Golu rolls on: Prologue
It would annoy me a tad bit when my sister, or Akya as I call her, would ask me “Can you remind me what the Ironman distances are?” The numbers were so magical. What’s not to remember! If anything, the words of Ironman founder John Collins were meant to roll off one’s tongue — Swim 2.4 miles. Bike 112 miles. Run 26.2 miles. Brag for the rest of your life. This was our play routine after I’d get back home from a workout, drenched in sweat, stained with salt and wiped out with the look of despair on my face. Standing by the kitchen sink and staring into space, I’d break the silence with “I don’t know how I‘ll do this.” Pat would come her reply — I support you.
I really couldn’t put my finger on how I wanted time to go by. The calendar had been reduced to just two types of weeks - build weeks where I’d overload my body with intensive workouts, and recovery weeks which would allow the body to, as the name suggests, recover and respond to the training. More time on hand would have been great for improving fitness. When the weekly training volume ballooned above the 15 hr mark, physical and mental fatigue had me wishing that the race was round the corner. As my coach Andrew put it - dream of taper. Then again, there’s that thing about time and tide. Soon, the week that mattered the most was upon us. It was race week.
I had just gotten done with watching Atomic Blonde and had a bad case of earworm. The words “how does it feel?” from Blue Monday were on replay. With my morning starting at 2:30 AM the next day, I needed to sleep early. I made a quick call back home and my mom asked me in the most innocent of ways, “Will you be called an Ironman if you win this race tomorrow?” I nipped back “Ma, I’m not going to win! The fastest person will do this under 9 hours. If I finish, I’m going to need the entire 17 hours.” No stranger to my hissy fits, she pointed out that I hadn’t answered her question. I explained, as I had done several times before, that anyone who finished the race would be called an Ironman. She ended our talk with “Please take care of yourself, enjoy the experience and remember ma loves you.” Mothers will be mothers.
About 25 hours and change later, in the wee hours of July 29, 2017, I found myself hobbling my way through the dark. True to my self, a headlamp had been put down on the checklist for the run, only to be duly forgotten while packing. Glow-in-the-dark neon bands had been handed out for visibility, and the sight of dust being kicked off heels had made way for a surreal one of UFOs seemingly hovering over the trail. The path would occasionally be lit up by someone who had been much more diligent about their checklist. At this point, most of the athletes had finished their race and were probably back in bed resting their sore muscles. Then there were participants like me, Cinderellas trying to get back to the finish line before midnight, failing which our result would be DNF — did not finish.
As I’d set off on the third and final loop of the marathon, I saw Andrew who had been around since the start of the race. We agreed that I had ample time to walk this out. He asked me not to give up and persist with the run/walk combination used to good effect for 17.5 miles. I’d fought against cramps in my legs for about 7 hours and had trundled along at a 12.5 min/ mile pace till then. My miserably blistered foot made every step that much more painful. As I headed into the darkness, a weariness began to set in. The math showed that I’d comfortably walk 8.7 miles in the remaining 3 hours. So, with a dark patch of the trail all to myself, I came to a halt, looked down at the creek by the trail and finally shed those tears I’d held back all day. A minute later, I began limping my way towards becoming an Ironman.
Truth be told, I’m not sure that a finish time of 16h25m is worth all this drama. Then again, this is my story to tell and so it shall be that way. When the news of this feat spread through the grapevine, there was genuine surprise which threw up several questions to be answered. It was a classic case of I-round-man to Ironman and I was asked to share my training details and race report. To that end, I could very easily throw numbers at you. I could tell you that in the 6 months leading up to the race, my swim volume was just shy of 85 miles, that my butt was sore from 120 hours on the bike, or that my feet had pounded the pavement for 80 hours. Then again, to spin my story around these 6 months, would not do due justice to my narrative.
I was once told that there are four elements which often make the most compelling of stories — romance, vulnerability, tragedy and catharsis. In 1982, Julie Moss went on to script an epic that most authors can only dream of. At that time, she was in her senior year of college and was majoring in physical education. Aiming at research for her thesis, she decided to take part in the Ironman world championship held in Hawaii every year. This was an experience meant to test the body and the mind to their extremes. So, it was quite the thing when, in her very first Ironman, Julie found herself ahead of all other women. Late into the race, tragedy struck really hard as her body began to shut down. Reduced to a rag doll, Julie collapsed agonizingly close to the finish line, the distance not being more than a couple of meters. Support from the overawed onlookers didn’t do much help and she lay sprawled on the ground when Kathleen McCartney ran past her to win the race. Julie’s body was in shambles, but her spirit had not been broken. In what is arguably the most iconic moment in Ironman’s history, Julie Moss gathered the fight left in her and mustered the energy to crawl her way across the finish line. To this day, the run section in the Ironman athlete guide opens with the lines— Athletes may walk, run, or crawl.
I recall reading in Iron War that Mark Allen, who would go on to become 6-time Ironman champion, watched this coverage and was inspired to attempt the race. While only a select few will reach such sporting heights, most triathletes can point to such a visual that inspired them towards this goal. And so, the prologue to my story, if there had to be one, would have to be the documentary for the 2008 Ironman World Championship.
