What I Learned at Ironman Wisconsin 2011

Someone once asked William Faulkner, "So what do you do after writing a novel?" (This after Faulkner had just handed in a final draft of Absalom, Absalom!) His response--a trip to Taylor Grocery for a cigarette. (By the way, if ever you are in Oxford, Mississippi to see the Rebels play, visit Faulkner's home, or simply enjoy the hospitality of the South, make sure to visit Taylor Grocery for the best catfish dinner in Mississippi.)

Ironman is not quite the same thing as writing a novel, but it is certainly a "long obedience in the same direction" (Eugene Peterson). And, after a year of preparation and then finally seeing the event pass, it is a bit of a transition as one asks, "Now what?" I take my wife to Holland, Michigan to celebrate (belatedly) our 15-year anniversary. I eat everything in sight. My body transitions from extraordinary soreness to extraordinary restlessness. I reflect upon and write about my experience. This is what I experienced and learned:

4:00 a.m. is really early

Actually, after years of getting up early, 4:00 a.m. isn't really too bad. On race day I popped up, had a simple breakfast (Clif Bar, banana, coffee, juice), did my devotions, and cleaned up. The complex system of what you take with you on race day and what was necessary to check-in the day before was past. I had only to get my shorts & sweats on and bring my wetsuit, swim cap, goggles, and nutrition. Zach drove me to Monona Terrace, where I dropped off my bike special needs bag, topped off my tires with air, put bottles in cages, did a final check of my gear bags, and retired to the conference center to relax.

By the grace of God, I ran into my friend and occasional training partner, Andy, right away. We talked and watched people, finally joining the hordes making their way to the water. We put on our wetsuits, zipped up, and dove in.

The mass swim start at IM events is truly remarkable. 2,500 people slowly make their way into the start area (in this case, about 200 yards out, where we tread water for 10 minutes as everyone files in) and wait nervously for the cannon to go off. The tension/electricity is palpable. I was simply enjoying the sunrise and watching the masses of people on the shore, very relaxed and eager to begin what would be a long day. I was relaxed because, in so many ways, the hard part was over--a year of training, two weeks of anxious taper, and two days of stress worrying about nutrition, transition bags, and the imminence of prolonged suffering. Now, there was nothing to do but race. And it would be a beautiful day to do it.

The cannon went off and 2,500 people made a beeline for the first swim buoy. It was, as usual, mass chaos for the first fifteen minutes as I tried to find open water. People swam over me and I swam over them. It was relentless, but thankfully I didn't get kicked too hard and lost only my Road ID wristband. One thousand yards into the race I finally found my stroke unimpeded and was able to zone out a bit. I remember thinking in the water, "This is going about as well as it could possibly go." I had avoided major incidents in the initial chaos (red-lining only a few times) and was in the rhythm. Julie's biggest concern has always been me getting out of the water safely. I knew at the halfway point that I was not only going to make the swim, but would actually do the 2.4 course in pretty good time (by my standards, anyway).

The final half-mile was agonizingly long, but I made my final left-hand turn and pushed hard to the finish. When I saw the lake bottom I rejoiced. When I put feet on terra-firma, I spit out a mouth full of Lake Monona and let out a whoop. Oh, the exultation of getting out of the water!

The transition area is four stories up in Monona Terrace, accessed by running from the water, up the parking ramp helix, and into the changing room. I donned my jersey, shoes, arm-warmers, helmet, sunglasses, and helmet. I took a shot of Hammer gel and found my bike outside in T1.

Ten days prior to the race Julie and I began checking the forecast for Madison on race-day. Ten days out the high was 72. Each day saw the high rise a degree or two. Wet and moving quickly on the bike, I was already warm. This was a good thing (as I prefer heat), but it also meant that I was going to get fried, and dealing with the weather was going to be a concern as the day wore on.

112 Miles is a Long Ways on a Bike

The bike course at Madison involves a sixteen mile "stick" that takes you out of the city to the town of Verona. From Verona, you do two 40-mile loops, finally returning to Monona Terrace via the stick. 112 total miles.

The stick out went well. I felt good and fast (again, by my standards). I began looking for Julie and the kids at Verona and, not seeing them, settled into the hard work of the loops. Immediately, it became overwhelmingly evident that this was a very difficult course. The hills were relentless. I tucked into my aero bars and flew down the hills (35mph) and crawled up them (15mph). For the first 50 miles I felt great. The morning was gorgeous, the scenery lovely (though I had a nagging, very annoying phrase going through my mind for most of the ride: something about "the verdant hills of Wisconsin dairy-country"). I was humming.

