Ironman Florida 2020
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“Do you have a mantra?”
The night before the race, Jessica texted me with this question, offering “good vibes and prayers for endurance and focus.”
“I gotta million mantras,” I told her. “Depends which one pops in my head at the time. The endurance and focus is probably exactly what I need.”
Part of what made this question difficult to answer was because several of my main mantras were less a handful of powerful words, and more an image of a person or group of people that love me and are deeply invested in my success. Anyone from CrossFit Liberate can picture Dustin Valenta cheering me on from the front stoop of Fuel Yoga Studio, “last one, fast one!” or holding me accountable that both feet touch the box...from the whole other side of the gym and behind the window. Meanwhile, he’d be in the middle of 2,000 double unders as a supplementary snack to two other adjacent grueling WODs. How could I let him - or anyone else from the gym - down?
One of my favorite pictures of Dustin with one of my favorite questions. His feature post on GettingSwolder podcast.
Or Brad Frink from Athens Running Company. The way I compared him to Gregg Popovich that day he totally let me interrupt his off-the-clock day so he could affirm my efforts, talk me up, and feed me invaluable information I could’ve likely found online myself, but had all wrapped up in his brain. He’s not only a wealth of knowledge, but is so unconditionally generous with this information, and more gratefully, his time. How could I not follow his advice and pace accordingly? How could I come home and tell him I drank too much or not enough and had to truncate the race for something like that?
Mad respect to Brad Frink.
Rhuben Williams and Wes Gresham from Strength and Strike Fitness, and the rest of their crew, for inviting me to swim with Rachel Allen of Nabo Realty at her beautiful, beautiful lakehouse. As the season progressed, Rachel - someone I’ve actually known for nearly a decade by now - and I came to be pretty close swim buddies. Our fitness levels in the water were comparable, both in terms of speed and endurance, so open water training with her became a no brainer. Not to mention her motherly nature when I anxiously spent the first half hour of our small-window swim sessions (yes, plural) venting about some crippling conversation with my ex. Whether on that regard or in relation to my training, my best interest was her priority and she supported me without fail.
Left: Rachel Allen Middle: Rhuben and Megan Right: Wes and Maggie
My grandmother for basically getting neglected this whole year as I’ve used her guest room to sleep my tired body, and her bathroom to wash it, her living room to store my n+1 bike addiction, and her kitchen to cook whatever I was posting on Instagram that day. After I’d come home from a long day of training in Athens, she’d often already be asleep. Finding ways to express appreciation for her, her space, and her time was something that frequented my mind but was too seldom acted on.
Everyone who ran with me and kept me company on those 3 hour runs. Everyone who talked with me on the phone or sent inspiring texts to my watch when they couldn’t be there in person to get me through those 6 hour indoor bike rides with nothing to look at but the inside of my closet. Everyone who consoled me when I was burnt out and sleep deprived. Calorie deficited. Everyone who gave me nutrition advice for before, during, and after workouts. Everyone who called me crazy for spending an entire paycheck just to register for a dawn to dusk visit to Hell, but believed in my discipline, motivation, resilience, determination...even when I didn’t. I knew I had the support of many, and I knew I was on the line to report back early this week. How could I say to even one person that I didn’t finish? How could I tell them that their efforts in supporting me weren’t enough?
Midweek track work to keep me lookin’ the part.
And my motivation was never exempt from intrinsic. I knew what I had on the line. Sure, an expensive registration and all that. But more important than a one-time financial expense, I’ve turned down entire jobs (again, plural) in order to focus on this race most effectively. I mentioned crippling conversations with my ex - yeah, I essentially turned down the girl of my dreams because I couldn’t risk losing her mid-season. My brother returned from a COVID-extended overseas mission with the military and I remember being such an ass to him, primarily because I was just spent from training and was too hangry to muster the patience he deserved. This training was taking a toll on my career and my relationships, but I wasn’t about to let 2018 repeat itself. I had gone pretty hard in the 2017 season and didn’t have much of an offseason between that and starting Bike&Build the summer of ‘18. I ran my first marathon that January, and spent a lot of sunless-afternoons training for that. By the time the full came at the end of that season, I was pretty burnt out by the volume, and was also extremely nervous after realizing that what they meant when they said “bike across the country” was really “sample local ice cream shops and breweries across the country, commuting via bike.” A great experience, but not the training I’d anticipated going in. So come race day, I was not prepared, physically or mentally. I paced the bike A LOT and walked the first five miles of the run. At that point, I experienced for the first time, throwing up in a workout. From walking? Another first: DNF. I knew it was time to focus on some other things and embrace the off-season in 2019, but I couldn’t have that status looming over me for too long.
