An Ironman, A Crash, And A Hero

It's no secret that Ironman is a selfish sport.  Training six days a week, often two times a day, going to bed when the sun has barely dipped below the horizon, missing social events and late night parties -- it's an all encompassing time commitment on every athlete who attempts it.  On course at IMNZ one of the printed signs read: "If you're still married, you didn't train hard enough."  And that's a pretty accurate statement.  IM takes a toll on not only the participant, but his family and friends, as well. 

Which is why the story of my guardian angel is so amazing to me. 

On the beautiful morning of March 3,  2018, I was in Taupo, New Zealand, about to claim my sixth Ironman finish.  I was looking forward to Mike Reilly shouting once again, "Lorie, YOU are an IRONMAN."  I had traveled across the ocean with my husband and friends and one other athlete friend, Melanie.  She was going for number two and we were ready for the day ahead. 

We had both agreed we were finish line junkies.  We loved the pageantry that Ironman provides to it's racers -- so much hype and excitement surrounds that red carpet finish line.  It's an amazing event and everyone who races has their own story of triumph and endurance that got them to the start line and would sustain them through to the finish line. 

The morning started perfectly.  The waters were glass on race day and I cruised my way to a 1:10 swim (third in my age group), racing out of the water to a quick six-minute transition.  Then, off to the 112 mile bike portion of the event. 

It was in lap two of the bike that I realized my legs were twitching and jumping as I looked down at them, begging for hydration and electrolytes.  Agh, the wind and the tri bike aero position were taking a toll on my awesome day.  I desperately needed some more electrolyte water, so at the aid station before the final turn around, I slowed down and asked the volunteers for a bottle of NUUN.  "We are out!" was their response.  And I knew I was in trouble. 

I tried to down some water to see if my legs would settle down, but as I made the turn at mile 87, I had to reevaluate.  My legs were seizing at this point - it was hard and harder to pedal.  I needed some relief.  In my head, I thought that maybe if I stood up on the pedals, I could stretch out my cramping legs. 

Bad idea.  When I went from the horizontal aero position to a standing position, I got light headed and lost my balance, crashing my bike hard onto the asphalt.  It felt like I had done a face plant right into the road; my helmet was broken, the eye shield was smashed in two, I had road rash from my shoulder to my ankle, and I was curled up like a beetle on it's back, unable to stretch out my legs due to the dehydration. 

I laid on the road with my eyes closed, not willing to muster the strength to get off my back.  Suddenly two participants were by my side.  "Are you okay?" they leaned down and asked.  I was, but I desperately wanted them to move me off the hot pavement, which they did.  One of them told me he was an ER doctor and was wondering how he could help.  I told him about my dehydration and he quickly offered two salt tabs -- like magic, I began to feel better.

The two good Samaritans made sure I was not dying on the side of the road, and then flagged down the motorcycle race official, who called for the ambulance.  The EMTs treated my cuts, road rash and tended to my hydration.   In the ambulance they took my chip, told me I was being sent back to the medical tent and that my day was done.  I never even got to thank those to athletes who stopped their race to make sure I was okay. 

Devastation.  All those hours of training, getting up in the wee hours of the morning in the dark to get my long ride in for the day.  Hours upon hours upon hours of training -- lost in a matter of minutes.

I carried my broken helmet and shoes to the medical tent, along with my broken heart, and later reunited with my husband and friends.  Melanie was still out on the course and after a bite to eat, a shower and plenty of liquids, I followed her on the course and ran the last 10 miles in the dark -- just to get a feel of what I was missing.  Wow -- that run was killer, and kudos to everyone who completed that! 

But the story does not end there.  After an adrenaline and adventurous week on the spectacular North and South islands, we were back in Auckland airport retrieving our bikes from stowage.  Every once in awhile you'd see a person wearing their Ironman t-shirt or visor.  In line with me was an athlete, so I naturally asked him about his race.  In turn, I told him my story of crashing and DNFing.  "Wait," he said "this is all starting to sound very familiar.   Were you wearing black and green?  Was it about mile 87 on the bike?"

Yes. Yes.  And Yes!  "That was ME who stopped and helped you to the side of the road,"  he said.  Julian, was my guardian angel!  We high fived and hugged and I finally gave him a proper thank you.  After selfies and meeting each others' spouses, we said farewell and flew home. 

Ironman is a selfish sport.  It's true.  But there are also people in the world who are good, who will sacrifice their finish time to stop and help someone else.  People like Julian are the antithesis of selfish.  They do the right thing.  May I never lose sight of that goal.  Thanks again for teaching me how to be better.