Jay Handy

Coach and Advocate for Fitness

Here we profile Jay and present his personal narrative: My Ironman Experience; or, What it"s like to Finish Dead Last (but still Alive) in an Ironman Competition. Thanks to Jay, we can all vicariously swim, bike and run a marathon -- reliving a first-hand experience of this incredible athletic feat!

Jay painlessly finished the 2004 Ironman Wisconsin and was seen highfiving and smiling the whole way. He was heard shouting "I'll see you way before midnight!" – a jesting reference to his first Madison finish. Though now a perennial Ironman, Jay will never forget the day he first defined himself according to these terms…

About Jay
Jay Handy was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes in 1975 at age 13. His "day" job is as a financial advisor -- but his great avocation is as an athletic coach and advocate for fitness for people with diabetes. Jay is a marathon runner and long distance biker. He is the cycling coach for Team Madison ( Wisconsin), National Head Coach for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (JDRF) Ride to Cure Diabetes, founder of the Web site DIABETESandSports.com and a Certified U.S. Cycling Federation Coach. He also coaches cyclists, runners and walkers of all ability levels. Among other activities, Jay took part in a 19-member International Diabetic Expedition to Aconcagua, Argentina, the tallest mountain in the Western Hemisphere.

Jay is also a regular speaker to diabetic groups and on National Public Radio concerning exercise programs. As a guest of Secretary of Health and Human Services Tommy G. Thompson, he spoke on the importance of exercise as it relates to diabetes at the "National Steps to a Healthier U.S.: Putting Prevention First" convention in April 2003. Jay"s wife, Kim, is an accomplished marathon runner herself. Jay and Kim are the parents of two daughters, Schuyler and Grace.

Here Jay describes his motivation to succeed: "I have had the opportunity to coach many diabetics in completing their first century (100 miles) bike ride and in running marathons. In doing this, I have discovered something very powerful in the diabetic community. Beyond completing a 100-mile bike ride in one day, people are left empowered to continue to strive and set higher goals for themselves athletically. As people with diabetes, we are often not encouraged to "push" ourselves or put too many demands on our bodies. I say nonsense! With the right amount of desire, and trial and error, one can factor in carbohydrate and insulin needs and accomplish anything. Let that be our mantra: to do anything."

Part 1: The Start and the Swim
The first time I had ever heard of the "Ironman" was in high school. It was the late 70s. I felt true amazement and bewilderment at the sheer distances as discussed by Jim McKay with his 5-inch lapels on "ABC Wide World of Sports." Everyone would then repeat these distances like a mantra: swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, THEN run 26.2 miles (a full marathon). I could not fully comprehend what seemed like a crazy notion. But I would have those distances committed to memory: 2.4, 112, 26.2. I never again had to ask someone what comprised an Ironman event.

The Start
Fast-forward some 25 years -- to the morning of September 7, 2003, to be exact. I am treading water with over 1,800 people in Lake Monona in Madison, Wisconsin. I am about 150 feet behind a string of flags, hanging 20 feet above the water. It"s the official starting line of the 2003 Ironman Wisconsin. There is pulsating music 200 yards away on the beach, revving up the 4,000-5,000 people along the shoreline and on every ledge along the Monona Convention Center. My friend Mark T. is beside me. I ask him to repeat what he just said. Two helicopters are flying by very closely with what look like giant movie cameras. I have never seen a helicopter up so close. "Let"s move back some, these people look fast!" he said. "OK by me" I concurred. We tread our way through bobbing black wetsuit-encased bodies, everyone with a look of both excitement and panic in their eyes.

I yell to Mark "Why do I feel like Tom Hanks in "Saving Private Ryan" just before he hit Normandy?" He laughed, and then said "Hey, man, thanks for getting me into this." I tap his fist with mine, saying, "Don"t thank me yet." I have a quick realization -- I may not see him again until the whole event is over. "Hey bud, see ya on the other side of this whole thing!" As I say this, I am trying to sound confident. "Yeah, I know, you"re right, we may not hook up again," he responds.

