The walk with Audra and my mom from the apartment to the shuttle was incredibly tranquil. I say incredibly because a little more than 12 hours earlier I was at the height of anxiety trying to get my run and bicycle gear positioned in their respective transition areas. The line for the shuttle was very long, as there were literally thousands of people—athletes and their families and friends—waiting to hop on an endless line of school buses to get to the Res. Thousands of crazy people up hours before dawn to either traverse or watch others traverse 140.6 miles without the assistance of any motors, engines, fossil fuels or electricity. When we arrived at the Res, the light was just beginning to stain the darkness and you could see the silhouettes of the athletes against the swim course. It was going to be a beautiful day…too beautiful.

 There wasn’t a cloud overhead, which meant there was nothing to block the sun on the bike course and half of the run course. Nevertheless, the water was the focus of the moment and for the swim at least, a clear sky meant good visibility. Due to some last minute logistical issues related to the amount of fuel and water I had consumed earlier in the morning, I had to make a hasty change into my wetsuit, goggles and swim cap. It was now 6:30 am and the age groupers (the non-professional triathletes) were off. It would take almost 15 minutes from the race gun until I got in the water, but that gave me some time to recover from the near sprint to the starting queue. I jumped into the rolling mass of athletes moving toward the water just before the sign that read “1:31 – 1:45”, as I had anticipated finishing the swim in about 1:30 (as it turns out, I finished in 1:30:03). The swim started fine enough until some very tall clod kept cutting diagonally back and forth in front of me; and no matter which direction I headed, left or right, he was there. It was like swimming with a giant fly buzzing around my head, except that if this fly kicked me in the face, it could have meant the end of my day. 

Thankfully, and miraculously, he and just about everyone else that seemed to be around me on the first leg out toward the far side of the Res disappeared on the first left turn of the swim course. When I looked up after the turn, there was nothing but calm waters and few swimmers. This respite from the chaos of the first leg of the swim lasted until the next turn buoy. When I made the next left to head back to shore, the most amazing thing happened. I actually got faster, or everyone around me got slower, but either way, I was actually passing people in the water, which was a first for me. Just before I got to the swim exit, it hit me that the swim was over and that the swim, which gave me the most consternation before for the race, was likely going to be the easiest and least painful event of the day (and it was). Exiting the swim, I remembered Audra’s direction to me. “As soon as you get out of the water, pull your wetsuit down!” So as soon as I got out of the water, I reached across my back with my left arm, grabbed the Velcro at the back of my neck and proceeded to start falling over to my left with the Velcro still attached. 

Thankfully, a volunteer caught and steadied me, opened the Velcro and pulled down the zipper, allowing me to get my wetsuit to my waist within feet of exiting the water. As my mom described it, I looked like a pro coming out of the water with my wetsuit down and everyone around me still suited up and dazed. Of course, she didn’t see me almost topple over coming out of the water. T1 (the swim to bike transition) was an experience. I grabbed my bike gear bag and headed to the change tent, but it looked dark, wet and foreboding. There were a couple of guys who starting changing just outside the tent on the dry grass, so I decided to join them. My transition time left much to be desired, but I made sure I had dry feet and that all my gear was in the right place. I downed some water, a Gu, a quarter of a PB&J sandwich, and shared my towel and sunscreen with the guys around me (the number of which was growing steadily), mostly to appease the Ironman gods. To get to my bike, I had to cross through the T1 tent, and it looked and felt like a prison camp. Mud an inch thick was everywhere. It was dark, dank and hot. There were bodies everywhere struggling to get ready for the next Ironman leg. Slogging through, I was elated that I had improvised my transition plan and changed in the dry, clean grass. I dropped off my swim gear bag and headed to the bike, getting a chance to high 5 Audra on the way. The start of the bike course was grand. Downhill, wind at my back, and with all sorts of energy knowing I just conquered the swim, I started blowing by my fellow athletes even as I was telling myself to slow down (which I did not need to say at the back half of the bike course). The scenery was great. Mountains to my left, the town of Boulder to my right and these great rolling hills in front of me. I was knocking out miles, fueling as instructed and feeling just fantastic. Even the first big climb seemed easy. I felt like I was going to cruise through the bike course. That was until we turned west into the wind, starting climbing in the heat and my toes caught on fire. Not literally, but every time I pressed down on the pedals it felt like I was pressing my big toes into a red hot ember bed. When we started heading west, I commented to a fellow biker that the person who designed the course with second half headed directly into the wind clearly had a sense of humor. The hills around miles 97-104, seemed a bit sadistic. But all of this was somewhat predictable and expected. 

