Post 204 - Kona day 9 - Race day: run

Day 9 - Saturday 12th October 2019 - The run

It wasn’t immediately obvious where the run actually started. Exiting the transition tent, there was a narrow section leading to the pier exit. There was water available here but I didn’t manage to pick any up. The narrow section exited the pier and I supposed that I had crossed the run start point, so I started my watch. Between trying to get my legs working, the crowds being so close, and the sudden adjustment to what felt like much hotter temperatures without the breeze on the bike, I don’t remember much of the first half-mile.

I do remember doing the maths. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember much else. I had started the Ironman at 6:55am. I needed to finish at 4:54pm to break 10 hours. It was 1:33pm. I needed to run 3:20. I ran 3:22 in Ironman UK, on a slightly hillier course, but not as hot. My target for Kona was to run sub-3:30. I thought this was challenging but realistic. I’d have said a 3:20 would have been beyond me.

Some people, particularly on the run, and particularly when it gets tough, take the attitude that they are happy to cruise round and enjoy the experience. For some people, the goal of qualifying is enough, and the Kona race is the reward. I knew I was never going to win any prizes in Kona, but I still had my targets and goals. Sub-10 was the overall target. So 3:20 was the marathon target. I was going for it. No cruising. My first mile was sub-7:30. Not cruising. 

I must have ran part-way up Palani to the Kuakini turn, then down Hualalai. At the bottom of Hualalai was Ali’i drive. Turning right took you onto the half-mile finishing stretch. Turning left took you onto the remaining 25 miles… the first thing I can really remember about the run course was that there were volunteers at the bottom to make sure people went the correct way. I could win this race, and I gestured to the right. They laughed. I turned left onto Ali’i drive. I knew this section of road well. I knew most of the run course, apart from the Energy Lab section out at the opposite far end of the course (more on this later).

I was hot. I needed a drink. I needed to cool down. Ali’i drive was busy, with spectators and athletes. This was an out-and-back section, going past our accommodation and out to St-Peter’s-by-the-sea church, before turning and coming back. The marathon was in roughly three sections: this out-and-back section, then the “out” section on the Queen K to the airport and the bottom of the Energy Lab, then the “back" section.

Ali'i Drive was well decorated

A shamrock flag... or a pair of giant shamrock y-fronts...?!

Finally I came upon an aid station. I didn’t intend doing any walking in this marathon. I ran through the aid station and grabbed what I could. A gel, a drink, some ice. I didn’t get enough of a drink. I didn’t pour anything over myself. I was keen to avoid wet feet and possible blisters. I shoved the ice in my cap and put the cap back on my head. I missed the wet/cold sponges. I’d need to properly plan how to manage the aid stations.

I saw the others – I was almost past them before I realised. There were good crowds along the picturesque oceanfront Ali’i drive, where all the bars, restaurants, beaches and accommodation were. So I barely saw them, but I knew they’d be on maximum alert to see me on the way back.

Before I had even hit three miles, the road dragged up an incline. I didn’t feel brilliant. The third mile was done in over 8 minutes. OK, there had been a bit of an incline but nothing like what was to come. Was the pace slipping away so badly so soon? I had felt pretty good in the Ironman UK marathon, right from the start. I wasn’t feeling great here. It could be a long, long marathon. I had no idea how it would go. I had done the training and I had prepared for the heat, but nothing truly prepares you for how it feels when you are there in the flesh, in the middle of it, after an hour in the water and over 5 hours on the bike…

Hot, hot, hot. Those are discarded cooling sponges on the road...

I passed our accommodation and hit another aid station. Sponges first this time, straight down my top. Nice and cool. Two gels. One straight down the hatch, one in the back pocket. Water to wash the gel down. Ice for the cap or down my back or down my shorts. I thought the aid station would be “longer” than it was and you’d have a few seconds between each different part of it to grab what you needed, process it, and think about the next thing. But it wasn’t very spread out and at each aid station, all the different types of aid came thick and fast. You had to be ready for it, and have a plan.

Ali'i drive. The ocean. Palm trees. Ironman day. A good place to be...

