Race Day Morning

Despite a responsible 9pm bed time race day eve, I was still lying, eyes wide open unrested when midnight came and went and officially it was race day day. Sometime after 12 I did actually fall briefly asleep, and I only know this because at 2:15am, three delightfully shitfaced ASU students pulled loudly into the parking lot below our airbnb and proceeded to have the lamest dance party ever outside my window. It lasted about ten minutes and somehow I didn’t commit a (justifiable) homicide in that time but I came close.

Those few raucous minutes were enough to dash any remaining REM cycle hopes – even Scott was roused and he sleeps through everything. (Seriously, ask me some time about the monster cockroach in Madagascar or earthquake in Mexico City – he is unwakeable.)  I drifted in and out of restless consciousness for another couple hours until the alarm went off at 4:13am. (I know I’m not the only one who gets superstitious and weird about exacting alarm clock settings.) All told I probably got two or three hours of sleep the night preceding Ironman Arizona. Josh says it’s two nights before a race that really matters, but still he probably hopes his athletes get more than a couple hours the night before a big race.

Once up I couldn’t get much food down, my fear manifesting as extreme nausea. Scott made me a PB, banana, and honey sammie but I couldn’t stomach much beyond pretzels, banana, and Gatorade. Even my go-to pop tarts weren’t going down easy and I’d been eating them this season because I can always stomach them.

My mind was spinning as I dressed, I was on the verge of tears, and I felt desperate to talk to Josh. It was 4:30am in Arizona but luckily that was 6:30 in Virginia and Josh and Erica were up driving the kiddos to a Girls on the Run 5K. They put me on speaker as the whole family drove and Josh tried to talk some tranquility into me. I could feel the love and encouragement from all four Hagemans from all the way across the country as Josh gave me this final pep talk. Knowing the littles were listening I tried to mask my tears but I’m sure Josh and Erica could tell I was crying when I should have been steeling myself against the day.

Eventually we had to hang up and make the short frigid march down to the race. It was 45 degrees at 5:30am as Scott and I embarked on the 10 minute walk to transition. I wrapped myself in layers (including Scott’s jacket) and thought nihilistically about how much colder this cold morning would feel when I had to get in the lake. Scott was carrying my special needs bags as I silently tried to ward off a panic attack.

At transition I pumped Koop’s tires, bathroomed, checked my gear bags, and bathroomed again. When I exited at 6:30am transition was about to close. I found Scott on the outside with my bags and realized I hadn’t affixed my bike computer, which had been charging overnight, to Koop. There wasn’t time to run back around to the transition entrance which was on the far side of the lot from where we were standing. There were still a few people in transition and I ran up to the fence and called to a man not too far from me who happened to be standing at the end of my bike rack. I explained my situation, told him my bike number and then handed this angel my computer through the fence. He ran down to Koop, clipped the Garmin onto the mount and threw me a thumbs up when it was done. He was already wetsuited so I never got his number but I hope he had a wonderful race – he saved mine! And his transition-area altruism bouyed my spirits a bit, pulling me out of my internal spiral.

At 6:40am I was still pulling my wetsuit up when we heard the cannon send off the pros, and five minutes later a cannon for the amateur race to begin. It was time. We found my dad, dropped off my special needs bags, and shuffled down to the water.

The Swim

At Chattanooga the start line had been long but orderly and Scott had been able to walk me all the way to the start. That was not the case in Arizona. There was no real queue so I was forced to hug my dad and my husband goodbye much earlier than I had wanted and head into the throng of athletes on my own. Even in the buzzing crowd I felt so alone in that moment; just me and my fears. Oh and a bottle of hot water and some last second calories.

Ellen had suggested bringing hot water to pour down my wetsuit at the start to ease the transition into the cold water. As I tried to merge into the crowd I started dripping the heated water into the neck of my wetsuit which indeed felt great. I managed to eat a full gu and wash it down with the end of a bottle of Gatorade. I then forced myself to pee – not sorry, everyone was doing it and with the booties on over my wetsuit I just filled them with highly-hydrated urine – basically more hot water.

When we were finally moving in earnest toward the ramp into the lake I tried to file in near signs for 2:00mins/100 meters but it was impossible to suss out any sort of pacing organization. I just squished in where I could and kept pouring hot water down the front and back of my wetsuit. It caught the attention of a couple women around me. My hot water bottle was plenty big so I happily shared with them. I don’t know if it helped us acclimate faster to the cold lake but at a minimum the hot water felt great right before go time – and it helped rinse out some of my pee-pants!

I don’t know exactly what time it was when I entered Tempe Town Lake but I would guess it was around 7:15 based on how long we’d been waiting and the time I finished. Mike Reilly was on the boat ramp high fiving every athlete as we marched down. Seeing him is always a jolt of energy and I felt more upbeat wading into the water than I had expected to.

I think the hot water I’d poured down my wetsuit blunted the shock of the cold lake. It didn’t seem as instantly uncomfortable as it had the previous morning. I hoped this also meant I would be able to acclimate more quickly to having my face in the water but alas that was not the case. After kicking away from the ramp I optimistically dipped my head into the lake eager to find a swim rhythm, but I was rebuffed like the day before. As soon my face grazed the water I felt my lungs tense dangerously and I backed off.

From the boat ramp entrance we were meant to swim a hundred meters in a diagonal line toward a right turn, followed by another hundred meters to a second right turn that then had us pointed east swimming parallel to the shoreline and away from transition. It took me these first two hundred meters and turns to become comfortable enough to put my face in and actually swim.

I felt self-conscious in those first ten minutes as people passed me probably thinking I’d seeded myself wrong. (What seeding?) But I was also in good company alternating breaststroke and some mutant head up crawl – there were a lot of frigid struggling stragglers. My sloppy dog-paddle wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t pleasant but it was temporary.

The previous day’s practice swim had left me reeling, but it had also assured me that at some point I’d acclimate enough to swim normally. (Whatever “normally” means for me.) Even though the practice had shaken my confidence I’m so glad I did it because otherwise I may have been tempted to DNF in the first few minutes of the day. Instead I treaded forward and waited out the arctic blast. Once my lungs had calmed enough to let me put my head down and swim for real I was relieved I had muscled through.

