November 5, 2011
My first action race morning was to click on Facebook and update my status. I’m “about to run Ironman Florida on the least amount of training ever for a race. Good thing or bad thing? Only one way to find out!” It seemed like the truest thing I could have said at the time. Would it be a good thing? Would it be a bad thing? Would it matter? Would this race matter to me? These questions swam in my head as I ate breakfast and readied my nutrition bags. Our condo was .75 miles from transition, so I didn’t feel compelled to leave until 5:30. May as well kill time here than there.
I get down to the site a little before 6:00, giving me not much more than an hour to get everything ready. Then again in Ironman you pretty much pack everything important the day before. All I had to do was drop off my nutrition and update some bags with trivial and forgotten items. Of course, I spent half of my allotted free time in the porto-potty line, leaving me a bit rushed to do the rest of everything. I finish up right around the time they’re kicking everybody out, which I suppose is typical for me. Most everyone around me cares more about this race, and is therefore much more nervous. You take the good with the bad…
Everything done, I waddle down to the beach just as they’re forbidding anyone else to enter the water; the pros are about to go. I park up next to swim exit and hop in long enough to get wet and “break in” my suit. The next 10 minutes are a blur: the pros go, the anthem plays, the countdown begins. I happen to see my friend and training partner John in the mass of people right before the start and we share pleasantries. Soon enough, though, we leave each other to handle business. In no time at all, the gun fires and we’re off.
I started really wide right and tried to make concerted efforts to stay right as long as possible. After about 150 yards, I notice things are becoming much more physical. Turns out I followed the whole crowd right to the inside line and am now in a 2,800 man mosh pit. Balls.
For whatever reason, everyone wanted to hit me in the exact same spot, the left goggle. I caught feet, fists and elbows right in the eye; enough times to make me swear I’d end up with a black eye (I didn’t). Admittedly my goggles didn’t need the extra help to start leaking, but all the abuse exacerbated the problem. I found myself draining my goggles before the first turn buoy, so one can deduce just how many times I had to drain it over the final 2 miles. Good thing I’m not going to be anal about today.
So apart from that, the swim continues. As predicted, though a little pleasantly surprising, the water heated up pretty significantly once we reached the deep water, turning from just mildly chilly to absolutely perfect. The good news was interrupted pretty quickly thereafter with the first jellyfish sighting. We’d been warned in the pre-race dinner about these little critters; apparently there’s always some unwelcomed marine life that ends up spectating the swim. We were told to keep calm, that the stings will hurt but they won’t kill you. Or they didn’t think so, anyway. Those who didn’t choose to quit that very moment weren’t given much of an opportunity to be afraid; these things were EVERYWHERE! I stopped counting after 6 before the first turn. Luckily, they had enough sense to dive a few feet underwater, out of arms reach. I got pretty darn close to several of them, but managed to log 2.4 miles without a sting.
I’m getting to the point in my Ironman career where I can anticipate how far away the turn buoy is just by how many people are slowing down in front of me. Without just too much effort, I reach the first turn and do what everyone else is thinking about. I actually cut the course a few feet, which I don’t feel great about. It was just easier to do at the time and I could have reached out and touched the buoy if I was so inclined. I’ll round it next time as pentance.
The trip east toward the second buoy, I was warned, is right into the sun. The sunrise in PCB isn’t nearly as abrupt as the sunset and it hadn’t quite crested the taller buildings yet. Good news for me, locating the giant red inflatable was quite a bit easier than dodging the jellyfish. Turning and heading back, the jellyfish thinned and the sun came out to play. The water is much more fully illuminated on the back half of the first loop and I’m able to see a lot more varieties of fish, which is definitely the coolest thing I’ve ever seen during a swim leg. Apart from the hoards of jellyfish, I saw stingrays and 2-3 different kinds of fish. Something to look at, nice.
It seems to take a really, really long time to make it back to shore, but I eventually do and shuffle my way out of the Gulf; for a few seconds, anyway. I’m already a tad nauseous from the inevitable salt water cocktail I slowly drank down. Who would have thought a simple cup of store-bought distilled water was all I needed to get over it? Glad I took the time to stop. I looked at my watch and saw 35 minutes for the first lap, which was way faster than I was expecting. Let’s see just how fast we can make this! Onto lap 2.
The water was a lot cleaner this time around, as it usually is. I was able to extend my arms now, put a little effort into the swim. I wanted to believe I wasn’t slowing down, but it’s so hard to tell out there. I’m not entirely sure where I began to notice, but I managed to pop a stitch in my wetsuit where the right armpit meets the chest. The wardrobe malfunction created a burr that rubbed the piss out of my underarm; my GOD did this thing hurt! I was feeling it pretty well by the start of the second lap, and kind of figured it’d end up opening the skin on the second lap (it didn’t). Looks like I now need to buy a new wetsuit to go with my new goggles; so lame.
It’s the same story as before: kicked in the goggle, dodge jellyfish, dump water out of my eye, my arm hurts, don’t vomit! Kept going, found the turn buoy and fought the sun one last time. The swim was unspectacular. Fish were cool, jellyfish and nausea were not, but uneventful on the whole. Starting to wish the IM swim was closer to 2.2 miles these days, but I eventually find my way back to the shore. Working my way towards the banner, I check my watch and see 1:15. Not that I’m disappointed, it seems about right, but I can’t help but wonder how I managed to lose 5 minutes off my first lap pace. Oh well, not for me to say.
I climb my way out of the Gulf one last time and begin the process of tearing my suit off. The wetsuit strippers are a big help, as always (they’re awesome!), but I don’t seem to be making great time getting up to the transition area. There are a lot of people taking their sweet time at the showers, so I decide to do the same when it was my turn. It’s quite a little jog up to the T1 bags, and then quite a bit more to the changing tents. Unlike many of my other Ironmans, I decided against a one piece suit for this one. It added some transition time, but I slapped base layers, a jersey, bike shorts and arm warmers on a salty, wet body; all of which takes time. I managed to bum some chamois cream, which was a pretty great thing.
11 minutes after I’d exited the water, I find myself carrying my bike across the magic tape line. I can now climb aboard and start the next 112 mile leg of the hardest single-day endurance event on the planet. I manage to drop my chain before climbing on, and a spectator tells me to not to stress about it. Don’t worry bro, I’m not stressing; not by a long shot! :-)
Swim Time: 1:16:20
T1: 10:59
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Ironman Florida: The Bike
This was the first one-loop Ironman bike I’d ever raced, and the first time I’d didn't recon the course, so I really didn’t know what to expect. The wind was blowing out of the northeast and was strongest on the coast. Both of these things would end up being beneficial, but both ensured I’d face the toughest situations early on. The course actually reminded me quite a bit of the course at Madison; you snake along on a two-lane road (by that, I mean you return on the same roads you leave on) until you reach a looped section where you lose contact with returning cyclists. The most glaring difference is that in Florida, you only do the loop once.
The route heads northwest along the coast for a few miles before heading north. Perhaps I could feel a little bit of a push in the early sections, but it was mostly a ferocious crosswind from the left. The only reprieve was when you passed the larger buildings, but the wind seemed to pick up doubly when you were back in its path. Either way, there was no mistaking which way the wind was going over the next 50 miles; into the wind. Straight into the wind. I took the liberty of lapping my Garmin every turn to get a gauge of how much the wind would affect my pace. We’ll play with the numbers as we go along.
It was a pretty significant goal of mine to pee 3 times on the bike; I made it a point to tell several people about it. All 3 Ironmans that have gone poorly had left me pretty dehydrated at the end of the bike. In pondering my conundrum, I rationalized that one likely reason I always end up with GI distress is because I can never get the osmolality right in my drinks. Said another way, I don’t take enough water with my gels and sport drinks. Certainly my gut has a handicapped ability to digest the calories I’m shoving into it, so maybe I won’t get as sick as quickly if I make sure I drink enough. It was just crazy enough to work.
Unfortunately, I tend to follow my own advice a little too well. I managed to pee 3 times alright; I stopped at all of the first 4 porto potties I saw. I’m not going to say I was really flying in the early, windy sections but I will say that I was not going as slowly as the time clock would have you believe. According to my post-race Powertap file, I accumulated 16:32 of total time on the bike course not actually moving. I wasn’t heartbroken by this; a chance to stretch, to relax, to enjoy being off the bike. I just won’t say it was the fastest way to T2.
And so, it was at the first aid station, the first bathroom stop, when I let temptation get the better of me. I’m really a purist when it comes to the sport; I don’t endorse cheating and tend to think people who get caught doing it deserve the penalties they get tagged with. But in triathlon, as in life, there are certain rules I simply don’t agree with. The anarchist in me, and seemingly every one of my upper division professors in college, urged me to stand up against such rules. I don’t endorse cheating and I don’t like cheaters, but as of the first aid station I became a hypocrite.
I’m not going to put my offense in print. Most people who would read this will end up asking me, and I’ll probably tell them. But I’m not going to write it, because I will probably do it again. I will say, however, what I did NOT do. I did not draft, nor block, nor litter. I did nothing to make my bike faster, more aerodynamic, more comfortable or more advantageous in any way. I did nothing to disgrace the city, the race, or my fellow racers. I did nothing that gave me any physical advantage over my competitors. It was merely something that made the ride mentally easier for me to get through. And for that I offer no apologies.
It took me 1:30 to make it across Hwy 79 to the second turn onto 20, for an average of 15 mph. After 16 miles into a headwind, you turn right, headed east, into another headwind. It was pretty frustrating holding such a high wattage, such an aerodynamic tuck, and seemingly not getting anywhere. I was glad it wasn’t the opposite; that we’d get the tailwind on the back half; but it still made the ride seem much, much longer. Turning “out of the wind” and fighting more of the same for the next 11.5 of straight, flat road as far as you could see. I have no idea how long the road stretched having not researched the course, but lap my Garmin at the turn 43:39 later; an average speed of 15.75 mph.
For a very short 7 miles, the course turned right again and took us south onto Hwy 77. It was the first tailwind of the day, and the first sampling of what the final drag back to beach would feel like. Having taken so many bathroom breaks and stretch breaks, I had no problem staying low and staying fast, I held 18.7 on less wattage. A left hand turn onto 388 took us into the wind again. I knew enough about the course to at least know the shape of it. This stretch took us east to an out-and-back, then we headed north before turning west. Once we turned west, it was a very long stretch west and a very long stretch south, both of which were with the wind. Something to look forward to.
I kept pretty distracted during the ride, continuing to eat, drink and clip the miles away. I stopped trying to keep track of my bathroom stops; it was too much of a headache. I’m taking not as many now, but still seems like I spent a lot of time on the side of the road. The final trip east was at 14 mph, but included a pretty long stop at Special Needs. I took this opportunity to drop off my extra clothes (gloves, base layer, arm warmers), pee again and drink down my energy drink. Remounting my bike, I’m off towards the right hand turn onto Blue Springs Rd. The last little bit clips away at not much faster than 16.5 mph, but at least didn’t involve any more bathroom breaks.
The much-awaited mile 60 and the left turn back onto Hwy 20 allowed me to cruise at or above 20 mph pretty easily. Even with a couple stops, including several minutes checking my bike for something rubbing (never did find out what it was, but something was squeaking), I averaged 18 mph. Ignoring the 5 mile out and back, I held 19.88 mph over the rest of the course. My right IT band really suffered through the last hour and a half of the ride, but I kept aero as much as I could stand and held on for dear life. My reward, of course, was a very windy 6 miles into T2. I hoped to hold low power and spin it out over the last stretch, but the wind was too strong; I wasn’t going anywhere. With patience, I finally saw the Waffle House over the horizon and turned off of Front Beach onto Beach Rd.
I wasn’t sure what to expect on this bike from a time perspective, but clocking a 6:45 was a solid goal set about 60 miles from home. I wasn’t sure how that would compare against what I might have done with a proper training regime, nor how it would stack up against my age group compatriots, but I knew enough to immediately recognize it as the first sub 7 hr Ironman bike. That’s about all I was thinking when I dismounted and handed my bike off. So, despite the fact that I was already nauseated and pretty tired, I managed a smile when I stopped my Garmin at just under the mark.
Bike time: 6:45:23
Per the Garmin: 6:44:40; 111.73 mi; 1319ft total climbing; 147 bpm
Per the Powertap: 126 AP; 131 NP; 2,966 kJ (which is amazingly close to the 2,964 kJ IM CdA took)
Making that tight turn to pick up my T2 bag was asking a lot, but I soon found my way once more to the “get naked room.” As I did on the bike, I elected to put on a full runner’s kit in lieu of a triathlon suit; I donned a tech shirt and running shorts, along with my typical visor, compression sleeves and race shoes. It took every bit as long as last time, peeling layers off of a sweaty, salty body and putting on all new ones, but I got all dressed in good time. Had a chance to chat up some of the other riders while I changed, which is always pleasant. Eventually, I was primped and prepped and ready for a night on the town. I try my best to quickly find marathon pace as I hit my Garmin, ready to take this one step at a time.
T2: 8:47
The route heads northwest along the coast for a few miles before heading north. Perhaps I could feel a little bit of a push in the early sections, but it was mostly a ferocious crosswind from the left. The only reprieve was when you passed the larger buildings, but the wind seemed to pick up doubly when you were back in its path. Either way, there was no mistaking which way the wind was going over the next 50 miles; into the wind. Straight into the wind. I took the liberty of lapping my Garmin every turn to get a gauge of how much the wind would affect my pace. We’ll play with the numbers as we go along.
It was a pretty significant goal of mine to pee 3 times on the bike; I made it a point to tell several people about it. All 3 Ironmans that have gone poorly had left me pretty dehydrated at the end of the bike. In pondering my conundrum, I rationalized that one likely reason I always end up with GI distress is because I can never get the osmolality right in my drinks. Said another way, I don’t take enough water with my gels and sport drinks. Certainly my gut has a handicapped ability to digest the calories I’m shoving into it, so maybe I won’t get as sick as quickly if I make sure I drink enough. It was just crazy enough to work.
Unfortunately, I tend to follow my own advice a little too well. I managed to pee 3 times alright; I stopped at all of the first 4 porto potties I saw. I’m not going to say I was really flying in the early, windy sections but I will say that I was not going as slowly as the time clock would have you believe. According to my post-race Powertap file, I accumulated 16:32 of total time on the bike course not actually moving. I wasn’t heartbroken by this; a chance to stretch, to relax, to enjoy being off the bike. I just won’t say it was the fastest way to T2.
And so, it was at the first aid station, the first bathroom stop, when I let temptation get the better of me. I’m really a purist when it comes to the sport; I don’t endorse cheating and tend to think people who get caught doing it deserve the penalties they get tagged with. But in triathlon, as in life, there are certain rules I simply don’t agree with. The anarchist in me, and seemingly every one of my upper division professors in college, urged me to stand up against such rules. I don’t endorse cheating and I don’t like cheaters, but as of the first aid station I became a hypocrite.
I’m not going to put my offense in print. Most people who would read this will end up asking me, and I’ll probably tell them. But I’m not going to write it, because I will probably do it again. I will say, however, what I did NOT do. I did not draft, nor block, nor litter. I did nothing to make my bike faster, more aerodynamic, more comfortable or more advantageous in any way. I did nothing to disgrace the city, the race, or my fellow racers. I did nothing that gave me any physical advantage over my competitors. It was merely something that made the ride mentally easier for me to get through. And for that I offer no apologies.
It took me 1:30 to make it across Hwy 79 to the second turn onto 20, for an average of 15 mph. After 16 miles into a headwind, you turn right, headed east, into another headwind. It was pretty frustrating holding such a high wattage, such an aerodynamic tuck, and seemingly not getting anywhere. I was glad it wasn’t the opposite; that we’d get the tailwind on the back half; but it still made the ride seem much, much longer. Turning “out of the wind” and fighting more of the same for the next 11.5 of straight, flat road as far as you could see. I have no idea how long the road stretched having not researched the course, but lap my Garmin at the turn 43:39 later; an average speed of 15.75 mph.
For a very short 7 miles, the course turned right again and took us south onto Hwy 77. It was the first tailwind of the day, and the first sampling of what the final drag back to beach would feel like. Having taken so many bathroom breaks and stretch breaks, I had no problem staying low and staying fast, I held 18.7 on less wattage. A left hand turn onto 388 took us into the wind again. I knew enough about the course to at least know the shape of it. This stretch took us east to an out-and-back, then we headed north before turning west. Once we turned west, it was a very long stretch west and a very long stretch south, both of which were with the wind. Something to look forward to.
I kept pretty distracted during the ride, continuing to eat, drink and clip the miles away. I stopped trying to keep track of my bathroom stops; it was too much of a headache. I’m taking not as many now, but still seems like I spent a lot of time on the side of the road. The final trip east was at 14 mph, but included a pretty long stop at Special Needs. I took this opportunity to drop off my extra clothes (gloves, base layer, arm warmers), pee again and drink down my energy drink. Remounting my bike, I’m off towards the right hand turn onto Blue Springs Rd. The last little bit clips away at not much faster than 16.5 mph, but at least didn’t involve any more bathroom breaks.
