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Steve Moore's Kona Race Report 2008
We had to rack our bikes the day before the race. I hadn’t realized
what an event this is. I thought I’d save my legs and have my brother
drive me in to town, but he had to drop me off about a quarter mile
away from the King Kamehameha Hotel, where transition area is located,
because of all the cars and people. We had to bring our bike and run
gear bags with us – which of course, I had packed and repacked a dozen
times Friday morning. The fear of screwing up and forgetting something
or putting it in the wrong bag is a powerful motivator to get it right
the first time.
I felt like a rock star walking through the
fence they had set up to corral you into the transition area. Hundreds
of people lined the fence gawking at us as we walked by. They were
there primarily to see the pros, but still, it was fun - sort of like
being a bit player walking on the red carpet going into the Academy
Awards. You know they really want to see Angelina Jolie, but everyone
is still nice to you. Sitting in a key spot where they could get a good
look at each bike was a row of guys with pads of paper keeping count of
components. When I later waked behind them, I could see counters of
frames, wheels, aerobars and shifters/derailleurs. Somewhere, the
marketing guys are waiting to write their ads saying how many of their
products were at Kona.
After I racked my bike and hung up my
bike and run bags, I became a fan and hung around taking pictures of
the whole scene. Later my family joined me and we found a spot where
you could see where the pro bikes were racked. They were all there by
this time, so it was apparent we wouldn’t see any of them. A couple of
guys joined us and we soon learned that they were from the Chicago area
as volunteers – but as good a gig as it gets. They would be marshals on
a motorcycle riding along with the pros, citing them for drafting etc.
They said that they’ve volunteered as a team at numerous races and have
done a few Ironman races. They were called by the Kona folks and asked
if they would like to do this race. So at least for this volunteer job,
the message is “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
They then
noticed something about one of the bikes and walked away. Next we saw
some drama as these two joined other race officials to go over the
weird front carrier of T.J. Tollakson. It was a very aerodynamic
looking clamshell design that held water in the bottom half and food in
the top half with a gap between each half big enough to see through. It
was so big that one official thought the purpose was to put your head
behind it while in aero position to completely block the wind.
Slowtwitch has a thread with pictures.
http://forum.slowtwitch.com/Slowtwitch_Forums_C1/Triathlon_Forum_F1/What_the_hell_was_TJ_thinking_P2034386/
We
watched them for ten minutes as they argued over whether this thing was
legal. One brought out his rule book and they read and reread it to
each other, measuring this thing and trying to figure out what to do.
Finally they decided it was illegal and, as one of our new buddies from
Illinois said “Nice try, but no go.” According the Slowtwitch thread,
they told T.J. the next morning and he had to take off the bottom half
in order to race.
We then walked though the King Kamehameha
Hotel and came upon a Navy officer giving a briefing to about a dozen
guys on their schedule for the next day. Some were Seals and the rest
were other types of Naval personnel. It was all very military, with
precise times of where each was supposed to be, what IDs they needed,
who they were supposed to meet, when to change clothes, etc. It was
hard to hear because drumming was coming from a room down the hall. We
walked over to that and the door was shut and blinds were shut. But
apparently a group was practicing Hawaiian drumming with very big and
loud instruments. We hit the road after that and went back to our condo
for me to get ready for the big day.
Saturday – race day
It’s
kind of nice to have to pre-position all your race gear. All I had to
bring to the race that morning was my swim suit, goggles and my special
needs bags. My family dropped me off near the transition area and went
to park. After getting my number stamped on my arms and dropping off my
bags, it was just a matter of pumping my tires and hanging out. At 6:30
the Navy Seals who were doing the race showed that they were tougher
than the rest of us by parachuting into the bay. Then at 6:45 the
cannon went off for the pro start. They immediately started getting the
age groupers lined up and most started swimming out to the start line.
The start line was about fifty yards past the beach – an imaginary line
kept in place by surfboarders patrolling back and forth. I was in no
rush to tread water, so I hung back on the beach with about 50 other
people. It was good to see that I wasn’t the only one taking that
approach.
Then came one of those moments that will stick with
me forever. The drummers I heard practicing the day before were on the
edge of the seawall along Alii Drive pounding away a Polynesian rhythm.
