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.
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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.
