Ironman melted!

News Flash! Purported Ironman melts down during Kansas 70.3

The truth be told, I'm only a half-Ironman. And 1/2 Ironman melted on the hot asphalt of Kansas yesterday. The course marshalls simply hosed him off the tarmac after he finished. Randy and Matt know nothing about cramping until they've heard my story.

Let's start from the beginning. I guess the real beginning is where I decided to do a triathlon. That probably came from my picking up running again last year. Fared well in 10K, 15K and Omaha half-marathon, so I figure I might as well go for the whole enchilada and do a triathlon. Say, why not go for broke and try a bleeding half-Ironman? How tuff can it be? You're immune to pain!

Was going to do the Boulder 70.3, but had my name in the ringer for the Leadville 100 MTB race. By the time they told me I didn't get selected from the lottery for the MTB race, the Boulder 70.3 was full. So, I opted for the Kansas 70.3.


Knew I had to resume some swimming to train for this. Jackie2 worked with me during this winter off-season in an attempt to make me a sleek, efficient water-eating machine, like her. Unforunately, I remain a thrasher, despite her best efforts. The swimmer's mold was cast, but I was nowhere to be found when poured. But I did manage to swim the requisite distance of 1.2 miles w/o stopping in the YMCA pool. Pretty doggone impressive, considering when we started I could barely do a lap without panting like Pavlov's dog.

Race day: THE SWIM: So, when I actually took to the water to do the 1.2 mile swim during this half, the swimming didn't tire me out. But I lost scads of time lifting my dome up to see where I was. Plus the sunlight was bouncing off the water. The glare prevented me from seeing where I was in relation to the other swimmers. On the postive side of the ledger, I didn't inhale any suds, nor get tired, nor did I get knocked senseless by the flailing limbs of other thrashers. We did get to wear the wetsuits, so the added bouyancy really helped. I crawled out of the water in about 49th position. Ugly. Slow. But survived.

The T1 transition: Had to change quickly from water gear to biking gear. My 1st ever transition and I failed miserably. My time was like almost 5 minutes, compared to others getting swapped over in 2. Couldn't get the wetsuit off, had trouble putting on the biking top, finding the pockets to stuff GU into, you name it, it went wrong. Ugly. Real slow. GNASTY!

The Bike: Ahhh, now you're talking my language. Inhaled a GU. Warmed up slow. Then turned up the RPMS and starting kicking booty and taking names. To heck with Wholesome, steel cut goodness advice to rein it in on the bike. I cannot be stopped. I will soon be catching the pros. Well, I did catch a lot of those amphibious turds who slithered out of the water before me, and really only had one guy pass me, and he was a 44 year old stud. Stayed on him like glue. But, it wasn't as easy as it sounds. Half way thru the course, we had to actually stop, dismount, run around a patch of fresh oil in the road. When I remounted, my bike seat came loose. Ay caramba! Choices presented themselves. Stop and try to fix w/o tools. Keep going and don't get off the saddle for the next 25 miles. I opted for Door Number 2, where the lovely Vanna is standing. It worked, but my quads were screaming for relief by the end of the bike. Averaged 21.8, which I thought was slow, but the course was very hilly. No computer so I couldn't confirm the speed. Pretty. Speedy. Dat's what I'm talking about.It's all good. I ROCK.

T2: Bike to run. Nothing to it really. Take off bike shoes and helmet, put on Asics. Relatively fast.