Motivation aside, the body still does what it do. You can’t fake an Ironman. You’re physically prepared or you’re not, and if you didn’t put in the training hours, you’re not prepared. How did my legs hold up in the race? I’ll start with the swim.
Left: Dat boi Jake Jones holding me accountable to a 6am swim. Right: Transitioning from a midsummer sunrise swim to an 8 mile run.
With the social distancing and return-to-racing policies in place, we had a 3-person rolling start. We lined up according to projected swim seeds in what seemed like a mile-long corral. 1,200 athletes lined up beachside, all dressed in swim cap, goggles, wetsuit, and a disposable face mask, all trying to warm up in the sandy confines of their 6-foot roving block that actually wasn’t really well partitioned after all. When it was finally my turn to start, I threw my mask in the trash and bolted into the water like I do every race. I wasn’t even in the water and I was already ahead of the two athletes I was starting with. Knees high to avoid as much resistance as possible, I ran as deep into the water as I logically could before I dove headfirst and started dolphin kicking in a tight streamline. I could see people two waves ahead of me that I was passing. I broke streamline and gave a little push to clear myself from the frantic pack of kicking. I swam a couple hundred yards, still putting in some effort to break the cluster, but still deep in the thick of other swimmers. I had seeded myself too far back. I was smoking everyone I had started with, and I didn’t feel like my effort was beyond sustainable. I was sighting more than I wanted to, but between the other swimmers not swimming straight, the waves obscuring my view when I did sight, and the color of the kayak lifeguards blending in with the course buoys, it was necessary. When I finished the first lap, my watch said I’d done it in under 35 minutes. Much faster than the 2018 race, and only a few minutes slower than the downstream river swim in Augusta. I drank the aid station water as recommended to flush the salt water from my palate, and also realized how cold the gulf water no longer felt after hauling ass for half an hour in a full sleeve wetsuit. I entered the water for my second lap, and was cognizant not to overheat or dehydrate. I pulled on the neck of my wetsuit to let some cold water in, and my whole body was instantly cooled. Round 2 was not unlike the first, although I was getting increasingly nauseous with some of the bigger swells. A couple times, I swam breaststroke with my head out for a few seconds to regain my bearings, and that helped. I also was not dizzy at either points transitioning from prone to upright on the shore, contrary to my expectation. Still borderline overheating and feeling a little constricted in my wetsuit, I walked most of T1. Found a shower that spectators were shouting had higher pressure than the makeshift ones Ironman had provided, so I rinsed there and leaned on the handrail to squirm out of my wetsuit. That’s a whole workout in itself!
If I had taken this picture just a minute sooner, that Quintana Roo wouldn’t be there to hide my red-wheeled Motobecane. Price tag juxtapose!
