by Rob Cummins
Bike 2:51:41
Transition 2 – 00:58
Running out of T2 my feet hit the ground like concrete blocks. Every step hurt, they were so numb with the cold. I came out of transition pushing hard from the start of the run, throwing caution to the wind. I had nothing to lose by taking a chance and racing hard. I went through the first four kilometres at under four minutes per kilometre pace, which was way faster than I'd planned on starting and much faster than I’d ever gone before – close in fact to my sprint distance race pace. I was going much faster than I thought was sensible to make up as many places as possible, but I decided to keep going until I was forced to slow.
It took about six kilometres to become comfortable on the run but when I got going I really relaxed and enjoyed it. I found a groove and slotted myself into it. I was catching and passing people the whole way and getting a big buzz from it. It was a hilly run which tends to suit me and I moved steadily up the field. The run was by far the highlight of the day for me, finishing only four minutes off my stand-alone half marathon pb (that despite the fact that the run course at twenty two kilometres is actually a little long) and running hard all the way. It was a good lesson, where I discovered that I could go much harder than I could have thought if I was willing to hurt myself.
Run 1:27:08
Overall 17th. Age Group 3rd 5:01:40
Despite the problems with the cold I felt I was coming into very good shape and my confidence was good.
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Chapter 20
Race the Rás 2012 – prologue: pre-race rituals
There are a number of rituals that I go through before every big race or event. At this stage they are almost like superstitions.
Carb loading
This is my favourite part of the build-up to any big event, and in the case of the Race the Rás I continue to load carbs for ten whole days, including two days before the start and every day during the event. Afterwards I keep on eating huge amounts, as the metabolism is running so hard it’s like a furnace. Everything I put in is incinerated instantly and as a consequence cries out for more.
Bike check and cleaning
In the last couple of days before a race I love to clean and prepare my bike. Even though I have it serviced in the workshop a week before, it's now a part of my routine to strip and clean it myself, usually replacing bar tape, cables and tyres. I also fine-tune the gears and brakes so they are absolutely perfect. I leave nothing to chance. For Race The Rás I pack a week’s worth of spares, an extra wheel set and a tool box . . . just in case. The last thing I pack for the bike is a packet of baby wipes so I can clean it after each day. I don't do that much hands-on work on bikes in the shop anymore. I just don't have the time but it's a real passion of mine to work on high-end bikes. I find it very therapeutic and relaxing and this is one part of the preparation I really enjoy.
Packing
Packing is my least favourite thing and the most stressful part of race preparation, so as a result it’s usually the last thing to be done. We have to work off a list (and when I say ‘we’ what I really mean is Aisling) we have compiled over a couple of years so we don't forget anything.
Resting up
I normally have at least one day of complete rest before a big race. This is often spent in a hotel or in the camper van. When we travel to races I try to spend the day flat on my back, surrounded by snacks, drinks and books. In this case because Race The Rás is eight days long, the week leading up to it is manic in work, trying to get ahead of myself – so Saturday is spent in the shop. It’s not perfect preparation, but neither is it the end of the world.
Depending on how big an event is and how my preparation has gone, these things either settle my nerves or make me more nervous. This time I'm feeling calm and confident even though the RTR is a huge week, covering over 1200km in eight days. Over the last while the body has started to come around and I'm starting to feel strong. Even with work getting very busy for the last month or so I’m meant to have had two slightly lower volume-training weeks and I'm fairly well rested going into it.
Another plus is that it's not the big unknown that it was last year, so it's much less stressful. Maybe I'm remembering it through rose-tinted glasses, but I'm really looking forward to it. The camaraderie develops over the week of spending five or six hours a day pedalling with a gang of riders that start off being strangers and end up being your ‘best mates ever’. I hoped the weather would be kinder to us this year after the epic conditions we had last year. Aisling isn't riding this one as she is in the middle of training for a 24-hour ultra marathon in July.
This is one of my most important training weeks of the year. There is nowhere else that I can ride in a group with support for five to six hours every day for eight days, covering up to 190km a day. It's perfect Ironman training for me as I find my bike fitness transfers well to the run and I seem to be able to absorb the huge volume and recover fairly quickly.
From the first day I knew I was in good shape and I had decided that I would ride hard as much as possible. I was quite happy to push hard all day, every day, and arrive at the finish exhausted, but knowing that I could spend the afternoon recovering and eating, so I was ready to go again the next day. I wanted the whole week to be a huge overload, when I could recover properly afterwards. I felt so good on several of the days I added twenty to thirty kilometres onto the end of the ride to bring my mileage up close to 200k a couple of times. Other days I ran about ten kilometres off the bike but I only got in one swim. I felt stronger and stronger as the week went on and I rode more aggressively as a result. I took a huge amount of confidence from the event as well as the massive training benefits.
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Chapter 21
Ironman UK (IMUK), July 2012
Every journey begins with a first step. That journey’s first step was Aisling's belief that I could do it and her convincing me to believe in myself when nobody else, including myself, believed I could succeed.
