Chapter 1
Taupo Half Ironman
Dawn is just breaking and the mist is slowly lifting off the lake. The stars are fading into the light of day as I wheel my bike and gear into the transition area for today’s triathlon. This is where we will change from wetsuits into bike clothes, then bike clothes into running gear. Quick transitions are important, as is discreetly discarding gear without flashing the other athletes and their families.
It is 5:30 a.m. I am the first competitor to arrive and I am a bundle of nerves. It is freezing cold and I am chilled to the bone. I stand my bike in the rack, then walk down to the edge of the lake. Silence and tranquility surrounds me; the only noise is the ripple of wavelets finishing their journey as they ruffle the lake edge and sift watery fingers through hundreds of tiny, smooth pebbles. The scent of the gum trees around the car park is calming, reminding me of my childhood home and happy times. I remember making a hut in the gums with my kid brother on the farm. Finding a rock to sit on, I look across the distance where the sunrise has painted Mt. Ruapehu’s snow-capped peak in shades of pink fading to an icy white blue. The magic of Lake Taupo is palpable.
In my mind, I hear the pre-race sounds of previous Ironman triathlons—the haka challenge—chanting Tuwharetoa Maori paddling their waka along the lakefront, the 1000-odd wetsuited competitors slowly entering the water. Competitors come from New Zealand, the Americas, Australia, Japan and up to thirty other countries. The music pumps over the P.A. system. Supporters line the edge of the lake cheering and clapping. The countdown begins, “Ten, nine, eight, seven,” and Mike Reilly’s voice booms out across the lake, giving encouragement and retelling the story of the Ironman.
“It all began in 1978 when 15 Marines argued over who was the strongest and fittest: swimmers, runners or cyclists. Over some drinks, they came up with the idea to put them all together in one stupendous race. On a beach in Hawaii, the marines combined several races already in existence and decided on a 3.8 km swim, a 180 km bike ride and a 42 km run. Each year, the challenge was taken up again and became known as the ‘Ironman.’”
Every year, Mike’s words roar out from his megaphone letting the athletes know how wonderful they are, telling them, “The days and months of training through wind, rain, sun and snow have been worth all the pain to be here on the start line. By the end of the day you will be AN IRONMAN!”
I am standing in the place where these words were spoken, these dreams begun. On the first Saturday of every March, Ironman New Zealand starts right here. The wind sighs in the pines. The crunch of tires on gravel reminds me others are arriving. Race time is an hour away.
This time yesterday morning I was still in bed, in my three-bedroom brick home in the city of Hamilton. My house has a lovely, large lounge with huge windows that catch the morning and afternoon sun. I often stand at the opening of the large French doors, look out at my neighbours and subdue winter’s chill with the comforting heat from my fireplace. Hamilton is in the middle of the North Island of New Zealand, approximately 120 kilometers south of Auckland. I drove here in my Mazda MX5, adorned with my bike securely mounted on the tow bar. I have come to believe my MX5 is unique to NZ. I have logged many miles driving to events over the past several months and have never spotted another similarly accessorized Mazda.
It is now 5:45 Saturday morning and I am about to attempt my first Half Ironman. In eleven weeks, I will line up here with over a thousand others to tackle Ironman New Zealand. I will be an Iron virgin—tackling the full course for the first time. I have severe rheumatoid arthritis. My joints are painful and deformed, affecting all three disciplines of the triathlon. My audacity astounds my coaches, my family and me.
As I look along the lakefront, a bitter wind curls around me sending shivers down my back. Pulling my coat closer, I think it is going to be an icy cold swim. I smell a hint of rain in the air. Leaning down into the water and checking its temperature with my fingers reinforces my belief it’s going to be a crazy day. What the hell am I thinking—swimming two kilometers at 6:30 a.m. in the freezing snowmelt that dribbles down from the mountains far on the other side of the lake? The wetsuit will help a bit, but it is still going to be the coldest swim of my life.
I look south of the start line, past the Taupo yacht club. Lights sparkle through the trees lining the lakefront road, a diamond necklace made from the homes and hotels that curl around the lake, reflecting and twinkling in the water. Later, along the same road, there will be people scattered around, watching the swim as well as the final run home. The footpath will be littered with posters of support from families patiently waiting to cheer their loved ones to the finish.
