Day 1 ended with a walk in the clouds. But on Day 2 I found out what I was really made of. I found true meaning. I found purpose.
To recap, on Day 1 of this year’s Ultraman, I handily won the 6.2 mile swim and held my lead all day on the 90 mile bike up to Volcano National Park to win the day outright, finishing with almost a full 10 minute lead on the entire field. It was truly a dream come true.
I knew that it would be close to impossible for me to hold my lead when the Day 2 / 170 mile bike was done. With multiple UM champ Ribeiro (Brazil) fast on my heels, followed by LaRoue’s (Australia) fierce bike skills, Kotland’s (Czech / USA) unrelenting pace and Kregar’s (Slovenia) mad experience, it was an order beyond tall.
My realistic goal was to hang on to the lead pack for the initial torrid draft legal 20 mile descent down Volcano and then manage my effort in an attempt to limit the damage to about 20-30 minutes. I felt this was a reasonable goal and if I could achieve it, I could finish the Day top 5. Best case scenario top 3.
Things don’t always go as you plan. At least not my plan.
As the competitors lined up on the road in the dark, the gunners jockeyed their bikes for front position amidst nervous chatter. I have never seen anyone as serious as Rip Oldmeadow, who placed himself in the very front, wound like a spring ready to explode on his ferocious black P4. It was more than clear that he was going to blast it straight off.
When the gun sounded, all the top guys lept like jaguars. It was a velodrom match sprint, all endeavoring to establish a quick lead and form an organized front peloton. I made the drastic error of not warming up before the start and thus was caught completely off guard by just how fast the pace would be straight off the line. Rookie mistake. I did my best to get into the pack, but my legs quickly bloated with lactate and I simply was unable to hang on to the back of the pack without risk of exploding. The pace was so fast that even the experienced Kotland looked over at me and said “What the hell are they doing!?” But the difference between him and me? He made the jump into the group and I didn’t.
This left me slowly falling off the back of the lead group right from the outset. Scurrying alone in no-man’s land. In the rain on slick wet pavement. Feet soaked from the start. In a draft legal situation, the last thing you want to do is get caught alone. The lead pack slowly pulled away and yet I was far in front of the next pack. This meant I was left with a choice. Either work the descent (while most could coast in the comfort of an enveloping draft and thus save precious energy), or slow down and wait for the next pack to pick me up and blow some time. I chose the former, pushing the descent alone all the way to the bottom, hitting an average pace in the 40-45 mph range. That meant I was already exerting more energy than most right off the bat.
The lead guys (with Oldmeadow blasting a fierce lead off the front) had about a 90 second – 2 minute lead on me by the bottom of the long descent. Ce’st la vie. But again, this was about minimizing damage, not doing something stupid and expending too much energy too early in a 170 mile ride.
At the bottom of the descent I made the hard right turn south as the sun struggled to come up and warm my frozen wet body. But unlike last year, the rain not only continued, it accelerated. In fact, it pretty much poured rain all day long. Hardly my favorite thing. I don’t mind the rain so much, but I can’t stand wet feet. Should have put rain covers on my shoes. Too late now.
Riding alone, I couldn’t see anyone either ahead or behind me until I passed Gary Wang, changing a flat on the side of the road. He would go on to suffer multiple flats that day. What a bummer.
But I was finally beginning to feel warmed up by the time I made the turn onto the “Red Road” – a stretch of terrain along the south-east corner of the Island that is some of the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen anywhere. This section is the one part of the entire course that is “off limits” to crew support. For 15 miles, you are on your own. Should a mishap arise, you are likely left to fend for yourself.
Little did I know this would be my plight.
As I turned onto the final very bumpy stretch of the Red Road (which is actually red), the downpour increased, with nobody in sight either in front or behind me. And like that, I hit a bump. My left hand slipped off my wet handlebars, I lost my balance and before I knew it, my body was sailing over the front of my bike. I went down. Hard and alone. Sprawled on the pavement with crumbles of Red Road now quite literally coursing through my bloodstream, I slowly ambled to my feet and surveyed the damage. Blood was running down my left arm from my shoulder and elbow due to some pretty severe road rash. My left knee was also battered and bleeding. Then the bike. A broken left pedal. Damn. I could probably live with some blood and swelling. But I can’t ride 140 more miles with a broken pedal.
My race was over.
Seeing no need to rush, I gingerly got back on my bike and began to pedal with my right leg. Slowly making my way about a mile to the end of the Red Road where an array of crew vehicles awaited their riders.
I rolled up and disembarked. “Its over. My race is done.”
Julie came to my aid and before I knew it, I was surrounded by crew members from the various competitors, all scurrying to help. Peter MacIntosh, crewing for Kathy Winkler, asked what type of pedal I needed and before I could blink returned with an identical Look Keo. Peter, Vito Biala and a host of others (its all a blur) tended to my wounds and worked on my bike with rapid fury. It was like Johan Bruyneel himself had suddenly appeared in the Astana Team Car as a crew of people I either barely knew or hadn’t even met worked on me and my bike like it was an Indy 500 pitstop. In case you missed it, this is the true epitome of the Ultraman spirit. The meaning of “Ohana” in action. Its what this race is all about.
