Ironman Wisconsin 2009, or Why Dave Should Not Tweet

9/9/09

17:31 — Some vacation, I'm back at the office writing these short pieces on scientists.
18:43 — Boss just told me to leave. Sure, and you'll get these pieces after I'm back. Nope, she says, I need them before you go. Well, then, we have a conundrum, don't we?
20:42 — Copy filed, I'm out. On the road. Finally. Looking forward to a four-hour nap in a $100 hotel room.
21:31 — How the fuck does Burger King run out of meat???
21:35 — At Arby's, lights are off, no hours posted on the door, moving on. Way to lose some customers.
21:45 — Wendy's it is. God, I hate fast food.
23:27 — No traffic, no cops, thank goodness for small favors. Welcome to the Fairfield Inn Aurora.

9/10/09
4:00 — Sigh. It always rings too quickly.
4:09 — On the road again. Suffice to say my morning routine is quite streamlined when there's no time for breakfast.
4:11 — Imagine that. No traffic when it's still dark.
4:41 — And easy to find parking when it's not a huge travel weekend.
4:46 — People on the bus giving my bike dirty looks. Fuck you, too. What's in your bags?
4:58 — Fuck Northwest Airlines. The lady looked at the big gray box and said "Is that a bike?" Much different than everyone else, who seems to get asked "What's in the box?" That gives you some wiggle room. Yes, it's a bike. That will be not only $175 but $15 extra for being over 50 pounds.
5:15 — Hash browns, scrambled eggs, sausage patty, apple juice. Breakfast of champions. I hate fast food.
5:27 — Start metabolism with leisurely stroll around Concourse C. Shoulda flown Southwest.
5:58 — I'm on the plane! Advantage of early/redeye flights: Lots of room. Disadvantage of early/redeye flights: They're early.
6:30 — Up, up, and away. How dialed in is my normal 6:30 wake-up? I just got morning wood for no good reason.
6:36 — Aborted attempt at a nap. I can't sleep on planes to save my life. God help me if I ever go overseas.
6:49 — Breakfast, part 2: More apple juice, biscuit with grape jam, banana. Think I've covered my fruit for the day.
7:04 — This notebook is old. And I need help. Seriously.
7:06 — The kid across the aisle just took a crap. This plane will never be the same.
9:00 — Hey! Welcome to MSP!
9:15 — And we're still taxiing. Are you sure we're not at DFW?
9:30 — Sweet freedom. Holy cats, MSP looks nothing like I remember.
9:40 — Is that Vivaldi's "Summer" playing over the PA?
9:45 — Definitely time to shave. I'm scraping white crud out of my goatee.
9:50 — Two more hours. Can't take a nap or I risk missing my flight. Ugh.
9:58 — So much for local charm. The female voice warning travelers of the end of the walkway sounds like Ross's second wife (the Brit who wouldn't let him be friends with Rachel).
10:17 — The women dress far more modestly here than they do out west. Longer shorts, t-shirts vs. tank tops, hair pulled up. Or maybe the difference is between the real world and a college campus in early fall.
10:31 — I have no sympathy for people who run frantically to make flights, screaming at people to hold the door. You know you have to be here two hours before, so plan accordingly. And if you're at risk of missing a connection, you're the airline's problem.
10:33 — Better yet, the person who's cursing a blue streak right now hoofed it to not only the wrong gate, but to a flight that's been rescheduled to give him time to get there. Pay attention to the monitors, dude.
11:40 — The Midwest is and always will be a huge part of who I am, but I'll never live there again.

And that's where I stopped writing in my notebook. I don't know if I got bored or what. That is, however, about the time I got on my flight to Chicago from M/SP. It was a relatively short one, though every flight is "relatively short" when you live on the opposite side of the country from those you love.

The plan was to bust it up to Madison late Thursday afternoon to check in and get my packet, but I forgot about the abject construction around Chicago and which routes I should take. I ended up going through Milwaukee and across the ugly-flat plains to Madison, where I managed to find the hotel and get a reasonable dinner before crashing and burning at 11 p.m.

On Friday, I checked out the lake and went for a swim. I did one lap of the course, pausing to orient myself and float on my back a little. One man out at the first turn buoy mentioned he'd seen on the news that someone had drowned in Lake Monona a week earlier, and that not only had the authorities not recovered the body but the Ironman was making it hard for the searchers to dredge the lake. Lovely. I got out of the water and hung out in the sun for a bit, drying off before heading inside to check in. A Brit with an accent much like Terry Gilliam's sipped on a Coke and said, "I figure if it can take corrosion off a car battery the Coke'll kill all the shit I might have picked up in the lake." Lovely.

