The Whole, Uncut Story
My 2016 Ironman Boulder Race Report
THE WHY
After my first Ironman in 2011, I vowed I was once and done with the 140.6 distance. That ended in August of 2013. I was losing my father to cancer and told him I was going to do Ironman Lake Placid in 2014 for him. With that accomplished, I was back on the full Ironman bench resigned to do shorter races. Well, that didn’t stick either.
It’s amazing what the power of inspiration can do.
In October of 2014, just a few months after Lake Placid, Gail and I made the most difficult decision of our lives to save the life of our child. What she would go through for the next 18 months in North Carolina and Salt Lake City would be a monumental challenge and one where, if she were all in and relentless in the pursuit of her goal, she would come out the other side whole and healthy.
Prior to her going away, Madison and I basically had no relationship and I was hopeful that through this process, we’d be able to reconnect again. After she left, our early communication was exclusively through letters. In my letters to her, I tried to connect what she was doing; what she was going through, with training for and accomplishing an Ironman. Having witnessed my training and going to previous events, she knew exactly what I was talking about, and it showed in her letters back to me.
Ten months later, with her moving forward and our relationship on the mend, it was Madison’s efforts that inspired me to register for another Ironman and dedicate it to her, but only under the self-imposed condition that it add another challenge that would take me further out of my comfort zone. The answer was altitude and the venue was Boulder, Colorado. When I told Madison, her excitement gave me the kick-start I needed. Game on.
RACE WEEK
I arrived with Gail and Madison, on Monday, August 1st, 6 days before the race. Shane and Kendall came on Friday. I had a great VRBO (Vacation Rental By Owner) about .6 miles from Ironman Village, which was based at Boulder High School. I came up with a loose itinerary for the week that involved day trips to Rocky Mountain National Park (awesome!!) and Fort Collins/Horsetooth Reservoir. I can’t get enough of the mountains.
We rolled into Boulder and, since we wouldn’t have access to the house for 3 hours, we made a b-line for the St. Julien hotel’s spa where I paid $25 a head for us to use the pool, hot tub, etc.
Finally in the house, it was time to unpack my stuff, which broke out something like this.
95% triathlon related
5% other
On Tuesday, 8/2, I met my cousin for a swim at Boulder Reservoir, the site of the swim leg. We didn’t realize there wouldn’t be any open swimming, so we were relegated to a roped off portion and swam in a 200 yard circle for 25 minutes. (Now I know how goldfish feel!) After dropping her off, I went back to the house to put together my bike. This is where the “fun” began.
Everything was going smoothly until I squeezed my rear brake and nothing moved. There would be many “FIRSTS” throughout this experience. This would be “FIRST #1” (even though I quickly felt like #2.) My brakes are hydraulic and I have no clue how to fix them. I figured no problem since I knew there had to be a gazillion bike shops in the area. The first 3 I called said they couldn’t do anything for days as they were up to their eyeballs. One recommended a shop that said they could help. I raced over, put the bike in the repair stand, but the tech said he didn’t know the first thing about hydraulic brakes. Wonderful. He told me to go to the Specialized dealer in town since that’s my bike’s brand. Off I went. Upon arrival, I was met by a super nice guy that told me he’d love to help but the dude that knows about these kinds of brakes wasn’t working that day. He recommended two other shops. The first shop’s phone rang off the hook. So, sweaty and on the verge of losing it, I contacted my last resort...Sports Garage. I told the tech, Emil, my story, and he calmly told me to come by. Maybe this is why dope is legal in this state.
Well, Emil proceeded to tell me how he’s uber Maguro brake certified and it didn’t take long for me to believe him. Gloved up like a surgeon, Emil took over an hour to skillfully give my rear brake a transfusion of sorts, then finely true my rear Zipp wheel and reposition my rear brake perfectly. Relieved, I went to settle up and Emil says, “How’s 20 bucks sound?” Meet Emil, my new best friend.
The next few days leading up to Sunday’s race involved some day trips, going to Ironman Village to make the requisite “shopping deposit”, hydrating like it was my job (and, therefore, thoroughly testing the Boulder County plumbing system), doing some final training, and dropping off my bike bag at Boulder Reservoir and my run bag at Boulder High. This is the only time I’ve raced where there were 2 separate transition areas. “FIRST #2”.
Before going to bed the night before the race, my family helped continue the tradition of dedicating swim, bike, and run miles by writing their names as well as others I had chosen, on my forearms, so I could see them throughout the race, and I had Gail add a quote my buddy Jordan Karen coined during a spike ball match we played on the beach weeks before. I knew I’d proudly wear it on my calf the moment he said it.
RACE DAY…
…well almost. A few years ago, after staring at the ceiling all night, I found a synthetic way to calm my brain and get a good night’s sleep before the race. For whatever reason, this time it didn’t take. Even after another half dose, I was in and out of sleep for 4 ½ hours before my 3:45am alarm. “FIRST #3”.
