2019 IRONMAN Malaysia Race Report

A sharp, stinging pain coursed through my wrist as it seemed to get tangled in a long hair. As my arm pulled my body through the warm water it swatted what had to be a jellyfish tentacle across the tip of my nose and down my torso. The pain continued on the back of my right leg and ankle.

I was only about 200m out from shore in Langkawi, the day before the full Ironman. The sun had just risen and although the sky was threatening rain, the water was calm and conditions looked good. I was doing a warm-up swim just to check the conditions and prepare myself for the race the next day.

90 minutes later, I felt considerable abdominal pain, but whatever, these thing can come and go. There's no way that could be connected to the stings. They still burned, too, but I knew those would eventually go away. I was on my bike, doing an hour-long ride.

After the ride, I returned to my hotel room and Googled "jellyfish sting treatment" and "jellyfish sting symptoms." I had already poured vinegar on the wounds, but was surprised to see that abdominal pain (along with death) could be attributed to the stings.

Soon after, I was in a van with seven other guys from Singapore, Terai Melayu. We were checking in our run bags and later would be racking our bikes. But by then, the pain had become so bad I let them know I thought I should go to a doctor.

All the clinics were closed from about Noon to 3. One of the guys called one and when told they were closed, he said, "What happens in an emergency?" "Just wait," he was told.

My bones ached and it felt like I had a severe fever and influenza.

So we made our way to the only hospital on the island, and they checked me in at the emergency room. Within 10 minutes a doctor was asking me questions and within no more than 15, I had my pants down with a needle full of Voltaren being injected into my right-rear. 30 minutes later, I felt 50% better and was waiting to pick up my medicine from the pharmacist.

---

My mind was more at ease than usual as I had a thorough packing list and my gear was well-organized. I wouldn't forget a thing. The hilariously-huge hotel room gave me plenty of space to get organized.

I would have run laps in this room, but my training was over.

Most dominating, however, wasn't any pre-race jitters but the incessant shooting pain in my toes especially. It was 4 am and I don't think I had slept for more than 15 minutes straight the entire night. Each pain felt like a fire ant or maybe a quarter-bee-sting. I kept putting hydrocortisone on the jellyfish stings until I realized the pains were coming from within, not from the skin.

"Don't worry," I told my half-sleeping wife. "If it gets too bad I'll just quit. I have nothing to prove. I've done this race before. Let me see how it goes."

Throughout the night I was 50-50 on whether or not I'd even start. But this sport is all about taking tiny steps, one-by-one, and moving forward. Don't ever think too far ahead.

But 100% of the groundwork had been done for me: The training, the logistics, the check-in, everything. It would be insane to throw in the towel now.

The electric environment at the beach had dramatically lifted my spirits. Pete Murray's voice accompanied by Chirs McCormack's worked the crowd into a near frenzy as Javier Gomez, Andy Potts, and other pros started their swims. I was feeling great, and there was no way I was going to back out now, despite those annoying pains in my body. But if I felt the pain worsen or become a danger, I'd have no qualms doing my first DNF.

It was only 38 min and a few seconds before I had finished the first lap of 1.9 km - my goal was 38. So now I only had to do it again. All the swim squad training I had done for the past nine months had really taught me the meaning of speed. I used to think speed would come from a stronger but fewer pulls (lower cadence). Wouldn't this be necessary to save energy over 3.8 km?

Except I knew my coach had been telling me the opposite for years. I just must not have believed it would be the case for an unconditioned beginner like me.


But then my friend Andrew had been telling me the same thing since March. He had just done the Roth swim in 56 min I believe, Norseman in 52, and Kona in 57 - all in the last four months. "Don't make this like some Sunday swim. Put some aggression into it," he kept saying.

In the swim squad many of the sprints we do end up being races. And that's where I figured out that the #1 way to be faster for me was just to crank up the cadence. So I remained mindful about this most of the time, not letting my thoughts wander. Cadence up!

As expected, I came out of the water in 1:18-something, just a few seconds over what I wanted.

"You've done this race before. You know what to expect. Race smart - write it on your arm," Andrew told me.

I was far more comfortable on the bike, and very much more in control. I pretty much knew what to expect, having done this course the year before, despite minor route changes. I was hoping for an Intensity Factor (IF) of 72-73 (% of FTP). I kept it near this figure up to about the 45th km, but then it started slipping.

