Conquering the Ironman: Never so tired, never felt so good

"Loreen Pindera, you are an Ironman."

As I was struggling to find it in me to make it up one more hill in the back half of the 42.2-kilometre marathon, I imagined that to be the sweetest line in the world. And wanting to hear Ironman Canada's veteran race announcer Steve King say it was the one thing that kept me putting one foot in front of the other as the setting sun hovered just over the hills west of Lake Skaha.

When that moment came, however, 13 hours, eight minutes and 50 seconds after my toes touched the water of Lake Okanagan at 7 a.m. on Aug. 30 for the swim leg of 2009 Ironman Canada, I was so exhausted that the only thing that registered in my brain was the electronic beep of the timing mat as I crossed the finish line. Done.

I had thought I'd burst into tears, but I was too spent.

My Ironman weekend had been an emotional roller-coaster ride from the moment I drove over the Coquahalla from Vancouver on Thursday. The scenery was stunning. The dry, hot air reminded me what summer was supposed to feel like - and filled me with fear and trepidation about how I was going to manage the heat after a cool, rainy training season in Montreal.

The souvenir booklet that came in my registration package said the average triathlete had been training for 18 to 23 hours a week for the previous eight months to prepare for this event. I had not found the time to put in those kind of hours except for during my two weeks' vacation in the rainy Laurentians. Again, fear. Was I really ready to take on a 3.8-kilometre swim, a 180-kilometre bike ride up a mountain pass and through rolling hills, then run a marathon?

That fear began to melt away on Friday night, at the pre-race spaghetti dinner in the Penticton convention centre. The Pad Thai was forgettable, but the MC invited onto the stage "ordinary" Ironman participants, like the trim and handsome 160-pound American who had shed 200 pounds training for his first Ironman. This would be his third.

Then Sister Madonna Buder was introduced, and 2,000 triathletes stood up and gave her a long, heartfelt standing ovation. The 79-year-old nun from Spokane, Wash., has completed some 40 Ironman events. Last year in Penticton, she'd crossed the finish line just after midnight missing the official 17-hour cut-off time by three minutes. She was here to try again. I got teary-eyed as the applause went on and on. It was the first of a dozen times I'd choke up over the next couple of days.

The next time I felt my eyes smart with tears, I was standing with 2,600 other wetsuit-clad triathletes, knee-deep in water on the beach of Lake Okanagan just after dawn on Sunday morning, singing Oh Canada. Everyone hugged and high-fived each other as we waited for the countdown. At 7 a.m. sharp, we were off.

Chaotic start

The start of a mass triathlon swim is a wade-into-the-water event for those of us, like me, at the back of the pack. I learned my lesson years ago never start near the front unless you want to be caught among the thrashing bodies, half-drowned by the faster swimmers who plow right over you, charged with adrenaline. I am a strong swimmer, but my fear of getting kicked in the face means it usually takes me 500 metres to settle in to my swim, and by then, I'm already exhausted from sheer stress. To make matters worse, I am terrible at "sighting" swimming in a straight line towards the buoy that marks each turn so I usually end up swimming in a zigzag and going an extra couple of hundred metres.

This time, I'd visualized and practised a new strategy for weeks: take your time, settle in behind someone with a good strong kick who appears to know where they're going, and ride the wave. I barely kicked, stayed on course, and emerged from the water feeling refreshed, my heart barely pumping, beating my predicted time of 1:20 by a full five minutes.

Over the timing mat, unzipping my wetsuit and pulling it off my arms and down to the waist as I ran, someone shouted, "On your back," and with clockwork timing, a volunteer yanked the wetsuit off my legs in the blink of an eye. Someone else called out my number 2733 and yet another volunteer grabbed the bag containing my bike gear, directed me to the change tent and within six minutes, I was on my bike and headed through downtown Penticton through a tight column of cheering spectators.

'A doe burst out of the woods just 20 metres ahead of me and bounded right over the tight line of cyclists, to cross the road'

Eight kilometres out, at the southeast edge of town, I watched for my own personal fan club my sister, my son and his six-year-old twin cousins at a pre-designated street corner. I'd given them an ETA of 8:35, but no one was there - no one had expected me to beat my own best forecast! There was no waiting for them. On I rode, out of Penticton and down the east side of Lake Skaha.

The Ironman Canada bike route is unsurpassable in its beauty. We pedalled past orchards and vineyards, the wind at our backs. I was sailing! A doe burst out of the woods just 20 metres ahead of me and bounded right over the tight line of cyclists, to cross the road. She left her pair of fawns to fend for themselves, with the bikes on the shoulder. Not knowing what to do, they started pacing the cyclists, looking for a break in the pack. "Hey, they're drafting that's illegal," someone said, and everyone laughed. We were all feeling jubilant. But by 10:30, we were in Osoyoos, desert country. The sun was high in the sky, and we were climbing the dreaded Richter Pass. Keeping the smile on my face became a bit harder.

A belly full of trouble

Preparing for an Ironman aside from the sheer hours of "seat time" on the bike, the early morning runs and thrice-weekly swim sessions is about accounting for all the variables. Practise changing tires. Always carry a spare tube and carbon dioxide cartridges to inflate it with instantly. You NEED to eat in my case, about 200 calories an hour, to prevent "bonking" and you need to figure out what your stomach can tolerate. I thought I had it all worked out, with my combination of bland oatmeal and bananas at 4:30 a.m., an instant breakfast drink right before the swim, my own favourite sports drink for the bike and a gel block every ten minutes.

