Here it is, as promised. A bit dramatic, maybe, but it was a big day for me.
Ironman Lake Placid Race Report
This has been a difficult race report to put together. The entire Ironman experience has been pretty overwhelming: making the commitment a year ago to doing this race, putting together a training plan, undergoing hip surgery in the fall to ensure I could continue running, spending a small fortune on equipment, the seemingly endless training program, injuries, recovery, fitness gains – at some point a couple of weeks ago it all became too much and I was ready for it to be over, was ready to race. In somewhere between 500 and 600 hours of training since last September, I put in over 3,000 miles on the bike, hundreds and hundreds of miles of running, hours and hours in the pool and the open water, and days and days at the gym. Read everything I could on training, nutrition, fueling, and race planning. Had my cheat sheets for the Lake Placid course all memorized. I had visualized the race and rehearsed it probably 200 times in my head. I had my pre-race and race nutrition and fuel plan calculated to the gram and calorie. So in the increased intensity and immediate build-up to the race, I began to get pretty shaky. My first Ironman. 140.6 miles, no outside assistance. The Lake Placid course famous as one of the most difficult Ironman courses in the world. I had to believe that all of the work I had done was sufficient, and that I was ready. I didn’t know it, but I believed it. For your first Ironman, you can’t know, but you can believe.
We drove up to Lake Placid on Friday, a leisurely seven hours. On race weekend, the town is completely consumed by all things Ironman. It is one of the most popular Ironman races in the world, and the attraction is clear: Lake Placid is a beautiful little town nestled in among the Adirondacks, pretty as a postcard. And during Ironman, about 3,000 nutcase athletes and their families and supporters, along with hundreds of staff and volunteers and spectators, descend on the town in a frenzy of fitness and exercise and competition. The McDonald’s in Lake Placid practically goes dark during these four or five days as the horde of fitness freaks shun fast food in favor of anything that will help them go faster on Sunday.
After checking in for the race at the local high school and picking up a few goodies at the Ironman expo, I head back to the hotel for a light swim on the race swim course in Mirror Lake in downtown Lake Placid (despite the town’s name, the lake in the town is Mirror Lake; the actual Lake Placid is about a quarter mile away from the main drag). I can’t add any more fitness at this point in time, and it is much more important to be rested and healthy for the race than to try to work hard. So I swim about a mile with some friends and family before heading out for an early dinner and bed.
Saturday is much of the same. I am pretty anxious about the race at this point, so I wake up at 5:00 am and spend a couple of hours walking around town and the race course. I start planning my race day, from the moment I wake up to the moment the race ends. If I keep busy and channel my nervous energy, I am more likely to do something productive and be less of a pain in the ass to my family. I spend the rest of the day eating, a brief (30 minute) bike, eating some more, spending some time with family, having an early dinner, and completing my race set-up. Bring the bike down to the transition area in the afternoon, as athletes are required to check their bikes in and set them up on Saturday to avoid total chaos Sunday morning (imagine 3,000 bicycles in a space about half the size of a football field). I rack my bike and spend some time walking around the bike corral – there’s probably $10 million worth of bikes in this space. Tri people take their equipment really seriously.
Saturday evening I complete my race prep: pre-race nutrition; six big bottles for the bike leg; six fuel belt bottles for the run. My own concoction of race fuel made up of Hammer Perpetuem, Hammer Endurolytes, and soy protein. Also load up four small flasks with Hammer Gel, two for the bike and two for the run. Load half the bottles in bags to pick up at the halfway point of both the bike and the run, get the other half ready to put in my bags to start the bike and the run. Go to bed early, try to get some sleep. But as with many running their first Ironman, nervous energy gets the best of me and I sleep maybe three or four hours.
But I wake up feeling pretty amped. This is it, this is the day. Nine months of planning and hard work, all coming together. Go back to the bike and finish setting it up, loading the bottles into the racks, topping up the tires with air, setting up the computer, and generally making sure things are all ready to go. Load the fuel bottles into the run bag, making sure everything is in place for a smooth transition out of the water and then off the bike.
