Race Report

The Perfect Race: Thoughts Following the Ironman World Championship, 2011

Below is the report from my last race as a professional triathlete: the World Ironman Championship in 2011. It was my 13th Ironman and, in this case, 13 did (eventually) prove to be very lucky!

Every once in a while you are blessed with a very special day when history is rewritten, records fall and you surpass your own notions of what is possible to achieve. On 8 October, Craig Alexander broke the long-standing course record to take his third World Championship win, age group records tumbled, athletes overcame personal struggles and euphorically crossed the finish line. I am so proud to have been part of that historic day.

This race report reiterates, and augments, the messages I tried my best to convey at the awards ceremony. I apologise for my tardiness in putting fingers to keyboard, but there were some serious celebrations to take care of, some luxuriating to be done and some tree-trunk-like cankles [swollen ankles that merge with the calf] to offload. With the benefit of the passing of time (and sobriety as the effect of the champagne wears off) I have been able to better reflect on what was the most exciting, challenging and best race of my career.

Last year I was devastated to succumb to illness and be unable to defend my title. That day Rinny gave everyone a show to remember, especially with her record-breaking 2 hour 53 minute run split, to be crowned World Champion. My non-start, however disappointing, instilled in me a hunger like never before. As the saying goes, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. The fire and desire to regain the World Championship title burned all the more brightly.

Every athlete, myself included, wants perfect race preparation, great training sessions and no injuries. Two weeks prior to the World Championships everything was looking rosy—I was on track and determined to give my best-ever performance. However, this was due to be my 13th Ironman race and on Saturday 24 September it seemed like 13 was living up to its superstitious reputation for bringing bad luck. I was doing my last long ride with a group of friends in Boulder and, after about 30 minutes, approached a left-hand bend that I have taken a million times. I started to turn and then suddenly—bang!—body hits tarmac. Unknown to me I had a flat rear tyre, causing the wheel to lose traction and skid. The result? A sizable donation of skin and blood from my left leg, hip, ankle and elbow to the Colorado asphalt. The abrasions were akin, the doctors said, to third-degree burns. I also had deep bruising to my left side, a damaged pectoral muscle and, to top it off, contracted a serious infection in my left leg, which became swollen and red and rendered me unable to walk. I was put on a course of antibiotics and my wounds were dressed so extensively that I resembled an Egyptian mummy.

I rested for a few days and then, letting panic and fear get the better of me, stupidly decided to go for a swim. I managed one lap of the pool before having to be lifted out, with Tom and Dave carrying me to the car in my swimsuit. I remember shaking and sobbing and hardly looking like a three-time World Champion about to head to Hawaii!

To be honest I think I was still in shock. The trauma and the huge mental pressure of getting ready for the race was so all-consuming and overwhelming—I just wasn’t thinking rationally. I was so anxious about the disruption to my preparation I let the compulsion to train override the obvious need for rest.

I delayed my flight to Kona, arriving on the Saturday instead of the planned ten days prior. I was greeted at the airport with open arms and a Hawaiian lei by my “Kona mum and dad,” John and Linda, and struck as always by the smell of tropical flowers, the warmth of the humid air and the energy that the island exudes. Hawaii has a very special place in my heart and arriving there never fails to excite me.

But the joy was short-lived. I spent race week unable to swim and as an impatient patient at the Kona Hospital. I had Active Release Techniques (ART) therapy from the ceaselessly supportive and sanguine Mike Leahy, as well as my acupuncturist who had only come out for a holiday, but was put straight to work. The care I received was outstanding—but the disruption and continued discomfort all added to the weight on my shoulders.

Of course, I’m no hero and many other athletes have endured—and overcome—far more serious illnesses and injuries than I had. I am not recounting what happened in the weeks preceding the race to elicit sympathy, or make excuses, but rather to share the most important lesson that I learned: to never let my head or heart drop.

So yes, life threw me a curve ball. I could either be crushed by that ball or I could throw it right back and, to follow the advice of a friend, rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the crash. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t scared, nervous and apprehensive, and physically traumatised, coming into the race.

I always say that Ironman is 50 per cent physical and 50 per cent mental—all the preparation in the world will not carry you to victory if your mind is not prepared. To plunder the words of Muhammad Ali, “the will must be stronger than the skill.” I was scared of the pain, scared of not being able to do my best and yes, scared of losing. The solution was to change my expectations for the race, adjust my approach to racing and change my perception of success. Rather than focusing on a desired outcome (winning) I focused on the process (doing the very best I could every minute of the race).

