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DALLAS (CBSDFW.COM) – Doug Dunbar – Race day in Kona Hawaii:
The alarm goes off at 4am, in reality, I was up about 3:30. I did manage to get a fairly good night’s sleep, but it took about 2 hours to finally get the body to shut down.
Walking into Ironman Kona is a process. First, body marking. Dozens of volunteers lined up to take each competitor, put the sticky tattoo on each arm, that will now be your identifier all day. In less than three minutes, 609 is tattooed and ready.
Next stop, weigh in. 176 pounds exactly. After 6 months of pretty intense and consistent training, I’m at the weight I was in high school. My normal adult weight has been a very steady 188. I laugh as I step off the scale, so do the volunteers. They know why I’m laughing. I’ve had people tell me for months now how “skinny” I look. Training for this beast does take just about every inch of fat off this body, not much left to spare.
Walking into the bike set up and transition area on the pier in Kona, is something a lot of triathletes dream about. The carpet is a soft green indoor/outdoor. Not the crappy hard kind. This carpet feels good walking on it, I think “worthy of the Worlds” as I march in with others. It’s quiet despite many athletes being in transition, laying out what hydration and nutrition they’ll put on the bike, to begin the long day ahead. The sound of pumps, pushing air into tires is about the only real sound you hear. For me, I walk straight to the bike, making sure to smile, and wish everyone I pass a good morning, and a great race. Time to set up the rig for the long day ahead. I’ll get nutrition and hydration on course, but we always start the day with a full load on board, so we can get going, and not have to stop right away. First bike aid station will be about 18 miles out or so. Here in Kona on this day, 1 bottle of protein based drink to help set a base in the stomach. 2 bottles of Gatorade endurance. Highly salted, you’d never drink this stuff every day. It’s designed for distance racing only, to help replace the massive amounts of salt I will be losing in this heat and wind in Kona. Also on board is a Clif bar broken into pieces, some gel “chomps” as they’re called, stuck to the top of my handlebar so I can just grab and chomp as I go. Everything else will come from aid stations after I run through what I have.
6:20am, you hear the cannon boom, the pro men have started. Enormous cheers fill the pier, but most of us are nowhere near the edge, so it’s impossible to see them. VIP spectators fill the rim of the pier, and most age groupers are in the middle and funneling toward the stairs, that will lead us to the exact same spot, those incredible professionals just graced.
6:35am. Time to walk down to the water. It’s a nervous time, but for some reason, I’m really not that nervous. I know it’s going to be a slugfest that first 15 minutes or so, but I’ve kind of embraced the mass swim starts in Ironman Half distance races, so I don’t really fear the start. Anticipation? Yes, tons of it. Anxious to get going, so just the right amount of butterflies I tell myself. There I stood, among hundreds of other men in blue swim caps. Stone silent. Not much talk going on. Walking down the infamous steps into the water at Dig me beach, the water is warm to the touch, but not too warm. I have swum here all week, at this very time each day, so I know I won’t get overheated during the swim. It’s truly “just right”, at least for me it is.
The swim start is one of the most amazing sights in sports. It’s beautiful to watch, scary as well. I’m in a wave of every man who is not a pro. Closing in on 2,000 of us. Bobbing in the water. We had to swim out from shore, into roughly 25-foot-deep water, and tread. I have been out here for about 10 minutes. Did a few lengths back and forth to warm up the shoulders and back. Feeling good. Clock is ticking toward the cannon shot, we all begin to pack tighter and tighter, jockeying for a little space. But there is none. Everyone wants to create their own space but with this many men, in one defined area, all going in the same direction, there simply is none. It’s going to be a fight. I’ve heard about it, I’ve seen it, and now it’s literally seconds away. There are a few “good lucks” among all of us, but you can just feel the nerves in the air between all of us. It’s about to happen. Below, I can see a number of scuba divers, they are among the underwater camera crew for the NBC show that will eventually be produced to tell the story of this day. I gave the hang loose sign to one of them, and he gave me the hang loose back. Even amid the nervous tension, that moment made me smile yet again. But this thing is gonna get real – real quick. And then it happens.