At mile 50, I noticed that a) it was hot, and b) I was not sticking to my nutrition plan particularly well. The body can only process about 300 calories per hour and, naturally, in such a race as this one burns much more than that. So, you are constantly in deficit spending and hope to simply have enough stored glycogen to finish the race. As the thermometer went up, I began to feel less inclined to eat, and much more inclined to drink--plain water was the only thing that sounded good. I gagged down some of my Perpetuem (I had two three-hour bottles with me on the bike), half of a banana, a Clif Bar, and half of a Powerbar. By mile 70 (well into the second brutally hilly loop), I had stopped eating altogether. I was simply nauseous and the very thought of food made my stomach clench. So, it was water only, supplemented with Endurolytes (electrolyte tabs). I was conscious of the simple rule of "no food, no fuel," but was mentally hanging on only to the idea of getting off the bike.

Screaming Naked People Help Pass the Time on 112 Mile Rides

At two points on the bike leg I began to hyper-ventilate, sobbing. The first time was when I hit a ridiculously steep hill nearing the halfway point. It was lined like the L'Alpe d'Huez at the Tour de France, with costumed crazies cheering participants on, beating drums, waving flags, and blowing horns. It was thrilling, and in my exultation (and exertion) I began to hyper-ventilate with joy at the spectacle of it all. It boosted me greatly.

Strangely, some guy got into my grill as I was struggling up this particular hill and said, "Travis Else, you are awesome!" I thought, "How does this guy know my name?" He was vaguely familiar, but I was already in la-la land, and everything was a bit fuzzy. I kept on.

The monotony of the ride proceeded unabated, and I set out on the second loop. The second bout of sobbing/hyper-ventilation was on the same hill (second loop) as my legs and lungs were bursting and the novelty of the naked people was no longer able to over-ride the suffering. It is simply a long time to be moving legs and sitting on a bike seat. It was again on this hill that the mysterious man who knew my name appeared once again. He yelled something encouraging at me, and I thought, "That's Drew Poppleton." The only problem with this was that Drew, who graduated two years ahead of me at Western Theological Seminary and is a friend I hadn't talked to or seen since he graduated, lives in Indiana. What was he doing in Madison, Wisconsin?

I drank more water. The temperature rose. Everybody was working hard and moving slower. I was overjoyed to be nearing the end of the second loop, but even the joy in being near the end was overshadowed by the fact that I would still have the sixteen mile stick to finish. The wind had picked up considerably, and it seemed that no matter what direction we were going I was against it. Still, on the flats my speeds were consistently 22-23 mph.

Heat and Suffering

As we rolled into Madison (in a "finish no passing" zone) I noted to the guy riding next to me, "I feel horrible." He told me to be sure to eat some pretzels before going out on the marathon. Overjoyed to be back at Monona Terrace, I entered T2 and quickly exchanged my biking gear for running gear. Even with a stop for sunscreen application and the port-a-pot I was onto the streets in about three minutes. Overjoyed to be off the bike, I took off like a rocket without pretzels (only a swallow of warm Powerade). My first mile clocked in at 6:18. Not good. I was very aware of the heat and sun and knew this could not last. Even that quick pace felt unbearably slow, and my insides felt like they needed to be turned inside out. I backed off to 7:00 for mile 2. By the time I finished mile three (in Camp Randall Stadium) I was down to 7:40, right where I needed to be. Unfortunately, I felt increasingly nauseous and knew that I was beginning to fall apart. I hung on through mile five, and was greatly encouraged when I saw Julie, the kids, and my folks at mile six. Then the bottom fell out. I hit two steep hills on the Wisconsin University campus that simply broke me. I slowed down more, and by this time could still eat nothing and even liquid was unpalatable. I was resigned to chewing ice, soaking myself with sponges at every aid station as my insides cooked. I simply could not cool off and could not shake the nausea.

When I saw J and the kids again at mile 8 I was in a world of hurt. I shuffled through mile 10 and hit the wall. I simply could not keep running. I began "the walk."

At mile 10 I had two concerns only on my mind: 1) finding a first aid station where I could have someone tell me to stop; 2) keeping it together to the extent that I would not begin puking in front of (and on) all the people lining the course. Head down, hands on hips, I walked. My splits spiraled: 9:30, 11:00, 14:00. The half-way point of the marathon brought me back to the main drag and capital. Here, the crowds were four deep. It was abuzz with drinking, cafe-ing, and cheering. It was here that two significant things happened. In the midst of my misery, Drew Poppleton (it was clearly him) reached out and shook my hand. I remember saying only, "Drew, this is ugly." He said, "Trav, you can do it."

I was tanking. I was not doing it, and was still at this point convinced that I simply needed to get off the course. There was simply no way I was going to walk another 13 miles worried about puking every step of the way. I felt miserable. But Drew got me thinking.

Then, just as I was at the 13 mile mark at the steps of the capital, I saw my buddy Acie. He was running along the steps, yelling at me. I don't even know what he said. It was encouraging, and it was impassioned (Acie is a big, strong, intelligent, and passionate dude). Something clicked. I began a pathetic shuffle. But I was moving with purpose again.