The course headed east for around 1300 meters before hooking two left turns to head back toward transition and the swim exit. Over those 1300 meters I tried to stay focused on a rhythm and keeping my breathing steady. I was able to swim without my lungs rebelling but I still felt very cold, never acclimating the way I had in previous chilly water races.

My goggles grew increasingly foggy over that first straightaway giving me flashbacks to IMVA when I hadn’t seen a single buoy after the first couple. At the first left turn I swam wide of the crowd and paused to flush them out, crossing my numb fingers that they would get clear and stay clear. And they did. When I pulled them back over my doublecapped head I could see again and I had no problem sighting the remainder of the course. (The downside here is that I can’t blame poor visibility for my slow swim time.)

There was the usual crowding and thrashing around the turn buoys but it wasn’t too bad and without too much extra effort or any blows to the face I made both lefts and was heading back west towards transition. We were still a few hundred meters shy of the halfway point, but just to be swimming in the direction of home felt like an accomplishment.

Not long after the turnaround – which again, was not even halfway through the course – I started to notice that the chin strap of my neoprene swim cap was rubbing uncomfortably. Usually chafing goes unnoticed until you get in the shower after a race; it’s never good to feel it happening in real time – especially when you still have a mile and a half to swim. I paused and tried to readjust the strap, making sure that at a minimum there was no velcro-to-skin contact. I improved the situation slightly but couldn’t fully solve it and so I swam on, trying not to think of how painful this would be later. (I do wish though that I’d remembered it when I agreed in T2 to have sunscreen applied to my neck. YOWZA.)

Shortly after adjusting my headgear my stomach turned on me. I know from how badly I have to pee after pool workouts that I swallow a ton of water while I swim. It’s bad enough in chlorine but becomes a gastro-issue when the swim-setting is as dirty as Tempe Town Lake. I assume this was why my belly, which I’d thoroughly emptied (repeatedly) pre-race was gurgling and making concerning moves in the back half of the swim. I’ve previously described concerns about pooping myself in the water, but this was as close as it’s ever really come. I started running through nightmare scenarios about having to avoid the wetsuit strippers lest they tear off my neoprene to spill doodie all over the T1 ramp. It seemed fitting for 2019 to end with such an indignity.

I swam on and tried to count strokes to keep my mind off the tummy trouble. The sighting was easy but I’d been in the water working for 45 minutes and was still freezing. Through the whole swim the water never got really comfortable and every few minutes I had to wrench my mind away from my numb fingers and toes. The night before, after posting a picture with her on da gram in which I admitted to fearing the cold water, Sarah Crowley had sent me a message saying “cold is just a feeling.” I liked that mind over matter approach and tried to put it into action every time I felt myself obsessing about the water temp. It helped at least get my mind straight, but I stayed cold and uncomfortable the whole swim.

Eventually I was passing under a series of bridges and I remembered Josh’s race plan said that would be the 3/4 mark. I could still feel my neoprene chin strap carving up my neck like a bow saw, and I still couldn’t feel my extremities, but I started to grow excited and proud of myself. It had been slow, cold going, but it wasn’t as awful as I’d feared after the swim practice meltdown. I wasn’t, for instance, anywhere near missing the swim cutoff as I’d started to fear I would be. I also, to my knowledge, hadn’t pooped in my wetsuit, unless I was just too numb to notice. I I kept counting strokes and finally I was making the final left turn toward shore.

A few hundred meters later I was being helped up the boat ramp by volunteers. There were a dozen standing waste deep in this frigid water – some with wetsuits and some without – and I was in awe of their dedication and their resilience. My swim time was 1:29:24, with a glacial pace of 2:19/100m; better than the worst fears spawned by the disastrous practice swim but it was a disappointment and about ten minutes slower than I thought I’d be. I felt a mix of pride and relief to be done with it and disappointment and worry that my goal to go under twelve hours was already out of reach.

T1

Dozens of wetsuit strippers were lined up immediately as we exited the water. I ran down the sidewalk to a smiling pair towards the end of the line. They enthusiastically helped me pull the sleeves down my arms and tossed me onto my back. We had a little hang up around the ankles thanks to my booties so I had to yank those off before the volunteers could fully free me of all of my neoprene. Once unpeeled I scooped up the booties, the wetsuit, both swim caps, and my goggles and shuffled on my way, careful not to drop anything and incur a littering penalty.

Even having patronized volunteers toward the end of the strip line, I had a long, cold way to go carrying all those layers. According to my Garmin it was a .65-mile trip from lake exit to transition. Josh said not to sprint it and I heeded his warning, loping slowly-but-surely and letting others fly by me. Within a minute my bare feet on the sidewalk felt (or didn’t feel) like icy weights. I worried about whether I would have to battle numb toes for the next 112 miles of cycling.

Now that I was on dry land my stomach issues became more acute. I must figure out how to swallow less water when I swim, especially if I’m gonna keep insisting on swimming in places like Tempe Town Lake and the Hudson. When I finally shuffled into transition some six or seven minutes after exiting the water, a trip to the porta potty had become critical. I collected my bike gear bag and then ran straight into a stall. I had obeyed Josh and worn my kit under my wetsuit to expedite T1 and avoid having to pull tight spandex onto a wet body. Now I had to free myself from that wet kit, which was not too bad, relieve myself, which was an imperative, and get that wet kit back over my wet arms and shoulders, which was indeed the problem Josh had predicted.

A volunteer had been waiting for me and watching my bike gear while I dealt with nature. She joined me in trying to pull this sopping cold polyblend up my equally soppy cold and shivering arms without ripping the fabric. Working together eventually I was zipped back into my kit and I was very happy for my coach’s and friends’ advice as I watched her pull my new vest out of my gear bag. She helped me pull on the rest of my layers including the vest, the long-sleeved bolero, and a pair of Scott’s tubesocks that I’d fashioned into leg warmers. I also had toe covers on my bike shoes, rubber work gloves, and hand warmers tucked into each glove. (Have I made it clear yet how much I didn’t want a Raynaud’s flare for the next 6-7 hours of biking?)

Some fifteen minutes into this frigid transition I was finally thanking my volunteer dresser and waddling toward the bike racks. There, another volunteer handed Koop off to me and I went waddle-jogging toward the bike out. I had stuffed lots of nutrition into my vest and kit pockets, and an extra 650c tube in addition to the tube in my flat kit as I’d heard ominous things about cactus quills and the IMAZ bike course and with my itty bitty wheels I have to carry my own extra extras. A blistering 19 minutes and 15 seconds after exiting the water I was swinging myself into the saddle and onto the next leg of my second full.