Boom! The cannon sounds. The last thing I see is the crowd on the pier with arms raised, cheering at the top of their lungs. I know my wife Camie, my kids Maddie and Brayden, and my good friend Jon Bonnell, who occupied this very spot like me just one year ago, as a representative for Leukemia and Lymphoma society are there. But I can’t see them. I do feel their love and support though. Within a second, I throw my head down, arms forward, and suddenly, I am in the most intense moment in sports I’ve ever been a part of. Hands are slapping my back, my head, my legs and feet. Truth be told, I’m delivering about an equal amount of slaps as well to all those surrounding me. A couple of big paws even grab my torso and manage to slow my progress. Not intentionally of course, just everyone tightly packed, jockeying for some open water. I knew it was coming, so I’m ready. We all want our space, and are just swimming, and doing what we need to create it. So, here we go. I bring up the stroke cadence, turning my arms over a little faster to start letting the boys around me in front that I am declaring this my space. And in the rear, it’s amazing how much people will start to lay off slapping your legs or torso, when you begin kick pretty good with your legs. About 1500 yards in, after what can only be described as a NASCAR race in the water, I have some room. And now, I start searching out feet and hips. Drafting is the next mission. You find someone who roughly matches your desired pace, and slide in right beside their hip, or, right on their feet. If you can latch up with someone, the amount of energy you are using, to go the same speed, is significantly less. Same speed, less energy, more in the tank for later in the day. That’s what coach Sean Thompson has preached to me for the last few years.
I make the turn at the 1.2-mile mark at 38 minutes. Honestly, I was so happy. On pace for at least a 1:20 swim and the body felt super. After the turn, it felt like I was riding swells coming home, maybe even a current pushing me in. I had dreams as I swam, of coming out of the water, in Kona, at 1:15!! That would have been epic for me, never been a formal swimmer, I’ve picked up my formal swim stroke in my later years. I have forever been comfortable in the water, the ocean is part of my soul, but moving through it fast was never on my radar until triathlon came along. Even though I’m not fast, I can go all day long. Suddenly, a sea of pink caps comes swarming all around me. It’s the lead pack of the female age group swimmers. They left ten minutes after we did. Yes, a lot of them have caught us. Trust me, the female age groupers have no problem letting anyone know when someone is in their way. They are tough as nails, and fight for every inch of their water as well. So much respect. As I’m nearing the pier, every breath, with part of an ear out of the water, I’m thinking that I’m about to complete the swim at the Ironman World Championship. How unreal is this. I’m here. With the swells seemingly helping me move toward the finish faster, my view below seems to be flying by as well. Coral reef, sea grass, sand, all moving by at a good clip. Only it really wasn’t. I was about to find out that coming home leg, that I thought I was doing so well with, is far slower than I think. Before I find that out, I am reminding myself why I’m here. So much bigger than just me, being able to take part in the biggest and hardest day in Triathlon. Swim exit finally here, could it possibly be the 1:20 or better I hoped for? I look at my watch as a volunteer helps steady me as I walk up those infamous Ironman carpeted stairs, I punch the button to tell it I’m now in transition 1. It says the swim took me one hour, and 32 minutes. How in the heck? I was on pace for a 1:20? This can’t be. But it is, and in the moment, I spoke to myself. “You just swam the Ironman Worlds course in Kona, with the best triathletes on this planet. Be proud man”. And I was. The upside is that I felt great coming out of the water, and chose to turn that energy to the bike. With a smile as a ran through transition.
T1
Jogging into T1, I strip my swim skin off my shoulder, take a 20 second shower at the first tent I come to, then it’s down a long aisle of bags. Mine is 609, 3rd from the end, left shoulder. I had walked this path a few times to remember exactly where it was, in case I came out of the water a little delirious. Grabbed the bag, which contains my clothing for the day, and straight into the male only tent, and another volunteer grabs me and tells me he’s my guy. Anything I need. Water? Gatorade? Vaseline? Sore spots? Sunscreen? Massage your shoulders? It’s all in a frantic pace so we can get in and out of T1 and onto the bike. In any normal race for me, T1 and T2 are places I spend usually only seconds. But this is different. I’m not “racing” for a position on this day, I’m here to finish as best I can, the toughest challenge I’ve ever laid before me. It’s my first ever “full” Ironman, everyone who knows this beast told me to take some extra time, to enjoy this moment. Do it more as a victory lap for our cancer fundraising instead of trying to be the intense triathlete I might normally be. I have already taken that advice to heart in the swim, no need to change things now. So I put on my triathlon suit (kit), bold purple and white, with the Leukemia and Lymphoma and Team in Training logos loud and proud. On the back, a lengthy list of my honored heroes, and honored supporters. Many names I know I’ll be calling on when the moments begin to get dark later in this day. 6 minutes after I came in, I am hydrated, I’m dressed, and now running around the pier to my bike. Along the way, I see Maddie and Brayden, Camie and Jon! What an uplifting moment. I did it! They’re cheering like I’m about to win the Olympics, I feel so alive in this moment, about to go tackle the 112-mile monster here in Kona! By the time I hit the 8-minute mark in transition, I have my bike, I’m running out the gate, and it’s on.
