The Great Meltdown of Aught-Eight

It started out as a pleasant Sunday long run. I left very prepared for heat, humidity, sun, boredom, hypoglycemia, threatening attackers, you name it. I looked like I was prepared for a week of desert trekking with my pockets full of food, water bottle in one hand, pepper spray in the other, visor on head, sunscreen application, heart rate monitor, watch on the wrist, ipod in ears. Within a quarter mile the weight of the shorts pockets, containing the ipod and keys, pulled on my old elastic-less shorts enough to make them droop, requiring a double waistband rollover and evacuation of equipment. Fine, it can all go in the tri top pockets; that's why I wore this top, despite the chafing it potentially causes on the backs of my shoulders.


Down the island and over the bridge, my hamstrings and hips should have been loosening up. I had a 4 mile warm up, then the next 6 at a good steady ironman pace. After the four miles, everything was still tight and starting to hurt, then I picked up the pace. The next 6 miles contained about 5 stops to stretch. Surely something would help. Apparently it was not this.


Ten miles in, I needed to further pick up the pace: 7-7:30 per mile. I had detailed notes of where exactly each of these miles would begin and end, so that I could accurately assess my pace, instead of my usual guesses that I'm running "fast enough."I stopped at the beginning of mile 11 to stretch once more and gather all the motivation possible. First mile: 7:20. Success! I stopped, stretched, panted... were these five miles supposed to be continuous? What?


Each mile thereafter got progressively worse. Much worse. 7:40, stop. 8:20, stop. 8:45, stop. Halfway through the last mile, I finally reached the oasis we call Mud Island park. Within it lies the spring of life-- you know, that water fountain at the south end. I drank approximately 37 ounces of water and waited until my heart rate came down under 150... and waited, and waited. It wasn't budging until I got in a more horizontal position, so I surrendered and draped myself over the railing. It worked, at least until I stood upright again, and up shot my heart rate. At that point I'd had all I could stand. I gave up, started running again, and somehow plodded along another mile and a half to my apartment. Mission accomplished!


Collapsing onto the floor after shedding approximately 18 pounds of wet clothing, I also shed any aspirations of an age-group award, Kona slot, PR, or thoughts that I may actually run the entire marathon in Florida. I sought to regain hope by checking the weather. Darn it, it was only 90 degrees! 50% humidity, yes, but 90? Nothing to complain about.


In the days since The Meltdown, I feel I've redeemed myself with a negative split 1000 in the pool, and an effortless bike and run. I'm hoping I will be limiting these meltdowns to, say, one per Ironman. But with 8.5 weeks yet to go, that may be a long shot.