The much-awaited mile 60 and the left turn back onto Hwy 20 allowed me to cruise at or above 20 mph pretty easily. Even with a couple stops, including several minutes checking my bike for something rubbing (never did find out what it was, but something was squeaking), I averaged 18 mph. Ignoring the 5 mile out and back, I held 19.88 mph over the rest of the course. My right IT band really suffered through the last hour and a half of the ride, but I kept aero as much as I could stand and held on for dear life. My reward, of course, was a very windy 6 miles into T2. I hoped to hold low power and spin it out over the last stretch, but the wind was too strong; I wasn’t going anywhere. With patience, I finally saw the Waffle House over the horizon and turned off of Front Beach onto Beach Rd.
I wasn’t sure what to expect on this bike from a time perspective, but clocking a 6:45 was a solid goal set about 60 miles from home. I wasn’t sure how that would compare against what I might have done with a proper training regime, nor how it would stack up against my age group compatriots, but I knew enough to immediately recognize it as the first sub 7 hr Ironman bike. That’s about all I was thinking when I dismounted and handed my bike off. So, despite the fact that I was already nauseated and pretty tired, I managed a smile when I stopped my Garmin at just under the mark.
Bike time: 6:45:23
Per the Garmin: 6:44:40; 111.73 mi; 1319ft total climbing; 147 bpm
Per the Powertap: 126 AP; 131 NP; 2,966 kJ (which is amazingly close to the 2,964 kJ IM CdA took)
Making that tight turn to pick up my T2 bag was asking a lot, but I soon found my way once more to the “get naked room.” As I did on the bike, I elected to put on a full runner’s kit in lieu of a triathlon suit; I donned a tech shirt and running shorts, along with my typical visor, compression sleeves and race shoes. It took every bit as long as last time, peeling layers off of a sweaty, salty body and putting on all new ones, but I got all dressed in good time. Had a chance to chat up some of the other riders while I changed, which is always pleasant. Eventually, I was primped and prepped and ready for a night on the town. I try my best to quickly find marathon pace as I hit my Garmin, ready to take this one step at a time.
T2: 8:47
Ironman Florida: The Run
9 minute miles felt like a pretty easy pace at the start, but I sort of figured it was too fast. I tried to actively slow myself down, but it didn't happen for a couple miles. It was pretty clear I didn't have the raw endurance I'm used to for IM races, and the pace started getting pretty difficult right away.
The run course at Florida reminded me a bit of Louisville; essentially a dead flat out and back on city roads, snaking through residential and downtown commercial buildings, and boring as snot. I knew enough about the course to know that there's a loop through St. Andrew's State Park right at the end of the out-and-back, and that I should fear it very, very much. So, step one is to simply get there and scope it out.
It didn't take long for my pace to slide. It took probably a mile to get my HR up to race pace, then I progressively slowed over the next few. By mile 4, I was ready to start walking. I didn't walk, didn't even allow allotted walking breaks, but I couldn't help but wonder if I'd end up clocking a new slowest marathon ever.
It didn't help things that I was feeling pretty crappy right out of the gate. The nausea that usually doesn't join the party until lap 2 of the run, started ruining my good time within the 2nd mile marker. Such a situation caused me to realize something for the first time: I don't really NEED gels out there. I mean, let's consider this: I'm of the opinion that I don't get enough water in me to fully digest the gels on the run; that I'm always running dehydrated and not allowing my body to absorb the calories I'm taking in. Why, then, would I want to use gels? Why not just stick to IM Perform? Well, let's try it, huh? I threw back a cup of water and a cup of Perform at each of the first 9 aids stations and a miraculous thing happened.
My nausea calmed down.
I began to feel less tired.
And
-surprisingly-
I'm peeing again!
Of course, the Perform doesn't last forever; it's pretty vile stuff that late in the day. But my problems were delayed a few hours, and I was happy for that.
I was really taken aback by how boring the run was. Maybe there's not much you can really look at in Panama City (besides the ocean, and we've seen plenty of that), but man it was boring. We just wove in and out of side streets that all looked alike. I was looking for the entrance to the park and not seeing anything I was looking for. I waste away the first out section in such a state, and finally reach the entrance around mile 5.5. I lap my Garmin and see how long it will take to get through it. The park, for all the warnings I got about it, was actually my favorite part of the course. Something about the tall, weird shaped trees reminded me of a lion or tiger exhibit at the zoo; one of those REALLY big ones you navigate by car. So I was running along wondering what kind of exotic creatures may be lurking in the bushes. The things we do for entertainment.
I complete the 2 mile park section in about 21 minutes, and keep that in the back of my mind for the second lap. Not too long out of the park, I have what I immediately swear to myself is my last sip of Perform; we're switching to coke at mile 10. 4 GU packets still jingle-jangle in my pockets in case I get in trouble, but coke has never steered me wrong. Well, except at CdA when I choked on my Pepto tab, but I can't blame the coke for that.
The last 5 miles back into town went from me thinking I could run the whole thing, to me being pretty damn sure I can't even run the whole 5 miles. I do a little shuffling as I make it back into town, but mostly running. I want to run the first loop in 2:30 and let the second loop fall where it may. Whatever, this is a fun race. I make it back to Special Needs FINALLY and begin dressing warm. I kind of anticipated needing some warmer clothes for a slower back half, and after not having it at CdA I knew enough that it was worth packing some extras. I added a long sleeve shirt, some gloves and changed shoes. The shoe change was because it's not comfortable, or good for your legs, to walk in Newtons. I didn't plan on running the last bit, so I put on some flatter Saucony's. I can still run in them if it comes to that, but more than likely I'll be walking. Which is fine.
I decide to go ahead and pop my energy drink and take some pepto tabs before I head back out. I decide I'm going to run 5 minutes and walk 5 minutes. If I can run an 11 min pace and walk a sub 20 min pace, then I can still shuffle in to around a 6 hour marathon and around another PR. So off I run onto my first 5 minute jog section. 5 minutes seems like an awful long time both on the running and the walking sections. The running section got spoiled pretty early on by puking. I don't know what it is about taking pepto tabs my body finds so offensive; like it takes it personally that I don't let it take care of the nausea on its terms. This time, though, I decide that I'm going to keep running after throwing up. I've bonked doing that before, but I have gels. No worries; let's blaze a new path.
The 5 on/5 off is too long, so I switch to 3/3. This is plenty fine for the next 5 miles to the park. I'm still drinking coke and water and still have not bonked, nor dipped into my gels. I start to feel kind of better again as I near the park and decide to go for it. The loudest piece of advice I got prior to this race told me to GET OUT OF THE PARK ON THE SECOND LOOP! If you start walking in the park, it feels like you never leave. The park really got into some people's heads. Regardless, it made me fear it, and made me strategize around it. I decided to run as much as I could when I got there. This was an interesting endeavor; I hadn't really willed myself to run that far that late in an Ironman before. The closest I'd come was running mile 14.5-15.5 at CdA; this was running mile 18.5-20.5 through a lion enclosure. I kept going, kept up the pace and almost made it! I couldn't go anymore around mile 20, but soon found myself out of the park and counting down the miles to go. I've earned a nice walk break before I start the shuffle again.
But then it happened. Something that's never happened before. I was passed by a racer coming out of the park running about the same pace as I (when I was running). He said "if we can manage a 12-13 min/mi pace, we can break 14 hours." My first thought was "what? No we can't!" Then I got to thinking about it for a second. Idk, maybe we could, if I ran the whole way. But the whole last 10k? Impossible. No thank you. My shuffle is getting me there just fine.
And that was the end of the conversation...
For a little while...
About a half mile, in fact. I took a bit of time to really digest that notion. I felt like I could run more; the park proved I could. I was only 5 miles from the finish line, which would only take an hour to run it. This was my last race for a while; it's not like I had to be cautious. In fact, I'd never really finished an Ironman running before. Why is that? What do I have against finishing one of these strong? Why do I think it's so impossible?
So I make a very loud prayer to keep me safe and keep me strong over the last little bit. I have no idea if this is possible or if trying will leave me face down in the dirt like it did last June. But I'm going to try it. I'm going to air it out and see where it got me.
And off I run.
I'm still stopping at the aid stations to grab coke; I've pretty much given up on water and I'm throwing away my gels. With all the running, I'd long since taken off my gloves and long sleeve shirt and put them away. It's so like my luck: when I need them, I don't have them; when I have them, I don't need them because I'm running at mile 22 of the marathon. I make it about 2.5 miles before stopping for a walk. It didn't seem necessary to pound myself continuously for another 3 miles, so I took a few minutes, got in some more coke and picked it up again at mile 24. It became increasingly obvious to me that I was going to go sub 14, which was unbelievable after shooting for 14:50 a few hours ago. The sub 14 pace soon became too easy, and for a time I went for 13:45. That didn't last for long, as the numbers didn't make sense in the closing miles. So I took a walk break here and there, stopped to pee once. Had only I'd known what my final finish time would have been.
The finish line at Florida was a big buzzkill. Well, not the line specifically as the lead into the line. I figured I was in the home stretch when I turned onto Front Beach Rd at mile 25.5, but by the time you backtracked to Thomas Dr, they make you circumnavigate a restaurant and file in the back way. So at mile mark 26, you run out of the neon lights, out of the wall of spectators, out of the noise and the faint glow of the finish line and out into some stupid pitch-dark back road with a construction site on one side and a parking lot on the left. Not cool, race organizers.
The finish chute, once you get there, was pretty par for the course. I never really have the capacity to fully enjoy and appreciate the final 100 feet as much as I feel I deserve to, but I point to the sky, pump my arms and smile like a guy who just took 1:10 off his PR. I'm the happiest I've been since my first IM finish as I get shuttled through the chute. I get the standard medal -> shirt -> hat, none of which I have grand plans for, but start to worry my finish line catcher with a hacking cough I can't seem to control. Did I mention I have a cold? That I've had a cold for 2 weeks? Maybe I should have pointed that out earlier. Like I needed one more thing working against me today.
Run time: 5:26:24
My marathon PR is 5:07:XX, if you can believe it. And I've never ran a sub 6 hr IM marathon.
Total time: 13:47:53; A PR by 1:11:56
For the first time in my Ironman life, I finished early enough to go home, shower, change clothes and come back for the late night finishers. This is the best news of the day. I won't make a big deal about how hard it was to get back to the condo in such a late state of exhaustion >.<
What's important is that I had a great race. Definitely the only Ironman I can truly say I'm happy the way it panned out. Let's bookend this blog with Facebook updates.
"has NEVER gone that deep (into the pain cave), and for the first time avoided "worst case scenario." Not a perfect race, but a pretty damn good one! So satisfied!"
The run course at Florida reminded me a bit of Louisville; essentially a dead flat out and back on city roads, snaking through residential and downtown commercial buildings, and boring as snot. I knew enough about the course to know that there's a loop through St. Andrew's State Park right at the end of the out-and-back, and that I should fear it very, very much. So, step one is to simply get there and scope it out.
It didn't take long for my pace to slide. It took probably a mile to get my HR up to race pace, then I progressively slowed over the next few. By mile 4, I was ready to start walking. I didn't walk, didn't even allow allotted walking breaks, but I couldn't help but wonder if I'd end up clocking a new slowest marathon ever.
It didn't help things that I was feeling pretty crappy right out of the gate. The nausea that usually doesn't join the party until lap 2 of the run, started ruining my good time within the 2nd mile marker. Such a situation caused me to realize something for the first time: I don't really NEED gels out there. I mean, let's consider this: I'm of the opinion that I don't get enough water in me to fully digest the gels on the run; that I'm always running dehydrated and not allowing my body to absorb the calories I'm taking in. Why, then, would I want to use gels? Why not just stick to IM Perform? Well, let's try it, huh? I threw back a cup of water and a cup of Perform at each of the first 9 aids stations and a miraculous thing happened.
My nausea calmed down.
I began to feel less tired.
And
-surprisingly-
I'm peeing again!
Of course, the Perform doesn't last forever; it's pretty vile stuff that late in the day. But my problems were delayed a few hours, and I was happy for that.
I was really taken aback by how boring the run was. Maybe there's not much you can really look at in Panama City (besides the ocean, and we've seen plenty of that), but man it was boring. We just wove in and out of side streets that all looked alike. I was looking for the entrance to the park and not seeing anything I was looking for. I waste away the first out section in such a state, and finally reach the entrance around mile 5.5. I lap my Garmin and see how long it will take to get through it. The park, for all the warnings I got about it, was actually my favorite part of the course. Something about the tall, weird shaped trees reminded me of a lion or tiger exhibit at the zoo; one of those REALLY big ones you navigate by car. So I was running along wondering what kind of exotic creatures may be lurking in the bushes. The things we do for entertainment.
I complete the 2 mile park section in about 21 minutes, and keep that in the back of my mind for the second lap. Not too long out of the park, I have what I immediately swear to myself is my last sip of Perform; we're switching to coke at mile 10. 4 GU packets still jingle-jangle in my pockets in case I get in trouble, but coke has never steered me wrong. Well, except at CdA when I choked on my Pepto tab, but I can't blame the coke for that.
The last 5 miles back into town went from me thinking I could run the whole thing, to me being pretty damn sure I can't even run the whole 5 miles. I do a little shuffling as I make it back into town, but mostly running. I want to run the first loop in 2:30 and let the second loop fall where it may. Whatever, this is a fun race. I make it back to Special Needs FINALLY and begin dressing warm. I kind of anticipated needing some warmer clothes for a slower back half, and after not having it at CdA I knew enough that it was worth packing some extras. I added a long sleeve shirt, some gloves and changed shoes. The shoe change was because it's not comfortable, or good for your legs, to walk in Newtons. I didn't plan on running the last bit, so I put on some flatter Saucony's. I can still run in them if it comes to that, but more than likely I'll be walking. Which is fine.
I decide to go ahead and pop my energy drink and take some pepto tabs before I head back out. I decide I'm going to run 5 minutes and walk 5 minutes. If I can run an 11 min pace and walk a sub 20 min pace, then I can still shuffle in to around a 6 hour marathon and around another PR. So off I run onto my first 5 minute jog section. 5 minutes seems like an awful long time both on the running and the walking sections. The running section got spoiled pretty early on by puking. I don't know what it is about taking pepto tabs my body finds so offensive; like it takes it personally that I don't let it take care of the nausea on its terms. This time, though, I decide that I'm going to keep running after throwing up. I've bonked doing that before, but I have gels. No worries; let's blaze a new path.
The 5 on/5 off is too long, so I switch to 3/3. This is plenty fine for the next 5 miles to the park. I'm still drinking coke and water and still have not bonked, nor dipped into my gels. I start to feel kind of better again as I near the park and decide to go for it. The loudest piece of advice I got prior to this race told me to GET OUT OF THE PARK ON THE SECOND LOOP! If you start walking in the park, it feels like you never leave. The park really got into some people's heads. Regardless, it made me fear it, and made me strategize around it. I decided to run as much as I could when I got there. This was an interesting endeavor; I hadn't really willed myself to run that far that late in an Ironman before. The closest I'd come was running mile 14.5-15.5 at CdA; this was running mile 18.5-20.5 through a lion enclosure. I kept going, kept up the pace and almost made it! I couldn't go anymore around mile 20, but soon found myself out of the park and counting down the miles to go. I've earned a nice walk break before I start the shuffle again.
But then it happened. Something that's never happened before. I was passed by a racer coming out of the park running about the same pace as I (when I was running). He said "if we can manage a 12-13 min/mi pace, we can break 14 hours." My first thought was "what? No we can't!" Then I got to thinking about it for a second. Idk, maybe we could, if I ran the whole way. But the whole last 10k? Impossible. No thank you. My shuffle is getting me there just fine.
And that was the end of the conversation...
For a little while...
About a half mile, in fact. I took a bit of time to really digest that notion. I felt like I could run more; the park proved I could. I was only 5 miles from the finish line, which would only take an hour to run it. This was my last race for a while; it's not like I had to be cautious. In fact, I'd never really finished an Ironman running before. Why is that? What do I have against finishing one of these strong? Why do I think it's so impossible?
So I make a very loud prayer to keep me safe and keep me strong over the last little bit. I have no idea if this is possible or if trying will leave me face down in the dirt like it did last June. But I'm going to try it. I'm going to air it out and see where it got me.
And off I run.
I'm still stopping at the aid stations to grab coke; I've pretty much given up on water and I'm throwing away my gels. With all the running, I'd long since taken off my gloves and long sleeve shirt and put them away. It's so like my luck: when I need them, I don't have them; when I have them, I don't need them because I'm running at mile 22 of the marathon. I make it about 2.5 miles before stopping for a walk. It didn't seem necessary to pound myself continuously for another 3 miles, so I took a few minutes, got in some more coke and picked it up again at mile 24. It became increasingly obvious to me that I was going to go sub 14, which was unbelievable after shooting for 14:50 a few hours ago. The sub 14 pace soon became too easy, and for a time I went for 13:45. That didn't last for long, as the numbers didn't make sense in the closing miles. So I took a walk break here and there, stopped to pee once. Had only I'd known what my final finish time would have been.
The finish line at Florida was a big buzzkill. Well, not the line specifically as the lead into the line. I figured I was in the home stretch when I turned onto Front Beach Rd at mile 25.5, but by the time you backtracked to Thomas Dr, they make you circumnavigate a restaurant and file in the back way. So at mile mark 26, you run out of the neon lights, out of the wall of spectators, out of the noise and the faint glow of the finish line and out into some stupid pitch-dark back road with a construction site on one side and a parking lot on the left. Not cool, race organizers.
