Ironman Wisconsin 2007 and My Ironman Journey
In the beginning…
Some people watch the Ironman World Championships on TV and say “Some day, that’s going to be me!”
I, on the other hand, would watch and think, “Those people are freakin’ nuts!”
The mere suggestion that I’d do an Ironman myself some day was simply unfathomable. I’ve always liked a long casual bike ride, but have never been a runner. In fact, saddled with undiagnosed allergy-induced asthma and flat feet, I’d never run more than a mile or two at a time until I was in my 30’s, and always swore I’d go to my grave never having completed a marathon.
Swimming? Also not for me. For as long as I remember, I’ve had a phobia about open water (I blame growing up in the cinematic age of Jaws, combined with a bad experience falling through the ice on a pond as a kid). Just three and a half years ago, I couldn’t swim a single length of a pool without stopping to gasp for breath, had never owned a road bike, and never run more than a 10K.
But by the fall of 2006, with a half dozen triathlons, countless century rides, and a marathon under my belt (plus orthotics in my sneakers and an inhaler in my pocket), the Ironman seemed less like something other, crazy people did and more like something I might actually be capable of myself. So one Monday morning in September ’06, I shut my office door, feverishly battled the online sign-up gauntlet for half an hour, and emerged with a spot for Ironman Wisconsin 2007.
“Holy crap,” I thought. “Now I really have to do it.”
Training
I had modest expectations, so I initially thought I could make it to Ironman without having to hire a coach. I’d rely instead on a combination of my own research, guidance from friends, and free online programs. In late April, I began to realize that strategy wasn’t working. By that time, many of the go-to coaches were already booked up, including the highly recommended Coach Debi (aka “Cruella”). At her suggestion I called Coach Mike Plumb of TriPower Multisports in southern California.
In our first conversation, I bombarded Mike with a litany of restrictions and training schedule demands. I don’t do evening workouts—I’m often at work until 7 PM or later and rarely have the willpower to work out afterwards. It’s too hard to get away from the office during the day, too, so all workouts during the work week have to be done by 9 AM. I teach spinning two mornings a week, and didn’t want to give up those classes—it was more convenient than riding outside, and the extra income made me feel less guilty about spending so much cash on the race. As a result, I could only ride outside one day a week—my long ride on Saturday. I also didn’t like to run more than 3 times a week (my max while marathon training), since I never seemed to recover if I did, though I’d consider working my way up to 4 runs. I wanted Mondays completely off. Oh— and while my stated goal was just to finish, I really wanted to cross the line in under 14 hours. “Not a problem,” Coach Mike said. I was sold.
In addition to his mellow attitude, Coach Mike provided training programs week by week instead of monthly like many coaches in his price range, which I liked. To top it off, he didn’t charge extra for emails and phone chats.
Training went relatively well, with Coach Mike masterfully building distances in a way that suited an Iron-newbie like me. The long weekend workouts, initially intimidating, grew to feel more or less manageable, like the fatigue and 9 PM bedtime.
Pre-Race Psychosis
I arrived in Madison the Thursday before the race, checked in, registered, and picked up my bike from Tri Bike Transport (worth every penny). I biked the hilliest part of the run course to scout it out, grabbed dinner with the wonderful DC Tri Club crowd, and turned in early.
On Friday, I woke up bright and early and set off for Lake Monona for a test swim, to get a feel for race morning temperatures and light conditions. A storm front was moving through, and a steady wind was kicking up a serious chop on the lake. I slipped into the water and set a goal of swimming just 20 minutes, an easy pre-race tune-up. As I swam parallel to shore, the reality of the conditions and my swimming anxiety swiftly set in. The waves tossed me helplessly up and down, mercilessly slapping me in the face whenever I tried to take a breath. Every ten strokes or so, I’d look up to see what kind of forward progress I’d made against the current; each time, it was pitifully small. Sick of being beaten up by the waves, convinced it would do more harm to my psyche and body to push it further, I retreated to shore sooner than planned. Looking at my watch when I exited the water, my heart sank. Was I really only out there 13 minutes?
On shore, others were also concerned about the rough conditions, but everyone seemed to have heard the same weather report—that the storm front would be gone by Sunday, race day. It made me feel better—but only slightly. After all, weather was notoriously unpredictable this time of year in Madison. What if conditions were the same on Sunday? If I was begging to get out of the water inside of 15 minutes today, would I really be able to withstand a 2.4 mile swim, which would easily take me more than an hour longer?
On Saturday, dropping off my bike and scouting the hilly bike course for the first time unsettled me further. I knew my bike—a 2005 steel framed Specialized Allez Comp—was far from top of the line, but it seemed to stick out like a sore thumb—one heavy-a$$ digit at that—in a sea of ultralight carbon fiber machines. Who did I think I was, attempting this race? I’m no athlete—for god’s sake, I was second-to-last pick in elementary school gym class. Terrified of the swim, bike worth less than most wheel sets in transition…I felt like a poser whose bluff was about to be called in a very big way. A call to fellow DC Tri Clubbers Amy and Greg settled my nerves. I’ll always be grateful that, with their own races to worry about, they generously took time to talk me through my pre-race angst.
