Post Undie Run, I met Welchy for the last time before the big day. Much as I wanted to test out my arm in the ocean, he told me to wait until the following day, the day before the race—and then to do only a few strokes in the swimming pool. He was adamant. Then he gave me his final advice for the race.
For the swim: “Most efficient stroke you can do. Don’t waste any unnecessary energy. Nice and smooth.” For the bike: “Keep to a eighty-to-ninety cadence, whatever the gear. It’s key that your muscles aren’t overstrained or underutilized. You want the sweet spot. Eighty-to-ninety cadence.” And for the run: “Run. Jog. Walk. Crawl. Use whatever you have left to finish.” Regarding nutrition: “Stick to it. No matter how bad you feel, you have to eat and drink your nutrition. It’s the only way to slow down the destruction the race wreaks on your body. You won’t finish the race if you don’t fuel up throughout.”
Then Welchy looked me in the eye and said, with the intensity of a man who had been world champion of the hardest race on earth, “This isn’t a race against anybody but yourself. You’re not here to win. It’s you against the island. Don’t try to keep up with any other swimmer or runner or biker. This is about you coming across the line in less than seventeen hours. Got it, mate?”
“I got it,” I said.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Run your race.”
His words made me pause and, with a click of recognition, smile. For the first time, I understood exactly what he way saying, what in fact he’d been saying all along: my ability to fight my own fight was the only thing that would separate defeat from triumph.
Don’t worry about chasing after the pack. Don’t compare your swim, bike, run to others’. Don’t dwell on the differences between your performance and others’. Don’t get down on yourself when you see what the other competitors are doing.
Run your race.
You have cerebral palsy, Bonner, but this race, like your life, belongs to you and you alone. Your race is what you make of it—you have a choice. You choose what you want this to be. You choose how to work within your limits to push past them. You choose to maintain a steady, slow pace and grind it out, mile after mile. You choose. Cerebral palsy does not get a vote.
From my Yoda session at the Oakley house, I headed over to the grand Royal Kona Resort to speak to the more than three hundred physicians and medical personnel who would staff the first-aid tents and roam the course to tend to competitors. The doctors also held the power to remove athletes from the race if they deemed it best. Dr. Bob Laird, the gray-haired, preternaturally calm Ironman medical director, who had overseen every race since 1981, introduced me. Over the next ten minutes, I spoke of my journey with cerebral palsy and how I wanted to remove the limitations people put on those with disabilities. I also highlighted the physical challenges I would face during the competition, from cramping and spasming muscles to difficulty retaining fluids, to low energy reserves (“I start with half a tank”), to an elevated heart rate, to difficulties with balance and eye–feet coordination.
Before I wrapped up with a rah-rah promotional video for my Ironman mission, I said, “Say hi to me out on the course. I’d love that. But please, do not make me stop or pull me from the race. I came here to finish, not to try.”
Afterward, Mike and I drove out to the Energy Lab before the sun fell. It was the part of the marathon course where I would be farthest away from the finish. In the daytime, the research center was eerie, with its enormous pipes that pumped water out of the ocean and white windowless buildings with names on the side like “Biosphere” this and “Hydro” that. I would be coming through at night, which I was dreading. We parked the SUV and walked down to the beach.
“I’m not looking forward to this part,” I said.
“Pretty brutal,” Mike replied.
“ ‘Where triathletes go to die,’ Welchy says.” I tried not to think of all the gnarly stories my coach had told me about the lab—about elite athletes entering in the lead only to exit far behind.
“It’s just another part of your race,” Mike said, though I was pretty sure he thought it would be where I would hit my wall.
Mike and I sat down on some rocks and watched the surf come in and roll out. We talked about his sobriety and how his faith was helping him with it.
“Do you believe in . . . God?” Mike asked. This wasn’t a conversation we had ever had before.
“Yeah,” I said awkwardly. “I don’t know if it’s God, exactly, but—”
“More like the universe, nature, energy?” Mike said.
