Genesis
To begin at the beginning: This whole shenanigan was my brother C.J.'s fault.
It's sometime in the late 1980s, and C.J.;s just gotten a new bike, a bike that's faster than any we'd ever ridden, a bike with nearly adult-sized wheels. He's generous enough to share it. Riding it feels like flying. We take turns pedaling along Schoenthal Road, back and forth past the base of our gravel driveway. One Tuesday evening, a pack of local cyclists comes by. C.J. was the one to take that first audacious flyer, legs circling wildly, sprinting to keep up with the peloton for the better part of a quarter mile. He returns to the driveway, face red, sweat dripping, a big smile on his face. We know we've discovered something special.
Though C.J.'s athletic talents enabled him to excel at more popular, social, and competitive team sports, my own gifts were limited to the sagittal plane. Cycling quickly became my favorite sport. I competed in my first local time trial when I was thirteen, losing, along with everyone else, to a seventeen-year-old triathlete named Lance Armstrong. Meanwhile, the likes of Dave Scott, Mark Allen, Mike Pigg, Scott Tinley, and Ken Glah were bringing triathlon to the attention of the sporting world. We watched them once a year on NBC, duking it out at the Hawaii Ironman. I'd been swimming competitively since I was four. I decided I could perhaps tolerate running if it meant I could compete and do well in this newly mythical sport of triathlon -- maybe I'd even get to Kona one day. And so an idea was born.
It wasn't until much later, when I was in graduate school and racing with the Stanford Triathlon Team, that I realized just how difficult it is to qualify for Kona. I recall looking at the finishing times of qualifiers in the 25-29 age group, and realizing they were a bit too fast. Same for 30-34. Same for 35-39. Same for 40-44. Only when I reached the ripe, old 45-49 age group did I notice qualifying times slowing to something resembling human pace. "OK," I told myself, "I'll give it a go when I'm an old fart. I'm not quite good enough at swimming, biking, and running, but maybe I'm good at aging."
I kept my old-man plan mostly to myself for a couple decades, until about four years ago. I was working and parenting way too much at the time to allow any thought of training for an Ironman, but the work finish line was coming into sight (perhaps not the finish line, but at least the end of a life-sucking stint in Silicon Valley was in sight). At the same time, the 45-49 age group was approaching. I figured I could begin with physical therapy, fix my niggles, start with some short races, and see how it went.
It went well, and things got even better when COVID stopped the world. For one, I got laid off as a result of doing too much parenting and not enough work -- yippee, more time to train. For another, Ironman races were cancelled right and left, leaving Ironman no choice but to hand out additional Kona slots at the races that remained.
I had entered the Hawaii 70.3 in 2020. The race was cancelled, along with our travel bookings. My entry was deferred to 2021. I had no intention of racing, as it wouldn't work with family plans this time around. But about a month before the race, with travel from Europe to the U.S. still closed, Ironman decided to double the number of Kona slots to be awarded at the Hawaii 70.3.
I received the email announcing the increased number of qualification slots during a 4 A.M. to 7 A.M. trainer session. I got off the bike as Paige was just waking up.
"I think I have to go to Hawaii," I said. "I don't think this chance will come again."
She didn't say "no." That afternoon I booked myself a ticket and the cheapest lodging I could find.
That race had it's own story, including a flat tire and an early mechanical that left me with no ability to shift my rear derailleur. While I would have finished second or third (there were four slots awarded in my age group to non-Hawaii residents), I came in sixth, and went home with my tail between my legs, bummed to have wasted the expense and effort, and doubly bummed that all that had kept me from a Kona slot was a flat tire. But several days after the race, I got a call from someone in Hawaii.
"Congratulations! We'd like to offer you a slot at the Supersapiens Hawaii Ironman World Championships."
Turns out that there were two additional slots for Hawaii residents, and two of the five guys who finished ahead of me were Hawaii residents. The last slot was mine. With some significant help from COVID, my old-man plan had worked.
