Adventures in Triathlon

Ironman Florida: Pre-race and the Swim

2011-11-08T08:37:00.001-08:00

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

Ironman Florida: The Bike

2011-11-08T08:36:00.001-08:00

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

Ironman Florida: The Run

2011-11-08T08:35:00.001-08:00

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!"

Ironman Coeur d'Alene - Pre-race and The Swim

2011-06-30T19:46:00.001-07:00

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

Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Bike

2011-06-30T19:45:00.001-07:00

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

Ironman Coeur d'Alene: The Run

2011-06-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Ironman 70.3 New Orleans

2011-04-18T17:43:00.000-07:00

~~1.2 mi swim ->~~ 56 mi bike -> 13.1 mi run

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.

Alpha Delta Pi-Athlon

2011-04-03T09:50:00.000-07:00

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.

YMCA Indoor Triathlon

2011-04-02T10:17:00.000-07:00

500 yd swim -> 12 mile bike -> 3 mile run

Number one of two

This race really started on Tuesday. I had really crushed my bike ride over the weekend, and had been feeling the effects all week. Whether or not I accomplished what needed to be accomplished from a fitness perspective, I succeeded in pummeling myself into hamburger meat, and causing anxiety as to whether I'd be ready for this weekend. For the nosey: I rode 30 miles on the moderately challenging rolling hills of the Natchez trace at about 17 mph, ran 1.5 miles, rode another 25 miles on the Trace a bit harder, then went home and rode the 1.5 hour "Mental Toughness" Spinnerval's DVD. And, like I said, I was gassed.

After taking Monday off, I went out for 4-6 mile repeats at 5k pace, and RPE was just through the roof. I cut my losses after 3 and made the decision to shut the engine down for the rest of the week. I just hope I could recover enough to have a good showing at the unique notion of two triathlons in two days.

I slept well until a bathroom wake up came around at 3:30. I went number one and went back to bed, only to have to get up for number two about 15 seconds later. Apparently this was far too exciting for my body to shut down, and I was up for the rest of the day. So I play video games, of course. The idea of eating sweet potatoes two mornings in a row is disgusting, so I elect for oatmeal with honey and milk. After killing the morning, I come to find out that I've lost my TriSwami race kit. Seriously? I looked at every logical hiding place, but lose faith and slap on the MTSU one. I head towards the Y about 5 to 8 and try my best not to let this ruffle my feathers.

I get there about 5 minutes into the 8:00 wave's swim and park up next to Norton. I'm able to watch just about all of the 8:00 wave before it's time to warm up. I do NMA and running drills and set my spin bike. I find I'm very quickly running out of time (too much commiserating) and am in a bit of a frenzy getting my transition area set up and into the water for a warmup. All I can get in is a 200 yd swim (I would have preferred 500) moments before it's time to go. Stay calm, stay calm. My expectations for the swim fall and I resolve to just have a good day.

Nick and I are sharing a lane and we agree to draft off of each other. We're together for the first 25 yards and hit the wall at the same time. Except when I push off, my goggles open up and water shoots into my right eye. Oh, what the f*ck? At first I don't know what to do and ignore it. I start to slip away from Nick. My depth perception is terrible and I'm not turning at the right time; my push offs are awful. After 125 yards, I stop at the wall and empty the goggle. About 250 yards, the left goggle starts to leak. I stop at 325 to adjust that one, and am starting to get pissed off. There's some more leaking in the left one after 400, but I ignore it and push through to the end. Nick gets a gap of about a body length and a half at his peak, but I shamelessly draft off of him throughout most of the swim, and pull him back in the last 25. We exit the water at the same time, once again. The one emotion I'm most overcome with is guilt. Nick and I agreed to share the work, and I didn't help him at all. Oh well, such is racing I guess.

Swim: 7:29; 1:30/100 yd

Nick grabs his stuff and hustles to the bikes, but I stop and put on my shoes. We're the first ones on in our wave. Again, I'm pretty sure we weren't the first ones out of the water, but were the first on the bikes. This is feeling rather familiar.

T1: :34

I already have it set up and have warmed up on it. I already know what to expect. There were some amazing speeds in the first wave, and I was really intimidated to see how much faster some people are than last year. As soon as I got on my bike and started to warm up, I noticed that they're simply calibrated differently. Everyone is over 30 mph; I was warming up at a cadence of 90 and it read 29.5 mph. Whatever, less time on the bike...

The bikes fill up quickly and I lose touch completely with placement. Distance is clipping away very, very quickly, but I've got nothing to gauge from. What's more, you could see your speed displayed at all times, but the computer cycled from distance to top speed to average speed to elapsed time, so I only had 5 second glances at the distance covered every 20, which was very annoying. I had my Garmin, so I knew my bike time; I wanted to know my distance!