The bike
My shoes are already mounted on the bike; I just slap my feet on top of them to get going. After I get rolling, then I slide each foot in, one at a time, buckle down the Velcro. It’s the last time I’ll touch my shoes for the next 112 miles. The first ten miles are a loop section around downtown Kona, you’ve just started but it feels every bit like a victory lap. There are people everywhere. It’s unreal. You’d think you were the winning pitcher at the World Series, or the winning quarterback in the Super Bowl. Streets are lined with people 4 and 5 deep at the barriers. Cheering at the top of their lungs. I hear shouts of “Go Team!”, the mantra for team in training athletes. I am in awe of everything I see, and feel. But I’ve got a long day ahead, and that day includes a very detailed plan. Finally, I look down at my Garmin, and it says heart rate is at 158. Oh no, that is a no go! Through six months of training with coach Sean, we’ve planned for a max HR of 145 on the bike, give or take a few points on climbs and descents. But 158 is a deal breaker. Using that much effort, across any length of the bike course, means I’m burning fuel that I’m trying to leave in the tank for later. During the long and grueling marathon. You only have so much gas in the tank for this entire day, despite what you take in via nutrition. You’re constantly operating at a deficit on calories and hydration, so it’s back to the plan. I dial back the effort through town, HR back down to 145, rolling along a bit slower as a result of course, but I have to mentally keep reminding myself, if I play around now while I’m feeling so good, I’m going to really pay for it later, perhaps even the ultimate price, of not finishing at all, but that is in no way, part of the plan. I have received support for LLS and my commitment to this race from hundreds of people I have never met in my life. And from dozens I’ve known for much of my life. There is a pressure inside me to not screw this up. Brought on solely by myself, but an additional pressure nonetheless. I’m no stranger to managing effort, having completed over a half dozen Half Ironman distance races, but this is my first ever full Ironman, and it’s a far cry from every race I’ve ever done to date. On the hardest course Ironman offers no less. When we finally made the left turn onto the Queen K, there was sudden silence. Not a cloud in the sky, the rising sun was off my right shoulder, as is the peak of the Muana Loa Volcano. Just north of town, the miles and miles between my right shoulder and Muana Loa, are now filled with only black lava. As far as the eye can see. Same thing to the left, from the Queen K, all the way down to the ocean. It’s a barren wasteland of lava. It looks like the moon. Finally, on my own, and for the next 100 miles, there will only be the occasional people cheering us on from the roadside. The Queen K highway is completely closed for this race, only racers and officials are allowed. Now, for mile after hot and humid mile, all you get to listen to is the sound of your wheels spinning, and your own labored breathing and eventually, misery. 30 or so miles in, there it is. The wind everyone talks about in Kona. Only today, it’s only about 25-30mph, far less than the wicked 50-60 Kona often offers, but 30 is no joke either. Around mile 40 or so, I suddenly feel something in my left calf. Cramp? No way. I don’t cramp. Can’t be. I spent six months training in Texas heat and never cramped. I don’t have a plan for that. But yes, not only a cramp, but the damned thing nearly seized up. What to do. Up the hydration for the moment, and dial back slightly on effort. My first “problem”, and every veteran of the full distance has told me time and time again, no matter what “plan” you have for race day, your day will ultimately become more about solving the problems that crop up, including ones you never planned for. The last thing I need is my calf seizing only 40 miles in. But the cramping not only gets worse, it spreads, Both legs eventually, and just about all the muscles in the legs. Now more than ever I am focused on a steady effort on heart rate, and I drop it now down to 140. Lower effort level helps my legs keep moving at around 85 RPM, and I’m not on the edge of seizing up anymore. It’s a trade-off I have to make I find. I’m focused on the finish line, and my best avenue to get there. The day is getting long, the sun is higher, and it’s just plain hot. Oven hot. The only saving grace is the breeze blowing over the bike and me from the forward speed. But it’s like a breeze shooting out of an oven. At every rest stop, as I enter the trash zone, I chuck the bottles I have on board, and get ready to grab on the go, a bottle of Gatorade Endurance, a bottle of water, sometimes, some food, either gel, or bar, then at the very end, another bottle of water. That last bottle, every aid station, I