The (Endless) Kona Build
It took longer than expected to get to the start line in Kona, as the 2021 edition was cancelled (technically, it took place in Saint George in 2022, but most qualifiers, like me, took the option of waiting for Kona 2022). I had already started my first "final" build when Kona was cancelled in September of 2021, putting in a few 20+ hour weeks, some crazy-long trainer sessions (I think five and half hours was the longest), building weekly running to over 40 miles, and completing one 20-mile long run. I was using TrainerRoad's training plan at the time, which, in hindsight, is probably as good as you can do for $30/month but definitely sub-optimal.
We moved to Paris on Christmas Day 2021. Training in the midst of transitioning to a new country and in the midst of COVID was also sub-optimal, especially following Paige's adverse COVID-vaccine reaction that landed her in Hôpital Cochin and has left her with lingering long-COVID symptoms. I can't count the number of times the kids have gotten sick over the past year, and since Paige has been trying to avoid landing in the hospital again, this has meant cancelling training sessions so she could lock herself in the bedroom whilst I wrangled kids. And seeing Paige sidelined, unable to exercise, has left me with a guilty feeling after every workout. (Gladly she's on the mend, though still not at full speed.)
Hiring a coach -- Lachlan Kerin -- has been invaluable in managing training load and life stress. Looking back at the last year or so of training, I've averaged over twelve hours per week, usually with three swim sessions, four bike sessions, and four run sessions per week. This is much less than I was doing with TrainerRoad, and despite -- or more probably, because of -- the reduced load, I'm faster. Faster than ever on the bike, actually, as I spent numerous hours over the better part of two years adjusting my bike position, to the point where I am finally more aerodynamic than most other racers (you can tell that this is the case when you pass people on downhill-to-flat sections who were the same people who passed you on the uphill sections, or when you're coasting past guys who are the same weight as you and are riding more expensive bikes). I can also hold that new bike position for the better part of five hours, thanks to persistent cockpit tinkering and those mind-numbing four-plus-hour trainer sessions.
Most importantly, I've been fortunate to avoid any major injuries. I can't say I'm the most dedicated physical therapy patient -- who has time for hours per week of PT, when you're already training so much? But I've managed to implement enough of the advice given to me by a brilliant cast of physical therapists -- Paige, Janet Yiu, Kristin Seaburg, and Brandon Couch -- to avoid a breakdown.
The final eight-week training block went well. There were a couple of 16+ hour weeks (not including PT, strength, stretching, and heat prep in the sauna). Long rides, in contrast to TrainerRoad, were relatively short (less than five hours), but included some intensity above race wattage. There were also typically one or two sessions per week with some near-threshold work, or some work at tempo in aero position. Key run workouts were a long run every other week or so, some tempo sessions, and some 10K-pace intervals (my favorite, and probably the toughest run workout of the past year, was 5x1K at ~10K pace, interspersed with 5x1K "recovery" at just barely above tempo pace). Key swim sessions involved not getting murdered in a French pool. I have learned to relish elbows to the ribs, kicks to the head (with fins), hands on my butt, passing people underwater, and doing my best to remain polite while being yelled at in French (all great preparation for the Kona swim, minus the fins). I suppose there was also some actual swimming in there, with my favorite being a 4.2K workout with 12x100 EZ on 5" rest + 8x100 steady on 10" rest + 6x100" tempo on 15" rest + 4x100 threshold on 20" rest.
On top of all that, I completed a sauna heat adaptation protocol, with 14 30-35' sessions over the final three weeks pre-travel. I ended up laying on the floor of the locker room after one of these, coming pretty close to passing out. Recognizing that woozy feeling, and knowing about how far I could push it without fainting -- to about 5.5 - 6% loss of body weight via sweat -- came in quite handy on the IM run.
I've also managed to stretch almost every evening for the past two years. Integral component of any old-man plan.