I get on the bike and start to spin before getting my feet in the pedals. That's how you do things on a real bike, and that's what my muscle memory dictated. For those familiar with how a spin bike works, it's obvious that this was not going to work, so I had to stop the bike to get my feet into the pedals. Once I had that completed, my goal was to hold on for dear life as the pedals pedaled themselves at roundabout 120 rpm. I didn't ever really pedal the bike; never really put any power to the pedals. Most of my effort was pulling up on the clips AGAINST the speed of the pedals, trying to SLOW IT DOWN so my feet could catch up. I found a rhythm in a very asymmetrical pedal stroke and did my best to hold it. The computer oscillated between 33 and 35 mph at this rhythm, so that's what I held.

The bike went pretty quickly. I noticed that I was almost half way done at the 10 minute mark, and didn't think there was a lot of strategy to improve my situation. My HR has come down from the swim, and is hovering in the low to mid 160s, so pacing is fine. I'm not experiencing any pain in any alarming locations. Things are going as well as can be expected. I do a bit of talking as I ride; although it's rather technically difficult to do, it's not taxing the aerobic system very much. I whine to everyone that will listen about my swim, but mostly take care of business.

As I near closer to mile 12 I start to look for others sliding off their bikes. Doesn't happen at 10.5, not at 11, not at 11.5. Doesn't seem like anyone is putting time into me; maybe I have a good bike. It's really about bike selection at this race, and I got a fast one. Lucky me. I'm very near 12 and preparing to hop off when the computer cycles away from distance. I'm getting pretty antsy that I may end up riding 12.03 miles instead of the necessary 12 (perish the thought!), but luck is on my side and distance is in view when I roll it over. I slide off the bike in first place and sprint to the treadmills. I wonder how far back everyone is?

Bike: 21:37; 33.3 mph (oh yeah, all me...)

T2: :12

Nick is the next off his bike and he grabs the treadmill next to me. Wouldn't ya freaking know it, I'm .35 miles ahead of him; exactly what it was last year. Like last year, he's running a tad faster than me. I'm at 8.5 and he sets up at 9. Here we are again, I said to him, and we both smile.

My plan for the run wasn't particularly based off of training. I don't really run on treadmills, and never do steady state efforts on them. I don't really know what to expect. So my plan is to set it on 8.5 mph (almost exactly 7:00/mi) and just see how things go. The pace feels great when I start running and resolve to hold it for the first 15 minutes. Then we'll reassess.

Nick doesn't hold 9 mph very long and I soon see him back at 8.5. At this moment I have the win, so long as I don't blow up. I'm always worried about pacing, but have few reasons to think that I'm overdoing it. I'm feeling really, really good for a while. I kick it up a couple clicks, just to see how it feels, for a few minutes and back it back down. It's pushing me over LT, and it's a bit too early for that. My 8.5 mph leaves me right at LT. In theory, I should be able to maintain LT+5 beats for a 5k, but I don't want to risk it. All the chips are in my favor at the moment and, more importantly, this is just a fun race. I really want to do well tomorrow.

My first mile is in 7:05 or so, which includes the initial process of speeding up the belt. I decide that things are still feeling okay at the 10 minute mark, and pick it up to 8.7mph. I'm constantly keeping tabs on Nick, and fairly regularly glancing at a TV monitor in front of me during the middle section; an elliptical user has Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist on, and I zone out a bit watching that. On my pseudo-regular snaps back to reality I find myself right at LT, but handling the speed fairly well. I'm ready to back it down at any sign of difficulty, but things are going well. Mile two passes, and I'm starting to get tired; right on cue. I bump it up to 9.0. I'm still okay, and accelerate again to 9.5 at mile 2.4, a half mile away from the dismount. I realize very quickly that maintaining this speed for very long is going to be too much for me, but this is offset by the fact that the distance is clicking over much faster now than it was earlier.

After a rough calculation has me getting off the treadmill around the 20 minute mark, I find that counting down the seconds to the dismount is much more agreeable than counting up as distance covered increases. I count down the seconds; 90 seconds; 60 seconds; I turn it up to 10mph for the last minute. I mean, why not? Counting down, counting down, counting down. I hit mile 2.88 and get ready to fly off. Nobody's anywhere near me. I hit 2.9 and hop off. I sprint towards the stairs as the sounds of a YMCA working shoot past me: "Runner coming up! Get out of his way!"

I have to do quite a bit of clearing myself once I'm up on the track. I'm kicking it in as quickly as I can and soon snap the bit of ribbon they hold out for most racers. I get there a bit quicker than they had anticipated, and barely get it stretched out in time, but it was a nice touch. I'm tired and out of breathe, but I recover within a couple minutes. For the first time all day, I'm convinced that I HAVE ARRIVED physically. I'm first in my wave and am relatively certain I have first overall.

Run: 20:22; 6:47/mi

Total time: 50:14.56, 1st Overall (there were about 25 racers)

Nick finishes his lap as I'm finishing my cool down lap, and about 4 minutes behind me. I hang around to watch some other friends finish and, as sportsmanly as I could, look around to make sure my win is sewn up. It's a pretty cool feeling; winning a race was definitely on my bucket list and it was awesome to pull it out. A little unexpected, but I knew I'd never go into a race as the overall favorite; not in my book at least.

