From J Pouch to Ironman in Six Months—Lake Placid Race Report
by : Cory Fleming
Fortunately, I’m writing with good news: Ironman Lake Placid was a huge success. There were plenty of uncertainties given my journey to the start line (Part 1 of this story), but things came together for me. Here’s the report on my gloriously brutal day, with a bit of philosophizing along the way.
Race-Day Morning
I woke up just after 2 a.m. and, realizing it was finally race day, couldn’t get back to sleep. I had some coffee, loaded up on more carbs—to top off the previous two days of carb loading—and headed to the race venue a couple of hours later.
The time leading up to the race was pretty uneventful. I borrowed a pump and got my bike’s tire pressure just right, checked my gear a final time, and killed some time by sitting on the ground and listening to music—a bunch of obscure progressive metal bands from Europe, if you must know.
It was relatively cool and started raining after about an hour. This was when I realized I had forgotten to put on sunscreen for the day. I felt silly applying sunscreen in the rain but hey, most of the race was supposed to be sunny.
I put on my wetsuit and walked to the swim start, handing my fiancée and parents my phone, headphones, and morning clothes on the way over. My fiancée had traveled to the race with me, and my parents had flown from California to Upstate New York to watch and support.
Shortly before 6:30 a.m., a cannon sounded and the professional men’s field began their swim. Another shot sounded a few minutes later, and the professional women followed. A final shot went off minutes after that, and the first amateurs—”age groupers” as we’re called—began their day.
The Swim
The swim course was two 1.2-mile loops in Mirror Lake, which included a short, 50-foot run across the lake’s beach between laps. Swimmers were sent out in waves to avoid the mess of over 2000 athletes all trying to start at once. We put ourselves in groups based on the time we expected to take to swim the full 2.4 miles, generally organized from faster to slower. Within those groups, five athletes entered the water every five seconds or so.
I chose to line up in the 1:01–1:10 group, while actually expecting to swim around a 1:15. It’s well known that a big portion of folks overestimate their abilities, so even those with more reasonable expectations have to go up a group to compensate. I adjusted my goggles one last time and was sent into the water right at 6:40 a.m.
For the first 10 minutes, I kept the effort level relatively high to establish a good position. I swam past dozens of other athletes, validating my choice to over-seed myself. Not long after this initial effort, I found a good rhythm—breathing well and sighting the buoys ahead every six to eight strokes.
As someone who learned to swim quite late in life and doesn’t particularly enjoy it, any amount of time in the water usually feels like an eternity. But the first lap went by quickly. I exited the water, made the short run across the beach, and hopped back in for round two.
On the second lap, I found the feet of some decent swimmers and followed them along the course, swimming around the athletes who placed themselves in the slower groups and were on their first lap. The drafting effect that comes with being on someone’s feet makes a huge difference, and I was able to keep my effort low while not losing any speed.
Before I knew it, I was exiting the water. My watch showed that I had completed the swim in about 1:12—I was elated. The swim is my weakest point, and truthfully I would have been happy with anything under 1:20.
Swim stats: 0:35:16 first lap, 0:36:44 second lap, 1:12:00 total time (1:42/100yds)
Transition 1
Not far beyond the water’s exit, volunteers were lined up to help athletes quickly remove their wetsuits. (They’re now called “wetsuit peelers,” because apparently “wetsuit strippers” was too salacious.) A wetsuit strippe… peeler got me out of my wetsuit in seconds—I was wearing my Ride4IBD kit under, so no one got a free show. I ran to the transition area carrying my wetsuit, swim cap, and goggles and saw my fiancée and parents cheering me on.
The distance from the lake to my bike wasn’t exactly short, and I had to stop to put on my cycling shoes and helmet and grab the several energy gels I planned to eat on the ride. I unracked my bike, pushed it to the bike course’s start, and hopped on.
T1 time: 0:07:17
The Bike
The Ironman Lake Placid bike course is awesome—two long laps totaling 112 miles with around 7,000 feet of elevation gain and loss, all on great roads with beautiful scenery. My plan was to push about 185 watts on average and 200 watts normalized. In simpler terms, I planned to ride at a pace that I thought would equate to about 20 miles per hour or roughly a 5:30 bike split. To fuel this effort, I would take in 100 grams of carbs—400 calories of sugar—each hour via the energy gels I grabbed and drink mix I had preloaded in the bottles on my bike.
The first 40 miles were fantastic. I felt great, the watts were coming easily, and I stayed on top of my nutrition plan. But then it happened: the first bout of J-pouch-related suffering. Of course, I knew my new insides would give me some grief throughout the race, but I didn’t know exactly what to expect. As it would turn out (shockingly), putting in a long effort with a six-month-old J pouch following days of carb loading is pretty rough.
By mile 50, I had grown tired of the gut pain so I stopped at an aid station porta-potty. This stop cost me about three minutes. The competitor in me detested that I lost time this way and likely would lose more throughout the race. I’m someone who doesn’t accept excuses, and day-to-day I don’t think of myself as different from anyone else—missing colon notwithstanding. But throughout the ride, I reasoned with myself and accepted my situation. I remembered that barely more than six months ago I was on a feeding tube, unable to do much of anything; that it takes a year or longer for many people with a J pouch to get back to any sense of normality at all, much less swim, bike, and run; and that as little as two months ago, I was severely anemic. I was lucky to be racing, and some gut-related stops were nothing in the larger context. What mattered was being the best I could be in light of my situation.
