[Preface: this is the official diary of my Ironman Japan day. While crossing the finishing threshold offered unparalleled gratification, the experience was lived through the time-checks along the way. This is largely a catalogue of those events. Enjoy.]

Where: Goto City, Fukue Island, Nagasaki Province, Japan.

When: Sunday, June 22^nd, 2008

Why: Ironman Japan 2008

3:30am: My eyes pop open: it’s race day. My alarm was set for 4am but I’m already up; I nodded off early last night (9ish) watching Gladiator on my laptop. Maya – my sister – is still asleep in the other twin bed. The world is absolutely silent. Today’s silence truly is blissful: when I awoke yesterday it was to the sound of rain forcing itself down from the heavens. This morning the gods haven’t started crying. Yet.

3:35am: I hear some commotion just beyond my hotel room door. My hotel is Goto’s gaijin (foreigner) hotel and they have organized a pre-race breakfast starting at 3:30am. It appears the masses are flocking to the hotel’s “western” fare. I decide to forgo this breakfast for my pre-race staple: PB&J. I scarf down one of the two PB&J sandwiches I made last night as well as a banana. I slog a few sips of Aquarius: a markedly good Japanese sports drink … to be honest I don’t know if it really is a sports drink because I can’t read the label but it tastes like one, has an Olympic symbol, and I’m pretty certain is clear of alcohol. The PB&J was a pre-meditated success. Pre-meditated by about a week. Before I left for Japan I got a bunch of advice (and loads of travel help) from my friend Mari. One of her key nuggets: bring peanut butter because you won’t find it on this island. And peanut butter I did bring, well at least as far as the security check at the San Francisco Airport International terminal … I hadn’t checked my PB because it was stowed in my race bag. Prior to departure, I had methodically packed my race bag with everything I needed to race (minus my bike, but including my pedals, shoes, helmet, and PB) and got the great tip to take this bag carry-on with me: if they lost my checked luggage I would have everything I needed to race – minus the bike which, in a pinch, I could rent/borrow/fashion-out-of-reeds-and-rubber. Ergo, my carry-on included me, my laptop bag, and my race bag with PB; checked bags included my bike and all my street clothes and toiletries – aka the non-essentials. I made it as far as security where they told me that my adjustable wrench and PB had to go. Pastes of more than 100ml were not allowed. I furiously texted Maya, my would-be Marco Polo, who was flying in from China to pick up some PB on her travels. And thus PB and I were reunited once I disembarked in Nagasaki, one puddle-hop away from Fukue Island. Some jam, bread, and a spreading knife later and here I was just shy of 4am on Sunday June 22^nd first small victory quite literally in hand.

4:15am: I pick up my race bag which contains my bike transition bag, my bike-and-run “special needs” bags (these are food supplies you can pre-pack that volunteers dole out about halfway through the bike and run legs) and my race gear. I walk out listening to my iPod.  There’s a shuttle right next to my hotel which takes us to the swim start – about 35 minutes away. The course is laid out in such a way that the swim-to-bike, bike-to-run transitions, and the finish line are in three different locations. This is unlike my last Ironman which had all transitions at the same location. The hotel is close to registration and the finish line, and I had to surrender my bike last night so that they could cart it 35 minutes away to the appropriate transition area.

4:30am: I hop on the bus and sit down next to this father-and-son duo that I met two days earlier (Eric and Gary). They are two tall Brits who are aiming to cross the finish line together. Gary – the son – is around 23 and his dad is in his mid 50s. I chat with them on the ride over to Tomie (pronounced To-mi-ay), where the swim start is.

5:00am: Eric has raced this course before so I ask him how they’ve marked the course. Typically, I’m quite methodical about measuring progress through the distance markers on the course and I’m used to having everything measured in miles, but we’re in Japan and the metric system reigns king. Eric confirms this: everything will be marked in KMs. Time to call on the teachings of Mr. Walker – my 3^rd grade math teacher. It’s way too early in the morning to be doing this. At ~1.6km to 1M the bike course will be 180km and the run will be 42km. So 30km/hour is a 6 hour ride and 30km/50 minutes is a 5 hour bike. 5min/km would be a 3:30 marathon. Ok, I’ve got a rough pace in my head.

5:20am: We arrive in Tomie. I walk down to transition to find my bike which has been racked neatly in its spot beside my race number: 854. Unfortunately I hadn’t put a plastic cover on it and it’s soaked from yesterday’s rain. Oh well. I borrow a pump. Wow, this pump reads in kilopascals and not PSI?!? wtf. It looks like the conversion is Kpa = 7xPSI. It’s still way too early in the morning to be doing math. I pump up to around 840 (120 PSI, I hope) and go into the men’s changing room.

6:00am: I scarf down a Powerbar and a gel and drink some more Aquarius.

6:15am: I start getting ready: I’ve put my race gear on including my Tri More Fitness jersey which is my Coach Neil’s coat-of-arms, my heart-rate monitor, my race number, and some gels. I peel on my wetsuit.