It's all smiles and handshakes as everyone finishes one by one. I'd really like to see this race earlier in the Spring, before the race season kicks off in earnest, but by and large everyone is happy with their times and happy to be racing again. Quite a few people are doing the double and racing tomorrow, so I look forward to seeing how that goes.

My prize is a $50 gift card to Walmart, which presents another first: the first time I've profited off of a race. I really need to get on that paperwork to race as a professional; they're bound to start disqualifying me if I keep racing age group...

In all seriousness it was cool to have such a great race, despite several early setbacks. It's a great omen and an incredible feeling, but this race hardly counts as one. I'm exponentially more concerned with how tomorrow goes, and exponentially more concerned with New Orleans than ADPi. Still, I'll be the grinning jackass tomorrow morning mentioning in small talk how he won his triathlon yesterday.

:-)

Performance Enhancing Drugs: Which one's for me?

2011-03-27T07:18:00.000-07:00

The complete debaucle of 2011's Natchez Trace Triathlon has inspired me to start a running post critiquing different energy drinks, supplements and various nutritional intervention practices with the sole purpose of decreasing RPE during races and training sessions. I've used a lot of different things in the past and will likely continue to experiment in the future. This post is primarily for me to review over the years to see what seems to work and what seems to disagree with me. This may or may not apply to you personally, and in no way am I advocating using one or a combination of several of the following products before consulting with a physician. Not that you'd take my words as medical advice in the first place...

I'm not here to babble. Let's get on with it.

(A continued work-in-progress)

Caffeine Pills: use it!

Serving size? one 200 mg pill. Vivarin, No Doz or generic brand

Availability? any grocery store, WalMart, any pharmacy

Cost? $8 for a pack of 2 dozen

How do you take it? Pop one 15 minutes before you want it to kick in. Wash it down with a little water.

What do you use it for? Half-marathon, Full-marathon and triathlons with runs longer than 10 miles

Pros:
- Cheap
- Easy to obtain
- IT WORKS
- Can buy in bulk
- Stores well

Cons:
- Cannot use it for short course
- Must abstain from caffeine beforehand
- Causes withdrawl
- Decreases perception of pain, possibly increasing risk of injury
- Not really safe or healthy to use all of the time
- Alters taste of foods when combined (gels)

Other things of note:
- Shoot for 1.5 to 2.5 mg/lb of body weight. For me, that's 225 to 375 mg, although I find that 200 works just fine. Find the lowest dose you can that gives you the benefit to avoid unneccessary strain on your adrenal glands.
- Completely abstaining from caffeine for 10 days prior to use maximizes benefit.
- The half life of caffeine is roughly 3 hours, possibly as low as 2 when racing intensely. Therefore, it is generally not a good idea to use caffeine for short course racing.
- When using caffeine, take in GENEROUS amounts of Coke and/or coffee post-race, or suffer the huge withdrawl headache.

Delta-E: use it!
Serving size? two packets, mixed with 6-8 oz of plain water

Availability? must be ordered online

Cost? $45 for a box of 10 servings

How do you take it? Consume 15-20 minutes prior to race What do you use it for? Long bike rides, Half and Full IM bike legs, short course triathlon

Pros:
- Works, but is not as effective as caffeine
- No after effects
- Can be taken semi-regularly
- Does not cause a lot of adrenal stress

Cons:
- Tastes like crap
- Must allow a lot of time for settling
- Expensive and inaccessible
- One more thing to have to worry about on race morning
- Creates a lot of gas if you don't let it "season"

Other things of note:
- Because it's an effervescent drink that mixes automatically in water, there's a fair amount of carbonation that occurs when you first dump it in. Allow 10 minutes if not more before consuming.

Five Hour Energy: don't use it!
Serving size? one full bottle

Availability? any grocery store, Walmart, any pharmacy

Cost? $2-3 for a single bottle

How do you take it? Down it 20-30 minutes prior to race

What do you use it for? Long bike rides, Half and Full IM bike legs, short course triathlon

Pros:
- Very cheap
- Very accessible
- Can buy only one for a single race
- Unoffensive taste
- Less than a mouthful to take in
- Some ergogenic benefit

Cons:
- I don't feel any better after taking it*
- I suspect it elevates HR*
- Contains artificial sweeteners
- Must be taken longer before race start
- Makes me gassy*

Other things of note:
- Most of the cons stem from a single bad experience at the 2011 Natchez Trace Triathlon (denoted with a *). I may give it another chance someday, in a pinch.

Natchez Trace Triathlon

2011-03-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

March 20, 2011

A vacation to No-Man's-Land

It's the same story on a different day; the same story I feel compelled to repeat at the start of every season. I'm way too excited about the first triathlon of the year to get as much sleep as I had the opportunity to get. First race aside, there isn't a thing in the world that's particularly exciting or ominous about this race. Regardless, and despite my better reasoning and experience, I found myself wide awake at 5 am, five hours prior to race start with nothing to do except try to keep as quite as possible.