These internal musings, unfortunately, didn’t make things easier. I felt some relief from my stop at mile 50, but by mile 80 my gut was suffering again—and this time worse. The pain was so bad at times that I had trouble moving the pedals. I put in effort when I could, and eased up when my insides told me to. Even worse was continuing to shovel in gels and drink mix, but dialing back the carbs now would be disastrous later in the race, so that wasn’t an option.
Finally, at mile 100, I stopped again, losing another two or three minutes. Nonetheless, my power numbers and time still looked quite good—even considering the five or six total minutes my bike spent idle, tipped against porta-potties.
The relief from this second stop was more fleeting than the first. The gut pain came back almost immediately. But I only had 12 miles left on the bike, so I finished them as strongly as I could. I got off my bike, handed it to a volunteer, thanked the powers that be that I didn’t have any mechanical issues, and started thinking about the marathon I had in front of me.
Bike stats: ~5:29:00 moving time (~20.4mph), 5:34:21 total time (20mph); 180w AP/195w NP (including 0w at stops)
Transition 2
My insides were in shambles when I entered the transition area, so I ran straight to a porta-potty—the J pouch stop count was now up to three. I mentally shook off the time I had just lost and quickly put on my running shoes and running belt (which was full of more gels that I had no desire to eat), put away my cycling shoes and helmet, and got out onto the run course, waving to my fiancée and parents who were waiting for me at the start.
T2 time: 0:06:46
The Run
Running is what I’m best at. Even though I started all three sports around the same time (in the back half of my 20s), running always came the most naturally. On the other hand, running is by far the hardest on the gut. So I tempered my expectations and chose to run at whatever effort felt tolerable, rather than match some pre-planned pace—still, I hoped to at least run below a 3:30. I also chose to take in nutrition by feel, staying fueled and hydrated but not force-feeding myself to hit my planned 75 grams of carbs (300 calories of sugar) per hour.
Ironman Lake Placid’s 26.2-mile run course is a hilly one, with somewhere around 1200 feet of elevation gain and loss. It begins primarily downhill, and I was able to click off the first five miles well below a 7:30/mile pace. I was pleased with this start but my gut had begun hurting, so I made my fourth stop and watched my average pace swell.
The next 10 miles were nice, if a little uneventful. I ran at an average pace just below 7:40/mile, took in gels and fluids as I was able, and focused on keeping my form smooth and efficient. My gut felt alright, but with how tough things had been with the J pouch so far, I knew I couldn’t do the entire run on only one bathroom stop. Sure enough, on mile 15 my gut confirmed this, and I made my fifth (and final!) stop about a mile later.
With 10 miles left to go, I unsurprisingly felt flat and empty. This is about the point where I knew I’d hit the wall and the remainder would become a test of willpower. I drudged on at a decent clip, ready for each mile to hurt almost exponentially more than the last. Also, remember when I said the first part of the course was mostly downhill? Well, the last part was mostly uphill.
The final five miles were agony. Thankfully it was mostly dead legs and overall fatigue that I felt, not my gut. I held onto an 8:00/mile pace despite the uphills and audibly groaned all along the way. Probably because of clichéd TV and movie plotlines, I thought maybe I could channel the nearly unimaginable struggles I had been through over the past few years and heroically push through the end without feeling any pain. Nope, pain is pain. I kept my legs turning over and focused on the finish.
Agony turned to bliss as I entered the finisher’s chute. I smiled for my fiancée’s camera, waved to my mom, and veered toward the barriers to give my dad a quick high five. Like any athlete, my main concern when crossing the finish line was to pause my watch—gotta have accurate data. (As it turned out, I paced the run great, with only a very slight positive split.)
Run stats: ~3:22:26 moving time (~7:43/mi), 3:26:10 total time (7:51/mi)
The Aftermath
Done. The ridiculous idea of going from J pouch to Ironman in six months, particularly in my circumstances, was complete. And I couldn’t be prouder of my time and performance. But rather than having warm and fuzzy feelings or getting hit by a wave of emotion after the finish, I pretty much just hurt. I left absolutely everything I had on the course, mentally and physically. That’s the only way I’d ever want to feel after a race.
Final stats:
10:26:32 finish time (including ~12 minutes of bathroom stops, for those keeping track)
Top 20 in the most competitive age group
77th overall among over 2000 amateurs
Final Thoughts and What’s Next
Finishing the race wasn’t exactly some major, profound moment for me. More important than a big moment, it was confirmation that I was well on my way to a (more) normal life and could do the things I love at a level I was satisfied with. I also realized I was just getting started. If my fitness could come this far in a medically fraught six months, imagine my potential with years of healthier training.
If you look at any J pouch forum online, it’ll be filled with horror stories and doubts—and rightly so; nothing is guaranteed after the procedures. I’m happy to add a positive story to the mix and further push the limits of what’s thought to be possible. I’m not sure if anyone has ever put down a performance like this at an endurance event of this magnitude so soon after the J pouch procedures, but I’d love to be proven wrong or outdone—we need more visible examples out there.
* * *
I’m now on a short vacation, relaxing and casually beginning to think about what challenge I want to take on next. It may be continuing triathlon and improving my times (reaping the benefits of better training with my now-improved health), sharpening my run legs and working toward a sub-2:30 standalone marathon, or taking the opposite approach and running a 100-mile ultramarathon in the mountains. It may be something entirely different. Whatever I end up doing, I want to continue to set new standards in endurance sports for those navigating similar medical journeys.
