Chasing Kona

by Rob Cummins

  I was immediately last and getting dropped. I pushed hard and tried to follow their lines into corners. I was way out of my depth and almost crashed twice on the tight twisty descent. I couldn't believe I was getting dropped on the way down after staying with them so easily on the climb. I was off the back. The last rider disappeared around the corner ahead and I just kept going as fast as I dared to the bottom, at which point it went straight back up again.

  This next section of the race was all up and down. Climb, twisty descent, another climb then another twisty descent. I hit the bottom of the next rise as hard as I could and rode full gas into it. I still felt incredibly strong, stronger than I'd ever felt before. I caught them about half way up and tried to settle and recover, but there was no chance of that on a hill. Again we crested and again I got dropped on the way down but not as badly this time. The next climb started immediately again and I rose out of the saddle and accelerated but this time the kick wasn't there. I was working so hard to get back on after the descents I wasn't able to recover for another effort. I sat back down almost accepting that was it . . . game over.

  I tried once more and got back up out of the saddle, head screaming at the legs to just push once more. This was the last climb and descent and the next ten kilometres had enough flat to recover. ‘You will recover, just stay on the wheels, just hang on’, I told myself. I managed to latch on just at the crest of the hill. On the last technical descent though they opened a gap. Only a bike length but I was out of the draft and my legs were fried. I dug as deep as I could just once more and got back on. Then they accelerated for no particular reason, just someone feeling good, so he hit the gas a little bit and that finished me. I blew up completely. One minute I was hanging on the tail of the group at 50kph thinking I'm home and dry, but the next I was hardly able to push the pedals at 25kph.

  I was gutted, and to make matters worse I was going to get caught any second now and get dropped straight out of the main bunch because my legs were so fried. But they didn't arrive and my legs gradually cleared and my breathing came under control. I started to push again waiting for the bunch to catch me but another two kilometres went by and there was no sign of them. My legs were almost back when they finally caught me with less than five kilometres to go.

  I got out of the saddle to accelerate back up to the speed of the bunch and sat in for a couple of minutes. As we got near the end I decided that I was going to go for the sprint, but from a long way out. I don’t like the craziness of a big bunch sprint in the last 200-300mts. Maybe the legs were still there and just maybe I could get that point and category win. I moved up through the bunch. The tension rises in the last couple of kilometres as everyone is watching and waiting and jostling for position.

  It was way too early when I attacked. There was almost a kilometre to go but I went anyway – as hard as I could. Two guys reacted instantly. I pushed again and nosed in front and they both came alongside me. We were three abreast and I could see the finish line coming up fast. I went one more time, giving it all I had and I got half a bike length then a bit more and then it was over.

  I’ve never worked so hard for a sixth place finish before or since. I could hardly stand when I got off the bike. My legs were wobbly and really sore, but it was the best feeling I'd ever had in a race.

  ❖

  Chapter 5

  Hooked on Iron

  The first thing I did before I even got out of bed was to reach for a cigarette. My head was pounding and every movement sent a fresh wave of pain jolting through my skull. My stomach was very sick just lying still, so moving wasn't even an option yet, except to reach over for my cigarettes of course.

  I slept with water beside the bed. My mouth always felt like someone had emptied a stinking vacuum bag into it during the night. It was dry, with a stinking breath and tasted rank. One of the really unpleasant side effects of being a heavy smoker was made worse this morning by the presence of a thundering hangover.

  I made my way downstairs slowly, trying not to make either the pain or nausea worse. I made a strong coffee and planted myself in front of the television where I fully intended to spend most of that Sunday. I had no idea that I was going to begin a journey that would change everything about me – who I was and my way of life. It wasn't a change that became visible for years but this day was the spark that started it.

  I flicked through my usual selection of sports and news channels, settling on Eurosport. There was some sort of bike race on. I was only half watching to be honest until I thought I heard a description of what they were doing. Something about swimming first then biking and then running, but what really stopped me in my tracks were the distances. I thought he said they were going to get off the bike and run a marathon. Surely that couldn't be right?

  I didn't know much about athletics, cycling or swimming and had never even heard of this sport called Ironman triathlon, that mixed all three, but I did know that a marathon was long, really long, and I believed it was almost impossible for most ordinary people to do just that on its own, never mind after tortuous periods of swimming and biking.

  These people were as far away from my reality as Michael Schumacher. They all looked incredibly fit, muscular, strong and tanned. They were obviously all blessed with some sort of super gene or natural talent, they weren't normal I thought. They looked like they were from a different planet. They had my attention and I started listening to the commentators talking about how the race was unfolding, but I really only wanted to hear that bit again about the distances, because I must have been mistaken.

  Then they said it again. You know the way commentators have to fill time during a long race? Well this one was certainly long. The swim was 2.4 miles, the bike race was 112 miles and the run was a full marathon 26.2 miles. I still hadn’t figured things out. How many days do they have to do this, I wondered?

