SHORT VERSION:
It was a very long day, but I made it.
I am an IRONMAN!
FULL VERSION:
25 years of dreaming about doing an IRONMAN. Two years of focused planning and training. Hundred mile bike rides. Hours of swimming. Twenty mile runs. All preparation for this day: Ironman Chattanooga September 24, 2017.
This is not fear, I told myself as we arrived in Chattanooga. This is excitement. I'm not nervous; I'm ready. My husband and two sons endured my company to Chattanooga on the Friday before the event. My eldest son stayed home for school and work, and I was sad he wouldn't be here. But I was no fun-- as prickly as a cactus. I sat silently and agonized about every detail in my mind-- Should I wear a wetsuit? What should I pack in my special needs bag? My family showed miraculous patience and forgiveness as I rode the emotional rollercoaster of pre-race anxiety-- "Ahem" . . . Excitement.
The night before the race, with my bike and bags checked in, I could finally stop fidgeting. I mostly sat on the hotel bed in silence like a catatonic yogi-- breathing in, breathing out . . . Waiting for 5am. Meanwhile, my husband and sons had fun that day: rock climbing and sampling every restaurant within walking distance. I was ever grateful for my husband's willingness to entertain the boys. Being a spectator at these events can be almost as tiring as being an athlete. I wanted them to have fond memories.
Race day arrived with the promise of heat and sun. Fine by me. After trying and failing to eat breakfast, I drank two cups of coffee, and John walked me to transition. I adjusted the air pressure in my tires, put water bottles on the bike, and chatted with the athletes next to me.
Time to get on the bus. John walked me to the long line of school buses waiting to take all 2,608 athletes to the start line. About a quarter of us would either fail to reach the start line or fail to finish.
Arriving at the swim start, I followed hundreds of athletes to the end of the swim start line which later became the middle of the swim start line. It seemed to reach for miles into the darkness. I couldn't see the river. I sat on the sidewalk in the darkness, chatting with other athletes and their friends and family . . . and waited. My teeth were chattering and my body shivering like a chihuahua. It was 70 degrees. I was simply nervous and ready to begin.
Supposedly, a cannon went off before the pros hit the water at 7:20am. We were too far away to hear it. Within minutes, however, our line began moving-- quickly. We trotted along, awaiting the official start of our race. Because we each wore a timing chip, our race didn't officially begin until we crossed the timing mat at the swim dock. From that point, we had exactly 16 and a half hours to make it to the finish. No exceptions. The last Ironman of the day finished with four seconds to spare. Hundreds failed to finish.
I obsessed about possibilities: broken goggles, a kick to the face that would knock me unconscious, lost contact lenses, a bike wreck, severely cramping muscles . . . the list went on and on. One thing that never occurred to me was the possibility of a groundhog darting into the rode and causing a cyclist to crash. This happened just a few hours later; but after lying unconcious for a few minutes, the man pulled himself together, and he finished!
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| The misty view of the swim start from the boat of a volunteer. |
John and the boys watched the excitement from the beautiful pedestrian bridge. They saw swimmers doing all kinds of things-- breast stroke, side stroke, back stroke . . . They even saw a guy floating on his back. They waved down at him. He waved back.
The strangest thing they saw was a guy who darted sideways in the river and then began swimming upstream! A volunteer in a kayak had to come redirect him-- Twice! Glad I wasn't that guy! Overall, the swim went well for almost everyone. No one was hurt. Only four people were pulled from the water.
In what seemed like just a few minutes, the buoys went from yellow to orange, so I knew we were halfway. I sang songs in my head and just let myself get into that meditative groove that is long distance swimming. My shoulders began to warm and then burn a little. I knew this meant I was hitting a good pace. I hoped to finish in an hour. I concentrated on slipping my hand smoothly into the water, reaching, getting a good catch and pull, and lifting my elbow high on recovery. Before I could believe it, I saw the angular architecture of the Chattanooga Aquarium and the red buoys that marked the end of the swim. So fast! And it was fast, too, only 55 minutes. Thank you, Tennessee River current.
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| Me with Two Heads exiting the swim and heading toward transition. |
A line of volunteers built like football players stood at the steps of the exit to pull us out of the water. After reaching the sidewalk, I reached back for my wetsuit cord and began unzipping as I trotted to the wetsuit strippers.
I ran up to a strong woman, plopped on my bottom, stuck my feet in the air, and she grabbed the top of my wetsuit and whipped it off in one smooth stroke.
