And yes, I
said this time last year that the 2014 event would be my last.
And here I
go again. Competing once more. Resolutely I unequivocally state that this
2015 one will absolutely be my last. It
will be. It will be my 15th New
Zealand Ironman event. It will be my
last.
Oh, you
say, we have heard that before. You may
have, but this time I know it’s my last as the body is telling me it has almost
exhausted its sustainability to complete another summer of Ironman training and
Ironman eventing. It is purposely
hanging together by tendon threads over this period merely to allow me to
eradicate the demons of Ironman 2014 and allow me to gracefully retire from
competing with a sense of finally knocking ‘the bastard off’. Once and forever more. Amen.
Yesterday I
flicked through some articles I had written on previous Ironman events and came
across the one written in February last year, explaining why I felt the need to
do the Ironman again that year. It very well
summed up my reasons – mostly attuned to the Tony and Verna history of doing
Ironman together – and about doing the event on my own for the first time
without my greatest training partner and to welcome the beginning my personal
journey into the future, without Tony. I
reprint it here now. It reads:
So I am doing the 2014
New Zealand Ironman event next week
It is only ten days to Ironman and it seems
everything in my life at this particular point of time is all about Ironman,
iron men, iron women and iron things. I once had a little more balance in my
life, but now with the Ironman countdown everything has become Iron-focused.
Fortunately the focus is not about me. Or my Ironman. For although I am doing Ironman this year, it
almost feels that my event will be a virtual event due to the fact that the
focus has been, and will be, on so many others on the day. Purposely so.
They will be the group of amazing individuals
who I have categorised in my coaching file as ‘Finely Tuning Athletes’. Those who I have coached or trained with for
many, many months now – most since early winter last year. Those who had set themselves their own
personal challenges and who I have seen ride the roller coaster of athletic
endurance challenges. Six who will be
competing in their first ever Ironman event and others returning for their 2nd,
their 4th or 5th time.
Throughout the whole day I will be constantly searching to catch a
glimpse of each one and in nano seconds will be analysing how I think each one
is faring.
It will keep me from the edge of disintegration
into emotional wreckage.
I had decided a long time ago that I need to be
doing Ironman this year. However with
certain health and injury problems I could not make a final decision on entering
until the very last minute. There were
supposed to have been hospital procedures to have undergone and knee operations
to have occurred – but due to the public health system and some very weird
circumstances neither of these ended up being done. Thus the body is still battered and broken,
but the spirit is stronger than the body so come the last critical days my
entry into Ironman 2014 was submitted. With a sense of immense relief and
certainty.
I need to do Ironman this year. Not just for myself. But for Tony and myself. For neither he nor I can move on, move into
the future, until this is done. I have
such a strong sense that he wants me to do this Ironman – that he has planned
for me to do this Ironman and to do it alone.
Without him. For every other of
the 13 Ironman events I have done it has been done with Tony somewhere around
me on the course, somewhere in reaching distance where one glance of eye
contact from him would lift my spirit, my drive and my confidence to move
forward and reach that finishing line.
And be with him.
Had Tony lived this year’s Ironman would have
been his 30th. How he would
love to have gone out on the 30th.
I can do that for him. Last year
son Glenn did the 29th and presented Tony with his personal
finishers medal two days later when returning to Auckland to see Tony in Mercy
Hospice. The very last thing Tony
consciously did was clasp that 29th finishers medal in his left hand
and hold it there as he went into unconsciousness, forever. I know he was so very proud that one of our
sons did his 29th Ironman for him.
I shall do his 30th.
And tie our personal Ironman legacy of Tony Jackson all up in a tidy
finality, for us both.
So tonight I decided to pick up a couple of old
folders, ones that I have not been able to open for quite some time and flicked
through photos and papers of Ironman events past. For the first time I was able to look at the
photos with an almost happy sense of gratitude, rather than despairing grief. Yes, this Ironman will be a tough one – and I
know I am going to have many private heartbreaking periods throughout my long
day, but for me it has more purpose than any of the others I have done.
For I have to complete this finalisation – and
at the same time focus on a number of those special ‘Finely Tuned Athletes’ who
will be creating their own legacy, of being an Ironman.
The telling
sentence in last year’s one reads: 'Yes, this Ironman will be a tough one – and
I know I am going to have many private heartbreaking periods throughout my long
day, but for me it has more purpose than any of the others I have done.'
That ended last year's article. So back to this year, 2015:
Those words came back to haunt me at Ironman 2014.
Having done
a number of these events, when reflecting back on them some memories tend to
blur and become mixed in with other year events – but last year’s Ironman event
turned out to certainly be one that I will never forget nor will it blend into
the memories of the many others. The
2014 one became the classic. The classic
black comedy. Or parody. There certainly is humour in it – now, a year
later that is.
Last year’s event:
I knew it
was going to create an enormous degree of personal emotion for me. Not only was it to be the first Ironman event
without Tony being my training mate, my adviser, my assistant, my admirer, my
morale booster, but it would be my fourteenth Ironman, thus taking me off that unlucky
number, thirteen. The thirteenth
Ironman, the one I should never have done; the number thirteen has proven to be
the nemesis number in my life.
