Not my day
In September 2012, I raced Ironman Wisconsin for the first time. In My Silent Sports essay on the race (see the November 2012 issue), I wrote about the thrill of hearing Mike Reilly, Ironman’s iconic announcer, say my name and declare “You are an Ironman!”
Like most athletes, the thrill of finishing faded after a few months only to be replaced by a series of “what if” questions. What if I had used a true triathlon bike and not a 15-year old road bike? What if I trained a little smarter? What if I had the nutrition dialed in better so my stomach wasn’t in distress the last half of the marathon.
With a few specific improvements, I suspected I could knock an hour or even two off my time.
Fast forward to September 7, 2014. With hundreds of miles on a new bike and a year of injury-free training, I felt ready. Stepping through the swim start arch, I couldn’t wait for the cannon fire to get me going.
Recalling the frantic start of the 2012 swim, I didn’t let the human pinball with other swimmers frazzle me. Within a few hundred yards I was in a steady rhythm. A few strokes, take a breath, repeat on the other side. Every third or fourth set of strokes I would add a stroke to pull my head out of the water to make sure I was swimming in a straight line from buoy to buoy.
Crash No. 1
Then, Wham! I slammed face first into the stern of a kayak. The paddler, part of the swim support crew, had entered the swim zone to attend to another struggling swimmer. Trying to regain my composure and wipe away the blood streaming from my nose, I grabbed onto the kayak. The paddler, now uncomfortable with two swimmers grappling with her boat, asked me to let go.
“Don’t hold on, you will tip me over,” she said.
Sure. No problem. With blood still flowing, I moved on. I spent the rest of 2.4-mile swim trying to calm myself down.
The transition from swim to bike offered me a chance to put the collision behind me. At most, the crash cost me a few minutes. In a 15-plus-hour day, it was nothing to worry about.
Having made several pre-race trips from Minneapolis to Madison to ride the bike course, the 5,000 feet of climbing over the 112 miles didn’t intimidate me. Cutting at least on hour from my 2012 bike leg was a legitimate possibility.
One of the most important benefits of a triathlon bike is the ability to stay tucked into an aero position. My familiarity with the course eased any anxiety about what was coming next. I actually looked forward to testing my legs on the next climb and the climb after that.
Crash No. 2
Thirty miles in and descending fast, the numbers on my bike computer clicked past 35 mph. Sweet. Tucked into a tight aero position, Whack!
On an 20-foot-wide empty road in the middle of Wisconsin farmland, my one-inch wide front tire rolled over a three-inch-long aluminum CO2 cartridge. With a nanosecond’s warning, I couldn’t avoid hitting it. Staring down at the tire, my whispered prayer of “please, please don’t flat” was for naught.
In 2012, a spectator stepped out of the crowd when I faced another moment of crisis. His calm and insistent, “you got this” stayed with me and I used that advice to move quickly from frustration to action. I unpacked my tools, changed the tire and grabbed my own air cartridge. Some but not all of the air vented outside of the tube’s valve. I felt as deflated as the tire.
A passing rider offered to help. Within minutes, I was back on the saddle shouting my gratitude and mentally calculating how much time I had lost and if I could still meet my time goal.
With my legs pumping and my average speed clicking above 19 mph, which is fast for me, I moved through a series of climbs and descents.
That “you got this” mantra bought me confidence. Climb, left hand turn, mild descent, set-up for a 90-degree right-hand turn. Moving fast and approaching that turn, volunteers clad in orange T-shirts were waving and shouting. What I expected to be shouts of encouragement changed to a frantic warning of “Gravel! Gravel! Gravel!” just as another rider and I prepared to sweep into the turn.
Crash No. 3
The rider in front of me wobbled. I moved wide to avoid colliding with her. Whump! I hit the gravel, cartwheeled through the air and landed hard on my head and shoulders. I clearly recall the sound of my helmet crunching against the asphalt.
Catching my breath, I tried to make sense of the damage. My legs felt O.K. My back was fine. My head? Bumped but nothing to worry about. My left shoulder, however, screamed for attention.
I got back on the bike. For five more hours I rode with misaligned rear brakes and a clip-in pedal that wouldn’t stay clipped. At 56, I’m a long-after-dark finisher at best. Bloodied, sore and spent, I dismounted and walked many of the steep hills on the second loop of the bike course.
Ironman course marshals send out SAG wagons to circle the route and assist cyclists in trouble. When I rolled past a van stopped on the shoulder, my commitment to continue wavered for a moment. Racing for decades in all kinds of events, I’ve never bailed. Why should that change now?
Before the race, my four children had offered words of encouragement. Jumping into that comfortable van and calling it a day I felt would dishonor their faith in me.
I reached the bike-to-run transition area 90 minutes later than planned. Sitting on a chair in the changing room a physical therapist helped me take off the torn cycling jersey revealing a wide swatch of road rash.
“You have a separated shoulder. If I call a doctor over, he will disqualify you and your day is done. Or, I can put a sling on your arm and you can see what happens,” I was told.
Although I was still behind my 2012 time splits, I still had a chance time to beat the midnight cutoff. So wearing an improvised sling attached with a half-dozen paper clips, I started the run.
Time crunch
My family surprised me with shouts and cheers. The celebration went quiet when they saw the sling. The emotions of the day burst though. Tears flowing I told them about the kayak, flat tire and crash. Still, I didn’t linger with them long. Whatever time cushion I had was very small.
Following me on the sidewalk, my family encouraged me. Since my pace was barely a fast walk, they didn’t have any problem keeping up.
The run course was still crowded with spectators. Watching the only runner on the course with his arm in a sling, I heard shouts of encouragement. “Dude, you rock!” “Badass!” Hardcore!” From mile marker to mile marker, those shouts kept me moving.
The turnaround at the halfway point plays with your emotions. You can see runners embarking on the last 25 yards of the course and hear the “You are an Ironman!” shouts. But slower runners have to make a hard left turn and face another 13 miles.
Spaced a mile apart, portable lights at the aid stations became my beacons. My walking turned to shuffling then trudging. Reconnected with me, even my family’s support wasn’t working.
Crash No. 4
At mile 16, my body rebelled. No more. Leaning against a light pole, I retched. Once. Then twice. A medic in a golf cart rolled up and asked if I needed help. He told me I was one of the last runners still on the course and my pace wasn’t fast enough to cross the finish line before midnight.
The enthusiasm I felt when the cannon fired was replaced with utter disappointment. The day would end with neither a PR nor a second Ironman Wisconsin medal draped around my neck. It just wasn’t my day.
An hour later, I left the medical tent for the hospital emergency room. X-rays would confirm I had indeed separated my shoulder eight hours earlier.
My family pulled me into a group hug. My oldest daughter whispered, “You gave it everything you had, dad. We’re so proud of you.”
I’ll be registering for Ironman Wisconsin 2016. There’s no way my last race ther will be a DNF.
Lou Dzierzak is a freelance writer, triathlete, paddler and camper based in Minneapolis, Minnesota.