Ironman Louisville has always had a special place in my heart. The last two years I’ve watched it, and will finally be racing this course in 2014. I shot this video and finally got around to cutting it to Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” It’s focused on my friends Robbie, Wasky, and Corey. Hope you enjoy.
Here are a few screen grabs of the stars of this video. Wasky above, Robbie and Wasky below. Corey in the third frame.
I’ve had a difficult time pulling myself together to write a Goosepond Race Report. Frankly, I wasn’t ready for this race, and it showed. It was a painful day and I’d rather forget most of it, but I’ve learned that these are exactly the kind of races you need to remember.
Goosepond was my first race after Ironman Wisconsin and I have concluded it’s similar to a band playing Red Rocks, then sitting down for an open mic the next night. It can be fun, but it’s a completely different motivational challenge. That said, the best bands (and athletes) put out the same energy whether they’re playing in front of one person or a packed house.
Wasky, Corey, and me looking marginally hungover before Goosepond. 
My only other 1/2 was Muncie and the night before, I could barely sleep. Before Goosepond, I was out like a light. I just did a damn Ironman, 70.3 would be a breeze!
As we checked into transition it really made me think about how much goes into putting on a triathlon. The logistics of an Ironman are staggering and here were a bunch of people who likely didn’t know much about triathlon doing their best to make Goosepond work. It was more of a small town feel, while Ironman was New York City.
I was in auto pilot and kept forgetting stuff back at the truck. My socks, my timing chip, my helmet. It was a weird, zombie-like feeling and eventually, coach Robbie jumped my ass about getting my shit together. It was 10 minutes before the race and I wasn’t in my wetsuit.
The Goosepond swim is actually in Lake Guntersville, which is gorgeous and full of seaweed. My swim wave was old men and young women (which could have had something to do with my elevated heart rate) and I flopped around the water for a few minutes before they shot the gun (or quite possibly just said, “go”). The first 15 or so meters were great, but I was quickly transported back to my bygone panic-mode-days. It really wasn’t as much panic as I couldn’t find my breath and literally thought I had forgot how to swim a mere six weeks after swimming 2.4 miles. What the f8ck was going on?
As I rounded the first buoy (maybe 500 meters in) I slowed to a stop and tried to catch my breath. Why didn’t I warm up? I will never learn.
I watched as the rest of my wave slowly pulled away and there was nothing I could do. It was a jail break and I was the lone prisoner wedged in the escape tunnel. Stay calm, you’ll catch them.
Wasky coming out of the water top 20 and oblivious to the trouble ahead. 
* All good photos courtesy of We Run Huntsville
A couple minutes later, I eased back into my stroke but I was someone else. The wetsuit felt tight, my sighting was blurred, and my energy low. I took at least three breaks on that first loop and was a little stunned by the fatigue in my arms.
Corey, daydreaming about Tahoe in the morning glow of Lake Guntersville
By the time I got to the end of my first loop I officially hated two loop courses. Even though it was just water, and all looked the same, I didn’t want to see lap two. Later, Robbie would tell me I took a really wide turn around that buoy and I’m pretty sure it’s because I was thinking about swimming to that pier, getting out of the water, and cheering for Wasky and Corey from the comfort of a portable hammock.
But I put my head down and cranked out lap two, which turned out to be much easier once I loosened up. I really need to get serious about my pre-race regiment.
Swim Time: 42 Minutes (Muncie was 37, Wisconsin was 1:20).
T1 – I was actually a little disoriented going into transition, but pulled it together, grabbed my bike and ran across the mount line. That’s when I noticed I was still holding onto my gloves. I stopped and patiently put them on while Robbie watched shaking his head. “Good thing you got those gloves on,” he said as I wheeled past him with a smile.
Redemption on the Bicycle
I didn’t know my time, but when there’s a group of you racing and all your spectator friends are waiting for you at the Bike Exit , it’s a pretty good indication your swim sucked. But, as soon as I clipped in, my remorse was gone and I had one focus . . . crushing the bike.
The initial plan for Goosepond was a relay. Robbie would swim, I would bike, and Season would run. But, a twist of fate landed Robbie in a swim race that would change his life and I told him I might as well do the whole damn Goosepond by myself. So, bad swim aside, one of my sub-plots was to ride like I would have ridden in a relay. I was also curious to see just how hard I could push the bike. It was on.