This Half Ironman follows the course of the full Ironman event in March, but is only half the distances: a 2 km swim, 90 km cycle and 21 km run. Walking back from the edge of the lake to transition, I double-check the gear I have set out for the bike and run, making sure I have all I could possibly need, placed in its correct order. Setting up transition is a ritual, offered to the gods of triathlon: the gods of lake and road, of no flat-tires, of a steady tail wind, any gods able to get the tired athlete home.
Slowly, one by one, competitors are arriving, loading their bikes on the racks at transition, checking all their gear and pulling on their wetsuits. As I look around at everyone, I see supremely fit looking people, relaxed and chatting to each other, catching up since they met at their last event. They look so relaxed, as if it was just another day at the office, unlike me attempting my first Half Ironman. What in the hell was I thinking? I kept reminding myself that triathletes like a person having a go. It does not matter what place you finish at or how good or bad you are. It is the mere fact of giving it a go; no one is a loser in a triathlon.
Indeed, it is a very democratic sport, where world champions routinely line up with novices. Just up from the lake edge, where we will get out of the water from the 2 km swim, there is a tent with two huge industrial gas heaters to warm us up after the swim and coax our frozen muscles into readiness for ninety kilometers of cycling. The water is so cold that wetsuits are compulsory. Any athlete not out of the water in seventy minutes will not be allowed to finish the race. The risk of hypothermia is real, an added incentive to swim hard.
“Ten minutes everyone. You should have your wetsuit on. Time to think about getting in the lake to warm up.” The announcement by Wayne Reardon, one of the Race Directors, rattled over the public address system. “Warm up in this melted ice?” I thought to myself. “Yeah right…” Even the obligatory nervous pee in the wetsuit won’t feel warm for long today.
Back at the edge of the lake, my friend Grant helps pull my wetsuit sleeve up my arms. I just don’t have the strength; my arthritis is particularly bad at the moment, especially in my left forearm. Finally, he gets my wetsuit zipped up, making sure my pull cord is placed correctly with the Velcro tab at the back of the neck. If it’s not right it will chafe and hurt. I repeat the favour for him. Damn my left wrist is sore…
Grant is one of the most supportive and influential people I know. He got me into this sport. He is a very outgoing guy and not shy to say what he thinks about my training, whether it is funny, stupid, or critical. He has competed in Ironman several times and always has an opinion on my training or nutrition or rest schedule. We sometimes argue, but his intention is always encouraging and supportive. He makes time to answer my questions, however basic, and gives me loads of advice.
I am glad he is doing this triathlon with me. Grant is someone I can chat with at the start line, someone who will say something funny to make me laugh and take away the nerves as we shiver out into the cold water to await the start gun.
Grant took me to watch the 2005 Ironman event in Taupo. It was the most inspirational and overwhelming event I had ever witnessed, especially the final hour. The experience of being there, witnessing the pain and agony, the tears and the joy, the excitement and the overwhelming sense of achievement, was so intense it warmed me like flames dancing in a fire. The event had a profound effect on me and continues to inspire me. I cannot imagine anyone not being moved when watching the athletes running, walking, wobbling or crawling the last two hundred meters down the finishing chute under the glow from the overhead lights—the music pumping, the crowd singing, cheering, clapping, and then, hearing the ritual words of Mike Reilly roaring, “You are an IRONMAN!”
As we wait for the next competitor to arrive at the finish line, Mike encourages the crowd to keep singing with the music, creating an epic competitive atmosphere that only he could. Amongst all the jubilation, a competitor comes running, crawling, limping down the finishing chute and the crowd just goes crazy! Mike deafens the crowd with “You Are an IRONMAN!” as they cross the finish line. In recognition of the effort this race demands, the finishing tape is placed up anew for every competitor. The Ironman finish is something I will always remember. That night, I decided that someday I wanted to hear that magical mantra for myself. Training through rain and sleet, as my arthritis burned and my lungs ached, I imagined Mike saying to me, “Barbara Mockford—you are an Ironman!” My eyes filled with tears whenever I imagined those words. Without fanfare, my life course had changed. I too would be an Ironman!