6:30am: Whit Raymond, the super-friendly, extremely gregarious, Marin-based, multilingual race announcer that I met two nights ago at a 7-11 announces that the swim area is open to jump in. I walk over and get in the water. It’s my first time in the water in 2 weeks. I got sick the week before the race and decided to forgo swims as I got over my cold. The water is beautiful: cool and completely clear.

6:50am: It’s a water start which means we’ll all be treading water when the gun goes off. The crowd starts swimming to the start line. There are about 900 participants. This is much smaller than last year’s Ironman Canada which had about 2,700 participants but the start line is narrow and still quite crowded. I’m some rows behind the front of the pack. Much like in Pamplona there is self-selecting process for aligning with the start line. If you’re slow, you don’t want to get trampled by others so you stay back a bit. The swim is not my forte and I’d like to make it more than 0.1% of the race injury-free.

6:58am: The first gun goes off. The pros are off. The first of them, Mathieu O’Halloran will be out of the water ~30 minutes ahead of me. Later we would share a flight off the island where I found that Mathieu was borne out of the generation of Canadian triathletes that worshiped legends like Peter Reid and Olympic Gold Medalist Simon Whitfield.

6:59am: Total silence.

7:00am: Bang! I hear the gun and the masses head out. I start getting hit. Luckily the Japanese are very polite so I’m not taking the drubbing I took at the start of the swim in Canada but I definitely find myself swimming over/under/beside bodies. At one point I quite literally walk over someone. The favor is then returned. Since playing some ice hockey and rugby in college I have absconded from contact sports. So this is somewhat nostalgic.

7:35am: The swim is a two lap swim. I get out of the water for the first lap at ~35minutes, round the cone on the beach, grab a sports drink, and jump back in. Cool, I think to myself, on pace for a 1:10 swim. I did 1:12 in Canada so this would be an improvement. However it takes me a couple of minutes to swim back to the start line which is a little ways off land. Dang, so this must be the same pace as Canada. It’s slightly disappointing because I’ve been doing a bunch of masters swimming and some of the other races I did this year shaved minutes off my times from last year on shorter courses.

8:17am: I’m out of the water and into the swim-bike transition. 1:17… what happened?? I didn’t feel bad during the swim but it’s almost 10 minutes slower than my “gold standard” time and slower than any 2.4 mile swim I’ve ever done. One thing I realize is that I didn’t have as much of an opportunity to draft behind other swimmers today. Oh well, no need to lose sleep over it. Let’s transition quickly and get on with it.

8:18am: I get under a shower and peel off the wetsuit. At IM Canada they had volunteers strip your wetsuit off. Oh well. I hear Whit– the race announcer – yell out: “Pablo Stern from Canada, USA, Spain is now in transition.” After I met Whit a couple of nights ago, I kept running into him in the town of Goto and he got to know a bit of my life story including all the countries I call home. I put on my bike shoes, stuff more gels in my jersey, grab a drink, and run out of transition with my bike.

8:21am: I hop on my bike and I’m off. Out of transition in 3:33. Good. This leg is where I’ve put a bunch of focus over the last 6 months. For the last couple of months, I’ve been doing two long rides a weekend with my friends Alan, Greg, and Davey. They are all extremely talented triathletes and phenomenal cyclists. Nary a weekend has elapsed where my muscles haven’t surrendered at night waving a taught white flag. Today is the payoff.

8:40am: The Japanese drive on the left side of the road, so you pass on the right. It’s backwards for me but I get the hang of it quickly. I’m starting to pass a bunch of people. I was probably middle of the pack out of the swim so there’s ground to make up.

8:50am: It’s drizzling outside, the roads are a bit slick but the rain isn’t much of a factor except on my sunglasses which are all beaded up. I bring the glasses down so I can peer over them. I pass by Gary. 10 second later I pass Eric, his dad. They’re sticking together. That’s awesome to see.

8:55am: Speed check: I look at my watch to get my speedometer reading. Nothing. Hmm, that’s odd, I had checked my bike yesterday to make sure everything was dialed-in and it was reading properly. I peer down to my front wheel where the speed sensors rests on the fork, beside my spokes which have the magnet. The sensor has slipped down the front fork and is dangling beside the axel. This is not good. I don’t care too much about my speed, I’ll be more comfortable gauging time off the kilometer markers. But if that sensor dangles into my spokes I’ll be in for a heaping spoonful of notgoodness™.

9:11am: I cross the 30km mark. I’m on pace for a 5:00 ride, that’s 45 minutes faster than I rode at IM Canada and probably faster than 1/3 of the pros in the field. This pace can’t be sustainable. I mark off the 30km/50min in my head and use that as my pace check.

