A recap of WTC member Jeff Kelloggs long journey to Kona: Kona Ironman World Championships 2013 Thanks for your support! As many of you know, I’m a bit behind the curve when it comes to social media, and do not follow Facebook. Fortunately, Lynn has kept me informed of all of the positive comments leading up to and following the Ironman event in Kona Hawaii. I’ve also run into a surprising number of people since we got back who followed the event with interest. I just wanted to reach out personally to thank all of you for your support and words of encouragement along the way. Believe me, it meant a lot. Here’s the short version: In 2006, I dreamed a very crazy dream, made a commitment without truly understanding what had been committed to, and then embarked on what would turn out to be an even crazier seven year journey (involving and affecting a lot of people in ways that nobody could have predicted) to see it all come to fruition. Last month in Hawaii I was fortunate enough to watch it come to life right before my eyes, and was able to share the experience with a bunch of people who mean the world to me. Thankfully it turned out to be everything I had ever hoped for and much more, and the entire experience simply could not have been more satisfying. That’s the overview. If you’re a bottom line person like I am, you just read it in the paragraph above, and you should get on with your day, but not without first understanding that I am extremely grateful to all of you who have supported me along the way or just offered a quick and sincere shout-out for good luck. This thing took on a life of its own and evolved into something much more than one person’s crazy dream, and your support helped pull me through some periods when the voices telling me to stop were becoming almost as loud as the voices telling me to lean into it and throttle up. Thank you! If you have the time and the interest, read on. I have attempted below to capture a few of the highlights of the journey as well as the experience in Kona. I wrote it up partially for the benefit of the members of our local triathlon club (as promised to K.I., my Iron-person soul mate) some of whom I sincerely hope will be writing a similar synopsis sometime in the future based on their own experiences. This whole thing started in 2006 in a fairly typical manner. I had pretty much gone to seed, and knew I had to rein it in. By a total fluke, I happened to be passing through our kitchen one morning while the NBC coverage of the Hawaii Ironman was on TV, and it caught my eye. At that moment in the broadcast, they were profiling Sara Reinersten, the first woman to ever attempt the Hawaii race on a prosthetic leg. She gave it all she had, but fell just shy of meeting the required finishing time. Her race didn’t count. She was devastated, but vowed to return the next year, which she did, successfully completing the race. My response to seeing that was that if she could do what I just watched her do with one leg, the least I could do was to find a local triathlon and enter it. I immediately Googled triathlon and New York State, and came up with the Lake Placid Ironman site. I scrolled through it until I found the distances involved, and was flabbergasted. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could possibly even complete it, much less race it. Fortunately I then discovered the Tupper Lake half distance race, signed up, started training, and four months and 40 pounds later, finished it in the middle of the pack, after having more fun than I thought possible. Now I had gained some perspective, or so I thought, and suddenly the distances at Lake Placid no longer seem quite so daunting. It started to seem conceivable at least that if you were willing to train hard enough, find the right help and acquire the required knowledge, you might just be able to actually race it. I probably should have paused the thought process right there, but then it occurred to me that if in fact you could actually race it, and you were really committed, there was no reason I could think of why you couldn’t race it well enough to qualify for Hawaii. The dream was born. I knew that I would need some strong guidance, so I set out in search of the most compatible and effective coach I could find. Once I had identified him, I sent him an email introducing myself, and told him I felt strongly that between his coaching knowledge and approach, and my determination, we could get to Kona someday. His name is Don Fink. He agreed to take me on, and we’ve ridden this roller-coaster together for seven years. He’s been a godsend. In the early stages, I had no idea what it would take to see this thing through. I actually had hoped to shortcut it, cram for the test, and then move on with life with little time expended and minimal disturbance to others. As I would soon find out, it just doesn’t work that way. Looking back on it now, I know that I wouldn’t have appreciated it nearly as much if it did. What played out instead was a continual series of major efforts and significant setbacks, a tremendous amount of time, dedication, support, patience and sacrifice on the part of many, and a significant number of life-long relationships spawned. It also involved a lot a laughing, a lot of crying, and at times some serious soul searching. On one particularly dour Saturday in April of 2011, I finally discovered my breaking point and was ready to walk away. Thankfully Lynn talked me