I reached the turn. It was just before the church, and I was a bit disappointed not to see it, as it’s a really scenic spot. I established that the sweat bands on my wrist were doing nothing, so I jettisoned them. My heart rate monitor strap wasn’t working, so I allowed it to fall down to my waist, removing the tight feeling from it being around my chest. I unzipped my top to try to keep cool. There were suncream volunteers on course, with gloved hands covered with suncream. I topped up.

I began to feel better. Unlike the bike, I wasn’t going backwards. I was passing more people than were passing me. Good. I had found a good rhythm when I passed my supporters. They were ready for me this time and it was great to see them. The next time would be at the finish…

Like the bike, I had developed a system for the aid stations. I realised that having sponges down my top was only effective if I replaced them with cooler ones at every aid station. Doing everything possible to keep cool, at every single opportunity, was essential. On approach, to an aid station, I’d take the gel from my back pocket and consume it. Then I’d remove the sponges from down my top and squeeze any remaining water over my arm coolers, before throwing them aside. I’d grab fresh cold sponges and shove them down my top. I’d grab a new gel, put it in the back pocket, and then drink some water to wash the gel down that I’d just taken. Then I’d grab a cup of ice and put it wherever I felt needed it the most – in my cap, down my back, or down my shorts. I was passing on the Coke and the Red Bull and the solid foods. Coke and Red Bull could wait until I really needed the caffeine boost.

This was seeming to work and I was knocking off the miles. I got back towards town and turned back up the Hualalai road, and as I reached the left turn at the Kuakini road I saw the third place finisher Sebastien Kienle coming the opposite way with less than a mile to run. I still had about 2 hours to go.

Along Ali'i Drive, they had what was called the "Aleve Mile". This maybe needs some explaining. Each year, Ironman has a major title sponsor, and many other "smaller" sponsors as well. Major sponsors have included Ford, Bud Lite, Amazon, and this year, Vega Plant Based Nutrition. I think Vega are a really good sponsor for the race. I got to try some of their recovery products on Kona, and they were brilliant. In recent years I have moved towards a much more plant-based diet, as I think it is healthier. I'm not so keen on all the synthetic foods, gels, drinks etc that are commonplace in endurance sports. But needs must. So Vega seem like a good fit for Ironman, with their natural energy and recovery products. A secondary sponsor this year, also with major prominence in Kona, was Aleve. I'd never heard of them before. 

Aleve make "products for all day pain relief." "Aleve" the pain. I don't think endurance sportspeople should be targeted by pain-relieving drugs companies in this manner and I think it's irresponsible of Ironman to take them on as a sponsor. Endurance athletes push themselves to the limit, and pain is a sign that we need to ease off, rest and recover. Masking pain pharmaceutically on a regular basis, and normalising this, is not a good thing. Granted, I took a few ibuprofen tablets when my neck seized up, but I am always reluctant to resort to ibuprofen. I certainly wouldn't be taking Aleve on a regular basis. Or ever. Aleve branding was everywhere, especially on the Aleve mile. There were timing mats at the start and finish of the Aleve mile, so in the results, every athlete had an "Aleve mile" split time. I think this is a bit gimmicky - they are doing the same at Ironman Cork and having a King and Queen of Windmill Hill in 2020 - no doubt this will be sponsored too, an illustration of the ever-continuing commercialisation of Ironman, sport, and life in general.

Back to the race... It was a slow slog up the Palani hill to the Queen K. There was a big beat box at the top, blasting out songs. There were also quite a few spectators. Then it was a long, lonely, hot run out to the airport and the Energy Lab. Not many spectators headed this far out. There was no shade. There were no amenities. Nothing. Brutal. Spectators were banned completely from the Energy Lab section, making it even more mythically desolate.

I was chugging along quite well at this point, clocking off the miles at the pace needed to run 3:20. All around 7:30 to 7:50 pace. It wasn't bad. If I could just keep this going... I went through halfway in exactly half of 3:20 (1:40). You’d expect to be slightly slower in the second half of an Ironman marathon, but I knew I was chasing my goal of sub-10 and I knew I could put myself through the wringer in pursuit of it. For now I just kept running and kept diligently doing everything I needed to do at the aid stations.