Bike

The Arizona bike course  is three 37 mile laps – really three out-and-backs, (Outs-and-back? Outs-and-backs?) the first few miles of each snaking a bunch of turns out of town before reaching the Beeline, the highway bisecting Phoenix and Tempe. I expected to be able to really open it up on this long and “mostly flat” straightaway, so over the first few miles I just focused on getting myself warmed up and comfortable. I was still very chilly from the swim, though my kit was drying quickly even in the 50 degree desert air. (It’s a dry heat yes, but also a dry freeze and I didn’t have a lot of feeling in my digits from the jump.

Within the first fifteen minutes Speed Sherpa teammate, Jon passed me and I welcomed the familiar face. Despite the many turns and some crowding I was sustaining around 18mph in the first few miles out to the highway which felt lowkey and easy. I wanted to bring the bike in around six hours total and started doing the math early, knowing that there’d be a headwind and bit of an incline going out but then a downhill tailwind coming back. I just needed to keep my uphill/downhill out/back average around 18mph and I’d be golden. And so far that felt easy peasy as long as I didn’t freeze.

Or fall asleep. Over the first hour or so on the bike the lack of sleep started to catch up with me. I was feeling a little too comfortable in my aeros and at points felt like I might actually nod off. I planned to eat something every time my watch buzzed to mark a five mile “lap” and at the first of such buzzers I opted for a caffeinated gel, hoping to wake up a bit.

Besides my sleepiness, the fist few miles on the Beeline felt good, still maintaining just under 18mph even as I felt the wind pick up slightly. I started to entertain delusions of grandeur, that if I could sustain 18mph out and then 21 or maybe even 22 back I would average close to 20mph and I might be looking at a 5:30 bike time. I was feeling pretty good about myself and remained committed to this delusional line of mental dialogue even as the wind and the pitch picked up and I slowed further. I reran the numbers every couple minutes but it took me far too long to realize my math was way off.

The Beeline accounts for around ten miles out and ten miles back in of each of the three laps. Halfway through this first “out” – with five miles to go to the turnaround – the road got steeper than I expected and the wind became intense. I’d already dropped from 18 to 16 and then 15mph, but now I was dropping to 12 and 11 and even 10. And the wind was so strong I could barely keep my head up. It was a miserable slog.

Even in my barely double digit pace I was passing people (and people were passing me too) and each time I rode by someone (or vice versa) we’d nod miserably knowingly to each other. As I approached the 90 Mile marker (wishing I were on my third lap and 90 miles in rather than 15) a huge gust of wind sent the heavy placard crashing loudly to the ground a few feet from my tires. I jerked up in my saddle and looked around for confirmation – which I received – from other riders that conditions were much more intense than we expected. I had heard in previous years that each lap gets windier and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hang if it got much worse than it already was. I tried to  tell myself that it just meant the tailwind back would be that much stronger and it would all even out, but I started to worry about that sub-six hour bike I was hoping for.

I counted down the seconds and meters until the turnaround when the legs and odometer would get some relief. I was stressed out that I was working too hard too early in the bike course. As I finally maneuvered Koopa around the turn cones at mile 19 and began to head back towards town I was excited to pick up speed and to think that I was 1/6 of the way through the bike. I was still afraid the wind might get worse every lap as the day went on, but I figured that was forty-miles’-from-now-Liz’ problem and I should enjoy the tailwind and the descent back to town while they lasted.

But I could not enjoy those things because I am and will likely always be a bike chicken. The tailwind and grade of the road were stronger than I’d anticipated – in fact they were too strong and suddenly I was cruising around 26 mph without even trying. I knew I should get low and use the opportunity to rebuild my average speed but I was too uncomfortable with the wind and the pace.

Battling the wind reminded me of the Queen K in Kona. I’d been afraid at first to drop into my aero bars there too, unable to enjoy the tailwinds on the rare occasions I got them. The incline v. decline and head v. tailwind conditions were so markedly different that miles 16-20 I worked my ass off and averaged around 11mph, and miles 20-25 I sat up and rode the break and averaged around 23mph. As I let the fear win, people I’d passed on the climb out all passed me back on the descent in, each riding low and aggressive and I’d guess somewhere over 30mph. I coveted their bike confidence, I don’t know if I’ll ever have it. I was also shivering in the wind, a condition I know was amplified by the fact that I was (in)actively trying not to try – expending the minimum amount of effort.

After a few miles the grade of the decline leveled off and I was able to egg up and drop down into my aero bars. I comforted myself that even actively holding my pace back I might still be able to average 18mph and crack six hours total in the saddle. The last few miles of the lap – miles 34-37 – it became harder to sustain the higher paces. Even as I was finally able to ride (intentionally) fast and repass some people, the road got narrower and there were some twists and turns getting back into town. Doing the math I figured my first lap averaged just under 18; it wasn’t a complete wash but I would need to do better over the next two. I was pretty excited to be a third of the way through the bike though!

I looked for Scott and my dad but didn’t see them at the turnaround. I was disappointed but buoyed by the great crowds that lined the streets near town. I was feeling like I could conquer that dreaded windy hill again, even if it was worse. And I’d finally warmed up for good I thought, after being chilly and glad for my many layers during most of lap one. I decided to stop at the next aid station and ditch my sleeves.

At mile forty I arrived at such an aid station and I pulled over. A kind volunteer brought me water and gatorade to refill my water bottles and I gulped down a gu. I was feeling revived after a mentally and physically-taxing first lap, and I’d been nailing my every-five-miles nutrition plan, so even if a sub-six ride probably wasn’t in the cards I felt really in control.

Feeling good and ready for the windy climb round two, I waited for a break in traffic and pulled back onto the course. As I clipped back in and gave the pedals a press I felt a sharp pain shoot up both of my adductors. I hadn’t felt any discomfort there before stopping so the sudden pain in both thighs jolted me awake and scared me. Every downstroke my adductors lit up, each revolution becoming more agitated and uncomfortable.