So Saturday 8 October dawned and the cannon fired into the clear, morning air. I was in pain, I was nervous, I lacked power in my left arm and didn’t have the initial speed to position myself in a fast swim pack. But I had Dave’s wise words ringing in my ear. “Don’t worry if your swim is slow, it’s better to take it steady and be able to complete the race, than to put yourself in a hole you can’t get out of.” And so, 1 hour 1 minute later I exited: a nine-minute deficit to Julie Dibens and four minutes down from Rinny. I had a lot of work to do.

I named my bike Phoenix, for obvious reasons, and once aboard I tried to quell any rising panic, keep my head and slowly try to reel in those ahead of me, as well as resisting the charges from behind. I overtook Rinny on the climb up to Hawi, where I gained an additional boost from seeing “Team Welly” on the sidelines. Despite their smiles and cheers I knew they were concerned about the deficit mounting between Julie and me. Soon after I was overtaken by super-cyclist Karin Thürig. I managed to stay with her for about ten miles, until I had to concede that her pace was above my capabilities. I ignored the aches and pains that racked my body, preventing me from ever really feeling comfortable. I sat up at every aid station and incline to try and open up my hips, and ease the numbness that had developed in my lower back. Expletives were uttered every time urine trickled down my leg and into my wounds (making sure the television crews weren’t there to capture such profanities).

Off the bike, I proceeded to run like I had a firework up my backside: determined to make hay while the sun shone (and it was definitely shining with no cloud cover and temps of about 90°F plus). Once again, I had Dave’s voice in my ears, “Focus, focus focus, I know you want to smile and wave, but you need to devote every ounce of energy to your performance.” So yes, there were a few less smiles than normal that day!

My body and mind alternated between feeling OK and then screaming in agony. The pain in my left hip was excruciating, my form was poor and other areas of my body felt the effects of a changed gait. My hamstrings, calves, even my shoulders were begging me to stop. I had that ugly voice on one shoulder suggesting I quit and take the easy route. But I hate the easy route. So I ignored the pain. I ignored the internal whispers. It was the other voice, the louder one on the opposite shoulder, which gave me the will to continue: which enabled me to keep my head to, as Kipling says, force “heart and nerve and sinew to serve your turn long after they are gone, / And so hold on when there is nothing in you / Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold On!’”

I let the cheers of the crowd propel me forwards. I had the sight of my boyfriend Tom, en route to an amazing 11th place, to give me a boost. As I overtook Julie Dibens, Rachel Joyce, Leanda Cave and finally Caroline Steffen at the entrance to the famous Energy Lab, my confidence soared but, unlike the name of the Lab, my energy levels were waning with every step. “Just keep your head, keep your head” rang in my ears. “Never ever give up.” I recalled times in training and racing when I have suffered and endured pain, I recalled Jon Blais and others who have shown what it is to be truly courageous, and I thought of my family and friends and my desire not to let them, or myself, down.

“Of all my Ironman victories this was the performance—the moment in my sporting life—that I am the most proud of.”

Back on Queen K I embarked on the last 10km or so, with my strength fading with every incline. I was given all manner of splits: “Four minutes from Rinny, five minutes from Rinny, Rinny is only three minutes behind!” I knew I couldn’t let up, not even for a second. I couldn’t think of the finish. I couldn’t think of the possible victory. I focused solely on what was happening in that moment. I was finding it hard even to smile, even when a man in a huge sumo outfit ran with me in the final few kilometres. Only as I descended Palani Road and let the downhill momentum carry me did I believe that my body would hold out, and that I would win my fourth World Championship.

As I ran the final metres along Ali’i Drive, waving to the crowds and finally allowing myself to smile, I felt utterly overwhelmed by what I had managed to achieve. Comparable to 2007, when I won the World Championship for the first time, it seemed so surreal to have achieved something that nine hours previously I could never have imagined. I heard the Hawaiian conch shells being blown, the noise of the huge crowds, the sound of the drums and the voice of the announcer, Mike Reilly. I reached the finish tape, hoisted it over my head, and then rolled in memory of Jon Blais; overcome with a sense of pride, satisfaction, relief and unadulterated joy that I had won: that I had defied what I had thought possible.

I left everything out there on the course that day: including blood, sweat and tears and a few bits of skin. I conquered my demons, the course, the brutal conditions, my injuries, my doubts, and all the other amazing athletes to win that race.

