by Rob Cummins
Acknowledgements
There is one person without whom I never would have even started. My wife, Aisling believed I could qualify for Kona long before I or anyone else did. I started this journey with blind faith in her belief in me. Along the way she pushed, cajoled, supported, nursed and trained with me as I attempted to turn a back of the pack engine into a Kona one.
There have been days in the last half a dozen years where she pushed me out the door when I was so tired and unmotivated I wouldn't have trained otherwise. There were days when I left the house at 7am to go to the pool and arrived back to find her waiting to eat dinner and talk to me about how I got on after an eight or nine hour training day.
She pushed me past every limit I thought I had, physical, emotional and mental. She helped me become the athlete and more importantly the person I am today.
When I line up to race I start with Aisling’s voice in my head telling me to “go hunt those motherfuckers down” I race to make her proud and to thank her for getting me here. I don't think there are many athletes who get to where they are alone. There is always someone behind or beside them helping, teaching or supporting. I’ve been lucky enough that for me that person is Aisling. She is not only an extraordinary person and athlete but also the best coach, mentor and teacher I’ve ever known. Not to mention friend and wife.
When I handed this book off to my editor he sent it back with the same correction throughout. (Actually there were a lot of corrections, grammar, sentence structure, spelling and worse) but what stood out the most was the fact that I constantly talk about “we” rather than “I” He had notes all the way through which started off just as corrections but eventually turned to comments which looked quite exasperated “who is we??? You and the coach??? You and Aisling??? Stick to I!!”
The thing is this is a “we” story. I don't think of me as an athlete, rather I think of as us as a team, even when I’m racing alone for hours in an Ironman. When I’m racing Kona or any other Ironman I have Aisling with me inside me head and heart and I think of the result as being ours. I never want to have to admit to Ais after a race that I gave up, quit or stopped trying because that devalues her contribution to getting me to the start line.
I’m always racing with the thought that I want Ais to be proud but also that I want to be able to stand in front of her after a race and tell her I raced honestly, that I emptied the tank, that I never once gave in to the hurt and quit. The result is much less important than the way that it was achieved. A Kona slot won comfortably by drafting on the bike isn't worth one tenth of the one that’s fought for tooth and nail right to the finish line. I want her not to be proud of my result, but of how I achieved it. I want to have earned whatever the outcome is.
This book might look like it’s my story but really it’s ours. You will inevitably find places where I still talk about “we” instead of “I” I just didn't think it was an “I” moment (To Dermott my editor I apologise) but the truth is that this is a story of us, not me. If it’s confusing I apologise.
This is my first book and as such I am learning a new craft. Any mistakes are mine and I hope you can enjoy it regardless.
Oh and for all of you non Irish readers Aisling is pronounced Ash-ling or Ais is pronounced Ash. Ais and Aisling are both the same person.
There were plenty of people who helped me get to Kona. Coaches, training partners, family and friends. There have been just as many who encouraged and helped with this book. I’m not going to name them all here as I’m sure I’ll forget someone.
I hope you know who you are and how much you helped.
Thank you.
Rob C
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Table Of Contents
Chapter 1 Bolton August 2011
Chapter 2 Smoker
Chapter 3 Discovering cycling
Chapter 4 Falling in love with the bike
Chapter 5 Hooked on Iron
Chapter 6 Losing my triathlon virginity - Dublin city triathlon 2003
Chapter 7 Learning to swim - Winter 2005
Chapter 8 A mountain bike race
Chapter 9 Ironman France June 2008
Chapter 10 Life changes and Ironman Switzerland 2009
Chapter 11 100k Ultra
Chapter 12 A coach and belief
Chapter 13 Simple not easy
Chapter 14 Training camps, pushing limits
Chapter 15 The Last Push – Hell of The West Triathlon – Kilkee, 2011
Chapter 16 August 2011 Ironman U.K Bolton 2011
Chapter 17 Not so invincible after all
Chapter 18 Ironman Florida 2011
Chapter 19 Off season, Ultra, Half Iron
Chapter 20 Race the Rás 2012 – prologue: pre-race rituals
Chapter 21 Ironman UK (IMUK), July 2012
Chapter 22 Kona 2012 –The trip and race week
Chapter 23 Ironman World Championship, Kona Hawaii 2012
Chapter 24 Becoming an athlete
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I write a twice weekly blog about Ironman racing, training, lessons I’ve learned as a coach and athlete and what I’m up to with my regular training diary. You can check it all out here
I’ve also written a mini book which examines how Ireland, a country where triathlon is a fringe sport and Ironman is an even tinier proportion of that population managed to produce some of the best Ironman athletes in the world.