At about 6:30 I pull on my wetsuit to the waist and walk to the beach, where almost 3,000 athletes and a greater number of family, fans, race officials and volunteers are all gathered, getting ready for the big moment. Zip up the wetsuit, get hugs and best wishes from the family, put on the swim caps and goggles, and head for the water. It is finally time.
Enter the water at 6:45, all going to plan. Ironman swims are all mass starts – everyone goes at once. But with almost 3,000 people in the water, it can get crowded, especially in such a small body of water as Mirror Lake. So we’re all entering the water, thinking about positioning for the long swim to come, all knowing that pretty much no matter what course or strategy you choose, it’s going to be like swimming in a blender. There’s just no room. I had been warned by more than one experienced Ironman to keep as far right as possible, to keep away from the fray, to give it a few minutes and try to swim in clear water. But as I was doing my race planning, I thought to myself: screw it, you know what, that’s part of the experience. Ironman is tough. I wanted to embrace the entire experience, including swimming in the middle of the pack, no matter what. So I pick a spot about 10-15 feet from the starting line, behind the fastest swimmers but ahead of most everyone else, which is where I estimate I will come out on the swim. I know it will be rough in that scrum for at least a half a mile, but I’m ready for it.
And when the gun goes off at 7:00, the long day finally begins.
I wait for a few seconds before I start my stroke to allow the swimmers ahead of me to get some separation to give me room to swim. Put the head down, start the stroke. I am a good swimmer, strong and confident in the water, and I immediately start to put pressure on the swimmers in front of me. I start swimming over and through people, as others swim over and through me. Every few strokes I have to pull up and take a break because there is just no room to swim – the surface of the water is made of people. And we’re all there, arms and legs churning, trying for speed and position, probably for 400-500 yards before I can finally get in a rhythm and find my stroke. But finally at some point on the out leg of the first lap, in between a punch in the face and a kick to the stomach, I find my stroke and put it in cruise control. Stroke after stroke after stroke, I start to cruise through the pack, passing whenever I can find open water. Not going too hard, knowing I have probably 12 more hours of work ahead of me, but just swimming efficiently. Make the first turn at a little over half a mile, then another quick turn for the return leg of lap one. I find a spot “on the cable”, the steel line linking all the swim course buoys back to the finish line, which allows me to follow a straight line back without having to lift my head to find it, saving precious energy. I find a pace that I feel like I could swim all day long, and I am passing people comfortably. The day is starting well.
Come out of the water at 1.2 miles in 34 minutes, pretty much right on plan. I might have been able to go faster if I had started in front, but it’s my first Ironman, and a few minutes here or there isn’t going to blow my race. I am pleased as I jog around the beach and re-enter the water for lap two. A couple of dolphin dives and I’m back at race pace, nice and smooth. Lap two is a repeat of lap one – swimming over, around and through people. I find a spot on the cable again so I don’t have to raise my head to orient myself, and just cruise along comfortably to the turnaround, make the last left, and head for home. On the last leg, I find a guy swimming at about my pace, so I attach myself to his hip and draft all the way in, saving energy and getting a bit of a ride at a nice pace. Pop out of the water at 1:08, right on target. Feel great. Unzip the wetsuit, pull it off the shoulders and run for the wetsuit strippers. Drop to my ass, they pull off the suit, I jump up, say thanks, grab the suit, say a quick hello to my family as they yell their support, and head for T1.
