If you didn’t read my last post (Kona 2024: Injury News), the first story of this four-part Kona series, click the link below:
After much consideration, I decided to show up to the Island and give it all I have. “All I have” no longer meant going sub 9, breaking three hours in the marathon off the bike, and finishing top 10 in the world in my age group (AG) - performance goals I set for myself as I saw my training piece together the past few months. “All I have” now meant finding acceptance and making the most of the experience, even if the experience was far from the one I’ve envisioned and know I’m capable of when healthy.
Since I was on crutches, I didn’t run or even walk for three weeks until race day. I didn’t know what my pain level would be so I had to adjust my expectations and be open-minded. I understood that may have meant walking the entire marathon. That may have meant not even finishing, but Kona is Kona and I was determined to get across the line.
I’m typically stressed and nervous during race week, but I was stressed and nervous for different reasons this time. When would the pain come? Would it force me to quit? As these scenarios played out in my head, my AG lined up in the swim queue and watched the cannon fire to begin the pro race. I stood atop the stairs at Dig Me Beach, taking it all in. I get to do this, as my friends Chris and Ginny often say.
As us young guns entered the water to swim out to the start buoys, I was stung by a jellyfish in the face. My cheeks and eyes swelled, but there was nothing I could do as there were only seconds before the chaos of the mass start began. When the horn blew, front-packers weren’t the only ones fighting for positions; it was mayhem for all. After a few hundred yards, people began to spread out, find feet, and settle in. At the turnaround boat, I was choked by a mooring rope trying to find the straightest line possible. I headed back to the shores with a current that allowed me to come out of the water in 1:01 - an Ironman swim PR for me. I gingerly entered T1 with a puffy face, not only from the jelly, but from an elbow and foot to the mouth. Occupational hazards, I suppose.
Despite not doing any intensity or riding longer than two hours the last month, I was confident in my ability to throw down a solid bike split due to six hour rides I did in my build, in addition to my familiarity with the Queen K Highway, thanks to some family trips to the Big Island. Even though we faced strong winds up to Hawi and climbed 5,800 feet in 112 miles, the ride felt automatic. I took in a little more than 100g carbs and 1,000mg sodium per hour. My heart rate was elevated, though that was expected due to the heat and humidity, caffeine, and the excitement of racing; however, perceived exertion was in check and I felt comfortably uncomfortable. I came off the bike in 4:52, averaging 23 mph and 210 watts (219 NP).
I felt solid at the end of the bike so wanted to start the marathon running. I couldn’t find a porta potty in T2 so had a bathroom stop near mile two, which is also when I realized I forgot my sodium pills in my run gear bag. Oh well, time to adapt. My legs felt okay for 10k, then the pain came. I slowed down to not jeopardize my finish and risk a full pelvis fracture. It was discouraging to see my splits go from 6s to 7s, then 8s, and even 9s and 10s, especially since I had been averaging about 7:15/mi pace during my long aerobic training runs before the stress fracture. But I had to let those thoughts go. My run slowed to a jog, then to a shuffle, and finally to a limp, but I got it done. I was heat adapted. The fitness and engine were there; my run durability just wasn’t after taking a month off going into the race. A 3:48, over 40 minutes slower than my last Ironman marathon, is nowhere near what I set out to accomplish, but I’m trying to be proud of myself and the effort given my injury. I had set myself up to compete with the best guys in the world in what has become my strength, the run. I battled and gave it all I had on the day, and that’s all you can ask of yourself.
