Here's a summary of how the day went:
The Swim
The swim portion of the race consisted of two 1.2-mile loops in Mirror Lake. You swim around the buoys, come out of the water, then go back in for your second lap. I practiced my breathing and calmed my mind like I had done at Syracuse and had a very tranquil start. And that's saying something amidst the VIOLENT swimmers around me who would just as soon swim on top of you than change their heading to avoid you. Plus, there is a magical cable at the bottom of the lake that you can follow, limiting the need to pull your head out of the water to sight your trajectory.
The weather was not helpful. It began to downpour at the end of loop one. It was barely noticeable in the water, but then the thunder and lightning started. FUN! I tried not to think about it and hustled to my second loop, noticing that my time was actually much faster than I expected, even though I was going easy.
At the turnaround on the second loop, I took a breath to my right and noticed a familiar face next to me. It was Greta! What were the odds? I hung with her for the return portion of the second loop and we came out of the water just a few seconds apart. In fact, I was able to catch up with her in transition and give her a hug and good luck wishes.
The Transition
Ironman is a little bit different from other triathlons. Usually, you are allowed to set up your "transition area," which is a little square of lawn next to your bike for you to deposit your shoes, gear, etc. Ironman is much more organized and does not let you have a "transition area." Instead, you put all your gear into five different bags (bike gear, run gear, bike special needs, run special needs, and morning clothes). The gear and morning clothes bags are hung on racks in the transition area according to your race number; the other two special needs bags are put at the midway points of the bike and run courses for extra nutrition, spare socks, etc.
After exiting the swim, I ran to pick up my bike gear bag and headed to the women's changing tent. The tent is basically full of a bunch of half-naked women and race volunteers in a flurry, trying to pull of wetsuits and help the racers get ready for the bike. You know me, I am very particular about my stuff, so I nicely told the volunteer to basically leave me alone. She recommended I have a seat and I politely refused -- Greta told me the seats get used as makeshift port-a-potties by some of the athletes.
I changed clothes as quickly as possible, trying to stay dry, which was difficult because the rain was now coming down heavily and the tent, although covered, was flooding. As soon as I was ready, I ran out, grabbed my bike off the rack, and set out on the bike course.
The First Bike Loop
The bike course consists of two 56-mile loops leading out of Lake Placid, through Wilmington, and then back up monstrous hills into town again. Of course, in order to get out of Placid, you have to go down what is basically a death plummet, complete with winding turns and guardrails attempting to protect you from falling off a cliff into rocky river rapids.
Did I mention it was downpouring?
I went super slowly going down the hill. Not only was the rain making the roads unsafe, but I was FREEZING for the first 90 minutes of the ride. My teeth began to chatter and my hands were so numb that I lost the ability to use the left shifter. For about 20 minutes of the ride, I was stuck in a single gear and just had to make it work.
Luckily, the miserable rain passed and the weather warmed. My drenched clothes started to dry and I had a very enjoyable, strong ride. Even the hills back into town weren't as challenging as I had remembered -- probably thanks to all the hill training I've been doing.
When I completed my first loop, I entered town again to cheering crowds and my friends yelling encouraging words at me. I cannot describe the overwhelming happiness I had -- you feel like a superstar with such a warm welcome. And I felt fantastic -- plenty of energy to burn. I had fueled and watered according to my plan and it was paying off. It was this moment when I knew I was going to complete the race.
Disaster at the Second Bike Loop
After passing through town, the second loop began. Although the route out of town is mostly the downhill death drop, you have to climb a few smaller hills to get there. On one hill at about mile 58, another rider decided to pass me on the left. As he did so, a third rider decided to illegally and very closely pass him on the left. In reaction to that, the middle rider swerved towards me, and then I reacted by swerving my bike to the right. It's a move I've done probably thousands of times before -- these things happen in road races -- but for some reason, my bike (complete with my clipped in feet) went to the right and my hips unfortunately didn't follow in time. I felt my left knee twist and then the pain started.
At first it was tolerable -- I even felt like it might work itself out. So I kept going and gritted through the discomfort. At about mile 70 I knew something was really wrong. The pain was getting progressively worse and the idea that I might be done for good was creeping into my head. I stopped at the next aid station for medical assistance. The medic there was well-meaning, but it was clear he didn't know how to tape up the knee to allow me to continue. He wrapped it in a big bandage and sent me on my way.