I told myself I was just a little tight from stopping for a couple minutes at the aid station, and it would work itself out. I was definitely disturbed that this pain had arrived so out of nowhere and bilaterally but I was sure it was a temporary setback. Adductor issues had accompanied the hip fracture, so I told myself this wasn’t completely out of the blue. I shifted down a gear to take some tension off the pedals and see if a higher, lighter cadence would help me work the kinks out. It helped for a few rotations but soon the pain came shooting back, and within a few minutes it was worse than before.

I had around ten miles to go to the second lap turn around and they were the worst ten miles of the course. Just five pretty easy miles of this muscular seizing was already terrible, I wasn’t sure how or if I’d be able to make it uphill, into the wind, to the turnaround if the pain continued, or got worse.

And continue and worsen it did. Luckily the wind wasn’t as bad as the first lap but the cramping increased proportionately with the grade. By mile fifty I felt like I was going to throw up the pain was so bad every time I pressed into each pedal. I shifted and shifted until there were no gears left, but I felt on the edge of vomiting or falling over from the intense pain radiating up my adductors.

I would stop pedaling every minute or two and try to coast – hard to do uphill and into the wind – and the nausea would subside for a few glorious seconds, but as soon I had to push down into my cleats again the pain rushed back into my legs and the bile rushed up my throat. I wasn’t even halfway through this bike course and I was in worse agony than I’d ever felt in a race or a training ride. I started to think seriously about DNFing. I knew I couldn’t ride 60 more miles like this.

The pain was so strong I accepted the DNF reality pretty quickly, and my mind moved on to scarier considerations: there must be something really wrong, right? I started to wonder if I had developed some acute rhabdo. There was a porta potty at the turnaround, if I could just get that far – a few more (terrible) miles – I could pee and check the color and maybe assess whether my kidneys were actually shutting down on me.

The last ten miles to the turnaround and halfway point I averaged barely over 11mph. I was in agony when I finally swung unsteadily around the course marker. A few feet later I pulled over at the rest stop, gingerly kicked my leg over the saddle and propped Koop up on a bike rack. I awkwardly limped into a stall and tugged shakily at my kit until I was able pull enough off to pee. I then squatted over the seat – which by the way is never easy when you’re 4’10” with tibias shorter than most toilets – and leaned over so I could get a look at my own stream. I was watching to see if it was dark red or brown – telltale rhabdo renal failure sign.

I was relieved to see that not only was my pee not red or brown – I was actually very well hydrated! Which made sense as I thought I’d been nailing my nutrition plan. I had been so proud of my consistent eating and I hadn’t felt hungry at any point. I was comforted to have functioning kidneys but then what was causing this agony? I grabbed a banana at the aid station hoping a potassium boost would assuage the cramps and tried to think of anything that had changed in my bike setup.

I wondered if my seat had gotten out of whack somehow. Josh had helped me try a few new saddles a couple weeks before the race. (I ended up just sticking with the saddle I’d been using for years.) Before that day the nose of my saddle had been tilted down in the front at an angle that everyone thought was really odd. In replacing my saddle Josh had straightened that tilt out as I was pretty sure I’d accidentally angled it while messing around with it over the summer. Thing was, even though lots of people had commented on how that downward angle seemed too severe to be right, I’d ridden that way for months and been perfectly comfortable. Maybe I needed it back. Fortunately there was a mechanic tent next to to the porta bank so I asked a kind man with a screwdriver if he wouldn’t mind adjusting my saddle to get the nose tilt back. He obliged, and after what my Garmin says was a six minute pit stop, I climbed back aboard and back onto the course.

I hoped the stop and the saddle would help me finish out the second lap. I was still committed to DNFing, I just wanted to make it back to town first so that I wouldn’t be stuck twenty miles out waiting for the van to come scoop me up. I figured maybe I could just coast back, minimizing the pain by pedaling as infrequently as possible and then be done with this hellish day and season. I started 2019 with a planned DNF at Ironman Virginia and here I was finishing 2019 with an unplanned exit in Arizona. It was an ending befitting a craptastic year.

Special needs was a few miles down the hill and I had a bunch of salt tabs and goodies waiting in my bag there, so I just focused on getting to that oasis. The saddle adjustment seemed to help as I casually on-off pedaled, letting gravity and wind do most of the work. I felt like the angle of the seat had shifted my weight back, taking pressure off my hips and adductors in a beneficial way. I was encouraged thinking at least my ride back to town to DNF wouldn’t be too painful.

When I got to special needs I threw back a few salt pills and tucked the rest into my jersey. I had forgotten to pack them in my T1 bike bag so maybe that error had led to the cramping. Back when I had dreamt of a 5:30 bike ride I had planned to stop for under a minute at special needs, but now I again fully dismounted while a patient volunteer held Koop. I told her I needed to sit and stretch my seizing inner thighs. She said to take as much time as I needed and I took her at her word.

I found a spot out of the melee and sat down. I brought my feet together and then pressed my knees down into a butterfly stretch for several 30 second intervals. It felt really good and again I hoped that meant maybe the ride back to town wouldn’t be too terrible. I was still committed to DNFing at the end of this second lap. After a few minutes I slowly picked my way back to my bike and waiting volunteer. I asked if they had any bananas and she called for one which quickly, magically appeared. After a second six-plus minute stop I once again remounted and re-entered traffic.

As I pedal-coasted my adductors were still simmering, but the pain felt much more manageable than it had. It hurt to press down still but it wasn’t eye-crossing vomit-inducing agony anymore. About five miles later I passed through another aid station and decided to keep my banana habit going. Ironman aid stations are long with dozens of volunteers offering food and drink. (Or they were pre-COVID anyway.) I called out to the first few lined up and quickly someone handed me the sought after fruit. I tore at it with my teeth and ate the whole thing in two or three bites, then tossed the peel. After washing it down with a swish of water I called out for another, and as I rolled by the volunteers at the end of the aid station line someone handed me a second. I made quick work of that banana as well, swallowed a couple more salt pills, and continued for town and quitsville.

(For anyone unfamiliar with triathlon aid stations, [you are a real trooper for reading this far,] I feel like I should explain that we are given half-bananas. They’re split in the middle making them easier to peel and manage while biking.)

As I rode the pain never went fully away, but it became more and more manageable. Maybe I got used to it. Maybe the potassium from the bananas and the salt tabs helped. Maybe close to fifteen minutes off the bike and several rounds of stretches helped. Later on a few people much smarter than me suggested the cold was a likely culprit for the cramps, so maybe it was the warming day. Whatever it was, when I was a few miles from the end of lap two I started wondering if I had another lap in me.