Amy suggested that I get away from the Ironman village scene, so I headed back to the hotel. Consumed with thoughts about the race, I was floored when a familiar face popped out from behind the hotel’s airport shuttle: my baby brother Chris, an Air Force linguist based in Okinawa, supposedly in Massachusetts on leave. He’d shown up to surprise me and cheer me on, and his thoughtfulness, no doubt combined with the accumulated stress, made me burst out in tears (a further example of his thoughtfulness: he even booked his own hotel room). For the next several days, his presence and support helped me take my mind off the race and calm me down.
My cousin Heidi from San Francisco was acting as race sherpa, and she’d asked me to hold off on driving the bike course until her arrival on Saturday. She arrived later in the day than planned, though, and needed to eat immediately…for me, an anxious 90-minute meal in the sun as I fidgeted, wondering if I should have gone back to the hotel for a nap, worried that my pre-race meal schedule was already thrown off. As a result, we didn’t get out on the bike course until 3 or so, and back to the hotel until after 5. My cousin and brother disappeared to fetch food, but didn’t return until after 7, which meant I was eating much later than I’m accustomed pre-race. I told myself it wouldn’t matter…I still had 12 hours to digest. Still, Saturday ended up being far too busy and stressful when it should have been spent lounging and relaxing—a mistake I won’t make next time out.
Before arriving in Wisconsin and scouting out the course, I’d plotted out some race goals. I’d hoped to keep a steady, even pace, never pushing too hard and finishing in under 14 hours, broken down to an hour and a half for the swim, a maximum of 7 hours on the bike, a 5-hour marathon, and 15 minutes each for the swim-to-bike and bike-to-run transitions. But after the scary swim and glimpse of the bike course, my time goals went out the window. Now, I was just in it to finish.
I went to bed at 9:30 PM the night before the race, planning to get up at 4 AM. Instead, I found myself wide awake at 1:30 AM, simply unable to get back to sleep. Rather than lie there tossing and turning, I decided to use the time productively by visualizing the swim start and repeating some “positive affirmations.” I always panic the first ten minutes of any triathlon swim, and was dreading the crowded conditions of an Ironman mass start. I pictured myself in the water and repeated to myself, “You are a shark! You are a beast! You will dominate in the water!” (can’t believe I’ve admitted that, but if it helps just one person…).
When my alarm sounded two and a half hours later, I had practically grown gills and was ready to race.
RACE DAY: The swim
Morning broke with perfect weather: temperatures in the low 70’s, no rain in the forecast, and most importantly, calm, flat waters on Lake Monona. I got to the race site early, dropped off my gear, checked my bike, and survived a brief panic attack when I thought I’d lost my wetsuit (I’d draped it over my bike seat when I went to check on my transition bags). Amy’s bike was two racks over from mine, so we met up with Greg, and they settled my nerves further as we headed down to the swim start.
Race officials were herding people into the water as early as 6:30—half an hour before race start. With final hugs, Greg and Amy slipped into the water. I stalled myself for a good five minutes. Those first steps in seemed monumental—the beginning of a day that wouldn’t end until after the sun had set and I was long past fatigued. After I set foot in the water, there was no turning back, and I needed to mentally prepare. My mouth suddenly felt dry, and I cursed myself for tossing my half-full Powerade earlier. Seeing a guy with a full bottle headed for the water, I said, “You don’t know me, but can I have a sip of that?” He obliged, and I had no excuse: with 19 minutes to go until the cannon, I headed into the water as well.
I slipped into the pleasantly cool water and swam out to find a spot among the growing throng of some 2,200+ triathletes. I felt remarkably calm as the race was about to begin. Treading water as I waited, I was overwhelmed with emotion—half giddy, half on the verge of tears. So many training hours, so much effort, all coming down to this…
With music blaring in the background and thousands of spectators cheering from the shore, the race announcer began to count down…a minute…thirty seconds. Finally, the cannon boomed, and we were off.
I was surprised how good I felt. In the sea of flailing arms and legs, I didn’t feel a shred of my standard swimming panic—only exhilaration. I’d managed to find a good open area, and the wide starting line meant that it wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected. The swim is a two-lap rectangular course, and for the first long straightaway I could feel the powerful draft pulling me along. With so many bodies close by, it felt nice not to have to sight that often.
Rounding the first buoy, I make an observation that seems obvious but had eluded me until that moment: that swimming with men is different from swimming with women. Yes, women can be equally aggressive, but when they club and kick you, it’s generally with less body mass behind them, the blows and kicks falling with less force. But my two and a half sleepless hours lying in bed meditating must have helped, because I found myself actually enjoying it. At the end of lap one, I checked my watch: 40 minutes (don’t worry—that’s actually good for me). After two laps, I climbed from the water with 1:24 on the clock—the longest open water and longest continuous swim I’d ever done, finishing six minutes under my very modest goal of 1:30. (Age group: 66/105)
T1
My first experience with wetsuit strippers went smoothly. I felt elated as I ran up the four levels of the parking garage ramp of the Monona Terrace, cheered on by the throngs of spectators, including my brother. I had survived an Ironman swim! I was still running as I entered the Monona Terrace, dashed into the room with the T1 bags—then turned abruptly to dodge a volunteer. On the slick Astroturf covering the carpet of the Monona Terrace, my right foot went out from under me and I went down, hard, on my left knee. I paused in that position, afraid of how that knee would feel when I stood up. When I rose, my knee was covered with a bright red circle, but it felt fine, and I continued on to the changing room. I took my time, aided by a volunteer, and the rest of the transition and bike-fetching went smoothly. I crossed the timing mat with my bike and set off for the ride a little more than ten minutes elapsed since emerging from the water.
