oak hill flyer: ironman arizona--swim
all of the race materials say ironman begins at 7am. that's not true--ironman begins the moment you wake up. the race materials highlight cutoff times for the various diciplines; what you really need to worry about are the unadvertised cutoffs. hungry? hope you had breakfast before 530am else you'll get sick on the swim. inventory? hope you have it all locked and stocked by 545am or else you'll miss the train. want to add some goods to your bike/run bags and check your tires? hope you've found your bag and done so by 630 before they close transition (and pray that you don't have a flat). want to call your parents and kiss your wife goodbye? hope you've done so by 640am or else you won't have a spot in line for the restroom. bowels not empty yet? hope you're done by 650am because that wetsuit does NOT have an emergency hatch. pray that your wetsuit doesn't rip or your goggles don't bust because at 655am you are live without a net and about to get chucked into a lake. finally, hope the 2000+ other people trying do to exactly what you're doing before 7am don't get in your way (because after 7am, they most certainly ARE going to get in your way).
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it was nothing of a small miracle that the morning went without a hitch. at 655am and i am shuffling to the dock with 2000 other wetsuits.
unlike those jumping in before me, i sit on the edge of the dock and slowly lower my body weight into the water. eventually i have to release my weight, and WHAM! my heel drives straight into a submerged rock. it hurt. with hundreds behind me being ushered into the water, there was nothing i could do but swim out into position. "screw the race," i thought, "what the hell did i just do?!? gah--i took my time, i learned from the practice swim! i'm going to need this f*cking heel for the next, oh... fifteen hours or so of vigorous athletic activity!" the thoughts are interrupted by splashes, waves and appendages. the world is muffled by my earplugs and three swim caps. i venture floating on my back to have a look at my foot, but the effort was futile.
i glance at my watch: 659am. i survey the area around me, and the worst of my fears came true: i am SMACK in the middle of this pack. i wanted to be out on the edge, i'm not a fast swimmer! "screw the heel," i thought, "get me outta here!" i start shoving around people to the outside, heel dragging behind. i should have just saved my energy.
*BOOM*
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for the first 200m, your hands hit more neoprene than water. it is as maddening as it looks. [editor's note: it's very surreal to watch this video and hear the emcee, spectators and rock music. i could only hear lapping water and my own breathing while waiting for the start.]
earlier that morning (642am, in fact), i set a repeating timer on my watch to chime every nine minutes. surprisingly enough, the alarm can be heard very clearly underwater. nine minutes is about how long it takes me to swim two full lengths of barton springs. while swimming at barton springs i would do mental focus drills on every lap (focus on head, shoulders, chest, hips, etc.). these drills make the time slip away; i figured i can do these same focus drills in tempe and have a good estimate of where i am in the swim in the process. the strategy worked extremely well, although i didn't account for being physically assaulted every 1-3 minutes by swimmers passing me or being passed by me. knowing i mustn't keep an agressive/defensive stance for the entire swim, i discovered a fantastic amount of emotional dexterity, allowing me to scratch-and-claw one second, and be completely relaxed and serene the next second. this switch was flipped back and forth probably one hundred times by the exit.
without necessarily trying, i found i was taking a fantastic line throughout the swim. i stayed to the outside during turns, and hugged the bouy line on the return trip. having bridges as landmarks (and miraculously, goggles that never fogged up), i could easily see the finish line from a mile away. during the final approach, i heard my watch chime one last time... coming in right around 90 minutes, just as i expected.
volunteers hoist you out of the water and up over the stairs. i looked down in absolute shock to see that my watch didn't read 1:32:00, but 1:23! where did i pick up nine minutes of unexpected time? "holy cow," i thought, "i think i just rocked the swim."
"we're so glad to see you and you look GREAT! come on over!" the volunteer crewman shouted to me. i engaged the man in quick coversation to demonstrate i was of no health risk. ZIP! one volunteer undoes the back of my wetsuit. YANK! two volunteers rip off each arm. "on your back," the lead volunteer commanded; i roll to the ground with giant smile on my face. "on three: one, two, PULL!" stripped to my speedos, two hands yank me back to my feet.
en route through transition, reality hits: "i COMPLETELY rocked a 2.4mi, 61-degree open water swim!" upon seeing k and her family, i couldn't help but let out a victory yell. i scooped up my transition bag on the fly and headed to the change tent.
the T1 change tent is a very surreal place. now that we've all just completed the coldest, longest swim of our lives, there's nothing more that i (and 100+ other men) would like to do than rip off our speedos in close quarters, change into bike gear and get on a bike as fast as we possibly can. i felt plenty warm and the day was looking beautiful, so i canned all of the warm bike clothes i packed in favor of the summer kit. every volunteer who helped me slipped in or out of clothing was rewarded with a high-five, and i gave my foot towel to a fellow participant in need. outside the tent, two ladies were clearly having fun covering me in sunscreen (k: i took zero pleasure in this disgusting, repulsive behavior) and another volunteer brought my bike to me in full stride: valet service at its best.
to go from the underwater violence and silence of the swim to a walled tunnel of spectators and noisemakers is quite the transition. it makes you want to simply keep pressing forward.
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