4:52am: message from Ironman “Water temperature is 25.3 C/77.5F. Wetsuit ARE NOT permitted”
7:05am Professional men start
7:15am First age group wave starts. Then every 5-8 minutes after that.
7:54am We are the second last age group (50-54) to start.
The swim was rough, not so much the conditions, although there was some chop the further we got out, rather it was a fight to find space that lasted most of the first lap.
I feel really slow, occasionally I look at my watch as it beeps, it’s set to auto lap every 200m, the news it’s giving me isn’t helping. I try to ignore it but the thoughts keep creeping in that this is going to be a very shit swim. I’d hoped for between 72-75 minutes. This could be over 80.
Things open up for the second lap, it’s less congested, less getting pushed or slapped or swam over. Which shouldn’t really be surprising. It’s the Mediterranean Sea, it’s a pretty big place and there’s only 324 athletes in my wave. Fuck knows why it was so congested at the start, you’d think we could have arranged ourselves a bit better given the abundance of space.
Anyway. Let’s move on.
I’m getting close to the end, I can see the finish arch on the beach and I’ve only got one more buoy to pass before I get to the shore. I check my watch and I’m shocked to that see I’m at 70 minutes. I speed up, like swimming hard for the last 200 meters is going to make any difference.
I look up a minute later and the beach seems to be about the same distance away. Optical illusion I tell myself and swim harder. I look up and I still haven’t passed the buoy and the beach doesn’t really look all that much closer. Story of my swim life I think.
I eventually pass the buoy and things are getting congested again as we all funnel in towards the finish.
I look up as I’m getting to the end and spot Ais, she’s scanning the swimmers but doesn’t see me. I look up again, she’s wearing a bright green t-shirt with a big letter on it. Looks like B, could also be R. What’s that about I wonder.
Then some clown tries to swim up my legs and onto my back and I promptly forget about T-shirts with letters as I try to get the idiot off me. Where does he think he’s going I wonder as I breast stroke kick him off.
I get to my feet very unsteadily, a hand grabs me and pulls me upright, another hand grabs and drags me up the steep stony exit and then I slip and fall on top of the volunteer who was helping me.
Someone grabs me and yanks me to my feet and then I’m up and start to run up the ramp shouting apologies over my shoulder. I hit lap on my watch and I see 1:16:03. Only one minute off target. I’m happy. And even more so that I’m out of that water and headed for the bike.
Joanne Murphy, one of the Ironman announcers calls my name and then Owen Martin’s, Owen is a mate of mine and has been to Kona a dozen times. If I’m out of the water close to him I’m doing ok I think.
Little did I know that I’m 1460th out of the water and 152nd in my age group.. What in the actual fuck?!? I’ve been swimming my little loaf off all year. This swimming lark is an absolute load of bollocks.
Of course I don’t know this wonderful little nugget of information during the race. I’m not on my phone checking the tracker as I run through transition.
My transition is efficient, not super fast, not super slow. Quite Goldilocks.
I run out past the mount line, it’s congested so I keep on running. I’m lining up some space, getting ready to do a flying mount, the crowds are ten deep, roaring support and I’m just about to jump on the bike, I’m gonna look so cool as I fly past all of these guys struggling to get onto their bikes without crashing.
I glance back and see the two bottles sticking up behind the saddle and realise that if I try to do a flying mount over those I’ll end up in the barriers, or over the barriers and in the crowd so I stop and carefully swing my leg over the saddle looking decidedly pedestrian, geriatric even.
Good job Robbo, stylish as fuck.
I start to ride and I’m passing people which is a nice change from being passed for over an hour in the water. Did I mention that the older age group that started four minutes behind us caught me at about 1500m? No? Hardly surprising, I should probably keep that little fact to myself.
Anyway. The bike.
I have a plan for the bike, I’ll ride somewhat hard on the first two short steep climbs and then very conservatively on the long twenty kilometre climb and I’ll push harder on the last ten kilometre climb.
I ride it exactly like that. At 40k at the start of the big climb I’ve moved up to 108th in the age group. Then I settle into an easier pace all the way up the big climb and gradually drop back to 117th by the top.
At the top is a really windy, exposed rolling section across the plateau and I brought my effort up according to my race plan which seems to be working so far because I’ve moved up to 93rd by the time we hit the descent off the plateau.
