I finished my first iron-distance triathlon last weekend. I know. The first time I heard of an Ironman, I thought it was like infinity: impossible, or at least really hard to think about. I thought it was crazy. The second time was over drinks with my uncle in Seattle who said, straight-faced, "An Ironman is easier than a marathon."
"But an Ironman INCLUDES a marathon," I responded. It's a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride, and then the 26.2-mile run, all to be completed in 17 hours or less.
"Yes, but in an Ironman nobody expects you to run. Runners do what's called the Ironman shuffle."
I thought about that, and it seemed more understandable. Shuffling is close to my normal running pace, after all. At this point, I had completed two marathons and a half iron-distance triathlon. This would be the next logical thing. Plus, how great would it be to do a full iron-distance triathlon as a celebration of turning 30?
I looked around for someone to train with and, seeing no one jumping up, asked a friend who I thought might be the right combination of crazy and pragmatic.
"Let me learn how to swim," she said, "and then I'll sign up."
We worked with an awesome and supportive local coach, Lisa Keller, to help us put together our plan. After my friend had swimming lessons to gain confidence, we kicked off training in April.
Downhill swim
The race was Oct. 17 in Wilmington, North Carolina. Called the Beach 2 Battleship, it was not an Ironman-trademarked race (like the famous one in Kona), which meant registration costs were lower even though the distance was the same.
The swim was described as "downhill"; a race official joked that even a Doritos bag could complete it given the swift current. The bike? Pancake flat. The terrain was varied, from rural to urban, so we wouldn't get bored. My uncle said that was a big consideration. More than 600 people signed up and roughly 500 finished.
Since we followed our plan by and large to the letter and checked in with our coach along the way, I was confident we were physically able to finish. My anxiety as the race approached swirled around logistics, and how every step closer to the race presented another aspect of the day to examine and plan — and potentially something to overlook. There were only a few opportunities throughout the day to access my things, and it wasn't like I could go back to the hotel during the race if I'd forgotten something. My bike needed to be dismantled in Alaska and put back together in North Carolina. The idea of chafing kept me awake at night, not having my rescue inhaler for asthma if I needed it, or the old classic nightmare: forgetting to put on (running) pants.
Luckily, race officials and volunteers plan most of the details and make sure racers have their gear at the right time. At the Expo center where packets were distributed the day before the race, I sat on the floor making piles of gear around me in a circle like I was the center of a strange, brightly colored clock featuring margarita-flavored gummy squares, my bike helmet and shoes, and individual Chamois butter packets. I filled five plastic bags, marked with my bib number and name, with what I'd need at every transition and halfway through the run and bike segments.
I handed over my bags to volunteers. We parked our bikes by their appointed numbers at the transition station, letting a friendly on-site bike tech check them over one last time. We affixed pre-made sandwiches with electric tape to our bike frames.
On race day when the 7:30 a.m. start rolled around, we stood on the white soft sand by the beginning of the channel. Masses of people in wetsuits and matching swim caps started rushing toward the water while loud music played and spectators cheered. The timing chips affixed to our ankles beeped as we crossed the starting line. Then we hit the water and it was silent. As I swam, waves occasionally clapped on my face and the ocean taste filled my mouth. I watched the sun rise pink over the water as I brought my head to the side to breathe.
At the end of the swim I let a volunteer pull me out of the water and haul off my wetsuit. Then I ran in a bathing suit, like a kid headed for another round down the slide, toward the transition area where I changed into my bike clothes. It was 60 degrees and sunny then, promising to hit 70 by midday but without humidity — fine weather for this Alaskan.
I got on my bike, settled my forearms onto the cushioning of aero bars with my hands out in front of me, and felt comfortable.
Physically beat
The bike course wound its way through beautiful and haunting country that reminded me I was in North Carolina. There was a wide diversity of lush, green foliage and trees, from pine and oaks to maple; then there were enormous cotton and cornfields gleaming yellow at the end of the season.
The course felt long, but I'm a slow cyclist. Still, it was pancake flat, except a couple of hills here and there, like a few lumps of unmixed flour hadn't been mixed into the batter. I started thinking about this too hard during the bike ride and got very hungry for pancakes.
By the time the run rolled around, it was 5 p.m. Running out of the transition station I saw my husband and friends there smiling, cheering and snapping photos. I was profoundly happy to see them, although I worried my smile looked like a lockjaw grimace.
The course took me through downtown Wilmington on a street lined with restaurants, bars and shops. We ran out of town and around a lake; Spanish moss hung from the trees and signs asked visitors to please not feed the alligators. At night, the course was lit by bright, giant round lanterns that punctuated the dark with a spooky October effect, especially on the wooden bridge crossings and trees growing in the still water.
The second half of the run was the hardest part of the course. My body never broke down to the point where I needed to walk, but physically I felt beat. Mentally, I played tricks with myself to keep going, breaking the course into small bits or baiting myself along with the promise of the next aid station.
Aid stations were at every mile, with food and encouraging volunteers. I did slow down and walk through the stations, accepting everything from a pretzel stick to chew on for the next mile to a cup of warm chicken broth. Yes, chicken broth. Apparently it's a long- distance race thing, and I loved it.
In many races, by the time I get near the end I have a "why even bother finishing" feeling. I've basically accomplished the goal, so why do I have to finish? For the first time, I did not have that feeling. I ran my hardest during the final stretch, on a boardwalk with light twinkling on the water beside me. The music, the announcer and the bright lights in the dark meant the end was near.
I ran into the finisher's chute, high-fiving hands along the way. I heard my name as I crossed the finish line, and I gratefully accepted a heat blanket and an incredibly heavy medal (why are they always so heavy?). I saw the faces of my husband, friends and my training partner.
The race took 15 hours, 57 minutes, 42 seconds, and was everything you'd expect. It was incredible. It was hard. It was really long, although I played such good tricks on myself that I didn't perceive it that way during the race -- it was just like playing some kind of extended obstacle-course endurance game outside for a big day. Like hiking up a mountain, repeatedly putting one foot in front of the other created an almost unbelievable result.
Completing an iron-distance triathlon is not, as it turns out, the same as infinity. It's a thing that can be thought about, planned and accomplished.
Alli Harvey lives, works and plays in Anchorage. For details on the Beach2Battleship race, visit http://www.beach2battleship.com/ For more information on the official Ironman series, visit http://www.ironman.com/