Kona Ironman World Championship Race Report 2008 - Sarah Walker
Race Day Kona Ironman 2008 (Part 40 of my Kona Blog 2008)
Team from NZ at IM Kona 2008. I am 6th from the right, bottom row.
SUNDAY, 12 OCTOBER 2008
My big day has been and gone! It has been 21 years in the making, with the last 18 months hard out training that included countless hours in the pool, pounding the road, sitting in the saddle and family support.
Here’s a recount of my race day in Kona 2008.
My big day has been and gone! It has been 21 years in the making, with the last 18 months hard out training that included countless hours in the pool, pounding the road, sitting in the saddle and family support.
Here’s a recount of my race day in Kona 2008.
Swim
Kona Swim start. 'm sure I'm in there somewhere!
The atmosphere at the start line is electric. There are just short of 1,800 athletes filing down a set of steps 2 meters wide, onto a small sandy beach about the size of a squash court. A lavish and very loud opening ceremony is taking place where a US Navy plane flies overhead and 3 Navy Seals parachute into the water. All three of these people are competing in today’s race. There is a Hawaiian welcome, followed by the US National anthem and then cannon fire signifies the start of the pro race. This pageantry contrasts starkly with the relative silent entry into the water by the age group competitors who are saying very little. The tension is palpable.
I am standing on the beach taking this all in and as I look down at my feet there is a physically challenged competitor, who is paralysed from the waist down, being helped into the water. As he straps his leg supports on he is also being filmed by a camera crew. It’s pretty much a complete crush but he and the camera crew jostle for space like the rest of us. Not one person bats an eyelid because here he’s not special or different; he is an Ironman triathlete who gets no preferential treatment. He’ll set off with the rest of us and thrash his way through the melee of arms and legs to perform the best he can, fending for himself the entire way.
I cannot help it but I start bawling and the race isn’t even started! I’m standing there trying to compose myself, fit my goggles, wipe my eyes and get a good position for the start. I finally get it together, but not before I’m caught on camera – obviously my pre-race blubbing makes good TV.
I get into the water and swim towards the front. I have done my pre-race homework and the best position to start for me is right hand side, second row back, and 15-20 people in. I tread water, listen to the commentary and watch the swim marshals scoot backwards and forwards on their surf boards, across the start line, trying the keep the athletes from starting too early, or creeping forwards. It is very eerie and quiet and I start to shiver from nerves and the cold.
I listen to the start count down, then the cannon fires and I’m face down in the water breathing hard, getting thrashed to bits, elbows in the eye sockets and bodies crossing over the top of me. It is actually easier than I though it would be and it isn’t long before I get a comfortable rhythm and find myself at the turn around point. (For the past week, whilst people have been practicing their swims, this turn around point was a free espresso coffee stop!)
I’m out the water unscathed in 1hr 4mins 18 seconds. I head for the transition area, sling on my bike gear and head out to get my bike, which I racked last night.
I am standing on the beach taking this all in and as I look down at my feet there is a physically challenged competitor, who is paralysed from the waist down, being helped into the water. As he straps his leg supports on he is also being filmed by a camera crew. It’s pretty much a complete crush but he and the camera crew jostle for space like the rest of us. Not one person bats an eyelid because here he’s not special or different; he is an Ironman triathlete who gets no preferential treatment. He’ll set off with the rest of us and thrash his way through the melee of arms and legs to perform the best he can, fending for himself the entire way.
I cannot help it but I start bawling and the race isn’t even started! I’m standing there trying to compose myself, fit my goggles, wipe my eyes and get a good position for the start. I finally get it together, but not before I’m caught on camera – obviously my pre-race blubbing makes good TV.
I get into the water and swim towards the front. I have done my pre-race homework and the best position to start for me is right hand side, second row back, and 15-20 people in. I tread water, listen to the commentary and watch the swim marshals scoot backwards and forwards on their surf boards, across the start line, trying the keep the athletes from starting too early, or creeping forwards. It is very eerie and quiet and I start to shiver from nerves and the cold.