It’s the story of seven Ironman athletes who between them currently have over 80 Kona slots and two Kona podium finishes not to mention dozens of podium finishes at qualifying Ironman races around the world.
You can download it FREE by going here
If you're feeling motivated to get out and train you can check out some of my favourite swim, bike and run workouts here
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Chapter 1
Bolton – August 2011
My legs hurt. My neck and back both ache. My backside is in a lot of discomfort.
I shift in the saddle as I slide forward, dropping down two gears and spinning my legs faster, trying to relax the muscles that are overworking and desperately trying to get some relief from the pain. I'm trying to hold my average speed constant, something that is becoming increasingly difficult to do. It's getting harder to keep pushing as I tire. I think of my coach back at home watching the results popping up live on line and I wonder what he's thinking. When we started working together he didn't believe I could do this and only took me on as a client reluctantly. It's been one of the things that has kept me motivated over the last four months. . . the thought that I'd prove him wrong. I shift back up a gear. I accelerate. I hold on to the hurt. I won't slow down. I won't fail. I look ahead and see someone in the distance and focus on them.
I remember Aisling’s advice to focus on the next one and go after him, then the next and the next. Her exact words were to ‘hunt those motherfuckers down’. I can hear her now in my mind telling me to push, to stretch myself – to reach further than I believe possible. And that makes me shift another gear and push even harder. I look up the road and work out the time gap to the next athlete. He’s just over one minute ahead. The road rises a little and I shift up a couple of gears and get up out of the saddle, stretching my back and giving my aching legs something else to shout about. I settle into a rhythm on the climb, the bike swaying in time to my pedal stroke. My world shrinks down to just the spot ahead of my front wheel and for a while the pain fades into the background. I shift gear again and accelerate. My legs protest slightly then decide they will cooperate and settle. And then I've found that sweet spot below my threshold that I feel I could hold on to all day. It seems like I'm dancing. I feel light on the pedals. For a moment it's effortless. I look ahead and I'm surprised to see that rider is now rig
ht in front of me. I've closed the gap quickly. I pull out and ride by him. He's labouring on the short hill and I realise that he's blown his lights. He's cooked. Probably started too fast and now he's paying the price. I flick the fingers of my left hand in greeting as I overtake. He doesn't respond. He's inside his own head and doesn't seem aware of me.
I crest the rise and drop gingerly back into the saddle, squirming and shifting around to find some position that doesn't hurt. There isn't one, so I push on regardless. The pain in my legs and everywhere else is back. The brief respite while I was out of the saddle is over and it's back to business. Another rider is visible in the distance and again I remember Aisling’s words ‘hunt that motherfucker’. It's become a mantra playing over and over in my head, distracting me from the pain, giving me another focus and he comes closer to me. I drop another gear and accelerate hard to make the pass. I want to make sure he doesn't try to follow and a part of me wants to demoralise him. No not demoralise, destroy! I want to make sure that there's no chance that he even tries to race me. I want him to feel so weak that he quits. I want to crush him.
