Iron ordeal

Men's Fitness, March, 1999 by Tom Weede

A few months ago, to get my body used to the heat and wind, I did a 115-mile training ride in the Southern California high desert. Now, as I pedal along the Hawaiian coast, I feel confident. Although the temperature and humidity are inching upward, the winds are light. Maybe I can finish the bike event in six hours, perhaps even less. As the coal-black lava fields blur by, wistful visions of Ironman glory spin in my head.

Then, like a sucker punch from the wind gods, the gale shifts directly into my face in a split second. No amount of training could have prepared me for the next two-plus hours. With gusts up to 40 mph, my legs grind in the lowest gear on flats, and I can manage only 9 or 10 mph, half my usual pace. Think level 10 on a stationary bike parked in front of a wind turbine, outside on a blistering summer day. Racers ahead of me struggle to keep their bikes upright. Because drafting is against the rules, there is no respite from the gale. My average speed keeps dropping.

Details consume me: staying in an aero-tuck position, monitoring my-gearing and leg turnover, keeping: enough distance from the bikes ahead of and behind me to avoid a drafting penalty, watching my food and fluid intake. And always the nagging worry about bike mechanics: Please, no flats or breakdowns out here in this oven.

As my discouragement and fatigue. grow, my mind occasionally slips from the present, and the realization flashes like a dull ache through my whole being: I have to run a marathon after this. The thought is too disheartening, too overwhelming to handle. The primitive core of my mind, the part that is concerned only with simple survival, instinctively banishes it.

Despite the mercilessness of the ho'o mumuku, I eat according to plan, munching on energy bars and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. When I finally struggle into the little town of Hawi, birthplace of King Kamehameha, the bike course turns back on itself. I see my brother and my friend Jerry. "How you doing?" my brother yells. Too tired to complain about the winds, I mumble, "OK," and pedal on ...

... Early on a Sunday morning, John, my other brother Bob, our friend Steve and I have a paceline going up an Oregon mountain pass just south of the Columbia River. My legs feel strong as we take turns pulling out front, drafting flawlessly. It's the second day of the annual 200-mile Seattle-to-Portland bike ride in early July. Athletics has become a common bond I share with my brothers. I train with John, and we've spent countless runs and rides talking about work, women, whatever. Though unspoken, a strong sibling rivalry exists for us when we train, and as the youngest, I feel a need to prove I can keep up. We push each other to be better ...

On the ride back to Kona, my spirits rise. The winds alternate from tail to cross, and I start making up time. My average speed notches up. But like a fickle woman, this race can toy with your ego and your emotions, and my high is short-lived. With no warning and absolutely no pity, the winds again shift into my face ... and I'm still 25 miles from the finish, I no longer know whether the steady roar in my ears is the rush of blood or of wind.