I listen to the start count down, then the cannon fires and I’m face down in the water breathing hard, getting thrashed to bits, elbows in the eye sockets and bodies crossing over the top of me. It is actually easier than I though it would be and it isn’t long before I get a comfortable rhythm and find myself at the turn around point. (For the past week, whilst people have been practicing their swims, this turn around point was a free espresso coffee stop!)
I’m out the water unscathed in 1hr 4mins 18 seconds. I head for the transition area, sling on my bike gear and head out to get my bike, which I racked last night.
Bike
Front right - thinking hard about NOT falling off at the start of the bike.
My husband, kids and friend, Di Mallett, scream support as I leave the transition area and head out towards the Lava fields and 40 degree heat! All week there has been what the Hawaiian’s call a ‘Vog’ hanging over Kona, which is a dull mist, caused by sulphur being kicked out from an active volcano on the Island. It takes the fierce heat out of the sun and makes biking and running a little more tolerable. Today though, the Gods have planned cloudless, hot, skin frazzling weather.
I’m doing a nice 60km/hr going out, with a great tail wind – I actually run out of gears and am left free wheeling as people shoot past. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if it was like this all the way? No such luck – by the 40k mark I’m into blustery side winds, head winds and all over winds. This is tough going and slow going and the only thing that keeps me going, is the thought that there could be tailwinds from the turn around point at Hawi. As I peddle my way there through these notorious winds, I grip my bars and try not to be too rigid as being stiff means I’m more likely to get blown off.
Again, though, no such luck with the tails winds from Hawi – I get a brick wall of a head wind all the way back home and I’ve got the cycle some points to get down hill - hideous! It is really hard going and at the 100k mark I’m pretty fed up of grinding my way back home. I try distraction therapy, talk to another competitor as they pass, look at bikes and run through my mental check list “Am I watered? Am I fed? Am I biking like a knife through soft butter?” It is really, really hard but I do this for 2 hours and then I’m in town cycling towards the transition point. The cheering from the crowd is deafening and inspirational, I’m grabbing my run gear and then I’m passing though the start of the run.
My cycle time is 5hrs 43 minutes 35 seconds.
I’m doing a nice 60km/hr going out, with a great tail wind – I actually run out of gears and am left free wheeling as people shoot past. Wouldn’t it be fantastic if it was like this all the way? No such luck – by the 40k mark I’m into blustery side winds, head winds and all over winds. This is tough going and slow going and the only thing that keeps me going, is the thought that there could be tailwinds from the turn around point at Hawi. As I peddle my way there through these notorious winds, I grip my bars and try not to be too rigid as being stiff means I’m more likely to get blown off.
Again, though, no such luck with the tails winds from Hawi – I get a brick wall of a head wind all the way back home and I’ve got the cycle some points to get down hill - hideous! It is really hard going and at the 100k mark I’m pretty fed up of grinding my way back home. I try distraction therapy, talk to another competitor as they pass, look at bikes and run through my mental check list “Am I watered? Am I fed? Am I biking like a knife through soft butter?” It is really, really hard but I do this for 2 hours and then I’m in town cycling towards the transition point. The cheering from the crowd is deafening and inspirational, I’m grabbing my run gear and then I’m passing though the start of the run.
My cycle time is 5hrs 43 minutes 35 seconds.
Run
Me in the middle of two fellas. I'm having an awful lot of fun!
As I head out onto the run I check my energy levels and know that if I’m going to run the entire marathon without walking, like I did at the Taupo Ironman, I need to take it easy – the heat is a killer! I start steady and continue steady – far slower than my normal pace. The cheering and encouragement from the crowd is fantastic as I head along Alii Drive, the road that winds south along the coast. It’s a shocker of a run start though, full sunshine, no shade, 40 degree heat and not a breath of wind. This is the most difficult part of the entire race but it helps that there is a lot of distraction along the way. People are spraying cooling water from hoses; others are holding road side parties with music and beer. I’m passing one guy who pops a can and shouts “Number 1330, this one’s for you!” – Thanks mate! There are people in costume and people waving flags, but many people are lazing in chairs and enjoying the spectacle.
