Being that overall time is tertiary (manage the day = #1; have fun, I kid you not, HAVE FUN = #2), I’ll pick up my bike and walk with it on the damn thing if I have to. But Beth’s right, the prospect of anyone actually having to do that (go down a hill that could get you to 35 mph easily on LOOSE GRAVEL) seems pretty insane.

I presently suffer from modestly containable excitement. Steady, steady.

Put the bike in transition, checked the bags, had lunch, chilled in the room, went to the pre-race meeting (and some of the elite athlete talk that came before), chilled in the room some more, and then headed out to Tutto Pasta with Beth, Mike, Mary, Dad, and Dick Leonard who came up with Dad today. It was nice. Very relaxing, or at least as relaxing as it could be (for me). I’m actually fairly calm, believe it or not.

So here we go.

I entered transition. Things went super smooth. I loaded up my bike with tire-air, food, water, Gatorade, more food, tubes, and CO2 cartridges. It took about 10 minutes. I headed back to the transition entrance/exit where Beth was waiting. We went directly into the Monona Terrace and staked out a spot on the floor (there weren’t many left). I took my Uncrustables into the T1 room and put them in my bag. Then I had to pee so I waited in a line again, but this time only for a couple minutes. I think the Porta-John to athlete ratio was pretty damn favorable. I then body glided up, slapped on some sunscreen, and just sat . . . . . really calm. I made some jokes with Beth (I don’t remember what . . . . stupid stuff . . . . getting her to laugh relaxes me). Before you know it, the girly-watch said 6:30. I stood up, pulled the wetsuit up over my hips (leaving the top down until I got closer to the water), gave Beth a big kiss, told her I’d see her on the course, and proceeded to begin the long march down the Monona Terrace parking helix [that would ultimately lead me into the lake]. Man, they weren’t kidding in the athlete meeting. It takes a while to get down there. I got a zip on my wetsuit about 30 feet from the shore, and that stretch took at least five minutes all by itself, but I finally stepped over the mat (where I would later discover my good friend Nick Weyer was working with his dad on the timing end of things) and into the water at around 6:53 AM.

I swam out to about 20 yards off the ski ramp (shoreline side) and about 10 yards off the starting line (the start of what would, in my estimation, be at least 100 yards of extra swimming on the day). They’d asked us to seed ourselves, and the athletes around me claimed to be among the 70 minute-ish crowd, so I planted myself (in a sort of hydroponic sort of way) where I was. Again, I just so surprisingly calm. I had a moment where I sort of floated there (the Quintana Roo wetsuit made me into a human bobber, no need to actually tread in the deep water where we all were), looking at the crowd . . . . . . thousands of people lining the lakefront and the upper level of the Terrace. You’d think it would all come down on you like a ton of bricks. ‘Holy shit!! We’re doing this!’ Instead, I honestly just smiled. This is what I’d wanted.

The red flag went yellow. Athletes started to proclaim that we were "going to go any second." About three minutes later, the announcer’s voice started to crescendo, I lifted the girly watch out of the water and put my thumb on the start button . . . . . . . and the cannon fired.

The swim portion of an Ironman, from my single experience, is essentially what you think it’s going to be: Crazy. 2,188 athletes (the biggest IM field ever) all moving forward together, the one time of the day where we’re all within a hundred yards of one another . . . . . . it’s a rush looking back upon it. Fortunately, I’d trained my mind ahead of time to err on the side of calm and not give into the adrenaline free flow that my body wanted so desperately to release into my system. I kept remembering the McCabeisms and Westfahlisms . . . . roll, stay on top of your catch, stay long, pull all the way through the hip . . . . . and, even though I got punched in the temple once, kicked in the head twice, had my ankle grabbed three times . . . . . my butt pushed, my body bumped, my whole rhythm just plain jostled and interrupted in general . . . . so many damn times that I can’t quote a number . . . . . I held my own. No one was doing anything intentionally, at least as far as I could tell. We were just all wanting the same thing: to get around the buoys and back onto land. It probably didn’t help that my time of 71 minutes was right smack in the middle of the densest group of finishers. There are a few interesting aspects to the whole endeavor, though. For instance, I doubt there’s any other venue whereby you can roll and slide all over the bodies of attractive women in a socially acceptable, circumstantially plausible way. I did a little of that---by accident of course, I swear.