The Swim

The next thing we heard was a giant boom from a canon on shore. The mass of bodies in the water changed from bobbing heads to elongated forms with little splashes trailing them. We were now all slowly swimming, although the pace was picking up quickly. I had heard many horror stories of the "washing machine" effect of these crowded swims. Legs and arms flailing. Teeth being kicked out. Heads being pushed and held under. None of this happened, fortunately. It seemed as though we had all read the same descriptions, and none of us wanted to get hurt. We moved more like a school of fish -- with occasionally a bump

here and there, but all very civil. The swim seemed to move along quickly, as we followed a rectangular course. I reflected over the diabetic kids whom I wanted to inspire to attempt all they could dream of, regardless of their condition. "Don"t let it control you, you control it," I would always tell them. I thought this Ironman thing could act as a proof to them that everything was possible. Meanwhile, I kept repeating the lesson my swim coach taught me years before, "Make Ps with you right arm, 9s with your left, and keep your head up!" I was also thinking of the many hours devoted to training for this crazy goal -- somewhere between 500 and 600 hours over a one-year period. I thought of the devotion of my wife. All the added tasks she had taken on during the last year, making lunches, Saturday breakfasts alone with the kids, soccer games without me, putting up with my continual tiredness and frequent moodiness. If anyone deserves a medal, she does, I thought.

The second loop of the swim came around quickly. I moved with the "school" of swimmers and kept pace. Another corner came. Gosh, that must be 3,000 yards already -- a distance that takes forever in a pool. Another corner, and I was into the last of the long legs of the rectangle. The school had thinned out, and I was able to really get into a rhythm. It was not until a kayak from within the rectangle was nearly on top of me that I realized I was so into my rhythm that I had gone astray. Back on course, I could see the last giant green buoy indicating the final turn before heading into shore. I made it there, and then the pace seemed to increase for all my fellow fishies. With each bilateral breath, the sound of the crowd, the announcer making inaudible shouts and the steady beat of music seemed to come in short bursts. I knew I was going to finish this swim!

Twelve months ago, the swim was the part that scared me most. And, it was now over. I was climbing up onto the beach, cordoned off by crowd-control barriers. Official "strippers" or "peelers" greeted me, ordered me down on the ground, and off came my wet suit. There was a slight concern in one portion of my brain, "did my Speedo* just get stripped off with that suit?" Whew, nope, still there. Once up, I ran two stories up the spiral helix to the transition area to change into my bike gear. A quick glance at my watch indicated I was out of the water 20 minutes faster than I had planned. It was the fastest I had ever swum in my life! This was going to be a great day, I thought. Already ahead of schedule by 20 minutes and feeling great!

I came out of the Convention Center, running to my bike. I called my wife, Kim, on the cell. "KIM?!"
"JAY, JAY, IS THAT YOU?!"
"KIM, I MADE IT OUT OF THE WATER IN A BUCK TWENTY, ADJUST YOUR TIMES, I"M RUNNING OUT TO THE BIKES NOW!" "OK, I LOVE YOU AND…"

I turned the phone off and ran. The adrenaline was surging, and I had to keep moving. Once on the bike, I slowly descended the opposite helix of the Convention Center. This was awesome. I felt great. Hey, there were my friends the Oeths. They just yelled "Go Jay." That was so nice they came to see me. I was now out onto John Nolan Drive. I was rolling. The bike course is a

lollypop-designed route. There is a 16-mile stick, which enters a 40-mile loop that you cover twice, and then you go back onto the stick toward Madison. It"s a total of -- you guessed it -- 112 miles. I made it to Verona, the stick entrance, in my perfectly planned 55 minutes. My heart rate was also a perfect 150 beats per minute, or 75% of my maximum. This aerobic pace keeps the glycogen stores diminishing slowly throughout the day so one can survive. Later, it will take most of these athletes three-to-four weeks to recover their depleted glycogen levels. Right now, the goal for everyone is not to waste any extra.

The first loop was filled with joy. I had rigged up a homemade contraption to hold my OneTouch® Ultra® Meter onto the bike itself -- so I could check my blood sugars without slowing down a bit. My blood sugars were all perfect. Everything was perfect. All the hours of planning were paying off. I was so happy. By now, it did occur to me that the air temperature was rising. "No problem," I thought as I methodically looked and counted my electrolyte pills and salt tablets inside their plastic bag. Every 30 minutes, I would take one salt tablet and two electrolyte pills. "Perfect," I thought. I have just enough for the remaining five-and-a-half hours I need to finish the bike race. I shoved the bag back into my jersey pocket.

All sorts of people I knew had come out to cheer me on. They would yell. I would raise my arm in a fist or give a thumb"s up. It was a mutual exchange of excitement. At the base of the second of three killer climbs, Maureen B. and Norm A. had created a " Jubilee Pass" sign. This recalled the infamous six-mile climb in Death Valley, where I have gained some notoriety. Over the years, I have helped numerous riders from the Ride to Cure Diabetes make this infamous climb. I have been known to repeat the climb many times in one day to help the less-experienced cyclists up.