The finish chute, once you get there, was pretty par for the course. I never really have the capacity to fully enjoy and appreciate the final 100 feet as much as I feel I deserve to, but I point to the sky, pump my arms and smile like a guy who just took 1:10 off his PR. I'm the happiest I've been since my first IM finish as I get shuttled through the chute. I get the standard medal -> shirt -> hat, none of which I have grand plans for, but start to worry my finish line catcher with a hacking cough I can't seem to control. Did I mention I have a cold? That I've had a cold for 2 weeks? Maybe I should have pointed that out earlier. Like I needed one more thing working against me today.
Run time: 5:26:24
My marathon PR is 5:07:XX, if you can believe it. And I've never ran a sub 6 hr IM marathon.
Total time: 13:47:53; A PR by 1:11:56
For the first time in my Ironman life, I finished early enough to go home, shower, change clothes and come back for the late night finishers. This is the best news of the day. I won't make a big deal about how hard it was to get back to the condo in such a late state of exhaustion >.<
What's important is that I had a great race. Definitely the only Ironman I can truly say I'm happy the way it panned out. Let's bookend this blog with Facebook updates.
"has NEVER gone that deep (into the pain cave), and for the first time avoided "worst case scenario." Not a perfect race, but a pretty damn good one! So satisfied!"
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Ironman Coeur d'Alene - Pre-race and The Swim
June 26, 2011
The morning could not be more typical of a pre-Ironman race. I woke up before my alarm in the most ineffable mix of awake and exhausted. The simple fact that I was not allowed to go back to sleep made me feel like I wanted to, but the knowledge of what was to come likely would have prevented me from doing so. In either case, I drug myself out of bed and dressed warm for breakfast and messing around. I popped on 300, but didn't end up watching it much at all. After breakfast, I busied myself with using the bathroom as many times as I could and readying my nutrition and special needs bags. We get out of the cabin at 5am and I get up to transition by 6.
This is the first time of my 3 140.6 attempts that I don't find myself rushed and flustered. I have way more time than I need to do a handful of tasks, so I do as much walking around as I can to help kill time. It's still rather chilly in NW Idaho at this hour, low 50s, and I wonder how long it will take to warm up on the bike. Most of the morning, as well as most of the last 3 days, have been preoccupied by a general sense of dread that I'd forgotten something critically important. Up until now I have not yet found out what that was, so I have to trust that I do, in fact, have all my bases covered. Trust your instincts, man!
In good time, they close transition and herd us onto the extremely wide beach at the waterfront. I can’t help but think that it’s an incredibly strange place to put a beach, but it’s there and allows the always-preferable mass start. It takes a very long time to navigate the sea of sheeple across the one timing mat, but I make it in good time by going around most of them. I end up on the beach with about 15 mins to go, which is more time than I’d prefer to be there. In addition to my wetsuit and two swim caps, I have a silicone cap that goes over my ears and wraps under my chin. Not as warm as a neoprene cap, but more versatile and I was sure enough for today’s 56 degree dip in Lake Coeur d’Alene. With 5 minutes left, I dump most of the two gallons of hot water, which is now barely passable as room temperature, into my suit; more glad that I don’t have to carry them anymore than any benefit they may have provided. They play the national anthem… I think. I couldn’t hear anything with my caps on. We were given the one minute warning, so I dumped the rest of the water in and positioned myself 4 rows back, about 25m to the right side of the buoy line. I didn’t hear the gun go off, but figured either it had, or 1,000 people had false started; they’ll probably let it slide this time.
Upon immediately entering the water, I find it’s not as uncomfortably cold as it was yesterday, which is nice. It’s still way colder than I would have wanted it to be, but I’m confident that I can handle it. It did not take very long for the washing machine to begin. The problem with the Coeur d’Alene’s beach start isn’t the start itself, but the first several hundred yards. Despite having hundreds of yards of beach upon which to line up, all 2,400 athletes wanted the quickest line to the buoys. So quickly into the swim, we all converged. And it was violent. It was painful. It was dangerous. It was the worst swim I’ve ever been involved in. I love mass starts, I love the physicality, but I wanted out of this one. This took it to a whole ‘nother level. To make matters worse, apparently everything hurts 10X worse when you’re swimming in frigid waters. Every kick to the face, every punch to the head, every time I’d run into another, hurt like crazy. And trust me, there were a LOT of them to go around.
The only benefit of all the commotion was the draft, which seemed to more than cancel out the reverse pull of the current. Rather than stay in a pack, I found myself fighting for clean water and finding it, only to run into a pack again within a hundred yards. Nothing but air bubbles that opened up in the monster slowly eating its way south. It was a predictably large clusterfuck at the first turn buoy and I was beginning to get very sick of all the physicality. Turning and heading east was directly into the sun; good thing I had feet to follow.
It didn’t last long and we soon turned north back to town. The 1,000 yards back were less eventful and I had hoped I would be able to settle into my own pace now. It became increasingly difficult to really see where I was going, and soon found myself sighting off of the wrong buoy, off course by 30 yards! I worked my way back into the fold and looked forward to getting out of the water. It seemed to take a long time to pull myself back in, despite a pretty noticeable push from the current, but I soon began to decipher recognizable sights; namely that large inflatable swim finish awning. I soon see the bottom of the lake and touch sand for the first time since the start. I dolphin dive in and leisurely stroll out of the lake; there are too many people in front of me to sprint. I notice my watch says 37 minutes for the first lap. I don’t know if that’s good or not, but I am glad to be out of the water.
At least for a few seconds. After rounding the corner, we jump back into the water for lap two. This is every bit as unpleasant as I thought it would be. It’s amazing to me how much my feet are hurting from the short jaunt on the sand. What little stimulation the sand had on my frozen feet had been magnified to feel like a hundred knives being driven into the bed of my foot. The pack is still intact and I’m still running into someone every few minutes. And it still hurts like hell. Last time I ever neglect to cut my fingernails before a triathlon. It’s not too long into the second lap that I’m swearing and ready for retaliation after every little bump. I’m not really feeling spectacularly cold, but I’m starting to think I should have better prepared for this.
With very little patience, we round the turn for the last time and head back toward the beach and T1. By this time, I’m really starting to worry. The cold has taken its toll. I’ve swallowed way too much water and am starting to feel nauseated. I don’t think I’ll need to puke just yet, but I need to start being more deliberate when I breathe; I’m just not paying attention anymore. My depth perception is absolutely shot and every buoy looks like the last one. At one point near the end, I stop and tread water just to see how far away that damn beach is; it’s at least 500 yards. For the first time I really consider taking the DNF, if it meant being out of this and into warm clothes. After far too long in the frigid waters, and long after my mind started to go fuzzy, I finally neared the beach and was able to lift myself out of the lake. And I’m struggling to recall a time when I’ve ever been happier to finish a swim leg.
Swim time: 1:18:26
The run up the beach is a walk, and a dizzy one at that. I slam my shoulders into athletes and the barricade a few times trying to get to the wetsuit strippers. I felt like an animal, moving forward without any consciousness or sense of purpose; continuing only because I had rehearsed it so completely in my mind.
I am a shaking, wet mess in T1, which thankfully is extremely humid with the wet, warm bodies in there. It takes me a while to get everything out of my bag and onto my tremoring self, but I eventually manage it and head towards the bike. Had I to do it again, I would have spent some more time in the heated tents and regained my composure. But I did a swim-bike yesterday and warmed up pretty easily, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I had made up my mind to skip the T1 hot tents before the swim began, and was way too out of it to make my own decisions when the time came. So I climb on my bike, turn on my Garmin and begin the ride, all completely fueled by reflex.
T1: 7:40
The morning could not be more typical of a pre-Ironman race. I woke up before my alarm in the most ineffable mix of awake and exhausted. The simple fact that I was not allowed to go back to sleep made me feel like I wanted to, but the knowledge of what was to come likely would have prevented me from doing so. In either case, I drug myself out of bed and dressed warm for breakfast and messing around. I popped on 300, but didn't end up watching it much at all. After breakfast, I busied myself with using the bathroom as many times as I could and readying my nutrition and special needs bags. We get out of the cabin at 5am and I get up to transition by 6.
This is the first time of my 3 140.6 attempts that I don't find myself rushed and flustered. I have way more time than I need to do a handful of tasks, so I do as much walking around as I can to help kill time. It's still rather chilly in NW Idaho at this hour, low 50s, and I wonder how long it will take to warm up on the bike. Most of the morning, as well as most of the last 3 days, have been preoccupied by a general sense of dread that I'd forgotten something critically important. Up until now I have not yet found out what that was, so I have to trust that I do, in fact, have all my bases covered. Trust your instincts, man!
In good time, they close transition and herd us onto the extremely wide beach at the waterfront. I can’t help but think that it’s an incredibly strange place to put a beach, but it’s there and allows the always-preferable mass start. It takes a very long time to navigate the sea of sheeple across the one timing mat, but I make it in good time by going around most of them. I end up on the beach with about 15 mins to go, which is more time than I’d prefer to be there. In addition to my wetsuit and two swim caps, I have a silicone cap that goes over my ears and wraps under my chin. Not as warm as a neoprene cap, but more versatile and I was sure enough for today’s 56 degree dip in Lake Coeur d’Alene. With 5 minutes left, I dump most of the two gallons of hot water, which is now barely passable as room temperature, into my suit; more glad that I don’t have to carry them anymore than any benefit they may have provided. They play the national anthem… I think. I couldn’t hear anything with my caps on. We were given the one minute warning, so I dumped the rest of the water in and positioned myself 4 rows back, about 25m to the right side of the buoy line. I didn’t hear the gun go off, but figured either it had, or 1,000 people had false started; they’ll probably let it slide this time.
Upon immediately entering the water, I find it’s not as uncomfortably cold as it was yesterday, which is nice. It’s still way colder than I would have wanted it to be, but I’m confident that I can handle it. It did not take very long for the washing machine to begin. The problem with the Coeur d’Alene’s beach start isn’t the start itself, but the first several hundred yards. Despite having hundreds of yards of beach upon which to line up, all 2,400 athletes wanted the quickest line to the buoys. So quickly into the swim, we all converged. And it was violent. It was painful. It was dangerous. It was the worst swim I’ve ever been involved in. I love mass starts, I love the physicality, but I wanted out of this one. This took it to a whole ‘nother level. To make matters worse, apparently everything hurts 10X worse when you’re swimming in frigid waters. Every kick to the face, every punch to the head, every time I’d run into another, hurt like crazy. And trust me, there were a LOT of them to go around.
The only benefit of all the commotion was the draft, which seemed to more than cancel out the reverse pull of the current. Rather than stay in a pack, I found myself fighting for clean water and finding it, only to run into a pack again within a hundred yards. Nothing but air bubbles that opened up in the monster slowly eating its way south. It was a predictably large clusterfuck at the first turn buoy and I was beginning to get very sick of all the physicality. Turning and heading east was directly into the sun; good thing I had feet to follow.
It didn’t last long and we soon turned north back to town. The 1,000 yards back were less eventful and I had hoped I would be able to settle into my own pace now. It became increasingly difficult to really see where I was going, and soon found myself sighting off of the wrong buoy, off course by 30 yards! I worked my way back into the fold and looked forward to getting out of the water. It seemed to take a long time to pull myself back in, despite a pretty noticeable push from the current, but I soon began to decipher recognizable sights; namely that large inflatable swim finish awning. I soon see the bottom of the lake and touch sand for the first time since the start. I dolphin dive in and leisurely stroll out of the lake; there are too many people in front of me to sprint. I notice my watch says 37 minutes for the first lap. I don’t know if that’s good or not, but I am glad to be out of the water.
At least for a few seconds. After rounding the corner, we jump back into the water for lap two. This is every bit as unpleasant as I thought it would be. It’s amazing to me how much my feet are hurting from the short jaunt on the sand. What little stimulation the sand had on my frozen feet had been magnified to feel like a hundred knives being driven into the bed of my foot. The pack is still intact and I’m still running into someone every few minutes. And it still hurts like hell. Last time I ever neglect to cut my fingernails before a triathlon. It’s not too long into the second lap that I’m swearing and ready for retaliation after every little bump. I’m not really feeling spectacularly cold, but I’m starting to think I should have better prepared for this.
With very little patience, we round the turn for the last time and head back toward the beach and T1. By this time, I’m really starting to worry. The cold has taken its toll. I’ve swallowed way too much water and am starting to feel nauseated. I don’t think I’ll need to puke just yet, but I need to start being more deliberate when I breathe; I’m just not paying attention anymore. My depth perception is absolutely shot and every buoy looks like the last one. At one point near the end, I stop and tread water just to see how far away that damn beach is; it’s at least 500 yards. For the first time I really consider taking the DNF, if it meant being out of this and into warm clothes. After far too long in the frigid waters, and long after my mind started to go fuzzy, I finally neared the beach and was able to lift myself out of the lake. And I’m struggling to recall a time when I’ve ever been happier to finish a swim leg.
Swim time: 1:18:26
The run up the beach is a walk, and a dizzy one at that. I slam my shoulders into athletes and the barricade a few times trying to get to the wetsuit strippers. I felt like an animal, moving forward without any consciousness or sense of purpose; continuing only because I had rehearsed it so completely in my mind.
I am a shaking, wet mess in T1, which thankfully is extremely humid with the wet, warm bodies in there. It takes me a while to get everything out of my bag and onto my tremoring self, but I eventually manage it and head towards the bike. Had I to do it again, I would have spent some more time in the heated tents and regained my composure. But I did a swim-bike yesterday and warmed up pretty easily, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. I had made up my mind to skip the T1 hot tents before the swim began, and was way too out of it to make my own decisions when the time came. So I climb on my bike, turn on my Garmin and begin the ride, all completely fueled by reflex.
T1: 7:40
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Bike
Well, it’s safe to say I should have spent those extra 5 minutes in the heated tent. I’m still operating on auto-pilot as I start the bike. The beginning miles of the course take you through downtown Coeur d’Alene and along the lake before rejoining in transition and heading north towards Hayden. My supposition that I would warm up quickly on the bike didn’t really pan out. For what ended up being the first 10 miles, I was driving drunk. My depth perception was shot. I could not ride in a straight line. I was shaking violently and struggling to breathe. My reaction time was a small percentage of what it typically is. All I could think about, the only thing I had the ability to process, was how cold I was and how long it would take to just warm up and feel better. I didn’t get any significant calories in me over the first 45 minutes, which is exactly what I was supposed to do. It wasn’t until after the 10 mile marker that I noticed I had stopped shivering, felt comfortable on the bike and was ready to settle in to my race pace. I couldn’t help thinking, where am I? How did I get here? I think I blacked out…
Regardless of how I should have handled that, it was over and I was finally feeling pretty good. My goal was to keep my power under 150 watts at all points on the flat and downhill sections of the course. For the hills, I’d throw it into my easiest gear and spin up every one of them. Having seen the hilly part near Hayden Lake I knew I was in for several hills far too steep to spin up even in my easiest gear, but the plan was to take it as easy as possible. There’s no such thing as “too easy” today, I’m going to finish this course with plenty left to run. Or that’s the plan, anyway; you know what they say about best laid plans.
I have a bottle of Infinit with 3.5 hours of nutrition in it, and another bottle waiting on my in special needs. Other than that, take in water as needed and store the rest in my SpeedFil bottle. Grab a Powerbar or banana at an aid station if needed, but the Infinit should be plenty of calories and plenty of salt. After all, I designed it that way.
The out-and-back section took about 15 miles of course before we headed north on Government Way. I had driven the course and knew the breakdown. Essentially the first 20-25 miles are flat, with a hill near the turnaround of the out-and-back. Once you pass the Hayden golf course, it’s only a matter of time before you run into 15-20 miles of pretty significant hills. Most are short, only one or two longer than a half mile; but they are invariably steep, most in excess of 6% grade. There’s just no easy way to go up hills that steep, no matter how short they are. The obvious choice is to rise out of the saddle and stomp up the hills, which is also a good way to put some distance between you and your competition. Not only is that generally never a good idea to do in an Ironman, particularly on the first loop, but my goal was to do as little work, put out as little power, as is necessary to simply cover the distance. Regardless of how you handle the hills, it flattens out quite a bit in the closing miles. The final 10-15 miles are generally downhill and have few turns, giving you a chance to make up some ground or simply to spin out your legs. Once you’re back in town, rinse and repeat.
So with my plan in hand and a body that’s now along for the ride, I take off in search of the hills. I’m pushing 20 mph in my power zones and finding it very easy to do so. In a race as long as Ironman it’s important to never get too wrapped up in how you’re feeling at any moment, so I try my best not to let it define me. I start to take in my Infinit and water and pay as much attention to the course as I can. It’s still a very mild day, probably low 60s by this point, and I’m not drinking much water. After Ironman Louisville and a spring of hot, humid base miles in muggy Nashville, I figured I’d be taking in a lot more water than I found myself needing; all the more reason to split up your calories from your hydration, in my opinion. I’m cruising along and everything feels great.
Inevitably the hilly section comes and I’m very glad to have already seen it from both the bike and the car. I was hoping to see my cheering section, which is down to simply Denise and my mom by IM #3, parked up in the middle section, but I didn’t. I was glad to hear that they never actually made it up there; it’s hard to recognize anybody in the middle of such controlled chaos. I was wholly unconcerned with how many people seemed to be passing me up the hills and was more than willing to race my own race; hopefully I’d see them on the run.