It’s a long run to T1 from Mirror Lake – we run, wetsuits in hand, from the lake uphill past the post office, then down the hill past the Olympic Arena, then down to the Oval, the speed skating oval where Eric Heiden won all his gold medals at the 1980 Winter Olympics. We will all cross the finish line at more or less the same spot he did, which will be pretty cool in about 11-12 hours from now. We run into the Oval and transition, grab our bike gear bags and head for the changing tent and absolute chaos. Imagine 300 or so totally OCD, type-A personality athletes, all trying to change out of swim gear and into bike gear as fast as they possibly can in a space the size of a few two-car garages. Taking off swimskins, stuffing wetsuits in bags, putting on helmets, shoes, race belts, calf guards, sun block, sunglasses, then trying to run out of the tent in bike shoes – a total mess, but all part of the experience. I get out of the tent and grab my bike in decent time, and head for the bike exit. Hop on the bike after re-mounting my chain (it had come off the chain ring, a common problem in transition), click into my pedals, and get ready for a seriously long day in the saddle. There’s a hard left and then a right and a steep downhill to get us started, and we are all pretty amped to be at the beginning of the bike leg. 100 yards down, 111.99 miles to go. Huzzah!
And so the longest part of the day for me begins. Ironman Lake Placid offers one of the most challenging bike legs in all of Ironman, with lots of hills. But the beginning is pretty mild, some easy rollers and downhills, a couple of hills to moderate the pace, but nothing too bad. The first ten miles or so are mostly gravy, and I get some good speed going. I have done a ton of homework on race pacing, and know that you cannot have a great bike split followed by a crappy run and consider your race a success. Blow yourself up on the bike and you will walk the marathon. And I had made a promise to myself when I signed up that I would do this race right. I would swim the swim, bike the bike, and run the run. And to do that, I needed to ride an intelligent bike leg. I knew what I was capable of doing over 112 miles in a stand-alone bike ride on a hilly course. I also knew that if I tried to do my stand-alone bike pace today, I’d be walking the marathon.
So I dialed it back a bit. Build some good speed on the downhill rollers, use the momentum to get up the mild climbs. Do this for about 10-12 miles, nice, easy, comfortable, feeling great. And then we get to the Screaming Descent. Being in the Adirondack Mountains, there are many literal ups and downs on this course, and we were about to begin one of the great descents in all Ironman bike courses. Four miles down into the town of Keene, with slopes that can produce speeds of up to 55 mph for the stoutest at heart. Time to save some energy, grab the handlebars, lock the knees into the frame, drop the head, and just go with it. The sensation of almost flying down these hills at over 40 mph (I don’t have the bike handling skills to push it much more than that) is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Triathlon bikes are not built for this – they have short wheelbases and can get very squirrely at high speeds. But I suck it up, point the front end downhill and let it go. The four mile descent takes maybe six minutes. My arms cramp up as I squeeze the brakes to moderate my speed as the real lunatics fly by me on the left at over 50 mph. It takes a lot of focus to hold the front end steady at these speeds. One wrong move, one slip of the hand, one missed curve and it’s all over. But it’s also incredibly exhilarating to fly down this hill at these speeds.
Soon we reach the bottom of the descent and come back to earthly speeds, making the left hand turn at Keene, heading north toward Jay. This begins a fairly monotonous if easy part of the course that goes on for about 20 miles or so, just spinning at between 16-22 mph depending on the terrain. I use the hills when I can to gain momentum on the downhills, saving energy on the uphills. We pass into Jay and north to Ausable Forks, more of the same. Hit the turnaround in Ausable Forks and head back toward the turn to Wilmington, where the real work will soon begin.
By the time we reach the right turn onto highway 86 to Wilmington, we are about 35 or so miles into the bike course, so well over halfway done with the first loop. But in terms of effort, we’re maybe 25% done. The first real test comes now, as we turn onto highway 86 and go pretty much straight up for a mile. This is when Ironman Lake Placid starts to show its teeth.
The initial climb into Wilmington is over a mile long, and it begins to dawn on me that after about two and a half hours on the course, the real work is just beginning. Up we go, an endless line of bikes slowly winding our way up the mile-long hill. Hauling yourself up these inclines is real work. It’s hot. There’s a couple in their front yard with two enormous goats cheering us on. But there is still a long way to go. Make it to the top, get a little relief, and keep going. Mile after mile we go up and down, up and down. A sharp right in Wilmington to add a mile to the course so it makes the full 56-mile loop, turn around, back to Wilmington, another hard right, then a left as Whiteface Mountain looms above us. The hard work is done. Now the really hard work starts.
