Journey's End

Wow – what a day. I'd said I wouldn't blog again, but I know so many people have followed me that I thought I should let you know how to fill a random 14-hours should you get bored during the summer!

Did I sleep? Not much, maybe an hour or two, I tried not to keep looking at the clock but when IronPhil nudged me at 3.30am to say: “It's here – the big day's arrived.” I realised I'd been asleep. Fuelled with a bowl of porridge, banana and green tea, we headed 45-mins down the motorway to Pennington Flash. 

I was anxious to check my bike over, having left it the previous day. It was good to go and so was I. The atmosphere was electric as 2000 wetsuit-clad swimmers filed their way into the water, cheered on by hundreds of supporters and the Ironman crew bigging it up over the tannoy system. 

 Being a deep water start means you had about a 150m swim to reach the start line. There were so many people getting into the water that I just about made it to the start in time to hear the national anthem being played and then the gun fired and suddenly the calm water of the lake was churned up by a frenzy of flailing limbs. “Keep the heid,” marathon woman Julia had texted the night before. Never a truer saying. It's easy to see how panic could set in. I stuck to my plan, kept a cool head, drafted as much as possible and finished the first lap in 37-mins. The race has what they call an Australian exit, meaning you climb out, run around a short circuit then get back in again to do a second lap. Mentally I ticked off the buoys, until I could hear the roar of the crowds and I started to get excited – the swim was in the bag. Then disaster struck. Despite methodically sipping electrolytes for days leading up to the race, I'd been feeling the early twinges of cramp for a good while, then it struck – a full on cramp right through my calf and into my foot. I tried to stretch, lay on my back, grabbed my foot and shook it. Jeez, don't let it end like this, was all I could think. I flipped back over and finished the last 300m with just my arms.

Transition was slow. I'd decided to ditch the tri-suit and go with cycle shorts for the comfort factor. I had a nice padded posterior, which considering how long I was in the saddle, was a good move. I'm disappointed with my bike time. It was slower than I'd hoped. There is no doubt about it, the bike course is dominated by hills. Something like 5,000ft of climbing over a two-loop course, with two big hills, one of which is a grade 4 climb; and you tackle these twice. There's also loads of shorter hills. A few fast descents and some decent flats to spin along. I've trained so hard on our local hills that it held no fear and even when we hit the grade 4 Hunter Hill at the 98-mile marker, I kept going past dozens of folk, who'd been reduced to walking by that stage. The support was amazing. There was one hill which had the full Tour de France treatment. People 6-deep lining the route, with just a narrow gap for the cyclists to pedal through, I felt tears pricking my eyes as I went up there! There was plenty of carnage too with smashed up bikes and riders, and ambulances whizzing around. There are times when being a total wimp on descents pays off! I kept eating, kept drinking, kept going. There were whoops of joy from all the cyclists around me when the soaring steelwork of the Macron Stadium came into view. Another few tears pricked my eyes as I came into T2. Box 2 – ticked! 

Now what did I have left to give, I wondered as I put my running shoes on. The sun was beating down and reflecting off the road - it was sweltering. The road leading out of T2 was a stonking hill. WTF – I thought this marathon was flat. I knew there wasn't a hill in my legs, so I joined the merry throng shuffling  up to the main road. As I think of words to describe that marathon, the only one that springs to mind is 'brutal'. Luckily, it came as no surprise, as all my training runs after a long ride were the same. All fears confirmed – I dug deep and accepted this was going to be a battle of wills.

There were hills, far more than I had anticipated. The support, again, was fantastic. I can't begin to describe how uplifting it is to hear strangers call out your name (because it's written on your race number). I tried to keep smiling, but it got harder and harder. I pulled my cap down and just battled.