It ended up being a pretty good thing I was so lax with my bike goals, because I ended up losing a lot of time to a flat tire. The story starts about a month ago when I took my bike to MOAB for some reason or another. I racked my bike on my car and secured the front wheel to the rack fork. Upon getting to MOAB, I noticed that my wheel isn’t on my car anymore. Surprise! So now that there’s a pending product integrity claim with the manufacturer of my bike rack, and I was forced to use the only other front wheel I have; a very old, out of true trainer wheel I bought used and very beat up 4 years ago. I haven’t ridden on the thing, much less changed a tube, in months. But when it’s your only option, you work with what you’ve got. Somewhere along the hilly section, I notice that the tire is bowing out to the right in a very odd way. Several miles later, I notice it’s completely flat from what was evidently a slow leak. I finish the climb at English Point Rd where it intersects with Lancaster and pull over. I very calmly take off my front wheel and take my tire iron to it. Problem is the tire won’t lift. The old ass tire, over countless miles and months of non-use, had essentially glued itself to the rim tape. There was a spectator who wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t a whole lot either of us could do about it. I try my best to enjoy the break, but I’m starting to get a little pissed off at the situation. I eventually give him the go ahead to grab his metal tire iron and go to town on it. Just as he finishes prying the tire off of the rim tape, and wholly screwing up my rim, a bike mechanic shows up on his white stallion (moped) and takes care of it for me. He was extremely calm and upbeat, which helped my nerves quite a bit. It takes him several minutes of wrestling with it before the tire will remove, but he eventually gets it off. He shakes out a piece of glass in the tire and changes the tube for me; even thoughtful enough to pump it up with a floor pump, rather than making me use a CO2. I thank him for his help and hop on the bike, having lost 10 minutes in the process. I take it as a chance to rest, take in some more calories and relax. I sure wish it had come later in the ride when I needed it a bit more, but you can never plan for flat tires. Anyway, I keep moving, just glad to have one more problem sorted out.
I’m not much of a YouTube subscriber, myself. I realize that I’m missing out on a whole lot of pop culture, but I just can’t keep up with it. There are far too many videos out there achieving wild popularity, many of which I just don’t get. There’s no telling how many not-so-inside jokes I miss out on, on a daily basis. I certainly missed the one about the honey badger. I had noticed several times signs with this ugly, scary looking critter and the words “don’t care” emblazoned along the side. Sometimes the sign would say “big hill? Don’t care,” sometimes they would have someone’s bib number… “don’t care.” I didn’t see the video until after the race, and immediately wish I had. It would have been good for a smile out there. Check it out on YouTube. “It’s pretty badass.”
After climbing my way out of the hilly section, I tried my best to notice little nuances of the final 20 miles. I made a mental map of descents, which were squirrely and which could be hammered. Where is the wind blowing? How many turns were left at mile 45? At mile 50? How long down Government? How long down 4th? Making it back to downtown and handling the pussy little out-and-back along Northwest, I was happy to split my Garmin, but not overly happy to see I was quite a bit over pace to break 7 hours. But whatever, I don’t care. You think I care? I don’t give a shit. I just take what I want and leave everyone else to pick up the scraps. I wish I had seen that video prior to race day, -sigh-.
I’m still feeling like a million bucks heading out onto the 2nd loop. I had run out of Infinit around mile 56 and was looking forward to getting my next bottle. It took a while to get to special needs at the turnaround by Lake Coeur d’Alene, but I finally got there, switch out my bottle and grab my energy drink. I’m interested to see how the Delta E helps my plight to finish the next loop without giving up too much energy. I find I don’t really need to take it, so I just shoot it down at the Hayden Lake golf course, in preparation of the hills to come. I feel it almost immediately and it helps.
The second trip through the hills are less eventful that the first, thankfully. I’m marginally more tired and marginally more stiff, but still in no level of worry. Having already done the first lap, I know to look for mile 90. Mile 90, which is nestled right up against the turnaround on Ohio Match Rd, is essentially the moment when you take the short route back into town. There are still climbs, still turns; it’s hardly the home stretch. But generally we’re taking the short route back downtown, and mentally it makes sense to have that in mind as the halfway point.
I’ve peed twice on the bike, once early in the bike and once right after special needs, but haven’t had to go over the last couple hours. That means I’m either becoming dehydrated, or I’m nailing my hydration strategy perfectly. I don’t particularly want to drink water more rapidly and don’t want to have to waste more time in the porto john, but it’s still something worth holding in the back of my mind. I swing through cycle after cycle of good and bad patches, trying to keep drinking Infinit whenever I start to feel grumpy or flat. The second half of my second bottle is hard to get down. I’m getting extremely sick of this stuff, which doesn’t really happen in training. Take it for what it’s worth, just keep drinking, keep taking it easy. This course will be over soon enough, and the real race will begin. The hills take longer to get up, but they pass and generally leave me no worse for the wear.
Right around the time I reach the “halfway” point at mile 90 and start to head back into town, my Garmin dies. I’m now left with only my Powertap computer, which can either give me a rough prediction of speed or a far rougher estimation of cadence, depending on which mode it is in. I cycle through the two options over the last 22 miles, never really deciding which I prefer. I’m most bummed about not having a true calculation of total climbing for the day. Although the flat portions make this mentally the easiest and my personal favorite bike course of the 3 IMs I’ve done, it is probably the slowest and will certainly rival Louisville and Wisconsin in total climbing.
The stretch between mile 90 and 100 is probably the hardest. Not having my Garmin working, and not having started at 0 miles on the Powertap, I had no idea what my mileage was at any point over that section; and that’s a section I’d really like to have known my mileage. Although the stoutest of climbing is finished, there were plenty of hills left to slow things down. I began to lose big chunks of time not paying attention to what was going on around me. Like driving cross country, you just “wake up” and have no concept of how long you had zoned out or how many miles have passed. After what seemed like hours, I passed the 100 mile marker, which is always a great sight in an Ironman race. We’re now on Government Way heading back into town, and this ride will be over in 45 minutes.
The slog in is flat to mildly downhill and features increasingly dense crowds, so it passes quickly enough. I put a little power to the pedals in the final 5 miles and try to get my average speed up, more to simply get to transition marginally quicker than to improve a bike spilt that’s already pretty far gone. Getting back into town and doing the ridiculous out-and-back before entering T2, I try my best to spin my legs out and get mentally prepared to run. I feel like I’ve accomplished that. Despite a bike ride that’s more than a little embarrassing, I feel confident knowing I took it very conservatively. I’m not exaggerating to say I was a little happy to face the marathon; a little anxious. This was what I had come for. This, alone, would define whether the day, and therefore the last 9 months of very hard training, would be a vindicated one.
Bike: 7:18:07
Avg Power: 117; 73% FTP
Normalized Power: 134
Educated climbing estimate: 2,400 ft
T2 goes pretty quickly. I’m not violently shaking from a cold that went right to the bone like I was in T1. I’m also not really stiff or any kind of tired after what amounted to be a long but easy stroll on a new, unfamiliar course. The most time consuming task is taking off my base layer, but I soon slip my socks and shoes on, grab my GU and Garmin (305) and head out. Seeing Denise near the run out tent, and noticing that this is the section I came for, I say “well, here we go.” and strike out for the next 26.2 miles of quality control field testing.
T2: 3:46
Regardless of how I should have handled that, it was over and I was finally feeling pretty good. My goal was to keep my power under 150 watts at all points on the flat and downhill sections of the course. For the hills, I’d throw it into my easiest gear and spin up every one of them. Having seen the hilly part near Hayden Lake I knew I was in for several hills far too steep to spin up even in my easiest gear, but the plan was to take it as easy as possible. There’s no such thing as “too easy” today, I’m going to finish this course with plenty left to run. Or that’s the plan, anyway; you know what they say about best laid plans.
I have a bottle of Infinit with 3.5 hours of nutrition in it, and another bottle waiting on my in special needs. Other than that, take in water as needed and store the rest in my SpeedFil bottle. Grab a Powerbar or banana at an aid station if needed, but the Infinit should be plenty of calories and plenty of salt. After all, I designed it that way.
The out-and-back section took about 15 miles of course before we headed north on Government Way. I had driven the course and knew the breakdown. Essentially the first 20-25 miles are flat, with a hill near the turnaround of the out-and-back. Once you pass the Hayden golf course, it’s only a matter of time before you run into 15-20 miles of pretty significant hills. Most are short, only one or two longer than a half mile; but they are invariably steep, most in excess of 6% grade. There’s just no easy way to go up hills that steep, no matter how short they are. The obvious choice is to rise out of the saddle and stomp up the hills, which is also a good way to put some distance between you and your competition. Not only is that generally never a good idea to do in an Ironman, particularly on the first loop, but my goal was to do as little work, put out as little power, as is necessary to simply cover the distance. Regardless of how you handle the hills, it flattens out quite a bit in the closing miles. The final 10-15 miles are generally downhill and have few turns, giving you a chance to make up some ground or simply to spin out your legs. Once you’re back in town, rinse and repeat.
So with my plan in hand and a body that’s now along for the ride, I take off in search of the hills. I’m pushing 20 mph in my power zones and finding it very easy to do so. In a race as long as Ironman it’s important to never get too wrapped up in how you’re feeling at any moment, so I try my best not to let it define me. I start to take in my Infinit and water and pay as much attention to the course as I can. It’s still a very mild day, probably low 60s by this point, and I’m not drinking much water. After Ironman Louisville and a spring of hot, humid base miles in muggy Nashville, I figured I’d be taking in a lot more water than I found myself needing; all the more reason to split up your calories from your hydration, in my opinion. I’m cruising along and everything feels great.
Inevitably the hilly section comes and I’m very glad to have already seen it from both the bike and the car. I was hoping to see my cheering section, which is down to simply Denise and my mom by IM #3, parked up in the middle section, but I didn’t. I was glad to hear that they never actually made it up there; it’s hard to recognize anybody in the middle of such controlled chaos. I was wholly unconcerned with how many people seemed to be passing me up the hills and was more than willing to race my own race; hopefully I’d see them on the run.
It ended up being a pretty good thing I was so lax with my bike goals, because I ended up losing a lot of time to a flat tire. The story starts about a month ago when I took my bike to MOAB for some reason or another. I racked my bike on my car and secured the front wheel to the rack fork. Upon getting to MOAB, I noticed that my wheel isn’t on my car anymore. Surprise! So now that there’s a pending product integrity claim with the manufacturer of my bike rack, and I was forced to use the only other front wheel I have; a very old, out of true trainer wheel I bought used and very beat up 4 years ago. I haven’t ridden on the thing, much less changed a tube, in months. But when it’s your only option, you work with what you’ve got. Somewhere along the hilly section, I notice that the tire is bowing out to the right in a very odd way. Several miles later, I notice it’s completely flat from what was evidently a slow leak. I finish the climb at English Point Rd where it intersects with Lancaster and pull over. I very calmly take off my front wheel and take my tire iron to it. Problem is the tire won’t lift. The old ass tire, over countless miles and months of non-use, had essentially glued itself to the rim tape. There was a spectator who wanted to be helpful, but there wasn’t a whole lot either of us could do about it. I try my best to enjoy the break, but I’m starting to get a little pissed off at the situation. I eventually give him the go ahead to grab his metal tire iron and go to town on it. Just as he finishes prying the tire off of the rim tape, and wholly screwing up my rim, a bike mechanic shows up on his white stallion (moped) and takes care of it for me. He was extremely calm and upbeat, which helped my nerves quite a bit. It takes him several minutes of wrestling with it before the tire will remove, but he eventually gets it off. He shakes out a piece of glass in the tire and changes the tube for me; even thoughtful enough to pump it up with a floor pump, rather than making me use a CO2. I thank him for his help and hop on the bike, having lost 10 minutes in the process. I take it as a chance to rest, take in some more calories and relax. I sure wish it had come later in the ride when I needed it a bit more, but you can never plan for flat tires. Anyway, I keep moving, just glad to have one more problem sorted out.
I’m not much of a YouTube subscriber, myself. I realize that I’m missing out on a whole lot of pop culture, but I just can’t keep up with it. There are far too many videos out there achieving wild popularity, many of which I just don’t get. There’s no telling how many not-so-inside jokes I miss out on, on a daily basis. I certainly missed the one about the honey badger. I had noticed several times signs with this ugly, scary looking critter and the words “don’t care” emblazoned along the side. Sometimes the sign would say “big hill? Don’t care,” sometimes they would have someone’s bib number… “don’t care.” I didn’t see the video until after the race, and immediately wish I had. It would have been good for a smile out there. Check it out on YouTube. “It’s pretty badass.”
After climbing my way out of the hilly section, I tried my best to notice little nuances of the final 20 miles. I made a mental map of descents, which were squirrely and which could be hammered. Where is the wind blowing? How many turns were left at mile 45? At mile 50? How long down Government? How long down 4th? Making it back to downtown and handling the pussy little out-and-back along Northwest, I was happy to split my Garmin, but not overly happy to see I was quite a bit over pace to break 7 hours. But whatever, I don’t care. You think I care? I don’t give a shit. I just take what I want and leave everyone else to pick up the scraps. I wish I had seen that video prior to race day, -sigh-.
I’m still feeling like a million bucks heading out onto the 2nd loop. I had run out of Infinit around mile 56 and was looking forward to getting my next bottle. It took a while to get to special needs at the turnaround by Lake Coeur d’Alene, but I finally got there, switch out my bottle and grab my energy drink. I’m interested to see how the Delta E helps my plight to finish the next loop without giving up too much energy. I find I don’t really need to take it, so I just shoot it down at the Hayden Lake golf course, in preparation of the hills to come. I feel it almost immediately and it helps.
The second trip through the hills are less eventful that the first, thankfully. I’m marginally more tired and marginally more stiff, but still in no level of worry. Having already done the first lap, I know to look for mile 90. Mile 90, which is nestled right up against the turnaround on Ohio Match Rd, is essentially the moment when you take the short route back into town. There are still climbs, still turns; it’s hardly the home stretch. But generally we’re taking the short route back downtown, and mentally it makes sense to have that in mind as the halfway point.
I’ve peed twice on the bike, once early in the bike and once right after special needs, but haven’t had to go over the last couple hours. That means I’m either becoming dehydrated, or I’m nailing my hydration strategy perfectly. I don’t particularly want to drink water more rapidly and don’t want to have to waste more time in the porto john, but it’s still something worth holding in the back of my mind. I swing through cycle after cycle of good and bad patches, trying to keep drinking Infinit whenever I start to feel grumpy or flat. The second half of my second bottle is hard to get down. I’m getting extremely sick of this stuff, which doesn’t really happen in training. Take it for what it’s worth, just keep drinking, keep taking it easy. This course will be over soon enough, and the real race will begin. The hills take longer to get up, but they pass and generally leave me no worse for the wear.
Right around the time I reach the “halfway” point at mile 90 and start to head back into town, my Garmin dies. I’m now left with only my Powertap computer, which can either give me a rough prediction of speed or a far rougher estimation of cadence, depending on which mode it is in. I cycle through the two options over the last 22 miles, never really deciding which I prefer. I’m most bummed about not having a true calculation of total climbing for the day. Although the flat portions make this mentally the easiest and my personal favorite bike course of the 3 IMs I’ve done, it is probably the slowest and will certainly rival Louisville and Wisconsin in total climbing.
The stretch between mile 90 and 100 is probably the hardest. Not having my Garmin working, and not having started at 0 miles on the Powertap, I had no idea what my mileage was at any point over that section; and that’s a section I’d really like to have known my mileage. Although the stoutest of climbing is finished, there were plenty of hills left to slow things down. I began to lose big chunks of time not paying attention to what was going on around me. Like driving cross country, you just “wake up” and have no concept of how long you had zoned out or how many miles have passed. After what seemed like hours, I passed the 100 mile marker, which is always a great sight in an Ironman race. We’re now on Government Way heading back into town, and this ride will be over in 45 minutes.
The slog in is flat to mildly downhill and features increasingly dense crowds, so it passes quickly enough. I put a little power to the pedals in the final 5 miles and try to get my average speed up, more to simply get to transition marginally quicker than to improve a bike spilt that’s already pretty far gone. Getting back into town and doing the ridiculous out-and-back before entering T2, I try my best to spin my legs out and get mentally prepared to run. I feel like I’ve accomplished that. Despite a bike ride that’s more than a little embarrassing, I feel confident knowing I took it very conservatively. I’m not exaggerating to say I was a little happy to face the marathon; a little anxious. This was what I had come for. This, alone, would define whether the day, and therefore the last 9 months of very hard training, would be a vindicated one.
Bike: 7:18:07
Avg Power: 117; 73% FTP
Normalized Power: 134
Educated climbing estimate: 2,400 ft
T2 goes pretty quickly. I’m not violently shaking from a cold that went right to the bone like I was in T1. I’m also not really stiff or any kind of tired after what amounted to be a long but easy stroll on a new, unfamiliar course. The most time consuming task is taking off my base layer, but I soon slip my socks and shoes on, grab my GU and Garmin (305) and head out. Seeing Denise near the run out tent, and noticing that this is the section I came for, I say “well, here we go.” and strike out for the next 26.2 miles of quality control field testing.