Occasionally I’d take my cap off to let my head cool down a bit. I started pouring cold water over myself at each aid station. The heat was relentless. Athletes on their bikes were still streaming towards town, where the start of their own marathon awaited. A long day out. But I was going as well as I could have hoped. Passing people. Making progress.

I wondered how the runners (on the right hand carriageway) would cut across the stream of cyclists on the opposite carriageway at the left-turn down into the Energy Lab. I soon found out. You just had to pick a gap and run through it. And down into the Energy Lab.

The fabled Energy Lab. NELHA. Natural Energy Laboratory of Hawaii Authority. It’s a big natural “bowl”, which catches and retains heat. There are loads of solar panels in the Energy Lab, and there is no air or wind whatsoever. There hadn’t been much wind on the run anyway. The Energy lab has destroyed many an Ironman and Ironwoman. It’s desolate and unforgiving. You drop down into it, run along the flat bottom, turn at the far end, and climb back up out. I wasn’t worried about the descent or the flat bit, but I thought the climb out would be tough. If I could climb out of it and then get going on the homebound stretch of the Queen K, I’d be OK.

So I descended down into the Energy Lab. The descent down was OK. Everything was bearable. In videos of previous editions, I had seen a lone Irish flag planted at the bottom of the Energy Lab. One of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen in sport. Someone from Ireland had gone out there and planted it. It may as well have been Mars. I couldn’t imagine how inspiring it would have been for an Irish athlete to run past it. Twice. Once on the way out, and once on the way back. And for all the other nationalities to think what pioneering supporters these Irish are.

I hoped to see an Irish flag in the Energy Lab. I wasn’t disappointed. Several of them had been planted. Fantastic. No spectators were allowed in the Energy Lab, and I think the road is closed to the public for the rest of the year anyway, but these flags were there, hanging limply in the airless heat, telepathically cheering us on.

Alone in the Energy Lab

Half a mile from the turn, there was an aid station which you’d pass on the way out and the way back. I missed getting a gel at this aid station, when it was becoming critical. Moving into the final 10 miles of the run, everything becomes critical. But, I had an emergency caffeine gel in my back pocket and I wolfed it down. But I had been thrown a bit, running through and looking for something which I didn’t see, and I ended up with no water to wash it down. I could do nothing else except keep running.

Just before the U-turn, I put on a short spurt to overtake someone and maintain my rhythm around the turn. If I hadn’t put the spurt on, I’d have lost my rhythm behind him at the turn. There was a beat box somewhere at the turn but it was a bit ghostly – you’d normally expect a good few enthusiastic spectators around a beat box. There was no-one down here.

Back to the aid station and I had no gel in my back pocket and again didn’t see any gels at the aid station. So I didn’t manage to get anything. Whether I should have stopped and shouted for a gel, or whether there weren’t any gels at this aid station, I don’t know. But at that stage I needed a gel. It would be maybe 15 minutes to the next aid station, but first I had to begin the climb out of the aid station.

In fairness, although it was a long drag, it wasn’t too steep. Nothing like Palani. Or Queen’s Park at Ironman UK. So the pace going up was reasonable. I got to the aid station. No gels. This was bad. I don’t know why there were no gels. I had no emergency supplies left. I needed nutrition. There were waffle-type things and I tried to eat one of them. It was a disaster. It was so dry. I could barely chew it, never mind swallow it. It felt like the entire thing got stuck in my throat. A gulp or two of water didn’t help. I was almost through the aid station and I shouted for some more water. Desperate times.

I wasn’t rude or anything but I probably shouted for water a little too aggressively at the volunteers. I had worked hard to maintain hope of a sub-10, I had “only” an hour to go and if any time in an Ironman can be compared to Mount Everest’s “death zone”, then I was entering it. I needed water. When you’re that far into an Ironman your faculties slip a little, and combined with my frustration at not having been able to get gels at the most recent aid stations, then I wasn’t in a great place. A fellow competitor got a bit sarcastic and shouted at me “shut up, you’re not doing to die,” and then made a grand show of extravagantly thanking the aid station volunteers. The whole thing – not having gels, me shouting for water, and this guy giving me grief – it was just rubbish.