I trained
and completed the thirteenth Ironman with and for Tony – it ended up being his
last Ironman. Prior to that year my
childish superstitions had had me determine I would never do the thirteenth one
and had decided it better to remain on having done twelve of them reasonably
satisfactorily and to finish it at that.
But because of Tony and knowing it would be his last Ironman I chose to
ignore my superstitions and train and enjoy the event with him.
And number
13 proved be a bad number, it was a diabolical one. A weather bomb meant the event could not be
held on the day but was delayed until the next day and the distances changed
completely. Despite that, it was run and
in many ways it was fortuitous for Tony that the event was shortened as it
meant he could enjoy his last Ironman all the more as he would not be putting
his body through the normal Ironman endurance stress. And he did enjoy it, every moment of it. He was a happy man at that, his 28th
NZ Ironman.
Once I had
entered last year’s Ironman, to be my fourteenth, I felt a great degree of
satisfaction at making the decision to do it again – and knew I had the good
fortune of having a number of training mates and athletes to train with who had
their own goals and ambitions for the day.
Being a coach, an Ironman coach meant I had the advantage of rarely having
to train alone.
I had
athletes under my wing who were doing their first Ironman event and others who
were Ironman recidivists. Son Glenn was also returning for his second Ironman
start, but due to his work there would be few opportunities for us to train
together. But it was nice when he could.
Then there were what I call the ‘groupies’, those neat athletes not
necessarily training for any event but who just enjoy training with whoever
happens to be around. Most of us had a
superb summer of training. The Ironman
trainees in our circle were building toward a successful Ironman and the others
were getting fitter. I too was getting
fitter and looking forward to the culmination of a good day.
Some of the team
Indeed, in
the weeks leading into the event I became greatly enthusiastic about my fitness
and my expectation to achieve well on the day.
I felt fitter than I had been for many years and felt my experience and
knowledge on long distance eventing would mean the day could throw anything at
me and I would come through fit, fine and uninjured.
Coaching
It is fair
to say that as a coach I do work very closely with all athletes who ask me to
coach them. I become personally involved
in willing them to achieve the success most of them have to work so darned hard
to get.
Maybe in
2014 this was not a good factor in my coaching style – reflection is a great
thing.
I was still
carrying a huge amount of emotional grief from the loss of Tony; this was the
first year of coaching and training when there was no Tony as even in his last
summer of life I would come home from a coaching or training session and would
still be able to talk to him about how it went and the thoughts I had. 2014 I had no Tony to banter my thoughts
with, to seek advice from – and I did not want my athletes to feel they were
getting any less attention than those who had gone in the years before. Maybe because of this I became over involved
emotionally. I reflect back now and can
see that. Recent discussions with other
professional triathlon coaches has highlighted the difference between their
coaching styles and mine – theirs being very stand alone professional, mine
being very involved and personal.
Last year I
did have some reasonably stressed athletes.
I realise now I was carrying much of the load of stress for them.
I had slept
little since Tony’s passing, but slept even less in the weeks leading up to
Ironman 2014 worrying their worries.
When I now reflect back to that period before Ironman 2014 there is a
heaviness in my emotional gut that sits there and tells me I was not in great space. I overlooked I was doing the event myself, the
focus was totally on them.
It was to
my detriment.
The Checklist
My manner
of coaching has me communicate with all athletes on a weekly basis, in many
instances it may be several times a week.
This contact becomes greater as their events loom closer. 2014 was not different to any other year
when, two weeks out from the event, I send each one an ‘Ironman Checklist’ for
them to carefully scrutinise; a numbered and detailed list of everything they
need and need to think of and anticipate for the event, it’s preparation and
the post event requirements. Over the
years of coaching the checklist has grown with the 2014 one having a whopping
83 points for the athlete to read and check off as having had that covered.
The check
points are anything from ‘have you packed your correct running shoes?’ ‘have you planned what you will be eating for
your pre-event evening meal?’ ‘have you
checked your motel has cooking facilities to prepare the meal?’ ‘have you read
the race manual?’ ‘have you updated yourself on the Tri NZ rules?’ ‘have you organised your event day
foods?’ ‘have you packed enough drink
bottles?’ ‘have you packed your cycle
shorts?’ ‘have you booked a last minute
bike check?’ ‘do you know what time
check in is?’ Eighty-three important
pointers and reminders.
Every first
time Ironman person studiously goes through each point on that checklist. And every year someone tells me they were
grateful to have the list as there were many things on the list they would not
have anticipated, planned or thought about.
First timers seminar
Over the
past many years Tony always ran a popular seminar session at the Ironman venues
for first time Ironman people. It is
always held two nights before the event and is merely a chance for athletes who
are totally screwed by their own fears and emotions and worries to come along
and hopefully de-stress by listening to an Ironman guru who has nothing but
positive and wise words for the ‘newbie’.