By the second lap, I noticed my wattage was down to around 64% - very low - yet my average speed was around 31-32 km/h, which was my target. So no point expending unnecessarily energy. I needed to save my legs for the run, and if my IF was to be so low, so be it, if my speed was acceptable.

However, I did get spooked by a Variability Index reading of 1.09. That meant my Normalized Power had a 9% variance over my Average Power - too many spikes, too many matches burned. 1.05 is usually regarded the limit, but with such a hilly course it's understandable that it could exceed this.

I was nicely fueled up, though. My wife had mixed up a veritable gravy of nutrition. 1,452 calories, 308 carbs, and 5,340 mg of sodium (the recommended daily allowance of sodium for adults is 1,500 mg) in a single bottle. The stuff was so thick and rich it burned going down. The consistency of pancake batter.

It's absolutely essential that you chase it with copious amounts of water or else it will dehydrate you quickly by pulling water out of your cells into that solution in your stomach as the tonicity concentrates homogenize. Drinking water makes it isotonic - meaning the same concentration as your cells.

Plus another 8 Hammer gels, or another 720 calories, for good measure.

It had rained a few times a day for the past week or so, and we were all hoping for some afternoon showers to cool us off. It never came. The ride just got hotter and hotter.

It was otherwise rather uneventful. We passed through a small wedding happening on both sides of the road, in front of villages and kampungs with kids running wild asking for water bottles, and across intersections dutifully manned by local police in the scorching sun.

Thanks for the photo, Nik.

I normally am quite social on the bike and the run, but this time chose to focus more on my own race, and keep to myself. I saw Vignesh again, the same guy I met at the same time and same place and same race as last year. A while later I met a fellow-Oregonian, Bryce, too. Funny we were all three on Canyon Speedmaxes.

But I largely kept to myself, trying to focus. "Race smart," my arm read.

At about 173 km there was a poorly-marked right turn which I almost didn't see. I looked forward and noticed two course attendants suddenly jump up when they saw me and the guy in front of me arrive. They quickly indicated the direction they wanted us to go.

The cyclist in front swerved hard at speed, causing him to flip and face-plant. The road was especially rough at that point. This would have been disastrous for him, but I didn't stop as there were guys there with radios and a vehicle. Anything can happen.

I was happy to get off the bike. The new Hoka Bondi 6 shoes I was wearing were a true luxury. It felt like I was walking on pillows. As usual, the first few kilometers were easy. 3 1/2 loops from the exhibition centre to the Meritus is all we had to do.

At about my third or fourth kilometer I saw Javier Gomez running the other way. He must have had about 12-14 more to go. I had wished him 'buena suerte' at T1 before the swim, and he was friendly enough. I thought I'd keep my mouth shut this time and let him do his job, even though second place was so far back it was at least five minutes before I saw him.

The road we were on which followed the airport runway was so similar and boring that it really got old fast. No variety. Total monotony. But in a way that also made it seem shorter, because we saw fewer things.

My first dozen km were okay, to plan. Then things started falling apart. The usual boost of seeing my family helped a bit, but on the second loop I actually stopped to hug them. I was slowing down.

We'd pass by the finisher chute two times before entering it (so a total of three). My first time, I faked like I was about to finish, which would have placed my among the pros. People laughed as I pretended to head in, but took a sudden left turn down the 'next lap' route. If only.

The blue wristband shows I was on my second lap.

My training runs were solid. I was able to do 20 km bricks in 1:45 after 150 km rides. I nailed some good long 30 and 32 km runs. But just like last year, I wasn't able to hold it together at the race.

Well why not? I didn't overdo the bike. I had a new nutrition plan, and felt satiated and hydrated. I had tons of sodium. I was drinking about 200 ml of water at every aid station. I wasn't cramping. My mind was clear.

I could feel the run slipping away, and wanted to quit. Kilometers 19 to 37 were a real horrorshow. But then I had had enough. I was mad at myself. Why did I let this happen? What happened to "race smart"? I looked down at my arm to see that the permanent marker had worn off.

"Just run, that's what you do," I convinced myself, and I resolved not to finish until it was over. And so I did.

The best feeling, as usual, was my wife and kids' cheer at the finish line. That was tempered by my realization that the time I had 'achieved' was worse than last year's, despite my superior training and planning. But still, I had done it.

Jellyfish woes long behind me, I had other aches and pains that would be easily solved by a nice cheeseburger and a long night's sleep.