Above them in the distance I could see one of the volcanoes on the
island. I took in this scene for about five minutes, playing air drums
and bouncing to the rhythm while I stared at that volcano. This is what
we all dream about when we’re out there on our long bike rides –
standing in this spot, waiting for the cannon to go off so we can
travel 140.6 miles on the island of Hawaii along with 1800 of the best
triathletes in the world. I tried to soak up the spirit of the place
and that moment. Then, with about 3 minutes to go, I had to give it up,
put on my goggles and swim out the pack.
My timing was good.
About 30 seconds after I found my place, the cannon went off. The first
five or ten minutes were fairly chaotic, but I soon found some feet and
drafted almost to the turn around. Whenever I lost those feet, I had to
work to catch up to him. I don’t know if I would have been able to
travel faster without a draft, but it felt like a comfortable but not
too slow pace.
I really tried to put in some work on my
terrible swimming this summer. From the time in April that I got a
lottery slot until we left for Hawaii, I usually swam 3 times a week
either with the Blue Dolphins or at OSB. By the time we got here my
stroke wasn’t much better, but my endurance was far improved. My OSB
times led me to believe that without a wet suit, I’m exactly at the
cutoff and with one I beat it by a half an hour. The buoyancy from salt
water seems to mimic what a wet suit does for me, so I was hoping for a
1:50 swim. Wrong.
At the turnaround, I checked my watch and was
disappointed to see I had taken 1:03. OK. I won’t have the time I
wanted, but I’ve got a big cushion for the cutoff. I kept drafting and
swimming my comfortable pace. As we neared the finish, the guy I was
drafting off of stopped for a moment so I went around him and started
swimming a bit harder. By this time, I was surrounded by lifeguards on
surfboards. Everyone else was already in, so they had nothing better to
do than shepherd me and the rest of the back of the pack into the
finish. Pretty soon, one of them became my personal guide and he told
me where to aim. Each time, he’d say “You’re doing great.” Then his
tone changed when he said “You’ve got ten minutes, work harder.” At
this point, he started giving me updates every minute and each time he
sounded more urgent. I was periodically sighting and I could see that I
was getting there, but it was hard to tell if I was in trouble or not.
When he yelled “two minutes” I looked up and saw that I was near the
large inflated Gatorade bottle. I realized how close this would be.
Meanwhile,
on the shore my family was despondent. They had been watching every
swimmer emerge for the past hour and I had not come out. As time went
by and people left the sea wall as their athlete made it out, they
would move a bit closer to the finish line. By this time, they were
almost on top of the finish line. Every time a swimmer with a green cap
(male) and no top (I was only wearing a swim suit) came out, my brother
snapped off a picture, hoping it was me. With about three minutes left,
the announcer, Mike Reilly, said here come the last three swimmers that
can make the cutoff. When my family saw that I wasn’t one of them, they
thought my day was over. My sister tells me she was trying to make up
the words to comfort me. We all could have written that speech for her.
“Just getting this far is an accomplishment.” “It took a lot for you to
even try this race.” "Blah, Blah, Blah." We all also know that it would
have meant nothing to me.
Then it unfolded like a scene from a
corny sports movie with an improbable finish. Mike Reilly announced
there’s one more swimmer out there that can make it, let’s bring him
in. My brother says he looked out and saw a swimmer with a green cap
and thought “No way that guy can make it.” But, like everyone else on
the shore, they started yelling for that swimmer, not knowing it was
me, but with some hope. Reilly is now screaming out the remaining time
and getting the crowd going.
Out in the water, my surfboarder
was screaming at me every stroke – “Kick! Kick! Kick!” I was swimming
as hard as I could and starting to lose it. I’m sure my stroke was
totally shot as I was kicking as hard and pulling as fast as I could. I
was thinking that this cannot be happening. I did not come this far to
miss the swim cutoff by seconds. When he screamed “One minute – now
sprint, sprint, sprint!” I didn’t feel like I had anything left. I was
gasping for air and just flailing away at the water. When he yelled “20
seconds” and I still had a few yards to go before I could stand, I
stopped trying to breathe and just stroked and kicked. When I finally
stood up, I was surrounded by people cheering. My brother snapped a
picture at the 2:19:49 mark as my feet touched the steps. When he saw
it was me, he couldn’t shoot any more because he dropped his camera,
and started jumping up and down screaming. My wife and sister were
right with him. My 19 year old daughter was in tears from the release
of tension.
