Part Three: Ironman Canada . . . don't be such a spaz

Quick recap folks (necessitated by the writers strike forced hiatus. Unions.): Swim 1:19, Bike 6:22, 2x5min naked guy reunion. All aboard the Asics express, (Asics, refers to the brand of running shoes I was wearing. Express, refers to the fact that I was going to be running rather than walking, which is an expedited form of locomotion by comparison) the train is about to leave the building (fine, I will stop using that patronizing tone).

I was ecstatic to be off the bike. I felt pretty good at this point of the race, it was nice finally being on my feet and I was excited to be heading out for quick and easy 26.2 miles. Heading down the beachfront amidst all my adoring fans was highly enjoyable. All those people were there for me right? It was hot, but I was smiling, running light and fast. In hindsight it was probably a little too fast. My intention was to run the marathon portion of this never ending day with a negative split (second half of the run faster than the first people, we're never going to get through all of this material if I have to keep catching you up). I was running an 8:20 minute mile, with a relatively low heart rate, well, low relative to that of someone going into cardiac arrest via ventricular tachycardia, of course, but you knew that. I found myself fighting to bring my pace closer to 9:00 in order to stick to my game plan, but every time I glanced at my watch, 8:30, 8:20, 8:25? "Don't worry, that won't last long" whispered the legs to the brain, followed by a hollow evil laugh.

I headed out of town, the sun beating down on my shoulders, gladly accepting cold sponges offered by the IRON Army which I placed strategically in body cooling positions. No, not there. At mile 10 I was still feeling quite good. And then; the HILL of DEATH. My name, not theirs. When I drove the run route a few days earlier, this hill didn't seem so daunting. After 9 or 10 hours of perpetual forward motion this hill resembled, with striking similarity, Mt. Everest. I started to walk. My ego was obviously mad at me for walking so it wouldn't accept a comfortable walking pace, instead I was forced to speed walk with giant steps to the summit of my Everest. The first transition step from walk to run at the summit was met with a violent hamstring spasm, as was the second. This brought me to a sudden and frightening stop. How the hell am I supposed to finish the last 16 miles if I can't walk without a paralyzing hamstring spasm? Nothing I did brought relief and although my 3 mile pace prior to that moment was around 26 minutes, this next 3 miles took an agonizing 55 minutes. Tiny little shuffle steps seemed to be the only way I could avoid the excruciating hamstring spasms. The ancillary benefit? I looked like a speed walker, which is tremendously cool. With ice packed in my tri-shorts from my butt to my knees, I persevered.

Coming back up the Hill of Death wasn't nearly as bad. The ascent was significantly more gradual and I had a goal: catch the only man that was running up it. Not surprisingly, everyone around us was walking. For fear of a repeat offense by my hamstrings I had to keep running. I stared at the back of this man's tri-shirt and reeled him in. With each step, I got closer and closer. Eager for conversation, if only as a deterrent from the building overall body pain, I asked this mystery man a couple of questions when we were finally shoulder to shoulder. His name is Jim, he's VC from Edmonton, Alberta (Canada; a.k.a the country above the US) and this was his second Ironman Canada. Jim and I ran together for the remaining 12 miles or so. Or 20km, eh?

As time passed, we kept our pace. I continued alternating water and Gatorade each aid station while packing ice in the back of my shorts as my hamstrings grew sorer and sorer. We reached mile 15 where my wife, family and friends were enjoying a constant procession of athletes displaying various degrees of discomfort. Jim and I were met with signs of encouragement and playful poking, the distraction was a welcome one. As we continued on, Jim and I passed a man around mile 20 suffering from what can be aptly as projectile vomiting syndrome. He claimed that he was OK and content running porta-john to porta-john. Between the heat, and the sheer volume of miles we all put in, the increasing frequency of ambulances was not a huge surprise. My intestinal discomfort started around mile 20.5, sympathy pains for our fallen comrade I suppose. The thought of swallowing anymore Gatorade, cola, gels, pretzels or even water at this point kept me on the verge of a stomach emptying display.

3 miles to go. The crowds were growing, the excitement was building, the end was drawing near and I still felt like sh*t. One foot in front of the other. We rounded a corner heading down towards one of the final turns. Behind the huge crowd of people lining the street, the grandstand was visible, and over the cheering you could hear the announcer, Steve King, congratulating the finishers. My emotions were in turmoil. Attempting to stifle the river of emotion building inside me with a huge smile on my face and exhilaration coursing through my veins, I relented.

As we rounded the final corner, I could see the finish line. My head begged my legs to go faster, but my legs vigorously objected.

The blue carpet lined finishers chute, emblazoned with the Ironman trademark was incredibly inviting. There were people excitedly cheering the finishers as they labored across the line with one final attempt at a controlled stride. Each spectator in the crowd willing each athlete under the giant digital clock threshold. I heard voices yelling my name, but I could see no faces, my focus was narrowed, I wanted desperately to cross that finish line.

I crossed the line, beaming ear to ear, with my hands raised in personal victory. I was overjoyed to have my wonderful wife Christi find me in the finisher's chute. Christi made that moment even more special. I couldn't have done any of this without her.

