This is the first of a three or four or five part series on my first trip to watch an Ironman. It was August 2012 and Jim and I went to follow our friend Kevin as he attempted his first quest of 140.6.
I had doubts about driving to Louisville to watch Kevin compete in the Ironman. It’s sort of my nature to protect weekends and I knew a “yes” would deplete my body for the next week. The year before I promised Jim I’d come watch him, but reneged on my word. That guilt, along with my genuine interest in triathlons pushed me to make the journey up I-65. It was a great decision, but I should have taken Monday off.
We got to Louisville Saturday night and met Kevin in the race hotel lobby. It was nearly 12 hours before the race and he already looked humble. He was standing in a storm at the base of a mountain, staring at the peak, with no choice but to climb. Calm, confident, yet in touch with his mortality.
The three of us walked through downtown and stopped to stare at the finish line, which was plopped in the center of Louisville’s most bustling district. That was Kevin’s goal and he’d have 17 hours to cross it. The line that would finalize a dream. It would signify that he was an Ironman Finisher.
The bartender talked too much, but it was probably a good thing. Kevin, Jim, and I sat on stools at the Irish Pub sharing a ceremonial PBR to consumate Kevin’s pre-race ritual. We laughed a bit and joked about how horrible it would feel to finish the race, but not within the time limit. You wouldn’t hear, “Mike Tarrolly, You’re an Iron Man!” It would likely be something like, “He dude, nice 140.6 workout, come back and try again sometime!”
No medal, no acclaim, no love, no pride. Well, some pride. But that 17 hour time limit would play a major part for all three of us.
Kevin went back to his room, while Jim and I surveyed the swim exit. I stood by the water and looked up stream while Jim pointed at the starting line. I almost couldn’t compute what Kevin and the nearly 3,000 other athletes were up against. Jim’s finger landed on a spot nearly two miles up the imposing Ohio River. It was difficult to see let alone think about swimming. The 2.4 mile swim would be a major accomplishment for 99% of America, but to think about leaving the water, climbing on for a 112 mile bike ride, then running a marathon sounds like an 80 hour work week followed by a Saturday filled with Catholic weddings.
Jim and I hopped in the car and headed to his God-daughter’s place to hang before deciding what we were going to do that night. We didn’t feel like drinking so we went and bought a 12 pack of light beer.
Her house was tiny and felt perfect for a law student. There were lots of things on the walls, but the only think I really looked at was the couch. I knew Sunday would be a long day.
I had one beer while Jim fell asleep in the chair. His God-daughter texted and said the place was all ours to which Jim asked if I wanted the bed. I REALLY wanted the bed, but the thought of sleeping in a strange woman’s bed seemed odd to me, which in itself is odd because I have done it dozens of times. Maybe it’s because the strange woman wasn’t there. I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t necessarily know who the others were either and that never stopped me. It was probably because it was Jim’s God-daughter. That felt a little strange, but not to him. He was between the sheets and out like a light in minutes.
The other thought that kept crossing my mind was . . . we’re in a new town, have this place to ourselves and we’re not drinking or throwing a party? Then I was thinking, why does that thought cross my mind? Does everything have to be a party? I felt like a little kid in a grown man’s body. Crashing on a couch with a frilly blanket, both too short for my body. I didn’t sleep that well.
Jim was bouncing around the ginger bread house at 5:30 am. He’s used to that hour, I am not and didn’t fall asleep until 2 o’clock. I would be watching the Ironman on 3 1/2 hours sleep!
I slid into my East Nasty shirt and stayed in the shorts from my slumber and we were off to the race(s).
Even though it was early-morning-dark, downtown Louisville was bustling. Hundreds of people charged up a single sidewalk toward the Swim Entrance. Many carried posters of encouragement, others jingled cowbells, and Jim and I jogged along side of them until my left nut started pinging. After about a quarter mile I had to stop and hid a limp for the next four hours. I knew I should have worn underwear.
It wasn’t hard to find Kevin. He was near the front of the thousands forming a line deep into the darkness of the morning. It was an unbelievable spectacle. Men and women of all ages standing in their bare feet, many in swim caps and shirtless at 6 am.
Kevin swayed back and forth every so slightly as he walked with the moving line and I asked him questions straight out of the “canned questions guide” from behind my video phone.
“How do you feel?”
“What’s going through your mind?”
“You ready?”
“Good.”
“Not much.”
“Hope so.”
Equally canned responses and I suddenly felt like a jack ass filming the moment for his grand children. It was a fine line. I was NOT an Ironman and was walking on egg shells because the last thing I wanted to do was put doubt in his mind about the enormous task staring down his swim cap. So, the next several moments were filled with stuff like, “We’re here for you buddy, let us know if you need anything on the course.” To which I’d get a quick response of, “That would be illegal and cause for disqualification.” Okay, shut up, Mike. Just stand here and look like your calm. Maybe that will somehow enter Kevin’s psych. All of these things and I’m not even racing.
Kevin was really close to the front, but there were still hundreds of racers ahead of him. At 6:50 the gun went off for the professionals start. In ten more minutes Kevin would be in an urgent walk down the ramp and on his way to the water. His two biggest fans squeezed their way through the crowd to find a vantage point near the pier. It may have taken 15 minutes, but we were in row two watching one after another plunge their way into the murky silt of the Ohio.
Jim and I traded high fives with a, “here we go” and turned our eyes to the string of athletes now spaced out so far they were running down the dock to begin their journey. AC/DC filled the air along with the voice of the Ironman shouting encouragement and direction to the swimmers which came in different shapes and sizes yet looked remarkably similar. We watched for 5 more minutes, cameras high to get the money shot of Kevin, but neither of us saw him. It was only 7:10 when it sunk in. We had driven nearly three hours, gotten up at 5:30 am and missed Kevin’s Ironman plunge.
We did our best to shake it off and enjoy the moment. It wasn’t hard. People yelled and cheered for their friends, family, mom and dad as they took the leap of faith from the dock. The sun was up on a glorious morning and we stayed and watched in awe. I knew Jim was thinking it, but had to ask. “You wish you were down there, don’t you?” Without hesitation, he said “Yes.”