Apparently, Reilly had told the crowd that I needed
to touch the steps by 2:20, so the cheering turned from “Go, Go, Go” to
more of a “he did it” when I reached the steps. But I knew I had to get
to the timing mat. I didn’t know where it would be or how much time I
had left, so I was still frantic. I stumbled up the stairs and saw the
timing mat several feet to my left. The volunteers, who knew the rules,
were yelling and pointing where I should go. I lurched over the mat and
collapsed on my hands and knees from exhaustion. I then rolled over on
my back and stayed there, listening to the crowd yelling. It sounded
like cheering for making it, but it could have been consolation
applause. I didn’t know at that point and didn’t have the energy to
even ask anyone. I finally was able to ask the volunteer nearest me if
I made it. When she said “Yes you did” I was still too exhausted to
process it. Just about the time I was able to sit up, someone stuck a
TV camera in my face. I got up and went to the showers just beyond the
timing mat. The camera followed me and I was interviewed as I emerged,
soaked, exhausted and smiling. I still had a race to run, so I didn’t
stop for the interview and instead talked to the reporter as I was
walking to change into my bike clothes. That’s the one that made the
web broadcast.
When I got into T1, the guy helping me change
into my bike clothes told me that he sails in this harbor and there is
always a current from the North - against you on the way into the
finish line. So I guess that partly explains how I was fooled by my
split time. Combine that with poor choice of people to draft off of and
my own inept swimming and you get a 2:19:55 time.
After lounging
around in T1 for more than 13 minutes trying to catch my breath, I went
out to get my bike, which of course, was sitting there by itself. The
TV crew was out there and I did another interview. This one wasn’t on
the internet broadcast. I don’t know if any of my swim finish will make
it on the NBC broadcast in December, but they certainly have enough
footage to play around with it. This is not fame I’m hoping to see.
When
I got on my bike and started riding, Mike Reilly announced it and I was
again the subject of cheering. But once I got past the crowd that could
hear him, I was just another triathlete. That was a relief. My next job
was to stop being the last one in the race. The entire field was in
front of my and, while I’m not a great biker or runner, I knew I’d be
passing some people the rest of the day. My first victory came only a
few miles away when I passed number 201. The numbering system here is
the male pros started with 001, the female pros started with 101 and
then age groupers started in reverse order with 201. So I had just
passed the oldest guy in the race. “Yes!” I said to myself. “Number
202, you’re next.”
After that, riders were very well spaced.
I’d go five or ten miles without seeing anyone else. But I did pass a
few as I headed north toward the Hawi turnaround. The vog from the
venting of volcanic gas at Kilauea kept a cloud cover over Kona and the
early part of the Queen K segment of the bike. So it wasn’t as hot as
it has been here previous years. But it was windy. I noticed the cross
wind the most whenever I came to the bottom of a hill, which was
dangerous because that’s when you’re on your aero bars going the
fastest. So I started planning for those crosswinds and moving onto my
handlebars for safety.
Once you leave Kona, the crowds
evaporate. There are a few developments where people come out to the
highway and set up to cheer the bikers, and there were enthusiastic
volunteers at the aid stations, but mostly, you’re on your own, riding
in hot sun over black lava fields being knocked around by the wind.
About
halfway up Queen K I saw a procession of cars coming at me and
recognized it as the escort for the first pro rider. It was Torbjorn
Sindballe, wearing his full length white arm coolers. I thought to
myself that would be a good way to avoid having to slop sun screen on
me. I then thought to myself that I didn’t have any sunscreen on me. It
hit me that in my frazzled state at T1, I had exited the wrong door and
missed the sunscreen people. By this point, the vog had disappeared and
it was a burning sun. Fortunately, at the next aid station, I found
someone who had some sun screen and he kindly lathered me up. I ended
up with a slight burn on my shoulders, but I caught myself in time to
avoid any serious damage.
After Sindballe, it was a kick to
identify the pro riders coming up behind him. It reminded me that while
I was essentially riding alone, I was in the world championship.