“Definitely a power greater than ourselves, yeah.”
We sat there a long moment in silence.
Then Mike said, “I’ve been praying for you to finish, that you’ll be okay.”
I looked at him and grinned. “I’ve been praying for me too.”
We both laughed, shaking off the uncomfortable subject.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this together,” Mike said.
“Thanks for being there for me. What a journey!”
“Love you, bro.”
“Love you too, bro.”
It was the first time, since that initial swim in the Pacific together that we’d acknowledged the healing that had gone on between us. Neither of us was the same person we’d been that first day when we’d waded into the choppy surf at Bompa’s old swimming spot. This experience, this training, had changed us both, but more important, it had changed us together. We gave each other a long hug, never closer in our lives, and returned to the car.
We had a big dinner for forty people planned for that night. With my own money, I had rented a place a mile north of the pier for the final week. It was a multimillion-dollar spread, with a koi pond and a swimming pool like a lagoon, complete with waterfall. I spared no expense. I wanted someplace near the ocean where my family and friends could congregate without feeling on top of each other, and where I could relax and listen to the waves crashing. The back of the two-story house was almost completely glass, with huge sliding doors that opened out onto the patio. It was the bomb.
There I was in the early evening, waiting for everybody to arrive, chilling out on a lounge chair by the pool. There was a light breeze, and the surrounding palm trees made an almost hypnotic rustling. I was thinking of little Jake Robert. The thought sort of drifted away, and I put some Bob Marley on the stereo.
A few minutes later, one of the swivel chairs by the table on the opposite side of the pool started to turn in circles. It was the strangest thing. The other chairs around it were still, but this one kept rotating, counterclockwise, as if someone was perched on the edge.
Maybe it was the conversation with Mike, maybe it was the music and the palm trees and the crashing waves, but I did think for a brief moment that it might be Jakey, chilling with me. I felt very happy.
The dinner was a bit of a melee. LeFever cooked up burgers, and there were plenty of drinks, but I stuck to simple grilled chicken and rice, which would provide some good nutrients and not unsettle my stomach. I was incredibly grateful that everyone had come all this way to support me, but after so many questions—“Are you ready?” “How are you feeling?”—I simply wanted to retreat to my room.
Dilly gave me a pep talk, revving me up and saying he was there for whatever I needed. “I didn’t come for the coconuts,” he joked.
I also got to spend some time with Steve and Alison Robert. I told them about the swiveling chair I had seen earlier. The three of us were very emotional. “We’re proud of you,” Steve said. “Bring it home for Jakey.”
Coming up on 10 P.M., Mike played bouncer and broke up the festivities. The house quieted down, and I got some restless sleep.
October 12, the day before the race, I followed Welchy’s orders to a tee: “Do as little as possible and stay off your feet!” I was up early and had no trouble assuming the position. My feet up on an ottoman, I lounged on the patio with Michelle and my brothers, posted on Facebook, lingered over meals, and spent some time out by t
he ocean, mesmerized by the surf rushing through a blowhole worn into the lava rock.
In the early afternoon, I stepped into the pool. It was time to test out my shoulder. The pool was just about big enough to take a few strokes. A part of me didn’t even want to know. If my shoulder hurt, I was still going to compete, so what was the difference? But Welchy wanted to know if the injury was still a problem, to see whether there were any last-minute adjustments that might be made. Mike watched from the side as I dipped below water and then took a couple of strokes. My shoulder was tight, but there was no pain. I swam back and forth a couple times. No pain. It might not bother me until I had swum half a mile, but that was not going to happen in this pool. After breathing a long sigh, relieved but by no means reassured that my shoulder was going to be okay, I climbed out of the water.