back from the ledge, never to return to it again. I had a lot of help along the way, and I needed it. Unless you are genetically gifted (which I am not) you can’t leave a single thing to chance if you’re serious about reaching this goal. From day one, I surrounded myself with people who would challenge me, and sought out and attached myself to anyone who was willing to teach me anything that would help me along the way. I soon came to learn that I needed a team to see this through, and mine was terrific. I had extremely supportive family members and friends. I had a training partner who would (and did on many occasions) do my long Sunday runs with me in weather conditions that you would only endure if somebody else was foolish enough to. I had a handful of extremely supportive, interested and talented medical professionals, a soft tissue specialist, a massage therapist and even an acupuncturist who repeatedly did everything in their power to get me to the start line in one piece. I had a yellow lab that flat out refused to let me swim alone in the pond, and would patiently sit through 6 hour sessions on the bike trainer provided she got a treat every couple of hours. I also had a bunch of veteran tri-athletes who were very willing to share with me what they had learned. When I was racing in far flung places in an effort to qualify, with only Lynn in attendance, my brother-in-law and my training partner had their kitchens set up like command central for the space program. They are both math wizards, and would track the progress of all of the contenders in my age group via multiple computers, condense the critical real time information into a 3-4 second sound bites for Lynn, which she would then shout out as I passed by her on the course. You wouldn’t believe what went into that, what came out of it, and how important it was - more on that later. The first several years were a real physical and emotional roller-coaster. The early chronology went like this: • In the fall of 2006, I started training for the 2007 Lake Placid Ironman, under the guidance of Don Fink. I had never run a marathon before, so he suggested that I train for one and complete it as a confidence builder. • I ran the marathon in December and enjoyed it immensely, but had some nagging residual hip pain afterward. I made an appointment with the first Ortho I could see, and he ran X-rays as a precaution. I learned that I had significant arthritis in my hip. The Ortho peered over his glasses with the X-ray in hand, and asked me how long I planned to participate in the sport. After staring a hole through him with my eyes for a minute (and offering no response) he threw out a great analogy. He said that if you own a car with broken shocks, struts and loose tie-rods, you can get away with driving it to the corner store for milk occasionally. You would not however, want to put your whole family in it and drive it across the country. It was sound advice. • I made a follow-up appointment with my original Ortho. He too made a great point, which was that the arthritis might progress just as fast if I chose to sit on the couch as it would if I was training. He happens to be an avid biker, so I asked him what he would do if the roles were reversed. He said he’d go for it. Enough said. • In the mean time, Tyler had signed up for the Lake Placid Ironman as well, and in January 2007 we both started the 30 week block of formal training to prepare it. Eight months (and countless hilarious experiences later) on a picture perfect July day, we completed it. It was a life-changing experience for both of us, in part because the experience itself is so incredible, but also because we were able to share it. • In the fall of 2007, once again on a picture perfect day, I competed in Ironman Florida. I slept very well the night before the race, and when I woke up, I first thing I told Lynn was that I was going to have fun all day long. As it turned out, I was no threat for Kona contention, but I moved solidly in that direction, and I did have fun all day long. • In 2008, I competed in Lake Placid for the second straight time. Once again, I moved up in the rankings, but still fell 12 positions and 20 minutes short of qualifying for Kona. Although I was scheduled to compete in Arizona later that fall, I was having trouble maintaining the required fitness leveI, and started to get the sense that I was chasing the goal from behind instead of leading the process. I decided to back it down a bit for a year and recharge. • In 2009, I focused on maintaining my fitness base and improving my limiters while competing in shorter events locally, and planned to go back to the Ironman distance in 2010 with a renewed focus on qualifying. • My training went very well heading into the 2010 season, however just 6 weeks before my race in Lake Placid, my knee suddenly locked up one morning due to the cumulative training load. It was patella tendonitis, and I couldn’t run a step. Despite the valiant efforts of my Ortho, six weeks was not enough time to heal before Placid, so I was done for the season. I had already spent nearly a full year of serious training to prepare for 2010, and decided it was best to back it down again for the next 12 months rather than risk burnout. This was a hard decision to make, as I was constantly aware of the potential for the hip arthritis to progress and take me out for good, and I had just blown two years. • In 2011, I focused once again on