Here’s me drafting and looking like a jack-ass with my chrono watch
I had logged a mere four hours on the bike since I raced IMWI and had no idea how riding a hard 56 miles would feel. I came out and tried to stay around 19 mph for the first 5 miles and it was pretty easy. I tried to lose myself in the scenery, but kept taking peeks at my bike computer, where the miles seemed to be turning over more like a calendar. Seven miles, eight, nine . . . ugh. This was going to be hard.
Since I was so late out of the swim I was picking off people like flies. About 20 miles in I had yet to be passed and that became my new goal. Don’t get passed on this bike.
I was busting down a country road and noticed a guy on the side changing his tire. “Shit, that’s Wasky!” I slowed a bit and asked if he was okay, but immediately wished I would have slowed more. I “thought” I heard him say, “Yes,” but I wasn’t positive. I hoped he didn’t need a tool or a tube. I briefly entertained turning around, but eased my fears by reminding myself that Wasky is the most prepared man I know.
I settled into aero and dreamed about the finish. I felt bad for Wasky because I was pretty sure he had a good swim and now I was going to beat him off the bike. It had been five minutes since I’d flown past him at 21 mph; I figured I was at least two miles in front of him now. My thoughts drifted back to not getting passed on the bike and I thought that was a real possibility. Not more than 30 seconds later, I heard someone breathing hard to my left. Damn! I was getting passed!
Who did this person think they were passing me?!? I was NOT getting passed on this ride. But, his tire broke the line and I started falling back out of the draft zone. I wasn’t even going to look up, but they said something like, “Keep pushing.” I glanced over to say thanks, and it was Wasky! Before I could even ask how the fuck he caught me, he said, “Two flats, brotha.”
Damn, that was his second flat and somehow he got from corpse position to downward dog in a mili-second. He shouted, “Stick with me and we can pace each other on the run.”
“Stick with me???” What the hell was going on? I was crushing this bike and Wasky is telling me to stick with HIM! He was in beast-mode-squared and all I could do was shake my head.
It took about 2 minutes for him to lose me, then around mile 30 (which also doubled as the ONLY bike aid station) I caught him. His mood was a combination calmly livid, mixed with a case of the beat downs, and topped with a dose of, “I’m gonna kill this course.”
I passed him about a mile later and he slowly fell into the distance. I honestly thought he might be toast. Then at mile 45 or so, he flew by me again. “Come on man, let’s bring it in. Ten more.” I just shook my head.
He rode a good hundred yards ahead of me for a while, then I passed him, which he immediately countered with pass of his own before pulling away for good at mile 54. Two miles to go and I was feeling my legs. It was a flat course, but I didn’t stop peddling for more than 10 seconds the whole ride.
I cruised into transition and Robbie kinda gave me one of those, “Damn, dude, you crushed that bike looks,” before actually saying, “Nice bike.” All I had to do now was run a solid half marathon and I would surely be on the age-group podium. Easier said than done.
Bike Split: 2:40:26 (and tack on a very questionable 4:00 drafting penalty). One of two penalties handed out to my training club. I have decided not to go into it, but let’s just say this is a very suspicious chain of events.
T2 – Yep . . . it happened.
“Trust Me, This Run is Pancake Flat”
I’m not a great runner, but thought I could easily put down a 1:50. I felt surprisingly good as I left transition and patiently waited for my running legs to show up. Spectator support was a non-issue, so I picked out a woman with good pace and ran behind her for the first 1/2 mile. Then, I made a very unusual decision for me, I ran up next to her with the intention to actually talk for a few minutes. Talking on a jog is one thing, but I am just not a fan of it in a race. I kinda like to focus on pain.
I was just about to say something when she says, “Hi Mike.” I was like, huh? It was Ann, who also races for RxE, the Knoxville crew. And that’s when they snapped this picture of me about to blow out my ankle. 
I have to admit, I was a little stunned. We actually started in the same swim wave and she was saying how slow of a swimmer she is, etc. Clearly she’s not that bad of a swimmer because I knew I hammered the bike and here she was still in front of me. Ann is a really strong cyclist.