At 4 P.M., Mike and I drove into town to set up my race bike and to drop off my bags (with GU energy gels, Bonk Breaker nutrition bars, bike shoes, running shoes, jersey) to the transition areas. The chute and the tower at the finish had been set up, and I closed my eyes and imagined myself crossing the line, the digital clock still in the sixteenth hour. Into the rack I placed my bike, the same Cannondale Synapse frame, but now with high-end wheels and components, and then let some air out of the tires. Welchy had advised this, because the air in the tires would expand on the hot asphalt, and we didn’t want the tubes to get overstressed and burst.
Later, I had a relaxed dinner with my family and a few friends. There was some gentle ribbing, like when I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and Matt joked, “Shouldn’t you just piss yourself, you know, just to get used to it?” Afterward we hung out by the pool. My dad and brothers told me how proud they were of me, finish or no finish.
I headed up to my room before the gathering broke up. The closer to the race, the quieter I became, every ounce of focus and energy going toward keeping myself calm. After laying out everything I needed for the morning, I strapped on the plantar fasciitis boots and crawled into bed.
In the middle of the night, I woke up with a jolt. My first thought was that it was time to go, but the clock only read 1 A.M. I thought about the race, about how my shoulder would hold up in the swim, about what I needed to eat first thing in the morning and right before the starting cannon. Then I walked through every stage of the Ironman in my head, mapping out what could go wrong and how I would react to it.
During the swim, I might get kicked in the head or punched in the shoulder. I told myself to stay efficient, not to let the blows knock me off my game. For the bike, I imagined how it would feel—cramped muscles, the spasms in my back from maintaining a hunched-over position, the crick in my neck from holding up my helmeted head, hour after hour. I thought of the terrible heat and of the long, windy uphill climb to Hawi. I knew it would be awful, eight hours of agony. I told myself to suck it up and deal with it. For the run? Whatever I had left in the tank would have to do. I pictured the Energy Lab at night and swore to myself that I would not become one of those people who lost the race on that dark stretch of pavement.
Most of all, I imagined others coming up alongside or passing me, whether on the swim, bike, or run, and I told myself not to worry about it. Maintain your pace, or you’ll exhaust yourself. Run your race, Bonner. Don’t let others distract you. Don’t compete with “normal.” Fight your fight.
Over the next few hours, I drifted in and out of sleep, my mind occupied by every minute and mile of the race ahead. Then, giving up on getting back to sleep, I got out of bed and went downstairs. The house was silent. I saw that some friends had posted inspirational messages on the walls: “Now Take Your Place in History” and “You Will Triumph.” I slid open the patio doors so I could hear the surf rushing through the blowhole. I made some gluten-free oatmeal with fresh fruit on top, the same breakfast I had had for the past six months, and some coffee. While I was eating, I e-mailed Welchy, thanking him for everything he had done to train and prepare me for the Kona Ironman.
His reply arrived within minutes. “I am a huge Bonner fan! I love you so, so much and have a careful way of showing it,” he started. “Enough blowing hot wind under your lame-ass tail. . . . I want you to remember a few things. Don’t get caught up in other people’s pace, and don’t get competitive! You have the job of staying on Bonner’s pace!” He concluded, “I want you to know that I am happy for you. You deserve it, and I am . . . loaning you all my abundant energy for the day. . . . Good luck, my friend!” Reading his words, knowing how much he supported me almost left me in a pool of tears.
I recovered by reading a host of other e-mails and text messages, including one from Chrissie Wellington: “I know you will succeed. . . . Can’t wait to meet you at the finish line!”
While I was in the middle of reading all these notes of love and support, Mike showed up downstairs, exactly on schedule: 4 A.M. Together we went through my gear, checking and double-checking everything, including my bottles of water with C5 mix and salt tabs. There was no need to speak, and I didn’t feel like talking much anyway. I knew he had my back, and this settled me like nothing else. Soon enough, we were in the SUV headed for the start. I stared at the sliver of moon that hung in the pitch-dark sky, absentmindedly rubbing the top of my head.
“You’re ready,” Mike kept repeating, as he maneuvered through the traffic-bound streets. He slowed to a halt by the King Kamehameha Hotel for me to get out. We gave each other a big hug, an “I love you,” and a “See you out there.”
