Vic, You're now an Ironman!!!

A friend of mine Victor just finished his first Ironman in Florida!

I thought since Victor is such a descriptive writer to include his pre, during and after race report on this Blog. It was a great read for me and it certainly added to my internal burn to take the Ironman head-on. My 3-hour workout this morning was filled with visions of crossing the finish at Lake Placid fueled by Victor!

Also, to put Victor's accomplishment into perspective, and to compare his actual results to my stated goal; Victor finished the race in 15 hours on a flat course. I'm attempting to do the same distance in less than 10 hours and 20 minutes or, four hours less as compared to Victor.

Bottom line, an Ironman finish is impressive under any circumstances. I’ve posted Victor’s letter to his friend’s exactly as posted. Please excuse the profanity even though it was timely placed. Please read below~

Victor's letter:
“Let me take you along as I can…

It is 6:30 AM and I have been awake since 3:30 AM in order to do the last few things required of an Ironman. I look at my wife Anita as I pull the wetsuit completely up and I see her crying like I’ve never seen her before. We hug and tell each other we love each other and she wishes me luck. It is still dark outside on the Mexican Gulf . Except there is thunderous music and thousands of voices as I open the door and I can see the distant turn buoys…barely.

I meet Annmarie, my partner, and her face reflects mine: fear and anticipation. It has been one year since we started training and the scene of thousands of athletes making their way to the edge of the ocean is breath taking and worth the experience and sacrifice: we are one of them. We cross the chip-mats into the corral and officially teammates and friends begin to track us across the country. But we are just standing amongst the massive wave of humanity; feet freezing on the cold sand, anxiously making our way to the water so we can dip under just once before the start.

There are 2600 of us. All thinking “dear God” and all thinking “bring this fucking thing on.” We here the whispers, the words, “sacrifice” over and over again. We bump against each other standing on the beach waiting for the gun and the beginning. There is nervous laughter but as I hold Annmarie’s hand I see her crying and breathing heavily. I look out at the markers on the 2.4 mile swim and think it is good that only us 2600 are taking this on. It is good only we have to be subjected. I have a lump in my throat and my mouth is dry and think, “just one buoy at a time, just one buoy at a time” but I know I will be a half a mile from shore soon battling for position and racing against a clock – I have two hours and twenty minutes to be on my bike else my dream ends on the beach.
The gun goes off and the massive crowd moves with purpose. I hold onto Annmarie tightly and tell her to wait, to let some pass us. As the water gets up to our thighs I know it is time and I let go of her and lose her instantly in the battle. I go under and I am kicked. I come up and an arm pushes me back under. I fight for my area and get into my swim and sight the first buoy – that is all I need. Just give me something to sight by and I know I can swim to China . Except that the field won’t let me; they crowd they push; they fight for their own right to move forward. And then I realize I am in an Ironman race and my gut tells me 2:20 so haul. And I do. I reach the first turn buoy and I know my return trip back to shore has begun except that the whole field converges on that tight turn and I am buffeted and crowded out of my lane. I see a swimmer struggling and he goes on his back and he stops me. A wave shoves water down my throat and I choke. I hear a kayaker yell at me, “move right! But I can’t see! Dawn has come to Panama City and the sun is right in my eyes. I follow the crowd and hope for the next turn buoy that directs me back into shore – I see it! Now I have the tide helping me and I steady again into my slow but everlasting stroke and I wonder what my time split will be: whether I will have to pour everything I’ve got into the second loop.

I reach the shore after 1.2 miles and I see the clock – 58 minutes! Too slow! But I think that is the clock for the elite athletes who started ten minutes ahead of us. I walk back into the surf following hundreds in my pack and I dive back in and head for the first buoy. I am not tired at all. The second loop is all race and I do my best to swim a straight course and as I approach the shore again I see the clock: 1:40! I am ahead of my goal time! I run, the crowd is so loud I am lost in it. My wetsuit is stripped off me and as I run to the transition area a shower appears ahead of me and I halt for a few precious seconds – I am out of the water and the chip tells my team hundreds of miles away: “Vic and Annmarie are out of the water.”