The check-in took longer than ever but my timing sucked. It opened up at 10 a.m. and I queued up at 10:10. It took an hour before I could get my bags into the backpack and ride (yes, I assembled my bike without alcohol Thursday night) back to the hotel to wait for my parents. They made it back at about 2:30 and we had a late lunch at Ella's Deli, an old-school kosher deli with a restored carousel out front. I continued to drink my heavily salted Gatorade and produce urine in massive volume. We took a little driving tour of the campus and watched the Wisconsin band practice for about 20 minutes (Note to self: Download drumline cadences for prerace listening). And then we headed to Mia Za's on State Street for dinner. Picked up some beer on the way home and shaved my legs and face before sleeping like a baby.

The next day we headed to town on some back streets thanks to the Badgers' home game against Fresno State and the construction that cut a six-lane main street to two lanes. We found a place to park and then headed to the convention center to drop off my transition bags and bike. In and out in 10 minutes. As I said previously, I don't do race expos any more so I chose to spend as little time at the convention center as possible. I did stop at Machinery Row Bicycles to get a couple of CO2 canisters and ogle the bikes they had.

We stopped at Jimmy John's to pick up subs and ate in the hotel. I watched Texas-Wyoming while my parents headed to the grocery store to get supplies for dinner. Mom made lasagna, which has become something of a tradition the night before my Ironmans. It's pasta, ground turkey, tomatoes and spices. So good. We watched South Carolina-Georgia until it was time to go to bed, or in my case attempt to sleep.

3:49 a.m. — Woke up to pee. It's race day, baby! Wooo!
3:51 p.m. — Put on race kit. Shorts. Heart-rate monitor. Zip top. Socks. Sweatshirt. Wind pants. Ball cap. Specs.
4 a.m. — Alarm goes off. It's 3 a.m. according to my body.
4:03 a.m. — Breakfast of champions: bagel with cream cheese, chocolate chip/peanut butter Clif bar, organic apple juice.
4:15 a.m. — Fouling up the bathroom something fierce.
4:30 a.m. — Packing special needs bags. For the bike: Two bottles of salty Gatorade, two gels, bag of tortilla chips. For the run: Fuel Belt with four little bottles of salty Gatorade, two gels, bag of tortilla chips.
4:45 a.m. — Leave hotel with long-suffering parents. I love them more than they know for far more reasons than just perfect attendance at this ridiculous hobby I have.
5 a.m. — Arrive at Capitol Square to drop off special needs. All these nervous people checking and rechecking make me laugh. You've done the training. Today is the reward. Relax!
5:05 a.m. — Walk to convention center to recheck my transition bags. Hit play on iPod (see below).

The pre-race playlist
"In Too Deep," Sum 41 (Not a good start)
"Big Time," Peter Gabriel (Much better)
"Cut the Cake," Average White Band
"Small Town," John Cougar Mellencamp (Good one for a Midwestern boy come home)
"Hungry Heart," Bruce Springsteen
"Draw the Line (live)," Aerosmith
"One Mic," Nas
"Hurts So Good," Mellencamp (All too appropriate)
"Flood," Jars of Clay (Not cool to hear a song about drowning at this point)
"El Paso," Old 97s (Nor to hear a song about dying for love)
"Feel Like I Wanna Feel," Bella Fayes
"The Only Way to Be," Save Ferris
"A Little Less Conversation," Elvis Presley, remixed (The one from the "Ocean's 11" soundtrack)
"Learn to Fly," Foo Fighters
"Middle of the Road," Pretenders
"You Get What You Give," New Radicals