Then there was this guy rubbing it in my face 
As engaging as Ann can be, I had a race to win, so I plowed off into the rolling hills, followed by a charming campground, and then a tricky little cut-thru trail onto the first of many roads that would break my heart.
That’s when I started hearing Wasky’s voice again, but this time it was in my head.
“Trust me, this course is pancake flat. You will crush it.” And I really did trust him, but for some reason I was standing at the bottom of a 1/2 mile climb.
I told myself this must be “the hill.” Every course has “its hill,” and this was Goosepond’s. Ah, no problem, I love hills and this isn’t really that steep, but it was kinda long.
It was getting hot and I was dying for water. I didn’t hydrate well the week before and my mouth was burning for liquids. As I crested “the hill” I saw a right turn ahead that dropped me on the road to nowhere.
Another slight climb to an aid station before a very long descent that nearly made me cry when I saw people running back at me. I made a mental note of the climb-to-come and then, for the second time in one race, broke my no-talking rule with a woman who looked like she knew the course.
“I thought this was supposed to be a flat run,” I said with that awkward, yet undeniable bond runners have as they waltz through hell and think they own the place.
“Oh, you must not know the Race Director,” she replied with that “I’m an insider” attitude that outsiders like me, Wasky, Corey, and Robbie detest.
“Ummm… well… I… uhh…. sorta…. No, I don’t,” I said knowing full well that I had exchanged dicey emails with him earlier that week.
“Yeah, he’s notorious for putting together tough run courses,” she roared with a half-out-of-breath masochism.
“Awesome! Can’t wait to see what’s ahead,” said no one ever.
We hung together until the start of a sub-division, which also meant the beginning of another hill. Now, mind you, none of these hills were “tough” but when you think a course is going to be flat, it’s sort of like facing a pitcher who doesn’t throw that hard, but has a great change-up. His fastball always seems like it’s harder than it really is.
Adding to my unruly disdain was the fact that they had zero mile markers on the course. And yes, it’s my fault for not going to the athlete’s meeting, I suppose, but give me a bone. Even the aid station volunteers seemed unsure about their location, and since I wasn’t wearing a Garmin, I literally had no clue where I was on the course. At one point, I thought it was mile 9 and it turned out to be mile 7. When I hit the “real mile 9” I was toast. That’s when my running became simply something that would get me off that god-forsaken course sooner.
This was also about the only time I saw Corey during the race and neither of us seemed particularly talkative.
Soon thereafter, I re-engaged with the treacherous cut-thru and headed for home. Just as I cleared the scattered brush, I met with aid station volunteers who excitedly exclaimed, “Only one more mile!!!” I looked at my chrono watch and realized I had 10 minutes to run that mile and finish under 2 hours. Sweet!
So I pranced off at a decent clip knowing, if nothing else, I would secure a sub-2-hour half marathon after all that other crap we do in triathlons. And I ran . . . and ran . . . and ran . . . and watched the clock tick past 2 hours . . . then 2:02, 2:03, and finally end up on 2:05. I just ran a 15 minute mile? Awesome.
Turns out it was about 1.5 miles, but who’s counting?
——————
Epilogue: The setting for Goosepond was beautiful, but I haven’t perfected checking out scenery during a race. I much prefer people yelling and challenging me to keep pushing on. I forgot to mention the gut cramp that seized me for most of the run and the sharp knee pain I felt around mile 10, but if I hadn’t been so un-prepared I would have totally enjoyed the swim. The bike was pretty sweet and most of the roads were nice, though I wish they would have had another aid station. The run was tough at the back half of a triathlon, but I think it was fair. My mind and body weren’t ready for the challenge but we all had a good time . . . I just wish we would have brought our tents and camped out for a while doing Twitter.
—————–
This is me, Wasky, and Corey celebrating after Goosepond. 
It’s funny how a race that takes most athletes 12 or more hours can have so many urgent moments. Watching Ironman is the ultimate hurry up and wait scenario. It rattles your nerves, and even seasoned spectators flirt with exhaustion.
The entire day is like looking at a field of peacocks. A flow of visual distractions inject your mind like a with one powerful drug after another. The potential for obsession is endless, and after spending an entire Sunday in the throws of passion, I feel obligated to make a major confession: My name is Mike, and I’m an IronTrac-aholic.
