Travel
So I left Lighthouse Point in a rental car which I fraudulently acquired by misrepresenting myself as my dad. A great way to start this race weekend, eh? It was a Wednesday evening. My bike was crammed in the rental car and I had a cooler full of snacks. I kissed the wife and kids and drove off into the sunset. I arrived at my sister’s near Jacksonville later that night to meet up with my dad. I should’ve known something was wrong by the looks I was getting at the gas station, smoke billowing from under the 10-year-old rental car, but more on that later.
Packing for an IM when there’s no luggage limit
Thursday morning was a quick 2-mile run to get the blood flowing before the long drive. We set off around 5 am, and the drive was pretty uneventful; until it wasn’t. While the car never drove “great,” it seemed to be getting us there. But like the last gasp for air, the warning chime rang, and a message popped up on the dash “Engine oil low, pull over.” We were about 5 hours out from Maryland.
“Think we should pull over?” I asked my dad. In response, he pushed the accelerator harder as we entered the on-ramp. I picked up my cell phone and started to call the rental’s emergency hotline. At this pace, we’d need a new car before we got out of Virginia. Luckily the nice lady on the phone found us a replacement at Norfolk International, and we started our diversion.
Dear Avis, sorry I lied to you. You win.
We finally arrived in Cambridge, Maryland, around 7 PM Thursday. Not too bad, considering all the drama. Silly me didn’t book a room for the race until about a month prior. It was a reflection of my confidence level leading up to the race. Booking a room is just one more nail in the “I guess we’re doing this” coffin. So the only option at this point was a shared room about 3 miles from transition. Our host was a whole serving of hospitality and, honestly, just about the perfect accommodations for an Ironman race. This was evidenced by the tarp she laid out in her fancy dining room to accommodate my bike. We took her to dinner Friday, she said she’s never had any racer invite her out in 10 years of hosting during the race. I never got a photo of her, but I still think about how nice she was.
Remember that photo with all my shit? Somewhere in there were arm and leg warmers.
Race Prep
T minus 24 hours, and my nerves were starting to build. You don’t (I don’t?) spend a year training for an event and not obsess over every little detail. I shook the bike down for about 10 miles on the course that morning. Remember that photo with all my shit? Somewhere in there were arm and leg warmers. About 7 miles into that 50-degree ride, I was contemplating why I am the way I am … and why those warmers were back at the Airbnb.
Once home, I started obsessing over my gear bags. I had prepped to the nines with checklists. Each item got a check coming out of the luggage and another check going into the correct gear bag. There was no way to screw that up and forget anything (more on that later).
A bald eagle flew overhead as my dad argued politics (true story).
Loading into T1 was extremely easy. I paid for a mailed bib, so I just walked up, showed my ID, and got my numbers and bands. We dropped the bags and my bike and headed to the merch tent. I drooled over all the branded clothing as if you needed a reminder that this race is a marketing juggernaut. I picked a few things, including a Lululemon pullover (more on that later), which my dad graciously paid for. He asked me how much it takes to run one of these. I started babbling about everything I had spent money on, keeping a running tally as I went. I think he fell asleep before I could give him a total. I don’t blame him.
About 15 miles into the drive I told dad I’d rather head home than endure two hours of in the air conditioned car, driving the course I’d be riding my bike on for six the next day.
We got some amazing BBQ and headed to the room for a nap. Before we got there, my dad asked if I would be prudent to drive the course. I agreed; it would allow me to see some of the details of this two-loop course. There was bound to be some merging that would be nice to know ahead of time. About 15 miles into the drive, I told dad I’d rather head home than endure two hours in the air-conditioned car, driving the course I’d be riding my bike on for six the next day. After the nap, we took our host out to an Italian restaurant. I was so nervous all I remember is dad asking if his pizza was really thin crust (he swore it was too thick), then eating it all. I think I ate about 4 oz of spaghetti and a bite of chicken. Foreshadowing.
Race Morning
My nerves were wringing my stomach all night. It took a while to get to bed, but I finally got some restful sleep … until about 3 am. Given I went to bed about an hour early, 3 am is right about on schedule for a normal day while training. However, I woke up a changed person. Whatever today was going to be, it was going to be. I popped the AirPods in and let the bass drop.