Riders have named the next ten miles, the last ten miles or so of the bike course, calling them the Cherries (after some lakes along the course), the Stairs (a long series of really hard but brief climbs) and The Three Bears (Baby, Mama, and Papa, three monstrous climbs right at the end). The course here is really beautiful, running through a lovely gorge along a river with some beautiful vistas. Not that I would normally have enough time to look at it, but at some points along the way today I am beginning to move pretty slowly up these hills, so at the very least I notice that it is quite a beautiful place to ride through.
Trudging up the hills, a massive effort going into this both to keep my speed as high as possible but also to manage my workload to leave something in the tank for the second 56-mile loop and then the marathon, I realize that I am in fact really enjoying myself. Yes, it’s hard, but that’s what I signed up for, that’s what I trained for. I am passing people, people are passing me, but we’re all here hauling ourselves 140 miles because we want to. And I really am having a great time. So I haul myself up through the Cherries, cruising hard on the downhills to grab momentum for the ups, manage my way through the Stairs, sometimes taking it easy up the hills, sometimes giving a little extra, taking in my fuel and water, working hard. About 50 miles down, only 6 or so left on this loop, still less than half done with the race.
Finally get to the Three Bears, after thinking to myself, “Wow, this bike course isn’t as hard as everyone says. Sure, there are some hills, but it’s not that bad …” Then Baby Bear is on us, and then Mama Bear, and then, as my eyes have trouble focusing on the hill ahead of me because it’s so ridiculously steep, we climb Papa Bear. Eating my words, I am standing on the bike in my smallest gear, just getting the pedals to turn over. There’s a huge crowd cheering us on up the hill, but man am I moving slow. You know those guys at the Tour de France, churning up those monstrous climbs, just standing on the pedals and throwing the bike from side to side to generate leverage? That’s me, only 10% as fast. Supreme effort finally carries me to the top, and the climbing is finally done. 55 miles of hard work in the bag, 57 more to go.
We coast downhill into town and the crowds get thicker. Turn left on Mirror Lake drive, and there’s my amazing family to cheer me on. I zoom by them and hundreds of others as they yell and scream. That’s a big boost, because now we have to do that entire bike course one more time. Through town, down the hill past the Oval, and head back out of town. The second loop is more or less the same as the first, but I put a lot more thought into it to manage my energy and fuel usage. The keys to Ironman success are really pace and fueling. Most of the athletes on the course could get through it at a constant pace on all three legs if they paced and fueled well. However, research prior to the race and the experience on race day demonstrates that most Ironman participants get one or both of these elements wrong, often badly. The most common mistake in Ironman is going all-out on the bike, showing off great strength and bike fitness, but depleting the body before the marathon. Good coaches tell you this: the Ironman run course is littered with strong cyclists walking and talking about what a great bike leg they had. I am determined not to be that guy. So I take the second loop at an easier pace than the first. Same ups, same downs, same screaming descent into Keene, same ridiculous climbs at the end. By the time I reach Papa Bear at mile 109-110, I am tired but I am not cooked. I let dozens and dozens of people pass me in the last 20 or so miles. That’s cool – I will run past them as they are walking the marathon.
Make the final descent into town, past Mirror Lake on my right. Sharp right hand turn behind the Post Office, then left in front of the Olympic Center. Right again between the Oval and the Olympic Arena (where the hockey team won gold in 1980), the left behind the high school and into transition. Hop off the bike, strip the shoes, and helmet, run into the changing tent. Bike gear in the bag, run gear on: visor, more sunblock, toe shoes, fuel belt. A quick trip to the privy, slap on some reflective tape in case of disaster and I end up running in the dark, and I hit the run exit feeling pretty good. Start the Garmin and head right down the main drag. My family is again there to cheer me on and I stop very briefly for hugs and kisses before starting the run in earnest.
