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
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