2019 IRONMAN 70.3 World Championship Race Report - Nice, France

My legs were burning and my neck was starting to hurt. Being aero while cycling uphill for an extended period isn’t great for the spine. I was thirsty and my water was getting low.

“Look at this guy,” I joked, loud enough so that ‘this guy’ could clearly hear me talking behind his back.

“He’s just taking this mountain like it’s a normal Sunday ride!”

“Yeah, mate,” my new Aussie friend replied, with a simultaneous chuckle. “How do they do it?”

“I live at 1,500m in the Andes,” the guy said, voice dwindling off in the distance. He was on a road bike steadily pulling ahead and he made it look effortless.

Near the top of Col de Vence

We were about 2km from the summit of Col de Vence which comprised the bulk of the 2019 IRONMAN 70.3 World Championship bike segment. Anybody that was passing us was in our age group because our age group was the last into the water.

It was the same as the world champs last year in South Africa: M45-49 always seemed to start last, and it’s kind of demoralizing.

But by the same token, each guy you pass means you move up one placing. But not a lot of that was going to be happening for me in the World Championship. Especially not on Col de Vence.

When you hear that Col de Vence is only 962 meters in elevation it doesn’t really sound high. But when you realize that’s 962 meters of climbing that you have to do with pretty much no rest you realize it’s going to be tough.

After all, coming from Singapore, our biggest cycling hill is just a tenth of that. I’m talking about Mt. Faber, and it’s a whopping 94m. 😐

Two days prior, I drove Col de Vence with my wife, kids, parents, and fellow COS Coaching disciple Andy. We were pretty intimidated by the relentlessness of the slope, hardly ever easing into flats.

Going down, I was always wondering what was around each corner

And going down wasn’t much better. It wound back and forth, making the descent tricky and scary. It would be easy to underestimate a corner and come around one too fast, or to not slow down in time for any of the many villages. It was raining. And if it rained on race day, the descent would be downright dangerous.

To be honest I was worried.

But I felt great at 4:30am on Sunday morning, race day for the men. I woke up with no alarm. 15 minutes later I was lugging my only-worn-once wetsuit over the cobbled streets of Nice toward T1.

Reminder on the door from my wife to not forget my nutrition. It's happened before!

I also had my single bottle of nutrition: 4 scoops of Hammer Perpetuem and 4 sachets of Precision Hydration 1500. I had grown to like the intense, rich, almost burning taste of this calorie-laden sodium cocktail, and this exact formula had proven to prevent cramps and stave off hunger in many 70.3s in the past. For me, at least. Do what works for you, right?

The city was dark but the thumping of loud music and an announcer’s voice could be heard from the door of our apartment. I was wearing my trisuit and was holding the big street gear bag full of my stuff when I saw a large bearded man, probably in his late 30s, stumble almost right into me.
He was obviously totally inebriated and looked homeless. He was filthy.

There were about 3-4 other triathletes who looked a lot like me marching in the same direction. Basically, lots of skinny guys in tight-fitting suits; a strange sight for a lone drunkard in the dark.

He mumbled something, to himself, and the only thing I could understand was a slurred, << Qu'est-ce que c'est…?>> or “What is this…?”

I jumped out of his way, realizing it was quite a privilege to be here at this event, or even doing this sport at all.
 

The front door of our apartment. Looks like I left the lights on (top right unit)!

I entered T1 and found my bike. Andrew Messick, the CEO of IRONMAN was walking by. I was going to introduce myself and say hi, but what for? We both had more important things to do.

So I did the usual: Put my nutrition bottle in the cage, topped up the water in the front hydration, locked my ELEMNT into the mount, and borrowed a pump from a guy and inflated my tires.

“The swim will be a no-wetsuit swim,” a voice blared over the speakers. Turned out the water had warmed up since the women raced the day before and wetsuits were therefore not allowed.

Look how inviting that water is. Notice the yellow buoys out in the distance.

On one hand, I was disappointed, as I need all the help I can get in the water, and a wetsuit-swim would have meant I’d easily go sub-2 minutes per 100m. On the other hand, I was happy, as I hated fiddling with that giant neoprene mess, and wasn’t used to wearing it at all.

Down on the rocky beach, the pros were already lined up to swim. I walked over there and watched them set off, realizing that I was in for a long wait. My swim didn’t start until 9:01. No sense hanging around here now that my bike was ready. Plus, I was freezing.

I walked back to the apartment and my wife and my mom were awake. My wife gave me a second breakfast, which was great, and I nervously ate it before walking back over to the swim start with my mom.