Outside of racing and off the bike I'm not like this, and I never admit to having these feelings except to one or two people. I'm afraid that I'll be called an arsehole. I'll be judged for it and that people will think that this is my usual mind-set. But right now I'm looking up the road for the next target. It takes a couple of minutes but I see someone in the distance. It looks like a woman. She must be one of the pros. I've passed a couple of female professionals so far, which is the only indication that I'm near the front end of the field and the fact that the field has thinned out considerably. The riders I'm catching are further and further apart as I move through.
I glance down to check my average speed and it looks good. I'm almost on target and haven't slowed down at all in the second half of the race I take encouragement from this fact and push again, despite the increasingly loud protests from my legs. I round a corner and come upon the female rider. She's slowed a bit and as I ride past I look at the name on her number and realise that it's Desiree Flicker. She was in the pre-race news as being the favourite to win the women's race. I feel a huge swell of emotion and excitement rising inside me. Initially try to suppress it, before giving in and embracing it. If I've just passed the favourite in the women's race then I'm probably much closer to the front of the field than I had thought. It's the first time that I really start to believe that I can do this and the feelings of excitement, mixed with relief, are bursting within me.
The pain suddenly disappears and I push harder. I'm riding on a huge wave of emotion. I use the feelings as fuel and push harder. There's not far to go now and as I rise out of the saddle to start the short rise to the turn-off point I again feel like I'm dancing and have to hold myself back a little. There's a big crowd at the turn-off point and I get a huge cheer when they realise that I'm almost finished and not going out to start another lap. The shouting and cheering lifts me further and I look around and smile at them. I try to burn as much of this into my memory and try to store the emotions to fire me up for the marathon still to come.
It's only a couple of kilometres to the second transition and the end of the bike leg and I ride in fast. The crowd is a little smaller here but the noise is fantastic. I've slipped my feet out of the bike shoes and am pedalling with my feet on top of them. I turn the last corner and see the dismount line some 50m ahead. I don't slow down and the marshals are getting a little worried that I might not stop. They wave and shout, pointing at the white line on the ground. In one fluid and well practised move I rise out of the saddle, swing my right leg over the bike and only a couple of feet before the line I drop off the other pedal at over 20kph and land at a run just like I've done in countless short course races.
My legs scream in disbelief at the stupidity of this idea and simply refuse to cooperate. I almost crash to the ground right there in front of everyone but somehow manage to stay upright and turn right into transition. I'm shocked to see that it's almost empty which means I’m right up at the front of the field. In my mind I’d visualised racing and crossing the line and qualifying many times in training but I somehow had overlooked the fact that to be competitive in my age group would mean being competitive overall. It’s one of those really obvious things that I should have been expecting but I was shocked by it. I guess a big part a part of me never really believed it would happen. It hits me again and I start to believe I can race at this level. I'm doing it, I'm actually doing it! The thought keeps going round in my head. I've dreamed of this for years but it’s one thing having a dream. It’s another actually making it happen. Until this precise moment I never really believed it was possible.
I hand off my bike and marvel once more at all the empty racks. My legs still aren't working properly though and it’s a lumpy, uncoordinated run through transition. I enter the hall where our run bags are lined up on the floor where we left them. I run straight to mine, but I’m directed over to the side of the hall to a row of benches. I sit down heavily. I sort of collapse really, my quads screaming in protest.
I lean over to pull on my shoes and my hamstring goes into the most awful cramp. My leg shoots out in front of me and for the second time in a matter of minutes I almost land face down. I twist and try to stretch out. One of the marshals starts coming over towards me to see if I'm alright and I wave her off. The cramp subsides but I still haven't got my shoe on and I'm afraid that if I try again it will spasm out of control, landing me on the floor scrabbling around like an upended beetle. The clock is ticking and the urgency is building. My stomach is tightening into a hard ball of tension. I reach down as quickly as I can, bending my leg at the same time. I can feel the muscle pulling into a savage cramp again and I pull my shoe on viciously and straighten my leg, stretching it out and grimacing against the pain of the partially cramping hamstring. I reach into my bag, grabbing my hat and run belt. The marshal takes my bag and tells me to go. I hobble into a shambling run out the door. In all my transition time was one minute forty seconds. It felt like five times that.
