Ironman Rockford 70.3 – The Good, The Bad, and The Existential Crisis…
Saturday was actually wonderful.
My daughter drove up with me for check-in and we had a great time. My wife met us later and we had dinner at one of my childhood favorite restaurants.
I barely ate. Not because the food wasn’t good. My stomach was in full rebellion mode from nerves. I had been a mess for three weeks, and Saturday night might have been the worst of it.
I did not sleep. At all.
So Sunday morning at 5:00 a.m. arrived, whether I was ready or not.
My wife and daughter dropped me off at transition, I set up my spot, and took the shuttle to the swim start. I was disappointed that we couldn’t get into the river before the race. I haven’t done an open-water swim in twelve years, and getting a few minutes in the water would have helped calm my nerves.
The swim start was also a lot slower than I expected. We lined up by expected pace, and three people entered the water every five seconds. The pros started at 7:00, the age-groupers shortly after, and I didn’t get into the water until around 7:40.
The swim, however, was legendary.
I’m normally a strong swimmer, but the current turned me into Michael Phelps for about 26 minutes. I finished in 26:14, about fourteen minutes faster than my normal pace. Admittedly, that includes a brief moment of panic where I got tangled on an underwater cable near a buoy, had to hold onto a kayak for a minute to catch my breath, and questioned whether my “legendary” swim was going to end with a rescue boat.
It did not. I hung on the boat for about 20 seconds and launched back into the swim. I’d have been sub 26 but for that.
The bike was another story. What the triathlon gods gave me with the current, they eventually took back with the bike.
The headwind was brutal. For most of the ride, I was well behind my target pace and watching my average speed mock me on the Garmin. Eventually, I got a tailwind and gained some of it back, but I still finished at 3:36:42. I wasn’t thrilled with the time, but I also kept my promise to myself. I stayed in my heart rate zone. I didn’t chase speed. I stuck to my nutrition plan.
And that may have been the biggest victory of the day.
My stomach was still wonky from nerves. The nausea disappeared once the race started, then returned during the bike, but I fueled anyway. Previous versions of me would have ignored calories and water and then wondered why the run became a death march.
The run was… the run.
My runs are never my favorite part of triathlon. My strategy was simple: run from aid station to aid station and walk through the aid stations. The first 10K actually went pretty well.
The second half became more of a negotiated settlement between me and my legs. I wound up walking about two full miles. Not ideal, but I was moving at a strong pace and eventually crossed the finish line with a 2:29:43 half marathon.
Final time:
6:45.
Not my fastest. Not my slowest.
My two faster 70.3s were flatter courses, and that matters. Ironman says Rockford has around 1,900 feet of climbing. My Garmin has repeatedly called shenanigans on that number. This time it recorded 2,904 feet of climbing.
That is a lot of climbing.
Especially when you spend half the ride being personally attacked by the wind.
FML.
One of the best parts of the day had nothing to do with my performance.
Because of a timing issue online, my wife and daughter missed me at the swim and never saw me on the bike. Given my personality and current anxiety level, I naturally assumed this meant they had either been in a terrible car accident or had rushed back to Chicago because one of my sons was in the hospital.
You know. A perfectly normal and reasonable thought process.
Then, just as I came into transition from the bike, I saw them. They had made goofy signs and were wearing ridiculous hats that I knew nothing about.
It put a huge smile on my face.
And that was where my pre-race promise to myself came true. I looked around.
I saw the volunteers cheering every athlete. I saw Rockford residents sitting in their front yards spraying hoses for hot runners. I saw people with boomboxes every few miles. I especially remember two women blasting dance music and dancing like they were at a concert instead of standing on a sidewalk in the sun. On the bike and the run, I saw athletes pushing themselves. When someone passed, I’d tell them “looking strong” or on the run I’d walk a few steps through an aid station with someone and chat them up. Tried to be positive on the course and to fellow competitors. I got a lot of compliments on my bike jersey “Turtle Racing Club: We’ll get there when we get there.” I took time to look at the farm fields, the rivers, the sky, the parks we ran through, the outfits people were wearing. I took time to thank volunteers ar the aid stations. Anything I could do to stay out of my head.
It was wonderful.
I finished. And I am happy about that. I had a time I can live with. I didn’t mentally collapse. I didn’t shit myself.
The funny thing is that the anxiety did not magically disappear afterward. Part of that was because I was an idiot and still could not eat after the race, which became a vicious cycle: I was nauseous because I wasn’t eating and I wasn’t eating because I was nauseous.
Part of it is family stress.
Part of it is that the race was never the entire problem.
I skipped dinner, got in bed at 7:00, couldn’t fall asleep for hours, and eventually took medication.
So that part is still something I need to address.
But physically? I did what I came to do.
I finished under seven hours, which was my goal.
I executed my nutrition plan.
My mental game was better.
Ironically, the thing that made me say, “Never again” was not the result.
At the finish I told my wife I was done with the long stuff.
No Ironman Wisconsin.
No more 70.3s.
Of course, I reserve the right to completely contradict myself in about two weeks.
I was undertrained for this race compared to where I’ll be for Madison, so maybe I feel differently after some rest. But it raises a real question: why am I doing these races? The other week my daughter and I ran a 5K. It was fun. I was competitive. It hurt for 25 minutes instead of seven hours. Maybe sprint and Olympic triathlons are more my speed. I can still train hard, still stay fit, but have more confidence and more enjoyment.
I don’t know the answer yet.
That is probably a conversation for the sports psychologist.
I do know this: the Rockford 70.3 was extremely well run. The aid stations were excellent. Transition was crowded because it was on a city street, which meant my spot required a fast walk of roughly a city and a half in cycling shoes, but that was probably unavoidable. The post-race food was good, and I liked that it came from a local business.
We took pictures, grabbed my bike, grabbed some food (which my wife thankfully ate), and headed home.
Last night I hurt. I was tired, underfueled, dehydrated, and my back was angry.
Today?
Pretty good.
I walked to the coffee shop to loosen up my legs. I’m a little sunburned, but otherwise I feel surprisingly normal.
The anxiety is still there, which tells me this is a bigger issue than just a race. But that’s for another day.
Yesterday, I did a hard thing.
My wife and daughter were there to cheer me on.
It’s sunny outside.
I’m sitting in a coffee shop reading.
And despite everything, it is a pretty great to be alive.