I got out of the energy lab. I had held my pace up to now. Still between 7:30 and 7:50 minute miling. I was still on for sub-10. But. The reason there had been no wind became evident. There was no wind in the Energy Lab because there is no wind down there. There had been no wind on the outbound part of the Queen K because it had been behind me, and it only felt like there was no wind. Now there was a headwind. And boy could I feel it. And at this point I was undernourished and under-hydrated. I had probably 10km left to run. 32 minutes on a fast day. 45 minutes in an Ironman. But I was starting to fade. And I had a headwind. And I don’t remember this part of the Queen K being quite so hilly…

I tried so hard to force the pace back under 8 minutes per mile. That’s where I needed to be for a sub-10. And the pace just wouldn’t come. It dropped. I screamed at myself, “don’t let this happen,” but it was happening. I’d been running well up to now. Not any more. People were overtaking me. Body and mind not working together any more. Agony. No matter what I did, I couldn’t lift the pace. The undulations on the Queen K seemed like mountains now. I was doing between 8 and 9 minute miling in these sections. Dreadful.

Within hindsight I should have started on the Coke and Red Bull immediately, possibly on the climb out of the Energy Lab. I forced myself to run as hard as possible, but all I was getting was 8-9minute miling pace. It was slipping away, rapidly. You do an Ironman to be tested . You come to Hawaii for tough. I was getting it tough now. I was taking gulps of Coke at the aid stations, which helped for a couple of minutes. Maybe more Coke would have helped for more time. Maybe some evil Red Bull would have helped even more. I think I had one gulp of it. Maybe I should have experimented in training with it.

I did the best I could with what I had. I didn’t throw in the towel . I didn’t walk. I pushed as hard as I could, but it’s not a good feeling to return such a slow pace for what feels like such a monumental effort. The sub-10 was gone. Unless I could magically give myself new legs, which would mean I could run the final 5km in 16 or 17 minutes, which ordinarily is no problem for a standalone 5km. This was no standalone 5km though.

But I could still break 3:30 for the marathon. I knew once I got to Palani and off the Queen K I’d be OK. There’d only be just over a mile to go and it would be all downhill/flat, and the crowds and finish line would draw you in, faster and faster. But first I had to get to Palani. The road kicked up cruelly to the Palani crossroads. On approach, it looked like a mountain. It just seemed to go up and up and up. In reality it was just a small kick up, which had been barely noticeable in a car or on the bike earlier in the week. Now it was the final hurdle.

I hauled my sorry ass and my knackered legs and my depleted carcass up this last hill. It was like running through quicksand. Very hot quicksand. My pace dropped right down to almost 10 minute miling on this incline. Terrible. But you have to keep moving. I got up the hill. I ran through the “beatbox station” – it was really loud after so long out on the lonely Queen K, where the only noise is the “slap slap slap” of trainers on hot tarmac, and your own breath and your own heartbeat.

Just as I turned left, I saw June. Or rather, she saw me, and shouted, and then I saw her. She was just about to head out on the Queen K, in the early stages of her marathon. She looked in good shape. I’d later find out that her feet gave her a lot of trouble on the bike and she wasn’t sure if she would be able to run. She spent a long time being treated in the second transition, before storming through the field to finish sixth in her age group (female 60-64), only a few seconds off fifth and a podium spot. I have no doubt that she will be back…

I descended down the Palani hill. It was like descending down a cliff. Far too steep to be comfortable running down, especially on trashed legs like mine. I almost had vertigo looking down it. Then it was onto the flat Kuakini section for a couple of minutes, before turning right down Hualalai road. At the bottom of Hualalai was the right turn along Ali’i drive to the finish a few minutes away. I had turned to the left maybe 3 hours before. People were still turning left…

I gratefully turned right and I knew it was nearly all over. A strange feeling. I’d worked so hard for so long for this day, and now it was nearly over. I wanted it to continue and continue, but at the same time, I had covered 2.4 miles in the water, 112 miles on the bike, and 26 miles of running. It was time to finish. It’s amazing how an approaching finish line (and an overall downhill in the final mile) can rejuvenate a tired body. My last mile was back well under 8 minute pace. 