9:21am: I’m passing a bunch of people. I come up to a group of people riding two lanes wide; you’re not supposed to do this. There are pretty strict regulations dictating passing etiquette and how long you can stay within 4 lengths of another bike. This is largely to preclude drafting and blocking. There’s a Race Marshall on a motorcycle in the opposite lane (the entire bike route has been closed to car traffic). I don’t want to pass on the wrong side of the center divider because I know in some races that’s an automatic disqualification (DQ). I’m not sure about this race but I don’t want to risk it. There’s a lot of traffic and trying to thread the needle between cyclists and the divider is tough. I try hard and just stay inside the lines. A slower cyclist ahead of me is blocking by staying far right. I tell him I’m passing and stay within the lines. He doesn’t budge. I move past him and he edges towards me. Our front wheels touch and he yells something in Japanese. This is risky stuff. I stand up, crank the wattage, and plow forward. I push hard for about 30 seconds to clear the field and give myself some breathing room. I hear some commotion behind me. Eventually I’m out in front and the Marshall comes up on his motorcycle. Am I in trouble?? Did I do anything wrong? He smiles and waves at me. I’m clear.

9:55am: I cross the 60km mark. I’ve lost 3 minutes over the last 30km. I do some quick math: at this rate I’m around a 5:15 pace for the bike. It won’t be a 5 hour bike ride but I can still do quite well here. The skies are starting to clear up. I’m on my new Cervelo P2C and she’s cranking – the pedal strokes feel very light and easy. The bike course lassos into a two loop ring before threading out at the top of Goto town. The roads are immaculately maintained. No cracks anywhere. All manholes and bridge spacings have been covered with a blue carpet. Even though the roads are slick from the night’s rain I feel like I can be aggressive. I brought two Gatorade bottles with me in my xlab seat holder. At Canada I was drinking about a bottle every 30 minutes (about 40 ounces an hour). Here it’s cool and I’m drinking a bit less. I go through my two bottles in the first hour and a half, and start taking the sports drink they have at aid stations. It’s called BCAA or Amino Value. It’s actually quite tasty. Before the race, I made sure I tasted it so that I wouldn’t be risking something unknown on race day. Six months of training have led up to today and it would be a damn shame to have it go south because the sports drink tastes of Durian … I grab one at each aid station about every 30 minutes. I’m also putting down a powergel every 30 minutes.

10:15am: I cross the 70km mark. The loops also have an out-and-back in them. This means that there’s a section (about 5km) where you ride out and then do a U-turn and come back along the same road. It also means that as you’re riding out you can see everyone that’s ahead of you. It can be disheartening and motivating. I’m looking for people who have race numbers between 730-870 on their helmets. I’m 854 and those are the folks who are in my age group. Those are also the folks that are going to take my Kona slots for the World Championships. There are 4 slots and about 140 athletes in my age category. As I ride out I see a bunch of these numbers. Kona is going to be a tough sell today…

10:25am: I hit the bike “special needs” station. Since there are two loops I have the option of grabbing my bag now or catching it on the second loop around mile 120. I’ve pretty much gone through all my gels so I opt to grab it now. The station is in a parking lot off the course, I veer in and they call out my number. Like an F1 pit stop, someone is waiting for me 50 meters ahead holding my bag. I could just grab the bag on-the-fly but I decide to stop. Good call. One of the gels has exploded in the bag. There’s goo everywhere. Now is not the time to strive for cleanliness, so I grab all the finished gel containers from my shirt pocket and toss them to a volunteer (littering on the course is a DQ) and put the slimy mess of goos into my pouch. I’m out in under a minute. Take that Schumacher! The stop was wise too. While I could’ve tried grabbing the bag and mangling around pulling out the goos whilst pedaling I would’ve immediately hit an ascent coming out of the aid station which wouldn’t have been pretty. My shorts are still drenched from the morning’s rain which offers a great surface to clean my hands of goo. I stand up and push my legs down into the hill.

10:57am: I cross the halfway mark (90km) in 2:36. 53 minutes for the last 30km. 10 minutes ahead of my pace in Canada and still around a 5:15; I feel I could go anywhere between 5:10-5:30 depending on course and body. There isn’t a whole lot of climbing on this course. Maybe 3,000 feet. The Bay Area prepares your well for climbs: Alpine Dam, the Seven Sisters, the Marin Headlands, and the Peninsula roads (Sand Hill, Old La Honda, Page Mill, …) are all great climbing venues. In preparation for today I rode the Sequoia Century a month ago, 112 miles with 9,000 feet of climbing from Palo Alto to the coast, down to Santa Cruz and back again. This should feel much easier. I’m passing signs that say 90km and signs that say 120km. For the first-loopers it’s a mental challenge to see the 2^nd loop signage. Then again it’s also motivating: next time I’m here I’ll have 60km left. 60km = cakewalk. And there’s little more appealing than cake right now.

11:32am: I hit the 1^st-2^nd loop split at km 107. A volunteer snaps a yellow elastic on my wrist to signify that I’ve completed a loop.

11:50am: I hit the 120km mark. The countdown is on. Only 60kms left. The skies are now completely clear and now I have a singular focus: kilometer 150. Thereafter it’s a 30km countdown to get to the second transition (T2).

