Ironman Florida 2013, 2.4mi Swim, 112mi Bike, 26.2mi Run

The Tale of an Ironman by Melissa Cabocel

Don’t be in a hurry to get in the water…let the crowd pass and find your space.  So much for the advice of the race officials.  Ironman Hopeful (IH) Frederic Cabocel stood on the front line of 2900 people poised to fling themselves from vertical to horizontal at the boom of the 7am cannon start.  The ocean roiled in front of him, still emoting the wind and storms that had swept Panama City Beach the day before.  He thought of the six months of training behind him and decided he might as well get beaten to a pulp in the front of the pack as in the middle.

During the long months of training, the joke was that his support crew consisted of a sticky trap full of sprickets in the corner of the basement behind his elliptical and bike trainer, their silent but vigilant attention glued to his every move. His actual support crew was still scattered as dawn broke the horizon.  Sherpa 1 (S1) Forrest Reid was on a flight between Baltimore and Panama City.  Sinclair Cabocel, originally destined to be S1, was stuck at home with classes and college application deadlines.  Melissa and Yvelisse Cabocel, Sherpa 2 (S2) and Sherpa 3 (S3), had retreated to the condo after the oh dark thirty drop-off to escape the lingering nighttime chill and gather the remaining munitions.  Setting back off in the car, they drove until the police barricades stopped them and set up camp on the car roof in the middle of the blocked street.

Left and in front, first line, where the waves are breaking!

IH struggled for air as bodies thrashed on every side of him.  Shoulder to shoulder, front and back, over and under…it was like being in an overloaded washing machine.  People grabbed at his ankles and held on as they struggled to stay afloat in the crowd and the surf.  His head was dunked repeatedly as swimmers leveraged strokes off his torso.  He held one arm in front of him in the water to shield against the flailing feet kicking near his head, waiting for the other arm to replace it before starting the next stroke.  A searing pain flashed through his temple as an elbow rammed full force into his skull.  If only he could finish the 2.4 mile swim within his hour and a half goal!

Under the arch, still my green cap on (Photo by FinisherPix)

The first bicycles careened around the corner from the transition area.  The pros were out of the water.  People caught in the traffic jam gave up and got out of their vehicles to cheer with the intentional onlookers.  S2 and S3 watched in dismay as bigger and bigger groups of bikes flashed by in a blur.  How would they pick out their IH in time?  S2 refreshed the athlete tracker on her phone until a swim finish time appeared.  He was out of the water.  Watching, watching, watching.  Wait!  That’s him!  Go Frederic!!  Go Frederic!!!  IH had passed without seeing them, but on the second bellowed cheer, the helmeted head turned and the left fingers raised off the handlebar in a slight wave.  Whew, he had heard.  Now to extricate the car to get to the airport.

Drafting anyone? (Photo by Forrest Reid)

The illegal pelotons barreled down the road, with no one any more willing to give an inch than they had been in the ocean.  So much for the anti-drafting rules, thought IH.  The event did not seem to be bringing out the best sportsmanship in the athletes.  He was doing the best he could to do it right. The last thing he wanted was a penalty or a disqualification, which were being handed out liberally along the route by the race judges.  His bike felt like it was flying, and he periodically forced himself to eat and drink as the miles rolled by.  It was almost impossible to get anything down at 20 mph.

Second out and back exit (Photo by Forrest Reid)

At the airport, S1 threw himself into the passenger seat with handfuls of maps at the ready.  The flight and the car could not have arrived soon enough.  “I think we can catch him on the north end of the course if we hurry!” he shouted.  The Three Sherpas (3S) made for the course, wending their way carefully around athletes of all sizes and abilities as they scanned for possible pull-offs on the ditch-lined shoulder of the road.  Obsessively checking the splits to make sure they were positioned before him and not after him, they finally found a flat spot next to the long expanse of highway.  Nary a spectator was to be found along the more isolated stretches of the bike route, and the three set up a clamor to compensate for it.

Yvelisse, on the lookout for her Daddy! (Photo by Forrest Reid)

IH saw them before they saw him, given they were the only break for miles in the seemingly endless landscape.  They appeared several more times along the course, with S3 finally learning to pick out Daddy among the throng of strangers outfitted in helmets and sunglasses whizzing by on the road.  Trying to beat IH to the transition towards the end, the traffic snarl inadvertently had them traveling alongside his bike, with S1 playing paparazzi from one window, S3 yelling words of encouragement from another, and S2 intent over the steering wheel hoping she wasn’t going to sideswipe their IH in all the excitement.