6:15 a.m. — Get up from moment of repose in transition near my bike to meet parents upstairs. Start pulling on my neoprene sausage casing.
6:30 a.m. — Meet the parents, snap a picture, leave my post-race bag with them, head downstairs to the lake.
6:35 a.m. — Walking down the helix to the lake is as close as a weenie like me will get to walking through the tunnel at (insert football stadium here). Spectators on both sides, wetsuit-clad people strolling slowly to their doom, music playing, ann announcer pleading with racers to get in the lake NOW.
6:40 a.m. — At the lake's edge I pause. More color in the sky to the east. Better finish squeezing myself into my wetsuit.
6:43 a.m. — Heart-rate monitor registers at 99 as I slide into the water. Checking and rechecking my goggles. It would suck out loud to get them kicked off.
6:50 a.m. — Pop! The pros take off. I'm still treading water, looking up at the sky, checking out the crowds on shore and on the various levels of the convention center, and wondering what I'd do if I discovered the body mid-race.
6:59 a.m. — National anthem done. Watch in proper mode. Let some water in the wetsuit. Let's get it on!
7:00 a.m. — Fifth Ironman under way.
(All times approximate from this point)
7:15 a.m. — Making the turn at the first buoy. Holy traffic jam.
7:33 a.m. — One lap down, one to go. Wonder if I'll pass anyone on their first lap.
7:38 a.m. — Let's try to get to the buoy line.
7:39 a.m. — What the fuck??? Cut off by someone swimming away from the buoy line?? Well. There's a worse navigator than me in this field. Who knew?
7:46 a.m. — OK, made the turn for home. Let's try this again.
7:47 a.m. — You've got to be kidding me! Cut off again? Fuck it, I'll stay to the outside. Hello, 2.6-mile swim. Christ.
7:58 a.m. — OK, I've taken care of inadvertent hydration during the swim. This water is not yummy.
8:06 a.m. — All right, out of the water. It was fun while it lasted. Where the hell is the zipper thing?
8:07 a.m. — Wetsuit strippers rule. They found the strap, got me out of the suit, and sent me on my way.
8:10 a.m. — Getting up the helix sure took forever.
8:14 a.m. — As did getting out of the changing room, having a piss, getting my bike, and rolling down the other helix to John Nolen Drive.
8:16 a.m. — OW! Fill your goddamned potholes, Madison!
8:17 a.m. — Ah yes, salty Gatorade. The first couple ounces of 96 for today.
8:30 a.m. — Finally in the country. Good to know beforehand that it's all false flat out to Verona.
8:40 a.m. — Here's Verona. Or at least suburban Verona. Hey, can I grab my special needs bag now?
8:50 a.m. — Why the hell does my watch say 2:50 and not 1:44? Time to drink anyway...
9 a.m. — Oh yeah, it's entirely possibly I didn't hit the lap button after all. Annoying, nothing more.
9:15 a.m. — Sign on the road: "Did you know that muskrats used to be as large as bears???"
9:30 a.m. — Screaming downhill. Let's pedal a bit and gain some speed.
9:32 a.m. — Back uphill. I just used 14 of my 18 gears in a span of two minutes. God damn.
9:45 a.m. — Sauk Lane was not as tough as last time. The shade helped but it just didn't feel as steep. I sat down the whole time. And there was no Satan following me up the hill. Must be hydrating properly.
9:48 a.m. — The next hill, however, was no joke. I mustered the breath to make fun of the guys with the Notre Dame flag, though.
10:50 a.m. — Fair Verona. I heard my parents yell "Go Dave!" The masses are out in force today. More water.
11 a.m. — Two more bottles of salty Gatorade. Damn, I can't wait until this race is over and I don't have to drink this shit any more.
11:01 a.m. — Knock it off. Now! Too far ahead. Let's just worry about the next bottle. Settle.
11:15 a.m. — Starting to pass a few people. Still switching gears every minute or so. My derailleurs will beg for mercy.
11:30 a.m. — Sign in Cross Plains: "Hurry up. Packers start at 7:20."
11:45 a.m. — Sign at Mount Horeb Township fire dept.: "140.6 miles until I get my boyfriend back." Sounds like a healthy relationship to me (Eyeroll).
Noon — Am I going too conservatively?
12:15 p.m. — Now people are passing me, all of them in the big gear. Sigh...
12:30 p.m. — Keep drinking. Keep drinking.
12:45 p.m. — Chips taste better with green salsa. Doubt green salsa would carry well in special needs, though.
1 p.m. — First NFL games are probably a quarter in.
1:15 p.m. — What's up with the police car? Is this guy still on his first lap? Geez, he's going to have a tough time of it.
1:30 p.m. — Sauk Lane again. Out of the saddle briefly. Love the crowd. Can't read the chalked messages.