Nothing like a second breakfast

She was probably just as excited as I was to take in the atmosphere – the feeling was electric. I showed her where my bike was in T1, in case she wanted to watch the first transition, before we made our way to the swim start. After some nervous talk and waiting, I handed her my shoes and proceeded into the pen, barefoot.

I started the swim close to the very back. I didn’t want to get in the way of the faster swimmers and despite my nice recent swimming improvements, was under no illusions of my ability. Especially against the the best amateurs in the world.

It was great to finally get off those painful rocks and into that inviting water. The temperature was really comfortable – very close to what I was used to in my pool back home in Singapore. Almost immediately I saw some fish. The clarity was incredible.

I settled into a rhythm and was feeling good. At the halfway mark I glanced down at my watch – mid-stroke, underwater – and it read 19 minutes. This was about on target for my 38-min goal, wet suit or not.

I latched onto a shirtless guy whose pace seemed a bit faster than mine. I was careful not to touch his feet or let him know I was there lest he drop me. He was a good help, and he dragged me probably a good 500m before I lost him.

“Merci, merci!” I shouted as two volunteers, standing on the steep pebble slope extended their hands and pulled me out. The thin carpet offered only a little bit of relief from the stony ground. About 10 seconds later, I was in T1.

Those rocks hurt

As much as I like to complain about being in the last wave, it does have its advantages. When the other 3,000 athletes are already on their bikes it’s not that hard to find yours – especially when you’re at the back of your pack.

But it’s not that reassuring when you’re just mounting your bike and you see runners already out there pounding pavement. To think that they’ve already finished the swim and the bike!

It kind of blew my mind. The thought of the impending mountain ascent loomed large.

The beginning of the bike and run course, looking away from T1.

“Go Javier!” I yelled, encouraging Gomez on, as he chased down other pros I didn’t recognize. I looked for Brownlee but didn’t see him. But I did see a steady stream of other cyclists coming my way, 89.8 km through the ride. These must have been the top age-groupers, hot on the heels of the pros.

These must be the guys that win first in their local 70.3s and don’t go pro.

I was pretty much riding solo for the first 5-7 km out to the airport. The course exited the main road and into a light industrial area.

“I thought this was supposed to be hilly,” I said to a random guy next to me, on a green bike.

“You’ll get them soon,” he answered, seriously, as if I didn’t know the joke was on me. He didn’t really get that I knew my statement was so hubristic. I laughed to myself, half at my own lame, self-deprecating joke and half at his seriousness.

A second later I had a flashback to riding the course on my trainer at home using the Wahoo Climb, when it elevated the front of my frame to a brutal 19%, nearly pinning me to my ceiling. Lucky I didn’t have a ceiling fan.

Crrrunnchhh. He and I both dropped all our gears and started mashing up the precipitous slope. From studying the course, I knew this one was the steepest but also the one of the shortest.

Soon, it eased off and we were leaving the outskirts of Nice. From time to time we could see picturesque villages and towns dotting the hills in front of us.

And then there was this cliff.

"We have to go above that."

“See that thing?” I gestured with my chin towards the sheer rock face. I was talking to a super friendly guy from Sydney. We were about 20km into the bike.

“Don’t tell me we have to go up that,” the Aussie objected.

We were talking about Baou de Saint-Jeannet, a giant rock butte that appears to top Col de Vance.
“Worse. We have to go above that,” I replied.

It was true. The hill proceeded behind this massive cliff, so much so that you could actually look down on the top of it, from behind. That’s about where that Peruvian guy sped past us.

But it wasn’t really that bad. Sure, it was steep, but it was totally doable. Before I knew it, I was at the summit, at an even 45km into the ride. It was all downhill from there.

There was a French guy next to me, also on a Canyon Speedmax, who lived in Thailand. I figured I’d try to beat him on the downhill. I’m pretty comfortable descending. It's more fun than it is scary. Anyway, who doesn’t like free speed in a race?

But corner after corner this guy kept pulling away from me. On the straights I’d catch him, but I simply had to brake at each corner. What’s behind each corner? A speed bump? A village? A pot hole? There was no way of knowing. And I wasn’t just going to blindly descend.

It seemed like others would though. Around a near-90-degree corner protected by a stone wall there were a few cars parked and a few cyclists stopped. Something must have happened.