“Nine minutes everyone. You should have done your stretching by now. Slowly make your way down to the water. 13 Celsius isn’t that cold, you know,” announced Wayne with a wry smile in his voice.
Everywhere around me, there is nervous excitement. Spectators are hugging and wishing good luck to friends and family members bracing to enter the freezing water. There was no one to cheer for me—no family or partner. I was taking on this race alone apart from my friend Grant, but this race was not about a partner or friend cheering me on, it was a personal goal to achieve, a step to tick off on the way to the main event next year. I would ask my family to watch me achieve the impossible: to witness me walk or wobble over the finish line at Ironman New Zealand in March 2007, to share my triumph and joy.
It is only minutes before the start now. My wrist has swollen over three centimeters in circumference and throbs with every heartbeat. I take an extra couple of painkillers. Grant and I begin walking to the lake edge. I flinch as I walk over the cold stony beach and the odd sharp pebble stabs my feet. My stomach is doing nervous somersaults. Grant’s wife gives him a hug for good luck and wishes me all the best. In the back of my mind I go over the past eleven months—training through rain, wind and sun, the events I had completed—hoping all my preparation would get me to the finish line today.
This is my big day, a test to see if I can achieve my goal of completing the Ironman in eleven weeks. As I ease into the water, it bites into every nerve ending in my body. The water is so cold that I find it difficult to breathe easily. Around me, people are gasping with the chill and I hear the odd screech as someone hits the icy water. I look at these fit athletes, placing goggles over their eyes, showing no signs of anxiety, only excitement and determination. If only I had an ounce of their confidence! The mere thought of swimming in this freezing water is just mad! No matter how fast I tread water, my thin wetsuit gives very little insulation and I am cold to the core. Everyone around me is chatting about other triathlons, relating funny stories and other experiences that help take their minds, and mine, off of the enormity of the event. I do not have any stories to tell yet, but at the next triathlon, I too will have a story to share with someone just as nervous as I am to help take their fears away.
I was first diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in 1997. I was 32 at the time and engaged to be married. My fiancé was not supportive, and I was questioning our engagement while working long hours and not getting a lot of rest. On the bus to work one morning, I noticed a red patch on the side of two knuckles on my right hand. I could not recall banging or scraping my fingers, and put them out of my mind. When they looked worse and felt achy the next day, I made an appointment to see my family doctor. I knew about arthritis. My mother suffered from it, but I never imagined that I might have it. The doctor took blood tests, but the results did not confirm arthritis. We assumed I had knocked the fingers, and that the pain would go away. A couple of months later, my shoulder felt like glass shavings were rolling around it each time I moved and I was breaking into a sweat from just putting my suit on for work each morning. I could hardly walk in my high heels. My ankles and hips were painful, and I tried to keep the pain at bay by taking high doses of Voltaren. I agreed to another blood test. This test was positive—the diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis was official.
My life at the time was full of stress. I had two jobs, was going to the gym daily, not eating well, and had no support from my fiancé with household chores. I think these stresses all combined to overload my body, fast-tracking the onset of my arthritis. My diagnosis failed to spark needed physical and emotional support from my fiancé. Life for him carried on as usual. I still had to clean the house and cook. A year later, I broke our engagement and left him. My arthritis continued to bring pain, but my personal life improved immensely.
Wayne’s voice cuts through my reverie, “Five minutes everyone! You should be warmed up now. Start thinking about where you want to be on the start line, making sure you’re in the right place. If this is your first big event or you are nervous swimming with others, sit at the back and let the others go ahead. Swim smart, pace yourself. Have a good day out there everyone! You have worked hard to be here today so enjoy the moment!”
He has to be kidding! How can anyone be enjoying this bloody cold water? All I can feel is pain! I put my face in the water and feel the beginnings of hyperventilation caused by the cold. I will have to concentrate on slow, deep breaths. I wonder if an ice cream headache will take my mind off my arthritic left wrist.
“Thirty seconds to go everyone! Have a great day! Be proud of getting to the start line and good luck!”
