Trading Mountains for Multisport: The Triathlon Experience

An Ultrarunner’s Journey of trading Mountain 100 Milers to Multisport and Midwest Triathlons

Here is a secret: most ultramarathoners, at some point during or shortly after a 100-mile race, consider quitting the sport. And that was the thought that I had as I managed an 18-minute-mile shuffle toward an eventual fifth finish of the 2021 Hardrock 100 Mile Endurance Run. The words “Never Again” kept coming to mind.

In every previous 100-miler (this was my 16th), I’d had some similar thoughts – normally during my darker moments, like when I was hunched over a granite boulder, kicking yet another rock or clawing up one more relentless climb. But the white surrender flag would turn green a few days after finishing and I’d find myself clicking the “Register” button for another 100 a few months later.

This time was different, and both my body and mind agreed. I was not convinced that my 50-year-old body could outlast the demands of training up for another 100 – and, honestly, after a lengthy career with some modest success, I was prepared for a change.

The notion of trading in those 100 mile mountain races for multisport began to ring louder in my mind.

All In

The change I was looking for did come in the form of multisport. And I’m exactly the sort of “All In” idiot who does not merely dip his toe into the water to taste test something. I jumped all the way in, and signed up for a full IRONMAN Triathlon the following year. 

“This will be a nice “break” from tackling tough 100s,” I delusionally thought as I entered my credit card info. Man, was I mistaken?! 

The morning of IRONMAN Wisconsin, standing half naked in my hotel room and puffy-eyed from a restless night, I peered outside into the pre-dawn darkness. Sheets of rain streamed down with the ferocity of an Atlantic Nor’easter. I tried to convince myself that the deluge would pass, despite the weather forecast that called for all-day buckets and unseasonably cool temps in the 50s.

Before the Race Start, I checked my bike into transition as the rain pummeled my jacket and bare legs. I let some air out of my tires. Pffffffffft! I had overheard some guys say it’s safer to run lower psi in dangerous, wet conditions. Still hours before the race and I was already soaked and chilled to the bone.

When I was considering the concept of trading in multisport from the mountains….this wasn’t what I envisioned.

Warm Water

As the race began on the shores of Lake Monona in downtown Madison, I actually summoned some optimism for the first time that morning. It turned out, the water temperature was a good twenty degrees warmer than the air, and rain doesn’t matter if you’re in a lake. It was the most comfortable that I would be all day, and I cherished the two-lap swim, despite getting kicked and punched amidst the 1000+ other athletes.

I exited the water. Some guy held a soggy poster: “Smile if you peed during the swim.”

Yes, I smiled.

Moments later, I sat inside at “T1” (the first transition in a triathlon). I was amped from a good swim, and chowed down some calories as I suited up for the bike leg. I looked around and soaked in the nervous excitement of the moment. The other athletes around me seemed to share my trepidation and concern for the road cycling conditions awaiting us.

As in all things, the best way forward is straight ahead  So I zipped up my rain shell and headed out into the still-pouring rain, ignoring the shiver already settling into my legs.

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Just Keep Pedaling

The 112-mile bike leg was the single most difficult bike ride that I have done in my life. Make no bones about it: the IRONMAN Wisconsin bike course is brutal, with its punchy, steep hills and technical turns. But layer on a late November Day in early September, and this seven-hour ride was pure trench warfare. Wet like a drowned rat from Mile One, I prayed that my bike tires would not slide out from under me on every turn.

I kept my gaze 20 yards ahead of my front tire. “Just keep pedaling,” was my mantra, silently spoken with every stroke.  A good friend of mine, also on the bike course, focused on just making it to the next mile marker, the whole time.

I learned later that many riders fell on the bike segment, and still others succumbed to hypothermia in the remote hills west of town. The rain continued, and so did I. And soon I rolled into “T2” (the second transition in a triathlon), sliding to a halt and dismounting with a hopeful grin.

Inside the transition, the huddled athletic masses had thousand-mile stares. One guy was shivering so bad that he could not tie his shoes. People were begging for extra or dry clothes. I had seen these looks before. They would happen in the mountains of a 100 miler but I was not expecting to see them when I traded in those days for this multisport experience.

I realized I had to get out of there before my body called it a day. I put on my shoes and headed to the run course.

Bag Of Tricks

I tried to run. Really I did.

I was counting on the run being my return to glory on this very long day. Running is what I do. I’ve run further than the marathon distance more than 50 times in my life. So a “mere” 26.2 mile run should have been automatic. 

But running is never effortless. It’s why we do it. It’s hard. And it’s especially hard after nine hours of swimming, cycling, and battling to stay warm. 

My run began as a jog, then down-shifted to a shuffle, and finally slowed to a walk during the first ten miles. I reached deep into my bag of tricks and tried everything to tease out a pace faster than 20 minutes per mile. 

That faked smile? It temporarily delivered a running pace. 

High-fiving those cheering kids on the streets of downtown Madison? Their energy propelled me through some quicker quarter mile stretches, too.

I fought to stay positive and cheered on other runners as well. We were a band of brothers and sisters out there. Our grunts toward each other were caveman-like, monosyllabic commiserating over the brutally difficult day behind us and still ahead of us.

In the blur of time passing, the day turned to night. Generators hummed, powering flood lights on the more desolate parts of the run course. 

I even tried a Red Bull, breaking the Golden Rule to never try anything new on Race Day. And I learned the hard way why that is a Golden Rule. I will spare you the details.

And the rain continued. In my stumbling stupor, I may have seen a bearded man building an Ark. 

And yet I inch-wormed closer to the finish.

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Red Carpet Treatment

These audacious endurance events, whether 100-milers or long course triathlons, grind us down to whispers of ourselves, until all that’s left is a raw core of who we truly are. With one mile to go, I emerged from the darkness of the run course to the lights of Madison’s State Street. More spectators waited here, encouraging me to muster some sinew of muscle twitch.

The domed Madison Capitol building glowed overhead as I fought so hard to run. My body rebelled like a tempestuous teenager, arguing in favor of a walk. We compromised on a slow trot.

My feet monotonously slapped against the puddled pavement. You know that sound. Step then Slap. Take another step and hear the slap. It seemed to be never ending.

And then silence. The slapping stopped. I looked down at my soggy shoes. My feet were no longer on pavement, but on cushy red carpet. These are the final steps toward the arched finish line of IRONMAN.

Two Words

I reflected for these precious few seconds on the journey that brought me to this carpet. It started long before today, way back in the Colorado mountains during that Hardrock 100. I yearned for a new challenge. And I found it.

And, even though my body was soaked and chilled to the bone on this unforgiving day, I did not even think those words, “Never Again.”

Instead, I summoned two different words to answer the question of whether I would tackle another IRONMAN: “Hell Yeah”

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