Kona race report. The actual day.

Kona race report;

As a reminder of my day…FYI all 11 hours and 50 minutes of it…

I felt nervous. I always do. A few little nerves are always good before a race they take your mind off what will come. Usual race prep. Get to bed early. A few hours sleep. Up. Breakfast. Head to the race. We rack our bikes the day before the race. You know that you are at the World Championships as you have a personal chaperone to take you through transition and talk over any questions that you might have about the race. My personal chaperone is called Emma, a very lovely lady from New Zealand. Her brother is racing so she volunteered her time for the duration of race week. It was her second time in Kona. It was my first.

Race morning I get a lift to the race start. I see someone hitching. I ask if we can pick her up. We drive on. We get a great spot in the car park. We walk to the start. It is each person for himself now.

Spectators are already taking their viewing spots on the pier wall for the swim start. It’s 4.45am.

By the time the canon goes off this viewing wall will be 5-10 people deep.

We are ushered through a tent. Line up to be weighed. Line up to collect race numbers. Line up to get the race numbers stuck on. It is an efficient (ish) production line of zombified humans, process, process, process.

Competitors. Doctors. Volunteers.

On the morning of a race, I kind of go in to this zone where everything becomes a little hazy and abstract, you are there but not quite there, if that makes sense. It feels soothing to not have to think about too much.

Some of the volunteers (5000 in total) are trying their hardest, to start with shouts of encouragement. I can’t help but feel it’s a little misplaced with how I’m currently feeling. It’s 5.15am.

I drop nutrition bottles off to my bike, pump up the tyres. Not quite sure of what PSI to put in. Maybe I put too much. Last minute run hydration bottles dropped off in run bag. Now what to do with my clothes.

Ask friendly looking female if she knows where the bag drop is. Walk away towards bag drop. Hear male congratulate friendly looking female on her latest win. Go back and apologise to Corrine Abraham for not recognising her.

Drop off bag in designated area, as identified by Corrine.

Wait.

 

There is a moment before a race where I begin to question why I am here. Why do I do this? This moment is amplified on the Kona stage.

I am entranced by the singing of “Star Spangled Banner” and the sight of 2 paragliders spiraling above, ringlets of smoke billowing from their heels. Drummers drumming. Sun rising. Heart racing. Helicopters hovering noisily above.

I feel like I am part of a show.

I am.

The Ironman show.

The canon goes. I catch a glimpse of the male professionals as they head off through the chop.

Zip up an age groupers “a little bit too tight” speed suit.

Wish him good luck

“Good luck”…

I have always felt to wish another “good luck” is to take away their effort. For it is not good luck and fortitude that has gotten them to the start line, it is more like a lot of sweat, a great deal of hard work and sacrifice, with a little luck thrown in.

“Good luck” I said. I meant it.

Female professionals. Male Age groupers. Female age groupers.

 

Wow. That 30 minutes flew.

My turn.

I get to the swim start, I swim far left and bump in to my new friend. Excitedly I launch myself at her. We hug. “Alright” she jokes “I don’t want to drown before I’ve started”.

When the canon goes I’m a little surprised.

 

Ooh. Race.

 

I swim. I swim some more. Will my goggles be ok? I swim a little faster. My goggles feel ok. I started far left. I’m now far right. I feel like I’m swimming really hard. I like the swim. Are my goggles ok? Ooh. There are the boats. That’s the turn around point. I swim some more. Goggles will be fine. The water is getting much choppier now. It’s more difficult to navigate, especially as I catch up to the slower male swimmers. I find myself swimming at the same pace as a woman. She elbows me in the face. Then she pushes me. I move.

It was at this moment when I realised that I don’t want to win badly enough to hurt someone else to get to that aim. I just don’t.

 

I run out of the swim. Underneath the hosepipes fashioned as showers. Towards my “bike” bag and T1. There is a line of “callers” calling out the numbers for the bags. “1460’” I shout as a woman thrusts bag number “1468” towards me. No, I say “1460”. She nods, still thrusting “1468” towards my chest. This charade carries on for about 20 seconds, until I move her out of the way, grab my bag (which she is stood in front of), still hanging by it’s string where I had left it the day before, and run off towards the female changing tent.

 

When I put my watch on, I have to double take at the time. I can’t believe that I have been swimming for that time. I keep shaking the watch and looking at it. I then manage to convince myself that we had started late, and that I could easily take 10 minutes off the time. A late start was obviously the problem.

Ha.