maintaining fitness, working on limiters, and also competed in local races. • I went at Ironman again with a vengeance in 2012. My training went very well for the 7 months leading up to the racing season, and I was stronger than ever in all three disciplines. Once again, with 6 weeks to go before my qualifying race, as a result of a completely foolish mistake on my part, I injured my hamstring and sciatic nerve to the point where I couldn’t run a step. I didn’t have time to heal before my race, and my shot at qualifying for Kona was over for another year. I was still able to swim and bike however, and wound up participating in only those two facets in two Ironman races to test and maintain my fitness level. In both races, I was in the top 2-3 positions when I stopped after the second leg. It was becoming clear that if I could just get to a future race without any injuries, I could at least race for a shot, which was all I wanted. Tyler summed it up well after looking at the results of those two efforts by stating “This thing is starting to get real”. It was starting to get real, and all was not lost- I just needed to be patient. As a fringe benefit, at one of those races (Ironman NY) who did I see from across the room during the registration process other than Sara Reinertsen, the girl with the prosthetic leg. I froze in my tracks, tracked her down and told her the story of that fateful day in our kitchen watching her on the Kona coverage, and what it had led to. Before it was over, Lynn, Sara and I were all weeping like school girls. (For the record, it was Sara that started blatting first). I have a great picture of us in my training room. • After allowing several months to heal and conferring with my coach at the end of 2012, we decided to employ a new strategy for 2013. Instead of focusing on a single target race to qualify, I signed up in advance for every qualifying race I possibly could from March through August, and planned to race every race I could get to the start line healthy for until I qualified. The first qualifying race of the season would be in March of 2013 in Los Cabos Mexico. Coming down the home stretch: It all came to together in Los Cabos in March. Right around the time I was scheduled to leave, my grandmother Ferne (the matriarch of the family on my mom’s side) was winding down her own race. I feared that she would pass away while I was gone, and was fortunate enough to spend a long afternoon with her just before I left for Mexico. Lynn and Tyler also had the chance to spend some time with her before Lynn came to Mexico to join me. Tyler asked her if there was anything she would still like to do, and she said she had always wanted to go to Hawaii and never had the chance. She took a bad turn a couple days later, (two days before the race) only to bounce completely back in her typical fashion to complete her unfinished business. I was amazed, and sent her word from Mexico that she was nothing short of a war horse, and that late in the race, when I thought I had nothing left to give, I would think of how she had brushed her own pain aside and kept moving ever since I had known her, and I’d keep on pushing. Lo and behold, with 5 miles to go in the race, the last time I saw Lynn, she quickly conveyed to me what the guys at command central in NY had relayed. I think her exact words were “You’re in 3rd or 4th place, and there’s a guy in your age group who is 3 minutes behind you, running a lot faster, and he is flying”. As soon as she said that, I had a sensation like someone had stuck a knitting needle into my hamstring, and took off as fast as I still could. I should note here that one thing I did know at the time was that there would be a minimum of 3, and a maximum of 4 Kona World Championship slots awarded to my age group. In other words, if he passed me, it was over. With 2 miles left to go in the marathon, after 138 miles of racing, he did just that. I’ll never forget the feeling. It wasn’t shock, because the boys at home saw it coming from 2000 miles away and sent the telegraph. Lynn had communicated it flawlessly, and there was almost a “don’t screw this up” subliminal message in her tone. The one thing I knew instantly was that I had to keep him in range while I worked out the solution. I picked up my pace to match his and fell in six feet behind him. The sun was behind us over my right shoulder, so he was staring at the shadow of my head directly in front of his left foot. I stayed there long enough to arrange my thoughts, the first of which was that if I let him get away, with him would go my dream of going to Kona. My next thought was that I had made a promise to someone that applied to this exact situation, and I was going to be very disappointed in myself if I failed to uphold it. He stared at my shadow for a mile. I couldn’t help but wonder at that point if he regretted revealing himself to me instead of sitting safely behind me until we were closer to the finish line. With a mile left to go, I “Ferned” it. I passed him back, and at that point he decided to stay 6 feet behind me. With a half mile to go (when I felt that I wouldn’t blow up) I started going as fast as my legs would carry me, never daring to look behind me. I assumed he was matching my pace and planning to out-sprint me, so as I approached the finishing area I darted frantically in, out and around the people slowly celebrating their finishes to make sure he couldn’t return the surprise. To