Volunteers hand me my first transition bag and I run into the tent and change into cycling gear – my head is spinning but I slow down. I double check all my gear. I down a protein drink and take one gel. I feel great! I run out to the bikes and see “Knite” being held by another volunteer waiting and ready. I hear my number being yelled all over. I walk my bike to the mounting area and clip in – damn but that feels good! The sun is up and I’m on Knite and we are one. I keep the gears low and let my legs spin. I down half one bottle of Gatorade Endurance and settle as much as I can except that I haven’t. By mile 20 I want to vomit violently – I know why: the swim had taken it out of me and I needed to time to settle for my stomach and intestines to properly fuel me. For two miles I go easy and then I feel it – that old warmth from pedaling, the confidence of being a machine and I let Knite do her thing and she likes it. For thirty miles I ride rolling hills staying focused on my eating and drinking strategy. The sun rises and I start catching people. I see people drafting, passing on the right, and I think I’ve got to get through this alive. There is an ambulance coming up behind me – I don’t want to know where it’s going. There are athletes repairing flats left and right. I begin to see fatigue all around me and it terrifies me because we are at mile 50 and there is so much to go. I pray for them and I hope they pray for me. I catch Annmarie and she is the most beautiful sight! Here amongst the swamplands and long highways of northern Florida we meet again. We stay together for a little but we each have our strategies and race and we part. At mile 75 I begin to feel the long day – I have been in motion for almost seven hours straight. A long stretch of bad road begins to wear on my joints and I see I’m not the only one suffering – I have been averaging 15.5 miles per hour and need to ramp it up to at least 16. I feel the energy still in me though muscle fatigue and tightness is coming. Plus my natural fear is keeping my legs from spinning too wildly.

The miles go by too slow even at 16 mph. My mouth begins to remain open and I am drooling and just moving by the grace of training. I reach 100 miles and I think just 12 miles: “just 12 little fucking miles – please good Lord.” I see other athletes turn it on and on this thin stretch of highway we dangerously begin to pass each other. My back hurts, my ass is burning and I can barely stay on the saddle. But I feel a second wind and as I get onto the main strip near the transition area I hammer – I am so proud of Knite and that she was getting me through the second leg. Knite and I have been through 20 mph crashes during training: she has gotten more bloodied than I. I look at her the scratches on her carbon frame and I say to myself it was worth it. My eyes begin to tear as I enter the race area and when I dismount I am warned to take it easy. A volunteer takes Knite away from me and I am handed my run transition bag. I run to the tent and change out of my bike shorts and into my triathlon shorts. I put on my cap and head lamp and fill my rear pockets with my gels and fuel. I down another protein drink and as I lace my running shoes on I don’t think about the marathon I am about to run. I am so tired. My bike time was seven hours 10 minutes. I have been in motion for nine hours.

I pull up my arm warmers as the evening cool winds and the loss of so much glycogen is starting to cool me off. As I run out of the transition area I see Anita and Adi and I think we are in separate worlds. I had cycled with a picture of Adi attached to the top of my stem and now I had taken the picture and attached it to my race belt. My thoughts were simple: “get to mile 6.5 and return and then let God do what he wants.” I hobbled first then jogged and then by the one mile marker I was running.

By mile five dusk had settled in and I had reached the first turn around point in a state park. Annmarie had caught up to me and she looked wonderful – I had so much joy at how good her stride was and how much she had left. We ran together for a bit and talked about the day and the insanity of it all and we genuinely laughed. I could not stay with her and we hugged and I told her that the next time I saw her she would be an Ironman. I saw her slowly pull away and I spoke to fellow athletes as we made our way back to mile 13 at the transition area. I was sill running and there was no pain what-so-ever. But it was the beginning of a fatigue you feel in your soul and as I write right now, a week after the race, I feel that deep soul fatigue that is the gift of an Ironman. As I approached mile 13 in the dead of night I could see the finish line.

I turn to go back out for the second thirteen. I take my special needs bag and drink my last protein drink.
The final thirteen miles are a blur – even now I can barely remember them except that I see myself moving forward at a steady pace and that I reached the point where I am discarding gels. I am at mile 23 and I am down to taking water only as I cannot stomach more than the 18 gels I had already taken. I reach another triathlete and I know she is the last one I would catch and I would stay with her until the finish. We talk until mile 25 and then agree to finish at our own pace. As I turn onto the last mile my stride extends. I turn off my headlamp and pull up the zipper on my shirt. I grab sponges from the last aid station and wipe my face and think to myself I want to look good. I had been in motion for fifteen hours and the only thing left was vanity!

During the race I thought of everything in my life. Everything. The saying goes that at the start of the race you are the strongest you will ever be in your life and at the end the weakest and that the journey is where one discovers oneself. In my case I felt weakest at the start, weakest during, fragile and grateful at the end. At the end were people guiding me, taking care of me, handling me like a newborn. At the end and in the immediate days after I would ironically come to take care of my wife and child who had both become sick. They had taken care of me and seen me through with love and all too human frailties and now they reminded me that love has no fatigue, no tapering, no recovery period. I was never less tired in my life.

I checked my iPhone and all the e-mails, texts, voicemails and how we had been tracked all day and my eyes watered not in disbelief but the comfort of knowing that it was not I who had been in motion for fifteen hours. I had been carried.


The announcer yells out, “Victor Acosta you are an Ironman!” There is a medal. There is a picture. And someone tries to wrap me in foil and I say, “Thank you, no.” I am hungry and tired no longer means anything. I search for Anita and for Annmarie and almost burst when I see them. I go to pick up my transition bags and Knite. The next day I take Baby Adi out to the beach so mommy can rest and sleep and I show her the ocean and that there is nothing in life to be afraid of.”