pour first on my face, then neck, arms, back, and then all over my legs. I am soaking wet from sweat, so the rinse off helps keep the salt that has grown all over my skin, from drying out, and getting crusty. Essentially, every 18 miles or so, I take a rolling shower, and it feels great. What doesn’t feel great, is the nausea that I’ve dealt with since around mile 30 or so. No clue why. Another problem I had not planned on. Maybe all the Gatorade and sugar from it, is just not sitting well with me on this day, despite endless days training with it, in this volume. Whatever it is, my stomach feels pretty crappy, but nothing to do but keep marching on, turning the pedals over, and over, and over. My pace has dropped from around 18.5 miles per hour in the first hour, to now somewhere in the 17’s. Not what I want either. But I keep reminding myself “victory lap”. Time is not why we’re here. The finish line is. And, I also tell myself over and over, this is my first time at this distance, don’t be so bold to think you’re going to kill this World Championship course, you simply are not that guy. Being competitive by nature, and being so brutally honest with yourself in the greatest moment of your athletic life, is not easy. But I listen to my advice, garnered from everyone I’ve met who know Kona, and who know 140.6 mileage.
After the turnaround in Hawi at around the 60-mile mark, it’s now mostly a straight shot down a fairly steep hill. I push the power on the pedals for about the first half mile, then, gravity takes over. I give the legs a break. For the next few miles, I don’t have to even touch the pedals, and I’m cruising along at about 39 miles per hour. But the wind is now a cross wind, and on at least two occasions, as I lay in the aero bars, screaming down the highway from Hawi, a quick gust nearly ends my Kona dreams. Not sure what saved me from going over, other than luck and the big man upstairs, but I managed to keep the bike upright, and the infamous cross winds did not get me on this day.
Just prior to mile 80 or so, at the coming aid station, I saw what could have easily happened to me. Just as we’re about to hit the beginning of the station, I watch as the legs on the guy in front of me go perfectly straight. In an instant. Before I could even say “uh-oh”, this guy was upside down, sliding down the asphalt on his back. His legs had seized; my guess is from wicked cramps. After I saw that, even more reason to stay with my effort level that would undoubtedly take more time than I really wanted, but gave me the best shot at finishing this incredible day. One of the funniest moments of the ride, came from a woman named Ann. She’s from Australia. We met around mile 30 or so, and began leap frogging each other on the course throughout the entire ride up to Hawi. She was stronger uphill, I was stronger and faster downhill. During each pass of the other, we’d talk for about 30 seconds. Her life in Australia. My life in the U.S. We talked about everything. Then suddenly, on the climb to Hawi, she passes me, but ends up on the wheel of another rider up front, and at the same time, a course Marshall rolls up on a motorcycle. Bad timing. Ann gets a drafting penalty of five minutes. I told her on the next pass to not worry about it, we’re not going to be anywhere near the podium, so don’t let it ruin her wonderful journey here in Kona today. I just tried to be positive in hopes she wouldn’t be too bummed out, because we truly were part of one of the greatest days in sport. I looked back when Ann pulled into the penalty tent around mile 65. She would have to sit there, for five agonizing minutes. As I rode away, bombing down the highway downhill out of Hawi, I thought it was too bad I wouldn’t see Ann anymore today. I liked her attitude. I thought too early. Mile 90, I hear someone off my left side coming up to pass, I keep my head down, eyes forward, legs churning, huffing and puffing into the steady head wind coming home. Next thing I hear, is “Hey Dougie, how ya goin’ mate?”. Holy crap. It’s Ann. You’re kidding me. Five minutes back, and I was going 40mph down from Hawi. How in the hell? It’s the Ironman World Championship, and while I’m here deservingly for LLS, the vast majority are legit qualifiers. Pretty sure Ann was. Never saw my friend again.
Finally, after 111 miles, there it is, downtown Kona. Palani Hill. I’m screaming downhill to the transition area, and my neck and shoulders have had all they can take of riding this bike nearly seven hours. In triathlon, you often can’t wait to get on the bike, and in long course racing, that’s only matched by your desire to get off the dang thing. I was certainly ready for that. Into T2 is smooth, a “catcher” is ready for my arrival, I have already opened my Velcro enclosures on my shoes, slipped my feet out, and have them on top of my shoes so I can run into transition barefoot.