my utter joy, relief and disbelief, after crossing the line it appeared that I had just qualified for Kona by a mere 20 seconds in a 140 mile race. To put it mildly, once I knew for certain I had actually qualified, I was euphoric. As soon as I got settled in after returning from Mexico, I stopped to see my grandmother. I had a picture taken of us together while I wearing the Cabo race medal. It too is currently framed and on the wall in my training room. Soon after that, (after completing all of her unfinished business to no less than her standards) she finished her own race and moved on. Skipping ahead, but on a related note: On the eve of the race in Hawaii, we all got together to spread some of Ferne’s ashes in the ocean near the place we would begin the swim the next day. She got to Hawaii after all. If anything could have been more fitting or special than that, I certainly don’t know what or how. She was an incredible lady. The six month period leading up to Kona was like a triathlete’s dream come true. I had qualified for Kona before the snow had even left the ground at home, and I had all summer to train for it. I also had more time available to train (and recover) than I had at any point prior, which was blessing for several reasons. For one thing I had the opportunity to help Drew (my youngest son) engage in a fitness program of his own. By the time he left for school August, he had learned through trial and error the fine art of balancing work, socialization, sleep, nutrition and fitness. We had a lot of fun along the way, and that knowledge will always be there for him to revisit when he’s ready. Throughout the summer, I trained methodically for Kona while occasionally participating in certain portions of the qualifying races I had previously signed up for. I did this to bolster my fitness, expose remaining limitations and frankly to enjoy the stress-free experience of racing with nothing on the line. I enjoyed those races immensely. Back in February of 2013, I had raced in a half Ironman event in Panama to prepare for the Los Cabos Mexico full Ironman, and was fortunate enough to barely qualify for the world championships for that event. It was to be held in Las Vegas in September, five weeks prior to Kona. After talking it over with my coach, we decided that the event was far enough out from Kona (and short enough) that I could race it without jeopardizing my Kona fitness. I approached it mostly as preparation for Kona. I planned to go hard, but kept my expectations regarding the experience and the outcome in check. I wound up really enjoying the race and was extremely happy with the result, which gave me a nice mental boost before jumping into my peak training for Kona. Peak training (which I’ll define as the last month before tapering) for a full Ironman is not “fun”. I refer to it as piling tired on tired. It’s the time period when tempers typically get short, patience wears thin, and relationships and commitment levels get tested to the max. It’s also the time that you’re most likely to get injured. Peter Reid (one of the best triathletes ever) put it this way: “When you are in your peak training period, and you start to question why you do this, that is the wrong time to answer that question”. Fortunately my peak training period went well all the way around. I did my last four consecutive weekly six hour bike sessions in a small room on a stationary trainer with the windows closed and the heat turned up to the 87 degrees. By the time each of the sessions were done, both the temperature and the humidity levels had climbed into the low 90’s. The first session was horrible, but one by one they became more tolerable, and by the time I got to my last session I was able to maintain my target power output from beginning to end. I was a ready as I was ever going to be. Kona was as much a celebration as a race. There was no inherent pressure – I was already there. At the same time, it was a world championship event, I was uninjured, well trained, had earned my entry and had no intention of treating the race as a sight-seeing tour of the island. The conditions on the Kona course (heat, humidity and wind) have a long reputation for bringing people to their knees. This was not a secret, and I had done everything I could to prepare for it. The hay was in the barn. The race itself was an incredible experience. The final minutes leading up to the cannon going off for the mass start swim in any Ironman are emotional in a way that is very hard to describe. It’s the strangest combination of fear, relief, anxiety, excitement and sheer terror that I’ve ever experienced. Tyler and I were side by side and shared the experience in the first Ironman we did in Lake Placid in 2007, and I am certain that it was a 3 minute period of time that neither of us will ever forget. Interestingly, at Kona, the experience was a little different. I knew what to expect, so there was no fear of the unknown. I was in the best physical condition of my life, so I didn’t give a thought to being unprepared. I was also incredibly grateful to be there, so I took time to soak up my environment while we were treading water. I knew for certain that at that moment, there was no other place in the world that I would have chosen to be instead, and I’ve never been more at peace in my life. At 7:00AM, the cannon blast sounded and we were off. Swimming has never been my strength. The best I can ever hope for is to limit