T2: 3:46
Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Run
As tends to be typical, I find my run legs almost immediately and hit my stride by the end of the parking lot. I settle in to roughly 9 min/miles and it's completely effortless. The run course, and the bike course, for that matter, is kind of convoluted at the start and was difficult to navigate the day before. It's a bit more clear now, and I soon find myself leaving downtown Coeur d'Alene behind me and heading towards the neighborhoods. Special needs bags are at mile 14 and I think to myself how much I can't wait to get back here on loop 2 and grab my second Delta E flask; I sure hope I still have some leg left in me when I do get here.
The course spends a bit short of 3 miles (2.8) winding away from downtown and through a series of neighborhoods before spilling out into a paved running trail along Lake Coeur d'Alene. There were some pretty loud groups of spectators cheering runners on in the shaded neighborhood section, which was a nice diversion from what would otherwise be a pretty monotonous and likely torturous labyrinth slapped right at the end of the marathon. Early into the run I found, at least for a time, that those with better looking strides tend to get the most support from the crowd. That has never really applied to me before, but I was really feeling the love in the early miles. My favorite spectator was somewhere at the start of the neighborhood. As I ran past, my efficiency left her speechless. All I heard was "Nice stride. Nice. Wow..." which was likely the biggest compliment I could have received at the moment.
Exiting the neighborhood and starting the eternally long, eternally winding lakeside portion towards the turnaround, I prepared myself for my first gel of the run. My plan was to take in a gel every 30 minutes, every 3-4 aid stations, and water at every one. History suggests that off of an Infinit-fueled bike, I have plenty of salt in my system, but rarely enough water. This seemed to be the case again, but I have no signs of cramping just yet. The pace feels great and I keep bearing down for the next few miles until I reach the hill. The crazy hill I had to ride twice on the bike, the same crazy one people complained about all race week, stood looming at mile 5.5. The hill, which took you up 130 feet in a half mile, roughly a grade of 6%, slowed me down quite a bit. But I knew it was coming and kept my effort the same. I've ran plenty of hills both solo and with a group of friends, and I knew just fine how to go about tackling this one.
Cresting the hill, you actually run down the back end of it for about 3/4 of a mile before you hit the turnaround and come back. There was an aid station essentially at the turnaround that you got to pass twice. I pop my 2nd gel and wash it down with two trips worth of water. Hitting the timing mat, I'm well within a respectable pace. The trip up the back end of the hill is longer, but not nearly as steep, and I think a lot easier. The downhill seems to be a bit too steep and could really sheer your quads up if you aren't careful, but I hit level ground once more and start to work my way towards downtown. The pace is becoming a touch more difficult to maintain, but this is likely the hardest section of the course; it's extremely wide open, unsheltered from the sun and generally leaves you with nothing to look at. Luckily, race management thought to put the Ford Motivational Mile smack dab in the middle of it, roughly at mile 10/23. I'm sliding into a bit of a negative emotional pit as I come up to it, but the message lifts me up and pushes me through the final mile along the lake and back into the neighborhoods. A very large, loud, drunk crowd just past mile 11 make it very easy to keep going and I continue to make good time heading back downtown.
Two things are starting to truly manifest themselves in the closing miles of the first loop: nausea and exhaustion. My stomach, despite all its training and prior experience, is growing weary of the constant stream of sugar and salt being pumped into it; but it's doing more threatening than anything else. Much more urgently is the rate at which RPE is climbing. I try my hardest not to get too wrapped up in this bad patch, which is exactly what it was. I pop my 4th gel at mile 12.5 and just wait for it to take effect. It takes a while to get that blood sugar spike, 10-15 minutes even. I just have to hold on until then. So I told myself as I entered downtown Coeur d'Alene and once more became surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers.
As much as I was lying to myself about climbing out of this bad patch, I know I had to look like hell. What was a dull, subtle sense of fatigue had grown into a searing pain all over my body. My left arm, right at the elbow, is slowly eaten away by cramps. Cramps begin to take over my left leg as well, at the back of the knee. I pass Denise, Mom and Denise again and explain my agony. The halfway point is behind me and my Delta E is just up front. If I can just hold it together for a little while longer, I can take in water, take down my energy-in-a-flask and wait this out. I can wait this out. I trained all year for this.
Grabbing my Special Needs bag, I'm able to refill my GU packets and grab my Delta E. I decide I don't need my long sleeve shirt, so I toss the remnants of the bag with all confidence that Denise will come grab it later. I don't take my Delta E right away, figuring it would be a much better idea to wait until an aid station. When I do cross one, I take in as much water as I can stomach and pop my drink. Now all I have to do is watch and wait. Caffeine affects me differently when I'm dehydrated, so I'm not just too sure what to expect. Just wait it out. The effort is feeling marginally better, but still pretty painful. All the exhaustion culminates as I go up a gentle, sloped incline and I start to walk.
For 3 steps.
Then I'm off running down the back side. I jog the next half mile to the aid station and pop another gel. I'm still not really feeling any better, but I'm convinced a high is on the way. Taking off again, I make it a half mile before I have to take another unscheduled walk break. This time, it lasts about 30 seconds. Oh, great. Now I've convinced myself it's okay to walk. Here comes the Ironman shuffle. The is EXACTLY what I came here NOT to do. I REFUSE to Ironman shuffle this in. I took it extremely easy on the bike and saved myself for the entire first loop so that I can run this son of a bitch. If I found myself unable or unwilling to finish this properly than today was a failure.
And so, going through the aid station at mile 15.5, I told myself to run. I willed myself to run. All the way to the next aid station. I didn't expect it to be pretty. I didn't expect it to be easy. I didn't expect it to be fast. But damnit, I was going to do it.
And so after taking a nice long walk through the station, I take off along the lake. It is painful, unbearable, a bit of ridiculous and unnecessary. I want to quit a hundred times. But I make it. I make it all the way to the aid station at mile 16.5. So I stop, take in as much aid as possible and celebrate the mental victory. I'm walking out of the aid station and laying out my strategy for the next few miles. Soon enough, though I'm not sure when, I'll have the big hill to deal with. I figure I'll run to the hill, then do a 2 min walk/2 min run up the hill. That seems to work out pretty well, so I take off.
I make it about 3 steps before my body stops. There will be no more running. This is pretty much over for me. I don't even have the energy to be upset with myself any more. That last running stint took a lot out of me, and I'm happy to walk right now. As I'm walking along, I'm finding the pace to be pretty unbearable. I can feel my body starting to shut down completely. The nausea that started setting in at mile 13 is starting to take control of this vessel and dictating what and how much fuel to be taken in. Most importantly, my mind loses control completely. As it is said in Million Dollar Baby, the movie I, not accidentally, choose to watch the night before every one of these things: "The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing... Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism."
Round about this time, I decide it's time to go to the bathroom. Whether or not I can really expect to go is irrelevant. I'm just looking for any excuse to get off my feet. I find myself hoping to God that there is somebody in the next porto john that I find. There is, and I think you all know what's coming now...
I lay down in the grass and just stare at the sky.
I'm broken. This is over.
I have no idea how long I laid there. I tell people 10 minutes. Which is probably an exaggeration, but it also includes what happened after several minutes of resting; I drag myself up and into the bathroom. Where I continue to sit, with no plan or even hope of moving and continuing on this stupid hopeless task.
I've taken the DNF and don't have the mental wherewithal to even give a shit.
After a period of time had passed, I exit the bathroom and start walking. I have no idea why I always decide to keep moving forward, but that's the way it seems to work out; my body is hard wired to finish the race even when I forget why I want to finish in the first place.
I start the climb up the hill towards the turn around and have no need or desire to talk to anyone. After some quick calculations, I estimate that it would take my 3 hours to walk the next 9 miles from mile 17 to the finish line, which would put me in right around 10:15pm. I call my cheering section and tell them not to expect me any time soon, shed a tear or two, and start that lonely, cold, embarrassing walk. Oh God, why am I here again? Why does this have to happen every time? What am I supposed to learn from this?
I'm pretty quick to find out that the worst isn't over quite yet. The nausea is becoming pretty bothersome, and I'm trying everything I can to take care of it. After mile 15, I was pretty convinced I could not take in any more gels, so I switched to just cola and water. I had packed some Pepto Bismol pills in my special needs bag for just such an occasion. I had popped two Pepto pills at mile 17, which I suspect was roughly a half hour before the aid station at mile 17.5. So I pop another two in my mouth and try to wash it down with some cola. Only problem is, I gag on them. And puke my brains out.
Don't think the irony is lost on me...
After 4 or 5 good heaves, I clean out everything that remains in my system and the nausea lifts for the first time in hours. So along I walk, up the hill and down again, until I reach the next aid station. I take in a swig of cola and make it roughly 10 feet before I puke that up, bringing me to my knees this time. I start walking and stop again after 3 steps for more dry heaving. Ya know... for good measure...
Making the quick turn, crossing the timing mat and entering the aid station for the last time, I decide to try some chicken broth this time. This ends up being the worst offender of all. Almost immediately, my stomach decides to expel this as well. Here's the scene: I'm on my hands and knees in a section of gravel just to the side of the walking path, puking up chicken broth that never had the opportunity to even be cooled off; all the while crawling to one side because having my face in the vomit pile is making me more nauseated. Heaving again and again and again until my eyes well with tears and I fall over on my side exhausted from the effort.
Sound like a good investment of $575, 9 months worth of training, $1,000 worth of travel and lodging and a week off of work, huh?
Having finished my 5th stint of vomiting, I decide to stick with plain water indefinitely. Luckily I found that I could, in fact, keep water down and wasn't in any real danger of death. So off I walk, 6 miles to go and as much time as I could ever need to do it. I have a great view of the sun setting from the lakeside walking path. Seeing the sun set may have been beautiful to a normal person, but since my ultimate goal was to finish in the daylight, it's one drawn out slap in the face from whoever was in charge today.
It takes me a while to find any company, and my sob story didn't keep company around me for too long. The rest of the course was simply a progressively colder, progressively darker, progressively lonelier walk. I had no ability, nor any motivation to try to improve my pace. Because today was already done. Every goal I had set for myself had slipped away. The only thing I had left to do was to be an official finisher, and even at my pace I would have two hours to spare.
I eventually start to find an appetite again and start to take in cookies, pretzels and whatever assorted treats the stations had to offer. I run into a fellow broken down racer and we are able to walk and talk for a while, which made the final mile up to the neighborhood go by a bit faster. The large, loud, drunk crowd that had helped me so much at mile 11 just upset me at mile 24.5. They were still out there giving it their all and I had given up 2 hours ago. I wanted so much to just be out of earshot.
At some point I started to feel better, and realized that my walk could be expedited. I shifted from a leisurely walk at 3 mph to a bit of a power walk at 4 mph for equal parts wanting to break 15 hours and just wanting to be finished and off course. Walking a 15 min/mile isn't asking too much of my body at the time, and I had no reason to want more than that. So I power walk through the neighborhoods, past the special needs bags, through the final aid stations and back onto Sherman at mile 26. As I inched closer to the finish line, the spectators became more dense, loud and frivolous with the words "almost there." It dawned on me right around then that this was the first time I'd ever been this close to finishing a race and still walking; still not giving a flying fuck how I looked or what my finish time was. It was a little embarrassing, but I hadn't run a single step since mile 17 and I sure wasn't going to start now. Saving face simply wasn't necessary. Best try to look humble.
The finish line crowd is extremely loud and trying their best to give me the strength to run the last 200 ft, as if I was vying for a Kona slot and about to be overtaken. I waved and gave more high-fives than I had wanted to give. I just wished that people would stop paying attention to me and give some more love to the two women behind me, who were still running, and likely have been gutting it out for the last several miles. I yield the finish to one of them and still manage to cross before 10:00.
And still manage to PR by almost a half an hour. That almost makes it worse.
Run: 6:11:52
Total Time: 14:59:49
I have to be shuttled through the finish line festivities: the medals, the t shirt, the hats, the space blankets. I try to be happy. I am happy. I'm happy I finished the thing. I'm happy I didn't take the DNF. I'm happy I still managed to beat my previous best time.
And yet, I'm not. I didn't deserve what happened today. Maybe I deserved it the first time in Wisconsin. I was happy with that finish. Maybe I deserved it the second time in Louisville. I made some big mistakes and left feeling like I had really learned something. But not this time. This time it wasn't enough to just finish, just to PR by a marginal amount. This time I expected better. This time I expected my plan to work. My training went well. My nutrition went well. My pacing strategy was dead on. I did everything right. And I still found myself completely breaking down, found myself deeper into the pain cave than I'd ever been, so deep that my body took over and ended my day for me. And so early in the race.
In that moment, and in the eternity of moments I had to myself while walking in the last 9 miles, I decided that I was done with Ironman for a while. It had been made pretty clear to me over the last 3 hours that Ironman simply wasn't in the cards for someone like me. All Ironmen need time away from the distance from time to time, and I've never really taken that for myself before.
And why shouldn't I? I invest way too much into this sport to be shuffling in 15 hour, night-time finishes. I sacrifice too much to be humbled to walk in broken and cold every... single... time... I participate in one of these. At that moment, I had become completely self assured that I was finished with 140.6 for a very long time.
And yet, several days later, there are complications. I've already signed up (yes, and paid for) two Ironmans. Is it worth it to take the partial refund? Is it worth it to put my Iron-tour plans on hold indefinitely? Maybe take some time to myself for a change? Maybe divert a little more effort into my family, my friends, my job, or -gasp- myself?
Only time will tell, I guess. Only time will tell.
The course spends a bit short of 3 miles (2.8) winding away from downtown and through a series of neighborhoods before spilling out into a paved running trail along Lake Coeur d'Alene. There were some pretty loud groups of spectators cheering runners on in the shaded neighborhood section, which was a nice diversion from what would otherwise be a pretty monotonous and likely torturous labyrinth slapped right at the end of the marathon. Early into the run I found, at least for a time, that those with better looking strides tend to get the most support from the crowd. That has never really applied to me before, but I was really feeling the love in the early miles. My favorite spectator was somewhere at the start of the neighborhood. As I ran past, my efficiency left her speechless. All I heard was "Nice stride. Nice. Wow..." which was likely the biggest compliment I could have received at the moment.
Exiting the neighborhood and starting the eternally long, eternally winding lakeside portion towards the turnaround, I prepared myself for my first gel of the run. My plan was to take in a gel every 30 minutes, every 3-4 aid stations, and water at every one. History suggests that off of an Infinit-fueled bike, I have plenty of salt in my system, but rarely enough water. This seemed to be the case again, but I have no signs of cramping just yet. The pace feels great and I keep bearing down for the next few miles until I reach the hill. The crazy hill I had to ride twice on the bike, the same crazy one people complained about all race week, stood looming at mile 5.5. The hill, which took you up 130 feet in a half mile, roughly a grade of 6%, slowed me down quite a bit. But I knew it was coming and kept my effort the same. I've ran plenty of hills both solo and with a group of friends, and I knew just fine how to go about tackling this one.
Cresting the hill, you actually run down the back end of it for about 3/4 of a mile before you hit the turnaround and come back. There was an aid station essentially at the turnaround that you got to pass twice. I pop my 2nd gel and wash it down with two trips worth of water. Hitting the timing mat, I'm well within a respectable pace. The trip up the back end of the hill is longer, but not nearly as steep, and I think a lot easier. The downhill seems to be a bit too steep and could really sheer your quads up if you aren't careful, but I hit level ground once more and start to work my way towards downtown. The pace is becoming a touch more difficult to maintain, but this is likely the hardest section of the course; it's extremely wide open, unsheltered from the sun and generally leaves you with nothing to look at. Luckily, race management thought to put the Ford Motivational Mile smack dab in the middle of it, roughly at mile 10/23. I'm sliding into a bit of a negative emotional pit as I come up to it, but the message lifts me up and pushes me through the final mile along the lake and back into the neighborhoods. A very large, loud, drunk crowd just past mile 11 make it very easy to keep going and I continue to make good time heading back downtown.
Two things are starting to truly manifest themselves in the closing miles of the first loop: nausea and exhaustion. My stomach, despite all its training and prior experience, is growing weary of the constant stream of sugar and salt being pumped into it; but it's doing more threatening than anything else. Much more urgently is the rate at which RPE is climbing. I try my hardest not to get too wrapped up in this bad patch, which is exactly what it was. I pop my 4th gel at mile 12.5 and just wait for it to take effect. It takes a while to get that blood sugar spike, 10-15 minutes even. I just have to hold on until then. So I told myself as I entered downtown Coeur d'Alene and once more became surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers.
As much as I was lying to myself about climbing out of this bad patch, I know I had to look like hell. What was a dull, subtle sense of fatigue had grown into a searing pain all over my body. My left arm, right at the elbow, is slowly eaten away by cramps. Cramps begin to take over my left leg as well, at the back of the knee. I pass Denise, Mom and Denise again and explain my agony. The halfway point is behind me and my Delta E is just up front. If I can just hold it together for a little while longer, I can take in water, take down my energy-in-a-flask and wait this out. I can wait this out. I trained all year for this.
