Madison, Wisconsin 2012. View of Lake Mendota from the Edgewater Restaurant.
Once upon a time, in 2006, I had done a few sprint triathlons, ventured into the deep end with an Olympic distance, and then I broke my leg playing softball. My summer racing plans were shattered along with the fibula, and in my anxious boredom, I went to a Chicago Tri Club meeting. A meeting about triathlon didn’t seem as interesting as actually doing one, and it was hard to imagine that there would be all that much to talk about… But what did I have to lose?
It turned out, there was plenty to talk about, and some people out there are really into triathlon. I learned about a thing called an IMOO, which was an unconscionably long event that takes place in Madison, Wisconsin.
Wait… People go to Wisconsin on purpose??
Yes, they do.
And some of them go there weekend after weekend to train for this IMOO.
It didn’t take long for the Kool-Aid to take effect, and soon I too was joining on weekend getaways to the magical land of Madison, where the quiet farm roads and rolling hills are a Chicago cyclist’s dream come true.
In September I joined the tri club’s annual camping trip, centered around volunteering at the IMOO, which was actually the cow-themed nickname for IRONMAN Wisconsin (The distinction was necessary, because it wasn’t the only Ironman. Apparently there was also one in Hawaii).
I volunteered on the bike course, handing off gels to passing cyclists as if their lives depended on it. I was sore for a week after darting and leaping around amongst all those bikes!
But I came back the next year, and the next, and the next. I cheered the final finishers in at 11:58pm. I handed out cups of lukewarm, flat Coke (why on earth?!) to weary competitors at mile 23 of the marathon. I rubbed sunscreen on sweaty muscles (not really as fun as it sounds). I sat at a computer typing in payment after payment from an endless line of jittery athletes who were already so sure they wanted to do this again, that they were each paying $685 a year in advance to ensure a spot in next year’s Ironman (Why would you need to do it twice??)
Naturally, I fielded the same question some dozen hundred times, “What about you? When are you doing Ironman?”
I had a plethora of handy excuses, and assured myself and others it really wasn’t something that interested me. People have a way of convincing themselves that they don’t want the things they can never have, and so I did just that.
In addition to being a little intimidated, I simply didn’t have the time, resources or support for something as massive as Ironman, and I most definitely didn’t have the funds.
No, I was happy just being near the race, and being around the people who did it. I was thrilled to be able to eventually relocate from Chicago to Madison, planting myself right in the center of the triathlon world, home of the famed IMOO.
Over the years, I trained alongside, coached, and volunteered for the Ironman athletes. They regaled me with their stories, and I knew every hill and turn of the bike course. I knew where all the rowdiest aid stations were and the biggest cheering squads. I looked forward to the race every year, and craved the satisfaction and utter exhaustion of spending an entire day spectating. But by the time I left the Midwest, I had still only been on the outside looking in.
Once or twice I had said, “I’d never do a full Ironman…but if I did, it would be Wisconsin.” (I had learned by then that IM is to triathlon what Starbucks is to coffee. It’s everywhere).
Besides Madison being the focal point of nearly a decade of triathloning, Madison is also where Brad and I met. The city is packed with happy memories of our first years together, and for that reason, the city holds a unique place in my heart. Somehow, it will always feel like home.
Photo Credits: Sharon Vanorny
So to return this year, as one of the athletes for the first time, felt a bit like an impossible dream come to life.
And what’s more, my competition included several QT2 teammates and other women I knew from training and racing in Colorado and California. The pro start list was nearly all “friends,” or at least friendly faces. Given my familiarity with the field, I knew who I hoped to swim with, and who I expected to see out on the bike and run courses (and I also knew there was a 99.9% chance Linsey Corbin would take the win).
The pro women’s field started the day off at 6:40am, in Lake Monona. I was flooded with memories of coaching weekly swim practices from a kayak in the summers in this very same spot. Shortly after we set off, the sun burst through the dawn haze on the horizon, throwing a golden light on the Monona Terrace and illuminating thousands of spectators. It was a stunning sight. Was this really my life?!
Even though there was some chop to the water (I heard the swim referred to as “lumpy,” which pretty much sums it up), I swam exactly the time I predicted in a tight pack with exactly the women I expected to swim with.
But the long run to T1 was something no one could’ve prepared me for.