The RUN: Oy, it hurt. After the first few strides, I knew I was in deep kimchi. Legs felt like hedge posts. Only 13.1 endless miles to go for my first triathlon. By now, I've got no frigging idea where my competitors are. There could be 58 of them ahead of me and I didn't give a rat's patootie. I went into survival mode. There would be no dominating performance on this run. I no longer ROCK. I am a rock. Rock legs, rocks for brains. The miles go by so slowly. 12, 11, eternity. Stop! Just throw in the towel. Go home with your tail between your legs. Fess up, you bit off more than you could chew. Now you know that was NOT going to happen, but I was wrestling with demons by now. I slog on. I OD on gatorade, I douse myself with ice water. I see Jesus and it made sense that he was there. I plod on. I notice I'm passing some turtles with my age group painted on their calves. I'm not going fast, they are just going slower than me. Finally, the last turn. About 2 miles to go. Merciless, senseless, brutal miles. Good hearted fans chanting "good job." If only they knew the truth! It was a horrible job. I'm weak. I'm feeble. I'm just hanging on by the guilt associated with being tagged "quitter." Eureka. The finish line is a couple of hundred yards away. The brain commands the legs to keep moving forward. I'm simulating a run, but moving at a walk pace. I had envisoned some glitzy victory salute when crossing the line. All I could drum up was a DEATH MASK. I stumble across the line. No burst of euphoria, no miraculous victory dance. Some wise medics realize the train wreck that just crashed in their turf and grab me. Despite my assertations that I'm perfectly fine, they realize that I'm lying through my teeth and whisk me away to the Medic Tent. They lay my living corpse on a nearby stretcher/cot. In my delirium, I ask for someone to remove my shoes, telling them they need to depress the red buckle release to take them off. Later, I realize that I actually have on my running shoes, not my biking shoes. Silly Pete. I'm cramping from the bald spot on my noggin to the little toes. I cramped in so badly I'm gnawing on my index finger knuckle trying to divert the pain elsewhere. Does this illustrate how much this race hurt?

But hey, it wasn't all bad. I eventually recover. They have to physically yank me up on my feet. My pegs protest, but I walk a step or two just like the Tin Man after his first shot of oil in years. I'm mobile again. Say now, what's this? It occurs to me. I HAVE SURVIVED! It is in the books! I'm half-Ironman. They can read that at my eulogy.

The results: I blunder my way into 8th place out of ninety-eight registered 50-54 year olds. (The guy before me was a relay participant so he doesn't count) I surpass my projected finish time of 5 hours, 15 minutes, with a finish of 5.01.57. Oh, for a quicker T1!! A minute or two off and I would have been in the magical 4 hour category and moved up a spot or two. I really got dusted in the swim.

Results and splits can be found here: http://www.ironmanlive.com/tracking.php?race=kansas70.3&year=2010

1 PYLE, STEVE
4/1/1 52/M50-54 00:31:11 02:23:59 01:34:57 04:33:16
2 BENNATAN, ANDRE
3/7/2 51/M50-54 00:31:03 02:42:18 01:31:30 04:49:44
3 REYNEN, PAUL
8/4/3 50/M50-54 00:34:16 02:33:21 01:37:42 04:50:53
4 MCCLENDON, JAMES
19/8/4 51/M50-54 00:35:50 02:39:37 01:37:18 04:56:39
5 SALINAS, OMAR
11/13/5 51/M50-54 00:35:05 02:45:51 01:32:44 04:57:37
6 RUMSEY, ANDY
10/6/6 51/M50-54 00:35:01 02:39:12 01:42:01 04:59:56
7 DICK, SAMUEL
18/5/7 54/M50-54 00:35:50 02:37:52 01:43:07 05:00:16
8 SWENSON, ANDY
5/4/7 52/RELM 00:37:12 03:01:20 03:01:00 06:44:17
9 DURYEA, PETER
45/9/8 53/M50-54 00:41:11 02:33:29 01:41:13 05:01:49





I finish in the top ten, which was pretty ambitious considering this was my first triathlon ever. As I sit here typing, as the pain slowly subsides, as the brain elimates the negative and moves forward with the positive, a little, evil voice is whispering in the back of my gray spaghetti. You know what it is saying. Maybe you've heard the same voices. Mine is saying: Uh, dude, what you say we try a FULL BLOWN FREAKING IRONMAN!! 2.4 swim! 112 mile bike! 26.2 marathon run. Double the pain! You love it. You were made to absorb it, wrap yourself in it and immerse yourself in it. You only live once, and your days are numbered. Sack up. Can you say Coure de Alene?