All my friends cheered and yelled, "Go Jay!" Through the hill I saw Michael L., Darin T., Alison T., Elvin R., Hans J. and Maggie J., Walter and Val S., Dan K., Maureen B., Norm A., Sue T., my sister Lisa, her daughters Haley and Nina, and my wife and girls. I have such great friends and family, I thought. I am the luckiest person alive on the planet, right now. "Gosh, I hope I don"t disappoint them" was my next thought.

I made it back to Verona in a perfect two-and-a-half hours. I was still 20 minutes ahead of schedule. As planned, I stopped for 10 minutes in the "special needs bag" area. Here, volunteers would hand you a bag you had previously prepared with whatever you wanted at the halfway point of your ride. I had two cans of Slim-Fast* for condensed caloric intake. I had already burned over 4,500 calories. I sat down in the blazing sun. Gosh, it was hot and humid, away from the constant breeze created by the bike. There was not a cloud in the sky. Back on the bike, and I was off. One more loop, and I was heading back to Madison to put a fork into this segment of the race. What a great day.

The First Challenge
By mile 80 the temperature was 90 degrees, and for the first time I started to feel slight cramps in my legs. It was time to take another salt tablet and my self-prescribed electrolyte pills. "This should keep any problems at bay," I thought. I reached back toward my right jersey pocket. It was empty. I checked my center pocket. Not there. The left pocket? Only my emergency diabetic supplies were there. My heart sank, and my mind went completely blank for what seemed like a mile. My God, what am I going to do? This was so crucial. You need sodium in order to maintain water in the body. If the sodium levels drop, paralyzing cramping emerges as the body shuts down. But I also knew that, according to the rules of the event, there would be no tablets at the aid stations and no one could give me any, now that the race was in progress. I looked down at a strip of paper I had taped to my handle bar. It was from an e-mail Julie R. had sent me two days earlier. It read, "May God give you the strength and endurance to finish." I thought to myself, "I may need those two elements more than ever in my life on this day."

Ten miles later, I started up the first of three tough climbs. I saw someone walking up the climb and thought that looked smart. I stopped, thinking I would simply jump off and begin walking. Instead, I fell over with locked legs due to cramped quads. It was excruciating. I screamed into the treetops. I could see other bikers slowly ascending past me, none making eye contact for fear they might catch what I had.

Finally, one biker said, "What can do for you?" I said, "Kick. Kick me. Kick me behind my knees..." He did. It broke the clenching spasm. I lay down in a fetal position in the dust. I had an overwhelming desire to shut my eyes, and I could have gone right to sleep. "Keep moving forward," came to mind. I was not moving. "Get moving!" I got up, lifted my bike, and started to walk like a stick man, unable to bend my knees. At the top of the hill, I slowly got onto the bike and began to spin my pedals with very little resistance. Any resistance seemed to set my legs into spasms, and I knew the second climb was coming soon. I rounded onto Timber Lane and saw the next hill. Once again, there were many people I knew. I thought I"d better get off early and not repeat the episode I experienced only two miles back. It would scare my friends to see that! Even before the hill started, I jumped off my bike. I wanted to scream from the pain. I squatted, holding my bike"s top bar, while everyone was wondering what had happened to me. My quads were jumpy and wanted to lock. I kept them elongated by squatting for a few more seconds. I looked up the hill. I started to walk. Click, click, click, went my cleats. Norm, Maureen, Alison, Tony, Hans, Maggie, the Simsons, Amy, Kim and the girls, and my sister Lisa and her daughters who came all the way from New Mexico to witness this. They cheered me on. I felt a little foolish walking. It was a far cry from the Tour de France. They were all concerned. I said something aloud about losing my salt tablets. I hoped they heard it and understood its consequences. In any other state of mind, I would have cried in response to their enthusiasm, but I was like a machine. I could not really connect with anyone -- I was all focus.

At the top of the hill I mounted again, and sped off with the sounds of cheers behind me. I was able to make it to the bottom of Midtown Road, the third and final climb on the loop. I got off and started to walk. I was very relieved to see Dan standing there with encouragement. He said many folks were walking. I made it to the top and got back on. I closed out the second loop and hit Whalen Road, the "stick" of the lollypop.

