YOU ARE AN IRONMAN

A week ago, exactly, I was standing up to my knees in Lake Monona waiting for the gun to go off sending me on a 140.6 mile, nearly 13 hour journey.  But if you've been following me at all, you know that this journey lasted closer to 13 months and covered many 1000s of miles.  I've have lived to tell you about it and now I sit down on a Sunday morning, not on my bike, but on my coach, and share with you the final lead up and the race.

I suffered in the final week before the race.  A stomach bug kept me away from training all together, and a doctor doubted whether or not I'd be well enough to race.  By Thursday night I thought I had it kicked, though, at that point, I was already down almost7 lb.  Not a good way to enter into Ironman weekend.  On Friday I loaded my car and we headed north to Madison.  I had my first normal and full meals on Friday at lunch and dinner.  I checked in and I was feeling very excited about the final push of this long journey.

I woke up early Saturday morning sick.  I was losing hydration rapidly and I was starting to panic.  I broke open a few Immodium and prayed it would get me through the next 2 days.  Saturday was a low key day as I anticipated what was to come.  On Saturday night I tried to stuff myself with carbs and hydration, but my nervous stomach struggled to accept what my body needed.

At 3:24 on Sunday morning my eyes opened.  I turned off my 3 alarms before they sounded, brushed my teeth and at my breakfast- a dry bowl of cereal, and a banana and a half with peanut butter.   I meticulously placed all my gear in my appropriate gear bags, I got dressed and I drank as I awaited the hour when I would wake my family.  Just before I woke my family I took a couple more Immodium for good measure.

Rachel and the girls awoke and dressed quickly, and before I knew it, we were headed to the hotel lobby to wait for my parents and Pig Vomit and his family.  The caravan of 3 hit the road and I closed my eyes to take in my final quiet moments of the day.  As Rachel drove us to Madison, I blasted Usher's "Scream" and started to visualize the day ahead of me.

The caravan pulled over near the transition area and everyone but the 3 drivers piled out of the cars.  My family wished me good luck, gave me final hugs and kisses, and we parted ways as I headed to transition.  I met my bike, placed the filled water bottles in the cages, switched on my bike computer and pumped up my tires.  I backtracked a bit to hand in my special needs bags after which a returned to transition.  I got in a 20 minute line for the portapotties and when my business was done I squeezed into my wetsuit.

It was a cold morning.  It was barely in the 50s and it was quite windy.  The wetsuit warmed me up instantly as I followed the lemmings to the water's edge.  The starting area was lined with 1000s of supportive fans.  The atmosphere was electric and I had goosebumps.  I put on my custom orange goggles, stretched my neon green Ironman Wisconsin swim cap over my head, and I kicked off my flip flops, never to be seen again.

There was a clear dividing line in the water.  Those who were more confident made their way towards the front.  Those less confident hung around towards the back.  There was a noticable empty spot in between the two in the water as we waited to start our day.  I personally lined myself up about three-quarters back on the outside, where I suspected I'd run into the least amount of traffic.

3...
2...
1...

GO!

I dove into the water and I swam.  And I swam some more.  As Coach Dan promised, the swim was, indeed, the most relaxed part of my day.  It was crowded.  Swimming amidst 2900 people is, well, physical.  There was a lot of contact.  Contantly.  In hindsight, lining up on the outside was not the best choice.  I struggled to make my way to an inside and more direct line.  I was kicked and punched, clobbered and run over.  I felt my feet grabbed and my arms shoved.  And I was guilty of doing all the same to others.  Not intentionally, of course.  But when one is trying to make constant forward progress among such a crowd, there's little choice.

Here's a visual:

Coming into the first turn, I found a traffic jam, as is often the case in triathlons with mass starts.  I kept my head in the water and did my best to make my way through the crowd.  The tradition at Ironman Wisconsin, AKA IMOO, is to moo at the first turn.  I did hear a bit of mooing but restrained myself.  Somehow.

As I made my way into the final turns, heading back to dry land, I contemplated what I had acheived already that day.  Swimming 2.4 miles once felt like a ridiculous impossibilility.  Not much more than a year ago, I couldn't swim to save my life.  Really.  Not much more than a year ago, I was afraid of the water.  The mere thought if swimming such a distance and among such a crowd made me anxious.  And here I was, finishing up the 2.4 mile swim leg, having not experienced even a moment of panic and, though not fast, nowhere near the 2 hour 20 minute cutoff. 

Swim time: 1:35:35.  5 minutes or so slower than I hoped, but with the traffic and outside line, I was perfectly satisfied.