When 6:30 finally rolls around I'm lucky enough to get to get up and eat breakfast. And that's it... let's kill another hour...

And then it's probably okay to leave. I get the idea to kill time by checking out part or all (end up seeing all) of the trail-run part of the run course; it's the only part of the course I haven't seen yet. I make a mental checklist of hills, technical descents and mud puddles, and feel better both having seen the course and that I've managed to kill another hour. It's FINALLY time to start getting ready. I drag my bike and transition bag out of the hotel room and start to set up. It's little more than reserving my spot and dropping my stuff off, since I'm not dressed yet.

A little out of order, I drop off my stuff, get dressed, set up my transition area, fill bottles and shoot the (triathlon) shit over the next hour (what are we up to now, 4 hours?) before I go warm up. Run warm up of NMA, A/B/Cs and 4 long strides. I drop off my shoes and hop on my bike for 4 accelerations up the massively steep initial climb out of the park; it's more to select my gearing and practice getting my shoes on than a true "warm-up." After putting the finishing touches on my transition area, I grab my swim gear and my elastic band for a dry land swim warm up during the race briefing. No time for a swim warm-up. Wouldn't want to anyway, water temp's a balmy 54 degrees.

So, the meeting ends and we line up at water's edge. I'm number 13 and won't have to wait too long before I get to hop in. Pop a GU and a 5 hour energy a fair amount of time after I'd planned to (about 9:55), zip my suit up and dump my first of two gallons of warm water in my suit. This is a tip I picked up at the coaching clinic (and a free one to you). Rather than hopping dry into frigid waters and dealing with a quick plummet in core temperature, fill up some gallon jugs with warm water from the hotel room. Dump the water in the neck of your suit before race start. Of course, most of the water leaks through the legs, but it still helps.

55 seconds after the first swimmer, I'm cued for takeoff. I hop in the water and am filled with nostalgia from two years ago. This water's freakin' cold! Face gets very cold VERY quickly, hands and feet go numb before the first turn buoy, head starts to hurt a little, hypoxia and I can't see a flipping thing because I can't focus. All I hear are alarms in my body telling me to proceed to the nearest exit. It takes a second to get everything under control mentally and I soon remember that I'm typically a better swimmer than people I race with. I can't find any feet during the initial out to the first turn, but find a guy worth sticking with on out way towards the second and final turn. It's still not anywhere near comfortable, but I make peace with the cold water and the lack of oxygen and begin to pass people. Good to know I didn't forget how to swim during these last few weeks of heavy biking and newsworthy running.

There's a pack of three swimmers swimming abreast heading into the second and final turn buoy. Once it's rounded, I decide they're not going fast enough and go for the drop. I veer off course a bit in doing so and only pass two of the three, but I'm on dry land soon enough (after a dolphin dive, of course). Denise, per my request, announces that I'm 7th out of the water. Cool thing to hear. I'm panting like I just TT'd a 100 and can't help but wonder just how high my HR is as I jog to T1. Getting the suit off is a pain, but I wager I still do better in transition than most of the people who showed up. I get my suit off, slap on my glasses/helmet and take OFF. My Garmin 500 turned itself off during the swim (lame), but I was able to get it rebooted before the mount. I have no idea what my swim time or transition times are, but at least I'll know my splits for the rest of the day.

Swim time: 6:53 (1st in AG, something like 4th OA)
If the swim distance truly was 550 yards, that's 1:15 per 100. Yeah f*cking right.

T1: 1:13

I knew I was 7th out of the water, and estimated I was 10th in. Unbeknownst to me I'm 3rd mounting my bike, having past 4 people in transition. Really guys? Transition is FREE SPEED! Doing it well is NOT THAT HARD...

I mount and get my feet into my shoes without any effort or error and am in that moment thankful I had practiced pre-race. My HR is absolutely out of control going up the ludicrously steep hill climbing out of the park, but priority 1 was simply to get up it. I expect my heart rate to come down very rapidly once I'm over it. I'm still struggling to breathe, but searching for my rhythm and my legs. I've really worked hard on my bike over the last 2 months and really want to see what I can do. I quickly pass a girl who exited transition just ahead of me and find myself with the road all to myself. I wait around for company both in front of and behind me as I climb my way out of the generally uphill first 2 miles. I've reconned the course and know it's very generally uphill to 2, downhill to 4, uphill to 8 and downhill to the finish, but with noteworthy climbs at 10 and 12. It's a relatively fast course, but I'm comforted that I knew what to expect.

Things are a whole lot of the same after the first 3 miles. I'm still all alone, still struggling to breathe and still trying to get my heart rate down. After approaching 10 field tests over 2 years, I know my LTHR for the bike is anywhere from 163 to 167. Over the first 10 minutes on the bike, I've yet to see it under 180; something is amiss... In addition to sneaking suspicions that my 5 hour energy had a hand in my predicament, it is making me pretty bloated and gassy. I'm quite uncomfortable for the majority of the ride. I let out 4 or 5 good belches over the course of the first 8 miles before I start to feel better and my side stitch starts to wear away. No bueno.

