Susanne knew it. That means Susanne 1, my own dear Susanne. Did know that Black would not be the colour, from the moment we were told the swim location had to be moved farther out and the 20k bike leg would get those extra 20k. She was sure that any further concussion to the system eventually would not be tolerable. More than the disastrous journey including lumbago still on the ferry to Norway, hospital at night in Larvik, broken down car, forced two days stay in Notodden, damaged caravan and finally forgotten shoes for supporters of the relay team for the Eidfjord Mini Triathlon. And of course she was right.
To me, it took 17 hours more to recognize this. Until about km 35 of the now 200 km bike course, on the first third of the climb to Dyranut. Up to that point, I had been carefully optimistic. Getting up an hour earlier than planned, due to the changed conditions. On the ferry, when I suddenly was the last one still on deck and so not pushed with the pack, but forced to decide. In the water, when swimming felt really smooth and easy, but the dimly lit buoy soon became invisible in the distance and orientation was lost immediately. Back on land, as I had to realize that my Forerunner had quit working, but nevertheless could still tell that my swim had taken 1:56h, which was about half an hour more than expected. In the transition zone, busily supported by Uwe, struggling from one gear into the other. Even on the first extra 20 kilometres to Eidfjord I felt quite good, despite the pouring rain. It was not until the middle of this first climb, that seemed endless from the beginning and felt extremely hard to me, being passed by all the slower swimmers, it was there, that I began to panic and write off the black shirt. A mental hole before the battle really had begun, great… So, at this point, on the old tourist road up to Dyranut, shortly before Vøringfossen, the hardest day in my life so far, began.
About 15 km later, Dyranut Turisthytte suddenly appeared from the dense fog, much earlier than expected. It felt like a far longer way, when we came up here yesterday to enjoy the sunshine, magnificent views and most of all the legendary breakfast buffet. It’s getting cold now, really cold, like to prove that rain was not by far all the weather had got for us. There was talk later about 9 ° C. On top of that it is windy, a tailwind this time, but of little help. Cold and wet it is, freezing cold and wet. At Dyranut, my two support teams are gathered around me to hand me the ordered clothes: rain jacket, thick overshoes, thicker gloves, buff. And a water bottle with Vitargo, I don’t need more at this point. This was one more mistake, as I realize later, reconsidering the race one day after.
From now on, cycling could be fun, real time trialling starts here. “Rolling Hills” as they call it on Big Island, here it is simply the Hardangervidda and just not very steep. As I said, it might be fun, that's what I did best in my training, pushing it, Time Trial, baby! Well, could have been. If it hadn’t been that rainy and cold, at some point I can hardly hold the handlebar, shivering. Team 2 looks like they are beginning to worry about my condition.
Team 2, which is of Susanne 1 (my Susanne, miraculously recovered from her lumbago), Susanne 2 (Uwe´s Susanne, I apologize for this phrase, for dramaturgical reasons I could not resist it) and Marlene, in the car.
Team 1 consists of Uwe and Lukas on motorbike, for now. Without those 5 I would not have survived the day, that’s for sure.
Another 60 km further, race km 110. Geilo. Now it starts to get really serious, at the "major climbs". Meanwhile, the sun came out and the temperature rises. Bad-weather clothing is handed over to Team 2, provisions refilled. I am too exhausted to take care of refuelling; I give instruction to the team that they should force me to eat from now on. In retrospect this was probably one of the major mistakes not to pay attention to food and liquid intake. I know, of course, that it is about is not about being hungry or thirsty but steady supply. Obviously the brain does not always work equally well, too.
As expected, the hills soon turn to pure cruelty, the speed indicator shows a “1” as first digit. However, this time I do feel the tail wind: On top of the third hill, where another 6 km follow up with 4% and thoroughly can break your heart, total despair holds off. On the downhills I even put up new speed records. Seems like I did learn some bike-skills… A short time later I realize that the desperation had not planned at all to stay away, but only to wait. Until Immingfjell. Nasty 10 km with a nasty ascend. I do not know how much, somewhere between 7 and 10%. The pace goes single digit. I give myself to my self-pity. At the top there is still no headwind, but also no familiar face. Where's my support? Further ahead, only a few miles away. They had only decided not to leave a pity-committee at every corner.
At some point the plateau is done, after the last food supply I try to rush the last 30 km through Tessungdal down to T2. Well, at least I try. What promised to be an endless descent soon turns out to be a bumpy mess. The road surface is known to be really bad and the last 20 km feel more like a mountain bike route. Despite constant caution I am seriously worried about my carbon fork. Of course there is no need to honestly worry, but that does not really matter to me anymore.
At last! At last I turn left towards the lawn near our campsite, the second transition area, T2. The speedometer shows something around 9 hours, despite the extended distance that is the same as 2009, thus even a little bit faster. Well, at least a little. Later it occurs to me that the speedometer does not measure breaks but the stopwatch definitely does. The total time for cycling so soon turns out to be quite sobering...
The crew is fully assembled and helps me from the one into the other clothes. Slowly, very slowly do I move, even more slowly do I walk out on the course. Someone tells me that I am on 215th place. I do not care now. I know for almost 8 hours, where I stand.