The
ride up to Hawi was brutal – up hill, against the wind, and hot. At the
turnaround, the PB&J in my special needs bag was a godsend. I had
planned to take it easy in the first half and push harder after the
turnaround. The ride down from Hawi was fun – there’s nothing like
riding down hill, with the wind and new food in your stomach. But that
quickly gave way to cross winds, and then either a crosswind or
headwind after the turn onto Queen K. As I look at my splits, every one
was slower than the last. So while I feel like I worked harder as the
day went on, my results say either I wasn’t or that the wind was
becoming a factor.
As I got closer to Kona, the vog provided
cover and it even started drizzling for a few minutes. But it was
mostly a headwind at this point, so it was a tough ride into town.
Nothing
much at T2 and then it was on to the run. The first segment of the run
is an out and back about five miles down Alii Drive. This area is lined
with condos and hotels, so it was lined with fans cheering you on,
yelling your number or even your name if they ID’d it quickly enough
from their program. I was in full CTC gear, so many just yelled “Go
Chicago.”
It wasn’t excessively hot, but it was humid enough
and hot enough that I tried to be careful with heat management. I’m a
believer in keeping my skin dry and let evaporation do its work, so I
wasn’t pouring water on myself like many runners around me. Instead, I
had a small towel in my jersey pocket that I’d periodically use to dry
my face, neck and arms. I also grabbed a cup of ice at each aid station
and alternated holding the cup in one hand and a handful of ice in the
other until it melted. All this seemed to do the trick and by the time
the sun set as I was exiting town and heading out onto Queen K, I felt
pretty comfortable temperature wise.
Heading out of town the
crowds were gone. It had gotten dark by then and it was just me and the
glow stick on the runner off in the distance in front of me. I started
feeling faint and my stomach was upset, so I walked a huge portion of
the race at this point. But by the time I got to the turnaround at the
Energy Lab, I was feeling better so I started running. Other than
walking through aid stations, I was able to keep running the rest of
the way. I know the Energy Lab has a mystique of being the place where
the wheels fall off, but the hill back up to the Queen K is no worse
than any other hill. It’s really the sun and heat that made its
reputation, and in the dark, it was just another hill.
Very few
of the people still out there at this time were running, so I passed a
lot of runners after the Energy Lab. Coming into town, the crowds
reappeared. As I made the turn onto Alii Drive I handed my glow stick
to a 10 year old girl, telling her I don’t need this anymore. She
seemed thrilled, but her parents didn’t look too happy to have her
holding something that had been around the neck of a sweaty runner for
the past several hours.
Running up Alii Drive to the finish
line was one of those memorable moments. It was amazing that people
were so enthusiastic that late into the race – applauding, yelling my
number or name or “Go Chicago” and just generally smiling and cheering.
I hadn’t pushed myself hard enough on the bike or early in the run, so
I had plenty of energy left as I ran through the crowd. I had fun,
running back and forth giving a high five to people on both sides. Then
it was up the ramp, get my lei and medal and walk back to transition.
The
final results are nothing to brag about, but I was being pretty careful
out there and just trying to avoid blowing up and getting yanked from
the course. And I can always say I finished in front of Macca,
Natascha, Nina and all the other pros that dropped out.
Final results:
Swim: 2:19:55
Bike: 7:14:43
Run: 5:24:46
Total: 15:21:00
1560 of 1736, 54 of 59 in age group
Epilog
You are the full moon,
burning bright over the pond garden,
our friend,
and we know where to look for you in the sky.
We
stayed on Hawaii a couple more days, and the day before we left, my
wife and I visited the Pu’u Loa Petroglyph area on the east coast of
the island. Ancient islanders had carved symbols into the lava field
here. Most of the 23,000 petroglyphs were simply small holes drilled
into the ground. Parents would place the umbilical cord of their
newborn infants into these holes and cover them with a rock. The
purpose was to ask Pele the volcano god to protect them throughout
their lives. If only it were that simple. Thousands of those parents
were disappointed when the brutal conditions of life on the island
resulted in the loss of those children before they became adults. As I
stared at those holes and thought about what we had done to protect our
son Paul, only to lose him two years ago to suicide, I felt a kinship
with those parents.