  The athletes looked incredible. I couldn't get over how perfect they looked. They had this absolutely aspirational physique, with wide muscular shoulders and strong arms. Their wide backs tapered down to a slim waist and they had very ripped legs. And they were all bronzed and glistening with sweat while they baked under the Hawaiian sun. Then they talked about the distances again and this time my hungover brain took in the information. They do them one after the other without stopping. I was dumbstruck. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever heard of. Cool and unbelievably crazy.

  I was wide awake now and on to my second coffee and paying full attention. There seemed to be a couple of strange things going on though. There was more than one race. There were the professionals, which did not surprise me, as I had assumed that anyone fit enough to do this sort of crazy race must be a professional sports person. But they were also talking about ‘age groupers’. I'd no idea who these were at first, but it became clear that they were amateurs. This was the world championship for both professionals and amateurs and they all raced together. It must be cool to get to start alongside the best in the world I thought. You couldn't get out there and race with Michael Schumacher or toss a ball around with Michael Jordan.

  Then they cut to a guy still in the swim. I couldn't really figure out what was going on. He was coming to the end of the swim and had a harness around his torso attached to a rope, pulling along a small dinghy. Inside it was a man lying twisted and contorted. The commentator said they were a father and son called Rick and Dick Hoyt. Dick, the father was swimming. Rick the grown up son, a quadriplegic with cerebral palsy was in the dinghy. Dick reached the point where he could stand and dragged the dinghy over, took off the harness and reached in and lifted his grown up son into his arms, the way you carry a toddler up to bed out in front of you lying draped across both arms. He then walked up the steps onto the pier surrounded by crowds cheering, clapping and some actually crying.

  I'd never seen anything like it. I was moved to the point that I had to take a deep breath and compose myself. I wasn't going to start crying. Dick half ran, half walked carrying his son to their bike
. It was a custom built one and looked like a cross between a tandem and a bike with a child seat but out in front not behind. Dick carefully placed Rick into the seat, fastened his harness put on both their helmets then started towards the start of the bike course.

  Just like that I was immediately hooked. It cut back and forward from the bike course and the professionals to age groupers they were following through the race, usually ones with a story, like someone who had survived a disease or accident and somehow managed to get themselves to what they called The Ironman and back again to Rick and Dick.

  At some point during the coverage I went from thinking this is the craziest thing I've ever seen to this is the coolest thing I've ever seen. From there I somehow ended up thinking I was going to do that. I had no idea what that meant at the time, but I just knew it was something I promised to myself I would do.

  Here I was hung over, sick, unfit and almost chain smoking, thinking I could someday race with these incredible people. The pros continued on to the marathon but they were as far away from my reality as the planet Mars. The age group stories were fascinating and motivating but these people, like the pros were obviously genetic freaks or gifted or had some massive God-given talent. They had overcome some huge obstacle to get themselves here and that made their story incredible.

  Watching Dick on the bike doing something in so many ways harder than what the pros or age groupers were doing, while at the same time looking like an ordinary person was amazing. He was an ordinary person not just doing what looked like an impossible event, but doing it in such a way as to make the seemingly impossible even harder. I saw him as an ordinary person. Obviously Dick is one of the most incredible people not just in the world of triathlon but in any walk of life. The more of his story that the commentators told, about his life as a lieutenant colonel in the Air National Guard and how they first started in a five-mile running race coming second last, to here with the best of the best in the world at The Ironman. The more I saw him as a real person, the more I saw him as someone I could identify with. He didn't start out as a super hero but through bloody mindedness, love for his son and hard work he was here. That seemed to me then like proof that it could be done.

  I don’t remember any other details from that race. I forgot who won and I couldn't even name one of the pros but Rick and Dick changed something in me that day. I watched the race unfold still amazed and fascinated at every part of it but I was captivated by the Hoyts’ story. They were on to the marathon but Dick was reduced to periods of walking because of exhaustion, but he still kept going. The sun went down and whenever the camera came back to them they were still going, never for a second giving up. Dick was slowing so much though that he wasn't going to make the cut-off time. The race had an allotted time and if you didn't finish inside that you didn't finish.

  I was willing him on, sitting on the edge of my seat almost shouting at the television. Knowing he wasn’t going to make it in time, and that the race was over made no difference. He kept on moving, running when he could, walking when he had to. It was the most impressive feat I'd ever seen a ‘normal’ person do. He didn’t make the cut-off. He was still out on the course when they stopped the clock and shut off the lights. The finish chute and arch on Ali’i Drive went dark, but he still didn't stop.

  The camera bike with him was obviously able to relay his position back to the organisers and they weren't giving up on him. He mightn't get an official finish but they could still welcome him in. The crowds stayed, or maybe word spread that he was nearly home. At the finish line there’s a long chute the competing athletes run in that earlier had been lined five and six deep with spectators, but had since emptied. Long after the race was over it was full again, as people came back to witness and welcome them and as the Hoyts ran down the chute, the spotlights came back on. Dick had tears running down his face, as did a lot of the spectators and race staff. I was fighting hard with the lump in my throat.