T2
As I arrive, the catcher takes my bike, and wishes me well on the run.
First thing I notice is that my legs are moving ok, even after 112 miles on the bike. That’s a good thing, I thought. Into the changing tent for me, it’s pretty quiet. Only about 25 or so in there right now, where after the swim, it was packed at least 50 deep. The reality, the best triathletes in this race are long gone.
Ironically, I end up with the very same volunteer I had in T1. He remembers me. He already knows I’d like a towel; he brings it to me. Also in hand, a frozen towel that he shoves down the back of my kit without even asking, covering my neck and top of my back. I feel like a fighter in the corner of the ring, on my stool. I am cooling off at a rapid pace. I mutter a “thank you”, “that’s why I’m here Doug, I’m here for you” “you’re doing great” he says. A volunteer. One of 5,000 of them, here on this day, at this race, for 2,401 athletes. Amazing.
He hands me a bottle of water and says “drink”. I rip open my T2 bag, begin to put my socks on, but it’s hard bending over after being in the bike position for so long, and my legs are still sensitive to the cramping I had. Last thing I need is my legs locking up while just trying to put a damn sock on. Ian offers to help, but I decline. Socks need to be just right, and I’m taking measure of my legs as I bend them so they don’t seize up, so I take the extra time needed to make sure they go on, just so. Shoes on, laced up, double tied, kind of like my stomach still. I take an extra minute just to sit, and down a bit more water. First time today, I need to pee. The porta potty is 5 feet in front of me. Might as well be a mile when you’re this tired. But no better time. Business done, hat on, ice in my cap from the hydration table that is right outside the tent. I muster a smile for the super friendly volunteers, and I’m out of T2 and off for the first marathon I’ve ever run. Half marathons, done a bunch. Full? Never.
Kona will be the first.
If I can do this.
The run
Out of T2, my legs are heavy, but the worst is the stomach. I really don’t feel well at all. I can’t puke, not feeling ready to do that (I would if I could) but my stomach is not in a good place at all. First half mile I hear the screams of Maddie and Brayden, off my right side, right on the fence line. I give some high fives and muster a smile, but I am hurting inside. Big time. I run a mile, walk a tad through the first aid station, grabbing water and Gatorade, then start to run again. Little over a half mile into the second mile, I can’t run anymore. I have to walk for a moment. But I will not stop, and I will walk as fast as I can. That is have promised myself from the start. In an instant, I am literally looking at the ocean, giving thought to just walking the 50 yards over the beach and walking right into the water. It would feel so good. It would end all the pain in my legs, and maybe even make my stomach feel better. It’s the first, and I can say only moment on this day, that I pondered “what am I going to say to all these people who supported me, that I could not finish this thing”. Almost at the same time, the advice from so many who have raced not only Kona, but any Ironman full distance, pops into my head. If you have to walk, walk. But keep moving forward. So there it is. I slow to a walk. Embarrassed. Frustrated. Wanting to feel better so I can just go run. But it’s not working that way. That’s when I meet Sam. He’s walking too. Built about the same way, Sam is ten years younger, and from Washington State. This is also Sam’s 4th time at the Ironman distance, and his 2nd time in Kona! He’s having a pretty tough day too. Not feeling well either. Funny thing, here I am with a guy who is on his 4th IM race, 2nd in Kona, we started at the very same time this morning, and now, 2 miles into the run, we are basically tied on time. While we are not in a race against each other by any stretch, I use his Ironman resume, balanced against my arrival here as a novice to the full distance, to feel better about myself. Man, if Sam is feeling as crappy as me, then maybe I’m not doing so horrible after all. I had heard a great piece of advice earlier in the week, that seemed to apply in this moment. “On race day, no matter what your plan, Kona will dictate how your day goes, not the other way around”. So despite my detailed planning and training, Kona was fully in charge. But with Sam there to lift my spirits, and things like that I heard during race week, I started feeling better. For the next 10 miles or so, Sam and I stuck mostly together. We’d run as far as the bodies allowed, and then walk a bit to regain form, and keep ourselves from completely giving out. After 9 miles in Kona, with crowds cheering endlessly, a stark contrast came to light once we hit the Queen K for the run. Just before the turn up to Palani hill, I see Maddie, Brayden, Jon and Camie one last time. I slow to get a kiss from the kids, I look directly at Jon to tell him that we’re gonna have to have a long talk after this is over. I waved at Camie across the