Chapter 4 – The Bike

 My timing chip chirped as I clip-clopped across the timing mat, and a volunteer showed me where the mount-up line was, just under the inflatable arch that led from the pier out to Palani Road. I trotted across, and then swung my leg over the saddle, and attempted to click in. I was very much aware of the mass of spectators as I missed the pedal on my first attempt, and my foot slipped off, leaving me precariously perched on my saddle. I slowed down and got my foot back on the pedal, and managed to clip in on the second attempt.

 Palani Road was packed, and the huge crowds made for a wall of sound as I started turning the pedals, gaining momentum up the slight incline. A few yards up the road, on the right-hand side, I spied the familiar faces of my parents, cheering madly as I pedaled by them. I didn’t see CTB or Connie (my sister), though, and I looked back over my left shoulder and spotted them just in time for CTB to snap a picture of me in a pose very reminiscent of Lance and ‘The Look’ back in ’01. I didn’t have any time to acknowledge them though, in a few seconds I was up to the first intersection and onto Kuakini Highway.

 The first few miles of the bike are technical, and I consciously kept my effort light and relaxed as I wheeled through town. I reminded myself of Gordo’s words; ‘Ironman is a test of preparation, patience, and perseverance’.  I’d already done the preparation, now was time to be patient. To re-use an old marathoner’s proverb, I intended to start slow, and back off from there.

 The early miles went quickly, and very soon I found myself on the Queen K, headed towards Hawi. The road surface was brand new, velvety smooth and fast, and I settled in for the outbound leg.

 It was windy, and hot, but I wasn’t finding the going that tough. The course undulates gently, and I was rolling up the inclines without too much effort, and taking it easy on the downhills, letting gravity do most of the work and saving my energy for later. Whenever the heat started to get to me, I’d grab my water bottle and fire a few squirts back over my shoulders onto my back. Keeping my skinsuit wet in this manner helped keep me cool, and I never felt too oppressed by the heat.

 The first aid station appeared, and I began my routine – I’d grab my water bottle out of the cage and empty whatever was left onto my back, before tossing it. I then grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and chugged as much as I could before tossing it, and then grabbed a bottle of water for my bottle cage. The aid stations were well-placed and plentiful, and as a result there were only one or two times all day when I ran out of water before replenishing my supplies.

 The miles began to tick off – 15, 20, 25 . . . my bike computer’s transmitter had broken off the fork on the flight, and as a result I didn’t have any speedometer, or odometer. I was relying on the race markers, and on the small green mile markers along the roadway.

 Somewhere between the 30 and 40 mile race markers I saw the pro men start to roll through on their return leg back into town. Normann Stadler was waaaaay off the front, all alone, and it was a good 5min or so before I saw the first chase pack. I was sure that he’d gone too hard and would pay for his bike leg later on, and as a result I was looking hard for Peter Reid and Simon Lessing, trying to see who was ahead of whom. (Normann Stadler made good on his breakaway, however, and eventually won the race by about ten minutes, which shows you what I know about professional IM racing).

 I knew Peter Reid, as the defending champion, would be wearing #1, but I hadn’t noted Lessing’s number, and so I was peering closely at each face as it went by, trying to recognize someone I’d only seen in magazines and on the web. I spotted Reid, riding comfortably in the chase pack, about tenth overall, but never saw anyone I positively identified as Lessing. I later found out that Simon had a penalty, and some glute issues, and as a result pulled out of the race.

 After the pros rolled by, I began looking for other familiar faces, specifically Clas Bjorling, aka ‘The Baron’. Reading Gordo’s website has made me feel like I know The Baron somewhat, and I intended to send him a shout out if I saw him. By the time I finally spotted him, however, he’d already blown by me and was out of earshot, so I wound up saving my breath. I never did spot Lori Bowden, or any of the other  top women. Oh well.

 As the pro field blurred into the top age group field, I began to amuse myself by looking for wheelsucking drafters. For the most part, everyone I saw had a good separation from the rider in front of them. There was only one guy that I saw, blatantly hanging 3 feet or so from the wheel in front of him, and making no attempt whatsoever to pass. The words were out of my mouth before I thought about it.

 “A little close there, don’t ya think?”

 I know the guy heard me, because he turned to look back over his shoulder as he rolled away. The look he gave me was decidedly unfriendly, and after some thought, I decided that maybe I should just leave the drafting calls to the officials. It was a tough enough day without some guy remembering my number and wanting to ‘discuss’ my comments after the race.

 I kept it rolling, kept dousing my skinsuit, kept up my nutrition, and kept my effort light. The miles were steadily clicking away, and it was just like those long training rides on Monterey Hwy, except for the cameramen, PC athletes, aid stations, and cheering spectators. Other than that – exactly the same. There were heavy crossing gusts, some periods of headwind, but it didn’t seem too extreme. I didn’t really have any trouble keeping my bike steady, but others had gone down from heavy gusts that had caused them to lose control. I became thankful for those long, windy hours out along the desolate road to Morgan Hill – race-specific training was paying off. I started doing time checks as I approached the climb to Hawi, and thus far I was doing fine, averaging about 15mph for a 7.5hr ride total, which would put me an hour ahead of the cutoff. Pieceacake.