12:07am: I pass the 130km mark. I’m still putting down a goo every 30 minutes and taking 1 amino bottle at each aid station. The bottles aren’t entirely full. I’m guessing that I’m putting down 20-30 ounces of liquid an hour plus a goo. The weather is overcast and I’m pretty cool. I feel well hydrated. I’ve got two powerbars in my pocket but haven’t gone for either. It’s been a liquid diet straight through.

12:50pm: I pass the 150km mark at 4:26. 30 km left. Time to twist the knife a bit and crank some additional wattage. My heart-rate has consistently stayed around 145 – which is a good target aerobic rate – with peeks at around 165 on climbs. The course has rolling hills but no climb that really necessitates getting out of the saddle. I’ve gotten up a couple of times just to stretch out and exercise some different muscles. For the most part I’ve stayed tucked in the aero position on the bike.

1:10pm: I’m coming down the home stretch of the ride. There are a couple of downhills and now is as good a time to relieve myself. A 10+ hour race is tough to do without a nature call and my bladder’s feeling it and I know once I start running it’ll be much harder to go. If my last Ironman taught me anything it’s that it’s impossible to go while you’re pedaling. I’ve found a nice descent that’ll suit my needs perfectly. Another thing that Canada taught me was that if you’ve got saddlechafe™ urine will sting like alcohol on an open sore. I’ve made sure that I’m lathered up in bodyglide (an anti-chafe sports stick) to prevent that from becoming an issue. Relax. Ahhhh … much better … wait, dammit the descent is done but I’m not. I pedal a bit further and hit another descent. Evacuation complete.

1:38pm: I come into T2, the sun is starting to peek out of the clouds. Japanese volunteers are yelling “slow down”. The volunteers and spectators have been awesome all day. Yelling “fight” in Japanese and happily providing aid along the course. I heed and pop off my bike. 5:17 for the bike. Great time, I lopped 25 minutes off my IM Canada bike split. The course was definitely less hilly but I felt like I was also cranking more wattage. Someone grabs my Cervelo and I’m directed into a changing room. Another volunteer is holding my bike transition bag. I sit down and toss all the empty goos from my pouch. The volunteer opens my bag and I take out my cap and shoes. I’m wearing a full cap instead of a visor so that I can hold ice to my head if it’s hot. This shouldn’t be much of a problem today. I put 4 new goos into my pouch and I’m off.

1:41pm: Out of transition in <3 minutes. Solid. I feel very good as I hit my stride. There’s one number repeating itself in my head: 5 minute kilometers. That’s a 3:30 marathon. When I ran Canada I got off the bike and felt great, running a 3:10 marathon for the first hour and boy did I ever pay for it in the last 18 miles of the run! That experience culminated in an exploration of previously unearthed levels of pain for the last 6 miles of the race, including a bunch of walk stops. I won’t make that mistake again and I don’t want to walk today. Pace yourself, Stern. Pace yourself. The other thing that crosses my mind is to try to keep my heart-rate around 145 beats per minute. My coach Neil gave me that advice before IM Canada last year and I ran out at 155 for the first 8 miles before I could settle my heart rate. Heart rate check: 155. Dammit again.

1:46pm: I hit the first km marker. 4:30. That’s too fast…

1:50pm: Kilometer 2. 9:03. Another 4:30 km. Still too fast and I can’t get my heart-rate down. I slow my stride. Just keep 5min/km and you’ll be fine; conserve energy. Ok, I’ve built a 1 minute buffer, let’s just hold that and slow the pace. If I run a 3:30 marathon I’ll cross the finish line in 10:12 which was good enough for a Kona slot last year.

2:41pm: I hit km 12. I’m now at 1:00 for the run. I’ve eaten up my one minute buffer but I feel quite strong. This is where I hit the wall in Canada. I power through. The sky is overcast and I’ve been grabbing liquid at every aid station (about one every 1.5km) and dousing myself with a cup of water and drinking the sports drink. It’s probably cool enough that I don’t really need the water but I don’t want to take chances and I’ve definitely dehydrated before during a marathon which isn’t an experience I ever want to repeat. There are a couple of aid stations where volunteers are holding water in huge ladles. I take these free showers. My feet are getting drenched but I’ve got some good sports socks on and I’ll endure the slosh to keep my body temperature down.

3:00pm: km 15. Like the bike course, the run is a two loop circuit. I’m seeing double markers. Again it’s both disheartening and encouraging. On the bike I was passing people like a Shanghai taxi driver on speed; the run has been more measured and I’ve passed and been passed about equally. It’s strange, the run has always been my forte. I’ve had a singular focus for the last 5 kms: get to km 20 and you’ll almost be halfway there. Km 20. Km 20. Km 20.

3:25pm: I hit km 20. Ok, 1 km and you’re at the halfway mark. It’s amazing how these events are in their purest form a psychological chess game between your mind and body. White Queen to c6, check! Your mind tries to fool your body into an aggressive position. Black Knight takes Queen c6: nice try Kasparov, you just lost your Queen, the gambit failed, don’t drain the reserves this early in the game. The last 10kms have been quite hilly. There were three tough climbs and I know I’ll see them once again as I approach the finish on the second loop. That is not encouraging.