The Bike
The first few miles of the bike went well. I felt good and strong and happy to have survived the swim, and was surprised that I was posting 18-20 mph with what seemed like little effort. We hit a short “no pass zone” early on and, despite my knowing that you’re not supposed to eat the first half hour after the swim, I decide that it was a good time to hydrate and have some Hammer protein drink (because it’s a beverage, not food, right? Not so bright in hindsight). When I replaced my bottle in the cage, I was surprised to see that I’d sucked down about half its contents.
I came to regret it when, an hour into the ride, I felt a tightness grip my stomach. It could have been from drinking the Hammer too early, or maybe it was from eating too late the night before. Maybe it was due to the fact that I was able to ride aero much more than I’d anticipated that was interfering with my digestion. In any case, the stomach issues would linger for the remainder of the race, leaving me with a constant sense of discomfort, wondering if it would keep me from meeting my time goals, or even finishing.
Overall, I enjoyed the bike course itself. I was glad I’d had the chance to drive the course and knew what to expect. I was pleasantly surprised by how much time I was able to spend in my aerobars—even the long gradual uphills and downhills—something I wasn’t comfortable doing on training routes, except for extended stretches like River Road. The worst parts for me were the occasional climbs with sharp 90-degree turns that then continue to climb.
Despite the stomach cramps, I knew I had to continue eating and drinking in order to have the energy to complete the race, so I kept ingesting calories, alternating Hammer (a mix of Perpetuum and Sustained Energy) with water and downing an average of one Accel gu and one endurolyte every 45 minutes.
I reached my goal of hitting special needs by noon, which put me in good shape to finish the bike within my 7-hour goal. If I continue at that rate, I told myself, and get off the bike around 3:30 PM, I could practically walk the marathon and still finish in under 17 hours.
At special needs, I wasted a good several minutes picking through my bag, ultimately using only my second pre-filled tube of gus and passing up some Tylenol 8 hour—a move I’d soon regret when the lower back pain settled in.
The last 40 miles of the bike were the most difficult as that pain gripped my lower back—perhaps from riding aero more than I’m accustomed (I’d had a new fitting in July that seemed to work). Stomach cramps continued, and a headwind kicked up—but I kept telling myself, “You’re doing an Ironman—don’t wish it away.”
The crowds, meanwhile, were fantastic, making us feel like rock stars as we rolled down Main Street in Verona, where the second lap begins, or up the largest hills, like Old Sauk Pass. On the second loop, I decided to give the crowds on that hill a show. I set my sights on a guy on sweet Cervelo—race number reading “Taylor”—grinding his way up the hill in front of me. With an exaggerated teeth-gritting face, I rose up out of my seat and hammered away. The crowd went crazy as I blasted past Taylor and sprinted up the rest of the hill. “That was awesome!” a guy yelled out as I passed. I check my heart rate monitor (167—too high), wondering if it’s possible to flood your legs with a race-ruining dose of lactic acid during a ten second sprint.
I rolled back into Madison, hopping off the bike with 7:01 elapsed—just a minute over my bike goal of 7 hours. (Age group: 53/105)
T2
I handed my bike off to a volunteer and ran into the changing room, calling out “Just a marathon to go!” to the volunteers, happy to find that my legs didn’t feel wobbly at all. A volunteer changed my socks, which I could smell from a yard further away, making me wonder what possessed people to reach such heights of saintliness and personal sacrifice. When I mentioned that my back was sore, the volunteer called over a physical therapist to work out the kinks with some ART. It delayed my run start, but I’m convinced it was worth it. T2 time: 10:15.
The Marathon
As I begin the marathon, a quick glance at a clock on the way out revealed that it was 3:47 PM. Translation: I had about five hours, 13 minutes to complete a marathon to meet my goal of a 14-hour Ironman. It seemed possible.
I did a quick inventory of my body and was feeling remarkably good, legs still rather fresh, a big smile on my face now that I was off the bike. I’d survived the swim, I’d avoided crashing or flatting on my bike, and now just had to keep my feet moving another five hours or so. My stomach cramps continued throughout the run, but I stuck to my race strategy of eating (Clif Shot Bloks, 2-3 every half hour) and drinking to make sure I was ingesting enough calories to get me through it. In my only marathon, I hadn’t been able to stomach anything after mile 14 and paid for it with horrible calf cramps with two miles to go; I was determined not to let it happen again.