The only good thing about this water being so cold is that it numbs my wrist, which is now hideously swollen. Last night, I visited the hospital in Taupo to request a cortisone injection to settle the pain in my wrist. Because it was a small local hospital with minimal staffing, they declined. I hoped the combination of the painkillers I took at 4:30 this morning and the freezing water would give me some relief. I cannot believe that today of all days, my arthritis decides to have its own little party! Ignoring pain is normal for me, but today it is extra bothersome. I just have to try to ignore my wrist, which is now twice its normal size.
“Enjoy the race everyone! We will see you at the finish line!”
Bang!
Suddenly, I find myself among a flurry of seemingly disconnected arms and legs. The odd unintended kick in the face and choking mouthful of water remind me to stay focused. I decide to let everyone go on ahead and enjoy the moment. Setting a steady, slow pace, I ignore the irritation I begin to feel in my left arm. I just keep the right arm following the left arm round and round, concentrating on moving forward. I look up after five hundred meters, and notice that almost everyone is already going around the first buoy. They have gone nine hundred meters to my five hundred. It is a relief and wonderful feeling of achievement to reach the first buoy. After a short pause to congratulate myself, I realize I now need to swim seventy meters across the lake to the second buoy before turning back towards the yacht club. Seventy meters, only three lengths of the training pool in my neighbourhood. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and get some respite from the freezing, crystal-clear lake water. I have never known my arthritis to hurt so much. Perhaps the adrenaline of the event is amplifying the pain.
I put my face back in the water and struggle to slow my breathing.
“Oh shit, I will never make it!”
Stay focused. “It’s only arthritis, there are other folks going through worse pain in the world.”
I finally reach the last buoy to head back to the finish when I realize someone is yelling at me.
“Hey, this way. Hey over there, this way. Hey you—this way!”
I stop swimming to look up. A race marshal on a surfboard is yelling at me and trying to get my attention. I am swimming in the wrong direction toward Mt. Ruapehu! If he had not yelled at me, I might be still swimming stroke by painful stroke toward the mountains.
Swimming in the right direction during the last leg, I felt a searing, burning sensation in my left arm. I decide to try to swim with one arm, which is clearly unsuccessful. Even though the pain seems unbearable, I resign myself to using both arms while getting to the finish line. I kept saying to myself, “It’s just arthritis. Get over it.” I think I can manage this pain on the bike and the run. I just have to make it to the shore.
Only a few months ago, I was on a beautiful island in Fiji swimming in 25º (77ºF) water in a pool, with my sister Gael lounging poolside saying, “You look like a drowning turtle.” How different it is now in the 13º (55ºF) water of Lake Taupo. I must really look like a drowning turtle with only one arm engaging properly. Two hundred meters from the finish line, two race marshals are paddling along each side of me to guide me home. They are a bit close for my liking, so I temporarily stop swimming and tread water.
“Don’t get too close to me please,” I plead. I appreciate their attentiveness in guiding me to the finish line. It is wonderful, but I am so fearful that with my arms flailing around in this haphazard way I will hit their paddles. Still treading water, I said with a weak smile to the race marshals in the kayak and on the surfboard, “I’m worried I will hit my arm on your paddle. Could you paddle a bit further out from me? I’ve got bad arthritis and my arm is killing me.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem. You have not got far to go now, just stop when you want to stop. We can help you onto the back of the kayak and get you into a warm tent to thaw out when you are back on shore.” His demeanour was reassuring but I could hear concern in his voice.
“Thank you both, but I would like to finish this swim. I have to be able to say I at least finished the swim.”
The race marshal on the surfboard said, “Hey don’t worry about us. Take your time. We will be right beside you if you change your mind.” Time was ticking by and the colder I got, the more I realized my day of racing was about to end.
I finally got out of the water second to last, being helped out by those fantastic men. I felt like a walking block of ice. They directed me into the first aid tent where two glorious gas heaters were running like jet engines blasting the cold out of me. The attendants carefully stripped my wetsuit off and wrapped me up in blankets. Sitting next to me was another competitor shivering and drinking hot chocolate. The smell of chocolate and the thought of drinking something so smooth, warm and comforting was divine. Next thing I knew I had one in my cold blue hands. The chocolate tasted great, but defeat left a bad taste on my lips.