street, and it was back to a run, with the kids by my side for about 20 yards to propel me off into the hardest 17 miles to come. Pretty much everyone walked up Palani hill out of Kona. It’s a steep, maybe 7-9% grade hill that will break your heart, or your ham strings, if you attack it. A left turn onto the Queen K, and then silence. Save for the soles of shoes hitting the pavement, and the steady even breathing of runner after runner, there was nothing else. The only sign of life came at each aid station. Excited volunteers there to cheer you on, make you laugh, tell you “you’re almost there” when you really weren’t. They were incredible, all of them. And so too was the chicken broth. After a full day of Gatorade endurance and water, something new in the belly really sounded good. At one aid station I grabbed pretzels. Sounded good but I grabbed them last, and left without water. Dry mouth, dry food, does not make for a happy next mile. But at the end of that next mile, as the sun began to fade downward on left side over that beautiful ocean. At the same time, aid stations now began putting out the much talked about chicken broth. Some swear by it, some don’t care for it. Either way, it was new, different, and I felt like crap so I said let’s try it. It was around mile 15 or so, two cups water, two cups of ice dropped into my race kit to cool the body as I did virtually each aid station, and then two cups of chicken broth, as well as continued hits of base salt. For those who don’t know, it looks a lot like a table salt, with extra vitamins and minerals designed for long course, high sweat races. Salt replacement is the core function, and it is needed on a course like Kona. Without salt replacement, you’d never finish. Literally, within about 90 seconds, my belly feels better. I can’t believe it. I started to run out of the aid station and didn’t stop till nearly the next one. That was a big deal, first time in hours that my belly didn’t feel horrible nausea. I was feeling better, but it was also getting darker. And by darker, I mean a kind of dark you’ve probably never seen or experienced. Jon Bonnell had warned me, and man was he right. As the few highway lights on the Queen near downtown Kona faded in the distance, and the sun set below the horizon, I was now in a darkness that did not even allow my eyes to see the pavement my feet was striking. Truly could not see it. We ran with lime green fluorescent lights we wore around our necks, handed out at the aid stations as night fell. The only other indication on where to run, were orange cones in the road. You’d get a cone barely in sight, pass it, and then about another 15-20 seconds later, another cone. It truly is amazing how dark this place is, the all black lava landscape, once night falls. Over the last rise northbound and now I can see the lights of support stations at the Natural Energy Lab. The infamous part of the course where many Ironman dreams have died. But not on this day, especially since I’m here after dark, it’s nothing like what the pro’s and the fast age groupers deal with during the heat of the day. Tonight, it’s simply dark, downhill on the way in, and uphill on the way out. 3 miles total. And at the back end at the turnaround, Clif bar folks are handing out nearly frozen sponges. The size you wash your car with. Man, you talk about a treat. Shoved it down my back a bit, switched it to the front, wiped off my arms, neck, shoulders and face. Was a primo moment on the run and refreshed me to the point where I thought “I’m pretty sure we’re gonna finish this thing!”. Right turn out of the Lab is when a volunteer looked at me and said “only 10k to go, you got this Doug!!”. Man did I need that. Legs are screaming, begging you to quit, but the mental side has kept me going the entire way. Thoughts through the day, and especially during this difficult run, of all of my honored heroes fighting, or having fought blood cancer. They, are the ones in a tough fight. I talked to many of them as I ran and biked. Hamilton, Ryan, Anne, Anna, Adelynn, and Roger, who was watching over me from above. I asked them out loud, to send me their energy, tell me I can do this, anything, to keep me going. This was the moment I needed to draw energy from those who are truly the reason I am here. I am slowly realizing that I will not let them down. It’s not going nearly as fast as I had hoped or wanted, but it didn’t matter. I’ve never gone full distance, I have no clue what to expect the first time, never run a full marathon, so I am now in uncharted waters as far as distance. Crossing the finish line in the greatest race in triathlon is what our mission is, and I’m starting to realize that I have found a way, to push through the pain, the nausea, the voices telling me to just quit. I have now gone to places my mind and body have never been. I have been at it for over 13 hours now, and I haven’t given up or even stopped moving forward. I’m actually doing it. Imagine an intersection of complete misery, pain, and elation. That’s exactly where I was, around mile 21 of the marathon.