 I rolled through the left hand turn off of the Queen K, and noted the sign for ‘Hawi – 19mi’. Down the gentle hill and then it was a right hand turn, starting the climb. I was starting to look forward to the turnaround and the turkey sandwich in my special needs bag, as well as the next card from CTB. 

 With 10 miles or so to go to Hawi, I found myself ruminating that the course wasn’t nearly as tough as I’d heard, in fact, the specific thought that ran through my head was ‘This course ain’t sh#t.’ So to all of the rest of you who did the race, who had the winds shift on you, I apologize. It was my fault, all of it. Pele must have heard my brash thoughts, because it was less than 15 minutes later that the course very definitely became sh#t.

 As the road tipped ever upward, the wind picked up, until I found myself slowly turning over the pedals, climbing up into a stiff headwind that kept me to a snail’s pace. The incline itself wasn’t so bad, but nevertheless it took me nearly an hour to go the last 7 miles into Hawi. I had repented of my earlier thoughts a dozen times by now, but Pele was having none of it – she would show me her power and make sure that I never made the mistake of underestimating her again. 

 Those miles were extremely tough; I was now calling on those reserves of energy that I had saved with the easy early miles. Every pedal stroke, every meter, every inch of progress became a fight. I was cracking, there was no doubt about it. I kept my head down and kept cranking, though; I didn’t want to face what might happen if I let myself stop.

 Eventually, finally, I rolled over the last hill, into town, and through the turnaround timing mats. With a sigh of relief I aimed Darth Slinky back south again, with the wind finally at my back. It was only for a few hundred yards, though; up ahead was special needs, my sandwich, and CTB’s card. 

 At special needs, I dismounted and asked if I could borrow a chair while I ate my sandwich and read my card. I was grateful for the few minutes off of my bike, and the chance to recover from the brutal effort of getting up the hill.

 A few of the volunteers joked that I was a good advertisement for Subway as I pulled my sandwich from the familiar clear plastic bag. I just smiled and dug in – ambrosia. I read my card, reading CTB’s words of support and encouragement, and then tucked it safely away next to the other one, now a little travelworn from the hours in my pack.

 As I finished up my sandwich, I chatted briefly with another racer who was stopped. He was stopped for a different reason, however; he had a flat, and didn’t have a replacement 650C tubular tire – all the volunteers had for him was a 700C tire. As I waited, a race official came up and informed him that SAG was on its way, but was all the way back in town, so it’d be awhile. I told the official that I’d passed a SAG vehicle less than 10mi previously, so there should be someone closer than Kailua-Kona.

 I finished my lunch, put my helmet back on my head and saddled up for the fun part – the wind assisted descent back down. The first mile or so, however, was back uphill again, and the wind wasn’t a whole lot of help. As I crested the rise, I saw the SAG wagon again, perched on the side of the road. I stopped and told them about the guy back at the turnaround, and his need for a 650C tubular. They hadn’t gotten the word, and thanked me for the info before wheeling around and heading for Hawi.

 My good deed done for the day, I crested the hill and then got down on the bars for the descent. The 7 miles that had taken me an hour to climb now took me 15 minutes to descend, but other than that the ride didn’t last quite as long as I had hoped. I passed the Hoyts along the way, and Dick didn’t look too good. He was a megastud, battling that hill, and the wind, for all he was worth, with Ricky sitting in his seat upfront. But I did some quick math, and could tell they were in serious trouble if the cutoff applied to them – they were still a good hour away from Hawi at the pace they were going.

 All too soon I was back in the up-and-down rollers leading to the Queen K, and the earlier climb had definitely taken the wind out of my sails – I was now working on each climb, and not recovering much on each descent. I was getting a little ragged. My time calculations were now starting to tell a different tale than they had earlier – the cutoff was approaching faster than the mile markers were going by. I was losing time.

 I kept it rolling but as I approached Kawaihae (sp?), a new problem arose; my front tire was starting to skid around, which meant I had a slow leak. I stopped and pumped it up, thinking that maybe it was just loss of pressure due to the hours in the heat. But, a few miles later, it was doing the same thing, and so I found some shade, and pulled over to change the tube.

It took me nearly 15 minutes to change the tube; I was now hot, tired, and lacking motivation to do anything with alacrity. A few people passed me while I was changing the tube, among them Sara Reinertsen, who was attempting to become the first woman above-the-knee amputee to finish Kona. She didn’t appear to be in very good shape, though, and I tried to give her some encouragement as she went by. She didn’t seem to hear, but I could understand; we were all turning inward, trying to find some extra energy from somewhere, anywhere, to make the cutoff.

