September 1, 2010
First Ironman: Wisconsin 2004. Sick heading into the race. Couldn't consume calories or fluids during. Woke up in the back of an ambulance after I passed out half way through the bike. Later diagnosed with parasitic infection.
Second Ironman: Wisconsin 2005. Very, very rough day but managed to stave off unconsciousness to get to the finish 11 minutes before the midnight cutoff. I am an Ironman.
This Ironman: Missed 5 weeks of training this spring due to undiagnosed illness. Missed another week completely in June plus another couple of weeks of reduced training. Same reason.
Was not racing with a watch. Did not want pressure of time goals. The day was going to be hot, humid, and um, hot. Getting to the finish was job number one.
Not having access to my medicinal cookies to alleviate the side effects of my medications was a concern. It was going to make a challenging day more so. Spelled 'POZ' with the reflective tape on the back of my race shirt.
If nothing went wrong -- like oppressive heat and humidity -- and absolutely everything went right, then I thought 12 hours was possible. But really, getting to the finish line was the primary goal. At all costs.
I was only going to leave the Ironman course across the finish line or by ambulance. Quitting was not an option.
Giddy up, Buttercup.
Pretty much according to plan. Just swam easy. Executed my planned mantra for the entire day: 'Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.'
Time trial swim start meant not getting punched in the head even once during the 3.8 k / 2.4 mi swim. Nice.
What doesn't kill you
Did not push the pace at all. Even though it was not yet 9 am it was hot. And humid. A lot of guys passed me in the first 40 km / 25 miles. I didn't care. I was going my own 'easy-does-it' pace.
Couldn't consume solid food anymore around mile 65 / 100 km. Only gels would go down. Hmmm that never happened it training. Must be the heat.
A few athletes walking their bikes up the hills during the second loop. Others are lying on the side of the road. Starting to feel less then stellar myself. Heat really starting to kick in.
The guys that were kind of riding at my pace have disappeared behind me. Fewer guys are passing me. I'm going easy, holding back. Want to make sure I get to the finish line.
Self care is paramount and I'm doing it: calories, water, electrolytes. Cold water in the helmet. Hold back. Relax. Focus on form.
The last 40 km / 25 mi I start feeling a little rougher. I back off the pace a wee bit more just to make sure I'm feeling the love for the run.
Guys stop passing me. I'm starting to catch and pass some people. I ask if they notice that it's kind of hot.
Oh yeah, it was humid. And hot. Did I mention that?
Some bad patches. Some ugly patches.
I took my medications, the ones that keep me from certain death, during the second transition. As I swallowed them I thought: 'Dream as if you will live forever. Live as if you will die today'.
Coming out of transition I did not feel my usual perky self. Running 26.2 miles did not seem appealing.
I thought it was hot when I was biking. Now there was no wind chill factor. Things were going south in a big, big hurry.
The heat was oppressive: 96 F / 35.5 C. The humidity offensive: well into the 90's. Making it feel well over 100 F / 37.7 C.
I slowly jogged about 200 metres before walking. I was not feeling well. At all. It crossed my mind that a marathon is a long way to walk.
In what will become a repeating pattern at every aid station, I put ice in a zip lock baggy under my hat. Ice down my shirt. Cold, wet sponges tucked under my shirt on my shoulders and back of neck. Fill my water bottle. More electrolytes. More calories from gels.
I feel a wee bit better and am able to start running. By mile 2 I'm feeling absolutely wonderful. Only 24 miles to go. I'm thinking that I can do this. I'm over that bad patch. Just the same, easy does it. Don't want to count your chickens.
By mile 4 I've lost that lovin' feeling. By mile 5 I'm walking again. But so is almost every one else at times. I tell myself that I can manage my body by just walking the rest of the way.
By mile 6 I'm lying on the side of the road. Time is distorted. The aid station volunteers keep checking on me: 'Do I need medical assistance?'
A little voice in my head says 'Suck it up, Buttercup'. I slowly get up and start walking. And then running. As I go through mile 8 I reach around and give myself a little pat on the back: 'Good job, Scott'.
I run a few more miles before things deteriorate again. More walking. More athletes lying on the side of the road. 'That was me' I think. I run some more.
I stop sweating. I know this is not a good sign. Somewhere around mile 15 I crumple to the grass.
I hear someone say 'Don't worry guys, an ambulance is on the way.' Guys? Plural? I open my eyes to look around and see two other guys lying on the grass.
I'm not done yet. I struggle to my feet. Lazarus rises again. I have to get out of here before the paramedics arrive. I'm scared they'll want to make me quit.
Some guy asks if I'm sure I should continue. I take a quick glance at the 2 guys lying on the grass and mumble weakly, more to myself then him, 'never give up'.
Walk. Run. Walk. Run. With the occasional dry heave thrown in for good measure.
I thought of my good friend and training partner, Matt, who died 50 weeks ago after crossing the finish line in a local triathlon. I choke up. I miss him. I took a moment to appreciate being alive. And healthy enough to try to do this crazy shit.
Some uber fit guy, looking dazed and confused, asks me where it all went wrong. I said that I thought it was the heat. Or maybe the humidity.
As I approach mile 24 I decide I'm not going to stop running until I get to the finish line. I'm going to empty the tank. I start digging in to run faster. Sweating returns.
At mile 25 I pick up the pace again. Now I'm really starting to hurt. But I'm passing loads of people and that feeds me emotionally. The mantra has become: Dig in. Ignore the pain. Empty the tank.
I turn the final corner and can see lights illuminating the finish line in the distance. Cheering crowds line the street. There are still a few more people I can catch in the last 400 metres. I dig in again. I am emptying the tank.
200 metres to go and there is one more guy between me and the finish. I dig in one last time and go by him fast.
50 metres to the finish and my sun glasses fall off. I stop, turn around and pick them up. He runs past me. Fuck! I sprint all out, the world starts spinning, and pass him again with 5 metres to go.
I cross the finish line at full speed into the arms of medics. They want to put in a wheel chair. I want to walk. I win, and we walk for a couple of minutes. I think I'm going to be okay.
Then things got ugly.
I recognized the signs of impending unconsciousness and knew I needed to get horizontal. Immediately. A medic told me to keep my eyes open, not pass out. She kept tapping my arm.
They put on a gurney. They are running me through the crowd. Yelling at people to get out of the way. Every bump makes my head ache. Every twist and turn more nauseous. Blackness creeps into my peripheral vision.
We arrive within the air conditioned medical center. I am immediately cold and start shaking uncontrollably. People are pulling off my clothes. I'm being wrapped in blankets and those silver cape things.
A needle is stuck into my arm and I'm hooked up to an intravenous bag of saline. My legs, back and abdomen are cramping. They give me some anti-nausea medication. I continue to shake uncontrollably.
After the second saline bag I start to come around. One of the medics asks if I'm coming back to race again next year. I'll decide after both my big toe nails fall off in the next few days.
I am an Ironman.
Total time: 13:17:05
76th of 284 men in my 45-49 age group.
To all my friends and strangers that supported me on this journey and sent good vibes my way: thank you, thank you, thank you. You've helped more then you know in making it about the process and not the outcome.
And to that guy who bitchily commented on one of my previous blog entry's that I wouldn't / couldn't succeed and finish an Ironman: I've got a finisher's medal you can suck on. Meow.
And because life is too short not to follow one's passions, and because I want to, I have registered for Ironman Canada 2011.
Til I drop.