my losses. There was plenty of physical contact, but that’s to be expected and nobody takes it personally. I really enjoyed the swim, and before I knew it we were going around the turn buoy at the 1.2 mile mark and heading back towards the pier. Eventually I could hear the muffled sound of the announcer’s voice in the background (a very welcome sound) and at that point I was just excited to reach shore and move on to the next phase. As usual, I looked at my watch for the first time when I stood up. I wasn’t impressed with what I saw, but I am a realist, so I also wasn’t shocked. The transition to the bike went smoothly. I didn’t rush it. You can save a minute or more in transition if you really scramble, but if you make a mistake in transition, you can easily pay for it over the next 9-10 hours. I know because I’ve done it many times. It felt great to get on the bike. I had no more than pulled out of the transition area before running across my whole gang at the first intersection. They were a welcome sight. I didn’t think about it until just now, but nobody told me where I had placed in the swim. Maybe they didn’t know yet, or maybe they discussed it and decided that what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. The bike course in Kona starts with a long climb out of town before retracing the path, returning to town, then heading to the north end of the island. I went back by the gang one more time before heading out to the desolate lava fields on the infamous Queen K highway. Once on the main highway, I settled in and felt terrific. There are three things to manage on the bike, all of which you can monitor and control if you keep your wits about you - Heart rate, power output, and nutrition. I had a good grip on all three, and I just enjoyed the ride. In what seemed like only 45 minutes, but was actually closer to 2 hours, I reached the sign that marked the start of the 7 mile climb to the half way turnaround point. I couldn’t believe I was there already. The wind got a bit tougher on the way back, but I felt solid and knew I was making good time. I was pretty sure I was going to regain all of the time I had lost on the swim, and I remember thinking that if I overdid it, I might just pay for that when it came time for the marathon. I distinctly remember seeing the 100 mile marker (only 12 miles to go) and being very happy about that. It was great to pull into town and run into my support crew again. I felt fine physically, but seeing familiar faces in a race of this distance after 5 hours on your own definitely gives you a boost. What I didn’t know was what it would feel like to start running. You can usually tell within the first 20 steps of the marathon whether or not you dug too deep on the bike. Once again, I didn’t try to set a record for the fastest transition. The first 20 steps felt good. So did the next 20. Within a few minutes, I was running past familiar faces again, and I was thrilled to see them. This time they decided to tell me where I stood. I was behind where I wanted to be in the rankings, but I was right where I had hoped to be time-wise at that point, so I wasn’t discouraged by any means. P.J. (my training partner from home) implored me to douse myself with ice. I learned later that he had done a training run himself on the course while I was out on the bike course, and couldn’t imagine running a marathon in that heat. Fortunately the weather gods had smiled on us, as not only were the winds unusually light by Kona standards during the bike portion, but by the time I started the marathon, we had partial cloud cover which helped immensely. I still took him at his word, and started stuffing ice everywhere I could put it at every aid station. The run course at Kona starts with an out and back section, which brings you back through town again. I thought it was about 3 miles to the turn-around but it turned out to be 5 instead. I was glad to see that, because it meant that by the time I got back to town, I would have 10 miles in the bank, and nothing left but a pretty typical Sunday run before returning to town for the finish. I ran into my clan one last time on the way through town, which gave me a final boost before heading off to the last 16 miles. I was tiring, and it was pretty obvious to me that the best I could hope for was a steady marathon, because fast was no longer in the cards. I was running with a great guy from Switzerland who was in the same boat. We made a pact to just keep moving no matter what. He went on without me eventually, but not before I had several opportunities to watch him pick out a Swiss flag amongst the spectators, shout something out in Swedish, and listen to their raucous cheers in response. We weren’t in Jefferson County anymore. The middle miles of the marathon were tough as usual. I don’t know how other people approach it, but at least every other mile marker has some sort of significance for me. Mile marker 1 is like a very bad joke. Mile 4 is interesting, because I can at least express it as a percentage of the whole marathon without using too many decimals. Mile 10 was terrific because I had some company on the way through. Mile 12 is tough because you’re not half done yet and despite any lies the spectators might be telling you, you are no longer fresh, and you do not look (or feel) strong. Mile 14 is somewhat encouraging because you’re more than half done, and my experience is that the second half of any hard effort