The biggest challenge in the final block was managing some IT-band syndrome that surfaced in a long run at the start of the block. As a result, I was only able to complete one 30K+ run, and a couple of ~25K runs. Though little did I know, the marathon at Kona would have very little to do with running, so I don't think this under-training hurt me much. But if I ever talk Paige into letting me tackle another IM, I'm gonna start with some proper strength and physical therapy training before I even lace up a pair of running shoes.
Race Week
We (my parents flew in from TX) arrived nine days out from race day, two Fridays in advance. We stayed at Waikoloa Village (Paniolo Greens), as this was cheaper and away from the chaos. I was sad to be away from Paige and the kids, but a twelve-hour time difference, insane Kona prices, and the kids' school schedules made this the right decision. If I come back again with family, we'll try to stay down the hill in Waikoloa near the beach.
I didn't sleep more than four hours or so for the first five nights in Kona. Turns out a twelve-hour time difference is, in fact, beastly, even if you're traveling west. And despite the fact that we intentionally kept our schedule fairly empty -- though I did do some light training each day, the practice swim and athlete check-in on Sunday, an all-day (eighteen hours in total) Oahu tour on Monday, the race expo on Weds, and bike check-in on Friday -- I managed to come down with a bit of a sore throat and cold on Tuesday. Zicam to the rescue. The sore throat never got too bad and was mostly gone by race day. It also helped me keep things in perspective -- I wasn't going to crush this race, I was going to simply manage as best I could.
Going into race day, I was feeling OK. I had done a good job with nutrition during race week, doing all the standard things: Protein with every meal, early dinner times, big meal post-morning-training, more carbs the last three days, no veggies or fruits (except bananas) the last two days, a few but not too many extra electrolytes, hydrating but not over hydrating. Not to mention no coffee or alcohol for about four weeks leading into the race.
Race Day
I was calmer than I expected race night and race morning. I got one full REM cycle, plus another hour or so of sleep (which might be a record for me). I ate my usual pre-race breakfast at 4:30 AM -- 1 cup of overnight oatmeal with milk, 1 heaping tbsp almond butter, 1 banana, 2 hard-boiled eggs. I drank 500mL of water with 250mg sodium (half a packet of PH 1000), as I'd also done the night before, and maybe 250mL of plain water. We were in the car by 4:50 AM.
I dropped off my special-needs bags -- each containing 330mL coconut water and a frozen-but-soon-to-be-melted Snickers bar -- on the way into transition. The transition area was abuzz when I got there, bikes packed like sardines, handlebar-to-handlebar, racers making last-minute preparations. Frozen bottles on bike, bike computer on bike, shoes on bike (rubber band held for about half of the run out of T1), about a fifteen minute wait for a bike pump. 79 PSI rear, 75 PSI front (I was surprised to see several folks inflating to 100+ PSI -- one of us doesn't know something, or could have been their tire/wheel combos.)
Time for the traditional pre-race porta-potty visit. Kona athletes are noticeably more serious and less chatty than your typical triathletes, but there was an English guy who kept us entertained throughout the twenty-minute wait for the stench chamber.
Off to the race corral. The pros had gone off on-time, which meant I'd also be starting punctually at 7:20 AM, and my age group would start entering the water at 7:12 AM. I was among the later athletes to arrive at the corralI, but I knew I'd likely be in the top half of swimmers out of the water, so I ducked through the fence once I started seeing guys who looked like they'd be swimming around an hour. To stay cool as long as possible, I kept my tri suit sleeves off until about 7:00 AM, my swimskin off until about 7:05, and my cap and googles off until 7:10. I had also grabbed a large paper cup, like the kind you get from fast-food restaurants, out of the freezer before we left the condo. I was sipping that as fast as the ice melted, which wasn't very fast. I managed to drink maybe half of the water, and had to throw away about 250mL of ice just before entering the water. I'll use this strategy again, however, for a hot race -- having the cold ice against the palm of my hand had a noticeable cooling effect, as evidenced by the fact that most other people were sweating a bit and I was not. My guess is that I was pretty close to euhydration, perhaps just a tad over, which was the plan. I took a gel at 7:06.
