Triangle Running Group

Congrats to Rap Master Sass who finished Ironman Arizona 2009!

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Race Report by Jon Sasser

Stumbling through the darkness of the Arizona desert, I see no sign of the Marine I’ve been stalking for the past fourteen hours. Going head to head with a man young enough to be my son, whose body fat is about one fifth of mine, no longer seems like such a good idea. I’m also wondering if taking $400 from the Pima Tribe, who have called this valley home since 400 A.D., might be bad karma.

Suddenly, I hear my name. “Look ahead, Jon, not at your feet!” “Your man is five miles ahead of you, but he’s starting to crack.” Great. I have 13 miles to close to one hour behind him. I have convinced myself that, if I do, I have a chance to go to Hawaii and endure even worse conditions. Somehow, I dig down and pick up the pace.

The day had begun so pleasantly: a brisk, two-block stroll from the Mission Palms to the Tempe Town Lake transition area, carrying the three usual bags. There I was met by Troy, the director, maitre d’ and fixer for IM XC. While 2500 Type A+ head cases quietly panicked and fretted with their bikes, wetsuits, transition bags, and bathroom lines, Troy pumped my tires and wrote my two-digit race number on my arms.

The Executive Challenge is definitely the way to do an Ironman. Instead of waiting in a 1200-person line in the Arizona sun to pick up my packet, I attended a catered reception. While I held a near beer in one hand, Heather Fuhr, the queen of triathlon, pinned my race bracelet on my other wrist. We spent two days eating brunches, chatting with the likes of Paula Newby Fraser and Roch Frey, and getting tours of the course and transition area from pro Michael Lovato.

The dozen other participants included CEOs, CTOs, and VPs of some of America’s top companies. One businessman was from Italy, and another from the UK. I was the only one to bring his man servant, however. I even had a special name tag made for Alan that read “Sherpa/Bike Mechanic.”

We lined up like lemmings to jump or be pushed off the wall into the lake. Each time someone went in, they would pop up and scream something about ice water. That did not do much to calm the rest of us.

The water was indeed cold! Heeding the advice of veterans, I kept my face out of it till I had warmed my body by swimming a bit. We had to swim about 150 yards under two bridges to reach the start. Bobbing in the water there for a few minutes was excruciating.

Suddenly, the cannon fired. Somebody punched me in the back of the head. The water all around me began churning as hundreds of legs thrashed. I took a deep breath and started swimming.

I got kicked in the face. Someone slapped my foot. Then he hit my ankle, my calf and my thigh. Eventually, he must have figured out I was there.

After about fifteen minutes the sun rose. A cheer went up. Then it got hard to see, as we were swimming due East.

We swam by Sun Devil Stadium, the first of fourteen times I was to pass it this day. After the early maelstrom, I was alone. I assumed everyone had passed me. At the turn buoy after 1.2 miles, swimmers converged from all directions. I was not happy to see — or feel — them.

The return swim was uneventful, other than getting punched in the head. This caused me to stand up in the water, triggering a nasty cramp in my left calf. I tried to kick it loose. Five minutes later, I got punched precisely there, causing the calf to cramp again. I swear it was the same swimmer: dark wet suit, goggles, and a red swim cap.

Volunteers yanked me out into the sunlight. Then pandemonium. A cacophony of shouted orders seemed to come from everywhere: “Unzip your wetsuit! Sit down! Get up! Take your wetsuit!” Halfway to the changing tent, a woman stopped abruptly in front of me: “I don’t have my wetsuit!”

Onto the bike, my nemesis over the last three Ironmans. I had blown it just about every way possible — flat tires, wheels filled with water, overheating. I had given up my chip at the end of the bike, with 18 miles to go, and halfway through.

After taking the first turn on the bike, I got down on the aerobars. Something was not right. I realized that my arms were so tired from the swim that I could not hold myself up. This was a first. Without aerodynamic assistance, my time was going to be slowed dramatically. I sat up for the next twelve miles.

The course zigzags eight miles out of Tempe, past the world’s first indoor surfing facility, the Scottsboro Six drive-in theatres, with several functioning screens visible to the road, and the Casino Arizona whose money I had taken on Friday. Then you get onto a ten-mile stretch of closed freeway, slightly uphill and vastly downwind. I got back down on the bars. When I finally made it to the top end, my average speed in the Bob Segar direction was 14 mph. This is the place my 2008 race had ended.

I plunged back downwind at 25 mph. Some people still passed me, but I generally held my own back into town. My pace raised to 16.6 mph. Christophe took my picture and yelled some encouragement. I headed back out.

The next two laps were not so windy. My average gradually dropped off, as I stopped for bathroom breaks and for my special needs bag. I was still over 16 mph at mile 63.

On the third lap to the top of the Beeline, my feelings were much different from the previous year. No chance of being eliminated here this time. I beat the cut-off by 90 minutes. The five century rides with Vicky and her team, as well as with Alan and Mickey, had paid off.

I did not break seven hours for the bike, but I did start the run under nine. Eight hours to run a marathon. Little did I know it would take me that.

The run scared me. I had badly bruised my foot two weeks earlier, running 400 yards barefooot on pavement at the Beach to Battleship race. After 10 days of no improvement, Dale convinced me to see a podiatrist. Turned out I had a piece of glass in my foot. I was still not sure I could run on it.

Boosted by the cheers and sustenance of the Pla family at the first aid station, I sailed around the first lap. At each station, I took three cups of liquid. I began stopping at Porta-Johns. Then in between them. I probably spent 20 minutes popping in and our of restrooms (or otherwise watering the cacti).

I was the only runner with a headlamp. That made it really easy for Christophe and Alan to sneak up on me in the most unlikely places.

My pace began slowing. Even after Alan’s admonition that I had a chance to run down the young stud between me and Kona, I could go no faster. I eventually dropped below even breaking my own PR, much less beating it by an hour.

But not too slow to break seventeen! After three straight DNFs, the feeling of plowing down the finish chute and hearing Mike Reilly proclaim me an Ironman was unsurpassable.

Thanks to all my friends at Mitterling Milers and RAM, who politely averted your eyes during my bad years. I could not have done it without you.

I’ll close with my favorite story of the event. One of my XC competitors ran into big trouble shortly into the marathon. Like many others, he succumbed to whatever pollutant or parasite was in the lake water we inhaled. He reached his family, and sat down with them by the lake. Everyone agreed that the prudent course was to take the night off.

Then his nine-year-old daughter drew him aside. “But Daddy, you can’t quit. Remember what you always say?” He tried to explain the situation. She replied: “I’ll run the marathon with you.”

He figured she might make fifty yards. The two slipped away down the path. She kept bopping along — for the entire nine-mile loop. She had never run farther than a 5 K.

When he crossed the line, he was asked what size of the much-coveted Finisher’s Shirts he needed. He responded; “Women’s small.” She was wearing it at breakfast.