"Thank You!" I exclaimed.
"Good job!" she answered as she handed me my wetsuit and off I went. I was proud of myself for knowing how to get my wetsuit off. It didn't occur to me at the time that she probably said "Good Job" to everyone!
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| Denver captured my expression at the moment I saw my husband. |
Unlike shorter triathlons where you keep all your gear next to your bike in transition, during an Ironman you run through a line of transition bags, shout your number-- "1121!"-- and a volunteer hands you your bag filled with your cycling gear. Then we run into the changing tent where wonderful volunteers assist us as if we are toddlers: "I'll take you to a seat . . . I'm dumping out your gear right here so you can choose what you need . . . I'll put your wetsuit, goggles, and swim cap in your bag for you . . . You look like you're ready to go."
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| With over 2,000 bicycles, it's good to remember your number! |
I kept up a steady stream of gratitude for those volunteers all day. They were amazing. At that moment, I thanked her, put on my cycling shoes, gloves, and helmet, and headed for the bike racks.
Before I got there, more volunteers stepped up and slathered me with sunscreen. How amazing is that? I found Spooky, and we rolled out.
The beautiful countryside around Chattanooga filled me with joy. Mountains surrounded us as we cycled past farms, pastures, wildflowers, and disgruntled churchgoers waiting in long lines to let us pass.
Unlike a few other races I'd experienced, most cyclists were polite and friendly and not prone to endangering themselves or others by drafting or swerving unexpectedly. There was friendly chatter throughout the ride, though it grew less frequent as the hours passed.
I am lucky that the Tennessee and Georgia hills on the Ironman course are very similar to what I'm used to. I never felt overwhelmed by the long hills or rough and gravel strewn country roads. Some athletes from Florida found it a bit more challenging, and I heard some sigh as we approached yet another long incline.
At nearly the halfway point, we rode through the little town of Chickamauga. There, unbeknownst to me, my family was waiting with signs and cheers. I shouted my gratitude and teared up so much I could barely see for a moment. I felt so loved and grateful. How lucky am I to have such a family?
As the miles passed, I occupied my mind with the pain in my stomach. I planned to treat myself with PB&J sandwiches on the ride. I don't normally eat flour or sugar anymore, and I thought it would give me a good energy boost. After one sandwich at mile ten, however, it felt like an unending punch in the stomach. I couldn't begin to eat and didn't want to drink anything. This was not good. I had eaten nothing yet today except that unwelcome sandwich. Luckily, there were aid stations every 15 miles, and I started forcing down half a banana at each one. I also stopped for refills of ice water in my water bottles, and forced myself to finish one water bottle before each station.
By mile 70, my stomach felt better. I ate an Rx bar and hoped that my energy would hold. When a volunteer agreed to give me her own can of Coca-Cola, I chugged it in about ten seconds. The results were amazing! The caffeine and sugar hit me like lightening, and I felt good. I guess flour is no longer my friend, but sugar still loves me.
As I neared the 100 mile mark, I took inventory of my body. Overall, I felt pretty good. Shoulders and neck ached a bit. My back felt stiff but not painful. My knees ached and my calves felt tight. I had several blisters on both feet. Worst of all were my thighs, though, which burned like they were on fire. Front and back. Quads and hamstrings: shredded. I promised myself that running is different and my legs would rally. (Lies! All lies!)
As I coasted into transition and the dismount line, I told myself, Run and Done. It's part of a chant that my youngest son and I made up to sing while he trained for his first triathlon.
A volunteer grabbed the front of my bike and shouted, "I've got it!" That was my cue to get my tired bottom off the bike and run toward transition shouting my number again. I did, and another marvelous volunteer handed me my bag and then handed me over to another volunteer. She walked me to a seat in the changing tent. I removed my helmet, gloves, and cycling shoes while the volunteer took out my running gear and set it in front of me. I slipped on my running shoes and felt the relief of larger shoes on my many blisters.
"All set?" she asked.
"Yes. Thank you!" and off I went with my race number belt in hand.
Again my wonderful family was there to wave signs and cheer me on. I stopped to give hugs and kisses-- stopping too long for Denver. "Run and Done, Mom. It's a race! Go!" And off I went.
I felt great. I had an average moving time of just under 17 mph on the bike; a victory for me. My bottom felt blessedly relieved of the bike seat. My arms loved swinging freely, and even my legs briefly rallied.