In the last
few years I joined with Tony to run these seminars and they almost became a
Punch & Judy comic look at Ironman and managed to put a more light-hearted
look on the event whilst still de-stressing the stressed. The bonus of the seminars was that they were
a great money raiser for the Ironman charity Cystic Fibrosis, or last year for
the Melanoma Foundation.
The seminar
I was
grateful to know I would be delivering the First Timers seminar on the Thursday
night – it was the perfect diversion from thinking about my own athletes, my
own self, and my own family. It was a
big positive for me to look forward to presenting. It is something I enjoy. I had done it solo the previous year; I knew
I would do it better this year.
That is,
until I lost the USB which had all my PowerPoint presentation on it. I had it earlier in the day when in the Ironman
office to check it for last minute details; but 20 minutes before the seminar
was due to start with well over three hundred athletes filing into the lecture
theatre, sitting and waiting in anticipation, the USB was gone. The sound and video technician had everything
set up and ready to go but for the lack of USB.
Panic set in. Heart rate up. Blood pressure up. I was tipping out every
bag, handbag and pocket I had. Adrenalin
shooting throughout the system. I had
spent many, many of my recent late night hours updating the presentation to
make sure the athletes had the best ever First Time seminar they would
attend. But there was no USB.
The
consequence – in the term that we all have used – I had to wing it. They had only me up on the stage to watch and
listen to. No colourful and directional
PowerPoint slides to keep them entertained and informed.
I thanked
goodness for being an experienced public speaker – as once the initial panic dissipated
prior to starting the presentation, it fell easily into place. Under the circumstances I felt I did a reasonably
good job at settling issues, some nerves and answering a good number of questions
the first timers had. It had begun as a
major hiccup but I think I did good.
And wait …
there’s more
The event before the event
Back to the
check list of 83 items to check off before you leave home.
All my
athletes had been given the check list; and they had been given weeks, months
of advice and stern warnings about preparation and the value of preparation. I lectured them all about focus, mental
preparation, visualisation and leaving no stone unturned.
The event
starts at 7 am on Saturday morning. One
needs to be down in town at the event registration area well before 6 am in the morning
to check in. To be there at such an ungodly hour means one needs to be up very
early to have had breakfast, toileted, packed last minute preparation clothing
and food and then drive, or be driven down to the events centre – all in the
dark. Thus it means for an alarm time of
3.30 to 4 a.m. on event morning. That
means an early, relaxed and stress free Friday evening must be had.
I was
staying in a house with fellow athletes, team supporters, Ironman volunteers and
family members. Had spent much of the
day being the role model and helping and assisting anyone who required it – be
it in person, on text, on the phone or on email. It wasn’t until I looked at the clock at 7.45
in the evening that I realised I had not had the chance to prepare my own gear,
clothing and food in readiness for the morning – I had yet to be sure I had
everything at my fingertips when the 4 a.m. alarm went.
Into the
bedroom – to lay out the gear that I would be wearing under my wetsuit for the
3.8 kilometre swim. Sports bra, cycle
pants. Cycle pants. Ah, yes, the cycle pants. Now where are they? They must be in the other
bag. No.
Not there. Oh, must have put them
in a drawer in the bedroom. Open the
drawer, the next drawer, every drawer, no, not there. Not under the bed. Not in the wardrobe.
Out to my
motor vehicle, the van, and rustle through all the bags and equipment in the
van, checking under the seats, in the bike tool boxes, everywhere. Nope.
No bike shorts in the van.
Back to the
bedroom and go over the search again. Repeating
the process of tipping out everything from every bag all over the two beds in
the room. Nope. No cycle shorts.
Then I
remembered where they were. On the
massage table. On the massage table in Jesmond
Terrace. Jesmond Terrace, Auckland. We were in Taupo, three and a half hours away. It was now 8.15 p.m. Friday night, only
eleven hours from start time and I had a 180 kilometre bike ride to do in the
morning and my cycle shorts are on the massage table in Auckland. And I had taken no other spare bike shorts
down to Taupo with me.
After
initial mini-panic I figure, no problem, I will just have to cycle in my
running shorts. Picked those teeny
things up and realised, nope, that won’t work.
The mind boggled as to the thought of the irritating up-the-crack riding
of the seams, the chaffing – the mess.
Nope, that certainly won’t work.
I rummage
around in all my other day clothes in case there was anything I had bought down
that could substitute – there were my pyjama tights – I hold them up – maybe
they will work? I put them on, as one
would put on a new piece of clothing when purchasing them in a clothing shop
somewhere. I pull them right up and
place my hands in the vital areas. Such
as the butt, or more specifically in the under butt area where one very narrow
and hard bike seat will be pushed into.
I feel in
the front area – where it is all the more crucial to have those nappy-type
shorts protecting the female area.
Ouch. There is no way the jamies
are going to work.
And how can
I go out into the lounge of the house and ask any of those athletes out there
if they have a spare pair of cycle shorts!