After a thousand hours of training, 3300 miles to get here, and spending the last 12.5 hours swimming, biking and running, I had just finished the Ironman!


Eric Barber . . . YOU ARE AN IRONMAN! Feels pretty good.

Part Two: Ironman Canada, BEWARE . . . of pee

This portion of the race took a dreadfully long time. 6 hours and 22 minutes in fact. I will attempt to explain each passing second with as much detail as I can so that it will take you as long to read about my bike portion as it did for me to complete it. It's only fair.

Quick recap: I just finished a 2.4 mile swim. It took me 1hr 19min, not blazing fast, but not dead last. I stumbled, I was stripped, I navigated though the naked-dude mosh pit, I was lathered down (ahem, much quicker than Superman), I was cheered (thanks Bean!) and off on my bike I went. (I think that described the start of my race day even better than Part One).

The first 20-30 minutes of the bike is meant to be spent calming down from the swim, settling your heart rate and ingesting some much needed H2O. It's hard to do when you are being passed by 290lbs behemoths and women who may very well triple your age. Ironman is not a race of egos. Repeat: Ironman is not a race of egos. Right. Moving on.

There are two things you need to know about the bike portion of Ironman Canada. It is far and it is hard. Two other things; there will be times when you are having a lot of fun and there will be times when you would prefer to have rusty barbed wire stabbed into your eye balls, repeatedly. And two more things yet; unless you are in first place, or very very last place you will likely get urine and snot sprayed on you at some point during your adventure. Some of you laugh and the others need an explanation. Have you ever consumed copious amounts of fluid and held in your pee for 6 hrs? Probably not. Have you ever thought; "Hey, I really, really have to pee, but man I just can't bring myself to get off my bike?" Ecually unlikely. Exclusive EB Race Tip #1: If you see the guy in front of you slow his cadence down and he is not eating, drinking or stopping to take a photo, get the hell out of the way, he's gonna pee. I now know the real reason there is a no drafting rule in Ironman. In defense of the locomotive pee-er's, if a race is defined as steady or rapid onward movement: wouldn't it then be counterproductive to slowdown, not to mention stop?

As I mentioned, the bike leg consists of two 'big' climbs and 7 rolling hills in between. The first climb is Richter Pass, a 400-500m (1200ft-ish) climb with the perfect degree of incline, if you're a sadist. Interesting historical fact #1: In some ancient circles, 'sadist' and 'Ironman triathlete' are synonymous. Where was I? Oh yes, the climb. Actually, I want to discuss the descent, but first I must say how great it is to see spectators lining the road up Richter Pass. It's a logistics nightmare getting out there, with all the detours and road closures. Thank you for your support! As I reached the summit I was extraordinarily excited for the subsequent descent. I love to go fast. I have reached 49.9mph heading down Sugarloaf Mountain and it was as exhilarating as it was alarming. I was looking forward to surpassing that personal record on race day. Not so fast. (ha, ha). Once the wind in my ears reached a decibel level that necessitated a look at my speed, I glanced down: 45.5mph. What happened next was arguably the most terrifying moment I have ever experienced on two wheels. Just before I reached 50mph, my front wheel started to wobble, it was subtle at first but with each rotation the wobble grew more violent. Within a couple of seconds, my wheel was out of control. I was sure I was going to hit the pavement going 50mph. Outlook: not good. Lucky for me, I was able to slow my bike to pre-wobble speeds before I was forced to claim a gold medal in the Road Rash olympics. Once I pulled my heart out of my throat I was able to continue. As you can probably imagine, I stayed below 45mph on each descent that followed.

The rollers following Richter Pass, known to Ironman Canada athletes as the the 7 bitches, take a compounding toll on your legs. Each climb saps a little more energy and by the time I reached the final climb up to Yellow Lake I was definitely ready to get off my bike. I wasn't thrilled that I had a marathon to run, but being off of the painfully tiny seat was a pleasant thought. After reaching the peak of Yellow Lake, a long winding descent into town followed.

Once back at transition I gleefully handed over my bike to one of the proud members of the 5000 strong IRON ARMY, Ironman Canada's volunteers (the best in the world). I found my T2 bag (bike-to-run folks, try to keep up) and off to the change tent I went. After the, thankfully uneventful, naked guy reunion tour I was off on the run course. 26.2 miles to go. . .

To be continued . . . (I see a pattern developing here)

Part One: Ironman Canada; I did it for the tattoo . . .

Disclaimer: I have a penchant for explaining things with a degree of meticulousness only found in CSI forensics reports. For this reason, I have opted to create two parts, maybe even three, to fully describe the culmination of my Ironman journey. It's my blog, don't judge me.

(Insert 'movie trailer guy' voice here:) One man will overcome adversity to achieve his ultimate dream. He will undergo a test of human endurance, a daunting 140 mile trial of mental and intestinal fortitude, one that may ultimately lead to his untimely demise, all for one thing . . . the M-dot tattoo.