Swim
Getting into the water was a rush, literally and figuratively. 45-49 is the largest age group, with something like 600 starters, so by the time everyone was down the famous stairs and into the water, it was just about start time. I swam out to the buoy line, maybe 150 meters from shore. I opted to stay far-left and about two rows back, since I had gotten into heavy traffic while following the buoy line in the practice swim. Once out there, I took a moment to look back at the shore and the mountains behind, with the sun just starting to do its thing. Someone in the back of the awaiting pack yelled something happy, and we all exchanged high fives and let loose a chorus of joyful shouts. The hardest work was done. We'd made it to the start line.
I started my watch with a minute to go, and waited. An air horn blast, and we were off. In contrast to many folks, I don't try to swim the first few hundred meters fast, since (in contrast to the bike and run) I'm naturally a sprinter in the pool and what feels like an easy pace at the start can actually be way faster than I want to go. I've found that if I hold myself back a bit, I'm still swimming faster than target pace, and someone draft-able will usually come by within the first few hundred meters. That was the case here, and I found a couple of different pairs of feet in the first half of the swim, managing to draft for maybe 1000 of the first 1900 meters. The only hiccups were a slight foot cramp about halfway and when I found myself with someone on my left who was veering right. The guy didn't understand the meaning of the unintentional blows I dealt him, and he apparently didn't realize that I had someone to my right and nowhere to go in response to his punches. I eventually got tired of the dude pummeling me, stopped, and gave him a big push forward by his feet. My guess is that he ended up swimming very far right after the second turn buoy, as nearly everyone got pushed by a current toward the Royal Kona and had to correct (this had also happened during the practice swim, so I was ready for it, and only went a few strokes inside the buoy line before correcting).
I found a brilliant pair of feet to draft for much of the way back (thank you, Guy in Powder Blue and White Swimskin), only losing them when we went through some of the slower swimmers from the wave in front of us. My effort level was lower than in the practice swim, with an RPE of maybe 5 out of 10. The pier arrived, and we swam the last few hundred meters with people standing at the edge of the pier and cheering. Some people stood up too early. I swam past them and stood at the last possible point. Onto my feet, up onto the IM stairs, and across the timing mat.
1:01:53. I could have swum faster, but was quite happy with this split given that I'd swum easily and conserved energy by drafting. I felt like I was in a great spot going into the bike leg, and experienced none of the usual heart-rate spikes typical of T1's horizontal-to-vertical transition.
Bike
What a kick it was coming out of T1 with spectators lining the route and cheering for most of the initial "in-town" section. My power was higher than I wanted at a few points, so I focused on keeping the wattage down. My plan was to keep it under 250 watts, and to aim for normalized power of between 200 and 220 watts, which would be quite conservative -- easier than several of the long trainer rides I'd done -- and hopefully leave enough in the tank for the run.
We turned up Palani and onto the Queen K, where the real fun began. For the next 100 miles, I managed power pretty well, only bumping it up slightly on hills and when I had to pass folks who were near my speed in order to avoid drafting (once you enter the 12 meter draft zone, intentionally or not, you have to pass within 25 seconds). The Kona bike course comprises mostly very long, gradual rollers. Instead of attacking hills, my plan was to keep power near my target, and then to accelerate at the top in order to regain wheel speed quickly. This seemed to work quite well, as many folks would hammer past on the uphill sections, but then I'd put in a mild effort for just a handful of seconds coming over the top, repass them, and (mostly) never see them again.