“God I feel sick and my arm hurts like hell. It must be five centimeters bigger in circumference now.” A medic in the tent was watching over the cold competitors.
“Have you taken any medication?”
“Yeah, all of my arthritis medication at 4:30, three Salazo-pyrin and two Paradex, then another couple of Paradex at 6:15.”
“You have probably taken too much medication, which is making you feel nauseated.”
“Mmm, it is the maximum amount prescribed for me, but you may be right. My arm is burning like hell!”
“See how you feel after you finish your hot chocolate and you are a bit warmer.”
I look around outside the tent at all the spectators and can see my coach Wendy Chrisp among them, which is reassuring. Wendy walks up to the tent.
“Hey Barbs, how are you doing?”
“I feel terrible Wendy, my arm hurts like hell! I feel sick and there is no way I can carry on with the bike and run. It’s gutting after all our hard work.”
“Come back to my place and have a hot shower and change and we will chat about where we go from here, okay?”
Wendy stayed with me in the tent until I was feeling warm, less sick, and able to drive back to her house to refresh myself. The rest of the day was a write-off. Firstly, I was frozen. Secondly, my arm was agonizing. And thirdly, I was terribly nauseated. The race medic was probably right. I had taken too many painkillers—so I ended up sitting on the main street cheering for the other athletes while munching on McDonald’s and hoping the food would settle my stomach.
The odds of a spot prize in this race are good as there are only about 150 competitors. I mentioned to my coach that at least I completed the swim and would not feel too guilty if I won a spot prize. It was frustrating seeing everybody finish, smiles of jubilation on their tired faces, the finishers’ medal hung around their necks, their friends and family running up to congratulate them. I was happy for the finishers, but heartbroken I did not have the same experience and result.
For the past eleven months, I had trained like a robot: completing each week’s training with a report for my coach, completing the 100 km cycle race from Rotorua to Taupo, the half-marathon in Taupo, an 80 km leg of the 160 km cycle race around Lake Taupo, and the Tinman triathlon at Mt. Maunganui.
Today, I was putting all my training together to test my ability to attempt the full Ironman. On a positive note, in a couple of weeks I would be back in training, assuming my arthritis settles down. I could get a cortisone injection in the painful area in my arm and test myself at the Rotorua Half Ironman next Saturday with my friend, Lauren.
Lauren Roche is a doctor, author and friend I made at one of the training camps our coach, Wendy, organized in the middle of the year in Taupo. On one of the rest days, Lauren and I went to a cafe for lunch to swap notes, grouch about training and commiserate on all the things we miss out on during the weekends while we are out on the road cycling or training in the other two disciplines.
Lauren lives in Napier and was attempting her first Ironman in 2007. She has so much spunk; short, short blond hair; pink-rimmed glasses; and a gorgeous sports car. Hearing her story of riding her stationary cycle a hundred meters down her hillside garden while training inspired me even more to pursue my crazy idea to do an Ironman. Lauren loves everything pink. I could not stop smiling after she told me she was going to wear pink shoes, pink skirt, pink top, pink cap, pink everything at next week’s Half Ironman in Rotorua.
Despite only completing the swim leg, I won a triathlon wetsuit from one of the event sponsors, Xterra! The wetsuit was beautiful, smooth and soft like a second skin. I was so excited about winning that I left my $300 sunglasses on a table at the prize giving. Realizing my loss several minutes later, I raced back to thankfully find them still there! What a relief that was.
Driving back home to Hamilton, my pain was horrific. Anyone following me would probably have thought I was drunk! I drove with one arm and found fifth gear very difficult to manage. Grant and his wife followed me. A quick stop for a coffee in a small town on the way home gave me five minutes to relax. I looked at Grant through my car window and said, “God my arm is still bloody sore! I can hardly drive!”
“Toughen up B, it’s only an arm.”
“Yeah right. You drive with a sore arm and nausea. If it was you, a bloke, you would act as though the world was coming to an end.”