The turns were crazy. Everyone would condense into like a 3 yard portal, splay back out, and then condense again. On the second loop I just thought, "To hell with this," and swum approximately a pool length wide. That front stretch of approximately 900 yards was the smooth portion of the swim for me. I had virtually no contact, and I maintain that I got to the end of the buoy line as fast if not faster than if I’d stayed in the scrum, as it were.

I hit the shore, a great feeling---although I can honestly say now that the whole experience was fun. I never got all out of sorts. Calmness prevailed. But anyway, I hit the shore, checked the girly watch, smiled at my time (I was honestly thinking I’d be like 80 minutes), found a couple of wetsuit peelers (What a great invention!!) and started trotting up the helix that I’d come down a little more than an hour earlier. I heard Beth yell. I also think I heard Lisa Nash scream. Pretty cool. I got into the bag room of T1, grabbed my stuff, hit the changing room (aka, the Naked Man Fiesta) and methodically took to what I’d already rehearsed in my head a hundred times. Drop wetsuit, pick up towel, dry torso, jersey on, dry feet, socks and biking shoes on, open tupperware, eGel flasks in right pocket, open other tupperware, three Uncrustables in back pocket, open riding glasses case, riding glasses on, helmet on, helmet strapped, put wetsuit and any other stuff in bag, cinch, GO!!!

I exited the Terrace, grabbed a token hit of sunscreen from the sunscreeners, and started my bike cleat trot into the long transition area. I got to my bike pretty quickly, pulled it off the rack, and trotted it down to the mount line. Going down the opposite helix was actually quite nice. Everyone was cool. No one took any big risks to save a second. There was a big bunch of tension leading up to this portion of the race during the inaugural event in ’02. I’m here to say that it’s no big deal at all. I came off the spiraling descent and hit the road! Wow! Crowds instantly. I think I heard Beth again, but couldn’t be sure. All the composure people showed on the helix was abandoned by a few riders now that we were on the open road. If I can presently claim experience certification and volunteer some Imoo biking advice, I’d start with this: Chill on the first mile. There are bumps, tight lanes, and adrenaline spewing like Old Style at a frat party. Yikes. The road’s few well labeled bumps in that first mile clearly hadn’t been heeded as I saw countless Gu flasks (invariably the ones that velcro to the top tube, confirming my suspicion that using the jersey pockets is the way to go), tubes, water bottles, etc. I even saw a complete rear saddle water bottle cage! Either the rider didn’t know it had dropped or didn’t think it worth the trouble to go back and get it. I was hoping that it wasn’t the latter. Regardless, check that the screws are tight, dude!

We did the slipping and streaming through the technical bike path portion---some people riding kind of dangerously, but most people exercising the right kind of caution. Finally, we could just spin. Around the Alliant Energy Center, I noticed two things: One, my new front tire had a different sort of feel as compared to my old Specialized (now gashed) tire. It was no big deal, but it made me hesitant through some of the turns (which may have been a good thing). I suspect that there’s less contact area for the IM tire. That’s all. By 20 miles I wasn’t even thinking about it. The second thing I noticed was that it was HOT. I’d spent the past three months riding in some of the most mild weather seen in Wisconsin for years . . . . . . my last Verona Loop ride three weeks earlier had begun with tights, arm warmers, and 49 degrees.

This was different. It registered quickly, and the mind went to work. I began a long conversation with myself: "You’ve been spouting off for weeks about ‘managing your day,’ and ‘respecting the distance,’ and how you’d rather ‘err on the side of caution instead of erring on the side of being too rich with the pace’ . . . . . ‘time doesn’t matter in your first Ironman, blah, blah, blah, blah, BLAH!’ Well, here you go. Your first test is now, right here." From that point on, I can proudly say that I did what I intended to do. When the temptation to fly hit, I coasted instead, used the free speed afforded me by the rollers, geared down, whatever. On climbs, I found a high cadence gear and spun---typically passing people with ease. I layed into the water/Gatorade/Succeed tablet combo early and often. The full 112 miles would reveal the following stats: 14 bottles of water, two bottles of Gatorade, ten Succeed tablets, 15 eGels (at 150 calories per), 3 Uncrustables (I had some trouble with the solid food, so I fell short of my goal of 5), one Cliff Bar (again, solid food), approximately two full bananas (taken in cut sections by volunteers) and a good handful of the medium sized braided pretzels in my Bento Box. I learned later that I was one of the lucky ones. Even though my body had pretty much declined to keep accepting solid food by mile 90, others hadn’t been permitted to get that far. One of my TriWis fastride training partners threw up six times on the FIRST loop alone---always in reaction to solid food attempts.