Last year that race was the closest thing to an easy Ironman I had done and I almost qualified for the World Championships in Kona at my first attempt. That gave me the idea that I would again cruise through it in 2012. Having greater fitness, coupled with the fact that I was moving into a new age group, surely I would comfortably land a Kona slot and possibly a podium place too? I went into this one thinking it was in the bag. I was about to learn that Ironman doesn't give an ‘easy’ ride to Kona, so I was in for a very rude awakening.
All the racing and training for the last six months had built really well. I had been setting new swim pb's at every distance from 100, 200 and 400 metres all the way to 4 kilometres. My speed and strength had both improved hugely. My biking was going better than ever before by a long way. I’d been feeling so much stronger and confident as a result and a return to bike racing had added an element of sharpness and speed that hadn't been there previously.
The run was the only area that I didn't think had improved hugely, but I believed that if I could hold on to my form from the last two races, added to my much greater overall fitness, I wouldn't have any problem running a fast time. It's only a marathon after all. . . Like I said I was confident.
Race week came and the magic, strong feeling that had been in my legs for weeks was gone. I had no idea how to get it back and without it my confidence was faltering. All season I had been getting better on the bike in particular and now with two days to go my legs decided it was time for a siesta. I did an hour on Thursday before the race on the bike, nice and steady with just a couple of efforts at race pace. It felt ok but not quite right. On Friday I headed out again, hoping my legs had just gone to sleep after a couple of easy weeks on the bike and I tried to convince myself they were back, that once again I had that magic feeling of being able to hit the gas and hold it for ages, then hit it again and again. But it wasn't there. I felt like I was stuck in third gear, revving the engine like crazy, but I couldn’t find fourth, never mind fifth or sixth. I was getting more
and more nervous and worried but there was nothing to do now but hope that my legs would wake up before Sunday for the race. Aisling reassured me all was well. The training was done and I was just being paranoid – and she was usually right. But a big part of me thought that time that she was wrong.
Sunday. Race day
I've not been this nervous before a race for as long as I can remember. I'm queuing for a Portaloo with Aisling and I'm not talking much. I am trying to relax but all I can hear is this guy behind me with the most annoying voice on the planet who won't shut up. ‘This is a long queue. How long do you think it'll take to get to the start? I need to use the toilet. Do you think it's gonna rain? It might get hot today but not as hot as my last race. That was really hot. I don't think it'll rain.’
Jesus I wanted to kill him. Shut up man. I'm not usually this nervous and I'm much more irritable than usual. Making my apologies to Aisling I put in my headphones and stuck on my race day playlist, bringing instant relief. It's just me in my head and I start to settle down. I have my eyes closed and I'm starting to get into race mode. Then I get a tap on the shoulder and I open my eyes expecting Aisling, but it's my parents and my brother, who have spent all night driving and travelling on the car ferry from Dublin to Holyhead to come and surprise me and to watch me race. I'm speechless, but delighted. After a couple of minutes chatting it’s time to get into the wetsuit and then into the water.
The swim
I’d rehearsed this swim in my head dozens of times over the last twelve months, visualising myself sighting well and getting into a good strong group to set a new pb. I was hoping to get out of the water in just under the hour. Normally my arms hurt with the fast race start for about ten minutes but then as they warm up I settle and the pain eases into discomfort and I then settle into a fast rhythm. But no matter how hard I tried I couldn't find that groove and the swim was hard, sore and uncomfortable from start to finish. . . not to mention very slow. I tried telling myself that it was a long course or slow conditions and that everyone else would have a poor time, but I didn't really believe it.
Swim: 1:08:44 204th
T1 4:05
T1 went well and I got out quickly onto the bike. It was time to find out if my legs were back. I was less than two kilometers into the bike when my rear tyre blew out. I was just entering a roundabout and was lucky to stay upright as I leaned into the turn. I tried not to panick as I quickly changed tubes but athletes were streaming by me. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. I tried hard to control myself as I restarted and not chase the lost minutes spent at the side of the road.
Unlike last year when I started very conservatively, I rode a little harder and I was moving up the field constantly, passing other riders. I was going well but it felt much harder than usual. The bike normally takes me anything up to an hour of discomfort and sore legs before I settle into a groove. I often find that it sometimes helps to hit a climb at around this stage. I think it’s the change of position from being seated and in the tri bars to getting out of the saddle for the climb that seems to wake them up.
As it happens in IMUK the first climb comes at about an hour for me and I was looking forward to stretching my legs on it. However, from the start I realised I didn't have the usual zing. I wasn't climbing well. It felt like very hard work and I had run out of gears already. This was only a couple of hundred metres into the hill, which was not a good sign. I was trying not to panic, hoping that I would eventually settle into my rhythm. After the climb and descent I got to my favourite part of the bike course. It was a really fast 15km and I was moving well but still not feeling strong.