4 am, and the nerves are gone. All I can hear now is the music.
Swim
So my dad and I are right outside the swim chute. “You brought a long sleeve shirt, right?” my dad asked, reminding me that the Choptank river was teaming with jellyfish this time of year. Oh shit, I knew I had forgotten something. “Just wear the one you have on,” he reminded me. I glanced down at the $80 Lululemon pullover I had bought the day before. Ugh, fine. Off comes the wetsuit, on goes the Lulu, and back over goes the wetsuit. Reapply Aquaphor (more on that later).
Click play and read the next section.
Mad World, indeed.
So I enter the chute, and people are pushing like fish trying to get upstream. I find my slow people near the back, and everyone is generally in good spirits. If not covered from head-to-toe in Aquaphor to fend off the jellyfish evil spirits. The back-of-the-packers are where all the fun is, and this group isn’t any different. Except for that one dude who pushed his way to the front, only stopping to explain that he has ulcerative colitis, like that forgave his poor time management.
As we get closer to the ramp, I start hearing music from the PA system. They’re playing Mad World (originally a Tears for Fears song) but not some upbeat, dance house remix … no they’re playing the Gary Jules version. As that starts to sink in, I look up and see the sun rising over the bay, directly behind the bay bridge. A glowing orange ball that more closely resembles a sun from another planet or a movie, not our sun. I look at my swim buddy, doubting this is even real life, as we do our little lemmings march into the river.
I had gotten Aquaphor on the inside of my goggles.
So with my goggles down, slow people in front bunching us up, and fast people in back climbing over, my fatal error starts to rear its ugly head. I had gotten Aquaphor on the inside of my goggles. Sigh, this was going to be a fun day. Not even four strokes into a 2-hour swim of a 15-hour day, I already want to quit. Ok, think, think … how could I fix this. Maybe I could use fresh water to wipe them out with my hand. Ok, keep kicking; it wouldn’t be good to stop right now. One hand half paddling. Peel the goggles back from my eye socket. Oh good, water in the eyes now. Wipe, wipe, wipe … put it back on my eye … oh great, water in the goggles now. Okay, pull my head up, drain the water, and put them back on. Head back in the water. Oh great, it wasn’t sealed. Let’s try that all again. Good, everything’s back on and sealed, and FUCK. It’s just all smudged now. Maybe it’s worse than 1 minute ago. FUCK FUCK FUCK. Oh, and a jellyfish sting on my neck. Great. Fine, everything is just fine.
Not my picture, but I wasn’t even to the first buoy before I realized how fucked I was.
So to recap, Mad World is playing; we’re all walking off a cliff on another planet, the inside of my goggles covered in Aquaphor, getting kicked left and right, and oh, by the way, enjoy the next 15 hours of your life, asshole. You paid how much for this “experience.” If reading the last paragraph was painful. Try reading it every 3 minutes for about two hours. I couldn’t even see the five-foot tall buoys from anything less than 10 feet away. I stopped to sight so often I got to know the faces of the lifeguards.
Fuck. Just then, one of the two straps holding my goggles broke loose. FUCK. THIS. DAY. One last story from the swim: I swam under the timing line, which I assumed was halfway because that seems like a logical place for a timing loop. I also assumed this since I had made three right turns, signaling I was heading back onto the last loop of the course. I swam up to a nice enough lifeguard on a paddleboard. She asked my name (I’m assuming so if I slipped into the abyss of the river, she’d know whose name to cross off the list). “Joey,” I spat water out of my mouth to say. I tried explaining the goggle situation, but I’m sure it was just incoherent rambling. I made one last attempt to clean them but failed miserably. “Have a great race,” she shouted, trying to raise my spirits before I floundered off. “You’re almost halfway done with the swim,” was the last thing I heard her say. Almost?!? ALMOST? Damnit. Fuck. Just then, one of the two straps holding my goggles broke loose. FUCK. THIS. DAY.
[Okay, you can stop the music now.]
T1
That last 100 meters of the swim felt like redemption. The day felt brand new again. I felt like that guy standing in front of the mirror at 4 am. It was a reminder that this whole thing is a rollercoaster of epic proportions. If you never feel the lows, something simple like getting out of the water won’t feel so triumphant.