I made it about five more miles, tried to re-wrap it myself, and then continued on. Now the pain was even worse. Every time I pulled my left knee up in the pedal stroke, I got shots of pain above and below my kneecap. As I pressed on, the pain started to shoot up the middle of my thighbone as though someone had hit it with a mallet.
I stopped at an aid station at about mile 80 to see if the medic there could re-wrap my knee...and hopefully he had some kinseology background. A race volunteer told me there was no medic at that station, but he could call for someone to pick me up (which would disqualify me). I said no and decided to try to make it to the next aid station.
The pain was getting so bad that some pedal strokes were actually bringing tears to my eyes. It's kind of pathetic, but I actually unclipped my left foot from time to time and pedaled with one leg when the pain got really bad. Then I clipped back in and tried to push a little more. People whizzed by me on their bikes as my pace slowed to a crawl.
I approached a hill and stood up on the bike to climb it, and my left leg nearly gave out underneath me. I unclipped and walked the bike up. At the straightaway, I clipped back in and pedaled slowly. At the next hill, I walked the bike up. This pattern continued until I got to the Wilmington aid station, about mile 90.
There wasn't much that the medic could do except wrap my knee again -- this time in smiley-face tape for luck. I fought back tears as I told him that I wasn't stopping. They would have to pry me off the course. He wished me luck and sent me on my way.
Unfortunately the tape didn't help. I resumed my walk/ride strategy and managed to pass the mile 100 marker. Soon, I had to walk the straightaways too. I was alone on the road now and had a bad feeling. In Ironman, there is a cutoff time when you have to complete certain parts of the course. For the bike, you had to finish by 5:30 pm in order to be allowed to start the run. It was almost 5 pm and I was about 10 miles out. And it was all uphill.
The pickup van found me walking alongside the river with my bike. As I learned the hard way, they don't wait until 5:30 pm to pull you. They extrapolate how much you have left, your current pace, and whether you have any hope of finishing on time. The ride back to the oval was very quiet, except for the radio chatter of other pickup vans pulling other riders off the course. Every time I heard it happen, I knew exactly the devastation that rider was feeling. Besides my knee, I felt amazing at mile 100. My energy was good, my muscles weren't overly tired, and I felt strong aerobically. I just couldn't put weight on the leg. I can't describe what it feels like to know you could have finished something if not for one bad turn of luck that you couldn't control.
The Medical Tent
To add insult to injury, the van rides you in along the bike finish course, so I know what it would've looked like to complete that leg. The medics rushed over to the van and put me in a wheelchair. "Really? We have to do this?" I said. But they insisted due to liability reasons.
I have never, thankfully, been in a medical tent before. But I can only describe it in the same way I would describe a battlefield triage unit from movies. Lots of beds, hanging IV bags, and medics scurrying around.
I had a very nice nurse and orthopedist look after me. I was asked if I knew my name and when I last peed. I was asked a few more questions. Then I was asked when I last peed, to which I responded, "Now you're just trying to see if I'm coherent. Which I am, because you just asked me that." That seemed to satisfy them.
The ortho couldn't find any major damage, thankfully. No muscle or ligament tears. From what she could see, I have a sprained MCL, which is apparently one of the more painful knee injuries you can get (yes, thanks doc, I did not know this). And I made it exponentially worse by pushing on it for an additional 40-50 miles (yes thanks doc, I didn't know this either).
In the end, they allowed me to discharge myself with a fresh knee wrap, an ice pack, and a broken heart. The very worst part was limping through the transition oval trying to gather my stuff, only to have race volunteers congratulate me on a race I hadn't finished.
The Aftermath
Naturally, I was devastated post-race. And mad at myself. Thankfully, I had great friends around me to keep me from wallowing too much in self-pity, and great support from friends who weren't there physically, but were with me in spirit. My friend Greta had an amazing race and can now call herself an Iron-woman. Watching her finish was amazing and inspiring.
I am still very emotional about it, but I decided the only way I can reconcile my disappointment is to try again next year. I am already registered for Lake Placid 2015 (signed up as soon as I got home) and plan on giving myself a whole year to train. So whatever my finish time would have been this year, I will DESTROY it next year.
I enter my training knowing three things:
- Had it not been for my injury, I know I was strong enough to complete this year's race. With that training foundation, plus another year's worth, I will be unstoppable next year.
- If I can push through the most painful injury I've ever had for 40-50 miles, Ironman will seem like nothing.
- I have amazing friends and family who do nothing but send me love and support.
Thank you for hanging with me up until the end of this journey. I wish there was a happier ending, but I guess this isn't an ending at all. There will be a new blog for the next Iron adventure next year.