The entire length of the run was packed with spectators, including the inner walls of the helix that wound up 2, 3, 4 floors to the top of the parking garage. The crowds were giddy and had so far only seen three other athletes come around the corner, so as Erin Green and I rounded each turn, the roaring cheers rose with us, deafening and thrilling. It is without a doubt the closest I will ever come to feeling like Beyoncé.
Spectators on the helix of Monona Terrace
Erin and I traded spots on the bike a few times in the early miles, as we sped past Brad’s old apartment, my old apartment, and then out towards Fitchburg where Brad and I shared our first home. We passed all my old running routes, my old commute on the Cap City trail and memories of racing the Berbee Derby, the Milkman, the Triterium.
Erin slipped away as I settled in for the long haul, soaking up all the beauty of Verona and Mount Horeb, the quiet countryside and farms, and corn ready to be harvested. I hit my favorite part of the course, the section I always used to look forward to on my training rides: Witte and Garfoot roads. A series of rollers with a big sweeping descent, it was just as much fun as I remembered.
As I rounded the corner into Cross Plains, Bourbon Road was eerily quiet. Once the destination for 40+ boisterous Chicago Tri Club volunteers, there was no longer an aid station there. When did that change? I wondered. Uphill Grind was gone too. That was once my favorite spot for refueling with a coffee smoothie (that’s code for milkshake) on a long ride.
As I always had on training rides, I mentally prepared myself for the climbs up Old Sauk Pass, Timber Lane, and Midtown Road, but to my delight, I found that a little motivation from a cheering crowd goes a long way! I powered up those climbs with ease, grateful for all the extra enthusiasm.
Eventually teammates Jennie Hansen and Lenny Ramsey passed me (en route to 2nd and 4th place, respectively) but I was riding strong and feeling good, and my goal was just to keep things there as long as possible.
Jennie Hansen and me. Matching bikes!
Laughing at the antics of spectators on Midtown Road.
(photo credits: Jean Marasigan)
All of my training with QT2 has gotten me to the point that 100 miles on the bike feels familiar, so there wasn’t much struggle, even as I approached the six hour mark and fatigue was beginning to creep in. At mile 109, I had the misfortune of getting stuck behind a passing train, a one minute penalty that I hadn’t earned. But the brief recovery break fired me up again, and I flew into T2 feeling fresh and ready for the run.
The marathon course has a reputation for extreme spectator enthusiasm, and it wound through many more memories of my five years living in Madison. There were the Saturday farmers markets and protests and marches on the square. There was the Crazylegs 8k that also ran us through Camp Randall Stadium (Gwen Jorgensen had won that race every year I’d run it, long before she’d ever imagined Olympic Gold was in her future). There was the McClimon track where I used to try to keep up with Madison’s fastest in the early morning darkness before work.
This is so fun!
Just out for a jog and a smoke.
Leaning like Linsey.
(photo credits: Brad Goodell)
I ran down State Street, buoyed by the crowds and people calling out my name as I passed. There seemed to be familiar faces everywhere. I ran by the Memorial Union Terrace, where Brad and I went after our first date at the Edgewater. And along the banks of Lake Mendota, where we’d had a chilly autumn picnic with hot cider many dates later. Before I knew it, the first 13 miles had passed. I was rounding the turn by the finish line and heading out for one more lap. I was on target for a marathon PR, but a bit apprehensive about what the final 13 miles might hold, after 127 miles that were almost too good to be true. There was some chop to the water, some wind on the bike, but overall the day had been remarkably smooth so far.
But as all marathons are, this one ended up being about 8 miles too long. I wouldn’t say I hit The Wall, but I definitely started to crumble as I made my way one more time around this course I loved so much. The genuine joy on my face faded to more of a grimace. My early thoughts of “this is fun!” began to sound more forced, like a harsh and unconvincing command, “you are having FUN damn it.”
What can I say? My legs just got tired.
Even when I got passed at Mile 21, there was no convincing my legs to give any more than they were already offering, so I shuffled forward, doggedly pursuing the moment I was once afraid to dream of: rounding the capitol building for that final stretch down the red carpet.
It is the end of a road that has taken me twelve years to travel down. I finally made it to Madison!
photo credit: Brad Goodell
At the finish line I was greeted by Brad, friends, family, and my coach. And my 3:34 marathon was the fastest I’ve ever run. It was everything I hoped it would be, this town, this race, this satisfying feeling of completion. Because deep down, this is the one race I always wished I could have.
photo credit: Brad Goodell
photo credit: Kathleen Marty