The course markers are in miles, which is very uncivilised, as you cannot tick them off as fast as kilometre markers – it feels an eternity between the mile markers. When I am out onto the highway, I get heckled by my lovely husband (who has risked heat stroke to walk about 6km to a lonely stretch of road to give me support). It then seems an age before I’m into the Energy Lab where there is an unusually welcome breeze. Just past the turn around point I pass over a rubber mat that reads my race chip and a message flashes on a screen “S. Walker” it reads “no walking or else!”. Just when I need a bit of encouragement it’s there.
I know this is a hellish slow run for me but I’m having fun (sort of) – thanking people who man the drink stations, thanking the people who have ventured out to the lava fields and watching the other athletes (mostly as they pass me). I had run this final section 5 days before and it had taken me an hour. Today it takes me over 1hr and 30 minutes before I’m heading into town and I can hear the frenzied crowd, gathered at the finish line.
I’m thinking “I’m here, I’m in Kona, I’m doing my 3rd Ironman and I’m going to cross the finish line” After a few more turns and a dry sob or two, I’m into Alii Drive again – there are hundreds of people lining the curb side, cheering, shouting and ringing cow bells (just like a Chiefs game!) There are bright lights from cafes, bars and restaurants. The atmosphere is electric and festive.
The crowd are having an amazing time and I consider slowing down to savour every second. The fishers chute is suddenly there and I’m cheering, I’m clapping at the crowd, I’ve got my hands out to catch high fives and then I’m crossing the finish line to the sound of a voice saying “Sarah Walker, from New Zealand – You….Are……An……..Ironman” – and Yes (once I have done my victory pose)…I’m blubbing!
My run time is 4hrs 23mins 40 seconds (yikes!).
I’ve just swam, ran and biked my way through 226 kms, in really challenging conditions. I’ve crossed the finish line of the Ironman World Championships, one of the toughest races on the planet, I’m in one piece and I actually feel great. Hallelujah.
The course markers are in miles, which is very uncivilised, as you cannot tick them off as fast as kilometre markers – it feels an eternity between the mile markers. When I am out onto the highway, I get heckled by my lovely husband (who has risked heat stroke to walk about 6km to a lonely stretch of road to give me support). It then seems an age before I’m into the Energy Lab where there is an unusually welcome breeze. Just past the turn around point I pass over a rubber mat that reads my race chip and a message flashes on a screen “S. Walker” it reads “no walking or else!”. Just when I need a bit of encouragement it’s there.
I know this is a hellish slow run for me but I’m having fun (sort of) – thanking people who man the drink stations, thanking the people who have ventured out to the lava fields and watching the other athletes (mostly as they pass me). I had run this final section 5 days before and it had taken me an hour. Today it takes me over 1hr and 30 minutes before I’m heading into town and I can hear the frenzied crowd, gathered at the finish line.
I’m thinking “I’m here, I’m in Kona, I’m doing my 3rd Ironman and I’m going to cross the finish line” After a few more turns and a dry sob or two, I’m into Alii Drive again – there are hundreds of people lining the curb side, cheering, shouting and ringing cow bells (just like a Chiefs game!) There are bright lights from cafes, bars and restaurants. The atmosphere is electric and festive.
The crowd are having an amazing time and I consider slowing down to savour every second. The fishers chute is suddenly there and I’m cheering, I’m clapping at the crowd, I’ve got my hands out to catch high fives and then I’m crossing the finish line to the sound of a voice saying “Sarah Walker, from New Zealand – You….Are……An……..Ironman” – and Yes (once I have done my victory pose)…I’m blubbing!
My run time is 4hrs 23mins 40 seconds (yikes!).
I’ve just swam, ran and biked my way through 226 kms, in really challenging conditions. I’ve crossed the finish line of the Ironman World Championships, one of the toughest races on the planet, I’m in one piece and I actually feel great. Hallelujah.
Mere Mortal Coaching
Sarah Walker - Tri NZ Accredited Coach
Triathlon Coaching | Triathlon Training
Sarah Walker - Tri NZ Accredited Coach
Triathlon Coaching | Triathlon Training