I have often said that I wanted to finish an Ironman feeling emotionally and physically spent. On that day, my wish came true. People sometimes say to me that I make winning Ironman races look easy. This was anything but. I hope I showed that I am human. I get injured, I cry, I even curse, but I will dig to the depths to give everything I have to this wonderful sport, to realise the potential inside myself. The finish time was irrelevant as a criterion by which to judge success. Success in this context was giving it everything—doing the very best with what I had. This race taught me a valuable, simple lesson: never to stop believing. It should teach you all never to stop believing too. Of all my Ironman victories this was the performance—the moment in my sporting life—that I am, without a doubt, the most proud of.

Insight

DAVE SCOTT on the World Championship, 2011

This experience aged me about 30 years! Prior to the accident everything had been going so well. I thought we were going to smash the World Championship: that it would be her best ever race. As it turned out it was her best race ever, but not for the reasons we could have predicted! It’s one of the greatest athletic feats and I was intimately involved as the action unfolded.

We had a plan going into the final two weeks, and I had to throw that plan out of the window: we had to take it hour by hour, day by day. Four days after the accident I remember asking Chrissie whether she wanted to race. Her response was categorical: she was going to start. I never asked again.

We both landed in Hawaii a week before the race and slowly pieced the schedule together, depending on how she was feeling. In Boulder she could hide away, but in Kona all eyes were immediately on her. The media and the public weren’t really aware of what was happening, and repeatedly spoke of victories and records. Yet, she looked like a cheese-grater had gone over her! She was nervous, worried and in considerable pain, and the only people she could share her true feelings with were Tom, her family and me. I know what she was going through, because I’d felt that pressure and weight of expectation as an athlete, even without injury.

Then on Wednesday she had intense pain in her pectoral muscle and had to get an MRI to check for any blood clots, which fortunately came back negative. She also had to go to and from the hospital to get her wounds scrubbed out and re-dressed every other day. Training wise she did a few light bike and run sessions, but didn’t swim for three days before the race to rest the pec muscle and give the wounds the chance to heal.

Although she began feeling better she ideally needed at least another four weeks: to rehab and build back up to the phenomenal level of fitness she was at before the accident. She had been swimming faster, biking faster, running faster. I believed she could go sub 8 hours 40 minutes, breaking the course record that would stand for a long time to come. That wasn’t to be, but time isn’t everything in triathlon.

In the days before a big event I always remind my athletes about the simplicity of racing: encouraging them to stay calm and concentrate on maximising their performance at that very moment. With Chrissie I tried to eliminate her self-doubt, with large doses of positivity and encouragement. She didn’t need worrywarts or pessimists and she didn’t need to focus on winning or worry about the pressure or expectations. I did advise her to conserve as much energy as she could in the days before the race, instead of always trying to give back with a photograph, interview or autograph, as well as during the race itself, by not waving and smiling quite so much as normal.

The cannon fired on race morning and I was biting my nails with nerves watching the swim. Mirinda exited in 57 minutes and every second was agonising. I was looking out to the bay, trying to spot Chrissie’s stroke. It’s very distinctive. Finally, I saw her… A few minutes later she climbed out, in a much slower time than previous years, but she had at least finished the swim and, despite my pre-race advice, had this big smile and I think “Well, OK—now the game really begins!”

She came into T2 three minutes in front of Mirinda, with Julie Dibens 22 minutes down the road and about five other women in between. Everyone expected Mirinda to catch Chrissie, but I’m thinking, “No, the run can still be your weapon, let’s do it!” She opened up a lead right from the start, ignoring her battered body: she was racing, she was in her element. At that moment, I knew Chrissie could dictate what would happen, whether her destiny or her demise in that race. The gap grew to five minutes and I knew how much she would be hurting. I was thinking: “You’re going to have to draw energy from everywhere, including under your toenails, to pull this thing off!” Everyone, including me, was holding their breath and Chrissie was just a mess; her running form was a complete shambles. But it didn’t matter—she simply had to be as efficient as possible with the mental and physical fatigue and injuries she had sustained.

I could hear the cheers as she approached the finish line, and had to fight my way through the crowds to meet her… I was this sweating, stinking mess, wanting to get there for my athlete. It was so overwhelming. Tom was there, crying and hugging her, her parents were there, also in tears. Finally, I managed to wrap my arms around her—she was completely spent and could hardly stand up. I was so proud. She’d played her best game that day. And what a game it was.

My day wasn’t over though, as I headed back out to cheer for my son Drew, who had fractured his wrist in the same crash as Chrissie. He finished and I couldn’t have been happier.

It had been an overwhelming, difficult but incredible day. And yes, Chrissie was finally able to give back with that huge smile of hers, as she always did!