The marathon is where you become an Ironman. I think a lot of people are perfectly capable of swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112 miles. It’s hard, but it’s manageable at some level for many people at many levels of fitness. You might be surprised by how many different body types and degrees of fitness (or lack of it) are represented at an Ironman. There are probably a lot of people who shouldn’t be there based on their fitness level, but many give it a go anyway. And where most people falter is the run, and for many reasons. Whether it’s a matter of poor pacing, bad fueling, inadequate mental preparation, insufficient fitness, injury, or some combination of these things, the run is where most of the failure comes. It’s just so much effort coming after so much effort already that it is just too much for a lot of people.
But I am determined not to be one of those guys. I have goals for this race and I am going to meet them. I hit my swim goal, made my bike goal, I feel pretty good, and no matter what, I am going to make my run goals: run the whole way, and finish in daylight. Time goals are not so important in my first Ironman, but I am going to run this race right. I promised myself last year that I would train and race my own race, and that meant I would run the marathon. No matter what.
So I start out at a nice pace, feeling pretty good. I’m at about 9:30 per mile or so headed out of town. There’s a steep, steep downhill section as you turn right to go out of town, and that’s not so bad this first loop, but I know I have to go up this hill twice and down it once more, so I store that information for the time being. Past the first aid station, grab some water, drink some of my fuel, and try to settle into a nice, easy pace. Find my gait, nice and easy midfoot running, already starting to pass people who went by me on the bike and are already walking. Sometimes the script writes itself.
The first three or so miles are pretty easy as we head for the ski jumps outside of town. Another steep downhill and then we turn left, and for me this is where the marathon really starts. We turn left onto Riverside Drive and begin an out-and-back section that seems like it goes on forever. It’s not particularly difficult terrain, but it seems endless. I lose the GPS signal so my Garmin can’t track my pace, but I think this is probably good as it forces me to run on feeling. And I’m feeling pretty good. I am focused, smooth, passing people by the dozens as they blow up after going too hard on the bike. I recognize people who flew by me an hour or two ago, and many are struggling pretty hard.
It is on this part of the course, the endless out-and-back, that the mental part of Ironman really begins. I remember one guy on the bike course telling me that the race doesn’t really begin until the second half of the run. I keep this in mind as the miles course by. The sun is still high in the sky, and I feel good. A few minor aches and pains, but I haven’t hit any walls or limits yet. Lactate in the legs is manageable, feet and calves feel good, right hip is holding up. There’s discomfort, but I’m used to that – that’s just what it feels like to run for me. I finally get to the turnaround at about mile 6 – 6.5, and that’s a big psychological barrier overcome: halfway to halfway there.
The way I have been managing the race up to now is to create a zone for each section of the race. The zone is the physical space that I can control in any one section of the race, where the outcome is totally up to me. On the swim, the zone was one lap. I was comfortable controlling my own pace and my own space in the race for one lap at a time. On the bike, the zone was about one aid station long (about ten miles) until it got difficult toward the latter half of the second loop. Then my zones got short – about one hill long. I would concern myself with just getting to the top of that next hill, under control, staying within myself and my own limits, controlling my pace, and then I’d worry about the next hill, the next zone, once I got there. And that seemed to work.
On the run, my zones were now starting to shrink. The first zone was making it comfortably to the first turnaround. Once there, the next zone was to make it back to the right-hander at the ski jumps. After that, the plan was to make the zones short and manageable: up the next hill, around the next bend, to the next aid station. I knew things were about to get difficult, so I was trying to prepare myself to run through some real discomfort. After the turnaround I’m still running pretty comfortably, and make it back to the ski jump turn in good shape. Then I have to make the climb back into town, and that’s when things start to get hard. The climb is not long, maybe 150-200 yards, but it is steep and it hurts. I plod up it at a reduced pace, still passing the walkers who had great bike splits, and put my head down and go.