A volunteer grabbed my hand to help steady my sea legs as I removed my goggles from my eyes and tried to catch my breath.  A few yards later I laid on the ground as a couple of eager volunteers ripped my wetsuit off of my wet body.  I held on to the waistline of my tri shorts just to be safe.  The unique aspect of IMOO transition is that it sits on the top level of a parking garage and athletes have to conquor the helix multiple times throughout the day.  Running the ramp barefood was not comfortable, but it was all part of the experience.

I was directed to an indoor ballroom labeled "men's changing", I was immediately handed my gear bag, and I put on my bike helmet.  Just in time.  Just seconds later an athlete sprinted past me and hit me so hard in the head with his elbow I nearly fell over.  Thank God for the helmet.  He wasn't even running towards the exit!  In an event as long as an Ironman, I'm not sure what difference those extra few seconds were going to do for him.  Two athletes getting dressed beside me asked if I was okay, one declaring, "Wow!  I heard that.  He sure got you!"  Annoyed but okay, I responded, "With the hurry he's in, he better f...king with this race!"  Though if he was in transition 1 at the same time as me, it wasn't likely.  Or possible. 

Dressed and ready, I ran to the bike area.  Two glove-laden volunteers dipped their hands in buckets and slathered my skin with sunscreen.  I quickly stopped at the porta-potty, a volunteer handed me my bike and I mounted my trusty steed.

 The first miles of the bike leg were cold.  It was still in the 50s.  I was wet.  And the wind was blowing.  I rolled off the helix, made my first turn into town and was greeted with an enormous crowd of roaring fans.  That's when I first saw my family, proudly wearing their Team Pig Vomit shirts.  Their presence and support gave me a huge smile and a giant boost.

The bike leg was a unique challenge for me.  My strict instructions from Coach Dan were to follow my nutrition plan exactly as discussed, to keep my power wattage within the designated zone, and above all, to keep my heart rate below the 140s.  I was taking in the nurtion and hydration as planned.  I had no problem keeping my power in my zone.  But I couldn't do anything to keep my heart rate down.  Even as I lowered my power output to a level that was very easy, a level that normally keeps my heart rate well below 140 beats per minute, my heart was just working too hard which, if sustained, would risk destroying my day.  I don't know if it was a few missed key bike workouts in the final weeks of training as a result of violent weather and some minor crises that required my attention.  I don't know if it was the sustained wind throughout the day.  Or if my stomach bug did something to my fitness, but the bike, my strongest discipline, did not go as I planned.  At 6:33:24, I was at least a 1/2 hour, but closer to 45 minutes off of my expected split.  Regardless, I had a great time.

The course was relatively hilly.  The biggest climbs were lined with 1000s of rowdy supporters.  1 woman at the top of one of the biggest climbs held a sign that read, "Smile if you peed yourself."  She looked every athlete in the eye and shouted, "You know you did!"  Well, she just doesn't know me.  Another woman didn't wear any clothing that was not hidden behind her sign that read, "Ironmen are sexy."  She looked the men in the eye and demanded, "I'm talking to you!"

Hitting the steepest and windiest of the descents, signs warned, "Caution.  Slow."  I tend to take those signs seriously.  The extra seconds gained by riding those short sections recklessly are not worth the risk during a 112 bike leg.  Besides, I've had enough bike crashes to last me a lifetime.  As I applied my brakes, a ride flew past me at 40+ MPH as he steered his bike into a sharp corner.  I said to a rider beside me, "He's not gonna make it."  He didn't.  He went off the road and ended up on his back.  He was fine but, as Forrest Gump once said, "Stupid is as stupid does."

The course takes rides 16 miles out of town and then riders must cover 2 laps of 40 miles before turning back to cover those last 16 miles.  After completing the first lap, I found my family once again urging me on.  Nothing kept me going more than their excitement.  A few miles into lap #2 I stopped at the special needs bag area.  I pulled up to the right spot and a volunteer already had my bag in hang.  She dumped it on the ground and asked what I needed.  I asked for the 3 full water bottles and the salt tabs, which she quickly handed me, and I was on my way.  She was a efficient as a pit crew in a Nascar race.  I thought about stopping at the porta-potties at the end of the special needs zone, but there was a line, so I figured I'd wait until the next feed zone.

My heartrate seemed to settle a bit in the second lap, but not enough to push my pace as I planned.  But it was also in this final half of the bike leg that I started feeling, well, full.  My stomach felt like it had 20 gallons of fluid in it.  It's one thing to bike like that, but the pounding of running and the feeling of fluid sloshing around in my belly was going to be prohibitive.  I started to alter my intake a bit.  I knew I needed to take in the scheduled amount of calories and electrolytes, but I wasn't sure I could take in 24oz of fluid per hour anymore.  So I did what I could to compensate, but I still wasn't feeling great.