The bike is going well. I'm getting over the climbs and staying low on the descents. I'm spinning out my biggest gear, which I've never been able to do before this year regardless of where I'm racing. I'm looking around for people to start roaring past me. I'm accustomed to being a strong swimmer and a weak biker, and to seeing dozens of cyclists exploiting my weakness. The peak of mile 2 comes, the valley of mile 4 comes, the cool waterfront section at mile 5. Still all alone. I get my first visitor around mile 7. I'm handling the rolling terrain better than I've ever been capable of handling before and a motorcycle passes me going the opposite direction. There's an official-looking guy riding in the back who flashes a peace sign to me as he passes. In the most beautifully innocent moment of inexperience and naivete, I wave at him. It takes a few seconds for me to connect the dots. Who was he? Why did he flash me two fingers? Was it two or three? Is that what place I'm in? Am I really leading the race? This is so wholly different from anything I've ever experienced.

Although it's admittedly the best trip I've ever taken there, I find myself in the geographic center of No-Man's-Land. And I have no idea what to do next.

The most logical conclusion is to forget it ever happened and pledge to sort this out later. I'm still wondering where all of the strong bikers are and I crest mile 8, mile 10 and prepare to finish the bike leg up. I'm doing calculations as I go, and am more or less averaging 20 mph on the nose, which is a nice round number I've never seen in a race before. Once I get over the mile 12 hill I'm happy to generally be finished climbing for the day. We turn off onto the little 1.5 mile connecting road and this time I don't mistake it for the final .5 mile descent into the park. Finishing up this section and nearing the final turn, I look behind me and for the first time see another cyclist on the hunt. Not that I'm worried about him catching me over the final .5 miles. I know fully well how to handle the steep descents of Park Lodge Rd. and when to get out of my shoes. I touch down just before the dismount line and hear Denise inform me that I'm 2nd off the bike. Holy crap! And I didn't get past ONCE over the ENTIRE BIKE COURSE! Holy double crap. I feel like I just borrowed someone else's legs for the last 45 minutes.

Bike time: 44:40; 20.15 mph (tied for 1st in AG)

Per the Garmin: 44:27; 14.89 miles; 20.1 mph
Total Ascent 856; Total Descent 925
Avg HR 179 bpm; Avg Cadence: 91 rpm

My heart rate never did go down; I ended up with some really strange HR data. Obviously I didn't have the luxury of viewing the detailed Garmin analysis, but I'm in all kinds of inexperience right now. My feet are way too tender on the asphalt, but I make a very quick transition and head out on my run. Let's try to hold this together.

T2: :43

The rider who almost caught me at the tail end of the bike course makes a pretty decent transition as well, and we exit onto the run at essentially the same time. One of the volunteers tells us we should "work together." I'm making plans to myself to do so until the end of the trail section, then see if I can drop him on the road. I offer to let him enter the trail first if he feels good, but he declines and we enter pretty much together. It takes about 3 minutes for me to realize that I was WAY too tired to be racing a 5k, much less one through the woods. I suppose I've caught my breathe since the swim, or at least as much as I can expect I will be able to between now and race finish, but my heart rate has been hovering around insanity all day. I very soon find myself running at a 9 minute per mile pace, and doing so with very poor form.

We run for about .75 miles before he makes the pass. I have nothing to do but let him. I'm out of gas. Utterly out of gas. I've wholly blown my load accomplishing a series of cycling PRs. I searched for any way I could think of to make the 2.8 mile run shorter than that, but all I could do was plug along at marathon pace and hurt like a character in a Saw movie doing so. I begin to feel a bit more empathy for the Chris Lieto's and Bjorn Andersson's of the world. It really sucks ass when you come to the realization that you might have overdone it on the bike. There's a lot of alarmism in it, and not a lot of hope. What little hope that exists centers around minimizing how many people catch you over the eternally long stretch of road between you and the finish tape.

That's essentially my run. I exit the forest in 11:49 for an abysmal 9:00/mi avg (per the Garmin) and just do what I can to get home as fast as possible. I lose touch with the guy I'd run with on the single track and run alone for a while. I pass the one aid station on course about mile 1.75 and grab two cups. And walk. And sip. And just about get run down by another racer. I start running again, but the pass is inevitable. He passes me, and I'm looking at 4th overall. I struggle to the turn back onto Park Lodge Rd. and see yet another runner behind me. I'm far too tired to take full advantage of the downhill finish, and get nipped at the line by him. It wasn't for lack of trying, but I finished about 1.5 seconds back and the only emotion that existed in me was relief that this race was over and I could stop now.

Run Time: 24:16 (2nd in AG)

Per the Garmin: 24:19; 8:33/mi avg;
Forest: 1.31 miles in 11:49; 9:00/mi avg;
HR: 184 bpm avg
Road: 1.53 miles in 12:30; 8:10/mi avg;
HR 182 bpm avg

Total Time: 1:17:45

More fun with numbers:
:40 from 5th overall
:57 from 3rd overall

One of 7 bikers (out of 81) to avg 20+ mph

1:12 ahead of 2nd place in my AG.