 By the time I finally finished changing the tube, it was 3pm, and I had 2-1/2 hours to make 34 miles or so. Not a hugely daunting challenge on most days, but this wasn’t most days, and I had 78 miles of heat, wind and hills in my body. This was going to be close. My earlier insouciance was entirely gone, and I was having to summon a lot of will just to keep going, to fight the battle.  At that point, 2-1/2 hours sounded like such a long time to be struggling, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it. But I wasn’t willing to face my family, or CTB, or the list, with the knowledge that I hadn’t given my all, and so I kept turning the pedals over, and kept working my way through it. The wind had shifted and was once again in my face. The aid stations seemed so much farther apart, and at my pace I was running out of water before I got to the next one, which meant that the heat had more time to work on me before I could douse myself again.

 It had been my plan to tap into my anger at this point, to use my resentments to spark some kind of emotional response and increase my effort, but when the moment actually came, it just never occurred to me. I was so beat; my shoulders ached, my legs were fried, and I just had no energy for anything, angry or not.

 At some level, I knew what was happening – I was bonking. I hadn’t kept on my nutrition regime, but had instead opted to wait for that sandwich after the first two powerbars. But now, even with that knowledge, I couldn’t make myself open the next powerbar. My appetite was gone, and for some reason I still don’t quite understand, I just plain refused to eat. I did slam a Gu every 30min or so, but it didn’t seem to make a vast difference. I took in some salts, in case my digestion was suffering from the onset of hyponatremia, but that didn’t seem to matter either – the gas gauge was on ‘E’, the warning light was on, and the needle wasn’t budging.

 Those last miles back into town were the toughest, loneliest miles I’ve ever ridden. It seemed like I had to fight for every single inch. The rollers that  I’d blithely cruised over hours before now became climbs that nearly crushed my will every time the road turned upward. I spent the time flogging myself onward, fighting the urge to just let up, to slow down to a more comfortable pace and just let the cutoff slide by. The way my motivation was flagging, the idea of *making* the cutoff, and having to run or walk 26.2 miles, wasn’t very appealing at all.

 Somewhere past the 90 mile marker, where the road climbs shallowly on the approach back to town, I thought I’d finally blown it; my calculations were going the wrong way and things were very bleak. But cutoff or no, the only way I was getting out of the wind, out of the heat, and off this @#$%! bike was to get back to town. Nobody was going to show up in a nice air conditioned car and pick me up just because I decided I didn’t want to do this anymore.

 The minutes, and the miles, passed with agonizing slowness. Mile 95 rolled by at 4:15 – 17 miles and 75 minutes to go, and the previous 17 miles had taken me . . . 75 minutes. I hadn’t blown it, but I couldn’t slow down; I couldn’t rest for a second. I was flaying myself for my casual sit-down lunch, for taking so long with the flat tire. Those few precious minutes might have already made the difference, might have cost me this race. But then again, they might not have – I had to maintain, couldn’t drop off the pace one iota, or it would be over for sure.

 Once again, I turned to words of advice from (who else) Gordo. He’d said that everyone has a bad patch in an IM, and you just have to work through it. He’d also said that he’d had some very dark moments out on the Queen K, and had managed to recover from them and go on to have good runs, and good races overall.

 I wasn’t Gordo, but I wanted to be, and you’ve got to start somewhere. In those dark moments, in those moments of quiet torture, I finally found my own words. I murmured quietly to Pele, and whoever else was listening.

 “If you’ve decided I’m not worthy, if I’m to be defeated, I’m *not* just going to give it to you – you’re going to have to take it from me”. I kept my head down, my teeth gritted, and turned the pedals.

 I passed the 100 mile marker at exactly 4:30p on my watch. I now had to do 12mph for 60 minutes, no exceptions, no excuses. 12mph meant each green highway mile marker had to pass by in 5 minutes or less. My focus, my entire world, began to narrow down to those small green metal rectangles and my watch. The first one passed in 4 minutes. I missed the next one somehow and had to start my calculations over.

 The miles clicked by. The minutes ticked off. Bit by bit, mile by mile, I pulled ahead of the merciless clock. The road leveled out some, and the going became easier. As I passed the airport, 7 miles outside of town, Pele finally relinquished her revenge, and I began to breathe a bit easier. I just had to stay strong for a few more miles, and I’d make it. I kept the pedals turning.

Finally, after 8hrs and 20min of riding, I made the turn off the Queen K and rolled through the back streets of Kona, navigating through the industrial area on the way back to transition. I worried for a few minutes that I’d miscalculated, that there were more miles than I thought, and less time than I thought, but suddenly I found myself turning out onto Palani and rolling down the hill towards the pier – I’d done it. The bike was now behind me, just like the swim. All that remained were 26.2 miles on foot.

 . . .

Shit.