A very pleasant surprise, just past Cross Plains, was seeing my colleague Mitch Ost and his wife Sonny. They’d come over with their bikes and gotten out on the course. I was on the first loop cruising along, beginning to think about the three big climbs that happen between Cross Plains and Verona---then I looked over to my right . . . . . and there were Mitch and Sonny! I just said, "Mitch Ost!" I think I scared him, but they both gave me a big, enthusiastic yell as I passed.

Beth, Lisa, Dad, Dick, Mike and Mary were amazing. They got themselves out to Bitch Hill (Where Bennett and Holmes were in Devil costumes, offering plates of bacon and pancakes to riders . . . . . I saw Bennett sprinting alongside some guy just ahead of me. The poor dude was apparently from Holland because Bennett kept screaming something like, "Come on Dutch Boy!! Have some bacon and pancakes! You know you want ‘em! Come on!" Hilarious. Those two can never do the race again. They’re too much of a tradition on the hill now.) But anyway, back to my crew. It was so amazing to see those guys, such a surprise. An incredible boost. Mike caught my eye and just calmly smiled at me, then he spoke in a normal tone of voice, but clear enough for me to hear, "Smart. It’s hot." That was so reassuring. Beth and Lisa were practically breaking wine glasses. Pretty hard to miss their voices. It was like ‘controlled freaking out,’ and I fed off of it. Seeing Dad and Dick, who made it their quest to run a marathon together twenty years ago, was just special. I even got a little emotional when I went by Dad and he just gave me this big thumbs up and a huge grin. Again, they just all caught me off guard in such a cool way---I smiled right through the most difficult work of the day!

By simply doing my low gear/high cadence spin, I passed probably a dozen people on each of the big climbs (including ‘Dutch Boy’). Amazingly, Beth, Lisa, Dad, Dick, Mike, and Mary, got themselves over to Verona ahead of me (Was I going that slow?). Again, a major, welcome rush (as is the case with Verona as a whole). I did a quick stop to reload at special needs, and was back out on the course. As I got to about mile 60 I realized something that started to concern me, I hadn’t needed to pee yet. This seemed weird. In fact, I knew it wasn’t right, especially for me. I kept cranking the water and Succeed. My first ever ‘pee on the bike’ finally happened at mile 75. I was able to go twice more before getting back to T2, testament to how hot it really was (as I can be easily expected to go a half dozen times or more in a given century+ ride).

One thing that caught me off guard was the way I felt when the course marshals came by. God! I thought I had a guilt complex problem when seeing a police officer on the highway! That’s nothing. The marshals would come by and, even though I’d been careful to observe all the rules, I’d instantly assume that I’d done something wrong---nervously playing back in my mind the last several minutes of riding. At one point, heading toward Mt. Horeb on the second loop, a marshal’s motorcycle rode up about fifty yards ahead of me, just staring at some guy on his bike. Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I looked back over my shoulder at a rider who was compliantly staying out of my box, the requisite 3 bike lengths back, and I said, "I feel like we’re the kids in the back of the room waiting for the teacher to leave or something." He laughed and then jokingly replied, "Hey! I’m a teacher! Watch it!" So, of course, I had to keep it going, "Hey, I’m a teacher too!" For some reason, we both thought this was hilarious. Between stolen glances over my right shoulder, I noticed that the motorcycle had taken off---so my new teacher friend and I started moving in and out of a series of ‘boxes’ held by slower moving bikes ahead of us. The coast was clear. I was so paranoid that, later in the evening, I essentially made poor Beth go down to the Terrace and check my name for penalties. There were none.

I caught my crew once more on the big climbs. Again, it was such a help. I can’t express it enough. I turned into Verona one last time, hung my left instead of going into a third loop, and plunged into the last 16 miles. It went quickly. It’s hard to express the feeling I got when I came off the bike path and saw Monona Terrace, set against the lake where we’d started our day. That first mile, the same stretch of road that I’d headed out on six+ hours earlier, had been pretty nerve wracking. But now that it was the 112^th mile, I was experiencing arguably the most fulfilling riding I’ve done in my life. The Terrace loomed, got larger, the crowds bigger, and suddenly I was up the helix and into T2.

Once in the changing room, I sat down with a volunteer who emptied my bag for me (You really do get pampered) and helped me through everything. Again, the mental rehearsals really made a difference. Helmet off, riding glasses off, bike jersey off, tri-jersey on, cap on, bike shoes off, socks off, dry feet with paper towels, body glide feet, socks on, running shoes on, riding (now running) glasses back on, open tupperware, get three eGels and a sealed baggie of Succeed tablets, Succeed tablets in back pocket, take a hit of water from the water bottle I stored, up and out the door (my volunteer packed my discarded stuff . . . . . bless him), hit a PortaPotty, and out onto the course!