Heading Back to the Bike Finish
There, under the highway I buckled again and fell over. Another cyclist, walking behind me, said, "Brother, anything I can do for you?" Between yelps, I asked him to push the backs of my knees so I could bend them. With this, I was able to slowly stand. I stood there, holding my bike"s top bar, in a very awkward position. The pain was incredible. I walked, gradually, straight-legged to the top. I stood there for a moment, then mounted and rode slowly on. I had lost all track of time. I was now merely trying to survive.

There is one final hill on Whalen, about two miles later. I fell and buckled my legs a third time. Between screams, I asked a spectator to kick the back of my legs so I could get up. I stood up and started to walk up the hill. At the top, there was an aid station. I must have looked awful because they told me to stop and sit down. I did and begged for anything with salt. They had potato chips, so I ate those. I looked to my right, and there was a guy next to me with severe cramping too. We compared twitching calf muscles, which looked like beating hearts under the skin. I discovered there was another victim behind me, but I did not have the strength to turn around to look. A wagon showed up for her, and they lifted her in. Then, the fellow next to me said he was through and joined her. The next thing that happened was what I most feared. The medical official said "How about you?" In order to sound lucid, so he would allow me to continue, I said, "Hey, all I need here is a remote and a beer and I"ll be set. No, thanks though, I"ll push on." "OK" he said, "you may continue."

I had to walk Rimrock over the beltline and finally got back to the Monona Terrace, where I knew I had to go up the helix. I also knew I had to walk it. Hans J. and Biz J. were there and yelled, "Go Jay!" I got off the bike, and they again said, "Go, Jay." Then, I heard Hans say, "You only have a minute left!"

I started to jog up the helix in great pain, knowing every second counted. There were still 50 yards to the bike-timing mat. I mounted the bike at the top of the helix, but my cleat slipped out of the pedal and I nearly fell. I said aloud, "Oh, God, get in there." Finally, it clicked in, and I rolled into the finish with four seconds to spare.

I was the very last athlete allowed to start the marathon. It was 5:30 pm, the bike cut-off. I had intended to finish between 4:00 and 4:30.

seemed to take forever. Finally, I saw the sign: "1 mile." I said to myself, "How am I ever going to do this?" My next thought was, "Let"s break it down; one mile done, only 25.2 to go." However, that thinking did not help at all. The task was too daunting. So, I just focused on making each step and pushing through the pain. Mark called when I passed mile 2. He was at 13 or so. He did not sound overly positive for me and even mentioned it was a possibility for me to just do the half-marathon and quit there.

Later, he would admit that he thought I was through. My voice was a mess, and I appeared to be "hurting." I could see mile 6. My legs did loosen some. I thought maybe I could run a little, just to speed things up. I tried a light jog for 100 feet, but that was a major mistake. The legs stiffened right up. I knew the only way to propel myself forward was by speed walking, and I felt every step. I made it to University and Walnut, and to my joy, I saw Annette, Dan, Spencer and Lexie. They said I looked better than when I started. I couldn"t really speak but I know I raised my hand up to acknowledge them. I hoped they knew I truly appreciated their (and all my friends") cheers and encouragement. I could not always respond to them.

The last three miles of the first half were discouraging because everyone along the way was saying, "you"re almost there, you"ve done it!" I just kept moving forward, thinking to myself, "If they only knew. This is my only first loop." I did not have three miles left -- I still had 16. I wasn"t even halfway done. I made the mistake of telling one runner/walker of my predicament when he said, "hey man, we"re almost there" as I slowly passed him. For the next mile, I could hear him behind me tell other runners, "Hey man, we"re doing great. You see that guy up there with "Running on Insulin" on the back of his shirt? It"s only his first loop." I had to shut that guy out of my head.

At The Half
With about a mile and a half before the Half mark, which is also at the Finish Line (there is a turnaround there), I called Kim. I told her I didn"t think I could go on. The pain was too great. I told her I was sorry. After all she had done to support me, I wasn"t going to finish. I wanted to cry, but there were no tears. She said I had a lot to be proud of, it was fine, and I need not apologize. She then said she"d meet me at my finish.

Along the last mile before my possible finish, Kim and the whole gang came up along me on Washington Ave. and started to scream "Yeah, go Jay!!" I could not recognize them, since I did not have my glasses on. Then I heard: "It"s us Jay." I waved. I kept walking.

When I hit State Street, I knew I had only seven blocks to finalize the decision to quit. I started to think again of the email Julie had sent me. "May God give you the strength and endurance to finish." I thought of all the people who made an effort to see me today and of their encouragement. Finally, I thought of the diabetic children. I could not "not finish."