I am the coach. She who
lectures. She who never does anything
wrong. She who sent out the 83 itemed
check list. The check list that has the
No 8 item on the list – ‘Have you packed your bike shorts?’
Besides,
all the athletes out there are teeny, weenie things – size ten or less – I am
size fourteen or more.
This was a
WT_!? moment. And Taupo town was closed down for the night. Not a shop open anywhere. Not until 10 a.m.
the next morning.
More panic.
More stress. More
adrenaline.
I pick up
the phone and ring one of the Ironman management crew. “Hello Maria, it’s Verna here, err sorry to
bother you but … I have a situation. Is
there anyway I could get into one of
the sponsors booths at the sports expo?
I know it’s all closed up and finished for the day, but is there any chance one of the sponsors would
have a pair of bike shorts down in the expo that I could buy off them?”
There was a
long pause on the other end of the phone.
I could hear lots of voices, music and party-type noise going on in the
background. I knew she was at the VIP
hospitality event at the Hilton Hotel. I
had interrupted her only relaxing time for the week. But I was desperate.
The pause
continued. Then she responded, “Are you
kidding me?” Pause again. “Have you got no bike shorts?”
“No,”
responds I, “and I have only just found out and I have absolutely no way of
getting any from home or from anywhere.
I have nothing to wear on the bike tomorrow and I am panicking.”
I detected
a somewhat slight, polite and muffled gaffaw from the other end of the
phone. Oh, she’s so damned nice. Had the situation been reversed, I would have
bellowed something more out there back down the phone. Like “You’re kidding me!” Or, “You idiot!”
Instead she
asked, “Where are you?” I tell her I am
at my accommodation and then explain that I don’t want any of my crew to know
about this crisis I have created for myself.
Me the organised one, The Organiser, The Guru, The Coach.
At this she
literally does guffaw, loudly and with a great sense of comic response. “I will see what I can do,” she says between
the giggles, “I will call you back in a few minutes.”
Well a few
minutes felt like hours – but then a call comes back and this time it is
Maria’s boss – laughing. Laughing out
loud. “Ha, ha,” she laughs, “that is hilarious!”
I need not
know that. I respond something along
that line.
“We can’t
get back into the Expo, so can’t help you there, but what size are you?”
I respond,
“Fourteen, but often a sixteen.”
“Well my
flat mate Lynley is a fourteen or sixteen and she’s not doing the event but
happens to have bought down an old pair of bike shorts, will they do?”
“Absolutely
yes. Please. I’ll take anything. I am desperate.”
“Where
shall we bring them then?” Janette asks.
By this time it is pushing 9 p.m. Friday night, it is dark. I am outside in the dark, outside of the
house so that my crew cannot hear my conversation. They think I am having a few thinking moments
sitting out under the trees in the dark and pondering on life that once
was.
I give
Janette directions to the house number and street I am in and tell her I do not
want her driving to the house but will meet her a little further down the road,
under a street lamp and will collect the shorts from her there. This way no one in the house will know what
has happened. Egg will not be on my
face.
Eternity
later – my standing streetside in the dark, under the neighbourhood trees,
watching every motor vehicle that came passed, feeling like a potential
miscreant I watched every headlight that shone up along the road. Finally one came to a slow stop alongside the
kerb and as it did the passenger window slowly wound down. As the window wound down the laughter and
noise from inside the vehicle tumbled out to echo all around the quiet
neighbourhood houses. Out from the
window one long arm extended, holding a limply hanging pair of bike
shorts. I quickly grabbed them, tucked
them under the towel I had surreptitiously collected from the house in between
the initial conversation and the drop off.
With much
glee, laughter and hilarity from those inside the vehicle the pseudo-illicit-bike-short-drop
was done and with that it roared off into the dark evening, window still down
and laughter sounding all the more louder the further down the road it drove.
I entered
the house with cycle shorts tucked under the towel tucked under my arm. To get to my bedroom I had to walk through
the lounge which was full of the fellow athletes, family and supporters. As I walked through, attempting to look all
casual and nonchalant all conversation stopped and many sets of eyes turned in
my direction as I walked through. I said
not a word.
Let them
think I had been out there having an emotional few moments.
I tried the
shorts on. I was very grateful. The fact they were tri shorts as opposed to
bike shorts, and the fact they were just a tad loose was better than a tad
tight mattered not. They were better
than my running shorts or pyjama pants. At
that moment they were the bestest bike shorts ever! I almost slept in them just to make sure they
would still be there when I woke at four a.m.
I
eventually went to bed. I woke at two
a.m. It was a short, long night.
The morning
Once up and
the others were up, nothing went askew or wrong. We were taken down to race headquarters,
checked in, dropped in our gear, went to the bike compound, checked the
bikes. All was well.
There was
some concern that a couple in our group seemed to not be around but by this
time I knew there was nothing I could do and would have to keep the fingers
crossed nothing had gone wrong. But it
didn’t help having that little something niggling in the back of the mind. It
was others who had noticed first, so it became a small issue that we had to
discount.