Besides limiting effort and staying in aero position at speeds above ~18 mph, my other major focus was nutrition. I started the ride with a 750mL between-the-arms (BTA) bottle and a 700mL bottle behind the saddle. Both contained one packet of Precision Hydration (PH) 1000, for a total of 1000mg sodium plus some other electrolytes. I started the ride with three PH 1500 tabs (750mg sodium each) individually wrapped in a bit of paper from a grocery receipt and taped to my top tube with electrical tape. I took two of these during the ride. I also had an aero frame bottle containing a giant Gu pouch (15 Gus, 20mg sodium and 20mg caffeine per Gu) and just enough water to make it pourable (maybe 50mL). I ended up finishing all that I could pour from the Gu bottle (probably about 12 or 13 Gus), and in addition took four or five Maurten gels, including two with 100mg caffeine each, at about two hours and four-and-a-half hours (race clock). I drained and refilled the BTA bottle before almost every station -- my first mistake, I think, as I overshot my hydration target by about 0.2L per hour -- and grabbed a bottle of water or a bottle of Gatorade at every station, which got stashed in my rear cage until the next station. I'd estimate I drank about 7L as ~2.8L PH solution, ~2.5L Gatorade, and the rest water. In total, I consumed almost 500g carbs, 4.5g sodium; and 340mg caffeine.
I also encountered a bit of nutrition-related CdA serendipity. At the first aid station, my plan was to refill the BTA bottle with Gatorade during the first aid station, and to toss the empty before the end of the trash zone. I was a bit rusty on grabbing pass ups, having not competed in an IM event since 70.3 Worlds in 2021. Despite this, I was able to grab the first Gatorade bottle offered. I mentally patted myself on the back, and went to pour the Gatorade into the BTA bottle. Nothing. I turned the nozzle to make sure it was open. Nothing. Uh oh. The aid station volunteers either forgot or hadn't had time to take the seal off from under the lid. Working from the aero position, I (somewhat miraculously, given my poor bike handling skills) I unscrewed the cap with my teeth, removed the seal, and refilled my BTA bottle. But by then I was well past the trash zone, and didn't want to litter. I carried the bottle in my hand for maybe a half mile, which happened to be a spot where race photos were being taken (see photo). I decided to tuck the bottle into the front of my tri suit, thinking I would toss it at the next trash zone. Once it was in my tri suit, though, I realized that a) the bottle felt cool against my chest and b) it was closing off that critical "parachute zone" where air passes between your upper arms and slows you down. I knew that a BTA bottle was often more aero than no bottle at all, so why not a BTN (between-the-nipples) bottle as well? I kept the bottle in my tri suit until the second-to-last aid station, around mile 85.
Apparently I wasn't wrong, because I noticed the next day when I watched the broadcast that a couple of the pros had what looked like empty bottles stuffed in their tri suits, including Gustav Iden, the eventual winner. I think I'll stuff two of them in there next time.
The Brit who entertained us in the porta-potty line had mentioned that some of the women who raced Thursday said that the toughest part of the bike was boredom. Perhaps it's all relative to uber-boring trainer sessions, but for me, the entire ride was a blast. The Tour de France feel of the first miles. The epic, smooth, fast Queen K. Dodging the orange paint marking pavement imperfections on the way to Hawi. The legendary turn around at Hawi. The fast but not-too-fast descent back to Kawaihae. The Queen K return. I may have started to feel a bit of fatigue in the last twenty miles; but I didn't want the ride to end.
Notably, we got pretty lucky with the winds -- there almost weren't any. This was a huge contrast to the 70.3 qualifier, where we were getting pushed across the road by 30+MPH gusts, and part of the reason that the men's bike course record was smashed by about 5 minutes. I was keeping tabs on my time the whole way. A five-hour ride was a stretch goal, one that I figured would probably require more power output than I was willing to give. But somewhere coming back on the Queen K, I realized it was within reach. "Just stay aero, and keep wattage around 200."
Finally we made the turn onto Makala. Another mile or so of riding, and there was Palani up ahead. Feet out of shoes. Running dismount. Well, stumbling dismount, those first few steps were painful, as my toes and the pads of my feet had grown increasingly sore over the course of the ride.
I glanced at my bike computer as I was jogging through T2. 5:01:something (5:00:57 was the official split). And I was still feeling fresh.