T1 was a hot mess. There was literal shit and piss in the tents. I’m trying to process what I would do if my stomach gave way during the swim. If I’d have enough guts to change in the tent. Oh well, times ‘a ticking, can’t think about that now. I’m taking my time, but it’s all pretty easy. Swim clothes off, dry bike clothes on. Sunscreen, numbing wipe for the jelly stings. Ok, socks next. Socks … hmm, no socks? Remember all those checklists? Ok, good, guess I’m spending the next 5+ hours in wet bike shoes. Helmet on, let’s go!
Bike
Now the bike is my favorite discipline in triathlon. It’s part man, part machine. It’s mostly man, but there’s something fun about tinkering with your bike when you’re not out training that speaks to my soul. So it’s here I feel the most confident. I had a solid nutrition plan. I have a power meter on my bike, so regardless of the wind or the course, I knew how much load I could perform under and what food I would need to eat. But all of that prep, all of that training can’t prepare you for race day conditions. And given all the struggle, the lack of food from the night before, and extra time spent in the water, one thing was clear: I was WAY behind on nutrition. And worse, I wasn’t even aware I was until it was almost too late. On the bike, I get most of my calories via my drink mix. And I had planned for about 360 calories per hour. And given my power numbers, I was right there for the first hour or so.
Some messages of hope taped on the bike.
However, I had somehow blown through about 3 hours of nutrition. It was almost mindless, I just kept drinking, drinking, drinking. I kept hearing Chloe, my dietician’s voice, in the back of my head, “Listen to your body.” And that’s exactly what I was doing. Except my body wasn’t planning three, let alone ten hours into the future.
Nutrition planning for the race was thrown out the window by 9 am.
And then I started to cramp. I had played with nutrition for the better part of 5 months to avoid cramping. I was able to train for 6+ hours a day without as much as a muscle twitch by August. And here I am three hours into the race, and my quads are starting to seize on each pedal stroke. FUCK. That was becoming my new mantra for the day. So I called an audible. I had initially planned on avoiding the aid stations until (except for halfway to get my special needs bag and nutrition). But I needed to supplement and fast. Stopping for an extra minute or two was way better than the alternative of not having enough food.
So the new plan was to pick up Gatorade Endurance at every stop, fill every bottle and drink whatever was left before I left. I also supplemented bananas since I was stopping anyway. I also took some of my salt pills to uptake all of that hydration. All of this was risky; I had never even tasted that Gatorade before. But there wasn’t any alternative. I would certainly hit the wall on the bike course, and a marathon after that would be a disaster.
Tip: make sure you’re in aero for at least a few pictures. Oh, and no socks, mom!
About 50 minutes later, I was on the top of that rollercoaster again. I had endorphins, carbs, and salt, coursing through my veins, and I was rolling. That poor swim start had put me in the back of the pack, so I had some ground to make up on the bike. It was a two-loop course, so I played the first half conservatively. By the time special needs rolled around, I had a huge smile. The only thing that could’ve made it better was socks … AND I FOUND THEM! I had misplaced them in my special needs back. The day’s quote goes to the gentleman who rolled in behind me. A girl from the local high school grabbed his bike to stabilize him. I made small talk and asked her how her day was going. “Oh, it’s been a LOOONG one!” she complained. Without skipping a beat, the gentleman behind me shouts, “oh, you think YOUR day is long, do you?”. I chuckled as I clipped back in, but I don’t think she thought it was funny.
By the way, let me stop to say this course is phenomenal. The 112-mile bike course is split into two loops that window through bird and wildlife estuaries and sanctuaries. I never knew Maryland had so much countryside and that we’d ride through it. The only thing better than the views was my dad pulling beside me in the new rental car to take video. More on that later.
T2
T2 was much more civilized. I was a lot further back from the pack than I had hoped, so seeing all the racked bikes and walking into the tent, I was a little demoralized. But my body felt good. The bike held up, my legs were strong. I ate food in the tent and saw the notes Ryann, and the kids wrote. I changed, put on my Mission Yoga shirt, and headed out … but not without sending a quick selfie to the gym friends asking if anyone wanted to go for a quick run.
