried fruit or baby potatoes at this point, rather than artificial carbohydrate gels. No such luck – it is a turnaround on a private, Hawaii State-owned road where (I think?) energy is made by solar panels and things. In the scheme of the race, it is an important landmark with the turnaround about 8 miles from the finish, but also known to be quite challenging mentally.]
Heading back from the Energy Lab supporters were telling me I was only 2 minutes from the girl ahead, and running faster than her. You never know the accuracy of these reports (though with hindsight I realise these are almost professional supporters, matching the high level of the competitors they accompany) and you can choose to be spurred on by them, or to ignore them. At this point in a race your thinking is altered. I’m sure it must be the influence of a tired body, but my mind finds reasons stacked against giving it everything – reasons that seem much more persuasive (or perhaps a body that is easily persuaded) whilst racing than when thinking back after the race, when you wonder why you didn’t give it more. Why you didn’t push harder, go faster, risk bigger. I wish here I could say something inspiring of how I pushed beyond what I thought possible, and how you should always believe in yourself. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) I am still learning about myself and about racing, and for some reason that seems to make less sense now I made the decision not to chase. I reasoned that I was enjoying myself, was comfortable, was doing my first Kona and on track for well under the 10 hours I wanted to break. I did think I might regret it afterwards, and how right I was. I don’t regret my time or even my position – I just regret not trying to chase. I always wonder what it would be like to cross the finish line with not an ounce of energy left – and this was the best opportunity I have ever had to try, yet I allowed it to pass me by. But I am still learning how my body feels and to trust that it can do more than I realise. I have learnt my lesson and am hungry for more.
So the last few miles you want to soak up, having been thinking ahead to this moment for a long time. A petrol station marks the turn toward the finish and the final half mile – to me a familiar landmark having parked and then locked myself out of my scooter a few days before, triggering a major moment of homesickness. Time is not a constant – it seemed to stand still while waiting for an age to be rescued by a locksmith that night, but after nearly 10 hours of racing (which felt far far shorter) the minutes approaching the finish and the ensuing hours post-race felt as if everything was on fast-forward.
Crossing the line is a good feeling, though (for me) not the ecstasy people expect you to describe. You have had plenty of time to prepare for that moment, so it is not exactly a surprise – I can only explain it as sweet relief, mixed with a slight feeling of drunkenness (expressed by excessive friendliness to everyone who may cross my path). A volunteer guides you past the finish and around the outside of the medical tent, checking you don’t need to join the scores of people having intravenous fluid replacement.
I had to visit the researchers again, to get all the checks done including bloods. Bucking the trend I had somehow managed to gain weight during the race (I’m a medical marvel! The guy after me lost 12lbs!), my core body temperature was a full 2⁰ higher than that morning, and I was very pleased to have been randomised to the intervention of cold water immersion for 12 blissful minutes. Though it got a bit cramped 6 minutes in when a Belgian guy also needed to get in the tub. The post-finish giddy friendliness helped what would otherwise have been a pretty awkward encounter!
At the finish a real- flower lei is draped around your neck. It was beautiful and smelt good too – I wanted to keep it forever, and it remained in my fridge till my departure from Kona. Like the tourist that I am I wore it on to the plane (allowing it to slip through the net as only your bags are scanned to check that you are not taking plants or animals to mainland America) but by the time I reached San Francisco it was looking a bit dead. I noticed its deterioration was inverse to my recovery (my legs were normal enough that I hired a bike and cycled the Golden Gate Bridge and virtally ran round to see as many sights on my stopover as possible) so I threw it over the side of the ferry to Alcatraz island and watched it float away.
Kona was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, but as the immediate post-race feelings fade I am left with a long list of things I’ve learnt and would do differently. I love that I am still just learning to grab bottles (ok, so I’m a late developer!), race photos reveal some shocking run form, I’m still an infant having done only three Iron-distance races. It means I still have plenty of easy(-ish) gains that I want to nail this winter. I always hoped to be returning to the Big Island someday, and not for a holiday (too far, too hot!) – and now want to make that sooner rather than later. I am afraid Ironman may have got me, and it’s not going to let go anytime soon.
Where would I be without all the brilliant people around me that make this possible? All play different roles and I can’t put a price on any, from the encouragement and love of my friends and family, to the belief that I was worth investing in by GI Tri Bridgtown (even when a year ago I laughed at the ridiculous idea that I might find myself in Kona) - I would be nowhere without kit, flights, a place to stay, race entries, coaching (thanks Judith). Thanks too to NouriSH me now for both recovery drinks and hugs(!) as well as the many other friends with listening ears and wise heads.
“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” Psalm 139:14
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