The entire family left the house at 4:30am and walked to pick up the shuttle to Boulder Reservoir. I set up my bike, returned to the family for some final pics and hugs, then lined up in the 1:00-1:15 swim corral. My plan was to go in a group faster than my projected time for two reasons…either I’d find good feet to draft off of or I’d be in the back of the pack with nobody to mess with me.
Moments before I entered the liquid torture chamber, my buddy Mark found me in the sea of people, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “God bless”. I’m not a religious guy, but I wasn’t about to swat that one away. The crowd lining the swim start was deep and energetic and the music was thumping. Time to grind.
It took all of a minute to get kicked, punched, and trampled. This continued off and on for about 500 yards. I made my way to the inside of the buoys thinking I’d rather sacrifice the draft for clear water. I finally got into a comfortable rhythm and, except for an area of grassy crap snagging my arms, I didn’t have any other issues and, shockingly, finished with a 1:11 PR in the 2.4 mile swim.
After the wetsuit strippers did their job, I picked up my bike bag, made it to the men’s changing tent, took a hit of water, ran out while putting on my Darth Vader helmet, got lubed up by sunscreen volunteers, grabbed my bike, jogged up a small hill to bike mount, and clipped into my shoes. Let’s go!
The skies were cloud covered, temps were cool, and I was ready to execute my bike plan of no more than 160 NP (normalized power). In non-geek bike talk, I have a power meter in the crank (the thing the pedal attaches to) which speaks wirelessly to a small computer attached to my aero bars and my triathlon watch (I’m big on redundancy). It’s THE most vital piece of triathlon equipment I own. There are two critical fields I will look at several thousand times during the 112 miles. One shows the watts I’m putting out at the moment and the other is norm power. I will be ball and chained to these fields. If I go over 160 NP I risk a crappy run.
I’ve owned my power meter for 3 years and it’s worked flawlessly. I installed a fresh battery before I left NY and was smart enough (rare for me) to put another in a storage compartment on my bike. I tested everything twice in Boulder without issue, but as my Dad used to say, “Man plans and God laughs”. For some reason, my power meter wasn’t working. “FIRST #4”.
I continued to ride while trying to get the thing to spark, but no dice. I stopped thinking it had to be the battery and I was thankful I had the spare. I quickly replaced the dead one… nada. I saddled up, put my head down, and told myself, “My friend, you now have 6 hours at RPE (rate of perceived exertion) which meant that I had to ride at 160 NP…in my head. I can do this.
I rode easily, hydrated frequently, refilled my water bottle at every aid station, and hit my Infinit nutrition every 10 minutes on the button. After all, I am CA (Captain Anal, as my tri friends affectionately call me). Clouds were still abundant and the temperature was low to mid 70s. Perfect.
After a few hours, I was feeling great but noticed I hadn’t yet baptized my bike (aka - I hadn’t taken a leak). I was consuming copious amounts of fluids but nothing was happening downstairs. I thought, ridiculously, that it must just be the altitude and the extremely dry air. Soon, the sun popped out and the temp on my computer (of course, that was working) climbed quickly into the 80s.
It was shortly after this point, when going downhill at 35 mph, a bee (or something that stings) found it’s way inside my race top and stung my abdomen. What a pathetic mess I must’ve looked like with one arm on my aero bar and the other punching myself all over, then lifting my shirt to try to get the little f’er out. “FIRST #5”.
Halfway through, at 56 miles, I saw I’d been riding for 2:55 minutes even with a 3-4 minute stop to change the battery. I had penciled in 6:15 and now I was on pace to go sub 6. I couldn’t believe it. I must have been riding too hard. Dammit.
By now, the temperature was 90 degrees. I was feeling really good, trying to dial 160 watts into my brain, taking it as easy as possible up the hills, and not crushing the downhills or flats. Still, nothing from Scott’s plumbing. I was concerned.
Soon, I got really concerned, because on one of the downhill sections during my second loop there were a slew of police cars and other assorted medical vehicles. I would find out during the run that a 34 year old female athlete from Nebraska got hit by a car. The report was she went to the left of the cones separating the right lane of the highway from the shoulder. More on this later.
After 5 hours, I started losing my desire to drink or eat, but I continued hydrating because I knew how important it was. This was the beginning of the end. As I cruised into transition with a 5:55 bike split, I took my feet out of my shoes, peddled on top of them barefoot, then took my right leg and swung it over the back of my bike while still moving so I could hit the ground running.
However, as my right leg was going over, my right hamstring violently spasmed (I thought I had pulled it). I immediately pulled off to the side and massaged the area to work out the knot. Moments later, I started running with my bike. I saw my family and erroneously told them I pulled my hamstring.
