I wish I could stop and rewind the video of the last 4 days.
Truth be told, the excitement in the days that follow an Ironman almost rivals
the incredible emotions of the day itself. Perhaps this is why every attempt—up
until now—to sit down and organize my thoughts on paper has proven fruitless.
Too many thoughts, too many memories struggle for attention in an attempt to
claim the spotlight of a day filled with highlights.
I look down at my hands and realize I still have them both.
Each still exhibits 5 fingers. My feet still work, and every single toe still
has its toenail. I remember once hearing that racing an Ironman will shave off
about 2 years of your life. I guess after finishing, I thought the loss would
be a little more tangible. Sure, my muscles screamed with every step I took. My
abdominals seized with every inhalation. My gut rejected all my stomach
contents when I got home (I thought I’d be sleeping on the toilet Sunday
night). I’m still nursing a blister the size of an apricot on the bottom of my
right foot.
My legs have finally recovered, making walking more
manageable and descending the stairs a little less hazardous. I haven’t died
from diarrhea, or broken anything to make my life any more difficult. The
sunburn on my back has even started to fade into a nice tan.
Yet what scares me most about this wave of Ironman frenzy is
the fact that, not 24 hours had passed since my 11 hour and 10 minute day of
racing, and I was hungry for my next Ironman. I must be sick.
---
Rewind to 4 am, Sunday morning
Shit. I really do have to get up. Yet it felt almost
mechanical. I felt calm. Getting out of bed, finding my clothes, heart rate
monitor, and timing chip I’d laid out the night before. Go upstairs to down my
breakfast of sweet potatoes with toasted pecans and raisins, two hard-boiled
eggs, and a banana with almond butter. My breakfast that I’ve eaten nearly
every morning for the last year would certainly carry me through to the
starting line, setting me up for a perfect day filled with Bonk Breakers, GU
Roctane drink and gels, and chomps. I gagged a little just thinking about
trying to stomach it all.
5am
Bryan dropped me off to be body marked. I searched for Adam
and Jen Little, found them, and thanked them for the early well wishes and calm
demeanor I so much desired on such a crazy morning. My new Quintana Roo Cdo.1
still hung from its rack, waiting to be loaded with nutrition and water. When all was done, I realized it was time to find Bryan and get ready to swim.
6:30am
The starting gun would sound in just 5 minutes. I looked
down at my toes, then out toward the pros surfing across the water. They’d just
rounded the turn buoy to start their second loop, and the Under 60 minute
swimmers in the group ahead of me began to nudge forward. I followed. It wasn’t
long before I heard the cannon, and we surged forward as those ahead of me walked,
then ran under the arch, over the timing mat, and plunged into the water. Not too crazy of a start, I suppose. Yet
not 400 yards out, I felt as though I’d swam right into a blender. I searched
for the edge of the mass in an attempt to find clean water. I stayed right along
the buoy line to avoid being hit on the head or pummeled from behind.
Lap one finished, just
one more to go. I jumped right back into the water and found the group to
be a little friendlier. I remember thinking how it would feel to have to start
a second loop. The thing is, I wasn’t thinking. I was doing. You just do it.
Far more open water appeared in front of me, which allowed
me to lengthen my stroke and finally feel comfortable in the water. Before
long, the final turn toward the shore arrived, and Kathi Best screamed at me
from the sideline as I ambled up to the transition area to have my wetsuit
peeled.
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Swim start. Photo by James Richman. |
My stomach was not cooperating. Even as I made it back
through town after riding an entire loop of the bike course, my stomach felt
distended. The Tums I’d eaten back in transition hadn’t seemed to calm anything down,
so I ate more Pepto Bismol I’d packed in my Bike Special Needs bag. I could
think of nothing better to do as I rode toward town for one last out-and-back
on the bike. Every 20 minutes, my Garmin alarmed me to eat. Every 20 minutes, I
cursed that stupid alarm, humoring myself by thinking, what can I serve you today? We have an assortment of Bonk Breakers and
Chomps? Would you like Roctane Drink with that order?
Despite my stomach, I ate religiously. I downed some kind of
calorie source with water and hoped my discomfort would subside by the time I
made it back to town. I passed far more people on the second loop than I did on
the first, certain I’d paced myself appropriately. Yet every time I passed
someone who’d succumbed to a flat, I said a little prayer that mechanical
trouble wouldn’t slow me down.
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Photos by James Richman. |
1:30pm
I managed a relatively smooth dismount from my bike but
nearly collapsed once on my feet as a started running toward my Run Gear bag.