Grabbing my Special Needs bag, I'm able to refill my GU packets and grab my Delta E. I decide I don't need my long sleeve shirt, so I toss the remnants of the bag with all confidence that Denise will come grab it later. I don't take my Delta E right away, figuring it would be a much better idea to wait until an aid station. When I do cross one, I take in as much water as I can stomach and pop my drink. Now all I have to do is watch and wait. Caffeine affects me differently when I'm dehydrated, so I'm not just too sure what to expect. Just wait it out. The effort is feeling marginally better, but still pretty painful. All the exhaustion culminates as I go up a gentle, sloped incline and I start to walk.
For 3 steps.
Then I'm off running down the back side. I jog the next half mile to the aid station and pop another gel. I'm still not really feeling any better, but I'm convinced a high is on the way. Taking off again, I make it a half mile before I have to take another unscheduled walk break. This time, it lasts about 30 seconds. Oh, great. Now I've convinced myself it's okay to walk. Here comes the Ironman shuffle. The is EXACTLY what I came here NOT to do. I REFUSE to Ironman shuffle this in. I took it extremely easy on the bike and saved myself for the entire first loop so that I can run this son of a bitch. If I found myself unable or unwilling to finish this properly than today was a failure.
And so, going through the aid station at mile 15.5, I told myself to run. I willed myself to run. All the way to the next aid station. I didn't expect it to be pretty. I didn't expect it to be easy. I didn't expect it to be fast. But damnit, I was going to do it.
And so after taking a nice long walk through the station, I take off along the lake. It is painful, unbearable, a bit of ridiculous and unnecessary. I want to quit a hundred times. But I make it. I make it all the way to the aid station at mile 16.5. So I stop, take in as much aid as possible and celebrate the mental victory. I'm walking out of the aid station and laying out my strategy for the next few miles. Soon enough, though I'm not sure when, I'll have the big hill to deal with. I figure I'll run to the hill, then do a 2 min walk/2 min run up the hill. That seems to work out pretty well, so I take off.
I make it about 3 steps before my body stops. There will be no more running. This is pretty much over for me. I don't even have the energy to be upset with myself any more. That last running stint took a lot out of me, and I'm happy to walk right now. As I'm walking along, I'm finding the pace to be pretty unbearable. I can feel my body starting to shut down completely. The nausea that started setting in at mile 13 is starting to take control of this vessel and dictating what and how much fuel to be taken in. Most importantly, my mind loses control completely. As it is said in Million Dollar Baby, the movie I, not accidentally, choose to watch the night before every one of these things: "The body knows what fighters don't: how to protect itself. A neck can only twist so far. Twist it just a hair more and the body says, "Hey, I'll take it from here because you obviously don't know what you're doing... Lie down now, rest, and we'll talk about this when you regain your senses." It's called the knockout mechanism."
Round about this time, I decide it's time to go to the bathroom. Whether or not I can really expect to go is irrelevant. I'm just looking for any excuse to get off my feet. I find myself hoping to God that there is somebody in the next porto john that I find. There is, and I think you all know what's coming now...
I lay down in the grass and just stare at the sky.
I'm broken. This is over.
I have no idea how long I laid there. I tell people 10 minutes. Which is probably an exaggeration, but it also includes what happened after several minutes of resting; I drag myself up and into the bathroom. Where I continue to sit, with no plan or even hope of moving and continuing on this stupid hopeless task.
I've taken the DNF and don't have the mental wherewithal to even give a shit.
After a period of time had passed, I exit the bathroom and start walking. I have no idea why I always decide to keep moving forward, but that's the way it seems to work out; my body is hard wired to finish the race even when I forget why I want to finish in the first place.
I start the climb up the hill towards the turn around and have no need or desire to talk to anyone. After some quick calculations, I estimate that it would take my 3 hours to walk the next 9 miles from mile 17 to the finish line, which would put me in right around 10:15pm. I call my cheering section and tell them not to expect me any time soon, shed a tear or two, and start that lonely, cold, embarrassing walk. Oh God, why am I here again? Why does this have to happen every time? What am I supposed to learn from this?
I'm pretty quick to find out that the worst isn't over quite yet. The nausea is becoming pretty bothersome, and I'm trying everything I can to take care of it. After mile 15, I was pretty convinced I could not take in any more gels, so I switched to just cola and water. I had packed some Pepto Bismol pills in my special needs bag for just such an occasion. I had popped two Pepto pills at mile 17, which I suspect was roughly a half hour before the aid station at mile 17.5. So I pop another two in my mouth and try to wash it down with some cola. Only problem is, I gag on them. And puke my brains out.
Don't think the irony is lost on me...
After 4 or 5 good heaves, I clean out everything that remains in my system and the nausea lifts for the first time in hours. So along I walk, up the hill and down again, until I reach the next aid station. I take in a swig of cola and make it roughly 10 feet before I puke that up, bringing me to my knees this time. I start walking and stop again after 3 steps for more dry heaving. Ya know... for good measure...
Making the quick turn, crossing the timing mat and entering the aid station for the last time, I decide to try some chicken broth this time. This ends up being the worst offender of all. Almost immediately, my stomach decides to expel this as well. Here's the scene: I'm on my hands and knees in a section of gravel just to the side of the walking path, puking up chicken broth that never had the opportunity to even be cooled off; all the while crawling to one side because having my face in the vomit pile is making me more nauseated. Heaving again and again and again until my eyes well with tears and I fall over on my side exhausted from the effort.
Sound like a good investment of $575, 9 months worth of training, $1,000 worth of travel and lodging and a week off of work, huh?
Having finished my 5th stint of vomiting, I decide to stick with plain water indefinitely. Luckily I found that I could, in fact, keep water down and wasn't in any real danger of death. So off I walk, 6 miles to go and as much time as I could ever need to do it. I have a great view of the sun setting from the lakeside walking path. Seeing the sun set may have been beautiful to a normal person, but since my ultimate goal was to finish in the daylight, it's one drawn out slap in the face from whoever was in charge today.
It takes me a while to find any company, and my sob story didn't keep company around me for too long. The rest of the course was simply a progressively colder, progressively darker, progressively lonelier walk. I had no ability, nor any motivation to try to improve my pace. Because today was already done. Every goal I had set for myself had slipped away. The only thing I had left to do was to be an official finisher, and even at my pace I would have two hours to spare.
I eventually start to find an appetite again and start to take in cookies, pretzels and whatever assorted treats the stations had to offer. I run into a fellow broken down racer and we are able to walk and talk for a while, which made the final mile up to the neighborhood go by a bit faster. The large, loud, drunk crowd that had helped me so much at mile 11 just upset me at mile 24.5. They were still out there giving it their all and I had given up 2 hours ago. I wanted so much to just be out of earshot.
At some point I started to feel better, and realized that my walk could be expedited. I shifted from a leisurely walk at 3 mph to a bit of a power walk at 4 mph for equal parts wanting to break 15 hours and just wanting to be finished and off course. Walking a 15 min/mile isn't asking too much of my body at the time, and I had no reason to want more than that. So I power walk through the neighborhoods, past the special needs bags, through the final aid stations and back onto Sherman at mile 26. As I inched closer to the finish line, the spectators became more dense, loud and frivolous with the words "almost there." It dawned on me right around then that this was the first time I'd ever been this close to finishing a race and still walking; still not giving a flying fuck how I looked or what my finish time was. It was a little embarrassing, but I hadn't run a single step since mile 17 and I sure wasn't going to start now. Saving face simply wasn't necessary. Best try to look humble.
The finish line crowd is extremely loud and trying their best to give me the strength to run the last 200 ft, as if I was vying for a Kona slot and about to be overtaken. I waved and gave more high-fives than I had wanted to give. I just wished that people would stop paying attention to me and give some more love to the two women behind me, who were still running, and likely have been gutting it out for the last several miles. I yield the finish to one of them and still manage to cross before 10:00.
And still manage to PR by almost a half an hour. That almost makes it worse.
Run: 6:11:52
Total Time: 14:59:49
I have to be shuttled through the finish line festivities: the medals, the t shirt, the hats, the space blankets. I try to be happy. I am happy. I'm happy I finished the thing. I'm happy I didn't take the DNF. I'm happy I still managed to beat my previous best time.
And yet, I'm not. I didn't deserve what happened today. Maybe I deserved it the first time in Wisconsin. I was happy with that finish. Maybe I deserved it the second time in Louisville. I made some big mistakes and left feeling like I had really learned something. But not this time. This time it wasn't enough to just finish, just to PR by a marginal amount. This time I expected better. This time I expected my plan to work. My training went well. My nutrition went well. My pacing strategy was dead on. I did everything right. And I still found myself completely breaking down, found myself deeper into the pain cave than I'd ever been, so deep that my body took over and ended my day for me. And so early in the race.
In that moment, and in the eternity of moments I had to myself while walking in the last 9 miles, I decided that I was done with Ironman for a while. It had been made pretty clear to me over the last 3 hours that Ironman simply wasn't in the cards for someone like me. All Ironmen need time away from the distance from time to time, and I've never really taken that for myself before.
And why shouldn't I? I invest way too much into this sport to be shuffling in 15 hour, night-time finishes. I sacrifice too much to be humbled to walk in broken and cold every... single... time... I participate in one of these. At that moment, I had become completely self assured that I was finished with 140.6 for a very long time.
And yet, several days later, there are complications. I've already signed up (yes, and paid for) two Ironmans. Is it worth it to take the partial refund? Is it worth it to put my Iron-tour plans on hold indefinitely? Maybe take some time to myself for a change? Maybe divert a little more effort into my family, my friends, my job, or -gasp- myself?
Only time will tell, I guess. Only time will tell.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Ironman 70.3 New Orleans
In truth, all races have a back-story. Some are more interesting than others, and most don’t bear repeating. I really dislike documenting these stories and posting them alongside my reports, further cluttering stories that already border on too long. Still, today’s race deserves an asterisk. It warrants an explanation, an excuse. For that reason, I’ve added the following information the day prior to race day. If you’re uninterested in such material, or already know the back-story, race day information will begin below the line. Feel free to skip the next 8 paragraphs (or fragments thereof) and begin race morning.
It all started 2 weeks ago in Murfreesboro. Having just finished my double triathlon weekend, I was a bit sore. It took a few minutes after crossing the finish line at the Alpha Delta Pi-Athlon for me to feel an easily recognized pain in my right foot. I remove my shoes to find a rock embedded in the heel. In my haste to get out of T2 as quickly as possible, I neglected to brush a pebble off of my foot. This pebble, roughly the diameter of a small ant, had been pile driven into my foot over a hard 5k. I had to cut the skin with my fingernail and dig the rock out. What remained was a crater in my right foot that looked rather disgusting; and all the more uncomfortable to walk on.
For the next 4 days, training has been absolutely shut down. Twice daily, the hole was cleaned and bandaged. I walked with a limp everywhere I went. Recovery went well enough, but it took a lot longer than I would have liked it to. By all accounts, it was not a big deal. By Thursday it didn’t hurt at all and I was ready to start training again. I didn’t miss out on too much fitness as I was tapering anyway, but I was now able to do my race-preparation workouts.
For about 6 hours.
Because Thursday afternoon was the date of my surgery. As it turns out, my wisdom teeth were coming in, and they were not doing so according to plan. It was time to get them extracted, and apparently it couldn’t wait. Well, maybe it could have, but I was much more willing to lose a week of training during a taper than to lose a week of training during an Ironman build. I was able to get in a swim (if you want to call it that) Thursday morning, but I didn’t get a lot accomplished. I managed 3 of my 10 repeats, but quickly called it a day. I was going under sedation that day and was ordered to fast completely. Not even pool water was on the menu. Without any food in my system, I got lightheaded and cut my losses. About the only thing I did successfully was lose my goggles. I didn’t even realize until a week later.
Regardless, the surgery didn’t go that well. It could have been a lot worse, I’ll be the first to admit, but my post-operative recovery was a bit slower-than-the-average-bear. Of the 4 extraction sites, two of them developed dry sockets. I hibernated for 24 hours. I made 3 additional trips to the dentist over the next 8 days getting check-up after check-up. Things got better. Things got worse. Then breakfast was served. I was a wreck; physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn’t think I would ever get better. I was on a cycle of pain meds that had me popping every 3 hours, even at night. My sleep cycles got screwed up. My diet consisted of smoothies, pasta, pudding and meal-replacement shakes for a week; all the fiber was leeched out of my system and I became irregular.
My taper weeks were a complete and utter disaster. I thought, worried over this race dozens of times a day. Every few hours I changed my mind on whether I should even bother recognizing the alarm clock on Sunday. All I wanted to do was a half-marathon simulation workout after a bike ride some time on the weekend prior to race week. Yeah… That happened…
Before I cut to the good stuff, a series of shout-outs. To Denise for taking care of me, for cleaning my blood off my clothes and letting me kick her walls in a fit of pain when the anesthesia wore off. To my Mom for buying me the pudding, the applesauce, the painkillers and for sitting in the waiting room for the whole experience. To Dr. Daniel, Cori and all the staff at Unique Dental Care for seeing me again, and again, and again, and for always encouraging me that I’d be ready by race day.
Hopefully it wasn’t all for nothing.
__________________________________________________________
It took all season to pull it off, but I finally awoke on race morning off of a good night’s sleep. After waking up only once in the night, I woke up of my own accord at 4:15, 15 mins before the alarm, and felt pretty rested. I have most everything set up in the awkward little condo we’re staying in, so all there is to do is the typical eat, poop, get dressed. I head out the door with my gear bag about 5:25 and trace Canal St to the Hilton Riverside Resort to catch the shuttle. My CD of choice is Panic! At the Disco’s “Vices and Virtues,” and I’m thoroughly enjoying my own little world that’s being created by the architecture and the neon lights hours before the sun will break.
I get to the Hilton and end up shooting the shit with another racer talking about this or that. I leave him for a time to use the restroom and end up sitting right in front of him on the shuttle. It’s eerily quiet and methodical on the bus ride over to the transition area at UNO’s Research Campus. Not only that, it takes f*cking forever. We pull into transition not much sooner than 6:30 and I find myself once more in a hurry to get it set up. Naturally, I have to pee like a pregnant chick, so my setup is haphazard, frenzied and wholly inadequate. But, wait. I get ahead of myself…
Once we deboard the bus, the fellow racer and I walk towards transition. I have my headphones in and am preparing myself mentally to get everything set up as quickly as is feasible. I hear him mouth something to me. I smile and continue walking. 2 seconds goes by. 5 seconds goes by. 10 seconds, I connect the dots. I take my earbuds out.
“Wait, what? Did you say the swim has been cancelled?”
“Yeah, that’s what I just heard.”
“What the… WHO TOLD YOU THAT?!?!”
“That (volunteer) over there.”
No sooner, the emcee announces over the loudspeaker that the swim has, in fact, been nixed. While it looked rather do-able from the beach, the chop out in the middle of the lake is so rough race management could not get adequate safety personnel out into it to set the buoys and to their posts. The swim is cancelled; the race would be simply a bike -> run; start time is pushed back 30 minutes; the start will be a 2 by 2 time trial start based on swim wave (which were based on age brackets; I’m in the back). “We regret the situation. It’s not ideal for us, and we know it’s not ideal for you, but race management is acting with everyone’s safety in mind.”
Needless to say, everyone’s in a frenzy. I’m disappointed, sure, but WTF ever. It’s cancelled for everyone. Doesn’t change much. Let’s get set up. I do so pretty quickly and head towards the restroom. The the lines for the transition area porto potties are absurd, so I head to the additional potties over by the beach. I wait in line for about 5 minutes before I see a rotating line of mostly male athletes running over towards a series of relatively secluded palm trees to handle business. It’s about 7:05 and everyone assumes they have very little time, so I jump at that option. I try my best not to get too much sand in my bike shoes as I jog over.
The typical, far more meticulous setup happens and I find myself with an undetermined amount of time to do not much of anything. By the time they got around to the M25-29 wave (waves 16 & 17) I’ve made 4 or 5 trips to various porto potties, taken my (fully mixed!) Delta E, and two pre-race gels. It was a bit frustrating having no idea when my turn would finally get here, but I adequately wasted the time. Without a swim leg, the strategy for the race changed quite a bit. I decided to wear my socks for the bike ride, even though they would make my shoes a bit tighter. I also noticed walking around in the grassy, tree-covered transition area that there are a ton of “sticker” bushes dropping seeds on the ground that get tangled in clothing and carried around. Mental note: leave your bike shoes on in T2.
Finally, about 8:30, it comes time to grab my bike and follow the line towards bike out. I make one more bathroom stop (good God, how many of these have I made since I woke up?) and strut to the inflatable awning. Before I knew it I was wishing everybody luck and feeling the slightest of pushes from the volunteer on my shoulder signifying that my time had started. I ran the 10 yards to the mount line, clipped in and took off.
Swim time: N/A
T1: N/A
I was ECSTATIC to discover that the winds had shifted from yesterday. Yesterday the winds had been blowing strongly to the east, today they were blowing to the west. Why does it matter? Well, now the first half of the bike is into a headwind and the second half is with the wind. So now when I’m tired, my back is sore and I’m mentally beaten up I’m in a tailwind and not a headwind. If you’re not a cyclist, I give up on trying to articulate how important this is. If you are, I don’t have to explain it. It’s fantastic news.
The initial out pattern is further than I thought it would be, about 3.5 miles to the turnaround of the run course two years ago. Once I turn around into the 13 mph headwind and head back towards transition, I’m struggling to get an exact figure of how long the out-and-back pattern is. With that knowledge, I’ll know much better how to split up the return trip. I make it back to transition and have to slow down through the round-about.