The marathon is a two-loop course through downtown Madison, with plenty of opportunities to spot other DC Tri-Clubbers along its out-and-back stretches. I saw Amy early on, on her way to a fantastic finish, and several other Tri-Clubbers throughout. The highlight of the run came around miles 6/19 on State Street, a main thoroughfare lined with restaurants, shops, and spectators, including my brother, cousin, and college roommate who’d driven in from Milwaukee with her 5 year old daughter. The downside was that it was also where people were most likely to dash out in front of you (like a guy in a suit talking on a cell phone who nearly collided with me around mile 7, and a guy on a moped who almost gunned it in front of me around mile 18). At that point in the race, I felt like any sudden change in direction or momentum could have serious consequences, and grew anxious whenever any spectators crossed the path in front of me or made sudden movements along the sidelines that threatened to interrupt my rhythm.
The marathon makes a loop around Camp Randall, the University of Wisconsin stadium, and on the first loop I started chatting with another participant, Darryl from Minnesota. Later in the run, when we caught up to each other again, I spotted his age on his well-defined calf: 65. “Darryl, are you really 65?” I asked. Yes, he admitted—but only after he had me repeat the question in his “good” ear. While he’d completed a number of road races and other triathlons, this was his first Ironman. His wife, he said, was competing that day as well, but was an hour ahead. “She has the advantage of youth,” he said. “She’s 54.”
I was worried about how I’d feel at the turnaround point, when you enter the finishing chute, see the finish line yawning ahead, hear the cheering spectators, but are forced to turn left and head out for another 13.1 mile loop. I got a big boost when I spotted DC Tri vet Brian McNally, in Wisconsin to see his beloved Eagles play the Packers. He’d raced down from Green Bay to catch part of the race. “You’re looking fresh as a daisy,” he called out, leaving me with a big smile as I set out for lap two.
A glimpse of my watch showed that I was right on schedule, completing the first half of the marathon in just under two and a half hours. If I could maintain that pace, I’d reach my goal of a five hour marathon and sub-14 hour finish.
I’ll admit: I had a big incentive. My friend Rick, a marathoner who teaches at UWisconsin-Madison, was volunteering at the finish line from 6-9 PM. I told him that I hoped to finish by 9 PM, running him through my anticipated splits for each leg. “You’ll never be able to run a 5 hour marathon after all that,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s just impossible with all that exercise leading up to it.” Clearly, it’s possible; what he meant was that it was impossible for someone like me. I was determined to prove him wrong.
But at the halfway point, my knees were sore from constant impact, and my quads ached with an occasional jolt that made me nervous, wondering if I’d take one step and feel more than a jolt, struck with a pain that would leave me limping to the finish.
Mercifully, that never happened. At special needs, I downed some Tylenol 8 hour that I’d stashed in the bag at the last minute, feeling like a doper as the guy holding the bag eyed me suspiciously, but it worked wonders. While the stomach cramps continued to plague me, they were never so bad that I couldn’t continue to run through them (well, with 5, errr…”unproductive” bathroom breaks). They started serving warm chicken broth around mile 14, and I got a little too eager with it, taking 4-5 servings over the next 3-4 water stops. Just after mile 17, I felt—then saw—some chicken broth come up. Tired of my Clif Shot Bloks, now leery of the chicken broth, I decide to give the flat Coke a try, and it did the trick.
As the sun set and crowds out on the course dwindled, the last 8 miles were the toughest—especially a part of the course that follows a dark dirt jogging trail—but I kept my pace as best I could. I wasn’t tempted to walk, except up the toughest hill on the course. I forced myself to walk through many aid stations, if only to make sure the liquids settled in my stomach.
With just over three miles left, I started to grow excited. I was on pace to finish the race under 14 hours with time to spare—as long as nothing went wrong. I began to pass a number of people walking, including one fit guy at about mile 23. I called out to him, “In an hour we’ll be in the massage tent,” and felt horrible when he dejectedly replied, “I’ve given it everything I have. I just can’t do any more.”
When I rounded the corner onto State Street for the final time and saw the state capitol dome lit up ahead, my heart leapt and I let out a whoop. Crowds had thinned somewhat by then, so when I passed by one of the many restaurants with crowded outdoor seating, I yelled out, “I’m about to finish my first Ironman!” eliciting a block full of cheers. Rounding the corner into the finishing chute, packed with a throng of spectators four or five deep in places, I made a final sprint to the finish line. Glancing up at the clock, I saw 13 hours, 50 minutes and change click by as I ran up the final ramp.
I distinctly remember looking down at the tape as I crossed, and all I could think was, “Am I supposed to break through this or drape it over my shoulders or what?” (clearly not a lot of tape-breaking experience in my race history). I pushed on through and heard those words I’d been so eagerly anticipating for months, “Carrie Regan from Washington, DC, you are an Ironman!”
I was simultaneously thrilled and filled with relief. I was still on my feet. I felt great—legs weary, happy to be done, but great. I couldn’t believe it: I’d finished an Ironman. I look around for my friend Rick, and when he approached me to congratulate me and offer to take off my timing chip, I told him to kiss my sneaker while he was down there, because, despite his predictions, I’d just run a 5-hour marathon (well, 5:03, it turns out, but close enough for me—62/105 in age group for the run; 61/105 age group overall).