Past the horseshow grounds on the right, back into town. Down the hill past the aid station at about mile 10-11. And then the fun really begins: the last hill into town, and I swear this is the steepest hill I have ever run up in my life. Almost no one runs up this hill. But I promised myself that I would run this marathon, and I do. I run, albeit quite slowly, but I run up the hill. The crowds are screaming and there is a saint of a man at the top of the hill, just a supporter, who has a PA system and he reads your name and number from your race number belt, screaming out support at the most difficult point of the run, and it gets me up that hill. God that was hard.
Make the left turn onto the main drag, up a long but gradual climb past the Oval, then right onto Lake Placid Club Drive on the edge of Mirror Lake, headed for the other turnaround. Stop at the aid station and replenish my fuel bottles. Pass my best friend who ran it last year as he yells out his support. Make it to the turnaround, the halfway point of the run, in 2:00. See my family again (a huge boost), give my wonderful wife a quick hug and kiss as I begin the second half. She is amazed at my time, but I tell her that the second half is likely to be significantly slower than the first.
I know this because I can feel it – I am about to hit the wall, or the line, or whatever you want to call it. Not really a glycogen bonk, but there is a point in everyone’s Ironman where you cross a line and everything, I mean everything, begins to get very, very difficult. And it is coming for me. My mental preparation stresses the positive and I strenuously avoid negative thoughts, so I have a plan for dealing with this, but I know it will be difficult. I pass my buddy again who is screaming in support, and I look at him and say, “Dude, this is starting to get really hard.” But that’s OK – I knew it would. And I am ready.
Turn left back onto the main street as I watch the really fast people turn right into the finishing chute. Not yet, but I’ll get there. Dial back the pace a bit, knowing that I will need every single calorie to get out and back the next 13 miles. A guy I met at a coaching clinic is there as a spectator and he runs alongside me for about 100 yards, offering encouragement. There is a lot of support out there, and it really helps.
And then it comes – I hit the wall as I turn right and go down that awful, awful hill. Running downhill when you are exhausted and depleted is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. As your steps fall further away from you, it just sucks the life out of your legs. And it is always the case that once you go down, you have to go up. As I reach the bottom of this soul-killing hill, my legs want to quit. I slow down and walk the aid station, maybe 10-20 yards long, just enough to grab some nourishment and water. But I promised myself I would not walk this run. I promised myself. I made a deal with myself that I could rest up and relax, eat and drink whatever I wanted after the race, as long as I ran the marathon. The pain, the discomfort, it is all temporary and it will all be worth it, but only if I fulfilled my promise to myself, only if I closed the deal.
So at the end of the aid station, I start running again. Not with much speed, grace, efficiency or power, but I am running. Up the next hill. My zones are now shrinking to an absolute minimum – the next manhole cover, the next bend in the road. Just run to the end of this zone and then deal with the next one. But run. I am still passing people. There must be hundreds of people walking the course now. Faster runners are passing me as well, people with more gas or better fitness or better race planning. But I am still running.
Make it to the downhill at the ski jumps, about mile 15. Turn left onto the most mentally difficult section, the endless out-and-back. This section of the course will once and for all determine my race. It’s a long and winding road, more or less flat, but it seems like it never ends. And you know there’s a turnaround out there, waiting for you. Just make it to the turnaround, and you’re halfway done with the last half. Make that your zone. Just get to the turnaround. Within that zone I make each bend in the road a zone – just get to the next bend. Walk a couple more aid stations, maybe 20 yards each, just enough to choke down some fuel in the form of Coke, water and chicken broth (amazing stuff by the way), just enough of a fuel spike to get me to the next aid station.
After what seems like a lifetime of running, I finally see the turnaround. A huge psychological barrier – now I know, I really know that I can do it. Walk one more aid station on the return leg to grab some Coke and chicken broth, and then I actually begin to run a little faster. Not much, but I can feel it. I make my next zone the last bend before the ski jumps come into view. Get past the 20- mile marker, another huge barrier. I can run six miles standing on my head. The ski jumps come into view, a beautiful sight. By now, everything hurts and every step is really, really difficult, but I am still running, however slowly, still passing walkers.