I was superdeliberate in the early miles. Very calm (How many times can I use that word?). People were everywhere calling my name. I stopped rubbernecking once I remembered that my first name was on my bib number. But what a cool idea. I made like ten thousand new friends. The first few miles were incredibly smooth with stops at every aid station for water. I took a Succeed and an eGel at mile four. The volunteers were incredible, always offering encouragement. I thanked everyone I encountered. "We wouldn’t be able to do this without you guys," I’d say.

State Street is all that it was hyped up to be. Major energy. There was Beth, Lisa, Mike, Mary, Dad, and Dick. Big smiles. High fives. Great stuff. Then, just like on the bike course, they’d shock me by being out on some unexpected remote part of the course---in the strangest places, always surprising me. And just like on the bike course, it was a great rush. I saw Mitch and Sonny coming off of Observatory Drive for the first loop. I saw my former student and athlete Katie Kircher out around Camp Randall. I saw my former student and athlete Thea Petersen out by Picnic Point. There was former student Leah Drexler-Dreis and former student Ian Elfe! (I got three emails later that night from other former students who’d seen me, but I hadn’t seen them).

The miles clicked along well enough for the first third of the marathon, probably in the 8:20 range. I caught up to my friend, Andy, along the lakefront heading out to Picnic Point on the first loop. He was having troubles. He ran with me for a while and then needed to walk. I told him to hang in there. I saw more people who were walking, quite frankly, than running. The day’s heat was visiting payback upon the IM masses in a very non-discriminatory way. No one was sacred—from the slowest age groupers to a couple people who were obviously pros.

I know the miles began to slow to around nine. I could just feel it. I kept hitting the aid stations, took some more Succeed, etc. But my body was beginning to fight me. I hit my special needs bag halfway, the rehearsal kicked in----shoes off, socks off, vaseline on the feet, new socks on, shoes on, Go! I was 2:08, or thereabouts, at the half marathon.

And that’s when the dealmaking began.

In a racewalking event, you get in trouble from the officials if you have both feet off the ground at the same time. By definition (at least in my mind) being airborne, if only for a split second, is thus considered a form of running. That became the deal. The aid stations were now my legal walking ground. Fuel up with whatever your body is willing to accept. Anything goes now---Coke, cookies, fruit, (I’d grown pretty burnt out on the eGels—but I’m convinced they saved me on the day), water, ANYTHING . . . . . . . . and you can WALK it. But once you leave the aid station air space, you must always be violating racewalking rules. No exceptions. Both feet off the ground on each stride.

By mile 17, the quads were screaming with every step. I’d managed to find a way to get dehydrated in spite of my uber-hydration-Succeed-tabbing. My history as a runner was always one where I just ‘bled’ hydration. It just fell out of me it seemed, always worse than my teammates. Fortunately I’d been a 1500 meter runner at the University of Illinois---an event where dehydration simply isn’t an issue since I rarely had races lasting more than three minutes and fifty seconds. But, of course, we were a long, long way from 1500 meter running now.

That last ten miles was really something. I interacted totally with the volunteers. High fived as many people as I could. Enjoyed the presence of my crew when I encountered them. If someone passed me, I said, "Looking good. Keep it up." If I passed someone (which I was doing with alarming frequency, even now at like 12-13 minute ‘running’ miles), and if I thought that that someone was up for the commentary, I’d offer what I sensed were the appropriate words of encouragement. I was in pain, approaching severe dehydration, holding up on totally trashed quads . . . . . . . and honestly having the time of my life.

I don’t know that I can describe the finish. As luck would have it, I came onto the Capital square with no one in front of me or directly behind me. I had the crowd of thousands all to myself. I started to get pretty emotional as I headed toward the last turn. I knew that once I went around the corner I’d be face to face with the finishing chute, something I’d been wanting to see for two years. I made the turn, and what I had expected to be crying manifested itself as screaming instead . . . . . at the top of my lungs . . . . fists up around my shoulders . . . . at the crowd. It was the good kind of screaming. Not the "Get the hell out of my yard" kind of screaming. But it was definitely screaming. No words. Just "Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh!" I don’t know where that came from, but it felt incredible. The announcer said, "And here comes number 1169, John Jacobson!" The crowd went nuts, I broke the finishing tape they had up for me. Whoa!