They award overall awards 5 deep. I'm 6th overall. >:-(

There's not a lot of celebrating to be done at the finish line. Death has its hold on me and it takes a little while to shake it off. I eventually wander back to where Denise is holed up and let her fill me in on how the race unfolded from the transition area. I'm still reeling at what a wholly different experience it was than I was expecting, or ever could have anticipated. Of course it's only fitting that I have to kill another two hours before the awards ceremony. I talk to some fellow racers about the course and the day, sharing stories in our usual narcissistic ways, trying our best to pretend that we're listening.

As the adrenaline of the race wears off and the exhaustion starts to come out, I notice I'm feeling rather druggie. Kind of a dull headache and a general feeling of weakness. Just a hungover feeling. It doesn't take me long to lay the blame on my choice of pre-race energy drinks. I don't care that it's worked well in a race before, I don't see myself using Five Hour Energy in a race again. For a number of reasons. My experiences with it today have inspired me to enter another post comparing energy options against each other and taking some of the speculation and benefit-of-a-doubt out of it for me.

I don't really get an opportunity to see my time until about 5 minutes before when they say they're going to start awards, so I figure I'll just wait around for the ceremony and let it be a surprise. This accomplished two ends: it allowed me to leave race site without ever seeing my split times and it afforded me another opportunity to waste a half hour doing absolutely nothing. When it finally started, I waited with baited breath to see how I stacked up to the field behind me. I didn't hear my name in third place, fourth place or fifth place, and couldn't help but be a tad disappointed. After some more categories, I get called up to accept 1st place in the M25-29 age group. We were told on the race website to expect "unique prizes;" what we got was a piece of paper denoting our place and an envelope full of cash. I opened the envelope to see $20 in it. I'm less excited about the money as I am the prospect that I'm now a professional triathlete. Is there paperwork I have to fill out now?

In hindsight it's obvious I pushed too hard on the bike. Whether or not the Five Hour Energy exacerbated the situation is up for debate. If I was trying for a better placement, it makes sense that I should have taken it a bit easier on the bike and saved my legs for the run a bit better.

Obviously.

That said, I don't regret it at all. It's been a bike focus year, and I came into this race focused on the bike. I wanted to see what I could do on the bike more than anything else. Aside from ultra-endurance, I've never really experienced pushing too hard on the bike. I didn't know what it felt like, for the bike or the run. It was a great race to make that mistake, and I feel like I'm a smarter athlete because of it. I'm also rather confident I'll make the mistake again and again before I figure out where the margins are. Or before I buy a power meter.

Through all my mistakes, miscalculations and leaps of faith, I managed to take home first prize in my age group for the first time in my life. The guy who got second congratulated me and told me he was gunning for me next year. I talk to him for a bit and find out he finished about a minute back. I'm sure he will be gunning for me, but I'm confident he'll have a much harder time beating me next year.

After racing twice in two weeks, I have a weekend off between now and the double-race weekend in April. I kinda wish I could just go ahead and race again now.

Tom King Half Marathon

2011-03-12T11:06:00.000-08:00

March 12, 2011

I'd rather this have been a triathlon; it would have gelled better with my training plan than a half marathon. And after the intense soreness that hung around after First Light, I was afraid I'd bury myself and not have enough for the triathlon season, which kicks off next week. Regardless, race season has begun and Tom King is always a great way to kick it off.

Got a solid night's sleep and had way too much time (again) to get myself ready. Spent way more time playing Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door than actually getting ready for the race; hells yeah. But I did get my breakfast down, fully dressed and out the door with plenty of time to get to race site. I even had time to get Levi out of bed and dressed before I left. Did I mention I "worked" last night? Actually made things easier for a number of reasons.

I get out of Smyrna about 7:05 and arrive at race site about 7:40, 50 minutes before race start. Between getting my bib, going to the bathroom and warming up, I find that 50 minutes is just about the exact amount of time I need to get everything done without feeling rushed. All roses so far. I wish I had time to pee one more time before the gun, but I don't; hopefully I won't feel compelled to stop and pee during the race. Because I don't plan to. I'd like to PR today (sub 1:42:50), but I really have no idea what to expect. No taper for this race, no special preparation and I really didn't give it much thought. Special for no reason other than it's the first of 5 between now and mid-April. Well... not entirely. This is my first race in my new racing shoes. I bought a pair of Newton Distancia neutral racing shoes for use only in races and key race-simulation workouts 10 miles and longer; I'm very interested to see them in action. And, of course, with race season comes the first leg shave of the year. Man... it's kind of cold first thing in the morning...