Post race
The next day, as people limped around Monona Terrace in bright red “finisher” tee shirts, picking up race photos and certificates, I ran into Darryl, that 65-year-old, sporting his own finisher tee. It took him a moment to recognize me out of my race gear, but when he did, we exchange big congratulatory hugs. He finished second in his age group, I later read, missing a Kona slot by 40 seconds, but he didn’t seem to care. His wife had finished as well—about an hour before him.
The race was quite a journey, the culmination of months of effort, long mornings and full days of workouts that left me sometimes energized, sometimes inspired, and often fatigued and grumpy. I couldn’t have done it without the encouragement and support of countless friends, family, the guidance of my coach, Mike Plumb, and care of the world’s greatest chiropractor (and DC Tri Clubber) Dr. Kevin Rindal, whose ART expertise helped me overcome pains that kept me from running almost all of 2006, and got me to the starting line injury-free.
And I have to thank the crazy, inspiring, and talented people who make up the DC Tri Club. I doubt I would have even considered more than an Olympic distance triathlon without the many members of the club who share their knowledge and experience so freely and provided such inspiration over the years. Big thanks to Andrea for inviting me along on those long rides the last couple months pre-race (and for making me feel normal when I was at my moodiest and most tired), Mike for introducing me to his secret Hammer formula, Greg and Amy for their priceless encouragement race weekend, Matt G. for the great advice and assuring me an Ironman was “no big deal,” Em for the early suggestions and for wisely telling me to get to Madison at latest Thursday instead of Friday, Dan C. for the helpful early training plans, and Rob Falk…well, for being Rob Falk.
Things I’m glad I did:
-A week of cycling-specific work—riding hills in Italy in late June—gave my cycling a much-needed boost.
-Upgrading my wheels to a friend’s old pair of Ksyrium Elites helped immensely.
-Hiring a coach: For 5 months, cost less than $500 and removed a million bucks worth of stress from my life.
-Doing the race as a fundraiser, raising over $16,000 (to date) for a middle school in Tibet, which multiplied that feeling of accomplishment a thousandfold. It also inspired me to get out of bed all those very early mornings to swim, bike, and run, afraid to disappoint all those who donated so generously.
-Doing my long rides with other “Ironman trainees” the last couple months.
Things I might change/work on for next Ironman:
-Not wait until the day before the race to drive the bike course. With the bike and transition bags to drop off that day, it was busy enough. Should have driven it earlier in the week and spent Saturday relaxing.
-Cook my own pre-race meal Saturday instead of getting pasta for a restaurant, so I know what I’m getting (pesto sauce was a bit too thick), and when I’ll get it.
-Select race sherpa from my own time zone (and not three hours behind, as my West Coast cousin was in this case) so his/her sleep/eat schedules are more in sync with mine—especially if they’re staying in my room.
-More speed work for the run.
-If I really want to go faster, sacrifice a spinning class and ride outside more than once a week.
-Maybe upgrade steel bike to a sweet ultralight carbon fiber bike.
RACE REPORT:
Spirit of Racine Half Ironman, July 19, 2009
For me, one thing about triathlons causes more stress than any other: the fact that as much as you might prepare, you never know what conditions race day will bring.
The first time I participated in the Spirit of Racine Half Ironman, in July 2005, proved that point. It was my first time tackling a race of that distance, and I was already questioning whether or not I’d be able to finish—especially considering that just a year earlier, I could barely swim 50 meters without stopping. To add to the stress, race day struck with temperatures hitting 99 degrees and a heat index of 115. I managed to finish the race, but questioned the sanity of attempting another Half Ironman ever again.
Mercifully, this year was an entirely different story. Race day broke with nearly ideal conditions: wonderfully cool temperatures that would peak in the mid-60’s, with mostly overcast skies. My only concern was the water temperature of Lake Michigan: 59 degrees the day before the race, which was bone chilling in my sleeveless wetsuit (full sleeved wetsuits are warmer but I prefer the greater range of motion of sleeveless suits).
While I couldn’t ask for better weather conditions, my own physical condition gave me cause for concern thanks to a muscle strain that cropped up during a run two weeks before race day (google “piriformis syndrome” if you’re curious. One friend appropriately dubbed it a “literal pain in the butt”). I’d followed a steady regime of ice, ice baths, heating pads, and even a visit with my chiropractor and massage therapist to try to work it out, but the day before the race it still felt a bit tender, and I was concerned that it would wrench and leave me walking a good part of the run course.
On the plus side, I was guaranteed a good cheering section on the course. I’m not from Racine, Wisconsin but my mom is, and I still have a big, wonderful extended family there comprised of countless aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, and more—even a cousin who’s mayor of the town. My mom and her husband also flew in for the weekend to visit her family and cheer me on, and if seeing your mom isn’t going to make all the aches and pains of race day vanish, I don’t know what will.
As I set up all my gear for the bike and run segments in the transition area, the announcer brought good news: the water had warmed up overnight to a much more manageable 64 degrees, bringing huge relief to everyone. At 6:30 AM he called for all competitors to begin walking the mile stretch of beach to the swim start, and I joined 1200 others, each of us filled with the standard pre-race nervous anticipation. As I chatted with other participants I was feeling good—well rested, happy to be racing for a cause as meaningful as the Coke Scholars Alumni Scholarship Fund, and inspired by the generosity of all my kind sponsors.