The last miles begin to click off, and then the lights. I see the lights of Kona, getting brighter and brighter. No question now, we’re gonna do this. And then, right on cue, many previous Kona participants had told me, you’ll hear the voice of Mike Reilly, way off in the distance at the finish line, and that will bring you home. They were right. We all dream about that moment when Mike says those now very famous four words, preceded by your name. Now I can taste it. I’m no longer focused on the pain or misery, or nausea, I’m focused on what I can now hear, and almost taste. The last thing I remember before the finish line, is cresting a very long hill on the Queen K, and the traffic cones turned us hard right. I looked up at the street sign, and it said “Palani”. What? I’m there already? My mind had zoned out a bit, and suddenly, I’m within a mile of the finish! A small group of people are sitting on the curb on the right as I round the corner. I looked at them and asked, “is this really Palani?” Honestly, I probably had some tears in my eyes. They said “Go Doug Go, you’re almost there!”.
Holy cow, emotions started boiling up. A left hand turn halfway down Palani, and I’m now heading southbound for about 3 minutes, then a right turn, and downhill to Ali’I drive. The crowd is growing on both sides. I hear cowbells clanging, I hear “Go team!”, I hear “Go Doug”. The cheers are growing so loud. I round the corner to the right on Ali’I, now a monster crowd on each side of the road, and off in the distance just a few hundred yards away, I can see the carpet. That famous red and black Ironman World Championship carpet. I hear Mike. I see the lights. I wish someone could have captured a picture at this very moment, because I have the biggest smile on my face ever. I can’t help but smile. Everyone told me to make sure I smile during this entire day, even when times got tough, and now, it’s impossible not to. In those final steps as I get to the carpet, I’m thinking of all the cancer warriors I’ve met on this journey. I’m thinking of Camie, Maddie and Brayden, and how much they’ve supported this thing. I’m thinking of the endless posts on social media, from people I’ve never met, who have my back. Suddenly, 140.6 miles seems like nothing. The nausea is momentarily halted, there is no more pain throughout the body. The exhilaration of this moment is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I take one final look back, to make sure I don’t impede someone faster down the chute, so they get their moment at the finish, but there is no one there. I’m on the carpet. The screams, cheers, and clapping is thunderous. I start airplaning to the left and right. Arms stretched out wide to slap hands, high five, and say thank you to all those wonderful people watching me live my dream. I see a purple Team in Training shirt on the left side, the guy is holding his Iphone out, it’s Jon Bonnell! He’s the real reason I’m even here. And then there it is, the last 20 yards. Up the ramp I go, and that’s when I hear Mike Reilly.
“From Dallas Texas, 52-year-old Doug Dunbar, way to get er’ done Doug. YOU. ARE. AN IRONMAN”.
I stop right at the finish line. I can’t believe it. We did it. Son of a gun, we really did it. All I want to do is cry, but as I lift my head up, I see my wife Camie about 20 feet in front of me. Why is she there? How did she get there? Right now it doesn’t matter, she’s there, and I start walking down to her. That’s when the 140.6 mile wobbly legs start to talk again. As I met her for a hug, in an instant my body was spent. As we hugged, my legs let her hold me up. Nothing left in the tank. I told her I love her so much, and gave her a big thanks, for helping me live his dream. It was no small effort on the part of my family. Every Ironman competitor will tell you the same.
I was so tired, pretty sore, but a tired I’ve never felt before. As Camie and the two catchers started leading me away, I heard screams of “daddy”. I looked left, and just a few feet away in the stands, my loves Maddie and Brayden. I told them I loved them as I was taken away. What a moment. What a sight. There they were, cheering their daddy. They too, were a huge part of this journey for LLS.
They’ve watched the emotional toll of the last six months has had on me, sharing stories of those who are in the blood cancer fight. I took so much of what this was all about, very personally. Constantly reminding my kids of the true gift it is, to have your good health, and what we’ve been through has proven it time and time again. They’ve learned a deeper appreciation for the healthy life they have. They’ve watched the endless sacrifice it takes to keep training, 7 days a week, at the expense of spending time with your family. They have a better understanding of what it means to be committed.
They now truly understand what it is, to have purpose.
To follow through on what you set out to do. Even when things get hard. On this day, October 8th, 2016, in Kona, Hawaii, they got to watch their dad live out the Ironman motto.
No matter who you are.
No matter life’s limitations.
No matter what you’ve never done.
Anything is possible.
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