“You’re not done. Get back on your bike and get it done”. The words of Peter MacIntosh.
But that switch had flipped. I would later thank my wife, Peter and Vito for the encouragement, but at this moment I actually wanted it to be over. Physically and mentally I had decided I was done. It had only been about 15 minutes or so since I went down, but I had already adjusted to this decision. In fact, I was feeling relief. I didn’t want to continue. I was glad I had an excuse to call it quits.
But this was no longer an option. Yeah I was in pain. But my bike seemed to now be operable. How do you turn the switch back on? I looked into Julie’s eyes. Forget about all my training. I thought about how much she and my kids had sacrificed to get me to this point. There was no way I could quit. But how was I going to get back into it? I could barely lift my left shoulder and my knee was quickly beginning to swell. But the bigger issue was adjusting mentally to the idea that I now had to ride hurt for another 140 miles in the rain after losing so much time. All the verve had drained from my body and spirit.
Time to meet your maker.
I did what I had to do. I turned off the mind. I got back on the bike. Yeah it hurt. And yeah I was slow. It was minute by minute. Second by second. I just tried to stay in the moment and dispense with the pity party. But in truth, it ended up being a long hard sufferfest of a day. I just wanted it to be over like never before.
As I managed to get through Hilo and head north up the Eastern seaboard, I struggled with slipping gears. My bike derailleurs were seriously out of alignment and I was having difficulty not only shifting but preventing the gears from slipping all over the place. Then to add insult to injury, Shanna Armstrong appeared out of nowhere looking fresh as a daisy as she handily rode by me with Swiss ultra-sensation Trix Zgraggen right on her wheel. I won’t get into the details, but let’s just say I am a material witness to some of the most egregious drafting I have ever seen. I warned her off. Shanna’s crew warned her off. But Trix hugged Shanna’s wheel tight for the next four hours as I tagged a coupled hundred feet behind, closely observing the ongoing transgression. The fact that she was not disqualified for her behavior is beyond me.
Shanna is an amazing athlete and an amazing spirit — not once did she complain or say a peep about it, going on to crush the Day 2 bike record. But that’s Shannon.
As for myself, my heart continued to sink, as during last year’s Ultraman I rode with Shannon through this very same stretch of landscape. Despite countless hours working on my cycling over the last year, I was right back in 2008. I didn’t realize she was riding 45 minutes faster than she had in 2008. And I didn’t want to credit my crash for my position.
As you head towards Waimea, you are faced with a long climb that was more than enough to crush my dying spirit and soaking wet body. It took everything I had to stay focused. Just keep pedaling. Just get this day behind you. As I headed into town I was greeted by increased downpours but a welcome descent before the final backbreaking 6 mile climb up the Kohalas. There was no attacking this climb. Only toleration. As I crested the mount, I just prayed that the pavement would be dry for the final very fast and wicked 15 mile descent into Hawi. I could not afford to crash again at a high speed. My prayers were answered as I mustered a final push to cross the finish line.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t fast. But I got it done. From 1st place on Day 1, I dropped to 6th.
As I collapsed on the ground seconds later, I realized that as much as my Day 1 victory meant to me, today was far more meaningful. The fact that I was able to complete the day at all, boosted by the love of my wife, children and crew member Alan will hold a memory far more palpable. Far more resonant. And far more lasting.
I promised that should I win Day 1 I would do everything in my power to use what was given to me to inspire others. In the wake of what has happened since my return home, I can only now appreciate that what transpired on Day 2 would prove far more inspiring than what occurred on Day 1. Like I said, careful what you wish for.
If God had spoken to me directly and said: “OK dude. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna give you some glory on Day 1. But you’re gonna have to pay for it on Day 2 by going down hard. Then you’re gonna have to pick your sorry butt up and finish the job.” I’m fairly certain that I would not have signed that contract.
And therein lie the beauty of Ultraman. And in point of fact the beauty of everything. God’s plan is ALWAYS better than my plan. That is a fact.
I can truthfully say in retrospect that I don’t regret a minute of Day 2. I would not change one thing about it. Because I know that by being forced to meet and overcome some unexpected demons I am that much stronger. And that much more capable of carrying a powerful message for others. Isn’t that what the Ultraman journey is truly all about? And wherein lie the value of a journey if not fraught with unforseen and seemingly insurmountable obstacles?
In short, it was a perfect day. Absolutely perfect.
But as I was tended to by the medical staff and subsequently carried away by loving wife to our rented cottage up in Hawi, the day’s adrenaline was quickly wearing off. I could barely walk, let alone move my left arm. As my knee was quickly swelling, the prospect of running a single mile the next day, let alone 52.4 miles was quite gravely being called into serious question. Guts alone would not be enough….My plan had already been derailed. The only question that remained was what God had in store for me.
Until then…