3:30pm: km 21 is a desolate empty marking on the road with no one around it. Odd. I would’ve expected a little encouragement at the halfway juncture. Maybe some supporters or a banner or a picture of Jon Bon Jovi Living on a Prayer. Nothing. I’ve crossed the midway point of the run in 1:49. I’ve dropped 4 minutes off my 3:30 pace. I’m not holding 5 minute kilometers anymore but I don’t feel like I can comfortably crank up the pace and I’m still feeling relatively fresh at this cadence. Body to mind: play defensively. With this split I’m at a 3:38 marathon but have lost most of my time in the last 10km so it’s probably closer to a 3:45-3:50 marathon. I change my focus to hitting km 30. The mind games continue. Once I hit the 30km mark I feel like everything left is the homestretch. This third quarter of the run is the tough one: the gas in the tank is starting to run low and you’re not close enough to the finish to will yourself to the finale. I hearken back to the California International Marathon in December. I was trying to break 3:00 for a marathon and I hit the halfway mark in 1:28. At the midway juncture my body was telling me it didn’t have enough gas to carry me to the finish in under 3. It required a lot of mental rigor to keep the pace amidst a body that was screaming “futility”. In December, I made it across the line with some time to spare. Today my body isn’t telling me I can’t. The goals are different but it’s reassuring to feel like my body is in a better place. I start to round a bend and I hear my name being screamed. The shrill cry cuts the dense island air. It’s Maya. She signed-up for a tour that has taken her to various junctures throughout the race. I’ve been keeping my eyes open for her but this is the first time I see her. Oh yeah, and hear her too. She’s screaming like a mad woman. I can tell that it’s been a long day for her. She’ll probably be spent tonight too… I get a bracelet to signify the completion of my first lap.

4:25pm: My neck is starting to hurt from all the head nodding I’ve been reciprocating to all the polite spectators who have been nodding at me throughout the race. Damn, forgot to train my neck muscles for this race… I start hitting the final three climactic climbs like a symphonic finale. Mentally I’ve been preparing myself for this Sisyphusian hurdle since the first loop but it’s still tough. One climb in particular crests 3 times and each plateau laughs at your aching limbs. I think to myself: when I cross the finish line the first thing I’m going to do is tell Maya “this Ironman thing is crazy. I’m never doing another one of these again.” It’s tongue-in-cheek and funny enough to make me smile in this state of lucidity. My regiment has been one sports drink, a water-for-shower at each aid station, and one goo every 30 minutes. The diet has worked well but my body now wants something different. Listen to your body. I start eating oranges at each of the stations and I sip my first Coke. It tastes so good when it hits the lips. I recall how my spin instructor, Michael McCormack, related a story of having the first soda of his life whilst running Ironman Canada a few years back. It was near the end of the race – which he eventually won – and he said that Coke gave him an energy boost like he’d never felt before. My body thanks me and reacts similarly.

5:20pm: I come up to km 40. I’ve got some gas left and I’ve been pacing well with a few runners. I decide to up the tempo. I run onto Samurai street – an old cobbled street where the Samurais used to live. This is the turnoff between the first and second laps. First loopers go straight, second loopers turn right into an alley and then head for the homestretch looping around the Goto Castle and into its entrance and down the finish chute. I pass km 41. 1 kilometer left. 5 minutes. I’m haven’t been looking at my watch for time checks in the last few kms; it’s just been about the finish. As I come to the last turn someone in front of a liquor store is holding up a poster with my number and name. Sweet! I smile.

5:30pm: I enter the main gate and I hear Whit yell “Maya, your brother is here. He’s coming to the finish line!” I run in. There’s a lot of commotion. Maya wanted me to turn around and bow before I crossed the line, I complete forget to do this. Instead I grab the finisher’s ribbon emphatically over my head. I’ve crossed in 10:30:51. A 3:50 marathon. It’s over! Maya runs to the finish line and I give her a big hug. A bunch of photos are snapped. There are two volunteers eyeing me, expecting (hoping?) a collapse. Not this time padawans, I feel fine. Relatively speaking, I actually feel quite good. When I crossed the line in Canada I collapsed into the volunteers’ arms and was taken to the medi-tent to get rehydrated. Today there will be none of that. I walk around and get some Coke from the finisher’s food stand. I drain about 4 cups of Coke and eat a weird Japanese cookie. I sit and Maya hands me a bowl of udon soup. My body instantly establishes a magnetic attraction to this soup. It’s the first of 4 bowls I’ll inhale whilst waiting at the finish. I go to the massage tent and come back to wait for some of my fellow gaijins to cross. Eric – the father – crosses in just under 12 hours. His son Gary will be 30 minutes behind; he had lost the pace during the bike. I also catch Dave, Derrick, and some of the other gaijins that I have met at the hotel or at the pre-race dinner. Everyone is tired but elated. A Kona slot won’t happen today. Too many people finished ahead of me. Maya scouts out Naomi, the first female to cross the line who owns the most disarming smile you’ve ever seen. I get my picture taken with her donning the peace sign. Maya and I then walk back to the hotel. As we pass the liquor store that had my name on a poster the owner grabs my arm: “Ironman Beer” he points at a keg of Suntory. Before races I self-impose a drinking moratorium. Whilst absconding during IM Canada training I thought it would be blissful to drink a celebratory beer at the finish line but, in reality, after the race that was the last thing I wanted to do. Tonight I’ll take my Ironman Beer.