But despite all the planning, once I was over Richter Pass, my gut failed me. I had acid indigestion that was so painful I could barely pedal for the next 40 kilometres. I took a couple of Tums I'd put in my back pocket and bargained with God: "OK, I will get through this bike ride with this horrible tummy ache for the next 100 kilometres if you insist, but PLEASE, PLEASE, please, don't let me cramp up like this on the run. I CANNOT run with this gut ache."

'For the next 30 kilometres, I gritted my teeth in a hopeless effort to filter out the smoke, hacked my lungs and gave thanks I didn't have asthma problems'

I was pedaling along through more majestic scenery rolling hills, horse ranches, desert landscape - and thinking about how much I would be enjoying this if only I was not so focused on my ailment. But eventually, as I neared the 120-kilometre mark, the pain abated. I geared down for the next big climb, took a deep breath and inhaled what tasted like the inside of a dirty ashtray. The wind had carried in smoke from a distant forest fire. It wafted over us and settled in. My throat and eyes burned.

For the next 30 kilometres, I gritted my teeth in a hopeless effort to filter out the smoke, hacked my lungs and gave thanks I didn't have asthma problems. The consolation prize: at Yellow Lake, on the last big climb, spectators who'd arrived in the early hours of the race lined the highway, cheering every one of us on as if we might overtake the pros if we just made it over one more hill.

It was nearing 3 p.m. when I coasted downhill back into Penticton. I saw my family before they saw me and roared my delight at seeing them there, the twins wearing poster boards, my son snapping pictures as I flashed by. Just the sight of them gave me renewed energy, and I blasted into the transition zone, tore off my bike shoes, dried and powdered my feet before slipping into my running shoes and, once again, I was off.

Only 42.2 kilometres to go

It is the during the marathon run segment of the course that Ironmen are made or broken. Frankly, had I allowed myself to think for one second, "OK, Loreen, now you have to run 42.2 kilometres," I would have stopped dead in my tracks. My brain was already registering dead-tired. But this is what I had trained for, I reminded myself. I had the legs for this run. It was all about the mental game, from this point on. My own mental toughness and the Ironman support structure. Aid stations were set up at every mile mark and volunteers called out what they had on offer: "Ice cold sponges!" "Gatorade!" "Water!" "Pretzels!" "Chicken soup!" I had run in the 2007 Chicago Marathon where organizers had shut down the race before it was two-thirds over because, despite an unseasonable October heat wave, they hadn't ordered enough supplies for the aid stations, and they ran out of water.

The thought terrified me so much I had considered carrying my own camelpack - but nixed the idea when Ironman veterans promised me I would be well taken care of. And we were! Every aid station was an oasis. The ear-to-ear grin of a teenager with Down's syndrome handing out orange slices at station eight or nine was as good a jolt as the sticky sweet orange. As I plodded along, my heart at a steady 145 bpm, my feet counting out 90 steps a minute, I promised myself I could walk through every aid station and running one more mile to the next one became my only goal.

'The fatigue is all in your head"

More than one ambulance had screamed by me earlier on the bike course, picking up athletes who'd dropped from heat exhaustion, but it was at the midway point of the run course that I saw how many people were running into trouble. A medic knelt by a man throwing up on the side of the road. The heat of the day was over, and a runner fearful of hypothermia wrapped herself in a silver thermal blanket as she jogged along, the space age material billowing out behind her like a superhero's cape.

Walking was the norm on the uphill stretches near Okanagan Falls. I allowed myself to walk for five minutes, saw my heart settle down to 131 bpm and said, "This is not about your legs, Loreen. This is easy. The fatigue is all in your head." I picked up my feet and resumed running.

By now, the sun was a huge orange ball hovering over Lake Skaha, and the city of Penticton was back in sight. I ran, I ran, I didn't want to run anymore, I kept on running. When I realized I was going to fall just short of my goal of under 13 hours, I REALLY didn't want to run anymore. I tried to calculate how fast I'd have to run to make up my time. I couldn't do it. I couldn't remember the point of this run. Then a woman caught up to me who looked to be about my age. Sure enough, she had 53 marked on her leg. I decided if I couldn't make my time, I could at least stay ahead of this woman in my age group.

For the next eight kilometres, I ran, I slowed down, she caught up, I ran. I heard someone behind me say, "You ARE going to catch her, aren't you." She replied, "Damn right." By then, we had just four kilometres to go and the crowds were thick again as we neared downtown Penticton. With a burst of energy that came from their cheers, I picked up my pace and left my tormenter in the dust. Hey, I'm not competitive. But something had to propel me forward. Whatever works. The very toughest moment on the Ironman Canada course comes with a little over one kilometer to go, when runners have to PASS the finish line and head away from it before the final turn-around. I heard the announcer say, "Two minutes and 20 seconds to the 13 hour mark," and I KNEW I wouldn't make my goal. But I couldn't stop now, so I just kept running. After the turn-around, it was easy. I kept my eyes on the arch marking the final few metres and didn't think about my feet, just pumped my arms forward. At last, at last, at last, the ribbon in sight, the smiles on the faces of the volunteers, no sound registering except the electronic beep of the timer as my foot hit the timing mat. DONE. The pepperoni pizza a volunteer handed me tasted like cardboard, but I ate it anyway. I heard my name and fell into my sister's arms as my son snapped more pictures. He was beaming. I had made him proud.

Already I was analyzing my race, wondering if I had just pumped a little harder on Richter Pass, run up the hill I walked at OK Falls, not bothered to wash my feet in the transition from the bike to the run, would I have made it in under 13 hours?

But no one in my circle of love wanted to hear that from me right then, so I kept my mouth shut and basked in all their attention. I had never been so exhausted in my life, and I had never felt so good. And the next morning, when I bought the paper and saw Sister Madonna had crossed the line before midnight, with minutes to spare, I felt better still.

I wonder, will she still be running at 108 when I am 79?