I had thought that I was a reasonably decent bike handler but I get passed again and again as we descend. I realise that there is a huge difference between being a reasonably good bike handler and being a really good descender.
I pass several crashes, athletes being attended to by medics as they lie on the road which also didn’t really help with my desire to push harder on the downhills.
When I hit the third 10k climb I pushed on like I’d planned to. I wasn’t sure how my legs would respond but they felt really good as soon as I got out of the saddle. I passed athletes all the way up the climb. I was a little worried that I was riding too hard but I felt good all the way. I made up another four places on the climb moving up to 87th.
Once I was over the top it was almost fifty kilometres of downhill and flat and again I lost a bunch of the places I made up on the climb. Fortunately none of them were in my age group and by the end of the bike I was up to 86th.
I passed Ais and my folks as I approached T2. Dad was wearing a T-shirt with a big letter B on it. What the hell is that about I wondered?
Then I was approaching the mount line, getting ready to do a stylish, fast dismount. I start to swing my leg up and over the saddle and I hit the bottles that are back there. Remember those?
My leg wouldn’t go any higher, the dismount line is approaching fast, too fast, I’m hard on the brakes, volunteers are growing more concerned as I’m still on the bike, coming straight at them. I eventually stop just before the line and get off the bike looking just as geriatric as I did getting onto it six hours ago.
Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. My bike split. Slow as fuck. I’d hoped to be sub six hours, ok I’d actually hoped to be closer to 5:50. I finished up with a 6:17. Disappointed but relieved to be off the bike and hoping that I’m not the only one who was slower than expected.
Anyway. Let’s move on.
I had to stop in transition to use the toilet. I’ve never had to do that before in any of the eighteen Ironmans or dozens of triathlons I’ve done. My bladder was so full I thought I was going to fucking burst.
And the crowds along the run course on the promenade were so big that I didn’t really feel comfortable relieving myself as I ran. Not to mention the fact that I’ve a nice new pair of fast Saucony race shoes on that I don’t really want to piss in.
So I stopped and I stood at the urinal for what felt like minutes as it just went on and on. I know I drank a lot on the bike but this is fucking ridiculous I thought.
Despite the bladder emptying I somehow made up two more places through T2.
I ran out onto what was already a busy run course, the spectator support was loud. I pass a DJ a couple of hundred metres later and he had the crowd heaving. It was all lifting me and I was enjoying the start of the run.
My Garmin beeped, 4:48. That’s ok I think. Not too fast.
I start to run a full body diagnostics check.
I’m feeling pretty ok all considered. Then I pass Ais and my folks. And there’s that capital B on one of the T-shirts again. I have no clue. Why have they all got B on their T-shirts?
The Garmin beeps again, it’s a 4:54. I’m slowing a little, I try to pick up the pace but nothing happens. The third kilometre is a 5:00, then 4:59, 5:00 and then it drifts out to 5:04, 5:08 then it’s a 5:14. Fuck.
My hope of breaking 3h30 for the marathon is slipping away. I feel like I’m stuck in 4th gear, I’m not hurting, I just can’t go any faster. I accept that this is what I have for now and just focus on holding onto what speed I can.
As I get back towards the end of the lap I pass my folks and Ais and Janet and Nick who are spread out over about 200mts and I get a big lift from their shouts of support.
Then I’m back to the craziness of the last kilometre, DJ’s blasting, crowds screaming, Paul Kaye shouting something at the finish, a line of people all looking for high fives and I oblige and my smile is getting bigger and im getting faster.
I look at my Garmin and it says I’m at 4:30 pace. What in the actual fuck? How did that happen. Too fast Cummins. Back off. So I do. Just a bit.
But I’ve gotten out of fourth gear and realise that now I feel really good. And I’ve moved up a couple of places to 78th. At least I’m not going backwards.
I pass Ais and the gang again as I go out on the second lap and my pace is holding. 4:53, 4:56, 4:53, 5:00. That last one with a quick stop for ice in an aid station.
The second lap flies by, I’m passing people and I’m up to 72nd in the age group.
Then I’m onto the third lap and I’m feeling really good. I decide that this will be my fastest lap. My pace is holding, 4:57, 4:54, 4:49, 4:58, 4:56, 4:52, 4:46, 4:47, 4:48.