I'm quite a ways back when the gun goes off which causes two things: it takes me about 90 seconds to actually make it to the start line and makes things VERY crowded for the first 2 miles. I was jogging along comfortably somewhere in the 7:30 ballpark, which was more than acceptable. I know better than to read too much into it, but I focus on keeping it easy for as long as possible. Same plan as First Light: keep it under LT to the halfway point, bring it to LT for the next 5k and sprint home; get a negative split by any means necessary. And, as always, shoot for the PR if it's within reach.

My HR stayed down and my pace stayed steady for the first 4 miles. Somewhere around there my ATP system tapped out and I started flirting with LT (finally). So the pace started feeling increasingly difficult, but I was never in any kind of trouble for the first half. I passed a couple friends of mine around mile 5, and a few more I didn't see, but it was an otherwise controlled slog to the turnaround at roughly the 10k mark. I lap my Garmin at mile 6.5, turn off my heart rate alarm and am excited to see that I did the first 6.5 in just under 50 minutes (about 49:30). This means that if I can negative split the course, I'll come in under 1:40. That was my goal for First Light that ended up being wholly impossible. This was a great omen, but nothing more. I still feel good, so we'll just see how long I can ride it out. For the first time in my racing life, I stayed completely within my HR zones; I never got within 3 beats of LT despite clicking 7:30 miles like I was getting paid for it.

I see a lot more people on the way back: Norton, Kellie, Ricky, all within a half mile of me at the turn. Things are slowly starting to get harder now. By mile 7 I'm keeping my pace up, but am doing so at LT (187 bpm). I actually find myself running faster than that: 7:15; 7:00; even as fast as 6:40 at one point. I'm banking all kinds of time and really enjoying the ride. We all know it wouldn't last long.

There's quite a bit of bottlenecking around mile 7. Since the race route is pretty much out-and-back on a Greenway, hundreds of runners get funnelled onto this paved trail 7 feet wide for most of the middle miles. It was a pretty frustrating thing cruising down a light downhill or catching a wonderful draft at well under 7 minute miles then having to quickly descelerate to 8:30s because I have no room to pass. This happened 3 or 4 times, but I tried to focus on the positive. This was a chance to relax, recover a bit and get my heart rate down.

The stretch from mile 7 to mile 10 (when you exit the park) really is a tough section. I found myself hitting a handful of low points during that stretch, but was happy to see my pace never really falling. Just be patient. Be patient. Hold everything together.

After some lows, some highs and some more lows we finally reach mile 10 and exit the park. I've taken a bit of gel at the aid stations at miles 5 and 7.5 thus far; same theory as First Light, but I just brought one gel this time, spit less out and stuck it back in my pocket when I was done. I squeeze another bit at mile 10 and toss the package. I'm getting pretty dehydrated and I find myself getting in as much water as I can manage without actually stopping to walk. Although they added an extra station at mile 1/12, I still really think they don't have enough. There's water at miles 2.5, 5, 7.5 and 10. I do long course and I'm spoiled; I want them every mile. Cotton-mouth city.

I remember the two barely-there inclines exiting the park and getting back onto Davidson, but forget the IMPOSSIBLY long stretch between Shelby Bottom's and the road. It's about a half mile of road I routinely forget is there, and this time it's in a headwind. A thin slice of forever elapses and I finally find myself over the 2nd "hill" and start to turn the screws a little. It's just past mile 11 and I'm truly racing for the first time today; the first 11 was more holding on and being patient. I can't ramp my heart rate up over LT or even really close to it over the 1.5 mile stretch from the park to the stadium parking lot. I had planned to, but it was all I could do to keep my body from falling apart. Tough, tough stretch. Into the wind the whole way in. My pace has seen it's fair share of over-8-min/mis over the long run into the stadium, but I'm still doing mid 7:00s most of the time. What's more, I have a chance to break 1:40 if I can just murder myself for a little...while...longer...

I'm in all kinds of pain as I round the turn at mile 12.5 and run towards the open door into Titan's Stadium. No finish line kick, my "kick" is merely holding the fuck on. But my pace never really slows and I'm not being caught by anybody. Well, that's not true. I was playing pass-tag with a woman over the last mile and ended up losing the battle. Nobody else I marked got the better of me that day, and she was a Kona qualifier. I'll concede her 10 second gap.

I also forgot the sharp decline into the stadium, but take full advantage of it. I'm in a ton of pain but know two things: it will be over in a collection of minutes and it WILL be a PR. I find myself kicking it in at 6 min/mis when I'm in the stadium and cross the line at 1:40:32 gun time. More importantly, my Garmin reads 1:39:10. OH, HELL YEAH! Sub 1:40, baby! I didn't see that coming at all. It was a lofty goal, but not one I figured I had in me. Cue celebrations.

Gun time: 1:40:32
Chip time: 1:39:09; 7:30/mi avg

Per the Garmin:

13.22 miles in 1:39:10; 7:30/mi avg; 181 avg HR

First 6.55: 49:25; 7:33/mi avg; 177 avg HR
Second 6.67: 49:45; 7:27/mi avg; 185 avg HR

PR over First Light by 3:42
Beat last year's Tom King by 14:14 (wow! I went just as hard last year)

Alright, nice. Not an important race. Not a lot invested in it, but it's far and away the best race I've ever had at any distance to this point. I'm happy; I hope you are too. Natchez Trace Triathlon is next weekend. Hopefully it goes just as well.