Make it to the end of the out-and-back, about mile 22, and now I’m into the final stretch. Four miles to go. Two horrible hills left, but I can do this. Run up the hill at mile 22. Good lord that was hard. Zones getting smaller and smaller. Make it past the horseshow grounds. Past the hotels and houses leading into town. Still running, actually running a little faster now. Not fast, but faster than a couple of miles ago.
Finally get into town, about two and a half miles to go, and one final test: can I make it down and then up that beastly final hill? Run down the last hill, past the aid station – nothing I put in my body now will make any difference. Across the bridge, looking up at that hill. I remember thinking it was pretty steep when I drove up it on the way into town on Friday, and now I have to run up it after 138 miles? For the last nine months I have built a fitness vehicle to get through this race. Now, at the end, I need to get serious and drive this vehicle up this hill. It isn’t about how I look or how I feel, it is about what I am doing. I have a plan, I made a promise, and I will not let this goddamn hill get in the way. So I run up the hill. The saint at the top of the hill sees me, calls out my name on his PA and the crowd yells me up the hill. “Nice pace, man!” “You got this!” “Go, Josh, gooooooooo!!!!”
I make it to the top, and now I know the race is mine. Turn left onto the main drag and now I really start running. At the same time I am in complete agony but complete bliss. The rest of the race, two miles and change, is both the hardest and the easiest thing I have ever done. My strides get longer as adrenaline surges through my body and I begin to run fast – I think I ran the last two miles in about 15-16 minutes. I can’t really believe how fast I am going. My fifteen-year old daughter appears on my right and screams “I love you daddy!” I strip off my fuel belt and throw it to her, and losing that weight feels fantastic. My family yells at me from the sideline and I high-five them all with a huge smile on my face.
Make the right hand turn to go to the final turnaround with Mirror Lake on my left. Fly past the last aid station, with people yelling out in support. Make it to the final turnaround and see my sister-in-law who is waiting for her husband, my brother-in-law. She yells to me: “You’re an Ironman, Josh!!!!” I wave at her and make the turn. Literally on the home stretch now. Running as hard as I possibly can, still passing people. I try to get some separation between the people in front of and behind me so I can run into the Oval alone. Fly past the lane markers indicating the turn for finishers. Make the right hand turn at the gas station, headed for the entrance to the Oval. I’m all alone.
I went through this scene maybe a thousand times in my head. What would it really be like to finish my Ironman according to my plan? What would it feel like? I imagined it would be pretty cool. But I wasn’t really prepared for this.
As I sprint into the Oval, the crowd cheering, I break into a huge smile as all my plans and dreams of iron come together in one of the greatest moments of my life. My family is there, about 200 feet from the finish, yelling their heads off. I raise my arms in a moment of absolute joy and blow them all kisses. Rounding the final bend, I see the finish line. The announcer calls out my name: “Joshua Larson, you are an IRONMAN!!!!” Arms raised high as I approach the line, I just lose it and start screaming as loud as I can. I don’t even remember what I yelled, just that I was so overcome with the enormity of what I had just done that I had to let it out. My daughter, who watched it on the jumbotron that broadcasts all the finishers as they cross the line, said she’d never seen an expression like that. I hit the line in 12:54:54. I was done. I was an Ironman.
So that’s it, that’s my story. It really meant a lot to me. I don’t know when my next race will be, and am going to take some time off to recover and let my right foot heal properly (it never really was 100% after spraining it at the Boston Marathon, and Sunday’s activities did some more damage that will take a few months to heal). And I can’t really recommend trying Ironman to anyone – it’s a really crazy thing, one of the most supremely selfish things you could possibly ever do. It costs a small fortune, takes a year to prepare for, requires a ridiculous time commitment that you could otherwise spend with your family and friends, and is so overwhelmingly difficult that I am somewhat surprised I actually did it. But it was important for me for a lot of personal reasons, and it has changed me in some fundamental way.
The pain was temporary; the accomplishment is forever.