All the way through the third lap. I’m on track for a 3:29. And I’ve moved up twenty places to 52nd.
I’m onto the fourth and last lap and I’m still not hurting. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good in an Ironman marathon. I push and the pace is holding, 4:50, 4:49, 4:47, 4:50, 4:48.
At 35k I’m up to 50th and then the pain hits. All at once. Not a gradual build, one second I’m flying, working hard but feeling good. The next it feels like I’ve been hit by a bus.
My hip flexors tighten and everything is hurting like a bastard.
My pace slows and for the first time I have to really dig in to hold onto it. The next split is a 4:58. Ok, that’s not catastrophic I think. But I’m slowing more, the watch says I’m at 5:30 pace.
I push and get it back to 4:58 for the next split and the next.
I’ve only got four kilometres to go. Hurt yourself Robbo. Do not fucking back off.
But the Garmin tells me I did. It’s a 5:19. Fuck.
I surge and hold on and start to measure my effort in meters telling myself to just hold onto the pain until the next lamp post, or aid station or pass one more athlete.
I pull it back for a 5:08 but can’t hold onto it and I slip back to 5:21. I’m raging with myself and surge and try to hold on.
Last kilometre Cummins. Do not back off.
It’s late in the day. My shadow stretches out in front of me and I can see the turn off to the finish chute about two hundred metres ahead.
I’m watching the athletes in front of me praying none of them take the right turn towards the exit, if they do I’ll have to sprint for another place.
They all drift left to start another lap and I start to relax. I’m almost done. I can stop moving soon. And then I can get horizontal. All of a sudden all I want is to be is lying down. Lying down and not moving.
And I want to enjoy the finishing chute. No sprinting, no more racing. No more bargaining with myself to just hurt a little more. Just high fives and smiles and Ais and my folks and Joanne or Paul calling me in telling me that “Rob Cummins you are an Ironman”.
Then a shadow starts moving up alongside mine and I can hear someone breathing hard on my shoulder and now I have to sprint. Fuck fuck fuck.
I accelerate. The shadow accelerates and holds its place alongside mine. Fuck you friend.
I surge again and it starts to slip backwards. I surge once more and it lets go and disappears.
I turn hard right then left, blistered, raw feet screaming at the sharp turns but now I’m on the carpet and I can see the finish arch and I look back over my shoulder and there’s no one there. Shadow friend gave up chasing.
I spot my folks and high five them as I run past and then Joanne is calling me in telling me I’m a legend and Lee my Instagram mate is putting a medal around my neck.
He messaged me to say he’d be there when I came in and he is. It’s so nice to be welcomed at the end.
I hit stop on the Garmin at 3:29:35 and 42.3k. Fuck Yeah. At least it’s Fuck Yeah until I check the Ironman tracker later on and it says I did a 3:30:02. Fuck you tracker. I’m going with the Garmin on this one.
It’s so nice to not have to move. Until Lee tells me I have to. And he leads me out to the recovery area where there are steps and ramps and more steps.
This seems like some sort of perverse joke. Ironman I’m talking to you.
I look for Ais at the exit but she’s not there yet. I’m so hungry. I go and get food and meet Owen who’s finished just ahead of me.
He was fourteen minutes faster today. That’s almost exactly what he beat me by in Vitoria Gasteiz just over a month ago. One second apart on the swim and fourteen minutes apart after over eleven hours. Funny that.
We talk about the race, Owen tells me he was right behind me coming out of the swim. Turns out that slip I had when I took down the volunteer meant he crossed the timing mat one second before me.
I eat and head out and Ais, my folks, Janet and Nick are waiting at the exit. They’re all wearing green. They all have letters on their T-shirts. I ask Ais what’s with the letters? My brains not working so I can’t figure it out.
“Robbo” she says.
“What?” I ask.
“No, they say Robbo” she says. Then lines everyone up and I see it now.
R O B B O
“Except when I’m not there and they switch places, then it spells B O O B” she adds smiling.
I finished 49th in the age group. Way better than my wildest hopes.
I wonder did that pee in T2 cost me 48th place? I’m not going checking.
Next up is Kona for Ais and hamburgers and cake for me.
Rob Cummins
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