The swim start at the Spirit of Racine is divided up, like most triathlons, by gender and age, with each pack starting at three-minute intervals. As other groups set out I noticed that the buoys marking the course weren’t nearly as far from shore as they’d been in years past—perhaps due to an unfortunate drowning death during a recent triathlon in the area. Finally, at 7:24 AM the horn sounded and I set off in a large pack of 105 women, all charging into the water at the same time.
For the first ten minutes of the swim, I was surrounded by a churning sea of bodies. I scanned the waters frequently between strokes in the opening minutes, jockeying for position while trying to dodge the errant kick to the face (successful except for one heel that struck my right cheek). Swimming isn’t my strong suit, and I sometimes panic during the initial moments of this leg, but once I got past the largest packs I became more relaxed and fell into a natural rhythm.
The swim leg went by quickly—perhaps too quickly. When I checked my watch exiting the water, I was stunned: just over 30 minutes? It usually takes me at least 40 minutes to complete a 1.2-mile swim. It seemed that either a healthy current or generously measured 1.2 miles gave everyone an extra boost that day.
I jogged up the beach into the transition area and within a few minutes (note for non-tri people: yes, the clock is still ticking here!) had stripped off my wetsuit and outfitted myself with everything I’d need for the 56-mile bike ride.
As I crested the hill coming out of the transition area, my aunt and uncle were waiting, camped out at 8 AM on a Sunday morning to cheer me on. Moments later I heard my mom calling out my name as well, lifting my spirits as I set out for my ride.
The bike course is a mixed bag. Parts are beautiful wide roads with views of cornfields and barns. Elsewhere the route is made up of bumpy, jarring weather-worn stretches of highway littered with water bottles that had popped off bikes ahead of me as they struck ruts and potholes. There weren’t many steep hills, but long gradual climbs and “false flats” kept it challenging. I’d just missed completing this course in under 3 hours in the past, so that was goal this year.
The start of the bike leg felt good, but just halfway in my right calf began to seize up at intervals. I worried that I’d set too aggressive a pace early on, and wondered if it would give me trouble on the run. Such cramps can be brought on by dehydration and/or excessive electrolyte loss through sweating, but that’s generally not as big a concern on such a cool race day. Still, I followed my hydration plan carefully, making sure to drink enough and pop the occasional electrolyte tablet to ward off further cramps. For races of this length, the bike leg is the best time to take in the calories you need to finish strong and avoid the dreaded “bonk;” I did so by fueling up on Accel chocolate gus.
With ten minutes left, the course turned east, back toward the lake, and the headwind picked up, slowing my pace somewhat. My lower back was feeling rather tight for the last half of the ride and I had to sit up occasionally or ride standing on the pedals to stretch it out. Nearing the end, I was ready to be off the bike and running—especially during the last two miles, when the course runs alongside the running route and you’re teased with the sight of people already a few miles into their half marathon. After passing a cluster of cheering relatives, I cruised into the transition area, finishing the 56-mile ride in just under my goal of three hours with an average speed of about 19 mph.
As I pulled on my running shoes, I remembered my calf cramp and considered a piece of equipment from my arsenal: black knee-high calf compression socks, which aren’t so stylish but are the latest fad in triathlon gear. Operating on the same principle of therapeutic socks worn by people with circulation issues, the socks are designed to increase blood flow, flushing toxins from the muscles while also decreasing muscle fatigue by reducing muscle vibration. Gimmicky trend or legitimate racing tool, I decided I needed all the help I could get and pulled them on.
The 13.1 mile run course consists of two loops that wind mostly along Lake Michigan, with two hills at the start of each loop. I was most concerned about this final leg of the race, since it was the most likely place where my pain-in-the-butt muscle strain would flare up and leave me limping for a long, long walk.
The first mile of the run was, quite honestly, awful. My butt felt okay but my left quad immediately started to quiver and seize up at intervals. I told myself it was normal and that, as always, I’d feel better by mile four of the run. Given all the quirky muscle aches I was experiencing, I decided to settle into an easy 10-minute mile pace and told myself to enjoy the scenery.
I started to feel better once the first two hills were history, with no further problems from my quad, and put on a game face when I passed my relatives again around mile 1.5. Half a mile later I grabbed a banana at the aid station, hoping the potassium would help ward off further muscle cramps.
As I neared the end of the first lap I was feeling much better, and the sight of a group of cheering cousins and their kids as well as the finish line lifted my spirits—even though I had another lap and more than 6 miles to go before I could cross it. I checked my watch and tried not to get too excited by the results: if I could hold my current pace, I’d beat my previous time by more than 20 minutes and finish well under my six hour goal. In fact, it seemed I could even come in under 5:50, well beyond expectations, so I privately set that as my new goal as I set off on lap two.