Just prior
to our heading down to the start line someone rushed up to assure me the
athletes had been seen and they were prepared for the start. I could issue a quiet sigh of relief and put
that concern behind me.
Son Glenn
and I walked down to the Taupo lake after most of the other athletes had headed
that way. I knew the routine and knew
there was no point in being down there and standing around in the cool morning
air for longer than necessary.
Standing lakeside
a few minutes before the start gun we gave each other a hug and good wish kiss
and began walking into the lake to take our place prestart. I started to pull the official Ironman swim
cap over my head. As I did so, it immediately
split down the middle. I held it in
front of my eyes and we both looked at it, aghast. The damn thing had not quite split right in
half, but was halfway there. And there
was nothing I could do about it.
Thousands of people were spread all over that lake beach front. The gun was to go in a few minutes and there
was no possible way of ever knowing in which direction I could go to be able to
access another, new swim hat.
I swore.
And put
what was left of the cap back over my head.
Fortunately
I always swim with an undercap. A
neoprene swim helmet that tucks all the way under my chin. Have always used one of these caps as without
one the normal swim caps always come off my head when swimming – due to my
having a mop of thick hair that always makes any cap too small for the
head. I could merely cross my fingers
and hope that the official split cap would hang on over that for the swim.
It
didn’t. Within three strokes after the
start gun, among the throng of swimmers, I felt the little cap slide ever gently
off each time I turned my head to breathe.
Now the
neoprene hat was the only thing keeping my goggles from riding off my face or keeping
my hair from getting into my eyes and mouth.
But as anyone who has swum in only a neoprene hat knows, without the
rubber swim cap over the top of it, the neoprene one quickly fills up with
water and before you know it you are swimming forward with a large, bubble-like
flotation device leading the way at the top end of your head. Each time you turn your head to breath it
takes in more fresh water one side of your head, while dispensing unwanted
water out the other side. And you bobble
along for the rest of the 3.8 kilometres with this weird head flotation device
sloshing one way and another with each arm stroke and breath.
The swim
The joy of
swimming in Taupo means the water is so clear you can see everything around
you. I quickly knew there were a number
of other athletes who had the same problem with their swim caps as the further
one swam along the course the more little caps one saw floating to the bottom
of the lake, or already resting on the lake bed. There were quite a few swim caps down there, it
was little solace in knowing others had the same problem but very few would
have been left with a floating, water filled, bulbous, giant bubble neoprene
cap leading them onward.
Despite
this annoying nuisance on my head, I did bemuse myself all along the course by realising
that even in this irritating situation I could not take my ‘coaches hat’
off. The further I swarm the more intent
I became on watching all the other triathletes around me and noting their
various under water swimming techniques.
Even had to tell myself to not stop and tap them on the shoulder to let
them know they were swimming with straight arms and if they just bent their
elbows a little they would get better traction under the water - or stop to let
them know they were crossing over their strokes which caused them to corkscrew
- or to pull more - or push more.
The inner
coaching voice did at least manage to fill in the good hour plus of blobbling
along with my water balloon in front of me.
I was very
happy to exit the lake. And relatively
surprised to see that my swim time was not greatly detrimentally affected. I put that down to the under water mental
coaching diversion – maybe I shall try that this year, without the water
balloon.
The bike
All was
fine and dandy from the swim onward.
Transition 1 was purposely slow and methodical. I needed to have no more distractions or
mistakes on this day so determined to take each step carefully and precisely. To this point the day had not been good to me
but now I was in control and with all the will in the world, the rest of the
day would pass by without incident.
Little did
I know.
It was a beautiful
day. A perfect day to be an Ironman
supporter and contestant. The morning was
crisp, not too cold; there would be no
wind chill factor for those early hours on the bike, nor was the sun shining
harshly enough to create heat problems.
The forty-five
kilometre ride from Taupo to Reporoa was taken modestly, and with each
kilometre of pedaling achieved I settled into a comfortable position on the
bike and began to enjoy the pleasure of the smooth riding the little orange
bike was giving me.
For this
event I had asked my wonderful bike mechanic if he could adjust Tony’s
favourite bike to fit me. He clearly
thought this a good plan as there was no doubt Tony’s bike was far superior to
the one I had been using since 2002. As
I pedaled my way out to Reporoa on the little orange gem I went through some
seriously and deeply emotive and tear-filled phases. How could I not? This time two years ago Tony was on this very
bike, happily wrapped up in his favoured world of completing yet another
Ironman. Here was I, on his bike, on the
same roadway, without Tony in my life.
Cycling in
the countryside with salted tears falling actually made for some cathartic,
sentimental periods of passing kilometres.
It took the mind off the factor that I would be on this bicycle for
many, many more hours before having to get off it and run a marathon.
As I cycled
to the turnaround at Reporoa time seemed to pass all the quicker with the
ability to see the individuals who were ahead of me now cycling back toward
Taupo and was able to pick out those ones who were among our own team of
athletes. I counted them down as I saw
each one.