T1 went pretty smoothly, with the exception of wrestling with my tangled jersey like a fly in a spider web. Once a neutral volunteer helped me realize it was tangled, I finished putting it on, helmet, glasses, shoes, double checked my bag for anything else I might need, and started off on the bike course. The first little bit was kinda...surreal in terms of my perceived effort. I seldom race at that low level of intensity - I felt like I could be crushing out a lot more watts and really use my strong bike background to lower my overall time in this race. On the other hand, I was watching my intensity factor. I was already skeptical that it was based on a skewed reality - one that would slow me down - but after 70 miles, it actually became pretty difficult to maintain even a 0.79IF. My understanding - which after talking to Will from Infinit, was wrong - was that I should aim for approximately 0.8 as a max IF for a race like this. So that’s what I did. It was windy as hell, and even the crosswinds seemed to pull us back. Late in the race, that wind really caught up to me and I could feel my quads threatening to cramp. How could I be cramping? I’ve biked centuries countless times, in hotter conditions, faster conditions, etc. What was happening? Two things I speculated: I chased an intensity factor that was too high, or I was running out of nutrition. I got to my last bottle and it just didn’t smell right, so I was pretty hesitant to drink it and risk GI upset knowing I still had several hours of racing to go. But I couldn’t just not eat or drink. I took a Gatorade from an aid station and diluted it with a cold water from the same station, and it just sat sooo heavy on my stomach. Skyler and I sometimes jokingly nerd out on Infinit’s use of the word “osmolality,” but the absorption rate of the stuff I use really makes a difference. With even the diluted, sugary Gatorade, I felt like my body was in need, but when I gave it something to digest, it just sat in my stomach and wasn’t used. It did help more than none, but it sure wasn’t the Infinit I was more accustomed to.
High key love this stuff. Custom blend for tasty, quick absorption.
Approaching T2, I couldn’t remember if I had left myself a bottle for the first half of the run. I knew I had one in special needs for the second, but I was a little worried that I had overlooked the first part as I was packing for such a long day.
I hadn’t, though. I got to my rack and found my Infinit water right there by my shoes, hat, and race belt. I grabbed what I needed and headed out. Garmin clocked my first mile at 9:30! I didn’t feel like I was exerting a ton of energy; I didn’t feel like I was running particularly fast. But apparently my feet were carrying me at rate I would’ve been ecstatic to say I maintained for the duration of the run. I really didn’t know how I should pace my run besides RPE and reported heart rate. Based on those and what I knew of my training runs, I wondered how sustainable that was. Shortly into mile 2, I found my answer. I still wasn’t fully recovered from the cramp threats I’d experienced on the bike. I had my Infinit and surprisingly, I was kinda coming back out of the hole. It’s been my previous experience that once you run out of fuel, hydration, whatever it is, there’s really no recovering until some time long after the race/workout. Not this time, though. I walked a short while, recovered a bit, and ran some more. Seemed like I’d find a cramp threatening every mile or two, and the time between these seemed to shorten as the race went on. I told myself that the pain in my ankle - the one where it felt like my fibula was going to shatter into oblivion on my next step - was the type of pain that I wanted. My ankle wasn’t actually going to shatter, and if it did, I was still finishing the race. A cramp, on the other hand, had me a little more nervous, and that’s exactly what my entire lower body was trying to do almost the entirety of the run course. Even small muscles like my calves and peroneus tertius. My quads. My adductors. My iliopsoas. I was falling apart. Even a slow jog brought these threats that if I were to run one second per mile faster, whichever muscle was in question at the time would seize up and I’d fall to the ground. This is where those visual mantras came in so handy.
Enjoying a spicy apple cider blend in a salt bath the night before. Didn’t drink it because I believed it’d alleviate cramps a day in advance but rather because it was the closest thing to Fireball Whisky (arguably spicier) I’d drink before the race!
I was just talking to Frances the night before about this ginger- and cayenne-based drink that is supposed to help with cramps mid-workout. From my understanding, the whole premise is that the whiskey-like spice on your tongue is safe for your stomach, but hurts enough to release endorphins and subsequently alleviate cramps pretty immediately. My experience with this concoction is still fairly limited, but the logic was there and I was definitely capitalizing on the principle this last weekend.