9:30pm: We’ve eaten dinner. The race cutoff is 15 hours: you have to finish within that time to get a finisher’s medal. Ironman races are tough love. Most Ironmans cut-off at 17 hours (aka midnight) but for some reason Japan has a shorter cutoff. We go to the finish line to see the last racers come through. They’re pumping music through the speakers, Whit is still screaming his lungs out and jumping up and down, and the rafters are jam packed with athletes, family, and friends cheering the last of the finishers to cross the line. We get down by the finish line and create a gauntlet for the final finishers to pass under before they reach the ribbon. Everyone is celebrating: Luke McKenzie – the overall winner – is standing next to me in the gauntlet. He’s a young kid and looks like he’s having an absolute blast. His girlfriend has a huge smile on her face. Naomi is celebrating too. Both broke the course record today. In turn they each run under the gauntlet one last time. The clock strikes 10pm. Ironman Japan is one for the books.

Time to start thinking about my next one…

Here's my race report from Ironman Canada 2007:

4:45am: Wake up, drink a strong pot of coffee, eat some Balance Bars and a drink a Gatorade. Read and listen to inspirational txt messages and voicemails from friends and family. I’m stoked. I plug in my iPod: Ratatat is playing, it’ll play in my head throughout most of the day (I don’t race with an iPod)

5:45am: Get to the start line, realize that the mark-up lines are ridiculously long. Mark-up lines are where you get your race number tattooed all over you. Your age is also indelibly marked on your leg so that when a 52 year old woman blows past you on the bike, she can scratch another “sub-30 year old male” notch into her arm with a bowie knife and you can attempt to tuck and roll into the nearest brush. I run into someone from the Bay Area that I befriended on the plane, Vinod.

6:00am: Ok, the lines were long but they went quickly. I’m marked up and ready. World: give me your best shot.

6:20am: I get my bike tire pumped up, drop off my “Special Needs” bags to be handed to me at km 120 of the bike and mile 13 of the run. The bags contain any goodies or supplements that I may need along route. There’s great support during the race (aid stations every 10 miles of the bike and at every mile of the run) but they may not have everything you want (ex. Extra socks, extra tire, stanozolol)

6:35am: I shuffle into the beach/swim start. The pros launch at 6:45am; age groupers leave at 7:00am.

6:45am: The Pros take off. I’m standing on the beach; someone sings the Canadian national anthem – by far the most touching rendition I’ve heard and I’m Canadian. I’m standing next to Vinod and this guy who works at Microsoft on the Windows Core team, Ted, and who knows a bunch of the people I knew from my MSFT days, though he and I had never met.

7:00am: Ok, so they opened-up around 2,700 spots for this Ironman event because it was the 25^th anniversary. By official accounts, this is the most participants ever for an Ironman. That fact, on its own,  is pretty cool. That fact, when coupled with the reality that the race is a mass start (i.e. everyone hits the water at the same time), is a recipe for a recreation of World War II’s Battle of the Atlantic. I don’t consider myself a great swimmer and the thought of pushing my way to the front only to be trampled by the hoards ranked low on my to-do list for the day, so I backed down a few rows. The gun goes off and the race starts relatively smoothly. The beach is broad so everyone has space. Unfortunately, everyone points straight-shot for the first buoy so about 5 minutes into the race everyone is on top of each other like cicadas in heat.

7:05am: I take a couple of drubbings though no permanent damage. The worst assault is a swimmer who starts his stroke with his hand on my shoulder and finishes it when both hand and shoulder are submerged and two feet under/behind him. In an unintentional (though karmic?) move, my next stroke hits his shoulder and he suffers a mirrored fate. I feel quite bad and decide to move to an open lane.

7:30am: I am now drafting behind another swimmer. Sitting behind his (her?) bubbles. This is goodness™.

8:12am: I get out of the water in 1:12:46 (for 2.4 miles). I’m quite relaxed. I told my Coach, Neil, that I expected to swim around 1:12 so I’m right on the money. A bit faster then what I clocked for the Vineman AquaBike race, but I think the timing chip was off during that race. I’m pleased with the swim.