It was with
pleasant relief as I turned at Reporoa that I recognised the wife of one of our
team sitting in a deck chair waiting for her man and the rest of the team to
come through. A cherry and happy face is
always a lift for the spirits. Not long
after cycling past her I spotted her man heading toward Reporoa, only a
kilometre or two behind me. I knew it
would not be long before he would be passing me on his way back into Taupo; I
was somewhat content in the knowledge that I managed to get this far without his
catching up to me, it meant I had been cycling well.
Heading in
this direction gave good opportunity to see who else among the team were behind
me. I had been counting the athletes
down and within a few more kilometres I realised there was one vital person
missing. This played on the mind all the
way back to Taupo as I constantly searched ahead with my eyes, watching every
single cyclist coming towards me, willing it to be the missing one.
Meanwhile,
not long after leaving Reporoa I noticed that pedaling had suddenly become a
little more difficult. Yes there was a
mild head breeze, but it was only mild and should not be affecting the cycling. We had trained in a very windy summer so wind
did not usually faze me.
The further
I pedaled the more puzzling it became because it seemed I was labouring far
more than I should be. The breathing was
becoming more and more laboured causing me to drop my gearing down to the
easiest gears, not something I would have expected. It felt as though I was cycling into a really
strong headwind. It was most curious and
unexpected.
This was
not helped by the fact that those wonderful, borrowed bike shorts were now
beginning to crimp up uncomfortably in the nether regions. Every now and then I had to lift myself off
the seat, pull the legs of the shorts down to take out the crumpling problems
that were making sitting a little awkward.
Climbing
the seven kilometre hill toward Taupo, a hill I had ridden many times before,
now took a major pedaling effort. This
was more than curious, it was baffling.
Folk I had passed many kilometres earlier were now passing me and I
could do little about it. The more
effort I put into moving forward the more effort it took.
Yet I still
was looking for the missing athlete as each cyclist passed me or I passed any
cyclist. Not to be seen, I told myself I
must have missed them somewhere on the course and that all would be revealed on
the next lap out to Reporoa when they would be spotted, somewhere well ahead of
me on their last leg back onto town.
Cycling
back into Taupo is always the best part of this event; it is downhill for a
long period and gives one an opportunity to enjoy easy pedaling and fast
speeds. I looked forward to this part as
expected the enjoyment of great relief for my tiring legs, yet found the
downhill still required constant pedaling to move forward. This was not the easy, breezy downhill spell
that we so look forward to.
Through
Taupo and coming out the other side of town, about to head into the country
side toward Reporoa again I noted a cheering group of spectators on the side
line ahead. And there standing among
them was the missing athlete, the one I had been searching for over the past
fifty kilometres.
There was
no way I could continue on without stopping to find out what had happened. I stopped and dismounted. The next few minutes were gut-wrenching for
me. The athlete had experienced a very
bad swim and after some time being nursed in the medical area in the
swim-to-bike transition had decided to not continue with the event. It was the athlete’s decision, guided by
medical advice. All those weeks and
months of training and sacrifice the athlete had done was now history without
an end. I felt so dreadfully empathetic and
sad, almost heartbroken for the individual.
I knew how much this mattered to them.
I had lived through it with them the past many months, yet there was
nothing I could do to alleviate the sadness and disappointment. I knew the
athlete would have anger, frustration and disappointment befall them over the
next period of weeks and months.
There was
nothing at all to say or do to make anything better. My only option was to get back on my bike and
stop feeling sorry for my own discomfort.
At least I was still in the event.
Just before
remounting the bike I picked up the front end and spun the front wheel, just to
make sure it was spinning easily and that there was no problem with it catching
on the brakes and causing me to feel such strong resistance when pedaling. I was about to do the same with the back wheel
when one of the others in the group of spectators spoke to me, momentarily
sidetracking my thinking. A brief
conversation ensued before I remounted the bike and headed back out to
Reporoa. Annoyingly the little respite I
had when off the bike had not made the body or legs feel any better as cycling
was just as hard heading back out as it had been for the previous forty or more
kilometres.
The journey
back to Reporoa became tougher and tougher.
I rode almost all the way in my easiest gears. I could not pick up momentum anywhere, even
on the seven kilometre downhill I still had to strain to move the bike and my
body forward.
And the
nether regions were beginning to suffer greatly from the crumpled padding in
the crutch that was now beginning to become troublesome.
By this
time I had come to the conclusion that the emotion of the past several years,
the grief of everything that had happened over that period, the loss of Tony,
the stress, the sadness, the tiredness, the lack of sleep, the total
overwroughtness of everything that had been before was the cause for today’s
inability to be able to move myself and the bike forward. I cycled slower and slower, becoming more and
more despondent. I was passed by
individuals who I knew were always hours behind me or were back markers in
every event. This was not where I should
have been.
I had
lectured at the first timers’ seminar that if something goes wrong, forget it, put
it behind you, just keep moving forward.
Every pedal rotation forward, every step forward means you are moving
that little bit closer to the finish line.
I had to live my words.