Ali’i drive was packed. They had barriered off a narrow section in the middle of the road for athletes to run down. This meant spectators were really close. It also meant spectators had space on either side of the road to come and go, so there didn’t appear to be too much difficulty for spectators to squeeze in and out and get around the finishing stretch, which was really good. It’s not a dead straight road, so you can’t see the finish until you are right on it. I checked my watch. It was going to be about a 10:05 finishing time.

Bringing it home on Ali'i drive

I passed Steve and Natalie screaming “great success” at me. There were four of us running in a line coming towards the finish. I was third in the line. You kind of hope you get the finish line to yourself, but no matter. Flags and cheering spectators lined what had become an “alleyway” leading to the finish. Finally the finishing arch loomed above, and the short, flower-lined ramp up to the finish line. Plenty of people prepare in advance what they will do at the finish line. I don’t. You can’t take finishing for granted. I raised a fist in the air, crossed the line, and it was over.

The finish line, some say the holy grail of not only triathlon, but sport

The end of a decade of trying (tri-ing?)

Yet again, as was the case at all my previous Ironman finishes, I didn’t hear a thing. I couldn’t have told you what music was playing over the public address system. I didn’t hear Mike Reilly (the voice of Ironman) call me across the line, saying “John Lenehan, you are an Ironman!” Nothing. It was all a blur. The noise of the crowds, the noise of the music, the pounding of my feet and breath and heartbeat, the tunnel vision (exacerbated by the finishing stretch being so narrow and tunnel-like), the lack of emotion – some people get emotional at the finish line, but I’m usually trying to maintain focus and am too knackered for emotion – all of these things just meant it was one big colourful blur of relief and pain and satisfaction and a tiny level of disappointment that I had missed out on a sub-10 finish. Just a tiny level. I didn’t dwell on it for too long.

My official race video

I had just finished the Ironman world championship. 100,000 people compete in Ironmans every year. Of these, the top 2000 qualify for Kona. I had finished with a run of 3:27. I had broken 3:30 for the run. In the back of my mind I suppose there was always the thought that I might have a melt-down and end up doing a 4 hour marathon, or a 4:30 or something. I’d struggled from 21-25 miles, but I hadn’t had a melt-down. I hadn’t had to walk. I hadn’t collapsed. I hadn’t crashed on the bike, or gotten seasick in the swim. Or any one of a large number of other things that could have gone wrong. I was in one piece. I’d done the best I could with what I had, and I couldn’t have done more.

I ran 3:27:17. An average of 7:54 per mile. I was probably averaging 7:40 per mile until mile 21... I was the 80th fastest out of 199 in my age group on the run, and I was 386th out of 2270 overall on the run.

In the overall race, I did 10:05:46. I finished in 121st position out of 199 in my age group, and 606th out of 2270 overall. Back in 1978 in the first-ever Ironman, on the Hawaiian island of Oahu, Gordon Haller won in a time of 11:46. Ironman has come a long way since then: Jan Frodeno, this year's male winner broke the course record with 7:51 (15 minutes quicker in the swim, over an hour quicker on the bike, 45 minutes quicker in the marathon, and probably 5 minutes quicker through both of the transitions).

I was 31% slower in the swim than the winner, 26% slower on the bike, and 27% slower on the run. These are interesting statistics. I'd have said my swim was my best part of the race, but compared to the winner it was the worst. I'd have said my bike was easily the worst section of my race, but relative to the winner it was actually the best. I suppose it goes to show that the standard of biking is very high, with far more bikers between me and the winner, despite me being "only" 26% slower that the winner on the bike. I suppose there's good reason for this as the bike makes up more than half of the total race time.

But all those are just statistics. I'd done it. I'd done the best I could. I'd qualified for and competed in Kona. This was one tough race, one prestigious race, standards were unbelievably high, and rightly so. The world championships of the toughest sport in the world. 

I’d take it…