Ironman has officially morphed into hand-held-crack. Hundreds of athletes, who have worked tirelessly to prepare for the race of a lifetime fly by on bikes while entire groups of spectators, young and old, are watching swim, bike, run progress on phones. One guy I talked to said he spent a good chunk of his day “watching” from inside a coffee shop.
But, Irontrac nearly flushed our drug down the toilet.
The night before the race we were trying to set up our IronTrac “watch list” and none of the competitors were showing up. We were freaking out. In a panic. Would we really just have to watch the race?? It appeared certain when IronTrac sent out this message on Facebook:
I have Good News and I have Bad News. Good News – the Athlete List is up and ready to go for Ironman Canada!! The Bad News – Ironman is testing out a COMPLETELY changed version of the Athlete Tracker for Ironman Louisville and unfortunately IronTrac will not work to track athletes racing tomorrow. This is what happens when you pull info from a ‘Giant’ and the ‘Giant’ doesn’t communicate with us. Thank you for your understanding and support. I will update you as we figure out things next week.
We stared at our phones in disbelief and passed consoling hugs around the room. Everything would be okay, we reassured ourselves, but the night before the race would be also be restless for spectators.
I was sharing a room with Robbie, who was racing, which added another level of anxiety to my night. I was quiet and trying to be respectful as possible, but the whole IronTrac thing had me on edge. Well, that, and the fact that I had some good friends racing in the morning.
I heard Robbie moving around at about 4 in the morning and could already feel the energy. The last two days he had a very calm focus on this this race. He coached us hard, but worked even harder. I knew he was ready to get last year out of his mind. As we walked to transition for a final check of the bike, he was as loose as I’d seen him and posed for an early morning picture in front of this . . . uh . . . novelty shop.
I watched Louisville last year and can’t tell you how much I love the swim start. The long winding trail of athletes filing down to the water is an electric sequence. I parked myself in the front row and texted back and forth to people who were with Robbie, Wasky, and Corey to find out when they crossed under the arch so I could get video of their plunge. It worked out perfectly and I caught each of them jumping in and swimming up the channel. (Though this is not a picture of that).
I watched for a little while longer, then we moved toward the Swim Exit about two miles down the river. I got a little sidetracked shooting video of the awesome scene unfolding in the Ohio River. The bridge backdrops were just spectacular and I lost track of time.
When I finally got to the Swim Exit, I realized I was trapped on the wrong side and didn’t have time to get around. I panicked and grabbed a perch about 100 yards away and thought I could catch them with my zoom lens, but it was a madhouse.
Robbie and Wasky started in the back of the line, but they are pretty fast swimmers so by the time they got to the exit, there were tons of people coming out at once. They were shouting names like rapid fire and I knew I was sunk.
Allison sent me a text message and said Robbie was out of the water in a blistering 55 minutes. I didn’t see him come up the ramp, so I ran to the other side of the changing tent, but his transition was less than four minutes and I missed the whole scene.
Then I ran back to catch Wasky and missed him, too. He was out of the water in 1:04 and I was running around like a wild chicken. I put my head down and ran to the street so see if I could catch his bike departure, and caught him as he blew out of town.
Corey was right behind them and I honestly can’t remember if I saw him at that point or not. The fast pace of an Ironman had my heart racing on the sidelines.
I walked back to my car and that’s when I realized IronTrac had fixed the problem. I was now a junkie on an all-day-tracking-bender that would start in LaGrange, KY.
I had genuine intentions of getting a bunch of good video and did manage to catch Robbie and Wasky go by on the bike the first time, but shortly after that I was ready to throw my camera in LaGrange’s community dumpster. It’s so hard to recognize anyone on a bike, and when you do, they are gone in three seconds. It’s fruitless. I put the camera away for the rest of the bike and simply enjoyed the festive atmosphere and cold $6 cheeseburgers.