We then drove to the area near Hilo where
lava is flowing down a mountain into the sea. We went at night when you
can see the glow from hot lava coming down the mountain and the sparks
as it enters the ocean. We had known it would be a full moon that night
and were pleased to see that, although there were some clouds, the moon
was popping in and out. The words above were the lyrics to a choral
piece one of Paul’s friends wrote for the memorial service at his
college held a week after his body had been found. Since then, we’ve
always made a point of looking at a full moon and thinking of him.
Shortly
after a brief shower passed us, someone said, “Look, a rainbow.” I
didn’t even know a moon-lit rainbow was possible, but there it was,
directly over the lava flowing down the mountain. I’m not the kind that
thinks it was a message from Paul , but you can believe whatever you
want. That rainbow, however, helped put everything into perspective for
me. Facing the awesome power and beauty of geological and astronomical
forces in action, and remembering the petroglyphs I saw a few hours
ago, it seemed pretty insignificant that I had just completed an
Ironman. Yet, for a few moments during that swim, I put out every ounce
of energy I had, just so I could make the cutoff. Those five seconds
mean nothing to the universe and in the big picture, not that much in
my own life. I guess that’s how we all live our lives. We regularly
focus all of our energy on our daily activities and only in our quite
contemplative moments, do we recognize that the universe goes on
regardless of what happened to us today. And then we go out and do it
again.
I’m leaving this island getting exactly what I hoped to
get – a great experience. It wasn’t life changing. It wasn’t a final
healing. It was just a memorably wonderful side trip on my own life
journey.
Aloha
Bridget Altenburg's Silverman 2008 - Even the Swim is Hilly!
The Silverman full distance triathlon is thrown about as one of the
toughest races in the world. This past Sunday, no less than Chris
McCormack and Dave Scott agreed with that sentiment. The conditions
turned an incredibly difficult course into an epic struggle just to
finish.
We escaped from the cold front in Chicago on Friday
and landed to sunny, 70* in Las Vegas. In fact, every day except Sunday
was perfect. We knew starting about mid-week that race day was going to
be challenging. They were calling for 10+ mph winds and cooler
temperatures. Friday night at the pasta party Dave Scott warned us
about the conditions and seemed pretty happy not to be toeing the line.
When Sunday rolled around the morning temperatures were in the high 40s
and the wind was starting to pick up.
Colleen drove me down to
T1 at Lake Mead Sunday around 4:30am. I’d set up my bike and turned in
my gear bags the day before so I just checked things out, stretched and
tried to relax. I was in the first row right in front of the Operation
Rebound relayers. They weren’t there since they were starting a couple
hours after us, but it was still inspirational to see their special
bikes and handcycles there. I kept reminding myself to “suck it up
buttercup…these guys are doing the race with one arm or one leg.” Helps
to keep things in perspective sometimes.
The Swim
I got to
the swim start and things looked choppy but not too bad. They played
the national anthem and I got all choked up. When the horn sounded
about 200 of us started what was to become the most grueling swim I’ve
ever done. 22 years of triathlon and I’ve swum in oceans, lakes,
rivers, in TT starts, wave starts and 2400+ mass starts. I’ve never
experienced anything like this. On the way out, the current was pretty
much with us. I was blown off course a little but started sighting
every few strokes and was able to stay with the buoys. When we made the
turn against the current I started to get sick and stopped to throw up.
I still felt pretty good so I kept going. At the final turn into shore,
the wind was really picking up. The waves were white caps and I could
hear people yelling and see kayaks all over the place trying to help
people. A woman near me started waving her hand and I went over to her
and had her hold on to me while I worked the cramp out of her foot. I
kept trying to do freestyle but I drank so much water I had to stop to
throw up again. Finally, I tried doing breaststroke and swimming under
the waves. That seemed to help, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. I
resumed freestyle and after a few more strokes my arms were really
tired. I had this strange moment when I wondered if I would make it to
shore. My arms felt like lead and I kicked and pulled as hard as I
could to finish. Plenty of people were braving the wind to cheer us in
as I dizzily made my way to transition. What I didn’t realize is that
the wind picked up significantly about 50 minutes into the swim –
kicked up a dust storm and blew over the timing clock. Colleen was
standing next to a group of Germans waiting to do the half which was
postponed an hour because the kayakers couldn’t hold their positions.