Coming upon
an aid station somewhere near Broadlands I decided something had to be done
about my now painful nether region chaffing so stopped the bike and quickly
asked the young boys at the drinks table if anyone in the aid station had some Vaseline. A helpful young 12 year old lad rushed off to
the volunteers supply kit and came back with a small jar of the sought after
remedy for me to utilise however required.
I will never forget the horror look on the four 12 year old faces on
those lads as I quickly plunged my fingers into the jar of sticky emollient
then pulled away the waist of the bike shorts with one hand, whilst straddled
across the bar of the bike, and plunge the other hand down to that very
personal area and recklessly spread as much of the gooey stuff around the
afflicted areas therein.
With their
mouths still wide open, eyes agog, I thrust the jar back to them, mounted the
bike and continued to pedal forward.
Behind me I heard an outflow of giggles that only 12 year old boys could
make.
It continues
I got to
Reporoa in an inextricably slow time.
Turning at Reporoa meant there were only 45 more kilometres to go. By this stage I became concerned that cut off
time for the cycle ride may be a factor I may have to consider.
A few
kilometres post Reporoa I could go no further without stopping and getting off
the bike for a brief rest respite. I needed
to stretch the now tightening quadriceps.
Dismounting, I paused, leant on the bike and breathed freely for the
first time for hours. The stop had to be
short as the clock was ticking; respite could not take up valuable time. Before remounting I picked up the front of
the bike again and spun the front wheel.
It spun freely, without hindrance.
I picked up the rear of the bike and spun the back wheel. It would not spin. It moved fractionally then stopped. I tried it again. This time it hardly moved at all before jamming
to a stop. I tried again. Same thing.
I bent over the wheel and looked more closely. It had jammed itself against the downward
fork in which the wheel sits. I tried it
again, this time with force. It turned,
but only just, as the wheel then wiggled its way to stop against the fork on
the other side.
The wheel
was badly buckled.
It all fell
into place.
I knew not
what had happened but I had been pedaling this bike for so many kilometres
against a force of resistance that I could do nothing about. And what could I do about it out here, in the
middle of the countryside with not one official about who could assist? Nothing.
The only option was to mount the bike again and head onward, toward the
next aid station or hopefully until I could spot a roving bike mechanic
on the course.
In Ironman
one has to be able to fix all breakdowns oneself. An athlete cannot have any outside assistance
and to do so means instant
disqualification.
But the Ironman organisation do have roving bike mechanics in vehicles
and if required the mechanic can hand the athlete tools to fix a mechanical
problem, or give the athlete spare parts, but fixing it has to be done by the
athlete. I had no idea how to fix what I
had, nor any idea what had caused the wheel to buckle. I could only hope to seek verbal assistance from
a bike mechanic on how to fix it and hope he had tools to assist me to do that.
Some four
kilometres later I pulled into the aid station, cycled straight up to an official’s
vehicle and asked if they knew where the closest bike mechanic was. Blank faces meant the occupants had no idea
so I asked if they could phone whoever and get a mobile van to come and find
me. Just as I was about to leave some
training friends who were spectators at the aid station came up and quickly
realised I had a problem. But of course,
there was little they could do. However merely
seeing two friendly faces in this time of tiredness and frustration was the
best antidote for the glumness or self pity I had been sliding into. Just their presence at that moment lifted my
spirits. I remounted the bike and headed
back towards Taupo and began searching ahead with hope of soon seeing a bike
mechanic’s van heading toward me.
The 2 friendly faces who were at the bike aid station.
It seemed
to take many kilometres before one did; no doubt it was only a couple –
irrespective it was a great relief to know help was at hand.
But was it?
No. As soon as I saw the driver exit the vehicle
I knew I was not going to be getting any help from him. He looked all of 17. Sure, he may have been 18 but I knew that
when it comes to a major mechanical problem on a bike, the young ones really
have no experience or knowledge on how to fix them. Punctures yes, real mechanical problems, no.
And I was
right. Not only did he not have any idea
what had caused the wheel to buckle, but he had no idea how to fix the
problem. It was at this point my frustrations began to
boil over. The young man pondered and
pottered, twisted and turned the wheel and all its spokes, shook and pulled but
came to no conclusion as to what or how anything. He then went to his vehicle to phone his base
in Taupo to seek verbal advice from his ‘boss’.
While he was on the phone I took the wheel off and then discovered what
had caused the buckle. A spoke had come
away from the axle and jammed into part of the gearing in the wheel. It was not floating around loosely like most
broken spokes do, but had neatly jammed itself in the gears and thereby not
only caused the wheel to buckle but also made one, or two, of the gears almost
impossible to use.
The young ‘mechanic’
came back and said his boss would drive out from Taupo and find me to see if he
could help.
I was still
about thirty-five kilometres from Taupo, and time had been ticking faster than
ever and expressed my strong concern that I would not make the cut off time if
I had to sit and wait for yet another mechanic.
I replaced the broken wheel, with the broken spoke now twisted around
other spokes, remounted the bike once again and headed toward Taupo with the
buckled wheel and with great anxiety about not making the cut off time.