I notice that we’ve gone 7 miles so far. So now I know to subtract 7 miles from my total distance at any point of the out pattern to find out how much longer I have to get to transition when I come back.
As soon as we exit transition and get onto the open road of Hayne Blvd, it is LEGAL DRAFT CITY. With only 3 seconds between starts, it’s inevitably one huge paceline strung out over 25 miles of deathly straight, open road. I’m trying my hardest not to cheat, but taking full advantage of the legal advantage. I’m still pretty excited about the race and my heart rate is still pretty high. I work on keeping my cadence above 90, my breathing under control and my pace just over what I hope to average over the course of the ride. Since we’re going into the wind, I’m pushing harder than I would otherwise knowing I’ll have the wind at my back for the back portion. It doesn’t hurt that I’m pushing 20 mph pretty easily.
Over the years of racing, I’ve become accustomed to these big races. I’ve become accustomed to dozens upon dozens of cyclists flying past me in the early stages of the bike leg. These random guys on all price ranges of bicycles just shooting up the road, making it look easy. For the first 15 miles until the turn onto I-510, I’m that guy. All I can see in front of me is athlete after athlete sitting upright, standing on the pedals, drinking from water bottles, being overweight, being novice, riding cheap bikes and generally lacking fitness. Each one is a via point, and each one blocks the wind for 4 or 5 seconds. The wind is having almost no impact on my average speed, which is hovering around 19 mph. We turn off and I feel a bit of a tailwind. It’s mostly crosswind (~75%), but I make a mental note of this stretch. I’m absolutely going to TT it on the way back, knowing it’s a flat, straight, 8 mile run into the transition area once it’s over. I take advantage of the tailwind and take a turn pushing 25 mph for a little while before turning off onto Chef Menteur Hwy.
Once on Chef Menteur, it’s more legal draft time. There’s simply no end to the string of people I’m passing, any more than there is an end to people in later waves passing me. The excitement is finally starting to wear off. My heart rate is finally settling around 170. Not that I hadn’t before, but I’m really starting to focus on nutrition and hydration intake now. My speed is entirely dependent on who’s around me. I’d catch someone, draft, shoot out, pass them, catch someone else, etc. Then I’d reach the end of the line and have to bridge a gap. My speed would fall as I pulled in another cyclist or group thereof. Then it would speed up again as I past some more. I was counting up towards the halfway point at mile 28. I also know that the end of the bike course makes a Y shaped fork before you head back towards transition. I’m getting a pretty good gauge of how much farther I have to go to be at this very spot for the trip back, but it doesn’t feel like the turnaround point is getting any closer.
My back is starting to get a bit tired, or at least starting to warn me that it might be soon. My legs are starting to ache a bit and I find myself freewheeling for a second here and a second there to shake them out. I ride and ride and finally reach 28 miles. I hit the lap button on my Garmin; it reads 1:29:42. The turnaround is about mile 30 and I bullet back to the turn off. It’s the first time since the first 3.5 miles to ride directly with the wind, and to adequately judge how fast it’s blowing. I hit 28 mph over the 3-4 miles back. As we turn onto Hwy 11, I tell a fellow cyclist “Man, that was fun!”
The final out and back is a pain in the ass, especially since it wasn’t much of a headwind or tailwind in either direction. There wasn’t really much to look forward to on the way out, just that we’d soon get to fight a crosswind from the opposite, more dangerous side. Eventually, we turn back onto Menteur and FINALLY start the trip back into the wind. Things have thinned out quite a bit over the first 35 miles and there’s not as much leapfrogging, but there’s still plenty of legal draft to go around. My speed picks up, my effort and heart rate go down and I focus on keeping a high cadence and getting my Infinit in. I can’t wait to see what my average pace will be today. This is going extremely well.
I still have some fight left in my legs for the right turn onto I-510 and decide to make good on my plan to crush it. It’s about 2.5 miles into a 40% headwind, and has two bridges to cross over. I leave it in my big gear, force my legs to grind out the effort and burn a match. I’m shooting past other cyclists and maintaining my speed. But I’m really having to hurt myself to do it. I can’t help but wonder how big my tank will be today?
I wish the trip were over long before it ends, but it soon ends and I find myself very near 50 miles. Okay… Recover. Recover. Recover! Keep the cadence high. Keep the liquids coming in. Get your heart rate down. The familiar horribly paved Hayne Blvd is very uncomfortable on an already irritated rear end, but the wind is at my back and the hard work is done. I stay low, stay in my big gear, but easily cruise back to transition. There are a few bridges that break your rhythm, but by and large it’s an easy trip back. I’d like to do the bike in 2:45:00, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious that I won’t do that. It was a pretty arbitrary goal, so I don’t care. I won’t be far off of it.
I have a bit more wherewithal this year and recognize that we’re nearing campus. I get myself over the last hill and shoot around the roundabout. I dismount and stop my Garmin. I remember to leave my shoes on as I dismount and clip clop my way towards the timing mats. To try to put into words how spiritually uplifting that bike was is a pretty difficult task. It was incredibly validating to know I had that in me. But the last thing I want to do right now is run a half marathon. I guess I’ve got the first 7 miles to get used to the idea.
Bike time: 2:47:10; 20.1 mph
Per the Garmin: 2:47:03; 20.1 mph; 55.86 mi
First lap: 1:29:42; 18.7 mph; 27.96 mi
Second lap: 1:17:20; 21.6 mph; 27.91 mi
Total Ascent: 551 ft; Descent: 554
And, just for fun, 2,433 calories burned
I’m not really waddling like I often do after long bike rides as I head towards transition. As per my plan, I shoot down the opposite side of my rack. Finding my stuff isn’t as hard as I feared it might have been and I toss my bike on the rack and duck under. It takes an additional second to get my cycling shoes off, but probably still less time that it would have taken to get socks on my sweaty feet. I slip on my shoes, grab my visor/gel flask/Garmin and, a bit begrudgingly, depart the transition area for my half marathon. Just hang on; I popped a caffeine pill at mile 53 of the bike. I’ll feel better, just find your legs and let’s go.
T2: 1:58
I actually find my stride relatively quickly as we head down Lakeshore. As usual, heart rate and pace are a bit quicker than I’d like them to be, but relax and focus on RPE; they’ll come down. I settle into an 8:15/mi pace and plug away. Pace is pretty inconsequential at the moment, just keep it at marathon effort. I see Denise parked up at the top of a hill, but she doesn’t see me in time to get a decent picture. Oh well, there are photographers all over the place. I’m not worried about it. In fact, I’m given something much more important to worry about very, very quickly.
We descend the little hill and I can see the first aid station in the distance. I start to feel it about a half mile into the run. It’s in my quads. The inside of my lower quads, both of ‘em. Cramps. No seizures yet, but cramps all the same. Painful, hot, stabbing cramps. Cue panic mode…
I’m running along towards the aid station for about 10 steps before I stop and walk. “Oh boy,” I say. "Yep" responds a woman walking next to me. I take a second to look around and see that over half of the people who were around me at that moment were walking. I'm scared out of my mind as I approach the aid station; I start to strategize. I've had to pee for about an hour, so I figure I'll stop and do that. I stretch both quads and both hip flexors as I wait in line. I notice my urine color isn't alarming one way or the other, but get the feeling that I'm fine on salt intake. Most importantly, it gave me a chance to collect my thoughts; which I really needed. I left the porto potty, ready for some self-talk.
Alright, damnit, listen. The bike went great, but it's over. Regardless of what combination of factors led me to this situation, I'm here all the same. I have three options: I can quit now, I can walk a half marathon, or I can deal with it as best I can. I thought for a very cryptic second or two about dropping out; taking the DNF. I mean, there's no reason why I couldn't. I'm still recovering from surgery. I could tell people that my mouth started hurting and nobody would have second guessed it. But no. No. Fuck that. I won't live that lie. I'm not going to accept that fate until that fate is unavoidably thrust upon me.
So, I have two choices: I can walk a 3:30 half marathon or I can deal with this as best I can. I've come a very long way to give up now. I bid my previous run aspirations adieu and make new goals: get the most out of myself. Milk my tired legs as much as I can. Accomplish my main goal, which is always to get as much energy and passion out of whatever body chose to show up that day. My pacing strategy is a marathon-pace jog to mile 7 anyway, let's just start there. Well, first let's deal with these cramps.
And so it begun.
I took a hit of gel at the second aid station and became all but certain that the issue was dehydration and not lack of calories or salt. Rather than expecting to finish the flask, I'll just take conservative pulls on it as often as I feel like I can stomach it. It is my main focus to getting as much water in me as I can, and to using as much ice as possible to keep myself cool. I've never thought to dump cupfuls of ice inside my one piece tri suit for whatever reason until this season. How I could think to put it in my wrists but not against my core is anybody's guess, but now I know. Anyway, keep yourself cool at all costs.
And by all means, keep moving. No matter what, keep moving.
I programmed my Garmin to lap every 3.33 miles. My goal was to hold marathon pace until mile 7, then pick it up to half marathon pace at mile 10, then progress to 5k pace over the final 5k. That plan is wholly out the window, but what remains is that I will remove my heart rate alarm at mile 10. I'll also have 4 relatively even splits to gauge my pacing. I'm happy to see my pace around a 9 min/mi and the cramps to stay relatively at bay for the first 5k. I do the first 3.33 in 30:30, and set the goal for myself to beat that time. Should be no problem; I spent 90 seconds in the bathroom line. Around mile 2.5 I see somebody in front of me I wouldn't mind catching. He's wearing the same shoes as me, and wearing a one piece suit that reads "Ironman 70.3 World Championship." He's about 30 feet in front of me and running at exactly the same pace as I. The gap yo-yos several times, but I never really gain ground.
The cramps in my quads soon spread to my hamstrings and came in waves, typically right around aid stations. I took a hit of gel as often as I could, but really tried to shove down as much water as I could. I'll back off on the water after I pee. The goal is to have to pee. Try to drink that much. It's so unpleasant drinking that much water, but I do it time and time again. Despite the cramps, I'm walking the aid stations and not really anything else. Only two or three times do I find myself walking because of cramps. I had probably a dozen instances when I had to stop and burp, who's to say why I found myself so gassy, but for the most part I was still moving. It's obvious to me now that I will never be able to consume enough water to cause me to pee, but I took in as much as I could.
I turn off onto the curious little double out-and-back on Macaroni Dr. and start to get a gauge of how far the turnarounds are. I found these out and back sections are really not that bad since you hit the aid stations and the cheering crowds twice, and it was much easier to set little carrots along the way. Macaroni Dr. was the site of lap #2, and I saw that my pace had slid a little to 31:11. Well, the plan is to pick it up a little right now. I've been in a comfortable zone to now, and I'm now allowed to pick it up slowly and evenly to mile 10. I try doing that and make it about a quarter mile before having to stop and walk. Okay, okay. Nevermind. Let's just get to mile 10 and we'll reassess.
Aside from an incredibly annoying volunteer handing out "swamp watah. Get ya swamp watah. Nice fresh swamp watah heah" over and over and freakin' over again, there wasn't a lot to say about Macaroni Dr. I was very happy to bear off of it onto Harrison and to see mile marker 8. Knowing that I was only 5 miles from the finish line was especially comforting. This is not my day on the run, but I'm making it happen all the same. Just hold it together. I'm a little lost over the next mile and a half as we connect the out and backs to the long stretch along Esplanade to the finish. I remember vaguely that there were some pretty cool building along the way, but I was just searching my little heart out for that familiar strip. I make it all the way to mile 9.99 and get more bad news from my watch (32:14, slower still) before we hang that blessed left.
I'm so excited to be on this road. It's familiar, it's straight, it's downhill, it's shaded and it leaves me one turn away from the finish line. Passing mile 11 I'm not really any fresher than I was when I started; more importantly I'm not too much worse. My mouth never really hurt, or at least not moreso than the rest of my body. My legs never really cramped, or at least never really seized up. This general level of pain has never really accelerated. I don't have any kind of finish line kick in me, no way. But I don't see why I can't turn the screws a little bit. Crossing the 10 mile mark, I see that I have roughly 27 minutes to do the last 5k to break 2 hours. Is it possible? Well no, probably not, but I tell myself that it is and I take off. I'm pushing 8:15 min/mis and it hurts. It freakin' hurts. I pass an aid station and grab some coke in lieu of the gel (and of course, more water than I cared to stand), and I'm still cramping. 2.5 miles to the finish line, I don't think there's any benefit in any further intake of salt, calories or caffeine. Nothing to make this pain go away short of walking. And I'm not doing that. So, let's just climb into the pain cave one more time.
I'm running. And it freakin' sucks. I'm dreading every step. Every voice in my body is screaming for mercy. I concentrate on my breathing, concentrate on my altered gait. I'm taking longer steps and not pushing off nearly as much as I should be; stretching the quads in such a way is asking a bit too much. I'm not going as fast as my effort level would typically yield, but it's all I have to give. I approach the last aid station, down some water and keep going. I see a sign on the side of the street "13 blocks to ice cold beer." My first thoughts are equal parts "13 blocks? That's a freakin' lightyear" and "F*ck it, let's just go already." The latter voice wins out and I plug my way towards Decatur.
I turn on Decatur and get the familiar tunnel vision. I remember this stretch from 2009. I remember completely ruining my finish last time trying to chase some impossible time goal. I remember being completely pissed off when I found that not only did I not make it, but that I'd missed it by like 15 minutes. I'm not going to make that mistake again. I'm going to be a man. I'm going to finish strong, and I'm going to walk the chute.
I'm in so much agony heading down Decatur, but it's becoming less and less obvious to me. The buildings funnel the noise and the sights. I can see more and more people. I can hear music. I'm just wondering where the chute actually begins. After staring at it for a half mile, I finally reach Jackson's Square and the finish line. I pump my fists. I cheer under my breathe. I stop and start to walk. I raise my arms and celebrate. I take it in. I have my finish. It's not necessarily the finish I wanted, but I'm losing faith that a perfect race, even a great race, is even possible over the long course.
I gave this race absolutely everything I had. Any doubts I had in my head were immediately erased when I crossed. I put my arms down and was being shuttled through the finish line area. I make it through the water bottles, the medals and the hats. Right around the time I make it to the chip removers, it starts to hit me. The pain of the day. The accumulation of it all. "Oh, God that hurt. Oh, man that hurt. That hurt so freakin' bad." Over and over. It's all I could think about. It hurt. It's so absurd I start laughing about it. Holy hell, every second of that hurt!
Run time: 2:01:45; 9:17/mi
Per the Garmin: 2:02:01; 9:16/mi; 13.18 mi
First 3.33: 30:30; 9:10/mi
Second 3.33: 31:11; 9:22/mi
Third 3.33: 32:14; 9:41/mi
Final 3.19: 28:05; 8:49/mi
Again, for Ss and Gs: 1,552 calories burned
Total time: 4:50:53
85 out of 204
I wasted my finish two years ago pissing and crying over missing my overly ambitious time goal, and I refuse to repeat that. I'm just so satisfied with myself that I'm finished, the work is done and that I'm about as tired as I have the capacity to be.
I walk around the finish area. I get some food in me. I get an Abita Light in me (which was very nice). I get my dry clothes bag and head towards the shuttle busses. I'm committed to going out and celebrating. Don't second guess it, just go have fun.
So now, once more, I'm 10 weeks from Ironman. I have a week to lick my wounds before I start the great volume build. Next stop Coeur d'Alene. How will it go? Man, I have no freakin' idea. And, to be frank, I don't want to know. I don't want to think about it. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just try to enjoy what little finality this brings.
I can never seem to get enough of it.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Alpha Delta Pi-Athlon
April 3, 2011
300 yd swim -> 10 mi bike -> 5k run
Man, I didn't get any freakin' sleep this weekend.
I woke up about 4, getting about 5 hours in and didn't even try going back to sleep; the alarm was 30 minutes away. I very easily could have gone back under, I was tired. Regardless, I scraped together my breakfast and started chowing. I added a little honey (~1 tsp?) and a generous sprinkle of cinnamon (~1/4 tsp?) to the potatoes this time and it was GREAT. Really brought out the sweetness in them, creating what might be a poor man's sweet potato casserole to serve at Thanksgiving. I often have my race mornings when I get Spartan about my food intake and would want to skip the additives, but it's good to know I have options for a much more enjoyable experience when I don't mind the extra sugar.
Rather than dick around all morning, I spent some time airing my tires and getting my disc cover on. By the time I had everything set up and I was dressed it was pretty much time to leave. Glad to have a race where I'm not trying to kill hours on end. I get to race site about 6:15 and there are probably 2 dozen racers already set up. It's rather cold that early in the morning, but I mess around talking to people for a while as I set up. Once 7 rolled around, I was ready to start my warm up: typical run warm-up, followed by a ~30 min bike w/ 3X 60 sec accelerations to race pace. Felt great getting that in, but did take a bit more time than I would have wanted. I have to take my gel and Delta E a little quickly; I don't have time to let the Delta E settle like I like to do, but it's not terrible. I grab my swim stuff and head up to the pool. Turns out it's closer to 5 mins til race start than the 15 I thought. Once again, I don't get in much of a swim warm up, but I take solace that I can continue it on land.