I rode back into town and made my way back up the helix, where a volunteer grabbed my bike and another ushered me into the ballroom once again.  I was quickly handed my gear bag and ushered into the changing room.  I was about to change my shoes from a standing position when a volunteer grabbed my back, lead me over the a chair, dumped my bag and practically did it for me.  He handed me everything I wanted, told me he would take care of my stuff, pointing me in the direction of the exit.  2 more eager volunteers slathered me again and I was headed back down the helix. 

It was then that I questioned whether or not I'd be able to finish a full marathon.  My legs were feeling okay.  But my stomach was feeling extremely bloated.  As I made my first turn, I saw my family and I ran over to greet them for a few seconds.  Their enthusiasm once again reenergized me and I hit the road. 

The run course was fantastic.  A significant portion of the course was lined with wild spectators.  People who, for some insane reason, wanted sweaty, disgusting athletes to slap their hands.  Running up and down State Street 4 times was electric.  Nevertheless, the first 6-10 miles were the toughest of the race.  I probably lost 6 or 8 minutes stopping at porta-potties.  At one feed station, I was forced to wait at least 3 minutes for an empty one.  The one saving grace is that the porta-potties had hand sanitizer dispensers.  They must have known I was coming.

Running on the field of Camp Randall Stadium was silent.  And magical.  After exiting the stadium the course headed in the direction of a few significant hills.  When I reached Mt. Everest I was relieved to find EVERY running walking.  So I walked.  And it felt good.  By the time I reached State Street towards the end of the first lap, my stomach was feeling pretty good.  That was my sign to make hydration a focus once again.  At each feed station I took 1 cup of defizzed Coke and 1 cup of Powerbar Perform.  Each gulp gave me just enough energy to get to the next, a mile away.  I rounded the corner in the final mile of the lap and I saw my family once again.  I stopped to say hello, but I couldn't talk.  They wouldn't let me stay long.  "Go!  Don't stop!" they shouted.  So onwards I went.  I found a sign with 2 arrows.  1 pointed to the turn-around, the other pointed to the finish.  Seeming the finish, just yards in front of me but 13 miles away made me a little emotional.  "I'm gonna do this thing," I said to myself.  And so I went.

I was feeling strong.  Tired, but strong.  I couldn't talk anymore.  When I arrived at each feed zone, I couldn't even tell the volunteers what I wanted.  I just pointed.  It worked.  They were awesome!  With each mile past, I was 1 mile closer.  And in the final 10 miles I started to do some fuzzy math in my head.  My calculations indicated that, if I stayed on pace, I could finish in less than 13 hours.  I was dually motivated.  Personally, I needed to finish within that time.  It was a mid-race goal I set for myself, and come hell or highwater, I was going to reach it.  Also, I knew that Pig Vomit and his family were planning on driving home to Chicago after the race, as all the kids had school and my sister had jury duty, so I wanted to finish early enough to get them home before midnight. 

You're welcome!

Just before I hit the hills on the back of the course, I felt a sudden cramp in my lower abdomen.  Every step felt as if I had a knife piecing me.  I quickly diagnosed myself with appendicitis.  "What a feat this is going to be, to finish the Ironman with a burst appendix," I told myself.  When I began to walk to the top of Mt. Everest once again, I forgot about the knife in my side, at least until I started to run again.  That's when I remembered Coach Dan telling me that it was going to hurt no matter what, so I may as well run through the pain to get it over with quicker.  So I did.  The pain passed in a few miles and the final 6 miles were me vs. my will. 

The final miles hurt.  A lot.  But I never stopped running.  The road became a death march.  It seemed as if practically everyone was walking.  I wouldn't walk.  I couldn't walk.  I told myself, "I can run 6 miles in my sleep."  5 miles.  4 miles.  2 miles to go and I started thinking about the finish.  As I got closer and closer, I started speeding up.  I wanted to cross the finish line alone.  For 13 months I hit the pool and the lake, the roads, the trails, the treadmills and my bike trainer alone.  I was going to finish this bad boy all alone an nobody was going to get in between the camera and me.

I made my way around the Wisconsin Capital Building, picked off walkers left and right, veered left towards the finish while many others were just about the begin their second lap, and I started to sprint.  Seeing the finish line, hearing the roar of the crowd, catching sight of the race close ticking at 12:50:45 seconds, the power and emotion of the moment overcame me.  As I approached the finish line, I could have sworn I was smiling.  I guess I hide my emotion well.

I saw my family right at the side of the finishline, front row going wild.  I instinctively raised my hands through the length of the finishing straight and I heard I've been craving since I was a little boy and first saw an Ironman on television: "MATTHEW FIELD, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!!"