I was torn. What if I only felt decent because I had been riding downhill and with the wind? What if the pain came back as soon as I was back on that ascent to the turnaround? Could I physically do that again or would I get stuck miles from town, puking, and still have to DNF and wait for the sad wagon?

Here’s where the ironman’s mental tests overtook the physical: I didn’t want to revisit lap two’s misery, but my stubbornness and desire not to be beaten by my final shot at 2019 won out. I had already DNFed and DNSed repeatedly this season. I had also relearned how to walk eight months prior and everything since then had been a struggle and I didn’t want to admit defeat. So as I rolled back through town I resolved to continue onto the third of three laps.

Back in town the crowds were out in full force. I had been thinking about Scott and my dad and Josh and everyone tracking me and how they all must know something was wrong. The second lap had taken about thirty minutes longer than the first lap. I scanned the crowd for my husband and dad wanting tell them what had happened and also assure then that I was ok. (Was I ok?)

After turning onto lap three I spotted my dudes and yelled to Scott that my adductors had cramped and asked him to tell Josh. Upon seeing my family who had come all this way to be with me and already weathered my emotional storms I knew I had to give this final lap everything I had. I was still expecting to DNF the race because no way could these legs turn out a marathon – I was on the upswing but still hurting plenty – but at a minimum I would finish this damn bike course. Plus I was in terrible run shape so I thought I could mentally handle forgoing the marathon. But I’d put in some real cycling work this season, flying my dang bike all the way to Hawaii to train, so I had to finish these 112 miles.

Setting out on lap three I was starting to feel not totally terrible. The debilitating pain had waned and left me sitting on this sensory cliff where the pain was generally manageable but I could tell one wrong pedal stroke and I would be back in the red. I had to find a sweet spot with light resistance and a high cadence to maintain equilibrium. As long as I could stay in that zone I felt like I could finish the bike off, and lap three would at least be better than lap two.

And I had my first lap three victory early, when I realized I had to pee and was able, for the first time ever, to pee on my bike! It wasn’t too long after the downtown crowds disappeared. I found myself with some space away from other riders and decided to see if I could forego the next port potty bank. I stood up out of the saddle, adductors happy for any reprieve, squeezed, and ohmygod I peed. Non-tri people I know you think this is gross but I promise you this was a huge win. A real tri-milestone. (Trilestone?)

I suspected the bananas and salt pills were playing major roles in my recovery and my stomach was tolerating them so I slowed to grab more of each at the aid station at mile 80. My nutrition was still on point and as I overcame the stabbing pain I felt energized. With under fifteen miles to go to the final turnaround, I very carefully started to increase my effort.

When my thighs had cramped forty miles earlier I had had to sit up to ride, finding that riding in aero aggravated the angry muscles further. Now I finally was able to drop back down and ride on my aero bars again. I was able to shift gears as well. Each time I pushed my ride a bit – pressing a little more into the pedals, shifting, dropping lower – I felt my adductors reflexively stiffen, but then relent without fully seizing.

I braced myself for the final windy incline, but I was able to keep the severe cramps just at bay. My adductors twitched the whole way up, threatening to throw the game again, but somehow I managed to navigate that sweet spot balancing effort and restraint. And somehow I found myself having my best lap yet.

Where I’d averaged 11mph over ten full miles up the lap two hill, in lap three I never dropped below a 14mph average. I was passing people the whole way up and felt my strength building. I started running the numbers in my head. I had resigned myself to a DNF, and then I had resigned myself to a 7+ hour bike. Now I wondered if I could still come in under seven hours.

I tried to remember what I had biked in Chattanooga in 2016 on that  110 degree, 40% DNF day. I was thinking it was something like a 7:15* and I was now sure I would at least beat that dismal time. After thinking I would have to drop out a PR was a PR, right?

*Turns out it was a 7:28:18. That day really sucked. 

As I approached the turnaround I looked for the 90 mile marker that had blown over next to me so many hours earlier but never saw it. Either I missed it or organizers let the Beeline wind have the final say. I felt like I’d grown up and been through so much since that first lap.

At last I saw the final turnaround. I maneuvered Koopa around the turn much more ably than I had forty miles previously when I’d been sure my kidneys were shutting down. After crunching the numbers again I was pretty sure I could bring this bike home under seven hours, but I had to hustle the final twenty miles home. I decided to throw everything I had at this final stretch of course.

Fear and descent be damned I dropped into my aero bars right away and found my big ring. My adductors were still precarious but I felt like I had figured out how to ride just on the edge of pushing them back into rebellion. I also still mostly planned to DNF after the bike, doubting that I had even a walked marathon left in my legs, so there was nothing to save up for. I ground my feet into my pedals, ducked as low as I could and floored it past dozens of athletes.

I enjoyed the hell out of the next ten miles, keeping my average around 22mph and making up all the time I could. Halfway back I realized sub-7 was in the bag and I should aim higher (lower). First I thought 6:55, and as I rode I started to think 6:50. At this same point a lap ago I was about to quit. And then I’d been sure I was looking at a 7:30 ride. Now I thought I could come in under 6:50. Sure it was still an hour slower than I’d originally hoped, but I’d grown up a lot in the intervening century ride and 6:50 sounded fantastic now.

I had to ease up a little bit getting back into town, dropping back to 20mph for a few miles, but I was so happy to see the crowds again as the bike course wound down. There were some turns and potholes and the road narrowed but I stayed quick, passing as many people as I safely could.

Before I knew it I was at the fork between laps and transition, finally getting to veer right to end this bike ride. I saw Scott and my dad again as I turned toward T2. I kept spinning my legs to eke out all the time I could until I saw the signs commanding athletes to “SLOW DOWN”, “DISMOUNT AHEAD” and rows of waiting bike catchers.

I braked a few feet before the dismount line and didn’t attempt anything fancy as I climbed off, unsure how my legs would take to solid ground again. A volunteer ran up and steadied Koop for me, whisking him away once I was safely fully dismounted. Athletes next to me were running for the changing tents but I could not joint them. My legs were aching, soupy messes. I felt like I was devoid of stabilizer muscles as I wobbled forward. I could barely put one foot in front of the other but after nearly giving up I was proud to have gone under 6:50 with a 6:47:22.