The line up takes forever and they don't start on time, but eventually the first swimmer hops in and the short count up to me starts. I'm number 22, and probably 20th in.
I find my pace very quickly and have tons of room for the first hundred yards. There was a gap of something like 10 yards in front of and behind me for a while; I really had all the room I needed until approaching the halfway mark. Over the course of the swim, I run into three distinct walls of swimmers, and am held up at the wall for probably half of the 12 touches by one or more swimmers. It got fairly chaotic, and I focused on just getting through them as best I could. I didn't know what to expect for the swim and just wanted to hold pace without getting too worn out. I climb out of the water feeling like I accomplished that pretty well.
Swim: 4:35; 1:31/100 yd; 16th OA
I again kind of skirted the rules by leaving my bike stuff outside on the sun deck and dressed as I ran to my bike. It worked well in decreasing my transition time, but let me get a little ahead of myself. I hopped on my bike, punched my Garmin to start and realized I was still holding on to my cap and goggles. Well damn, what do I do with these? I slip them in my back pocket and slide my feet in my shoes. Heading out on Alumni Blvd I say out loud "let's go hunting."
T1: 1:16
I allow myself to get onto the long stretch on East Main before I really start to drop the hammer. My HR is quite high, though not as much as during Natchez Trace. It's settling in the lower 170s, sometimes getting close to 180, sometimes getting close to 165, but not really deviating much from the low 170s. That's higher than I want to see it, but just because it's higher than I can seem to hit in training doesn't mean that it's a suicide pace.
I pass a handful of cyclists and get past by a handful more over the course. I don't pay it much attention; I'm more concerned with keeping my own situation under control. I'm right around the 20 mph mark for most of the out pattern; I'd really like to see that be faster, but it is what it is. I cannot for the life of me get my HR down into typical zones, but my RPE is right on the money and my cadence is where it needs to be. I hit the halfway point and start heading back and things speed up considerably. A combination of little things makes the return trip a lot faster. I still get past once or twice, but I'm rolling along at 27 mph for much of the trip back, and it flew past.
One thing that did really piss me off was on the trip back. I past a guy pumping away on a mountain bike. He was doing rather well for himself on it, but he was blocking, so I went for a pass on the right. Rather than drop off, he accelerated into my draft zone and sat there. I kept checking my shadow and kept seeing him. He sat on my wheel something like 1.5 miles before he fell back. I didn't say anything, particularly because I was over LT and couldn't talk much, but for f*ck's sake. Do your own damn work.
I make it back to campus and start to spin it out. I'm still maintaining around 20 mph, but focusing on getting my legs ready to run. I slip back into transition and hear Denise yell out that I'm 7th off the bike... "I think..."
Bike time: 27:47; 21.6 mph; 16th OA
Per the Garmin: 27:49; 22.2 mph avg; 10.29 mi
Avg HR: 175; Avg cadence: 87
Total Ascent: 167ft; Total Descent: 161 ft
T2 goes very fast. I drop off my bike and helmet and slap on my shoes. I accidentally toss my helmet into someone else's spot and have to grab it before I run out. But I grab my 305 and my visor, turn my number around to the front and head out for the run. It's strong, stronger than it's ever been, but after Natchez Trace I'm starting to develop a healthy fear of the short course triathlon run leg.
T2: :41
The course is backwards from last year for some reason related to construction. I really do like it better this way, though, as the first mile is an out-and-back. Not only do you pass a water station at mile .2 and 1.0, but it gave me a great opportunity to check out the competition. I see Micaiah leading the pack going the opposite way; he's got a big gap in front of him and I make an assumption that he's in first place. An assumption I don't really trust.
Strung out between him and I are about 6 racers, so I have a lot of via points to shoot for. I takes a mile, but I haul in two of them before starting the campus loop. I pass about as many runners as pass me. It's the same story as the bike leg; I'm more concerned with my pace than I am with anyone else's. That said, one of the guys who past me did so at a stupid pace. He's got to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 5:15 miles, and passed me like I was standing still.
I went through the first Garmin mile in 7 flat, and about 7:10 when I pass the 1 mile marker on course. My heart rate isn't quite ramped up yet, so I pick it up to about 6:45 and try to hold that for most of the course. There's not a lot of passing being done out on course, and is getting rather lonely at times. Filling the void of racers around me, there are lots of spectators out with signs and cheers. Huge improvement. It really make the run course all that much better. I go through 2 miles in around 13:30, which I'm happy with. I start to think about picking it up a bit more, but am lacking the edge today. Not at all unexpected; I didn't have a lot of hope I'd be at 100% after racing hard yesterday. I'll take 98%.
There's a guy who flew past me at the end of the bike that I had marked early in the course. He's about 30 yards up when I start the run and seems to be running slower than I. Every time I looked up at him, he appeared to be fading. But for the f*cking life of me, I COULD NOT REEL THIS GUY IN. I haven't made up a second on him through 2.5 miles. At this point I know that the finish line is all but in sight and know the layout of the University well enough to know how we plan to get there, so I pick it up. I run a 3:15 half mile to finish the race up, and it takes everything I have to do it. My heart rate soars over 190, generous helpings of acid get poured into my veins and lungs. The moment is summed up well by a popular Phil Leggit quote. Referring to Jens Voigt pulling his team up some crazy mountain, Phil mentioned he had "climbed into his suitcase of pain." So over and over again, I acknowledged that I had climbed into my suitcase of pain, but that this race would be over in a matter of minutes and that I would have considered the race a fundamental failure if I found myself unwilling to do so.
I pull my fracturing self to within view of the finish line and almost come out of my shoes finishing the run. My inserts are slipping and sliding everywhere. I remember to zip up my tri suit before I cross the finish line, but Denise snags a picture in what I think ended up being before the zip. The half-exposed chest never ends up being flattering, but I guess I'm stuck with that one.
Run Time: 21:15; 6:51/mi; 16th OA (hmmm. Interesting pattern...)
Per the Garmin: 21:14; 6:48/mi; 3.13 mi
Avg HR: 183 bpm
Total Time: 55:33; 12th OA; 3rd in M25-29 AG
Despite having really pushed it to the max, I catch my breath pretty quickly and am more interested in hanging out than I am with wrestling away death itself. I end up wandering around for a while, talking to anyone who seemed interested. I didn't come into today's race with many expectations. I wanted to do as well as I could, to finish knowing I executed a perfect race with whatever body chose to show up today. Things could have completely imploded and it wouldn't have shocked me after yesterday. Conversely, it could have been exponentially better. I was in uncharted territory, and was happy just to put another trip into the hypothetical on the map of places traveled.
In conversation with a the guy I just couldn't seem to catch, I find out that he's a bit older and a bit overweight for his fancy. He seems rather pleased with himself he was able to hang with me. Then, he let it slip that he was a pro duathlete in his heyday, and that he raced short course duathlon FOR A LIVING!!! for a few years. He also made mention that he routinely races the short course MTB sprint race at WildFlower, and routinely places top 20 overall there (out of about 1,000 racers from all over the world). As far as I'm concerned, I was in good company.
There's not much else to say, really. I'm really excited with my performance and with the growth of the race. This race is becoming a really, really good one and it's fun to watch it grow. There are a lot of people to talk with afterwards and lots of good food to pick at. I already look forward to racing it again next year. One of my biggest goals for this weekend was to get a little sick of racing. I've raced 4 races in the last 4 weeks, and don't have many more left to do. I enjoyed every moment of it (minus the run at NT), but think I can say that I'm almost sick of it. I think I have one more left in me.
Taking all that into account, I'm all the more excited about New Orleans. I'm still not sure what to expect, but every time I assess my fitness I get good results. I'm very excited at the notion that New Orleans will be more of the same. It's taking a lot out of me this year to expect great things; Louisville really crippled my self-confidence and recovery is slow. What I most look forward to is hard evidence that I'm a better long course racer.
I sure hope I'll get just the data I'm looking for in my next case study. Time for the taper; time to visualize; time to get myself ready.
Let's do it.
300 yd swim -> 10 mi bike -> 5k run
Man, I didn't get any freakin' sleep this weekend.
I woke up about 4, getting about 5 hours in and didn't even try going back to sleep; the alarm was 30 minutes away. I very easily could have gone back under, I was tired. Regardless, I scraped together my breakfast and started chowing. I added a little honey (~1 tsp?) and a generous sprinkle of cinnamon (~1/4 tsp?) to the potatoes this time and it was GREAT. Really brought out the sweetness in them, creating what might be a poor man's sweet potato casserole to serve at Thanksgiving. I often have my race mornings when I get Spartan about my food intake and would want to skip the additives, but it's good to know I have options for a much more enjoyable experience when I don't mind the extra sugar.
Rather than dick around all morning, I spent some time airing my tires and getting my disc cover on. By the time I had everything set up and I was dressed it was pretty much time to leave. Glad to have a race where I'm not trying to kill hours on end. I get to race site about 6:15 and there are probably 2 dozen racers already set up. It's rather cold that early in the morning, but I mess around talking to people for a while as I set up. Once 7 rolled around, I was ready to start my warm up: typical run warm-up, followed by a ~30 min bike w/ 3X 60 sec accelerations to race pace. Felt great getting that in, but did take a bit more time than I would have wanted. I have to take my gel and Delta E a little quickly; I don't have time to let the Delta E settle like I like to do, but it's not terrible. I grab my swim stuff and head up to the pool. Turns out it's closer to 5 mins til race start than the 15 I thought. Once again, I don't get in much of a swim warm up, but I take solace that I can continue it on land.
The line up takes forever and they don't start on time, but eventually the first swimmer hops in and the short count up to me starts. I'm number 22, and probably 20th in.
I find my pace very quickly and have tons of room for the first hundred yards. There was a gap of something like 10 yards in front of and behind me for a while; I really had all the room I needed until approaching the halfway mark. Over the course of the swim, I run into three distinct walls of swimmers, and am held up at the wall for probably half of the 12 touches by one or more swimmers. It got fairly chaotic, and I focused on just getting through them as best I could. I didn't know what to expect for the swim and just wanted to hold pace without getting too worn out. I climb out of the water feeling like I accomplished that pretty well.
Swim: 4:35; 1:31/100 yd; 16th OA
I again kind of skirted the rules by leaving my bike stuff outside on the sun deck and dressed as I ran to my bike. It worked well in decreasing my transition time, but let me get a little ahead of myself. I hopped on my bike, punched my Garmin to start and realized I was still holding on to my cap and goggles. Well damn, what do I do with these? I slip them in my back pocket and slide my feet in my shoes. Heading out on Alumni Blvd I say out loud "let's go hunting."
T1: 1:16
I allow myself to get onto the long stretch on East Main before I really start to drop the hammer. My HR is quite high, though not as much as during Natchez Trace. It's settling in the lower 170s, sometimes getting close to 180, sometimes getting close to 165, but not really deviating much from the low 170s. That's higher than I want to see it, but just because it's higher than I can seem to hit in training doesn't mean that it's a suicide pace.
I pass a handful of cyclists and get past by a handful more over the course. I don't pay it much attention; I'm more concerned with keeping my own situation under control. I'm right around the 20 mph mark for most of the out pattern; I'd really like to see that be faster, but it is what it is. I cannot for the life of me get my HR down into typical zones, but my RPE is right on the money and my cadence is where it needs to be. I hit the halfway point and start heading back and things speed up considerably. A combination of little things makes the return trip a lot faster. I still get past once or twice, but I'm rolling along at 27 mph for much of the trip back, and it flew past.
One thing that did really piss me off was on the trip back. I past a guy pumping away on a mountain bike. He was doing rather well for himself on it, but he was blocking, so I went for a pass on the right. Rather than drop off, he accelerated into my draft zone and sat there. I kept checking my shadow and kept seeing him. He sat on my wheel something like 1.5 miles before he fell back. I didn't say anything, particularly because I was over LT and couldn't talk much, but for f*ck's sake. Do your own damn work.
I make it back to campus and start to spin it out. I'm still maintaining around 20 mph, but focusing on getting my legs ready to run. I slip back into transition and hear Denise yell out that I'm 7th off the bike... "I think..."
Bike time: 27:47; 21.6 mph; 16th OA
Per the Garmin: 27:49; 22.2 mph avg; 10.29 mi
Avg HR: 175; Avg cadence: 87
Total Ascent: 167ft; Total Descent: 161 ft
T2 goes very fast. I drop off my bike and helmet and slap on my shoes. I accidentally toss my helmet into someone else's spot and have to grab it before I run out. But I grab my 305 and my visor, turn my number around to the front and head out for the run. It's strong, stronger than it's ever been, but after Natchez Trace I'm starting to develop a healthy fear of the short course triathlon run leg.
T2: :41
The course is backwards from last year for some reason related to construction. I really do like it better this way, though, as the first mile is an out-and-back. Not only do you pass a water station at mile .2 and 1.0, but it gave me a great opportunity to check out the competition. I see Micaiah leading the pack going the opposite way; he's got a big gap in front of him and I make an assumption that he's in first place. An assumption I don't really trust.
Strung out between him and I are about 6 racers, so I have a lot of via points to shoot for. I takes a mile, but I haul in two of them before starting the campus loop. I pass about as many runners as pass me. It's the same story as the bike leg; I'm more concerned with my pace than I am with anyone else's. That said, one of the guys who past me did so at a stupid pace. He's got to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 5:15 miles, and passed me like I was standing still.
I went through the first Garmin mile in 7 flat, and about 7:10 when I pass the 1 mile marker on course. My heart rate isn't quite ramped up yet, so I pick it up to about 6:45 and try to hold that for most of the course. There's not a lot of passing being done out on course, and is getting rather lonely at times. Filling the void of racers around me, there are lots of spectators out with signs and cheers. Huge improvement. It really make the run course all that much better. I go through 2 miles in around 13:30, which I'm happy with. I start to think about picking it up a bit more, but am lacking the edge today. Not at all unexpected; I didn't have a lot of hope I'd be at 100% after racing hard yesterday. I'll take 98%.
There's a guy who flew past me at the end of the bike that I had marked early in the course. He's about 30 yards up when I start the run and seems to be running slower than I. Every time I looked up at him, he appeared to be fading. But for the f*cking life of me, I COULD NOT REEL THIS GUY IN. I haven't made up a second on him through 2.5 miles. At this point I know that the finish line is all but in sight and know the layout of the University well enough to know how we plan to get there, so I pick it up. I run a 3:15 half mile to finish the race up, and it takes everything I have to do it. My heart rate soars over 190, generous helpings of acid get poured into my veins and lungs. The moment is summed up well by a popular Phil Leggit quote. Referring to Jens Voigt pulling his team up some crazy mountain, Phil mentioned he had "climbed into his suitcase of pain." So over and over again, I acknowledged that I had climbed into my suitcase of pain, but that this race would be over in a matter of minutes and that I would have considered the race a fundamental failure if I found myself unwilling to do so.
I pull my fracturing self to within view of the finish line and almost come out of my shoes finishing the run. My inserts are slipping and sliding everywhere. I remember to zip up my tri suit before I cross the finish line, but Denise snags a picture in what I think ended up being before the zip. The half-exposed chest never ends up being flattering, but I guess I'm stuck with that one.
Run Time: 21:15; 6:51/mi; 16th OA (hmmm. Interesting pattern...)
Per the Garmin: 21:14; 6:48/mi; 3.13 mi
Avg HR: 183 bpm
Total Time: 55:33; 12th OA; 3rd in M25-29 AG
Despite having really pushed it to the max, I catch my breath pretty quickly and am more interested in hanging out than I am with wrestling away death itself. I end up wandering around for a while, talking to anyone who seemed interested. I didn't come into today's race with many expectations. I wanted to do as well as I could, to finish knowing I executed a perfect race with whatever body chose to show up today. Things could have completely imploded and it wouldn't have shocked me after yesterday. Conversely, it could have been exponentially better. I was in uncharted territory, and was happy just to put another trip into the hypothetical on the map of places traveled.
In conversation with a the guy I just couldn't seem to catch, I find out that he's a bit older and a bit overweight for his fancy. He seems rather pleased with himself he was able to hang with me. Then, he let it slip that he was a pro duathlete in his heyday, and that he raced short course duathlon FOR A LIVING!!! for a few years. He also made mention that he routinely races the short course MTB sprint race at WildFlower, and routinely places top 20 overall there (out of about 1,000 racers from all over the world). As far as I'm concerned, I was in good company.
There's not much else to say, really. I'm really excited with my performance and with the growth of the race. This race is becoming a really, really good one and it's fun to watch it grow. There are a lot of people to talk with afterwards and lots of good food to pick at. I already look forward to racing it again next year. One of my biggest goals for this weekend was to get a little sick of racing. I've raced 4 races in the last 4 weeks, and don't have many more left to do. I enjoyed every moment of it (minus the run at NT), but think I can say that I'm almost sick of it. I think I have one more left in me.
Taking all that into account, I'm all the more excited about New Orleans. I'm still not sure what to expect, but every time I assess my fitness I get good results. I'm very excited at the notion that New Orleans will be more of the same. It's taking a lot out of me this year to expect great things; Louisville really crippled my self-confidence and recovery is slow. What I most look forward to is hard evidence that I'm a better long course racer.
I sure hope I'll get just the data I'm looking for in my next case study. Time for the taper; time to visualize; time to get myself ready.
Let's do it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