Narrator: They did not.
If it wasn’t clear yet, my dad is the unsung hero of this trip.
Run
If it wasn’t clear yet, my dad is the unsung hero of this trip. He endured the shitty rental car, the shared room, and my piss-poor attitude while I was “focused.” I knew I needed to make this trip up to my dad. Let’s rewind to my first IM: I was nervous and unprepared. That made me a terrible athlete, traveling companion, and son. He ran the last five miles with me, and I tried to blow him off the entire time. He was correctly estimating that finishing would be tight and was trying to encourage me to pick up the pace. I might have told him to fuck off a time or two until I finally snapped at him. Nevertheless, he ran by my side and was there to cheer me on at the end, 16 hours and 53 minutes from the start of the day.
So I’m exiting T2, and he’s the first face I recognize. I’d be surprised to recognize anyone else in Maryland right now. He’s recounting some of what he saw from timing on the bike; I’m mostly trying to catch my breath. But he’s overwhelmingly positive, giving me some hope for this run. Which is good, because I’m going to need it. More on that later.
I feel like I’m yelling something very Italian-American in this photo. Like, ehhh, pizza!
So the IM MD run course is three loops. That puts each loop at over 8 miles. As I got off the bike, I set a mental goal to run without stopping during the first loop. Just 8 miles, I told myself. You got this. I circle back to the top of the loop, and I’m not even 4 miles in. I glance down, and my heart rate is up around 160 bpm, way above where I’d need to be to bring this race home without incident. I’m guessing it never really settled off the bike, and whatever hope I had exiting T2 had now collapsed.
“Hey Joe … you’ve got tons of fans out there; they want to know how you’re feeling.” Like fuck they do, I thought to myself.
This rollercoaster was in the valley again. Just about the time this realization hits that this race might not have a great ending, who shows up … my dad. Flashbacks to IM Florida 2013. And worse this time around, he’s got a phone. And he’s live streaming to our family. “Hey Joe … you’ve got tons of fans out there; they want to know how you’re feeling.” Like fuck they do, I thought to myself. See around the 11:30 mark in the video below for this exchange.
At that moment, I had a choice. I could either accept defeat, stubbornly push through what was a sign from my body, treat my dad (the only person who saddled up for this shitty experience) like crap, and ignore the people supporting me. Or I could shift my mindset, just a little, to change the trajectory of the race. I started by admitting to myself I wouldn’t be able to run this whole race, and there was no shame in walk/running (heck, no shame in walking, period). So I made that adjustment. I did it in the name of taking my dad’s interview questions. But I knew it was the only way forward. Second, I knew I needed to treat my dad better, and this was the first test. I put on as best a smile as possible and talked through the plan with him. At this point in the story, he had more confidence about this race than I did, and once I shifted my mindset, I was open to that version of the story.
My heart rate spiking
My initial thought after I crossed was, “I’d race this format again, sooner rather than later.” And for me, that’s the biggest win of the day. So the rollercoaster was once again on the upswing. In the column of “good” things happening: my nutrition was holding together perfectly. I was hungry but able to perform. My heart rate was starting to level off. The sun was starting to set, and running in cooler weather is always better. Plus there were some amazing views. There wasn’t much to complain about, and the rest of the race felt that way. I stopped to make a few friends along the way. I could’ve ran past them, never saying hello. Or hurrying some greeting to get them behind me. But instead, I knew my race day was coming to an end, and in some way, I didn’t want it to. I wanted to prolong the experience and make new connections.
About one lap in, I realized I could strategize with my dad via my Apple Watch. He mostly wanted me to know where he would be so he could conduct his interviews. He also passed along pace information to me. One of my gym friends figured out I had my watch on, too, and was encouraging me. Mostly I needed that encouragement on the south end of the course, which was the dimly lit residential area. The north side had plenty of music, bars, and of course, the finish line vibe to keep my spirits up.
With about 3 miles to go, I found a group of three powerwalking. For whatever reason, my gait at the time was running, but it was super slow. If I tried switching to a walk, I found myself in more pain than just striding. So the three of them walked, and I ran. We laughed about our days, chatted about the future, and strategized for who would run the chute first (they picked me because I was actually “running”).