(Normal voice now) You may think that I am joking, but I, like tens of thousands before me have spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars to earn the right to pay for that M-dot tattoo. And yes, the ridiculousness of it stems entirely from one simple fact, the M-dot, this so-called badge of honor, is a corporate logo. Let's face it, no one has taken a long road trip in their '86 Ford Taurus through a little rain and over a couple of rolling hills only to get the FORD emblem tattooed on their calf. Maybe the tattoo would be warranted if it was a treacherous road trip, with dangerous river crossings, steep off-road mountain climbs and a sand dune expedition. But it would have to be done in an hardcore vehicle, something like an army-issue Hummer. On second thought, that particular tattoo might give people the wrong idea.

Before I venture into the mindless drivel that I usually bore you with, I would like to express my eternal gratitude to my glowing pregnant wife and hands-down winner of this years World's Greatest Spouse award for her unrelenting love and support. I wouldn't have made it to the start line of this race without you Christi, let alone the finish. You are the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart (which is huge, by the way).

A special thanks also goes out to my family and friends who supported me along this journey. It has been a long year and I want you to know that I appreciate all of you.

Now, about that nonsense. After two weeks, I am starting to resemble a normal human being again. The hair on my body is starting to grow back, my appetite is no longer that of a woolly mammoth (scientific fact #1: The assumption can be made that the woolly mammoth had a large appetite, on account of their mammoth size, ha), and I don't need to sleep 23hrs a day. Other than that, I am as insane as I was 2 weeks ago. Fortunately, this period of no training has allowed a certain degree of self-reflection to occur. Now about that race.

Ironman day started at 4am. The race morning rituals commenced, first there was the anti-rain dance, then the ritual lighting of a lavender and rose incense candle, then the rodent sacrifice, of course. Without these, all my races would be a mess. Christi, her brother Justin, our kind driver for the morning, and I made our way down to the Ironman start line. The air was a little thicker this morning. Perhaps it was the weight of the healthy respect for the distance we were about to endeavor or maybe it was the looming threat of OgoPogo; Okanogan lake's fabled creature that has developed a taste for triathletes.

After the unmemorable announcements preceding the swim, 2800 seal skin triathletes set off on their 2.4 mile aquatic adventure. The swim start at Ironman can be aptly described as a couple thousand overgrown piranhas racing towards a feast with complete and utter disregard for each other. In this semi-controlled chaos you are lucky if you come out with a couple of bruises, a goggle lens full of water and bloody scratch marks on your legs. Surprisingly, at one point in the swim I actually felt comfortable, 'hey, this isn't so bad' I remember thinking to myself. That is when the phoenix rose from the ashes and unleashed her fury on a few hundred fish-like triathletes trying to round the first corner. As I was being pushed from all sides, kicked in the face, and all but dragged under the water I saw two dead men on the bottom of the lake. More about that later . . . The swim was fairly uneventful but needless to say, I was glad when I grabbed a handful of sand after 1hr 19min of swimming. What? More about the dead guys you say? Alright then. Brace yourselves, this could get grim. As a safety precaution, Ironman officials enlist the assistance of frogmen; SCUBA divers that are placed strategically in areas of high risk to mitigate the potential of, uh, death. Those two dead men I saw were frogmen. I thought I was hallucinating, but when one of them saw my eyes bug out of my head, he smiled and sent a friendly wave in my direction. That may have been a hallucination too.

Out of the water, on my left, Christi's parents, Mary & Joe, standing in knee deep water cheering me on. I managed a smile and a wave while I drunkenly stumbled my way into the transition area. As I crossed the SWIM OUT threshold, I was faced with a childhood playground scene. There were 70 gray shirts playing an odd, I mean Stanley Kubrick odd, game of Red Rover. While attempting to find the weakest and most feeble of the group I decided to make a run for it, but instead of running through, I fell to the grass directly in front of the 'Rovers' and offered my feet as a symbol of my truce. Instead of holding me captive, they stripped my wetsuit and allowed me to continue with what little dignity I had remaining. I picked up my swim to gear bag and off to the change tent I wandered.

Picture this, 1500 naked men simultaneously bending over to put on their bike shorts in front of you. Now picture this, me, trying to walk past these men with the precision of a mine-field technician. Good times.

I made it through the naked guy change tent mine-field without losing an appendage. Now, with my bike shoes & helmet I awkwardly made my way to the sunscreen girls. There were two people in front of me, one very large, very hairy man, and one very tall, very muscular, very not-hairy young man (scientific fact #2: Biting contrast of each other, if you didn't notice from the descriptions. You're welcome). The sunscreen girls greased up Mr. Sasquatch with expedited precision. One sunscreen girl on the legs, the other on the arms, shoulders, neck and ears. Off Sasquatch lumbered. As the girls moved on to Adonis, inspirational music started playing, an angelic glow appeared and time slowed. Two other sunscreen girls seemingly appeared out of no where and Brad Pitt's stunt double was being greased down with the attention to detail you would give a newborn baby prior to their first day at the beach. As the 5 minutes ticked slowly by and the girls eventually all but ran out of sunscreen the young man jumped on his trusty steed and rode into the sunset. My turn. Without going into too much detail, I was on my bike 12 seconds later. Ouch.


To be continued. . . (gripping place to end isn't it?)