After the guys came through the second time, it was back to Louisville for a nap. I figured I had around 2 hours to drive and rest for a few, but I may have slept 5 minutes before waking up in freak out because Robbie was rockin’ the bike and I suddenly had the feeling I may be underestimating his arrival time. I still thought I was cool, but two blocks from the Run Out, I got a text telling me Robbie was off the bike. Damn! I missed him again. Just then, I caught him for 5 seconds as he ran by me looking like a boxer headed to the ring. He was fired up, focused, and off the bike in 5:42.
I let Robbie go and stood at the Bike In and waited for Wasky, who was holding his 9 minute swim deficit to Robbie for most of the bike. He came in at 5:49 and gave me a thumbs up as he coasted into transition, which he cleared in just over 4 minutes. Here he is checking his watch before serving himself to the downtown furnace.
Now, it was time for Corey.
Corey and I met at the Rev 3 Knoxville in May. It was a brutal day in the opposite direction. Temperatures were in the upper 50’s and it was raining the whole race. The water temperature was 54 degrees and it was Corey’s first half. I felt bad that such a nice guy had to deal with those conditions as I slinked off after my Olympic.
Corey did a 6:30 that day, and logic would say you should at least double that time for a full Ironman, but Corey had other ideas.
He came off the bike with a huge smile in 6:06. You always want to say your friends looked great during a race, but he really did. I stood with his wife, Donna, waiting for him to come out of transition. Five minutes, six, seven . . . it was taking a while. His wife was getting anxious. “What’s he doing in there?” Eight minutes . . . then, just after 9 minutes, he came running out in his red and black top with the same grin. He was ready for his marathon.
This is where it gets dicey.
I walked with Corey’s wife to the halfway point of the marathon, which is also mile 1, 14, and 26. It’s a good spot to catch runners twice in about 10 minutes.
Robbie’s first run split was 7:24/mile at the 2.5 mile mark. He followed with a 7:38 over the next 3. He showed me his plan for the race and till this point he was dead on, all the way down to projected transition times.
Wasky started a little slower with an 8:45 first split, then came in at 10:16 for the next 3 miles.
Corey’s first 2.5 were at a 8:37 pace and he followed at 9:03 for the next 3 miles.
For an IronTrac junkie, this is heaven and hell. Refresh, refresh, refresh. It’s the perfect drug because it is often an illusion. You think you’re looking at pure information, but sometimes it’s cut with bad facts. You start doing math in your head and trying to rationalize what’s going on when you really don’t have a clue. They also give you weird split distances like 1.6 miles and 2.3 miles that are simply a pain in the ass to calculate. Then out of nowhere, you get another update.
Robbie’s next split average was 8:52 for 1.6 miles and while it seemed like a bad sign, you just never know if there was a hill or he was just backing off for a bit. But when the next one came in at 11:05, I knew something was up. All we could do was wait.
Wasky’s third split was a 12:41 pace and he followed it with a 12:51. I was with his parents and you could sense real concern in their body language. Mom and dad, standing helpless as their son is battling a war. It’s hard for anyone who hasn’t trained to this level to understand that it’s okay, even when it seems like it isn’t. Wasky was obviously in pain and he knew it was coming, just not so fast.
Corey also came in noticeably higher on his third split, 10:48, but followed it with a 9:45. It appeared Corey was settling in his groove, but Robbie and Wasky were waging war.
It took forever, but Robbie’s next split was 18:25 for 1.2 miles and, if IronTrac was right, I had a pretty good feeling his Achilles nightmare had returned. I know from experience your Achilles is not something to mess with and I pretty much figured he’d reached the end.
I’m still relatively new to Ironman and have always wondered why people wouldn’t just walk it in to get their medal. But, the more I learn, the more I realize it’s not about the medal. It’s about where this process of training takes you. And, especially if you’ve done multiple Ironmans, risky long term injury is a dumb idea, especially when you love to train and race like Robbie does.
By now, Corey had overtaken them both and came rolling through mile 13 like he was on a Sunday jog. You could just see it in his eyes, he had this thing. He swept around the block and came back through and nearly knocked me over with a high-five. He was strong.
Wasky was next, and he had that determined look I’ve come to know so well, but his legs were harboring a cramp fest. Every step was painful, but he kept moving. He came around the block and gave me a vicious high-five as well, then swaddled into the distance thinking about ways he could beat his legs.