At the next aid station I ate some pretzels. They stayed down. I took a few sips of Coke. My stomach settled a bit. I picked up the pace. Every aid station I stocked up on pretzels, Coke, and ice. I locked in behind a guy who ran at just the pace I needed to be. He wore pink and purple (hard to miss) and pulled me along for four miles. He was my safety blanket. I was in the zone, and with each passing mile my pace quickened and my confidence that I could finish increased.

It was interesting...miles 10-13 were miserable. I didn't feel much of anything other than the misery of nausea and a body that would not respond. But in the midst of that were tangible glimpses of the grace of God. The participant who patted me on the back as he passed me and softly said, "Travis, let's go" at mile 10 (just after I began the walk). The volunteer who said, "Travis, are you okay?" at the mile 11 aid station. Drew and Andrea Poppleton at mile 12. Acie at mile 13. My pink & purple-clad pacer. As my pace quickened and the miles went by, I reflected on how I had passed out of the depths. I was going to make it.

When I hit mile 18 I knew that I could finish. When I hit mile 20 I definitely knew I could do a 10K. It was at this point that I looked at my watch again (I had taken my heart-rate strap off at mile 6 and handed it to my Mom...all it was telling me was that I my heart-rate was red-lining consistently). If I could do the final 6.2 miles in under fifty minutes, I could break eleven hours. Considering where I was two hours before, this was a revelation of immense significance. My original goal was to finish the race in "around 12-13 hours." In talking with Andy a week before the race, I was encouraged that I could be around eleven if everything went okay. Now, I was looking at breaking eleven even with my mile 10-13 experience.

I cranked it up again, did my best to not think about puking (the nausea never did abate), and pushed. I passed people who had passed me hours before. I dumped water over my head at every station and scarfed down pretzels and Coke. I relaxed totally at mile 25. One mile to go. I was working hard, nauseous, hyponatremic, and absurdly tired, but I was in the zone and completely relaxed. I knew that the crowds would pull me in. And, the thought of seeing Julie and the kids at the finish line was overwhelming.

Finishing Well

I hit the shoot alone. It was still light. The announcer pumped up the crowd to cheer me in under 11 hours, which was surprisingly close (I thought I'd have a few minutes to spare). I hit the tape at 10 hours, 59 minutes, and 41 seconds, 157th place overall and 28th place in my age group (35-39, traditionally the fastest age-group in long course triathlon). Two volunteers grabbed my arms (pretty much carrying me), gave me a bottle of water, shirt and cap, put a medal around my neck, and walked me over to the finish photo shoot.

I saw Ian first. We were so happy--to be done, to have finished strong, to have persevered. Ian was dialed into every part of what went into the event, in both the training and the racing. I put the finisher shirt on him. Then came Sophie. She gave me a huge hug and hung on tight. I gave her the cap. Then came Annie. More hugs. And Isaiah (he got the medal). Finally Julie. She got a big, sweaty, tired kiss. She had trained with me for the last twelve months. Her training looked different, of course--acting as single-parent during those long Friday runs and long Saturday bike-rides; coping with my unusual eating habits; being wakened at ungodly hours as I left for an early swim, run, or bike ride; tucking me in at 9:00 p.m., which makes for a pretty pathetic date. Through it all she not only tolerated, which would have been enough, but actually encouraged and blessed.

Kevin, Mary, Taryn, Madison, Zach, Chad, my Mom...loved ones in addition to Jule and the kids were there to celebrate. It was a blessed, joy-filled moment.

It would have been sweet to finish well under any circumstances, but the most rewarding part of the whole thing was finishing after having suffered so mightily, and to finish with loved ones near. Loved ones who had invested in the goal and saw it through to completion. Suffering and community. That is what makes 140.6 races unique. There is no avoiding the suffering. You work for a year and pray to train well and without injury so that, come race day, you have some degree of confidence. You endure 11+ hours of misery. All of it to cross a finish line and say, "I finished." People get a buzz seeing the finish to IM races (and they are exciting). What they don't see is the work that preceded the finish--in training for 12 months and in racing for 11 hours. For me, an age-grouper, there is no prize money or recognition in the papers. It is only the joy of setting a goal, working towards it, and seeing it through to completion. The difficulties make it sweeter. As to community...what can I say of Shane, Steve, Nick, Will, Acie & Meg, Andy, the FCC peeps, Zach & Kim (and their beautiful kids), Kevin & Mary, Drew & Andrea, and so many others? Recognizing the people who God placed in my life to encourage me to finish makes me very mindful of the relationship between perseverance and the people of God: it is tangible and personal, and the former does not happen outside of the latter.

In the end, the best and most significant lesson I learned was this: endurance racing has a close connection to the life of faith. In endurance racing you learn lessons of perseverance, obedience, discipline, suffering, and encouragement. So, I'm going to race again. Next year, 70.3 at Steelhead. In 2013, God-willing, 140.6 in Madison.