Having my toes catch on fire for almost half the ride was something I never imagined. Numb toes, expected. Fire toes—not in the program. Nevertheless, the downhill from miles 88-92 was a thrill. At about mile 90, I looked down at my Garmin and saw I was moving at about 32 miles an hour, which felt lightning fast after the slog through miles 62 to 85. Just as I looked up, I saw this bright neon sign that read “GO MALLOW” being held up by Audra and Leslie, who themselves were all decked out in riding gear. I was almost giddy that they caught me moving like a bullet train at mile 90, rather than 4 miles back where I was more like the little train that could. When I got to T2, I opened the straps on my bike shoes, and planned to hop off my bike and leave my shoes clipped to the pedals just like the pros. Running in just sox was supposed to help me get through the long transition from the dismount area to the T2 changing area faster. On reflection, I should have practiced that move before the race because as I approached the dismount line, I couldn’t get my feet out of my shoes, even with them open. As I started to do a reenactment of my now famous intersection stop at the corner of Minaret and Main in Mammoth (for those who haven’t heard the story, I road 111 miles without incident, only to fall over slow motion style as I came to a stop at the intersection because I couldn’t get my feet out of the clips), I hastily unclipped from the pedals, preventing what would have been a grand embarrassment, as my mom and my running partner, Tom Hoffman, were taking multiple pictures and would have likely got one of me falling over on my bike. T2 was nothing like T1. It was clean, relatively empty, and my volunteer was like a guardian angel. He grabbed my bag, organized all my running gear, took my disgusting bike gear and bagged it up and asked me if I needed water, sunscreen, food, etc. I left T2 feeling great. And I knew that once I was off the bike, I was going to be an Ironman, it was just a matter of how long it would take. The run course was like a Tale of Two Cities. 

The western portion was adjacent to Boulder Creek, with lots of tree cover and tremendous crowd support. It felt relatively cool and, when heading east, was primarily a downhill grade. I saw Tom as soon as I exited T2 and saw my mom within the first mile heading out on the run course. When I looked down at my Garmin, I was moving fast, too fast. I was at an 8:12 pace and knew that was a bad idea. I continued to work on slowing down through mile 2 and 3, but seeing Audra and Leslie fired me up again, so slowing down was tough. That was until the trees disappeared, the crowd support was gone and the blast furnace turned on, hiking the temperature to 93 degrees. I should have known something like this was coming because as I was heading out, I could see numerous athletes with single digit numbers walking in the other direction toward me. True, they were a lap ahead of me on the run course and were heading to the finish, but they were pros, or looked like pros, and they should not have been walking. To the extent I had any notion of breaking 12 hours (and I was still on pace to do that), I knew that was a pipedream. Within a mile of leaving the trees, I was already picking areas to walk in an effort to conserve energy. I was also battling my stomach. I knew I had to fuel to get through the day, and I did. But that came at a cost. Every ¼ mile or so I would get hit with cramps that bent me over. 

I made a pit stop at about mile 7 in the run course that brought no relief, but cost me about 5 minutes. As I started on my second loop, which was back on the downhill grade and in the trees, I picked up the pace and trotted along. I could see the pain in the runners passing by me and knew that as fatigued as I was, I was still much better off than most. It also helped to have Tom popping up everywhere on the course. He must have done half a marathon getting from point-to-point to cheer me on. A third of the way into my second loop, Audra and Leslie appeared again with the “Go Mallow” sign. After Audra and I had a nice stroll toward the “bad lands” of the run course (and I do mean stroll as in the speed of an after dinner walk, which was probably good for Audra too since she rode 50 miles and ran about a half-marathon just to “watch” the race), I bid her farewell and made my last push toward the finish. I kept the pace at about a 10:30 mile, which enabled me to pass many athletes without getting winded or depleting the energy I had left. I spent most of the last 7 miles high fiving the crowd, yelling out to my fellow LA Tri athletes and thinking about the finish chute. Now let me tell you about the finish chute. I have done 9 marathons and many more races and nothing, nothing compares to coming down the last 150-200 yards of the Ironman. It was like a kingly coronation. The crowd was loud and proud. When I turned the corner and headed toward the finish line, I was whipping the crowd into an even bigger frenzy with my arms flying, fists pumping and screaming with all the energy I had left. It felt incredible. I was feet away from being an Ironman! There was no recollection of burning toes or hot winds in my face or scorching temperatures on the run. There was only my coronation as Ironman! 

A year of wanting, 16 weeks of training and just over 13 hours of earning this moment, and every split second was worth millions. And then I heard it: “Michael Mallow, YOU! ARE! AN! IRONMAN!” On the course there are many inspirational signs, but the one that struck me most was “Pain is temporary, Ironman is forever!” And now I am one of them. And to answer the question that I hear most, yes, I can’t wait to do it again. So many good things came out of this Ironman for me. But I’m glad to say that there was good beyond me as well. Thanks to you, my Ironman experience has raised over $15,000 for Team Prime Time. And I can tell you that Peter Strauss and all of the student athletes and student coaches who get even more out of TPT than I got out of Ironman, appreciate your generosity and support of my Team Prime Time Ironman challenge. And for those who meant to give, but didn’t get a chance, it is not too late. 

Just go to https://www.crowdrise.com/michaelmallowteamPrimeTime. 

Thanks again for being there for me!!! With gratitude and thankfulness, Michael … Ironman.