With
fifteen minutes I saw the next mechanical van come towards me. Hurrah, this time he was a ‘mature’ man and
one I recognised as being a past cycling friend of Tony’s. I knew this man would know exactly what to
do. It was with great relief that with
his knowledge and experience and guidance I was able to take the wheel off and make
the adjustments to the other spokes on the wheel to somewhat unbend the twisted
wheel, just enough to make it turn freely from rubbing against the brakes or
forks of the bike. It still twisted and
buckled as it went around, but it did not now rub against the brakes and
forks. Within ten minutes I was back on
the bike.
And could
finally cycle freely. It felt like
magic. Like it was supposed to have felt
for the previous one hundred and fifty kilometres. Like a bicycle turning, without
hindrance. The last twenty-five
kilometers of that ride was bliss. Even
climbing the seven kilometre hill didn’t seem anywhere near as hard or
difficult as the previous one hundred kilometers had felt.
As each
kilometre flew by I knew I would not have to be concerned about cut off
time. I would be closer than I had ever
been before, but I knew I would make it.
The marathon run
What run? Who could possibly run after that
battering?! Getting off the bike in transition
two and taking the first two steps to run toward the transition tent
immediately told me – Verna, you have a problem. It is called two stuff legs.
There was
nothing there. Except two concrete quadriceps
that refused to be lifted, carried forward or extended in any way.
There was
no run. At least for the first few
kilometres there was no run. Even a fast
walk was nigh impossible. I knew it
would take some kilometres and time before the over used quads would begin to
loosen and allow me to move forward in a manner somewhat resembling athletic.
It did not
matter. I was back in town. I had made bike cut off. I was out on the run course and knew that if
I merely kept moving forward I would make the finish line.
There was
no use continuing to ponder on the misfortune of the bike. It was a problem that could never be
foreseen. It was just bad luck. All I had to do now was move forward. And in the transition tent before heading out
for the marathon I had been able access copious blobs of Vaseline which had
been smothered widely around the mid regions to prevent any further “ouches” as
I tried to put one leg in front of the other.
The hardest
part was seeing the look on the faces of my own supporters who had clearly been
mystified as to why it had taken me so long to return to Taupo on the
bike. As I passed each one I endeavoured
to tell them I had experienced mechanical problems and that all was fine now.
Some of the support crew at the early morning swim start, including little Anthony, named after Tony.
The
sympathetic faces were enough to have me realise that sometimes sympathy is a
lovely uplifting emotion to share with others.
I welcomed it and those many knowing fellow athletes who were there to
support were gracious with their sympathy and helped make the next forty-two
kilometres seem a breeze, if only a walking, sometimes jogging breeze.
Of course
there is always one person who takes the cake in situation like this and when I
walked passed and endeavoured to quickly explain I had experienced mechanical
problems the male of one couple we know responded with a smarmy and sarcastic, “Yeah,
right!” response which had me realise that moronic emotional intelligence is devoid
in one in every hundred.
The day
turned to night and as the night went on I was able to finally enjoy being
there and hearing from the supporters on the side lines who among our group had
finished and hearing the brief success stories that could be told as I passed
by.
Finish
I crossed
the line. Almost sixteen hours after
starting the event. I cried. I don’t know why, but I cried. I don’t
know if it was due to the Tony factor, the being totally exhausted factor, the
emotion of that particular day factor – or what. I just cried.
Conclusion
So I
achieved my fourteenth and last Ironman New Zealand.
The days
following were greatly tinged with sorrow and passion for the one who never got
to finish their Ironman. They were
tinged with botheration and piqué about my own experiences of bad luck on the
day. They were tinged with joy and
elation for all those others who had finished their 2014 Ironman and were able
to wear their finishers medals and t shirts with immense pride. They were tinged with humour at listening to
all their various stories – for everyone who does an Ironman event has a story
of their own that is as long as this story of mine is. I listened to them all. I get greater joy from the success of others
than I do from any achievement of my own.
There was still
some sense of satisfaction within myself in knowing that no matter what it
tried to throw at me on the day, I overcame that which others may not have, and
I kept going, just as I had lectured three hundred plus others only two days
earlier to do.
Tony always
said that doing an Ironman is like eating an elephant – you start at the
beginning and just take one bite at a time.
The 2014
elephant sure had some mighty chewy and tough bites in it. But I did chew it all Tony. I ate the elephant.
2015
I spent a
few months away overseas after that Ironman.
I needed time and space away from everything here that was Tony.
While I was
away I realised I did not want to forever remember my last Ironman as being
that 2014 one. The one that caused me
such extreme emotion and fatigue in the months leading up to it. The one that challenged me greatly, both
emotionally and physically.
I want to
remember Ironman as that which Tony used to enjoy so much. As an event that came with great personal
satisfaction, and pleasure. One where
you walk away and think, “That was pretty good.”
2014 does
not give me that. 2015 will. And if it doesn’t, too bad. But I am going to give it one more shot and
whatever happens, happens. It will be my
last. My body tells me that, particularly
my heart.