When I was 17, I won the Illinois High School Association’s Class A state cross country meet as an individual. The title had eluded me as a junior, in spite of the fact that I’d been undefeated going into the race (and thus, heavily favored to win). There were certainly some amazing moments experienced as a runner for the University of Illinois (we won four straight Big Ten track and field team titles, etc.), but I’d always maintained that winning that state cross country race in 1982 was the athletic highlight of my life. The meet typically draws five to six thousand spectators. It has a great tradition behind it as its been held on the same course for over 30 years. The single biggest reason why Illinois will never go to 5000 meters for its high school cross country is the state meet. The extra 100+ yards would mess up a true tradition. Anyway, you win there, and you’ve had an opportunity to experience something truly special.

Well, I can honestly say the following: Finishing in 728^th place in a time of twelve hours, forty minutes, and fourteen seconds, at the 2004 Ironman Wisconsin . . . . trumps the state cross country title . . . . . . and most other things I can think of . . . . . I’m damn near ready to say EVERYTHING . . . . . but I should probably give that some more thought. Regardless, there’s surprisingly little debate in my mind over what the athletic highlight of my life now is. I just never dreamed that it would come less than five months from my 40^th birthday. Again, the words to describe it are hard to find, a problem I don’t typically have. People will just have to trust me.

The finish area volunteers were, predictably, amazing. They steered me to an area where I had my picture taken. I was a little dazed, but, of course, smiling. I saw my good friend and Masters swim partner, Tom Zak. We hugged. I found my way to the opening in the snow fence, and then the hugging continued. The first, of course, was Beth. She about killed me. No one has gone through it all with me (understandably) as she has. So her squeeze packed a highly emotional punch. As she let me go she whispered into my ear, "You’re an Ironman." Creative as ever, I smilingly replied, "I know."

Then there was Mike . . . . . then Mary . . . . then Lisa . . . . then Dick . . . then Dad (even though he’s not a huggy type of dude, he was pretty willing in this case, which was cool). It was all just . . . . . . so . . . . . . cool. Words continue to elude me, but I think that makes my point.

I didn’t get to enjoy the moment like I’d planned. A few minutes into the post-race reveling I started to have real trouble breathing. When it progressed to the point of being downright scary, I just whispered to Beth, "Take me to the medical tent." She did. The staff calmly and caringly took over, even though the place was a madhouse . . . . . the day’s heat combined with the 140.6 miles had definitely left them with their hands full. They put me on this ventilator thing (which I later saw being used on at least a half dozen others, which, selfishly, helped me feel like less of a freak). Apparently the respiratory event I was experiencing (and had sort of experienced a couple years earlier at Pigman) was typical of someone who was dehydrated. My doctor decided that I needed an IV of saline. Another effect of severe dehydration (or, maybe it was just ‘dehydration,’ I don’t know if I’m deserving of the word severe) is that your veins kind of shrivel, making them hard to find. Well, I’ve never had hard-to-find veins, so the ‘probing’ with the needle [that seemed more like something you’d use to inflate a basketball] was a little uncomfortable. But once the IV was flowing . . . . . oh baby! That’s good stuff.

They let me go with my nurse---- my former student and athlete and fan-out-on-the-course-earlier-in-the-day, Thea Petersen! How wild is that? She brought me back to Beth and the rest of the crew. Smiling all the way, we got my bike and gear (Again, I had Beth go alleviate my paranoia by going down to the results board and confirming that I had no penalties). In my room, I sat down on the bed and just stared at the floor, incredulous . . . . but happy. I took a shower and went down to the hotel bar where Mike, Mary, and Beth were waiting (Dad, Dick, and Lisa needed to get on the road). They’d ordered me a cheeseburger and fries (per my request . . . . . I had this unbelievable meat craving). We ate and talked and ate and talked some more. They headed down to see the midnight finishers. I opted for the room. I just didn’t think I could physically get myself down there.

I went horizontal on the bed, alone in the dark . . . . . the kind of dark that only a hotel room seems able to provide. My mind raced and danced and jumped and ferreted about like a hyena on espresso . . . .sensory overload in a sensory minimized environment. Good stuff. Good stuff indeed.

The sleep that came surely snuck up on me . . . . . which was just fine. I didn’t have time to set an alarm which . . . . again . . . . was fine.

There was no workout scheduled for the morning.---JDJ

B=149.5/s=2.09/r=29.9/h=16:30