I had recently watched Breaking Away, a classic cycling movie where the main character spends the majority of the movie training for a big race, his dad resenting him in his prior success but realizing his son’s incessant dedication to family after being cheated out of a podium in that race. Towards the end of the movie, the son and main character enters another, smaller but still significant race in Bloomington, IN that was designed to be run as a relay with 3 other teammates. The plan was for him to do the whole thing solo, and I don’t think the other teammates had trained one minute to show up for him had something gone awry. Sure enough, he did wreck and his team did show up for him. They took turns giving it their absolute all until they couldn’t anymore, where Crippled Dave from the Cutters Team taped his feet to the pedals and still managed to win the race. His friends weren’t the only ones to show up for him, though. His dad that he loved so unconditionally, despite his resentment and jealousy portrayed in so much of the first two thirds of the movie, was tuned in on the radio at work and finally left work to see his son cross the finish line in true protagonist fashion, resiliently defying all odds.
Obviously that’s just a movie, and reality never matches, right? Maybe, maybe not. Near that 70 mile mark on the bike when my legs first started telling me they were spent, I saw a sign that asked “What does CD even stand for?” I thought, “surely there’s not another CD on the course. How could that be for me? I’m here by myself.” But immediately after, there were two other signs with some silly but inspiring speculations of what CD could stand for. When I saw the side addition, “HE NEED SOME MELK!” I knew it could only be Skyler. But did he have these signs mailed to a local? How could he be there? It made me smile, and the support I felt put tears in my eyes. At mile 85, I saw some more signs. Another pick-me-up from the squad. A final bike sign near mile 100 reminded me more and more that I’ve got mad support back home and someone is cheering for me. Yeah, me. In nearly a decade of racing, I’ve passed countless signs for “my dad who’s faster than yours” or for Mike or Andy or whoever, but I can’t remember one time I had my very own sign with my name on it. On the run course, I saw a sign fairly early on that had my face photoshopped onto a picture of Biggie Smalls wearing a crown. The sign assured me that I was doing great things and I couldn’t get discouraged if things weren’t perfect. I knew I wasn’t alone. My squad had shown up for me, just like they had in the movie. But were they physically there or were the signs mailed? I still didn’t have concrete answers.
Some crafty dialect to keep me feeling loved, supported, and motivated. Some new, some old, all revealing of the underlying masterminds.
I started doing the math. Before I left, Grammy asked me about a project I had in her living room and told me my younger siblings were coming to sleep over that weekend. Was that code for Skyler and the Greenville squad pitstopping at the crib before finishing the drive the next day? Was Emilee in on this? I had texted Jessica a day or two before the race telling her that I didn’t want to get my hopes up on Emilee showing up, because even though we’d talked about it at one point, my understanding was that she resented me too much and would rather spend her weekend racing elsewhere. Jessica’s response: she might. You never know. Between all that, in addition to some other little snippets I’d tried to hear the universe tell me, I was starting to feel encouraged that Papá might leave work to see his son succeed. I had been picturing her at the finish line since like...I don’t know, June or something. My vision was similar to her HIM finish in Muncie last summer - she raced a phenomenal race and then basically died in my arms. It was one of my favorite moments with her and the thought of trading places, especially after everything that’s transpired this year, brought tears to my eyes every time I thought about it. It was the endorphin rush that the spicy ginger drink touted itself on. I never saw Emilee at the race, but the hope that she’d be there carried me through cramp after cramp. That, and realizing that my Greenville family actually was there. At the halfway point in the run, I heard my name cheered from a spectator, loud and clear. Almost broke my neck turning so fast to see who it was. It was Jessica! And who blistered his sockless-feet running next to me from outside the barricades? Skyler! They literally, physically showed up. They drove all the way from Greenville the night before, never said a word, and surprised me on race day. Days later, I’m still crying thinking about the crazy, selfless and incessant support these friends bring to the table. They’d even printed a big blow up of my photoshopped, crown-wearing face onto a 2X3-foot framed picture and brought it to the finish line. Needless to say, I was spent from the race, and they carried almost all of my stuff - including my bike which had apparently broken a spoke and therefore couldn’t be ridden or rolled - like a mile back to the car, which was still slightly closer than the hotel I was staying in. What would I have done without them? I’d probably still be washed up at the medical tent. I’m so incredibly lucky to have friends like them and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.