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| I'm off the bike! Run and Done! |
Those feelings lasted about two miles. Unaccustomed to the unbelievably well stocked aid stations and enthusiastic volunteers every MILE on the run, I overindulged at the first two stations. Instead of my usual sip of water every three to five miles, I was taking in water, grapes, and oranges every ten minutes. The result was a heavy stomach and heavier legs. Unlike some other poor souls I saw vomiting alongside the road and sprinting to the porta potties, I was able to get things under control in time. I stopped eating and allowed myself a sip of water, Coke, or chicken broth every two or three miles. That worked.
The miles dragged on. We passed the spot where we had entered the water hours before. I watched the sun set over the Tennessee River. I talked to other athletes. We encouraged each other and trotted on. We weren't really racing one another; we were just battling the voices in our heads and the suffering in our bodies.
Volunteers were our life support. They never failed to exclaim how Great we looked, how we were doing Awesome, and how we were Almost There. Beautiful, beautiful lies. They held out food, drink, and ice. They danced. They wore costumes. They played loud music. They were our islands of joy in an ocean of suffering.
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| At mile 12, am I running or walking? Hard to tell! John is behind me in the yellow shirt and red cap. |
As I approached mile 13 of the run, my sons were suddenly beside me. I smiled and gave hugs and wanted to stop and talk. Denver said, "No. Don't stop. You can't stop. We'll run right along here with you until we get to Dad." I didn't know it at the time, but Denver thought I wasn't going to finish in time. I could see worry in his eyes, but didn't know why. For reasons he still can't explain, he thought the cut off time was 9pm and there was no way I was going to make it.
I kept running/trotting/shuffling. The miles grew further and further apart. Time ceased. There was seemingly no end to the numbers between 13 and 26. My legs couldn't tell the difference between uphills and downhills; both were equally painful. I watched as volunteers tended to the fallen who lay with seized hamstrings or back spasms. I saw an ambulance go by. Some athletes looked like lurching zombies. Some stepped to the edge of the road and vomited. Nearly all walked. I allowed myself to walk only the steepest hills, but my "run" had become a pitiful shuffle.
There were moments of laughter. Enthusiastic and well liquored college students made an evening of cheering us on the largest hills and trying to get us to drink beer. They gave us high fives, played loud dance music, and lit up the sky with disco lighting. Nearly all of us sped up as we neared them. We didn't want to let them down.
The miles somehow passed. With only a mile to go, I passed over the pedestrian bridge the second time, but my family was no longer there. The whole bridge was nearly empty. I longed desperately to see my family and shout, "I'm going to make it!" But they were already waiting at the finish line.
At the last turn, an Ironman coach who was also staying at our hotel, saw me and shouted, "There is the finish line. Bring it on in!" My body responded like a lightening bolt. I felt my legs lift and my arms pump. Where was that speed an hour ago? I saw my family and they urged me on. I passed a few people as I sprinted before reaching the red carpet. And then . . . the Finish. Tears even now as I write. Bright spotlights in my eyes and the IRONMAN arch. I slowed down, as is the custom once you get to the red carpet. I saw the outstretched hands of strangers reaching for high fives . . . from me! Wild cheering for every finisher. I was stripped raw-- both emotionally and physically. I crossed the finish line and heard, "Kim Degonia. You are an IRONMAN." But I already knew.
And then yet another angelic volunteer-- known as a Catcher-- put her arm around me, handed me water, and asked me questions to determine whether or not to direct me to the medical tent. Another volunteer put a medal around my neck and removed the timing chip from my ankle. Yet another handed me my finisher's hat and shirt. I walked into the corral for exhausted Ironmen and we looked vaguely bewildered as we waited for our friends and family to retrieve us like lost pets. Mine did.
As I write this, it has been 48 hours since I crossed the finish line. I'm still experiencing the effects of the race. I cannot yet comprehend why this 144.6 mile Sufferfest has been such a powerful experience. John said he watched two young guys holding either arm of an older athlete to keep him from falling, and it reminded him of the comradery of the Marine Corps. There is kinship in shared suffering. And at the finish line, shared joy.
Thank you to my parents who purchased Spooky and who have always supported my dreams. Thank you to my husband who agreed to this goal well before he knew the cost-- and bought my ticket to Ironman on his own birthday. Thank you to my children for preparing your own meals for much of the last six months. Thank you to my bike mechanic, and my cycling club, C4, who helped me train-- and made it a joy.
I'm sorry, John Degonia, but I'm going to want to do this again. I think I can go under 13 hours . . .
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