I finally crossed the line a little after 10 pm or just over 15:13 on the course. My race planning was pretty much on point, only missing the deviations for the swim and a little slower run pace. Overall, I crossed the line with a huge smile and most of my toenails intact. My initial thought after I crossed was, “I’d race this format again, sooner rather than later.” And for me, that’s the biggest win of the day.
Special Thanks
To my dad: you endured two of these stupid races. But this one was special. I couldn’t have asked for a better crew. You patiently waited, helped when I needed it, and, most of all, kept me on track. I couldn’t have done it without you (well, I really couldn’t have done anything without you), but I appreciate you more than you could know.
And for those of you that missed the videos, here is 16 minutes of IronDad reporting:
Ryann: you also endured two of these stupid races. But worse yet, two training seasons. For all the sweaty clothes, bike shop bills, “sorry we need to leave this party at 7 pm, my husband has a bike ride in the morning”, I love you and owe you big time, again. New Zealand again?
Aspire family, coaches, and friends: You prepared me physically and mentally. You supported my goals, even when they weren’t in the gym. You showed up at events, sent texts to check in, and liked my IG content. For that, I’m grateful. I’m a different person from the day I first walked in the door, and the gym is one reason why.
Sean Spire: when I messaged you back in November 2021 at 5 am (thanks, Jerry) and asked if I could be Ironman-ready by September, you didn’t hesitate. You gave me the confidence to sign up later that day. You gave me a training plan, checked on me weekly, and helped me make adjustments. You told me to take it all in and enjoy the race, and I still see the sun setting over the bay because of that reminder. I appreciate all of your support from day 1.
This is what a support system looks like.
Mission Yoga, Shay, Arkell: I never thought yoga would’ve made this list last year, but here we are. I found way more than I was expecting in this practice, mostly because of the company I’ve been keeping, but also because I needed what yoga has to offer. From the standard stuff: flexibility, core strength, and breathing, but also the mental headspace to operate while training and, importantly, while resting. I appreciate all of the support in and out of the studio (and even in the pool, where I learned Arkell is way faster than she lets on).
Chloe: When I hit a wall in the gym in January, I knew nutrition was the answer. Luckily I had friends (👋 Jamie) around me that had my best interest at heart and sent me your way. We bonded over CrossFit and exercise … a lot. You listened to me go on and on and on about the gym, the scale, racing, the scale, working out, and the scale. You eventually got me to take a rest day, which in retrospect, was the beginning of the process. We worked through years of negative emotions regarding eating and working out. You even challenged me to consider why I was racing and gasp if Ironman was the right choice for me (that might have been the first time I told you to fuck right off). When I finally hit another wall in training, we had some heart-t0-heart conversations about what was best for me, and when I committed to the process, I began to see results.
One of the most profound moments of this whole experience was our talk right before the race. My nerves were at an all-time high, and I was showing you all my prep. You, in the way only you can, seemed completely unphased. You reminded me that all the prep, all the worry, all the planning was the person that got me to the start line. And all the worry in the world wouldn’t change who I was. And come Monday, I was still that same person, regardless of the outcome. You encouraged me to shift my thinking to the present and enjoy the race. My mantra on the bike was “listen to your body,” which was exactly what I needed to hear. I’m going to cut your thank you here because otherwise, this would go on for days, but THANK YOU! This year, this race wouldn’t have been the same without your compassion, guidance, and (always spot-on) perspective.
Revive Physiotherapy, Dr. Hannah: a late addition to the team but a much-needed one. I came to you with a back injury a few weeks before the race, and you saved my life (well, my race, at least). I was avoiding time on the bike and generally hating life when you sat me down, put a plan in place, and worked toward a solution. I raced pain-free, not once even considering I had trouble sitting a few weeks prior. And post-race, you put a plan together to strengthen my weaknesses and make me a better athlete. I appreciate your craft, your effort, and your support!
Gary and everybody that trained with me: We put in some insane miles on the bike, on the road, and in the pool. We got up early, sweated it out, endured the summer, and remained friends. Thank you all for coming out and putting in the work with me.