  My Ironman journey had begun, or rather the seed had been planted. But life has a habit of getting in the way and it would be another seven or eight years before I came across Rick and Dick Hoyt again and that seed started to grow.

  ❖

  Chapter 6

  Losing my triathlon virginity - Dublin City Triathlon 2003

  I looked over my shoulder exiting the water. There were only a handful of people behind me. I ran into transition, glad to have survived the swim and really looking forward to the next part. I'd had a couple of seasons of road racing and although I hadn't raced that year my biking was probably what you would call decent, compared to my swimming. I came 155th out of 161 out of the water and I'd done the whole thing breaststroke because I couldn't swim front crawl.

  As soon as I was out of transition I immediately started catching and passing people on the bike, making up almost 100 places, moving up into the top fifty. Then came the run and my running though not quite as bad as the swim wasn't far off it. I went on to be re-passed by about seventy of the people I'd caught on the bike to finish 117th in a time of 2:52:54 for my first Olympic distance race. This was my first triathlon.

  Unlike any road race I'd done before there were people still there, cheering and congratulating me for finishing, in 117th place in the bike race. They was still a crowd there for the last person to cross the line. I'd been dropped once from the bunch in my last road race about ten kilometres from the end and rolled in probably only five minutes down and almost everyone was already gone home, including the guy that I'd given my backpack to put in his car. In the backpack were my house keys, wallet and phone. I cycled the twenty-five kilometres home and spent the next two hours shivering and starving, sitting in the shed, waiting to get into the house.

  I was dropped because I hadn't been training hard enough and was only dipping in and out of racing. I wasn't fit enough and it was a bad enough experience to put me off going back for a while. That's a big part of why I decided to try triathlon, and judging by the welcome at the end, post-race food and how friendly and approachable everyone was it was the right choice. I loved it and got such a huge kick out of the whole event I knew I'd be back for more.

  That was near the end of the 2003 season and I'd fully intended to learn how to swim properly over the winter and race the next season but I'd lost the desire and drive. I became lazy and before I fully realised it, 2004 was gone. I kept on making excuses when customers asked if I was racing and I hated doing that. I hated being the guy who always has a good reason why he couldn't get things done. . . why he didn't train and wasn't fit. The only reason I didn't do it was that I didn't decide it was important enough to make time for it.

  Winter 2004 came and I finally found the drive and motivation to start training again. Despite getting swimming lessons I still couldn't master the front crawl and spent most of my training doing the breaststroke. At the time I was still a complete beginner and all of my sessions were short, but I was fairly consistent and went to my first (pool-based) race of that year – 2005 – in what I thought was better shape.

  During April in Ireland the water is too cold to swim outdoors. I finished the race mid-pack and loved it. This time the hook was well and truly in and I went into work the following Monday and went through the entire race calendar, selected the races I wanted to join and printed the entry forms. I filled them in and posted them off with a cheque for my entry fee.

  It was still old-school printed entry forms, cheques, envelopes and licking stamps. It’s incredible to think that that process has changed so much now with online entry and big races selling out thousands of places in minutes. In only eight or nine years paper entry is almost extinct.

  The year 2005 was another of those major tipping points for me. I raced twelve triathlons from sprint to half Ironman. I went back bike racing, raced half a dozen duathlons and rode a number of 100 and 200k sportive events. I was fitter than I'd ever been, but I was still very much a newbie triathlete. In fact I didn't even think of myself as a triathlete – more like a cyc
list who did a couple of triathlons. I joined a triathlon club and immersed myself in the whole lifestyle of training and racing and spent every spare minute learning and reading about races, bikes, bike fitting and anything else I could get my hands on.

  Again the business followed my passion and the bike shop gradually became more and more specialist. The business grew as I catered more for triathletes, as the word spread and as I was seen at more races.

  I ended the season completing my first half Ironman. It’s one of Ireland’s most iconic races, called ‘The Lost Sheep’ and is held in the south County Kerry town of Kenmare. I had no idea how to train for it and really hoped that one fifteen-kilometre run would suffice, on top of my Olympic distance racing and normal training. I was starting to feel like a bit of a legend by the end of the season as I had racked up a whole season of triathlon and bike racing and was improving all the time, admittedly from a very low starting point. I was now usually in the top third and occasionally even cracked the top thirty in races. Even so, I was about to learn a very hard lesson. I'm sure there is some expression that fits my situation then – ‘pride before a fall’ or some expression like that?

  Anyway, the week leading into the race probably typified not just my slightly over-the-top personality but also my misguided but growing feelings of invincibility. The previous Saturday saw me race an Olympic distance triathlon. The next day, Sunday, I did a 100km bike event. Three days later, on Wednesday, I did a local duathlon. This is probably not what you'd call an ideal taper week for a half Ironman, and certainly the furthest thing from clever for a first-year newbie. Race day arrived and I was nervous at the start, but also really excited. I had it figured out that a half Ironman distance is well suited to a strong biker and I thought that I'd do well. But this was stupid and naive. The swim was also sufficiently short in relation to the other two, so I thought I wouldn't loose as much time when looking at the overall race.