Left: My face lit up when I heard a familiar voice. Right: Skyler being the real one he always is.
Left: Me crossing the finish line in utmost joy. Right: Me crossing the finish line in tears of joy. Yeah, I cried. Several times.
Crawling is in the official Athletes’ Guide!
It was a precarious balance, finding the line between cramping, shattering, hobbling, falling flat on my face, throwing in the towel...and using this mental magic to defy physical limitations and persevere. One thing I’m proud of myself for is riding that line pretty well. Had I hoped for a faster time? Sure. Did I leave every ounce of grit I had out there on the course? Absolutely. Could I have done any of it alone? Not in a million years.
Left: Me just trying to live as my friends and I debriefed each other post race. Right: The freakin’ squad showin’ out with the blown up CD Smalls picture.
My Greenville family and me enjoying some local brew on the beach the next day.
As some parting thoughts, I want to circle back around and remember my purpose in posting things like this. Ultimately, I want to empower and encourage others to reach more of their potential and do things they might not have thought they could do at some point in the past. Triathlon, especially long distance, is very white male dominated and the financial implications are nothing to sneeze at. I recognize my privilege and how it’s contributed to my success in this accomplishment. However, I didn’t grow up with doctors and lawyers. I didn’t even run cross country in high school. My upbringing, whether financial or otherwise, doesn’t look like the typical past of a triathlete. The bike I raced on was an undervalued entry level tri bike made in 2001. How much did I pay for it? I traded a friend for a 6 pack of beer. The pretentious alien-helmet I wore? Got it used and slightly broken for like 80% off the retail price. The smart trainer I used on many of my indoor bike rides? Another antiquated technology I lucked out on when my LBS was doing away with their spin classes. The time it took to train for something like this? I often question whether I could do that with a wife and kids, or a more conventional full time job. But in a non-COVID year, that’s what everyone does. I’m very fortunate to have a low cost residence and access to various, qualified professionals to help coach me through big training days. Could I do another Ironman today, four days later? Heck no. I can barely stand up from the toilet. Could you do one today? I don’t know who’s reading this, but there’s a good chance the answer is also no. Ironman finishers make up less than 1% of the population. But could you train for it and become part of that 1%? I believe so, and the answer to that question is ultimately the same as whether you believe so. If it’s important to you, I know you can find a way to juggle work, school, family, whatever it is, even if you have to take the 2019 off season I did and line up some ducks first. If you have Down Syndrome. If you’re 80 years old. If you’ve never done a shorter race in your life. These examples are directly translated from people who ran the same course I did last Saturday. They can do it. You can too. Ironman’s current slogan: Anything is Possible. And I believe that.
Of course, there’s nothing to say that a race like this isn’t just a metaphor for literally anything else in life. I don’t expect everyone to do an Ironman, and I would hope that whatever goal it is you’re chasing is one that leaves you feeling fulfilled most days out of the year. Could be a race, could be school, could be something as small as ensuring great customer service at your job. Maybe it’s overcoming a fear of something overt, or a more deeply rooted trauma from a time in your past. Whatever the goal, set it, formulate and execute a plan, and reach it. Some things are tough, for sure. Some people have more opportunities and options than others. But my hope is that with the right support - the right community - and the right mindset, you can do anything you put your mind to.
A few of the Instagram posts I’d save day in and day out. Gotta find motivation where you can.
A loner, three amigos, and a romantic couple decompressing under a beachside sunset.
Speaking of sunsets…just unreal. All weekend long.
Finally - I can eat!
The Pour of PCB - a super inviting, Christian coffee shop with wide open spaces, comfy couches, a printer, a phone to call your mom…the ambiance was perfect!
This is Clarice Good. I came out of the bathroom at lunch and saw her vibrant colors perched tableside by this couple. I have to laugh at myself for thinking she might have been a resident of the beach - she lived with the couple and was not only friendly enough to let me hold her, she even said “hi” to me!
Stopped under a bridge on my way back and happened to see this lone flower growing where others wouldn’t. You know how I feel about those.