I didn’t see Robbie until later, but I knew he had to be disappointed. So many hours. So much focus, ripped away by an injury. It can be a cruel day.
Now, Corey and Wasky were out on the second loop and all we spectators needed was patience. We charged our phones and refreshed IronTrac at ridiculous speeds. Corey’s splits stayed solid and we knew he was coming in soon. I took my place on top of the walkway and pointed my lens and waited.
Around 11:55 minutes after I shot him jumping in the river, I saw Corey’s red and black jersey in the distance. He had the same bounce in his step and was moving at at sub 9 clip. Not only would he finish his first Ironman, he would do it under 12 hours with an 11:57. A remarkable performance on a brutally hot day. Corey Coggins, You are an Ironman.
By looking at his pace, it was obvious Wasky was fighting cramps the entire second loop. I can’t imagine what he went through, but he was hovering around a 12 minute pace, so I knew that, regardless of the pain, he was still running. And even with an agonizing run that was surely below his goal, Wasky crossed his first Ironman finish line in 12:28. John Wasky, You are an Ironman.
I was super proud of all three of these guys. An amazing day on so many levels. I wish things could have turned out better for Robbie, but he’ll be back.
There were other great performances from people I know and/or train with:
Melissa Gomez 13:42
Lisa Kelley: 13:24
Ann Mallin: 13:14
Emily Ryan: 11:06 (5th in age group)
Daveed Jaime: 15:20 (Couch to Ironman in 3 months)
Rodney Bice: 13:30
Carrie Haapala: 13:58
Annapurna Slayman: 13:22
Paul Putnam: 15:27
And of course, Wil Emery, who I just met and realized is my neighbor: 9:26 (10th overall, 1st in age group, and Kona bound).
I have to admit, it was an incredible high, followed by a low the next morning. I’m past the point of being anxious for IMWI, now it’s just flat out impatience. I know the hardest part of these next 10 days will be calming my mind and beating off negative thoughts as I train less and sit around more. Clearly I am going to have to spend more time with IronTrac.
As much as possible, I am trying to “let go” of Wisconsin for a few days. The Southeast is heating up again and it’s time to reflect on a major reason I am in these shoes: Ironman Louisville.
Last year at this time I agreed to drive up to Louisville with Jim to watch Racer K tackle his first Ironman. Jim and I settled into Skyline Chili along the way, then went to the Galt House to find Kevin before regretting that I overloaded at Skyline Chili.
It was all so foreign to me at the time and I couldn’t believe how many people were milling around the host hotel talking about swim, bike, and run. I knew something big was about to happen, but didn’t quite understand the magnitude.
This year I will be going up to support coach Robbie, Corey and Wasky (pictured in that order below). Three guys that I’ve spent a ton of time with this summer and must be literally sitting on the edge of their seats as the clock counts down to cannon.
I haven’t quite “been there” yet, but I’m guessing there’s not much you can do those last few days other than pack up your shit and battle anxiety. There’s nothing left other than not losing your mind and finding a zone. It’s one of those weird places where you don’t want to be distracted, but really need a distraction.
I’ll be in Louisville tomorrow night, then getting up early to ride the bike course in case I choose to put myself through the fires of hell in August one day in the future. I may even run around the town a bit and down 4th Street to see if I can imagine the electricity that will be filling that finish line on Sunday night. I’ve seen it and it is definitely something to write home about.
Then Sunday morning, I will tread lightly as three close friends stand in the swim line ready to culminate months of hard work. And this is what I imagined when I created Crushing Iron. Being around people who push themselves to the limits to see how far that will take them. And while I’m not racing, this morning will be about the incredible journey we’ve taken together.
It will be about all those little things that help keep everyone on track. About the selflessness we all shared in order to bring out the best in each other. Hundreds of days and thousands of little inspirations that have all come down to this day. Now, it’s time for them to show everyone else why we have so much faith in what they’re about to do.
This is it boys, make no mistake where you are.
17 Days Out Lesson – from my Neighbor James – My lil James Jr. gonna come out that door right there and start yellin, “Mr. Mike, Mr. Mike,” and you gonna be like, “Damn, James Jr. out here screamin ‘Mr. Mike’ again.” And you gonna be right, but he just wanna say what up. Take a minute to say he a good kid.