“Pain is your friend B.” Grant had two mantras while road cycling, “pain is your friend” and “hills are your friend.” I didn’t believe either of those monstrous lies.
“Yeah, yeah, bleat, bleat, bleat.”
Grant smiled at my remark and closed his car door.
That night I was still feeling ill and at one point raced to the bathroom, only to dry retch. I had a pitiful night’s sleep. I woke up feeling nauseated and rushed to the bathroom again to dry retch. I knew this was not a normal arthritis symptom. I walked into my flatmates’ room, showing them my swollen wrist. (I lived with a cardiac nurse, Mel, and her friend, also a nurse.) They felt I needed urgent medical assessment. I rang Mum and told her. She agreed that I should go to the hospital, so I did.
The usual wait in the Emergency Department was terrible. It was just after nine on a Sunday morning; I wanted to get out of this place, full of crying babies and the groans of the sick and injured. Finally, a nurse called my name and walked me through to the Emergency section of the clinic for an X-ray.
Back in my cubicle, the attending doctor put the X-ray up on the light box. I knew a little about X-rays from the many I had taken for arthritis checks on my joints. He stood back to examine it. I do not need the doctor to tell me that my wrist is broken. The bones do not line up properly, and, more worrisome, there is a large black spot where crisp white bone should be. I know straight away that my bone is not normal.
A frown appeared on the doctor’s face. He had taken my medical history earlier and knew that I was quite fit. He looked worried and puzzled. He went away with my X-ray to consult with his colleagues. In the meantime, I rang Mum and gave her an update. I fractured the radius in my left forearm while I was doing the Half Ironman swim, explaining that hot, burning sensation and subsequent increase in pain. The black patch on my radius freaked me out the most. I did not want to think too hard about what it might mean.
While waiting for Mum, Gael and the doctor, I rang my brother Allan to wish him a happy birthday. I told him that I was in the hospital with a broken arm and a black spot on one of the bones. Allan is not someone who chats for long on the phone, only necessary information is shared before he ends the call. I said goodbye and assured him I would call him the next day.
Gael and Mum arrived. The doctor put the X-rays back on the display wall and pointed to the black patch on my left radius. He felt it was probably infected. The radius looked like a tree with a rotten branch. Osteomyelitis, an infection in the bone, was the probable diagnosis. Such an infection would cause a weak spot that appeared black on an X-ray. The doctor suggested the mechanical stresses of a long swim could easily make the weakened bone splinter.
To confirm his diagnosis, the doctor took a bone biopsy. He covered my skin with topical anaesthetic for 45 minutes, and then injected a local anaesthetic in the same place. When he brought out another syringe, my jaw dropped—the needle was so long! The doctor told me he had to push this long needle through my bone and suck out bone marrow to do cultures to determine what bug I had.
Looking at the long needle going into my wrist made me feel sick. I absolutely hate needles! I could feel the pressure of the needle on my bone. The resistance offered by the bone forced the doctor to gradually guide the needle through my swollen wrist and made the procedure seem excruciatingly slow. It was a heavy, dull feeling rather than pain. I wanted it all to be finished quickly but it was like watching a horror film in slow motion. It took an absolute eternity for the syringe to fill with marrow. All the way through the procedure, my doctor said supportive words and commented on how brave I was. I was all alone apart from the doctor. Gael and Mum had driven home to Te Awamutu, a 40 minute drive away. Mum was worn out, as she also suffers severe arthritis and tires easily. I was glad they did not witness this awful procedure; it would have been horrible for them both.
The doctor admitted me to the hospital overnight, waiting for the culture results. Lying in my bed, I realized there was no chance I would be able to do the Rotorua Half Ironman the following Saturday with Lauren. That sucked. Not to be disappointed, I decided the next best thing would be to become her support crew and cheer her home during the long swim, cycle race and run around Blue Lake. I planned my escape from the hospital on Friday. I would buy pink pom-poms and anything else pink that I could find to wave and cheer for my Iron buddy. Feeling a lot happier with a plan and loads of fun to look forward to, I was able to drift off to sleep, confident that when I awoke the doctors would surely tell me I could leave after a couple of days of antibiotics to cure the infection in my arm…………………..