8:13am: I run out of the water and into transition. A volunteer gets me on the ground and rips off my wetsuit. Apparently they only provide this First Class service during Ironman events. I’ve never had my wetsuit ripped-off by someone else before and, to be honest, it wasn’t as sexy as it sounds. Some gruff commands: “get on the ground”, “raise your butt”, and some ex-enchanting ex-East German ex-athletes tugging your wetsuit off isn’t quite what you’d play Barry White to. That said, the volunteers Rocked! the entire day. This event had unprecedented support from Volunteers and fans. I can’t say enough about that. The town was 100% behind the event and transition and finish line were packed with supporting townsfolk! Aside a side: Post-tug, I run, grab my transition bag, get changed and hit my bike. I’m in and out of transition in 3:09. Transitions seem a bit slower during Ironman events because your transition gear isn’t sitting next to your bike, so you have to run around to get changed.

8:16am: I start cranking on my bike. Neil had told me to get my heart rate to between 135bpm and 145bpm for the first 70-80 miles. I look at my watch: 155bpm. Shit. I try for a few minutes to get it down but it doesn’t budge, then magically around 10 minutes into the race I’m down around 142bpm. Sweetness.

8:44am: I hit the first 10 mile marker in 28 minutes. 21.4 miles an hour (a 5:13 bike), that’s way faster than I expected, though the first part of the course is pretty flat.

9:12am: Mile 20 in 56 minutes. Same pace, the course is fast, no headwind, no sun, and my heart rate is good. no hills… yet.

9:38am: Mile 30 at 1:22. 21.95mph ~ 5:09 pace. What the?!?

11:01am: I start hitting some rolling hills. My time stabilizes (i.e. slows). I cross the midway point (56 miles) in 2:45; I’m averaging out about 10 miles in 30 minutes. Just over a 5:30 for all 112 miles. I did a 5:48 bike at Vineman and though the conditions were tougher, I wasn’t running afterwards. Not too shabby. But I also know that I’m coming to the hills.

11:01+/-change: I take on the infamous Richter pass. It’s about 1,500 meters in 12kms. 1,500 meters?!? I thought it was 1,500 feet; oh well, definitely miss-trained for that one. I start climbing. I’m typically a decent climber and today is no exception. I start moving through the masses. I stay in my saddle (once you’re off your saddle you add about 10bpm), however my heart rate is jumping up to 158bpm for most of the climb. I am trying to keep it below 160bpm for the entire race. I get to the top of the climb, look at the upcoming descent, smile at the guy next to me and ask him if that’s it. He says “yeah, you’re a quarter of the way up.” After a brief descent we start climbing again. And then again. And then again. The climbs are actually not that bad and I feel pretty good at the top. We descend and hit a straight away. The wind picks up; my splits are slowing. I have twenty miles of straight away before the next climb, I figure I can recoup some time. I’m wrong.

12:24am: I hit mile 80 with a bike time of 4:08. Dammit. A 52 year old woman passes me. Re-dammit. I’m slowing down and I have another pass (Yellow Lake) ahead of me. I also get my Special Needs bag now. I’ve been putting down one powergel every 30 minutes and getting a water bottle at each aid station, downing two gulps of water and pouring the rest on me. I had two Gatorade bottles at the beginning of the ride and they lasted me till about halfway through. It’s a cool day, so I guess the water was largely enough to keep me hydrated. My Special Needs bag contains enough powergels for me to finish the ride and some aspirin in case I’m hurting. I’m not hurting, At mile 70 I had a brief moment of worry about my fitness, but now I feel really good. The volunteers miss giving me my bag, so I have to stop and turn around to get my special needs bag. I stock up and take off.

[warning the next entry involves some gratuitous race details about a natural human law: you can’t race for 11 hours and not go pee]

12:30am: I didn’t pee before the swim start and since the beginning of the bike I’ve been needing to go. People are pulling off to the side to pee in bushes. I decide I’m going to do what any pro worth his salt would do: I decide that I’m not getting off my bike. Non-orthogonal aside: there’s a golden rule in racing: don’t try anything new on race day. I’ve never peed on my bike; in fact I’ve never had to pee during a race. There’s another lesson here but first some background. Background: triathletes apply this deodorant-like stick called bodyglide to prevent chaffing, typically it’s applied around the neck and underarms for the wetsuit swim (it’s also used around wrists and ankles to get the wetsuit off quickly). Lesson: apply bodyglide (or Vaseline) to your groin, it’s going to get chafed. Here’s another lesson: contrary to popular belief, pee isn’t sterile and chafed areas don’t take well to it. After 5 minutes of agony, I’m focused on the race again. It didn’t kill me so hopefully it made me stronger.

1:24pm: Ironman Canada has two climbs, they’re both about 1.5km but the second one is much more gradual. I virtually don’t realize I’ve gone through the second climb, when I do I’m at the top. Now begins the descent to transition. I feel great. I catch the 52 year old. Mild victory. In a somewhat self-effacing move, I decide to write home about it.

1:50pm: A race official pulls up beside me in his motorcycle to tell me that I’m being warned for boxing-in another rider. I didn’t think I was boxing anyone in. I ask him if I’m getting a penalty, hard to tell what he’s yelling at me but it looks like just a warning. I box him out into oncoming traffic and ride on.