Run
After a slow jog through transition, a pee break (too clear, a bad sign), and about 400mL of PH solution (with maybe 250mg sodium) my run legs were coming back to me. I knew I was on pace to outperform what I had thought might be possible -- to go sub-10 hours. I only needed a 3:47 marathon. I'd never run a marathon, but my open marathon pace would probably be around 3:05. Even with the Kona heat and hills, and even with 112 miles in my legs, 3:45 seemed eminently doable. I had planned to target 5' k's (~3:30 marathon pace), but decided I'd try to start even a bit slower than that, just to be conservative and to avoid blowing up. I'd also walk every aid station to minimize core temperature.
So off I went, at what I thought was about 5'05"/km pace. Then I glanced at my watch, and realized I was running somewhere around 4'35" pace. Uh oh. I quickly backed off to my patented old-man pace (~5'/km), which felt like a crawl. My heart rate was much lower than I ever expected it to be in the heat, hovering in the mid-130s to begin, and only getting into the low 140s by the Ali'ii turn around at the top of a steamy hill about 3.5 miles in. I was drinking water and Gatorade at every aid station, putting ice in my cap and down my tri suit, and taking a gel at every other aid station.
By the top of Palani, I was passing people right and left. I had never seen so much carnage among elite age groupers. Guys who were much fitter and faster than me were walking. Stumbling. Puking. Laying on the side of the road. But for me everything was on track. Or so I thought. Pride goeth.
The first sign of trouble came just before mile 11. I felt a familiar woozy feeling, which I knew from previous experience was hydration-related. Thinking back on what I'd consumed, and observing that my heart rate was low (it would have been higher if I were overheating) I reckoned that I'd either had too much to drink, not taken in enough electrolytes, or both. There weren't any electrolytes on course besides Gatorade, which doesn't really help if the salt content of your sweat is 1g/L+, as mine is, but I'd carried a tube of Base salt with me. I took a couple of big hits of the Base salt, and didn't drink anything at the next aid station. This worked a charm for a few miles, but then I started to feel the slow, blurry pull again. My heart rate and my pace dropped gradually, and soon I was running 9' miles, even on flat or downhill sections. I felt worse instead of better after every aid station. To go from walking to slow jogging felt like arrogant defiance of Madame Pelé and the gods of hydration.
I could see sub-10 slowly start to slip away as I entered the Energy Lab around mile 14. All I needed to do was run about 9'15" per mile, but even this was becoming an increasingly difficult struggle, as my goal went from "keep running" to "remain conscious". The descent into the Energy Lab was tough, but I caught a bit of a second wind on the uphill return and began to pass people once again. This second wind lasted about a mile and a half, and then the island made clear who was boss as I came back out on the Queen K. Having come very close to passing out after one of my sauna sessions, I knew I was getting close to that point. I held on as long as I could, slowing to about 10'/mile pace, but then, finally, at around mile 24 I made the decision to let sub-10 go and focus instead on finishing. I'd walk the famous Mark Allen-Dave Scott hill, and then give jogging another crack once I was on the Palani downhill.
Palani seemed like it would never come. "Don't worry, you'll finish, even if you have to power walk," my coach had told me before the race. But what I was doing was definitely not power walking, it was barely walking. I wove my way through a TdF-esque tunnel of people and music at the top of the Allen-Scott hill, nearly oblivious to their raucous support.
My watch beeped another mile split -- 17'34". With tears forming behind my Oakleys, I thought of Paige and the kids. I reminded myself they didn't care a hoot about sub-10, but would have cared a lot if I ended up in the hospital. "Just stay upright, one foot in front of the other." People around me were beginning to run again. I made the turn onto Palani. "You'll feel the pull of the crowd and the finish line," someone had said. "You'll be cruising along for that last mile." But all I felt was a small glimmer of determination in the nauseous pit of my stomach, the only thing remaining between me and a face plant onto the asphalt. I tried to run, but the first two steps told me running would be a dangerous decision as my quads threatened to give out. I recalled watching a video of a pro finishing Kona at one of the races in the late 1990s, his gait reduced to a crooked, awkward waggle. The voice-over noted that he had to have six inches of his small intestine removed after the race. I'm not sure what I looked like, but my gait felt to me like a crooked, awkward waggle. I decided I wanted to keep my small intestine in its entirety and would try running again once things flattened out at the base of the hill.