My swim time was actually 1hour and 17 minutes. I thought that I had had a great swim. Before I knew the time it had taken.

Out on the bike. Steady rhythm. Should feel easy. It does. A quick lap around the town then out on to the Queen k highway. Boy it’s windy. Makes me smile. I think, lots of people will over bike in this wind. I will make up good time on the run

I smile again as I think of myself as a runner.

That’s a first.

I can run.

Feel a little dehydrated. Salt tabs. Top of the salt tab dispenser comes off in my mouth. 2 out of 5 tabs drop on the floor. Take a salt tab. There is actually only one salt tab left total. Salt tabs are my life right now. Until a second later and I get over it.

A couple of women over take me. I keep to my plan. Steady rhythm. Should feel easy. I do-so-do with a couple of women for about 20 mins. Then I watch as they hammer it into the wind.

30 minutes later, I happily over take them as I keep my rhythm and stick to the plan. It’s working. I feel good. Average speed is good. Happy days.

Side winds are a little hairy.

Checking average speed. Checking nutrition. Checking hydration. Feeling good.

80km.

See one of the guys I know racing passing on the other side of the road. Spend the next 10km trying to work out how far ahead of me he is. Fun.

90.5km. This is not the answer, as to how far ahead from me he is, although it might as well have been.

 

90.5km and a strange but oh so familiar whirring noise.

 

Puncture.

 

Pitt stop?

 

Change the tube?

 

Pitt stop?

 

Change the tube?

 

If I use Pitt stop I can be on the road in less than a minute.

Use Pitt stop.

Notice 2 holes in the tyre as the Pitt stop spits through the holes. Hold the wheel. Spin it. Decide that the Pitt stop will set and go to put the wheel back on the bike. The Pitt stop is spitting out of the valve and the holes in the tyre. The Pitt stop is not working.

I’m holding the wheel.

I’m holding the wheel and looking desperate.

“Would you like some help”, another competitor asks???

“What about your race”? I say

“I’m only here for the experience” he says, “I’m not here to get a time”.

How lucky am I???

The two of us try and get tyre levers under my new tyres to change the tube, to no avail. 10 minutes later he leaves me to go and get help.

“Go”, I say “think of the children”,

OK, I don’t say that. But before he leaves he asks me if I need anything, water? Gel? and this reminds me to eat.

It’s hot.

He does exactly what he said he would.

I spend that time squeezing Pitt stop out of the tube so that I might be able to get the tyre off to change the tube.

I’m contemplating moving to the shade when Frankie and Seaton arrive on a motorbike with their “Marshall” over vests on, and save the day. They tell me that I am lucky it’s only a puncture. Several women have been thrown off their bikes by the side wind.

The difference between moving and actual time=23 minutes.

23 minutes at the side of the road.

23 more minutes out of the race.

I am back on the bike and on my way.

I now have a battle in my head. 20 minutes you can run it back. It’s actually 30 minutes you have no chance. 20 minutes you can run it back. It’s actually 30 minutes you have no chance.

I ride. I ride hard. I have a head wind. I have a head wind for 180km (even though there’s only 90km left of the ride) apart from when it’s a side wind. It’s a head wind. I feel cautious. I want to stay on my bike.

I ride as hard as I safely can.

My average speed is dropping, as is my fighting spirit.

I’m picking off the dregs. I’m riding solo. I’m feeling deflated. My average speed is dropping and dropping. As is my will to dig in.

I see several women at the side of the road crying with their bikes.

I gain perspective. I feel lucky to be moving on my bike and heading towards home.

Oh wait, no, heading towards a Marathon…

My goal changes.

My goal is now to finish. My initial goal was to finish. Then to finish with a smile. Then to finish in as best a time as possible.

I’m happy to finish right now.

I get to T2. I check my bike split. My bike split is shocking.

6 hours 30 minutes and change.

I get off my bike, and it is taken and racked for me.

My legs feel rubbish. My first thought is that I have to run a marathon on these legs and I want nothing more than to stop. Now. My legs hurt.

I run out onto Alii drive. My legs feel terrible. My head feels terrible.

Km1. 4:40. You don’t need to run that fast. Km2 4:50 you don’t need to run that fast km3 feels horrible I just want to stop. Slow down. You don’t need to run that fast. Km4. Feels horrible want to stop. Ok. You can walk up Palani. But I want to stop now. No. you must run, but don’t check your run splits because you will be disappointed. Watch beeps. Keep running.

You can walk when you get to Palani. 8km out and 8km back.