A volunteer grabbed my bike to rack it while I hobbled to my run bag. Transition was set up on a black track surrounding the football field which they covered with a white vinyl runner which did little to block the searing heat scorching my feet. I felt like I was at a Tony Robbins fire walking event.
Once in the changing tent, I put on my socks and shoes, hydration belt, and grabbed my hat, glasses, and 4 packs of Go-Go Squeeze Apple/Berry Sauce. I decided to stop at a porta-potty right before I entered the run course to give it a go. After 7 hours…success!
Incredibly, what was never expected to be a PR (personal record) race was an opportunity to obliterate my 12:46 Ironman Florida time. All I had to do was go sub 5:25 (piece of cake) on the marathon and even thought I could break 12 hours. Even though it was hotter than hell, and I felt a bit under hydrated, I knew I had the mental toughness to rally and get it done. With the altitude, cotton mouth, failed power meter, bee sting and scorching heat, it would be a day to remember…except for one small detail. I couldn’t really run.
The course itself was awesome. It’s on a bike bath with scattered parks, a brook (man, did I want to soak in that thing a gazillion times), and, thankfully, a fair amount of shade. I ran the first mile in 9:46, but it felt more like 10:46. About .4 miles into mile 2, I walked about a minute. I walked in my initial Ironman too, but never this early. “FIRST #6”.
I continued to the aid station and walked through it drinking Coke. I started running but, again, walked after 1/3 of a mile then ran slowly to the next aid station. I thought this is how it would go. Run, walk, run, walk, … I was cool with that.
After 7 miles, with legs, stomach, and back cramping, walking was taking over and by mile 11 I was in a complete death march. 15 miles to go. My brain wanted to run badly, but my body said, no mas. I quickly calculated there would be no sub 12 and PR. I was disappointed but set my sights on trying to fast walk 14-15 min miles. At that rate, it would take me just under 4 more hours.
I had never seen so many athletes walking during a race and never so early. I always thought walkers were just out of gas and it would take nothing but time to finish. For me, it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done physically, and I am not exaggerating. I was nauseous, cramping, every stride hurt, and it was getting worse.
During this period, a few things happened that shifted my attitude. (1) I found out the woman that was hit on the bike course died. I welled up and began crying as I walked, and I recall getting pissed off at myself for being selfish in my race time pursuits. (2) I fed off the amazingly loud and supportive crowd that stretched for miles. (3) I turned my focus to my family and especially Madison (Madzo) who had many moments when she could’ve given up during her fight. She bravely and courageously summoned strength from an energy source deep within her soul, trusted the process, and triumphed even though it took her longer than we had all planned. My mantra became, “I WILL finish and I don’t give a shit how long it takes”. “FIRST #7”.
With a mile left and the sounds of the finishers being announced off in the distance, I took out a sign I made for Madison. As I got closer to the chute, tears started to flow. So many thoughts. Thoughts about the 8 months of training, about the day’s struggles, about the woman that died, about my Dad, about my family, and particularly about Madison.
I tried hard to muster the strength to run to the finish, but I just couldn’t. In retrospect, this turned out to be a good thing. Even though I was being passed (“FIRST #8”), it gave me more time to show both sides of my sign to the crowd. Regrettably, I was too pasted and focused on the finish line to locate anyone in my family.
On one side of my sign, I had “Madzo, I <3 you Mee Much” (how she used to say “so much” as a baby). On the other side, I had “Follow Your Dreams”, because when Madison graduated from her program and high school, the director gave her a necklace of an eagle holding a rose, and explained that the special meaning and message for Madison was “Follow Your Dreams”.
With about 25 yards to go, Mike Reilly said, “Scott Janicola, NY, you’re an Ironman”, but that wasn’t the best part. Mike saw my sign and read it out loud, “Follow your dreams”, and then added “You did it, buddy…You’re an Ironman, Scott”. How cool is that?
Finally, after a 6:01 marathon and a total time of 13:20, I crossed the finish line and immediately asked to go to the medical tent. A med guy came over and told me to go to the massage tent and if I was still not ok I should come back. My family was with me as I sat and waited my turn for a massage. I started to fade fast telling Gail I was either going to hurl, faint, or both. Before I knew it, I was in a wheelchair, eyes closed, and trying not to pass out. The rest is vintage medical tent. “FIRST #9”.
For us nuts that swim, bike, and run, triathlon is like the famous line from Forrest Gump... It's like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.
TAKE AWAY
I know many of you reading this aren’t triathletes, but I think you will be able to relate to something my friend and former coach, Wendy Mader, said, after one of her events that didn’t go as planned. I hope you can connect her words with anything in your life you’re working hard to accomplish. She said, “Sometimes you race and sometimes you finish”. For me, on this day, those words never rang so true.