T2

Scott and my dad had run around the back of transition to cheer me on over the fence. I was relieved to be off the bike but didn’t see how the jello legs could possibly get through a marathon. Just slowly shuffling I felt like my knees might buckle at any second, bereft of any sort of muscular support. I had resigned myself to DNFing forty miles ago on the bike, and then had managed to pull it together and make it through all 112 miles in the saddle. That felt like a sufficient victory, I didn’t need to drag these lifeless stumps 26.2 more miles.

Even before my adductors mutinied I had felt like I might not have a marathon in me given the past year. I was learning to walk heal-to-toe in March, and as late as September I was still doing a third of my running on an anti-gravity treadmill. As long runs went I’d run 13 miles twice and 15 miles once in the last six months and that was somehow going to have to get me through 26. Point two. Over the course of 2019 I had literally averaged 7 miles a week and run 300 miles total for the year, much of it done somewhere around 60% of my body weight, none of it fast or pretty, and there’d been myriad setbacks and pain along the way. I wasn’t optimistic about my prospects even before the day’s cycling meltdown. Now, limping through T2 I wasn’t sure I should even try.

I decided to just slow roll this second transition and see if I could recover enough to walk-jog at least a few miles. I told Scott I didn’t know if I could do it, but I was going to sit down for a few minutes and give my legs a break. I porta-pottied and found a chair where I leisurely changed my shoes and pulled on my race belt, sunglasses, and visor. I accepted some water from a volunteer and took a few beats to myself.

All around me athletes rushed through their changes, eager to get running. I wondered if I would regret sitting so long; if I’d get out on the run course and decide I did want to finish the whole thing only to find I had to walk all of it and needed more than the seven hours I had left to do so. It seemed like an entirely plausible hypothetical but it didn’t motivate me out of my chair. I’d come to terms with DNFing hours ago at that point and just couldn’t summon any urgency.

After close to ten minutes of just sitting and trying to gather the mental and muscular fortitude to get back on the course I decided to try standing. It still hurt. I tried walking. Also painful. But manageable, for a bit anyway.  I asked a volunteer if there was any Advil and she led me to a beautiful table set with bottles of Advil, cups of ice, vasoline, bandaids, and other simple but lifesaving first aid accoutrements. I threw back three Advil and hoped for the best as I headed back out the tent and off to walk-run (but probably walk) some fraction of 26.2 miles. In the end I burned 11 minutes and 34 seconds in T2; hopefully I wouldn’t miss the run (walk) cutoff because of it!

Run

Just before the timing sensors a mess of volunteers was slicking athletes down with sunscreen. I paused in front of one without thinking, I always accept transition sunscreen. I’d forgotten though that the velcro on my neoprene swim cap had hickeyed my neck for more than a mile of that morning’s swim, and when sunscreen meets even the mildest of chafing, the pain is shocking. I felt my eyes bulge out behind my glasses as I stifled a yelp. Through tears I choked out thanks to the volunteer and hobbled away and over the timing mat – my “run” was off to an auspicious start!

The eye-crossing pain stinging my neck stole focus from my drama queen inner thighs long enough for me to baby deer myself into some semblance of a jog. Maybe the sunscreen scalding was ultimately a good thing, distracting me from my exhausted legs – running is basically Newton’s first law of motion and once moving I had a shot to stay moving in some form or another.

The first mile limped awkwardly by in 9:45. It wasn’t pretty or comfortable, but I was pleasantly surprised to come in under ten minutes. I shuffled by the special needs station where athletes who’d biked and swum (and transitioned) much faster than I had were already more than halfway through their runs and getting to indulge in this midway pitstop. I told myself just twelve and change to go and I too could take a pause for prepacked snacks and dry socks and sleeves if needed. Thinking about special needs gave me a way to mentally apportion the many miles in front of me.

Mile two felt better than one. I still felt sore and discombobulated, but either the Advil or the adrenaline or Newton or some combination thereof had me moving a little easier with each passing minute and meter. I passed a few people as I went and glanced at my watch, shocked to see my pace dip below 9 minutes with an 8:56 average. There’s a tight u-turn around the second mile marker and then the course trends downhill and west along the river. I leaned into it and picked up the turnover, buoyed by the descent and surprisingly decent initial miles.

My trepidation about walking or limping in agony through the marathon – or DNFing – waned and I started to cautiously enjoy myself. I didn’t feel out of the woods by any means but mile three clocked in at 8:48 and my adductors seemed to be relenting. The scenery along the water was pleasant and the temperature was perfect with the sun starting to set. The path along Tempe Town Lake did include some sections with sizable puddles to avoid, which slowed me down, but mainly I stayed the course in the 8:40s-8:50s/mile.

The crowds grew in size and enthusiasm as I neared the transition area. I peeled my eyes for Scott and my dad and saw them as I turned in another 8:56 for mile four. Less than forty minutes ago I’d been dragging myself out of T2 awash in pain and now I was steadily running, beginning to pass people, and actually enjoying myself for maybe the first time that day.

Miles five and six take you over the bridge to the north side of Tempe Town Lake. Feeling more confident with every step I pushed those miles into the mid 8:40s and my legs held. I hadn’t seen the course north of the lake but I was having actual fun and looking forward to whatever lay ahead.

One of my Speed Sherpa teammates – one I’d never met – had told me she’d be working the BASE tent and sure enough, around mile 7 I heard my name as I approached the aid station. Even though we’d never met we hugged it out and she jogged with me cheering me on for a few meters.

Immediately after that adrenaline injection I spotted Scott and my dad again. I was so surprised; I’d figured they would stay south of the lake, but there was a pedestrian bridge that had allowed them to walk from mile 4 up to mile 7 before I ran by. Mile 7 dropped to a 9:06 pace because of the teammie hugs and surprise family sightings but I was still happy with that and I was thrilled to see my family again so soon.

In the next mile I spied a GSP and had to stop and pet his spotty handsome head which ate up a few more seconds but was obviously necessary. I also stopped at a porta potty quickly because I’d been tooting quite a bit the last few minutes and I wanted to confirm that it really was just toots and nothing else…it was. Phew.