1:45 p.m. — Saddle sore. Ow. Shit. Damn. Few other choice words. Why do I get one now???
2:00 p.m. — Home sweet home, for now. Look at that. It's the Alliant Energy Center parking lot.
2:08 p.m. — Up the helix. Smallest gear. I'm not tired. I'm not tired. I'm not tired.
2:09 p.m. — Last Ironman on that bike. Be gentle with it, volunteer who took my bike and complimented me on my goatee.
2:11 p.m. — Why the hell did the sunscreen on my neck sting so bad? Ow. Oh yeah, could be those gashes from my wetsuit and necklace. Ow.
2:13 p.m. — Sweet relief in T2. Might have to do that again at some point.
2:14 p.m. — Hey, mom and dad made it back from Verona! Hope I don't look like ass.
2:15 p.m. — Sweet. Beat the winners... OK, let me clarify, I got out of T2 before the winners finished. Tiny victory.
2:20 p.m. — Nice, easy jog. Keep drinking. Don't check the watch, just beat the sunset.
2:30 p.m. — Love State Street. Good part of the course. Hard to believe the run turn is a few blocks away.
2:35 p.m. — This railroad underpass is new. I like it better than the pedestrian footbridge of 2005.
2:40 p.m. — Running next to this guy in the Illinois kit is fun. Heard so much "Go Illini" I had to ask him what the deal was. "I figure Wisconsin's been kicking our ass for a decade, [the spectators] figure it's the least they can do."
2:47 p.m. — Circling the field at Camp Randall Stadium. The synthetic grass feels good after less than an hour of pavement. Someone just yelled "Go Blue!" in the empty stadium. And Justin Daerr of Fort C just passed me, one lap ahead and on his way to sixth place.
2:50 p.m. — Hillary Biscay passes in the other direction. Swoon. Go Hillary.
3:15 p.m. — There are mom and dad at the turn. Can smell fried things. Getting tired but holding it together.
3:30 p.m. — Odd. I'm pounding the salty Gatorade but no urge to pee. Bad sign?
4:15 p.m. — There's the finish line I can't cross yet. Come on, hold it together.
4:25 p.m. — There's Amy Marsh, heading for home. Way to rep Austin.
4:45 p.m. — Oh shit.
4:46 p.m. — Why won't my legs move? Goddammit anyway...
4:47 p.m. — And my IT bands have registered their opinion of the whole mess.
4:48 p.m. — And my brain has seconded the motion to make the last 10 miles of this shit a fucking death march. Fuck you both.
4:50 p.m — Walk. Run. Walk. Walk. Walk. Jog. Trot. Walk. God damn it.
5:05 p.m. — We're jogging through Camp Randall. Period.
5:08 p.m. — And we're walking up the ramp out of Camp Randall. Shit.
5:30 p.m. — A girl plays violin along Lake Mendota. Sweetest thing I've heard all day.
5:50 p.m. — The turn on State Street. The plaster has set on my IT bands.
6:10 p.m. — She's still playing. Save her a spot in the Chicago Symphony in about 15 years.
6:15 p.m. — A man in a Michigan State kit and a man in a Michigan kit run side by side.
6:30 p.m. — The sun is now in my eyes. At least I'm not thinking about my ITs. Oh wait, I just did.
6:55 p.m. — Sorority girls on their balcony have been cool all day. Thanks, ladies.
7:00 p.m. — OK, there's the Capitol. We're running it in.
7:03 p.m. — Hey, I've got the finish line to myself. And Mike Reilly pronounced my name right.
7:04 p.m. — Finish-line catcher escorts me straight to the food. Say that much. At least I've never needed medical intervention.
7:05 p.m. — But first, there's my mom. Who says she lost my dad. Whatever, go find him. I'm hungry.
7:06 p.m. — Sam's Choice pop. Seriously? For $550 we get Sam's Choice instead of Coke or Pepsi?
7:07 p.m. — At least they have Papa John's pizza.
7:15 p.m. — There's my dad. And he has my dry clothes bag.
7:30 p.m. — In the queue for a rub. I'm envisioning a passage from "Running With the Buffaloes," where a runner describes a massage therapist working on his IT bands. He said it felt like the guy reached inside his leg and forcibly straightened them out, like curling wrapping ribbon by pressing on it with a pair of scissors. Said it hurt worse than any workout.
7:40 p.m. — Dad found the Pepsi machine. How did I know it was there?
8:15 p.m. — OK, lady, do your worst.
8:30 p.m. — Olive oil doesn't burn open sores. Whew.
9:30 p.m. — Leftover lasagna and unsalted Gatorade. Dinner of champions.
9:45 p.m. — AAAAAHHHHHHH! Water. Soap. Gashes on my feet from shoes. Gashes on my hips from race number belt. Gashes on the back of my neck. BURRRRRRRNNNNNNN!
10:30 p.m. — Back at the finish line in the dark. Aloe is panacea. As is grande java chip frappuccino from finish-line Starbuck's.
11:55 p.m. — Last official finisher. And I head back to the drawing board.