Taking it home! (Photo by Forrest Reid)

As the 3S sought out their first marathon lookout behind throngs of runners, S3 plotted the untimely demise of S1.  “Mommy,” she intoned darkly from the backseat, “I’d like to be alone with you.”  Nap-deprived for days and bored with the occasional chips and nuts passed back from the adults, her 3 year-old logic had ascertained exactly who had to be at the root of this crappy gig.  After all, Mommy and Daddy hadn’t ever hauled her around on such a Mad Storm Chase.  When her subtle foreshadowing seemed to go unheeded, she upped the ante, passing from “I’m tired of Forrest being here” to an adamant “Forrest needs to go home!”  Her previously-dubbed best buddy was now persona non grata, and she glowered ominously at his seat directly in front of hers.

Out of T2 (Photo by Forrest Reid)

Decked out in dry-for-the-moment socks and a fully stocked fuel belt, IH exited the transition area, every step stiff from the 112 miles of biking and the torn right calf muscle he had experienced five weeks previously.  He walked a bit and ran a bit to ease into it, knowing he could not afford to reopen the injury at this stage.  The past 5 weeks of training had consisted of hours of water jogging and elliptical for the run portion, and this was his first time going through the official motions since then.  The bite-size piece of the cheese sandwich S2 had cut up for him the previous evening was a welcome treat, and he looked forward to downing the rest once he had settled into an even gait.  He spotted the 3S first at Mile 5 and at subsequent intervals thereafter, the efforts of his support crew supplemented by general encouraging shouts, bells, and signs that read “Go Iron Granny” and “Have you peed on yourself yet?”

On the run (Photo FinisherPix)

The S3 were ready at Mile 5.  Spotting IH turning the corner, they ran out to impart his previous segment results: “1 hour 11 minutes on the swim!” they shouted.  He couldn’t believe it.  It had felt like he was barely moving.  “5½ hours on the bike!” they screamed.  Oh my gosh.  Better than he had hoped.  Better than the hundred-mile Century Ride he had done as practice.  He turned the next corner with enthusiasm, now on a steady roll.  Reaching back into his tri-suit pockets for more food, he was taken aback to find the whole packet had fallen out without him noticing.  Fuel was the “fourth sport” in a triathlon, and he had spent so much time planning and testing for the perfect mix!  Oh well, he still had his liquids, and he felt like he was running on air.  Plan B was to use the Bonk Breaker energy bars promised at the break stations, so he wasn’t worried.

Digging but feeling fine! For now…  (Photo by Forrest Reid)

Mile 18…S1 and S2 were in a frenzy.  The projections were showing IH finishing in 12.5 hours, 4.5 hours before his primary goal to finish prior to the ultimate midnight cutoff and 1.5 hours before his secondary goal to finish under 14 hours.  They were positioned once again within a wide expanse of race route sans spectators.  Raising the appropriate ruckus for the runners, they were blown away as athletes slowed to thankthem for their diligent support…particularly the miniature fan in head-to-toe hot pink with bling-bling Hello Kitty emblazoned across the chest.  Stepping out of a greasy seafood dive with steaming cups of coffee, S1 was the first to call the alarm that IH was rounding the bend.  “12.5 projected finish!!” they shouted, and a huge smile lit up IH’s face as his heels kicked up the pace a notch.  Not a single Bonk Breaker had been found along the course, but he felt great in spite of it.

My greatest fans, I love you guys (Photo by Forrest Reid)

Mile 21…S3 stepped up to the plate.  Remembering how impressed her parents had been when she ran her first non-stop mile around the track at 2½, she threw herself into the fray and sprinted alongside her dad.  “You can do it, Daddy!  You’re going to win!  You’re almost there!” she encouraged.  As his pace outdistanced her stocky little legs, she stopped him in his tracks with a peremptory “Daddy!!”  He turned, and she tossed out her ace.  “I LOVE YOU!” she bellowed.  “I love you too, baby,” he called.  She parried with “See you at the finish line!” mimicking a phrase previously overheard from S1 as IH continued towards his last five miles with light heart and light feet.

3S made a hasty beeline for the car, shouting reaffirmations of the finish line park-and-placement strategy.  At the rate IH was going, they’d be lucky not to miss the Big Moment given the intense crowds around the finish.  Barely making it to the bleachers prior to the 12.5 estimate, they stood expectantly facing the digital clock as it ticked away the final moments. 12.5. Then 13.0.  Then unease.  Then panic.  What to do?  He could have walked the last 5 miles by now.  Consultation: if S1 left to explore, he might miss the Big Moment.  If he ascertained the source of the dilemma, he would be unable to communicate with S2, whose cell phone had run out of battery after a day of incessant split checking.  Since S1’s smart phone couldn’t seem to display the split results, there were zero indicators to guide the decision.  Inevitable to split up, 3S decided, and S1 set off into the darkness at a trot.