As a result, mile 8 was my slowest of the marathon at 9:57 – and that included a couple minutes pushing the pace after the bathroom break. I was unbothered by all these little time suck pitstops though because I was running so much better than I could have imagined 90 minutes ago – or 3 or 4 hours ago when I was absolutely sure I’d have to DNF. And I was running way ahead of the sub-10 minute mile goal I’d had coming into the race, so who cared if I wasted 5 seconds here or 30 there?

I did try to push the pace for a few minutes to make up for the porta delay but quickly realized I didn’t want to spike my exertion and run out of steam later so I reined it back in for miles 9 and 10, settling back into the 8:50s – maintaining the pace both up and down the one sizable hill on the course over those couple miles.

At this point, almost through my first lap, I had finally let go of my anxiety that my legs wouldn’t make it through the marathon. I was happy to be racing for the first time since my first bike lap and committed to living in the wonderful moment. I expected at some point that my legs would fatigue, I anticipated the weird aches and rubs one develops through a marathon to develop any second, but I was sure I could finish, PR the Ironman, and beat my 4:20 marathon goal.

As the run had improved with every mile I had stayed focused on that 4:20. I was thrilled and shocked with my pace, how easy and happy it felt, but I refused to get ahead of myself. Yes this was going better than I could have imagined, but I didn’t want to start thinking unrealistically and set myself up for disappointment. So I had deliberately pushed sub-4 thoughts out of my head when they started to creep in around mile 5 or 6. Bringing this marathon home under 4:20 was more than I should have had any business expecting when I’d barely finished the bike in one piece.

But as I turned in a steady, easy-feeling 8:45 for 11 I started to let those hopes linger. Around the same time I was ecstatic to see Scott and my dad again – I even yelled enthusiastically to Scott to text Coach Josh that mile 8 had been slow because I’d needed to stop in the bathroom to make sure I hadn’t pooed myself and that I felt great. Heading back over the bridge for mile 12 – a lowkey-feeling 8:53 – I told myself I could truly entertain the sub-4 thought once I put away this first lap.

I turned in an 8:40 for mile 13 and at 13.1 I was dead on 1:57 for the first half marathon. Now that I was officially in my second lap and still feeling strong I let myself start to dream a little bigger. I could run this second lap 5 minutes slower and still come in under four hours. I knew that a lot could go wrong in the back half of an Ironman marathon so nothing was promised, but if I could just keep the effort and pace steady in the high-8s and low-9s, a sub-4 marathon was on the table.

I started to feel a little emotional about it – what a way to close out such a difficult year – what a way to put that hip fracture behind me and put 2019 to bed. The thought made me tear up but I took some deep breaths and told my brain to take it down a notch – crying wasn’t going to help me keep the effort steady. And I was approaching special needs and had to decide whether to stop.

Mile 14 came in at 8:42 and special needs was early in the next mile. I slowed down some both because I didn’t need to be putting away 8:40s and to weigh stopping. I saw my teammate Jon sitting with his bag and waved to him as I decided I didn’t need to stop. I didn’t need dry socks, extra fuel, or the long-sleeved bolero I’d packed in case it was chilly. The temperature was perfect and now that sub-4 was in reach I didn’t want to waste even a minute. I thanked my bolero for its service – I wouldn’t see it again – and headed up the small climb to the turnaround.

Mile 15 came in at 9:06 and right after the 15 marker came the u-turn back towards the bridge. I had banked some time with those 8:40s and stopped by the turnaround to grab a cub of broth. The salt hit the spot – fuel-wise I’d been feeling excellent with pauses at every-other water station, and now that it was night I was so excited to indulge in the broth that had saved my marathon at my first Ironman.

Mile 16 was a slow-but-fine 9:07 with that more-indulgent pitstop. I stayed steady as I ran along the river – I was back in the stretch where the trail turns to puddle-pocked dirt and as the sun had mostly set I didn’t want to let the less-stable footing trip me up.

Substrate aside, I loved this part of the course, next to the water with spectators starting to break out the glow sticks. I was increasingly determined to come in under four hours but I was also simply the happiest I’d been in months. Battling injuries, chasing goals and podiums, it’s easy to lose sight of why we get into this sport: it’s because we love it. At that moment I felt reconnected to my love of triathlon, and yes, my goal mattered to me, but that love mattered more.

Mile 17 came in at 8:51. With surer footing back under my sneakers and less than 10 miles to go I picked up the pace a touch. In this last mile before the bridge the crowds grew thicker, I saw Scott and my dad again, and the energy and cheers made me want to sprint. I restrained myself, keeping the pace in the 8:40s. Even at that pace I was easily passing everyone else on the course and enjoying direct spectator encouragement with people shouting my name and number.

I’d been passing people since mile two or three as my legs had started to reawaken after the bike. In that first lap though there had been a lot of people on the course who were in their second laps and cruising toward sub-11 hour Ironmans. I’d been keeping pace with people who were going to finish their races several hours faster than I would. At the turn off for the finish line one guy had turned to me and exclaimed, “we’re almost done!” and I’d responded, “I have a whole second lap to do!” He seemed shocked and I didn’t have time to tell him how poorly I’d swam and biked before he wished me a good second half marathon and ran towards the finish line. Now all of those faster runners were long done and I was the one sharing the course with people on their first laps, and people were as gracious and encouraging as a multisporter could ask, rooting me on as I passed.

A part of me told myself that I was passing people because I’d blown up on the bike and was now well-past my sub-12 hour goal. But a louder part of myself said screw it, everything that had gone wrong over the 130 preceding miles didn’t matter anymore. I was running great, feeling great, loving the course, the sport, the crowd, the other athletes, and I was allowed to enjoy a few miles being the fastest one (still) out there.

 

Once again it was hard to keep the emotions in check. I tried to breath back happy tears and not speed up or get ahead of myself – there were still plenty of miles between me and the finish line and I was almost to the bridge which was on an incline. Mile 18 clocked 8:48 and as I composed myself I swung right to head back north of the lake. I continued to pass people, having to swerve around other athletes coming and going up and down the bridge. The camaraderie was strong in both directions with everyone urging each other on. I turned right onto the path along the north side of the lake and my watch buzzed an 8:38 for mile 19 – the fastest split so far.