2:00pm: I ride into transition. My bike time is 5:44:37. Everything feels good. At the end of Vineman bike I felt like running a marathon was the last thing I could possibly want to do; Canada is completely different. I’m amped and itching to transition and start running.

2:03pm: I’m in and out of transition in just under 3 minutes (2:42). Pretty quick. Neil told me to keep my heart rate around 140-145bpm for the first 5 miles of the run. I run mile 1 at 155bpm. Shit, maybe it’ll stabilize. Also I did a 7:05 minute mile for the first mile (about a 3:10 marathon). Double shit. I’m running way too fast. A 3:10 is just a few minutes behind today’s eventual winner’s marathon time (3:02). I slow down. Start running 8 minute miles, but my heart rate doesn’t go down. Damn it.

3:00pm: I cross the 8 mile mark in 64 minutes and take pee break number two (this time in a port-a-potty). I’m averaging a 3:24 marathon. Much faster than I would’ve expected. The weather’s really good, it’s overcast and there has been some drizzle. I feel great but I still haven’t managed to get my heart rate down. Then I hit the hills. Ironman Canada’s marathon course undulates and the hills start around mile 9 or 10. After the first couple of hills I lose my aforementioned comfort.

3:30pm: For the first time in any race (with the exception of that walk-run race I did with the AIDS Marathon group) I walk a hill. My heart rate is too high (I was supposed to be around 145-155bpm for miles 5-10 and I’m pushing high 150s, low 160s on the hills) and I need to stabilize it. I figure walking will help. It does, marginally.

3:55pm: Getting to the half-marathon checkpoint is an ordeal. I’m losing steam. I clock 1:52 half-marathon having lost 7 minutes in the last 4 miles and now I have to turn around and hit the same hills in reverse.

4:15pm: At this point most of the people around me are also walking hills. Wusses. I join them. I yearn to get out of the hilly terrain.

4:45pm: I’m now on the flats but still tired. I’m stopping and walking aid stations as I pick-up fluid. There have been aids stations every mile and I’ve been methodical about my liquids and gels. Still one gel every 30 minutes and two waters and a sponge at each rest stop. Most of the water hits my head and cools my back and every now and then I put down a cup of Gatorade. By mile 17 Gatorade isn’t too appealing anymore, so it’s just water. I think about putting down three aspirin but decide against it. I’ll plow through the pain.

5:40pm: My pace has slowed during the second half and I’m not feeling so hot. The anticipation of each mile marker has me salivating like Odysseus before the sirens; I too feel tied to a mast.

5:50pm: I’m past the last mile marker and there’s one more aid station. I walk it and get some fluids. Someone passes me: “hey, don’t miss the sub-11 hour club”. Shoot. Stupid inspiration. I’m off trotting again.

5:57pm: I cross the finish line with a 3:54:36 marathon. 10:57:50 total. Sub-11 hours, right around my ballpark though earlier in the race I had visions of 10:30 (start of the run) and even 10:15 (midway through the bike). All-in-all I’m pleased with my result. My pleasure is curtailed by my inability to walk or hold myself-up under my own power. Some volunteers hold me up and take me to the medi-tent. There is talk of IVs and the like. All this sounds strangely appealing. I’m as tired as I can ever remember being and my fingers start tingling. They put me on a lawn chair and cover me. The nurse tells me that she’s going to change me. She’s seems friendly but I think it’s a bit forward for a first date. I tell her thanks but I’ll change myself out of my tri shorts. A doc takes my pressure, heart rate, etc. I ask for liquids (coke, water, broth) and food (pizza and sandwiches). I inhale 4 cups of water, 3 cokes, the broth, and the pizza. Clearly I’m dehydrated. Ok, I figured I’d be tired but I think I need to revisit my nutrition for these long races. The doctor seems to think I’m totally fine and probably shouldn’t really be in the tent. I’m quite comfortable and really just want him to go tend to other patients so I can get some shuteye. The game is afoot and Dr. Kasparov wins. Bobby Fischer is unceremoniously escorted out of the medi-tent to meet his host family. I pick up my bike and the mom in my host family, Ann, goes to Tim Horton’s to get me some donuts and coffee which I inhale, along with two huge bowls of pasta, some home-made broth, the sandwiches from the medi-tent, three glasses of water and a couple of pieces of bread with honey. The Timmy Ho’s cup of coffee ranks up amongst the top 10 things I’ve ever tasted. I also jump into their hot tub; it feels like a Tim Horton’s donut glazed with a drop of sweet heaven.

1:40am: I assess my ailments. Overall I feel pretty darn good: some chafing, shot calves and blisters on my feet (from getting my socks wet). This day is now officially over.

I leave you with the source of the inspirational txt message I got from Ben at 4am, minutes before I left for my race: ABC (aka Always Be Closing for those Glengarry Glenn Ross fans).