2:30:00 was my goal. Or was it 2:20:00, oh who can remember. Let's just say, for arguments sake that my goal was 2:30:00. Dr. Ego thanks you. Even with this beneficial adjustment, I missed my arbitrary time goal by about 1:13. Not bad considering I doggie-paddled the swim leg.This was my first wetsuit swim ever. The race begins with 0.9 of a mile in salt water with roughly 90 of my closest testosterone infused '20 something' friends and I was up for the challenge. As you can imagine, getting into the seal skin suit was a bit troublesome, but with Christi's help, a few grunts and groans, I was all set. As I quickly learned, swimming with a wetsuit creates a level of buoyancy equal to swimming with a life jacket in the Dead Sea, I can only assume. That extra assistance was most definitely needed. Aside from a couple of mouthfuls of water, a few punches in the side of the head and the multitude of kicks to the melon, things went fairly well. I climbed out of the water after 26 minutes and stumbled my way into the transition area.
Sadly, T1 took a little longer than I am proud of, but getting out of my wetsuit proved only slightly easier than getting into it. Picture a seal hopping around on one fin trying extraordinarily hard to pull it's skin off its other fin. Exactly. Off on the bike course I go. The point that stands out in my mind was the gripping descent following the Rickenbacker Causeway climb. After reaching the peak I geared down, dug in and tucked. 3/4 of the way down the Causeway, with the wind howling in my ears, I peered at the bike computer. Having reached 39.3 mph or 63.2 km per hour for everyone in the world outside of the US, I pushed the envelope to reach 40mph but to no avail. Within the confines of the 30mph club I will remain. Sad face. I entered T2 after approximately an hour and 11 minutes. Not bad, rookie.
Sick, sick, sick. After disembarking from the red rocket that is my Felt tri-bike I downed 3/4 of a bottle of, no not Heineken, but a curious concoction of PowerGel Double Latte and water. I hurriedly downed the bottle and out of T2 I went. I lumbered all of 400 meters before the battle began in my stomach, the same battle I would eventually lose. This intense case of nausea and bloating quickly transformed this physical battle into a test of mental fortitude. By mile 1 I had lost. Into the bushes I went, only to return minutes later feeling no better than before. I pressed on, every step increasing the nausea and bloating. Oh, the bloating. Another pit stop at the turnaround point at mile 1.5 was in my future. 'No more stops, you will finish this race regardless of discomfort'. I fully realized at this moment why nutrition is vitally important. If this little incident had occurred in mile 1 of the run leg of the Ironman we may have been facing a DNF. Fortunately, my mind is tougher than my body because the next 4.7 miles were hell. Although my stomach issues substantially subsided over the next couple of miles, my quads began to attack me. Each step resulted in a sharp threat of spasm in the medial head of my quadriceps. Have you ever waken up in the middle of the night in the midst of an intense calf cramp? Don't answer that. Now, imagine your thighs threatening with each step, a similar fate. Go ahead, imagine, I'll wait.
The end of the race could not have come soon enough. Down the chute I went: 2:31:13 with a sprint finish. It may have looked like I sprinted through the finish line due to my innate competitiveness, but in all actuality, I had a date with the row of port-o-potties calling to me. You wouldn't want me to be late.
Well, see ya later.
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