Running is harder for me than 2009. I resolve to run all 25km to zombie Hill. But it hurts. Arrangement was that the crew, now just one team together in the car, should be waiting for me with supplies about every 2 km. The km-signs, marking the course, appear, but no support car. Immediately my inner monologue switches back to self-pity mode. Later I find out that Susanne had lengthened the support intervals in order to keep me going with fewer breaks. I had in fact begun to abuse the food intake to extensive talking and walking breaks. I personally think it's perfectly legitimate... I feel completely powerless, with sore legs and back. And then, at km 8, a new problem shows up. Unknown to me and very uncomfortable. An iron rule commands, never, NEVER to do any nutrition experiments in a race situation. Never try new stuff, never in the race. Completely unprofessional, I’d never do such thing, not me. For years I rely on my Squeezy Gel, they all have the same ingredients, there should be no danger. Well, that’s what I thought. To make it short: the new “tomato“ flavour, which is quite a revelation when you can no longer bear all the sweet stuff (the night after racing Kalmar in 1997 I even dreamed of the provided Energikakan!), obviously consists of something different, which, in conclusion, forces me to look for a hidden access to the forest. Not easy when you are on a road between mountains and lake. In total I was forced to take three breaks that way, which cost time and make me decide to abstain from eating. Of course this is not reasonable, but obviously I had given up reason hours before.
A few km further someone is running up from behind, identified by the race number as 96, Alessandra. We run together for a while, pushing each other, silent and suffering, tiny hills on the banks of Tinnsjøen hurt. Later, in the Rjukan valley, we start talking a little about the rest of the course, which is still ahead of us, and then I can no longer keep up. Later I find out that Alessandra Perbellini had before Norseman raced the Marathon des Sables this April. Well, different level then.
There is one thought that finds its way into my mind more and more often: What if this challenge is just too big for me and that the white shirt simply is the most I could reach? The genetic limit in a way. I am beginning to get afraid of the answer. The real border, is this it?
Painfully I reach Rjukan and stand in front of Zombie Hill. Uwe and Lukas, team 1, will accompany me from here, now on foot. It is steep, steep and long. Bend after bend, never ending. We are cheered from almost every oncoming car. Fortunately, I do have quite entertaining accompaniment, but in the end it took 1.5 to walk those 7 km up to the table of destiny at the turnoff to Gaustablikk. A quick chat with the crew, looking pretty much freezing, a little food added and further on, turning left. Will I ever know how the road to Stavsro looks like?
In 2009 I came back to running at this point, after hours of marching. Today it's different. A short try, again with Marlene by my side, ends with the familiar pain. Achilles tendon, you're still there! So we decide not to run but to walk up to the few competitors still in the race. Slowly fun comes back. 3 x 3.5 km march gives a lot of time to chat. We actually overwalk some athletes who are in even worse shape than I am. In between, we are stretching our fists in the direction of Gaustatoppen and swear at him, who, although dramatically illuminated by the setting sun, looks down on us bored and maliciously.
It is dark and cold. The athletes on the track are reduced to points of light that emerge from the woods, then, approaching, evolve to silhouettes first, then, in the corner of the eye, to small groups of real people before they disappear again until we meet again on the next lap. At last we reach the final turning point where the lonely crew try to keep themselves warm at an open fire. I'm not sure who of us deserves more pity. This Norseman crew bears a lot, just to enable us to do this crazy race.
One km before the finish Uwe emerges from the dark, carrying the pirate flag, which he had assembled quickly at the parking lot. We'd actually planned to put it up at the summit. Thus, the final meters become a triumphal march; the four of us approach to the finishing line on the pitch-dark parking lot in front of Gaustablikk Hotel, where Susanne 1 and 2 are waiting. After 18:53 I cross the finish line, to complete the hardest, physically and mentally exhausting Ironman of my life. On the way back to the campsite in Austbygde, I’m so tired that I talk nothing but nonsense fall asleep every time no one appeals to me.
It is more than seven weeks ago now, that I almost despaired of the Hardangervidda and even more of Immingfjell. Despaired of the weather, of the cruel distance, of myself. Questions remain: Did I train wrong? Did I train enough? Do I have a chance to ever reach the Gaustatoppen and to win a black shirt? Is that just a different league?
Susanne 1, coach MB_A and I draw get different results on this. I just hope once that mine is the more correct, because I'm the only one of us, who knows me from the inside. My result is quite similar to Jørgen Melaus prophecy on the day after: "I think you will come back."
I will give it another try. Only one. The date is not in my hand. This horrific, brutal, heart-breaking race is simply too beautiful not to come back.
P.S.
There is yet another thing: At the award-ceremony on the next day, I had a short chat with Susanne 3, record-winner Susanne Buckenlei. Much later I realized that I forgot to congratulate her victory record. I do regret this but here it is: Herzlichen Glückwunsch, Susanne.
P.P.S.
And thanks to Susanne 1 and 2 and Marlene, Luke, and Uwe. Again: I would not have survived without you.