I didn't really know what was wrong. My legs felt dreadful and were sore no matter what I did. I tried slowing down, speeding up, eating more, eating less and drinking more to see if it helped, but nothing had any effect. I eventually just gave up trying to fix it and accepted that I didn't have good legs for the bike. Despite my difficulties I was still moving through the field. At about three hours in I started cramping a bit and had to make a decision. I knew how badly I wanted to qualify. What I needed to decide was how much I was willing to risk and how much I could hurt myself and keep moving.
I could try backing right off to sort out the legs. Let them recover and probably lose twenty or thirty minutes on the bike? There was no way I would make up that much with even a savage run, so that wasn't an option. I could continue to push, knowing I was damaging my legs for the run. It wasn't really a choice. I had to keep pushing despite the pain and hope my legs wouldn't be too wrecked for the run.
I caught up with Irish pro Eimear Mullen who was in second place in the women’s race, close to the end of the bike and gave her a shout. I estimated she wouldn't be long catching me on the run. I finished the bike in 5:34, moving up to sixty-first overall and sixth in my age group, although I wouldn't know that for another hour or so when Aisling updated me on the run course.
It's worth noting that even with a slower than expected swim, a puncture and what felt was a dreadful bike, I was at this stage still in a qualifying position.
Bike 5:34:32
T2 1:16
I got through T2 quickly, taking just over a minute. The first kilometre out of transition was mostly downhill, so it usually helped to get the legs turning over, while finding a rhythm. They were bad from the start, feeling really sore and cramped. I've had sore legs before at the start of an Ironman marathon, but they came good, giving me a decent run split, so didn't panic. Matt Molloy, one of the top Irish age group Ironman racers was on the course offering support. He kept on telling me I was moving well and to keep it up. I felt really guilty for letting my head drop and for feeling sorry for myself. Allowing the support to lift me I decided to try to focus on enjoying the run and not on how bad I was feeling. Very gradually I found a rhythm and although it was slower than I'd hoped, I kept on pushing. At about the 15k mark I saw Aisling and my family again. She was shouting that I was still moving up the field and was into the top 50 now and was sixth in my age group getting off the bike. It was the first time I'd had any real idea about where I was and it gave me a huge mental lift to know I was still in with a chance of getting a qualifying slot for Hawaii.
One of the biggest motivations for me not to give up was to know how important it was to other people. Aisling had been there every step of the way and just imagining the shame of having to admit to her the next day that I gave in because it was too hard and hurt too much kept me pushing. I also couldn't stand the idea of letting my family down after taking time out of their lives to come and watch me. There was also the fact that I had announced in a national magazine what I intended to do and there was no way I was writing another article saying I had missed it again. All I needed to do was stay in the top seven, with about 27k to go. I told myself I could hurt for that long.
Less than five minutes later things took a nosedive. I slowed so much I was afraid I'd end up walking. I was hurting more than I ever have in an Ironman and I started to pray that I had a bit of a buffer between myself and the next guy in my age group. I had no sooner thought that than I heard someone move onto my shoulder and he went straight past. I looked down at his leg to check his age group, because we had our category marked on our calves. He was M40 – my age group.
He was going so much faster that there was no chance I could stay with him. There goes seventh I thought. I started praying that he was the last one, hoping that the next one had to be a bit further back. I just need to recover and get moving a bit faster, I told myself. Then another M40 went past at the same speed as the last one. I just cound’nt believe it.
It was normally about that stage that I started to pass people who were in the state that I was in then. I dug as deep as I ever have in a race to get back to him and hung on for dear life. One kilometre passed, then two and three and I was still with him but I was way over my limit. I lasted one more kilometre and then he started pulling away. That's eighth gone, I thought. I can't respond and I can see Kona slipping away. Less t
han a minute later I lose ninth. I am sorer than I've ever been. My legs are tying up with cramps and every step sends jagged pain shooting through my calves and quads. I lose tenth and then eleventh. I eat and drink at the aid stations, hoping that food might help bring me back around. At last I stop losing places but I'm out of the running completely, now five places off qualifying and only one 10k lap to go.
There’s a climb out of Bolton at the start of the lap and just after the steepest part, as I got onto the long drag, I tried again. I pushed and picked up the pace, hoping I could hold on to it. The pain is still massive but this time the legs respond and I hold the increased pace. I can see eleventh place in my age group ahead and I'm closing on him. I dig in and push again, risking it all now. I'm so close to my limit that if I go over it I'll end up walking. At this stage I had nothing, so I'd nothing to lose. I pass him and he doesn't respond. Then I see tenth.
I put my head down and push and catch him and as I do I surge, so he doesn't try to come with me. I hold on to the speed as long as I can and he doesn't come with me. I get to the 5k to go mark and I see ninth. I can see Kona again. I can hurt myself for another five kilometres. I pick up the pace way past what I thought I could sustain and every part of my body is screaming at me to quit and lie down. I've never wanted so badly to just stop. I pass ninth almost sprinting. At least that’s how hard it feels. There's no way I can hold this effort to the end but I'm terrified of being caught and I can almost see a slot.