“Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be so hard” Chris Martin of Coldplay hit it pretty much on the head with this one.  Its not that you are not prepared, you are, I was.  It’s just that it is impossible to really UNDERSTAND the words of those in the know. “Every cell in your body will scream stop stop stop” I heard the words of advice long before I faced up to Eireman but in truth the understanding came at about 4.20pm on Sunday 23^rd of August 2009 when DEFEAT stood up on a lonely saturated and wintry road and asked me a question. 

On the Tuesday before the Sunday race I thought I should check up on the weather forecast.  Saturday looked reasonable but something seemed off about Sunday.  Surely that enormous dark-centred depression couldn’t settle over Munster ALL day.  Ok, so it’s going to be wet, hopefully the winds won’t be too bad.  As the days passed slowly, painfully slowly, the forecast didn’t improve.  The average wind speeds were now forecast at over 50kph.  Ok so the weather will be bad but what the hell, so be it, just part of the challenge (I told myself).  I had completed many hundreds of bike kilometres in the previous months in very similar weather so fine, just fine. 

Preparations had gone spectacularly well, with a very unexpected podium place in Athlone and feeling like the proverbial million dollars.  A mildish virus two weeks out had put things in doubt, but a week later after testing myself on a good brick session (God I know that road to Galway so well!) I knew that I would stand on the start line one way or the other.  I carbed like never before on Friday and arrived in Courtown Saturday lunch time in mild breezy sunny spells weather feeling very relaxed and prepared.  Registration went off no probs, with a special IM briefing scheduled for about 2 hrs later.  I had a chance to catch up with some athletes I knew from previous races so time passed easily.  The briefing had a somewhat strange edgy atmosphere with about 100 athletes crammed into a small space straining to hear the chief organiser over the noise from the bar below.  I wasn’t overly concerned when the race organiser asked the group “But you all know the routes don’t you?”  In truth it would be impossible to memorise the complete route with every turn, unless perhaps for the locals.  A few nodded but most seemed happy to rely on assurances that the marshals would be on hand at all junctions.  That evening the sea looked a little choppy but still manageable.  A final decision would be made about the swim at 5am the next morning the chief organiser assured us.  

A final pasta meal, some final equipment checks and a wonderful warm bath later, I lay my head on the pillow finally knowing that the next time I opened my eyes it all would begin.  Sleep came surprisingly easy and, just like I could do as a child, I awoke in the darkness exactly 30seconds before my alarm was to ring at 3:45am.  My standard porridge and energy bar breakfast went down easily.  Arriving at transition at these kind of events is always a surreal experience and no more so than in Courtown carpark at 5.15am on a dark wintry morning.  The buzzing question all around was what is happening with the swim?  For me, the horizontal rain and the sound of the roaring surf were such that when the final announcement came of the swim cancellation, it was no surprise.  You race the course that you are given I have always told myself.  People seemed upset.  It was slightly unnerving to hear some debate between the chief organiser and some athletes about what would happen now, but still I waited patiently trying not to tense up and waste that precious energy.  Much confusion surrounded the actual decisions made, as it was almost impossible to hear above the noise of that enormous dark-centred depression that I had studied so carefully on the Met Eireann site over the previous few days.  Yes it was going to be rough, I love a challenge.  Eventually it was decided that we would go straight to the bike at 30second intervals.  After the appropriate changes to the transition bags, and dressed for the weather, I set out on my journey at 7:20am. 

In many ways the cycle was uneventful although I know that many athletes really suffered.  The initial section brought us to the motorway and from there 4 laps of the motorway course were ahead of us.  The wind was really strong, sometimes brutal, but after the first lap was completed I knew exactly what was required; 50 minutes of steady effort followed by 32 minutes of recovery with average speeds of around 26 and 40kph.  Nutrition was always going to be a key issue so the 20minute beeper served its purpose well.  On each lap I concentrated with all I had to keep my average heartrate down as I knew this would be key later during the marathon.  Some athletes passed but I managed to reign in the horses and hold my own pace by continuously remembering that key piece of advice “Race your own race”.  11 gels, 4 energy bars, 2 bananas, 2 litres of water, 1 litre of energy drink and some cramps later I rolled into transition quite happy with myself.  Just over 6 hours on the clock, slow, but who was doing a fast time today?  Very few bikes in transition, all looked good.  A great cheer from the crowd gave me a nice lift as I racked my bike and found my run bag, so carefully prepared the night before.  I didn’t rush but I had no intention of hanging around either.  About 4 minutes later, after a full change of clothes, wearing a light running top and glasses I grabbed my bottles of water and energy drink and headed out into the unknown. 