It's a downhill start out of transition and I concentrate on small fast steps. I'm trying to get my legs working. There's very little spectator support out here and I take the time to settle myself and try to find a rhythm. I pull on my hat as I run and fasten my run belt around my waist, adjusting it until it sits low on my hips and doesn't bounce.
I have a pacing plan that I'm determined to stick to rigidly. I'm aiming on running easy for the first 10k then build to as fast a cruise as I can maintain for the middle 20k section then hang on for dear life for the last 12k. I'm reminded of a quote I heard somewhere that goes ‘If you want to make god laugh tell him about your plans’. I decide to keep them to myself for the moment. As and the coaches both warned me several times, I should not start too fast, regardless of how good I'm feeling. I check my Garmin and the first kilometre is fast – a little too fast – so I back off. It feels easy and I settle into a groove almost immediately. I check my Garmin again and the second kilometre is still too fast. I back off a bit more and this pace is starting to feel slow. I'm getting that slightly panicked feeling again in my stomach. I look over my shoulder feeling like I'm going so slowly that I must be caught by the whole field. I expect to see a stampede of tall, fit, tanned triathletes bearing down on me, but there's only a couple of guys strung out along the road. I turn back to the task at hand and start to look ahead thinking about ‘hunting those motherfuckers down’.
I feel like I'm straining against an invisible leash. My legs saying ‘fuck it let’s go’, my head saying ‘don't be a clown’. I pass the three-kilometre marker. My legs have settled after the cycling and every part of me is grateful to be upright and not crouched down over my tri-bars. I shake my arms, working out the stiffness from the bike and my Garmin beeps to tell me I've done another kilometre. That was quick, I think. My pace is now bang on target but it still feels way too easy. I tell myself to have patience but the fear of bei
ng caught is building inside me again. I look over my shoulder, but there's still no one close to me. As I turn and look ahead I realise I'm gaining on the guy in front. I check my pace again and I'm still on target. Beep. The Garmin tells me that's another kilometre done. I'm feel like I'm gliding, it feels so easy and I want so badly to stride out and push the pace. I still feel like I'm straining on an imaginary leash. I'm running alongside a canal and there are no spectators here – just the runner up ahead and one quite a bit behind. The sun is out and I can taste the salt from hours of sweat on my lips. The Garmin beeps again, six kilometres. I look down to be sure. It only feels like seconds since the last one. I look ahead and now the runner in front is only a couple of metres ahead. I pick up my pace just a little. Just to make the pass I tell myself, then I’ll slow back down. God it feels good to open it up. I glide by and as I pass I pat him on the back and offer a word of encouragement. He tells me I'm flying and to keep it up. I should slow back down to my target pace but I don't. It feels too good so I just push on. It's completely effortless. I cruise the length of the canal loving the feeling of the sun on my skin and the silence. The faster pace has my breathing a little quicker at first but as I've sometimes found the body adapts to the workload after a couple of minutes.
Sure enough everything settles again. My breathing slows and I'm holding the faster pace with what seems like no greater effort than before. I reach the end of the canal section and there's a steep hill up to the main part of the course. I love running hills and normally hit the gas hard pushing right up to the red line and holding it there before backing off over the crest and recovering on the downhill. I don't think that will work in an Ironman marathon. At least I don't have the nerve to test the theory so I slow right down. Just as I'm reaching the halfway point of the hill a guy comes flying past me. Jesus he looks strong, I think to myself and almost give in to the urge to chase. I tell myself that he's either going too hard in which case he'll blow up and I'll catch him or he's just faster than me in which case I won't. Either way I just have to run my own race. As it turns out I see him again in about fifteen minutes, vomiting at the side of the road.