16km total.

Run.

Run.

Run.

Palani. Hill. Very. Busy. Spectators. Competitors. I walk. Right from the very base of it. Probably a fraction of a second before it even becomes a hill.

Now in my head I recall that section taking me just under 10 minutes. I even looked at my watch. I’m convinced that I did. The walk up Palani takes me just over 8 minutes.

I also looked at my first 16km splits this week. The majority of them were under 5 minutes. With a few over, but not by much.

It is interesting for me to recall where my head goes to in a race.

And then

I got to the top of Palani, and saw a message that had been written in chalk, for me. By a friend who’s sister happened to be at the race.

“GO GAIL LFTC. LFTC GO GAIL”

My friends.

They’re thinking of me.

I think of my friend who finished an ironman on water alone, unable to eat from 15km into the bike.

It is the detail of the logo. LFTC.

It is exact.

They’re thinking of me. My London Fields Triathlon Club friends.

I can run.

If I couldn’t run, that would be different,

I can run, I just can’t win.

“GO GAIL LFTC” was my mantra.

Left foot “Go” right foot pause, left foot “GAIL right foot pause, left foot “L” right foot “F”, Left foot “T” right foot “C”…

Left foot “Go” right foot pause, left foot “GAIL right foot pause, left foot “L” right foot “F”, Left foot “T” right foot “C”…

I’m on the queen K and I feel incredible.

Then I see my friend.

I start to tell him that I had a puncture, and, and, and, and,

He tells me

“Focus on the now”

13km. Mantra.

Left foot “Go” right foot pause, left foot “GAIL right foot pause, left foot “L” right foot “F”, Left foot “T” right foot “C”…

All the way into the Natural energy lab. I look up. The sun is setting on the sea. It looks beautiful. The water glistens. The sun shimmers a pinky orange hue. A runner stops in front of me. We’re heading down hill.

I tap her on the shoulder “come on”, I say “this bit is the easy bit”, “it’s down hill”, I say “with me”.

She runs.

We run.

She picks up her pace.

3km. Side by side. 3 lovely km.

I’m hot.

Water. Water. Water. Water.

One over head.

One drink

One over head.

Sponge. Ice cold. Over my head. Takes my breath away. Lovely.

Turn around in the energy lab, still not checking run splits. Feeling hard. I want to walk. Try and work out how much longer I have to run if I continue to run at this pace to the end. My head hurts. I work out that it will take me 4 weeks. I think that my math is not working so well right now. My head really hurts. Strike a deal with myself. You can walk the aid stations.

I hear that I can walk.

I walk.

I walk for a km.

I walk out of the energy lab.

Then I run.

My hopes of a daylight finish are dashed.

The sun has set. Beautifully on the horizon. I share the moment with another woman who has had a bad day.

Volunteers have had time to clear the paths of the plastic cup debris.

Its getting late. It’s dark.

Water? Cola?

“Chicken soup?”

No thanks.

“Chicken soup?” I think are you kidding me? “chicken blooming soup”, then I chuckle to myself and think “well, it is dinner time I suppose”…

Run some, walk some,

The support is sensational.

Counting down the kilometers.

10km camaraderie

7km hear about your day

6km her race didn’t go to plan, nor hers,

6km what lovely, lovely people, it might be fast at the front, but it sure is friendly at the back,

6km, I’m at the back

6km oh come on, it’s been 6 kilometers for EVER

5km,

4km I walk. And then a tap on my shoulder now, “Come on, only 4km to go, it’s all down hill now”

Karma.

I start to run.

Top of Queen K. Final aid station, glow sticks, volunteers dancing, in two lines. Music pumping. I run through.

Irene Cara “WHAT A FEELING” playing on the loud speaker:

“What a feeling

Being’s believing

I can have it all

Now I’m dancing for my life

Take your passion

And make it happen”…

3km “what a feeling”…

I’m running

2km “blah blah blah” what’s the next verse?

Sill running…

How does that song start?

Still running…

Where is that damn finishing shoot?

Still running…

1km

Seriously!

It can’t come soon enough.

There it is. The arch. It doesn’t look as wonderful as I thought it would.

I only care about crossing the line.

I don’t think about the 2 other people getting their moment of glory.

I don’t think about my vi-zor turned backwards,

Or the shades that I no longer need hanging from my race belt

I don’t think about the photographs at all.

“Gail Marie Wilkinson, You are an Ironman…”

Now where the bloody hell is that chocolate milk…