Every time I passed IronPhil I could hear him yelling that I was setting a good pace and reeling people in. I figured that was total bullshit as I was barely moving one foot in front of the other. It turns out I'd passed over 400 competitors in the marathon. I was surrounded by walkers, it took an almighty effort not to join them. By about the half-way point I could feel my calves seizing up. I walked through the aid stations, taking on flat cola, forcing down gels and isotonic drinks. But my stomach was beginning to rebel. There was nowhere near enough portaloos and the queues were huge. I also was worried that if I stopped, I would struggle to move again. I genuinely feared that I was going to have to do a Paula Radcliffe by the roadside. Finally, I was on the last lap. All hopes of a sub 13.30 finish time were shot to pieces. I was shot to pieces. The last 3 miles I took on a run/walk strategy. Walk to one cone, run 3 and repeat. As we all wore coloured bands to show how many laps we'd done, the crowds could see who was heading home, so the support grew and grew. I hit the final aid station, took one last gulp of water and headed around the corner into the frenzy of cheering crowds lining the half-mile town centre route to the finish. This bit I was going to enjoy. The smile returned, the pain disappeared, the shades went on. The supporters yelled: “Go girl, this is your moment – make the most of it.” I high-fived my way to the finishing chute and fairly skipped down the red carpet to hear the magical words I'd been waiting for: “Maria, you are an Ironman.” That moment will stay with me forever.

The culmination of around 400-hours of training – over in seconds! It was a sea of faces, I finally spotted IronPhil yelling my name and waved, arms aloft, for a few seconds in time – I felt heroic, euphoric, invincible. The Ironcrew shook my hand, put a medal around my neck. A TV crew – no idea who – interviewed me. Probably selected on the basis that I was grinning like an idiot and, at that stage, still standing unaided. Then it was finisher photos, collect the finisher t-shirt and finisher food. Strangely enough I didn't really fancy any of it. I shoved a piece of pizza and a slice of watermelon in and went to meet up with my family. With hindsight, I should have sat down, forced in more food and spent a bit of time recovering.

However, we started the slow hobble back to the car. I could hardly walk at this stage. The Paula Radcliffe moment was still threatening, so we stopped at McDonalds. My heart sank to discover the loo was upstairs. I managed a painful, sideways climb only to find an enormous queue. They all took one look at me and my medal and instantly upgraded me to first in line. Now, in normal circumstances that would have been perfect. Except that I now felt like a local celebrity and with the queue being very long and very quiet, I didn't feel that 14-hours of gel infusion could be released quietly, let alone anonymously! So I was going to have to wait a bit longer. I ended up hobbling back down the stairs and ordered a Chicken McNuggets meal. I'd only managed to stuff a handful of fries in my mouth when the world started to glaze over, I was going to pass out or puke or both. Sweaty, clammy, hammering heart, blurred vision – the works. Poor Ironphil and Cameron had a casualty on their hands. I stuck my head between my legs and lost consciousness for a few seconds. Next thing I know, there's a security guard, two cops and a race helper, not to mention the world and his wife. A kind woman stuck a full fat coke in front of me, I drank it and I started to feel instantly better. This seemed to reassure everyone that I didn't need a wheelchair, ambulance or the medical tent! Pretty embarrassing and considering I'd been topping up my body with nutrition the whole time, quite a surprise. It just goes to show – I clearly had given it my all. Either that or it was the shock of finding myself in a fast food joint ordering food I'd never had before in my puff!

So looking at the overall stats and finish time. I had been hoping for a faster time, so yes there is a bit of disappointment. But not much. I couldn't have trained any harder and on the day I couldn't have given any more. I finished 10^th in my age category, so I'm chuffed with that. I had the fastest run time in my age and out of 240 or so women, the 26^th fastest. The bike is where I don't quite hit the spot. But, heh-ho, for a woman who still can't balance enough to remove a water bottle or give hand signals – I ain't done that bad!

So there it is – I am an Ironman! I can now stop blogging, stop training, put on weight and retire into the type of middle-aged lifestyle that a 48-year-old woman should have – right? Nah, I don't think I'm ready to sling in the towel just yet. As for the question of will I do an Ironman again? The answer is an absolute, categorical – NO.

This has been an immense challenge for me and there will be plenty of others around the corner. In the last three years I've learned to swim and ride my bike. I entered this race almost a year ago, a whole year preparing mentally and physically for one day. That is mental. The big question is, was it worth all that effort – without a shadow of doubt – YES. Life is made richer, people are made tougher and what you discover when you venture way outside your comfort zone is worth finding. I know it sounds a bit cliched, but it's true. I've had a blast this last two years, half ironman, Loch Lomond relay swim and now this.  My life is richer and more exciting and I'm a much stronger person for it – that's got to be worth a bit of sweat and tears – hasn't it?