Nearing the base of the hill, there was a woman with a microphone rallying support from the crowd for each of the racers. She would read their first name off of their race bibs, and then say something encouraging. She lowered her mic as I approached, and said to me quietly, "Are you OK? Do you need help?"
"No." I said. "I'm gonna finish."
"This is Jesse, everyone! He's gonna finish!"
I prayed I wasn't lying, and stumbled to the bottom of Palani. Once back on Kuakini, I knew there was less than a mile to go, and that this mile would be flat. Sub-10 was gone, but maybe I could rally myself back to jogging. If I passed out at the finish line, that would be fine. I tried a few more steps, and then a few more. Over the next half mile, just in time for the turn back onto Ali'ii Drive, I approached something resembling a slow recovery jog. Less than half a mile to go. Someone shouted, "zip up your shirt for the photos!"
The final few hundred meters were fuzzy but ecstatic. I traded high fives with people lining the barricades, smiling and crying a bit at the same time. I knew I would make it. I heard Mike Reilly's voice rattling off names, in his last appearance as Kona's race announcer.
My mom later observed that he butchered our last name. But it sounded perfect to me.
"Jesse Kzwoosta, you are an Ironman!"
10:22:02.
The Queen K giveth and the Queen K taketh away.
This was my first Kona, my first Ironman, and my first marathon. I had a fantastic, humbling race. I had thought I'd finish in about the time I did on a reasonably OK day. I hadn't realized that a 5-hour ride was possible with minimal effort, and started to let myself dream of a sub-10 finish. I think my training was spot-on and I should have finished somewhere around 9:45 — minus some sort of hydration issue — probably both hyponatremia and mild dehydration — on the run. I hit my hydration targets pretty well (lost ~8.5 lbs or about 5% of body weight, based on bike checkin weight of 172.6 lbs and post-race, post-250mL chicken broth weight of 164.4 lbs). But I think I drank too quickly over the first seven hours, and did not take in enough electrolytes. I drank more than my targets on the bike (about 7L or 1.4L per hour, as roughly 3 Gatorades w 620mg salt each, 1L water with 1000mg salt via PH tabs, added two PH 1500 tabs to BTA bottle, finished Gu bottle, and the rest water, for a total of about 4.4 grams sodium), plus another liter or so and 500mg sodium across T1 and T2. I probably drank 1.5L+ of mostly water with just a bit of Gatorade in the first 10 miles/100' of the run. After that, things are blurry, but I'd guess I only drank about another liter for the remainder.
Given the above, my sweat rate must have been about the same as it was in Hawaii 70.3, around 1.4L per hour.
I'd guess that what happened to me was that I became hyponatremic somewhere in the first part of the run, then continued to be hyponatremic while also becoming gradually dehydrated. I wasn't alone, as I'd estimate nearly half of the field was having some sort of hydration problem.
Next time, I'll try a bit less fluid on the bike, a bit more electrolytes on the bike, and a lot more electrolytes on the run.
If there is a next time. For now, I'm thrilled to have finished and to have experienced this legendary race. Thanks to everyone who helped me get here (especially Paige and my Ironkids). Love you all.
Now back to that Mai Tai.
Palani seemed like it would never come. "Don't worry, you'll finish, even if you have to power walk," my coach had told me before the race. But what I was doing was definitely not power walking, it was barely walking. I wove my way through a TdF-esque tunnel of people and music at the top of the Allen-Scott hill, nearly oblivious to their raucous support.