I rounded the corner and then the following hairpin turn, quickly losing elevation. I had to be 8-10 storeys lower than that wall when I looped back under it and looked up. There was a huge v-shaped scree-covered cliff below that wall. A neon figure slowly descended the broken rock fragments towards a white bike dozens of meters below him.

“At least he’s alive and moving,” I thought to myself. At that point I decided to let the fast guy on the Speedmax go. Not long after, I saw a helicopter. I was hoping it was to rescue the guy who went over the wall.

You know that feeling you get at the end of a really fun roller coaster or carnival ride? The ending of exhilaration? You wish the ride wasn’t over, but you are still left with a residual bit of euphoria? That’s exactly how I felt after all the descents, struck with the realization that easy street was over.

But also aware that the hard part was over, too: The climb.

The long descent let my legs recover, and I was eager to do the run. I love the run. It’s where I’m most comfortable, most in control, and most able to push my body.

My mom said she’d be waiting just outside the T2 area, which meant that I’d see her and the rest of my family at about km 89 or so. I rolled through, past all the runners, but didn’t spot them.

Into T2. Red line. Dismount. Jog with the bike towards the rack. Unbuckle helmet. When suddenly…

“Penalty!” a race official shouted, aggressively and to my face. He raised his right hand with a yellow card.

“For what? I’m over the line!” I objected.

“You can’t unbuckle your helmet until your bike is racked,” he explained, in perfect English, but with a French accent. “What’s your number?”

I was mad so I didn’t answer. I felt that this was a bit overbearing: Giving out penalties to the bottom-half of the last age-groupers to come in to T2. At the time I thought he was just standing there, trying to catch people like a bored state cop. But now I don’t believe that would have been the case.

I let him see my number on my arm and heard him repeat it. I moved on without another word, and racked my bike.

Was I supposed to sit in the penalty tent? Or would they just add the time to my official result? I had no idea.

T2

So out of T2 I went, and just forgot it ever happened. 30 seconds later I saw my parents, wife, and kids screaming for me. Can you believe these guys were on both sides of the chute so I had to zig-zag from left to right just to high-five them all? 😊

The run was a simple out-and-back, twice, about 5km each way. The first aid station came quickly.

I was running next to a tall Italian guy who had an over-eager pacer (which incidentally, is worth a red card if I'm not wrong), running just outside the fence. He was cheering him on with such enthusiasm it looked like they thought this guy was about to win first place.

I grabbed the first cup of water the volunteers thrust at me and threw it back like it was cheap college beer.

<<Cavoli! Fa schifo!>> I uttered in Italian, expressing my disdain for the warm, mildly-effervescent saline-solution-tasting ‘water.’

The focused Italian guy next to me ignored me.

Just then, it occurred to me that this had to be the official drink, Saint Yorre, which supposedly has 1,708mg of sodium per liter. That’s a lot of sodium and it’s something I lose a lot of, so it was a welcome drink, despite its unusual taste.

Part of the run course included a tunnel to Monaco

But my stomach started turning. That was the one and only triathlon superpower that I thought I had: A steel stomach. I had never had GI issues in my life, no matter what I ate or drank. I had eaten greasy pizza on the indoor trainer and never felt anything.

A quarter in, and I was happy to be passing quite a lot of guys. At the U-turn, a local volunteer gave me a strong high-five and yelled, “You’re the best!” thick French accent and all. Right after that there was a homeless guy pushing a huge shopping cart full of dirty plastic bags.

Again, I felt lucky. And a bit ashamed, too. What the costs of all our gear and travel could do for this guy…

The din of the finish line cheers and announcer’s voice increased as the first half of the run neared. Another round of high-fives to my wife, kids, and parents, ensued, and my stomach hurt even more.

Thanks for the video, Charlene!

Not because of them, no, I know that’s how it sounds, but because…something had to give. Could I tough it out to the end? Only 10.5k more to go. That’s not so long.

But it just hurt so much, it was slowing me down. I won’t get too graphic here about what I felt and what emergency action I could take (something about the bushes). It even crossed my mind that if I happened to have an accident I would still finish, right?

Down the chute, seconds from finishing.

But right then a lone port-a-potty appeared, and I promptly made full use of it. That took me 90 precious seconds, which resulted in me missing my run goal of sub-1:40. But I felt so much better, especially knowing I wasn’t going to make a mess of the massage table later. 😆

Obligatory medal pic

I certainly didn’t put in a personal best – nobody did with those hills – in fact it was one of my slowest races ever, but the beauty of the sea, mountains, and city more than made up for it.

How every race should end.