His lips and hands tingled uncontrollably and his legs were going numb.  “Just three more miles!” IH’s mental self pleaded with his physical self.  Athletes on his right and left pulled off to the side to be sick, and his semi-conscious state registered the splattering sound of their stomach contents hitting the ground.  His knees hit the asphalt first, followed by the rest of his 6’3 frame. Lying on his back seconds later, a concerned pack of runners stopped to huddle over him.  “Are you okay?” they chorused.  137 miles had brought out the sportsmanship in everyone.  “Maybe dehydrated,” he muttered, remembering his half-Ironman experience the previous year.  A runner pressed her last water bottle into his hands.  “Here, take this.  The aid tent volunteers are on their way.”  Sure enough, several volunteers soon peered down at him, not authorized to lift or physically help him in any way, but peppering him with concerned questions.  Shortly the flashing lights of an ambulance added visual effects to the aural din of cowbells and cheering.

S1 spotted a volunteer with a computer.  “Please!” he pleaded, “our runner passed mile 21 long ago and is still not at the finish line.  Could you check?”  The volunteer expressed pessimism that he could draw the site up given all the activity overload, but he plunged into refresh mode until results popped up.  “Your athlete has stopped,” he announced.  “He’s registering a 60-minute mile at the 23 mile checkpoint.”  S1’s heart sank.  As they had feared, something had gone wrong, and he couldn’t even get word to the others.

The owner of the home on the race route came out to see what all the commotion was.  The runner on the ground was leveraging himself off the asphalt.  An EMT had told him that his vitals were okay, albeit with a slightly low blood pressure, and that he wasn’t going to pull him out unless he wanted him to.  They had retraced the circumstances, and given the lost fuel, the EMT estimated IH had consumed less than 3000 calories over a 10,000 calorie endeavor.  The advice was to eat something at the aid tent and see how he felt before deciding.  The homeowner lowered the gate of his pickup truck to provide a temporary perch as IH determined if he could walk.  He finally hobbled his way towards the tent, a plunge in body temperature making him shiver so violently that the cup of burning hot chicken broth splashed over his hand and was welcome.  The volunteer by his side peeled off his t-shirt and gave it to IH, layering two race blankets over that in an effort to combat the chill.  Other volunteers hovered anxiously around him at the tent.  Doritos or Fritos?  Hamburger or hot dog?  He finished off the impromptu feast with some grapes, feeling circulation re-enter his limbs.

Alongside S1, the volunteer sat up ramrod straight in his seat.  “He’s up!  He’s up!  His chip just registered at the 24.5 mile checkpoint!”  S1 took off at another fast trot, thinking how glad he was he hadn’t signed up to run any significant distance.  Finally he spotted IH among the approaching runners and felt a second wind sweep him along.   IH spotted him as well, and they ran a heady 200 meters towards the finish together, S1 finally cutting a corner to try to beat IH to the chute.

A rush of joy shot through IH as he entered the chute, music blasting and crowds screaming as outreached hands high-fived him on either side of the barricade.  He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.  So worth it!  So amazing! 

In the chute! (Photo FinisherPix)

On the bleachers but off the grid, S2 was heartsick.  The clock read 13:47, and the prospects of IH’s arrival within the 14-hour goal were dim.  Forget the goal…after the extended finish line anxiety, she was just hoping they hadn’t been widowed and orphaned.  She looked up again and did a double-take, momentarily taken aback by the unfamiliar t-shirt.  “Look, it’s Daddy!” she exclaimed, rousing the sleepy S3 from her shoulder.  They cheered as I (now minus the H) crossed through the archway at 13:48.  “Frederic Cabocel!” roared the announcer, giving an Italian flair to the last name, “YOU.  ARE.  an IRONMAN!!”

Rose from the ashes! (Photo FinisherPix)

Pushing through the crowds, the 3S managed to converge at the chute exit just in time to congratulate their victorious Ironman and start collecting the scattered supplies and equipment for the trudge back to their unauthorized parking spot.  Bike, bags, and Ironman loaded, they settled into the car for the ride home with an immense feeling of well-being and satisfaction. 

Happy about my swim and bike split and to being able to finish,
thanks to all the great volunteers! (Photo FinisherPix)

“Well,” remarked S1 with his habitual wit, “leave it to a Frenchman to orchestrate a 4-course sit-down meal in the midst of an Ironman.”

Special thanks to Forrest for flying down to Panama City Beach Florida to meet us and for his constant enthusiasm, support and amazing friendship!

Thanks to all my friends and neighbors who encouraged me and followed me.

And finally, a huge thanks to my family who provided me with unconditional love and care and never gave up on me during this very long journey. 

Melissa, Sinclair and Yvelisse, I love you with all my heart.