The start area was controlled mayhem. Music blared, drowning out the predawn chirps of unseen birds in the palm trees. Race volunteers in blue shirts pointed the athletes, all pumped and primed, to where they needed to go to check in, weigh in, and have their race numbers done. “Follow the crowd” was the general advice. I joined the herd, telling myself to stay calm, to breathe. When I emerged from the tents, now shirtless and with the number 1421 stamped in black on my arms, the sky was beginning to lighten.
I threaded my way through the bands of athletes to the transition area on the pier. I set up my bike computer, pumped up the tires, and placed my bottles of frozen water and C5 electrolyte mix that I had brought from the house this morning into their holders (two on the frame, two behind the seat). They would soon thaw. Then I headed over to the lawn beside the King K to stretch on the grass. My every movement was slow and deliberate, and I took care to breathe deeply. I nibbled on a Bonk Breaker bar and took a few sips of water from another water bottle.
Spectators were pouring into the area. Helicopters hovered overhead. A line of Hawaiians in tribal outfits beat on drums, ramping up the already high intensity. Every few minutes, the announcer’s voice would boom out the race countdown. Already the waters of Kailua Bay were filling with swimmers, but following Welchy’s advice, I remained on dry land.
“We are about ready with almost two thousand triathletes,” boomed Mike Reilly, the legendary announcer of the Ironman Championship, over the loudspeakers. “This is the hardest finish line on the planet, and you’re going to get there today.”
Ten minutes before the start, I joined the line of triathletes waiting to descend the narrow staircase off the pier into the water. I looked out at the sea of blue (for men) and pink (for women) caps bobbing in the bay. Many were crowded up against the wall of paddleboarders forming a start line at the opening of the bay. On the seawall surrounding the half-moon bay, thousands of spectators cheered and whistled.
This is it. No turning back now. Dig deep. Give it everything you got. This is it. This is it.
Moving slowly forward in the line, I found myself standing next to Kevin Robson, whom I had met through TYR, my swim sponsor. Although Kevin was suffering from terminal cancer, it had been his lifelong dream to race in the Ironman. Whenever I had bumped into him during the week, he had been the soul of calm. Now he looked like a man about to walk the plank. His eyes were huge, and he kept swaying back and forth, arms hugging his chest. I knew I probably looked the same. We gave each other a half
smile.
“Anybody seen an ocean around here?” I asked.
Kevin laughed for a brief moment, and then Mike Reilly rang in with another countdown.
Stomach uneasy, throat dry, feeling as though I needed to urinate, when at last it was my turn, I headed down the stairs to the water. Someone called out my name. I looked up to see Chrissie Wellington, the four-time Ironman World champion, leaning over the railing and waving at me. I gave her a thumbs-up, and she shouted, “Today is your day, Bonner. Nothing will stop you. I believe in you.”
I breathed deeply, wanting to believe her, and then I dropped into Kailua Bay.
13
Go Time
Five minutes,” Reilly announced over the loudspeakers. Kevin and I stood next to each other, knee-deep in the water, as we wetted our goggles and put them over our eyes.
“Who is ready to be an Ironman today?” Reilly asked. We held our arms over our heads and yawped.
“Today is your day,” I said to Kevin, repeating Chrissie’s words.
“You’ll crush it,” he replied. Then we hugged, wished each other luck, and said at the same time, “See you at the finish.”
Then I turned, dove into the water, and swam out to find a starting spot. After I had taken a few strokes, my nerves settled somewhat. My shoulder felt okay, but I couldn’t help but worry about what would happen if it flared up before the second buoy, as it had done before. I swam a hundred yards toward the shore, looking for a place away from the dense pack of swimmers, so I could avoid getting kicked and punched—especially in the shoulder.
One More Step: My Story of Living with Cerebral Palsy, Climbing Kilimanjaro, and Surviving the Hardest Race on Earth Page 20