I wondered if I’d jinxed myself when, around mile 10.5, my left calf cramped up beneath my compression sock. Whenever I lifted my left foot, I could feel my toes curling under, and had to stomp my foot each time I brought it down to work the cramp out. I’d felt such cramps around the 22-mile mark of marathons in the past, but the compression socks seemed to help and enable me to continue running at the same steady pace. Meanwhile, I continued to make sure I was adequately hydrated and getting enough electrolytes.
With less than a mile left, I could see the finish area in the distance, but still feared that my calf would seize up once and for all and force me to walk, putting my sub-six hour finish in jeopardy.
Fortunately, the calf cramp remained manageable as I ran down into the park for the home stretch. Just a hundred meters before the finish line, I saw my mother and a collection of relatives who’d been out for hours cheering me on, and veered to the side to high-five each one. As I crossed the finish line with a smile, I heard them call out my name and checked my watch: 5:48 and change. Just to be certain that my stopwatch hadn’t malfunctioned, I checked the clock time as well and did a quick calculation. It was true—I’d somehow managed to finish 22 minutes faster than my best time on the course.
The finish felt good, but as always, I’ve found myself scrutinizing the race for points where I can learn from it and improve. I’m already wondering how much faster that bike leg will be next time if I finally invest in a real triathlon bike (instead of my current road bike), and how much faster my run leg would be if I can figure out what caused the various muscle cramps. As much as I told myself pre-race that I wouldn’t complain if I came in under 6 hours, I’m already plotting and planning, because I’m certain that with the right conditions, next time I could surely finish in under five and a half hours, right?
Spirit of Racine 2005: Couldn’t Swim a Stroke to Half Ironman in 52 weeks
To be honest, I COULD swim a stroke a year earlier…just not that many consecutive strokes! In my training log this date last year, I noted that I couldn’t swim more than 25 meters at a go. I’ve since put two Olympic races under my belt, and on Sunday, I just completed my first half Ironman! If you’d asked me two years ago, I never would have thought it possible. With super flat feet, I’ve never been much of a runner, only completing my first 10K (the furthest I’d ever run outside) in March 2004. While I liked tooling around town and riding the C&O on my mountain bike, I didn’t own a road bike—in fact, I’d never ridden one in my life. And then there was the swim. I blame the film “Jaws,” which came out just as I was taking my first childhood dip in the ocean. From that point on, every time I’d get in open water, I’d hear the movie’s theme, picture my feet fluttering beneath the water from a shark’s point of view, and panic. Then, without warning two years ago, I was bitten by the tri bug. It was during an innocent stopover to visit family in Racine, Wisconsin, tacked on to a business trip. I didn’t know it at the time, but Racine was hosting its first annual half Ironman race (“American’s Dairyland” that year, changed to “Spirit of Racine” afterwards, making the tee shirt far less cool). I hung out at the race from start to finish, surprised to find that not all triathletes were built like superheroes, admiring the ease with which the winners cruised across the finish line, and the heart shown by those who shuffled across it hours later, determined to finish. I told my cousin I’d be back to do the race some day…then push those thoughts aside as I returned to Washington, once again consumed by work. By the following spring, I started to feel that pull again. It seemed like everyone I talked to had done a tri, or was training for one. When it appeared that my work schedule would lighten up over the summer, I made up my mind, bought a road bike, signed up for swim lessons, and registered for the Make-A-Wish Sea Colony Olympic distance race in September 2004. Despite a last-minute business trip that yanked me out of training for 3 of the 5 final weeks of training, it was an incredible experience. I would have run out and done another race the following weekend…but had to wait until May, and Columbia, for another race that fit my schedule. Conquering those hills at Columbia felt so great that I wanted more, and not just another Olympic race. Like a junkie in need of a bigger and better fix, I decided to shoot for the tri that started it all, that half Ironman in Wisconsin I’d witnessed in 2003. There was one problem. After Columbia, I only had two months to go until race day—a mere eight weeks to crank up training and make the jump from Olympic to 1/2 Iron. Sure, I could have picked a half IM closer to DC, later in the year, and taken my time with training, but I wouldn’t have the support of my extended family in Wisconsin–support that proved to be key (while I’m from the east coast, my mom grew up in Racine, one of seven kids in a large midwestern family, many of whom never left. We joke that we’re likely related to about half of the town’s 81,000 inhabitants). There were further hurdles: work was cranking, and I wouldn’t have time for any evening workouts. While I wouldn’t recommend it, I jacked up my running distance far more than the recommended 10% per week. After a month they started to feel normal. I decided to skip any speed work, focus on endurance and technique in all three sports, and shoot for simply finishing the tri, with a modest goal of coming in under six and a half hours. As race day approached, I nervously tracked the weather reports. The heat wave that was sweeping much of the country hadn’t skipped Wisconsin, and triple digit temps were predicted for race day. So much for thinking a triathlon in Wisconsin would bring cooler temps than Eagleman! The pre-race pep talk was given by Chris Legh (for those who don’t recognize the name, he’s the guy you see in that Gatorade commercial collapsing 50 meters from the finish line at Hawaii Ironman). He encouraged everyone to take it easy, not go all out, take salt pills, track hydration levels, etc. Hearing that