Yet, I also thought, "I can"t fathom going back out there again and doing another loop: another 13.1 miles." When I came up Pinckney Street, three blocks from my decision point to either exit or loop around, I saw Hans S. I knew he was a former Olympic athlete, and he had a certain look in his eye, different from all the other spectators. All he said was: "Jay, you can do this." I looked to my right and there was Amy D., my whole family, the Stills, and a host of others. It was a blur. I heard the roar of the crowd -- who thought I was finishing, as did the official at the turnaround. Ten feet before the turnaround, I looked at Kim and I raised my arm and whirled my hand in a circle to indicate I was going back out. I had to. There was no way I could walk off. I had to keep going.

Out of range of the roar of the thousands of people at the Finish, it got quiet fast. Moreover, it was now dark. The course going in my direction was empty. I kept pushing through the pain and moving the legs. I saw Julie R. on her bike. She was waiting for me. She would be one of three angels that night that would get me through. For miles, she would simply ride about 10-to-20 yards ahead of me. Just knowing there was another person "with me" kept me moving. There were times on the course when there was no one in sight except Julie and me.

Jon K., my angel #2, met us on his bike also. He was keeping tight time for me, since I could no longer think well, much less do math! He and Julie would become a bike team, one heading up to the next aid station making sure they were open and had sodium-laden chicken broth, while the other stayed with me.

There was a dark stretch leading up to Lot 60 where two officials on bikes came and passed me from behind. A minute or two later they came back and said, "Hey, there"s someone waiting for you up at Lot 60." "Who could that be?" I thought. It was Amy D, angel #3. The next portion of the run, which has now been reduced to a walk, was through an unlit stretch of park and football practice fields. Every 10 yards was the shadow of a traffic cone or a lit neon glow stick. It was rather surreal. When I spotted Amy, she said "JAY! HOW ARE YOU DOIN" MAN?!" All I could say was, "Amy, you gotta walk with me." She would later describe my image as ""a creature emerging from the dark." She walked alongside of me. She asked if she should talk, if I wanted to talk. I said, "I can"t speak. You just talk." Like a trooper, she went right into stories she knew that had nothing to do with pain.

She brought me back into an area with streetlights, where I saw my support group waiting. There were Kim, Tom and Deborah S., Greg and Diana, Lisa, Marla and Jon K. I knew every step was taking me closer toward the physical end.

awesome." I came off Washington Ave and onto Bedford. Once again, I heard: "JAY! HOW ARE YOU DOIN" MAN?!" It was Amy again. Then she belted, "HEY, MAN, YOU ARE GOING TO DO THIS!" The official at the corner said, in a rather official way, "eight-tenths of a mile left; not far now." I marched up onto State Street once again. I remembered three hours ago this is where I almost gave up. Up to the Square. I see the barriers being taken up and loaded onto trucks. The crowds are gone. The music has been turned off. I did not care. I was going to do the distance. Jon said to Amy, "Shall I alert the troops?" She said, "Yeah, go up ahead."

Part 4: The Finish Line
I am now approaching M.L.K. Boulevard corner, where it"s just one-and-a-half blocks to where the finishing arch is still standing. I come around the comer and into the glow of spotlights and the roar of cheers from hundreds of people. There are still people there for me. For me! The announcer says, "And the final finisher is number 1076, Jay Handy, a Type 1 diabetic!" The crowd"s roar is unbelievable. There are 50 yards left to the finish. I had to run it. It seems as though the pain had lifted. I am going to at least have this moment of peace. I come across the line with my arms up and smiling. It is 12:07 AM.

Moments later the medical team asked if I was OK. Other than the terrible pain in my cramped legs, I felt pretty good. Two volunteers came up and one handed me a tee shirt. The other said, "Oh, he needs his medal." I said, "No….no, I didn"t earn one. It was after midnight." She looked to an official. He said, "Oh, yes you do. You completed the distance. Therefore you are finisher and an Ironman." She then draped the medal over my head. I had finished. Dead last, but still alive! And, with a medal, after all. Success.

A follow-up note from Jay: "It was a rough day for all involved, due to the heat. The high temperature reached 93 degrees. One in four of the athletes sought medical attention at some point during the day. 276 people dropped out. (In 2002, with roughly the same number of participants, just 39 had quit.) I have been told that this was the highest number of dropouts in the 25-year history of the competition."