I kept running the numbers, I was solidly in sub-4 territory and I needed to not get too eager and self-combust. It was hard not to when I saw Scott and my dad again as I started into my 20th mile of the run. They were both so ebullient cheering me on – the turnaround from my brush with DNF-ing had them almost as giddy as I was. I forced myself to calm it down as I started heading up a bit of hill to the next turnaround. Mile 20 clocked a solid safe-feeling 8:54 and suddenly I was headed into the final 10K of the day still feeling fresh and happy.

I allowed myself to open it up a bit over some rollers over the next mile keeping it steady uphill and focusing on turnover downhill. At one point I passed two guys running together – both looking solid in the mid-9s – and one of them said to the other, “holy shit, that’s some pace” as I ran by. I glanced at my watch and saw 8:10 and both swelled with pride and wondered if I was going too hard. Between the rollers up and down mile 21 came in at 8:36 and soon I was turning around and on the back half of the second half of the second loop.

I pulled it back a bit for mile 22 with an 8:42, knowing the final big climb of the day was coming up. I paused at an aid station and tried to slow my breathing and heart rate to smartly tackle this last hill, feeling like it was the final obstacle between myself and being able to pull off this sub-4 marathon. I tried to put mental blinders on and settled into a good rhythm as I headed up. I slowed but not too much, still feeling in control and the best I’d ever felt 22-and-change miles into a marathon. I passed people working hard, walking, stopping, but I just kept chugging, keeping the turnover high and leaning into the incline. My watch buzzed 9:05 for mile 23 right as I hit the peak and got to head back down.

I felt absolutely elated as the ground started to slope steeply back down. Keeping my forward lean with just 5K to go I let myself run down – dropping into a sub-8 pace for the first time that day. I didn’t sprint or lose my head, but I let gravity pull me back toward the finish line. Mile 24 was my fastest of the day at 8:25, and now with two miles to go I was heading across the bridge one last time to the south side of the lake. Scott and my dad had already departed for the finish line and I couldn’t wait to see them again. I still marveled at how good I felt – even in a straight marathon I’d never not been hurting by mile 25, but here I was going strong. I navigated a few rollers and tried to reel myself in, wanting to save a final match to burn down the finisher’s chute, bringing the penultimate mile in at 8:59.

Finally, in mile 26, running in the dark now and away from any real spectators, the day started to hit me. All of a sudden my legs faded quickly and I felt ravenously hungry. After 25 increasingly comfortable and happy miles, I welcomed the pain. It was one final gauntlet to this hellish season, one last obstacle to overcome. I had done the math with every passing mile (ok half and quarter mile) and I knew at this point I could walk the rest and still come in under 4 hours. I wasn’t about to walk but I did let myself slow into the 9s so that I wouldn’t fall as I was feeling a bit lightheaded and the course was dimly lit. I could hear Mike Reilly and the finish line crowd just a few hundred meters away. There was only one other runner near me and he and I traded encouragements, recognizing each other’s final-mile turmoil.

My Garmin screen lit up at the 26 mile marker – 9:11. As my watch face illuminated the dark road we ran past the finish line/lap two fork and got to keep right for the finish line. We still couldn’t see it but we could hear it. I had wanted to save some gas and sprint this final 200m but now that it was here I just wanted to savor it – plus it was uphill and evidently I had burned every last match. I just kept rocking that 9 minute pace towards home and soon enough I had made the final turn and the iconic Ironman carpet was laid out in front of me – people screaming on each side and Mike Reilly yelling us in.

Running up the finishing chute was surreal – in large part because I was pretty out of it. Twenty-six had somehow kicked my ass after 25 easy-feeling miles. And .2 had fully spent me. I could feel my eyes go cartoon-wide drinking everything in, working hard to stay upright and run straight, and trying to memorize the moment.

I wanted to hug every stranger there. Then I saw Scott (and wanted to do more than hug) and heard, “EB!” and saw my dad a few feet beyond him and the waterworks ripped. I grinned and soaked it in, and then I heard someone else calling my name louder. I realized it was Mike Reilly announcing, “Liz Westbrook, you are an Ironman!” as my foot hit the final sensors ending a rollercoaster of a day and season. I had gone from likely-DNF to sub-4 marathon and I was spent and elated.

My final marathon time was 3:54:44 and final race time was 12:42:19. Not the sub-12 I wanted but an Ironman PR by several hours and the 6th fastest marathon in my age group.

The Aftermath

I was in a daze as I slowed to a walk on the other side of the finish line. I was dizzy from the hours of effort – and as I’ve documented here, I refuse to be helped by post-race medical – but also from the shock of that run. I couldn’t believe the day had turned around like that. After a terrible swim and almost quitting the bike, after the year of endless setbacks and disappointments, after next to no run training, my legs had shown up for me in the craziest way.

A few days after the race Iron queen Ellen told me no, it was my heart that had shown up and my legs had just followed, and I think she’s right. (She usually is.) I’d been in such a dark place throughout the day, but going into the third lap of the bike my heart got stubborn or maybe proud and I couldn’t bring myself to quit. All day really I’d made the decision to grit it out a little longer until things finally turned around. I survived for hours and over a hundred miles until I thrived.

I would have loved to have had better swim and bike experiences, to have finished in under twelve hours, but I wouldn’t change a thing looking back. All year it felt like I might never get my run back, the thing I loved most and was best at might be gone forever, so to close out 2019 with that marathon meant the world to me.

As I collected myself and waved off medical, I cried as much as a person that dehydrated can cry. I slowly crept along to the athlete food, made myself a plate and found a spot in the grass to carefully sit down and eat. I borrowed a stranger’s phone to text Scott – impressing a group of people that I actually knew my spouse’s phone number – and let him know I would be out soon. Those few moments eating hours-old tacos by myself in the grass were really special.

Eventually I made my way out of the finish line athletes-only area and found Scott and my dad. Their support helped carry me through the worst parts of the day and sharing my joy with them through the run amplified my happiness. I can’t thank Scott enough for being so steady when I was ready to crumble all year and all day. And I’ll never stop wanting my dad to be proud of me, not wanting to let him down helped me stay stubborn.

2019 was a helluva year filled with some really low lows, but just enough highs to keep me buoyant. I was thrilled to put it to bed and felt like I’d had the last laugh on what I hoped would be my worst year for a while. Of course just a few weeks later 2019 gave way to 2020 and, well, we all know how that went…