a pro was equally concerned about the heat and planning to scale back was advice I needed to hear, and took to heart. Race day finally arrived, with outrageously high temps. They say it was 98, with 90 percent humidity and a heat index of 115, but the thermometer on my travel clock read 106.5 at 5 PM in partial shade, so I think it’s safe to say that we hit those triple digits. At 6:45 AM, I headed down the beach for the swim start in Lake Michigan feeling good. I’d gone for a swim in the lake the day before and it felt great. Simply being out of Washington for a couple days pre-race had mellowed my mood. There was a storm the night before, though, complete with tornado warnings, and the waves were pretty choppy when we did get out there. I had my usual “Oh my god I’m going to drown I can’t do this all I have to do is take off my swim cap and one of those guys in the kayaks will come rescue me” feelings, but pushed on. The waves were so high that I couldn’t see the bouys at times, and I swallowed water and went into coughing jags twice. My left goggle also leaked ever so slightly, allowing the tiniest annoying drop of water in. I was soooo happy to see the final orange bouy and head to shore! Time was acceptable —faster overall than my first Olympic distance open water swim last Sept, so no complaints. I had a cousin, aunt, and uncle cheering me on as I transitioned from swim to bike. I hadn’t had a chance to ride the course, but did drive it two nights earlier, so I knew what to expect from the terrain. It’s a beautiful course once you get out of the city–hills, picturesque farmland with red barns, cows, hay bales and fields of corn…but I hadn’t counted on the headwind and a crosswind that nearly blew me sideways at times. I passed six sets of extended family members at six different stages of the bike course, cheering me on (including a set of cousins working a water stop). They’d also planted funny signs along the course the night before that nearly had me falling off my bike, either from laughter or embarrassment (they made sure to ID me by first and last name on each one). I can’t imagine ever having that much support for a race anywhere else on the planet. I came in from the bike feeling energized, slightly ahead of schedule. I wasn’t sure how my legs would hold out as I came out of the transition area and ran up the only hill of course, but I surprisingly felt better and fresher than I had in either Olympic distance race. The course consisted of two laps, on mostly shadeless streets, in residential neighborhoods, through the city zoo, and along the coast of Lake Michigan. Gracious neighbors set up sprinklers and hoses to help keep us cool. Initially I tried to keep my feet dry, but by the second lap I was in full-on survival mode: nothing mattered but staying cool. I’d shove ice down my sports bra at every water stop, dump ice water onto my head before refilling my hand bottle, and drench myself at every hose or sprinkler stop. I was surprised how good my legs felt for the first lap, but by lap two I was feeling the heat. My feet were wet by then, and it made me feel like I was running with sand in my shoes. At one sprinkler stop the water dislodged my contact lenses, and I had to walk until I could see again. Pick-me-ups came from more signs along the road— one, to my horror, informing all participants that I was a “HOT HOT babe!” I passed by a set of relatives holding a sign with my name at about mile four of the run, and when I called out to them, a woman running next to me said, “You’re Carrie? It’s like the whole town is cheering for you!” I had to tell her that I wasn’t even from the state—just had a fantastic extended family. About mile 10, I realized, “I’m really going to do this! I’m really going to finish!” My feet felt a bit raw from being wet, and the heat was bothersome, but otherwise, I was feeling pretty good. At mile 11, I realized that despite all my water/”hose down” breaks, I could still reach my goal of coming in under 6 1/2 hours if I continued on pace. I was SOOO happy to see the mile 12 marker. I allowed myself one last one-minute walk break, and heard a man behind me say, “I haven’t had to walk in one of these in years, but this is just brutal.” Sure enough, after the race I read that over 50 people were treated with heat-related illnesses, and over 400 of the 1500 competitors either didn’t show up or didn’t finish. With less than a 1/2 mile left, we exited the zoo and could see the race tents and finish line in the distance. It was the longest half mile of my life. I kept chugging along, telling myself “in 5 minutes I’ll be done and relaxing!” The finish was great. As I turned the corner for the downhill ride to the finish line, I noticed that the announcer calling out names as people passed hadn’t noticed me, so I shamelessly yelled out my number to him. He laughed, looked up my name, and said, “A little help from 1549, Carrie Regan from Washington DC! And you thought it was hot and humid in Washington!” A huge contingent of family at the finish line let out a cheer as he called my name and I crossed, elated. I still can’t believe I did it! My final time was 6:26:11, with my run taking about 20 minutes longer than I’d estimated (and the second half of the run taking 4 minutes longer than the first). In the interest of having a safe and healthy first half IM, it was worth taking it slow. Chris Legh ended up winning the race in a remarkable 3 hrs 58 min, wrapping it up by 11 AM, before the real heat set in. Still, even he walked through the water stops. German pro Tina Walter led the women through mile six of the run, only to drop out a few miles from the finish, when she was rushed to the emergency room with a 105 degree internal body temperature. The heat took a toll on everyone–Legh’s finish was 13 minutes slower than last year’s winner, and the winning female time was 26 minutes slower than last year’s. Completing my first half IM in the place where I was first bitten by the tri bug was an amazing experience, but doing it surrounded by so many supportive family members made for a race experience I doubt can ever be beat. If I ever get up the guts to try a full Ironman, you can bet it’ll be Ironman Wisconsin.