My watch beeped another mile split -- 17'34". With tears forming behind my Oakleys, I thought of Paige and the kids. I reminded myself they didn't care a hoot about sub-10, but would have cared a lot if I ended up in the hospital. "Just stay upright, one foot in front of the other." People around me were beginning to run again. I made the turn onto Palani. "You'll feel the pull of the crowd and the finish line," someone had said. "You'll be cruising along for that last mile." But all I felt was a small glimmer of determination in the nauseous pit of my stomach, the only thing remaining between me and a face plant onto the asphalt. I tried to run, but the first two steps told me running would be a dangerous decision as my quads threatened to give out. I recalled watching a video of a pro finishing Kona at one of the races in the late 1990s, his gait reduced to a crooked, awkward waggle. The voice-over noted that he had to have six inches of his small intestine removed after the race. I'm not sure what I looked like, but my gait felt to me like a crooked, awkward waggle. I decided I wanted to keep my small intestine in its entirety and would try running again once things flattened out at the base of the hill.
Nearing the base of the hill, there was a woman with a microphone rallying support from the crowd for each of the racers. She would read their first name off of their race bibs, and then say something encouraging. She lowered her mic as I approached, and said to me quietly, "Are you OK? Do you need help?"
"No." I said. "I'm gonna finish."
"This is Jesse, everyone! He's gonna finish!"
I prayed I wasn't lying, and stumbled to the bottom of Palani. Once back on Kuakini, I knew there was less than a mile to go, and that this mile would be flat. Sub-10 was gone, but maybe I could rally myself back to jogging. If I passed out at the finish line, that would be fine. I tried a few more steps, and then a few more. Over the next half mile, just in time for the turn back onto Ali'ii Drive, I approached something resembling a slow recovery jog. Less than half a mile to go. Someone shouted, "zip up your shirt for the photos!"
The final few hundred meters were fuzzy but ecstatic. I traded high fives with people lining the barricades, smiling and crying a bit at the same time. I knew I would make it. I heard Mike Reilly's voice rattling off names, in his last appearance as Kona's race announcer.
My mom later observed that he butchered our last name. But it sounded perfect to me.
"Jesse Kzwoosta, you are an Ironman!"
10:22:02.
Final Old-Man Thoughts
The Queen K giveth and the Queen K taketh away.
This was my first Kona, my first Ironman, and my first marathon. I had a fantastic, humbling race. I had thought I'd finish in about the time I did on a reasonably OK day. I hadn't realized that a 5-hour ride was possible with minimal effort, and started to let myself dream of a sub-10 finish. I think my training was spot-on and I should have finished somewhere around 9:45 — minus some sort of hydration issue — probably both hyponatremia and mild dehydration — on the run. I hit my hydration targets pretty well (lost ~8.5 lbs or about 5% of body weight, based on bike checkin weight of 172.6 lbs and post-race, post-250mL chicken broth weight of 164.4 lbs). But I think I drank too quickly over the first seven hours, and did not take in enough electrolytes. I drank more than my targets on the bike (about 7L or 1.4L per hour, as roughly 3 Gatorades w 620mg salt each, 1L water with 1000mg salt via PH tabs, added two PH 1500 tabs to BTA bottle, finished Gu bottle, and the rest water, for a total of about 4.4 grams sodium), plus another liter or so and 500mg sodium across T1 and T2. I probably drank 1.5L+ of mostly water with just a bit of Gatorade in the first 10 miles/100' of the run. After that, things are blurry, but I'd guess I only drank about another liter for the remainder.
Given the above, my sweat rate must have been about the same as it was in Hawaii 70.3, around 1.4L per hour.
I'd guess that what happened to me was that I became hyponatremic somewhere in the first part of the run, then continued to be hyponatremic while also becoming gradually dehydrated. I wasn't alone, as I'd estimate nearly half of the field was having some sort of hydration problem.
Next time, I'll try a bit less fluid on the bike, a bit more electrolytes on the bike, and a lot more electrolytes on the run.
If there is a next time. For now, I'm thrilled to have finished and to have experienced this legendary race. Thanks to everyone who helped me get here (especially Paige and my Ironkids). Love you all.
Now back to that Mai Tai.