Volunteers motioned me to the tent to change while I passed the long line of
porta potties. I couldn’t help but think the time I likely saved by peeing on
my bike. No pit stop for me!
One girl dug through my bag and found my Pepto Bismol. Yes please! The other girl helped take
my socks off so I could don clean, dry ones. She attempted to pull them on,
only to have my hamstrings spasm.
The three of us worked together to get me to the ladies with
sunscreen. I took inventory as they washed me with it. My Garmin was set to Run
mode, and I began to waddle down the chute toward town, only to have my stomach
clench with displeasure. I carried two Roctane gels in my hands. Come on, just a marathon to go. Sounds
ridiculous, right? Just a silly MARATHON! You wouldn’t believe me, however,
when I tell you just how reassuring it was to say that to myself.
I passed my parents and Bryan as I ran up Sherman Avenue.
Virginia Knight, my biggest cheerleader, and Libby Kalkoske, my most wonderful massage
therapist, urged me onward up the road. Oh
Libby, you have no idea how much I need you!
2:30pm
An entire hour had passed and I’d only just passed mile 6. Holy crap. By this time, I’d consumed
one gel and used every aid station up until now for water and coke. My stomach
was starting to feel better but my legs quivered with uncertainty, as it felt
as though a spasm would delay my already slow progress any moment. How I love that coke! I am now quite
certain that I most definitely prefer it cold and slightly fizzy. I cannot
adequately describe the pure disappointment I felt upon downing warm, flat
soda.
4:30pm
![]() |
Photo by James Richman. |
Mile 19. Just pluggin’ along. I’d resorted to the fact this
run would leave me incredibly disappointed with myself in the end. I couldn’t
help but feel the need to walk, and when I did run, I ran far slower than I had
planned to. If I couldn’t feel any worse, thank goodness porta potties were
planted at the Mile 20 aid station. It soon became apparent my stomach had
started digesting food again. The only problem was, the outcome wasn’t all that
pretty.
Saved by the porta potty, I continued through the
turn-around for the final stretch toward town. Just 6 more miles, Meghan. Walk a little. Run a little. Sip some
coke. Then water. Then coke again. Again, bless the aid station at mile 24 for
its porta potties as well. I think they smelled a little better than the one at
mile 20 did.
Roger and Jessi Thompson caught me with just 4 miles to go.
I remember Roger asking how I felt. Just
4 more miles, Roger. I’ll make it. They drove on a little further, and I
made sure my pace mirrored more a run than a walk when I passed them stopped at
the side of the road. I also made certain that when I passed Haley Cooper-Scott
and her cheering squad the second time, I’d also be running. The look she gave
me at mile 8 (I was walking) could not have been any clearer coming from a
professional. Without the least bit of empathy in her face, she looked at me
and said, “Run, Meghan.”
At mile 25, Kathi and David Cole motioned me forward. Cathy
Stephens waved me forward, too. Steve Anderson found me while on his bike.
“Come on, Meghan. You’re almost there.”
I ran.
5:30pm
I had just passed the Y in the cones that steered runners
either right to go out for a second loop or left toward the finish line. This time
around, I’d earned my trip to the left. Upon heading toward that final turn
onto Sherman Avenue, how fitting the last person I should meet would be the guy
who encouraged me to sign up for this race: Craig Thorsen. I’m doin’ it, Craiger! I’m doin’ it! And with that, a final
handclasp, a last pat on the back, I made that final turn…
---
…Sherman Avenue. Last year while spectating, I remember
looking down the street and wondered how it would look when I ran down it as a
participant. I smiled. Spectators lined the streets as volunteers waved me
onward toward the finish line. As I neared the chute, I saw Lora Jackson and
Russ Abrams off to my right. I waved, smiled, and pumped my arm thinking: Yes…I’ve done it. I neared the finish
line, and it felt as though people quadrupled in numbers. The bleachers were
buried under hundreds of people, and all I had left to do was put one more foot
in front of the other. My parents and Bryan stood off to my left, my mom’s face
flushed with excitement. I’ll never forget the smile on my dad’s face. Bryan
stood out in his bright green shirt, my unwavering companion in this life of
Ironman training. Now, the finish line was all that remained. I barely heard
Mike Riley scream my name as I collapsed into Adam’s arms. My day was done. Call
me Ironman.
Excellent post..!! You tell your story so well that I could feel the trip. Thanks for sharing.
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