Running a marathon is a special experience: exhilarating, demoralising, painful, fulfilling and many more things.  Completing a marathon in an Ironman is none of these things.  Words do not exist to convey the emotional roller-coaster that is the IM marathon.  Make no mistake, this was the mother of all battles between pride and the frail human body.   

I ran out of transition 100% confident and totally conscious of not heading off too fast.  All the advice is that no matter how slow you run out it will still be too fast, so I kept my eyes glued to the GPS and monitored the stats.  6:15min/km and 160bpm, a bit on the slow side but hey I’m doing an IM!  Heartrate in the target zone and legs feeling steady, I made my way through the initial forest section with short strides and a growing sense of confidence.  Cramps came, but these were old friends that I have developed a deep relationship with over the years.  They would come in, sit down have a quick cup of tea and leave again.  That was how it was for about 15km.  My mind was strong.  Each time a cramp would knock, I would invite them in, confident in the knowledge that they understood the long-standing agreement: have a quick chat and then leave. 

At the 15k mark life was good.  The gels from my food belt were going down a treat and with a water bottle at each aid station I showed no signs of dehydration.  My ‘friends’ were still playing by the rules.  My run-walk strategy was good.  The weather was damp and windy but fine fine fine (I’m going to be an Ironman).  Then slowly almost unnoticed a new sound comes to the door, soft at first but then louder and more insistent.  I came to the top of a hill and suddenly on planting my foot on the ground I realised I could no longer withstand the searing pain in my quads.  Total leg shutdown.  Stop it screamed, stop.  And stop I did, no argument.  I do consider myself a tough individual but this was something new, something deep, something all consuming.  Like the 6ft 6in garda who stands out on the road with the hand up, you just do what you are told no questions.  For about the next 7k I put up a fight but doubt crept in and the shuffle periods got shorter while the walk periods got longer.  Going through the halfway point the massive cheer from the crowds was so much appreciated but once out of sight I could only stop to try to deal with the total pain that consumed the lower half of my body.  Relief was unavailable/not in today/gone on holidays.  After 10 more minutes of this ridiculous attempt to run I was beaten.  Stopping on the road with no one in sight and the rainclouds emptying in my general vicinity, my enemy DEFEAT raised himself up in front of me and said “No further”.  It was 4:20pm.  (I’m not going to be an Ironman) 

It’s at times like these that humans are defined.  Where is your limit?  What does it mean to you?  What the f… am I doing here?  Well I knew why I was here and the mental image of the run up the finishing chute was burned on my brain.  So many times I have conjured up the scene, the sounds, the smell, the emotion.  I will not give up.  I may be thick but I am also a realist.  I knew it was a walk to the line but with 18k to go this was going to hurt.  But with every step my logical instinct assured me I was one step closer to the finish line.  Things didn’t get easier though.  At this stage I started to feel a little cold so I pumped my arms harder to try and generate more heat.  This didn’t really work.  When I run I heat up but I wasn’t running and I didn’t exactly have much excess body fat for cover.  A few k later I seriously considered calling for help, after all hypothermia is dangerous and I have always prided myself (and reassured my good wife) that I try not to put myself in danger.  Angels come in some strange forms.  Mine came in the form of a robust road marshal and his son who suddenly appeared around the next corner.  Sometimes in life someone does something for you that you know you will never be able to repay and this was one of those moments.  As if by magic they produced a fleece from their van and with that I knew that my enemy himself was defeated.  Mind you about an hour later I had to add a beautifully designed bin bag outer layer to my ensemble.  As the rain and wind bounced off me I couldn’t have cared less as I walked ever more gingerly toward the finish.  The good-natured banter with the various helpers along the route always provided a much needed lift. 

Meeting other athletes at this stage still on their way out on the second lap made me appreciate the power of the human spirit and I greeted every one of them with words of encouragement.  My mind however was on the finishing chute.  On reaching the forest section for the final 2k back to the line, a Lazarus-like transformation occurred and somehow the ability to run returned to my legs.  Suddenly my body and legs felt light and I glided across the muddy path.  The closer to the finish I got, the lighter I became and I ran across the line with a smile from ear to ear.  The finishing chute wasn’t at all like I imagined, but then that’s what dreams are for! 

No doubt some of you have heard of the many problems at this event.  None of this really matters, at least not for those outside of the prize money.  For me, living the dream, or at least trying, is all that matters. 

Note: There is a lot of me in this report, please forgive my indulgence.  I hope I can inspire and help some others in the way that I have been inspired by all those amazing athletes around me. 

Pádraig