They kept looking out at the lake and muttering “scheisse.”
The Bike
It
took me a few minutes before I didn’t feel too dizzy in T1. I slowly
got dressed and was glad Colleen had thought to bring my windvest! I
got on my bike and headed up the boat ramp for the bike course. Within
a few miles the rain opened up and I started to get chilled. A few
miles later as I made a turn my legs were stinging from the
precipitation. It was hailing! Between that and the cross winds, I was
white knuckling it on the bull horns and wishing I’d brought the road
bike instead! I saw Colleen and smiled that smile that says “this
really sucks, isn’t it great?!” I had a note on my bike reminding me to
go slow and stay within my heart rate. Despite the massive climbs, I
managed to do that and was very proud of myself for being steady and
not going like a bat out of hell. At mile 42, I got a flat in the
front. I managed to change it pretty quickly, but was worried about
getting another flat in the same spot because a small piece of glass
had penetrated the tire. I decided to go ahead and stop at the special
needs and grab my spare CO2s and tubes just in case. Things were more
down than up on the way back, but the head wind picked up. I heard
later that winds gusted up to 40mph and it certainly felt like it.
I’m
an above average bicyclist so it never occurred to me to worry about
the cutoff times, but when I saw Colleen at mile 90 she said I only had
a few minutes to make the first cutoff at the tunnel (mile 92). I
started hammering and happily made it through the tunnel cutoff to the
bike path into town. This is where the famous three sisters are: three
18% grade hills, short and vicious just when you are exhausted. I made
it up each of them and was very happy to have a compact crank! As I
went by the aid station at mile 100 I asked how long until the final
bike cutoff – less than 45 minutes! Panicked, I started hammering as
fast as I could. My lungs were bursting and I was gasping for breath as
I did the TT of my life. Luckily it was mostly downhill for the last 12
miles and I made it with 7 minutes to spare. Tasha, Heather and Susan
caught me and took my bike away (I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to
bike again). Frank Lowery was there too and I thanked him for the last
few downhills that allowed me to make the bike cutoff.
The Run
I
changed into my run gear which took a while since the generator was out
and the tents were dark by then. Finally, I got to the run and Colleen
joined me. I tried running but the last 12 miles of hammering on the
bike were catching up to me and I felt sick. I took a couple tums and
stretched and was able to continue. For the first loop, I mostly
shuffled through (can’t really call it running) at 11-12 minute pace,
stopping to drink Gatorade and broth every mile. It’s such a small race
and I was so late that it was quite lonely out there. I really enjoyed
the solitude at first. By the time I got to the finish to start the
second loop I wasn’t digging the solitude so much. I got really
depressed that I still had 13 miles to go, especially when people were
saying “you’re almost there.” I ran into another girl starting her
second loop and we stayed together for a while. I started feeling sick
to my stomach and decided to slow to a brisk walk. My mom had told me
that she wouldn’t give me my last needed donation to Operation Rebound
if I finished and needed medical assistance. She would rather I DNF
than hurt myself, she said. I took that to heart, and slowed until I
didn’t feel like throwing up again. That basically meant walking the
uphills and jogging the downhills. I kept hitting the lap key and
recalculating what I needed to do to make the final cutoff. Heather,
Tasha and Susan drove up, finished with their bike catching volunteer
duties for the day. They walked with me for a while and helpfully
re-checked my math so I knew I could basically walk all the way to the
finish and still make the cutoff. I was glad for the company – it
really is lonely out there! I started drinking coke about 9 miles from
the finish, a few miles earlier than normal. I hoped it would help
settle my stomach. It did and I was able to “run” a little more without
feeling like throwing up. At the final turnaround I saw my friend I’d
started the run with and we finished the race together. 16:55, 35
minutes before the cutoff and the last person to make the official
cutoff. The race director actually stayed until the final finisher came
in at 2am!
Colleen was there at the finish and the race director
even got me some chicken soup himself as I tried to get warm. I told
him it was the best race I’d ever done – best volunteers, best
organization, most beautiful…and clearly the toughest full distance
race in the world.