is preferable to the first half. Miles 15-16 are tough because now you’re starting to seriously run out of gas, and you’re not really “almost done”. I really started to wane in this section. I remember being disappointed because it was taking forever to reach the mile 17 marker, but was thrilled when I realized I had had missed it completely, and came upon mile marker 18 instead. A free mile! Only 8 miles to go. That’s a bite sized chunk. That’s a Tuesday night run, which is much easier even than a Sunday run. My race watch wasn’t working at that point, but I noticed that people around me were looking at their watches constantly, which indicated to me they were shooting for some milestone, which I assumed to be a 10:30 finish. Everyone (including me) was attempting to keep pace with someone adjacent to them, mostly for moral support. I ran stride for stride with a big tall guy in hot pink shorts starting at about mile 20, and hoped to stay with him until the finish. I recall thinking that he must be a veteran Kona guy, because nobody in their right mind would wear those shorts in their one and only Kona appearance. Miles 21 and 22 were great psychologically. This thing was going to happen. Five miles to go – four miles to go. At this point, all I could really think about was how wonderful it was going to feel to stop, but not until I got over the line. I was still running in perfect unison with the guy in pink shorts, but we never exchanged a word. I could have easily asked him what time he was shooting for, but couldn’t muster up the resolve, interest or the energy to speak. I looked up and saw the mile 23 marker just ahead, and was borderline elated. Just as I approached it, I instantly became extremely dizzy, moved quickly to the side of the road and started projectile vomiting what appeared based on volume to be everything I had consumed during the marathon. On my third and final bout of vomiting, I was on my hands and knees, and my legs were starting to seize up with cramps. Some guy (who I only remember as being dressed in red) slowed slightly as he went by, and simply said “C’mon, let’s go”. I said “You’re right”, got up and started running again. I took off my fuel belt, knowing that I wouldn’t keep anything down anyway, and threw it over a traffic cone like the ring toss at the fair. That was very liberating. The mile 24 marker was a sight to behold. After that, I recall running down the hill towards town, knowing that the finish line was close enough that I could risk thinking about it. I hardly remember turning the corner in town before the final stretch. That’s always a confusing part of the race. Sometimes it feels like I’m in an Imax theatre, and I’m running in place and the course is moving towards me on a giant projector. I do remember seeing PJ last, who true to form, told me that if I pushed the last mile I could finish under 10:30. I did push the last mile as hard as I could, but it must have looked like I was in slow motion to anyone watching. I next remember hearing the announcer’s voice ahead, and then seeing what I had absolutely yearned to see at least 1000 times over the past 7 seven years. It was the final finishing chute at the end of the race that everyone in the sport would give up their first born for the pure privilege to run through someday. Lynn (my sponsor, Sherpa, race day data communicator, photographer and loyal companion), was there on the right to experience the finish, which was only fitting. Tyler, who had started the quest with me seven years prior, was just a little further ahead. That too was fitting, because I know he never doubted that he’d have the opportunity to witness this someday. I crossed the line in 10 hours and 31 minutes, 12.5 pounds lighter than I had started, after beating my personal best time for an Ironman race by several minutes. That was the goal my coach and I had established before starting the season in 2013, and an extremely satisfying way to complete not only the season, but the entire quest, and to put the final signature on the realization of a dream. We spent an additional week in Hawaii after the race, which was every bit as rewarding as the race itself. There were 14 of us there in total. If I had any regret, it would be that the number wasn’t 16. My in-laws (Marion and Clayt) who have not known what to make of me from the day I started dating their daughter 30 years ago, have been the most loyal supporters anyone could ask for from day one, and I really wish they could have experienced Kona first hand. For the most part, all of us that made the trip are entering very significant but distinct phases of our lives, so the timing couldn’t have been better. For me personally, the Kona experience was not only phenomenal in its own right, but also coincided with the end of a number of unrelated battles which have been fought on other fronts. To be able spend time with everyone who went, pause life for a brief moment and appreciate what we have, and to have them all share in the experience is more than anyone should ever ask for or deserves. I could not be more sincere when I say that I am without question the most fortunate individual I have ever known. And just in case you’re wondering…. You’re damned right it was worth it. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Thanks again for your support. Sincerely, Jeff
Posted on: Fri, 15 Nov 2013 03:29:44 +0000
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