Everything's building towards New Orleans 70.3. I really want to nail that one. I'll keep you posted.

First Light Half Marathon

2011-01-10T05:58:00.000-08:00

January 9, 2011

I wasn’t all that excited immediately upon waking up, and really would have preferred to go right back to bed. Bad omen? I haven’t woken up at 4 am on purpose in a while and I guess I’m out of practice. I struggle out of bed and perform my typical routine, all the while trying not to wake up my friend and travel buddy Zac sleeping in the next bed. This was our 4th and final morning in Mobile, AL. MTSU played in the GoDaddy.com Bowl 3 days prior to race day, so we came down early for the game and its associated festivities. Not the type of thing I put in my race reports, but I find it difficult to divorce the two. The game went… not so well. Let’s just say, on top of all expectations and desires, I had one more incentive to do well today: make up for a disappointing football game.

So, I get my breakfast down, my clothes on and my first poop out of the way, read the last two chapters of Again to Carthage, which may well be a new tradition, and kill an hour before leaving the hotel room. Preparing for running races just takes less time than for triathlons. It was almost frustrating how much time I had to kill over the morning. After 2 hours of messing around on the computer and talking to runners at the host hotel it finally came time to warm up. The warm up felt good and I took care of all my prerace business without ever feeling rushed. After popping my gel and caffeine pill, I headed to the start line just in time for the anthem and the gun.

My plan was to run the first 6.5 miles completely aerobically. My watch was set to alert me when my heart rate crept within an eyelash of my LTHR; it beeped at 183, LT is 185. I was surprised when it took a mile and a half to even get it elevated that far. I ran the first 10 minutes at LT effort, at LT speed, but at marathon heart rate. Of course it didn’t last very long, but it was cool while it lasted.

The first two miles were both in 7:45 on the nose. I had hoped to run close to a 7:30 average for the day, but the honest truth is that I get excited any time I’m running sub 8 min/mis. I’ve been very slow for a long, long time, and my current speed is not something I’ve accepted as permanently mine. It’s increasingly hard to figure out my mile splits, but I noticed I turned my first 5k in 24:XX. I couldn’t help but be surprised by just how easy everything felt. The magical combination of a taper (sort of), good nutrition and a megadose of caffeine worked synergistically and everything felt like music. Nothing hurt, nothing forewarned, nothing felt underprepared or pessimistic. Just follow the bouncing flash mob in front of you, but do so without going over 185.

I went through Selma, my favorite part of the course, without even noticing (damn), and soon found myself at the first aid station. I told myself after trying it in training that I was not going to try to drink while running during this race. My heart rate always seems to spike really high, out of allotted zones, when I did so. Still I am, regardless of all my knowledge of my body, a stupid, stubborn runner who is damn well going to do things the way he wants to. And as it is said of boxers in Million Dollar Baby: if you (the coach/trainer) can beat that last part out of them, even if that last part will be the death of them, then they ain’t fighters at all.” I was taking water at every station and a gel at every other. When I say I was taking a gel, I mean I was squeezing in a bit, drinking as much water as could be splashed in my mouth and spitting out a lot of it when I tired of the effort. Why bother? According to some research I’ve heard of, getting some sugar on your tongue tells your body that calories are coming in. With sugar coming in, you are more likely to break down glycogen at higher rates, and less likely to have to significantly tap into fat. Why is that a bad thing? Ever heard of something called fatigue? That’s what it is; slowing your body down when glycogen gets low to more heavily utilize fat. Or that’s what I’ve read, at least. If Ben Greenfield or Adam Beston reads this, I’m sure they’ll chime in and tell me what an idiot I am.

Turning back onto Government St. may have made the course much less twisty and convoluted, but it exposed us a lot more to the wind. I fully expected to be greeted with a headwind when I made the turn, but it felt an awful lot like a tailwind. Unfortunately, the winds had shifted in the ONE DAY since my last run; now the wind would be in my face for the last 4 miles rather then the next 4. I tried to pick up my speed and get right up under my 183 bpm limit, but (finally) started to find it difficult to hold current pace without my HR drifting. There was a lot of concentration and controlled breathing over the stretch, but the pace still did not feel difficult. Runners shot down Government like an arrow and it was rather dull. I had forgotten for an instant that the bane of my existence, a Krispy Kreme doughnut shop, was right on the course. I passed it and thankfully wasn’t in the mood for doughnuts quite yet.

I knew that if Government felt like it took forever that it might be an omen for a tough 2nd half. It passed without a lot of effort, though, and I the course wound up Fulton, past the 4th water station and up towards Dauphine. I was starting to get rather warm in my PKP skull cap, so I took it off and dropped it at the station; they promised to bring it to the lost and found at the finish line. I popped my 2nd gel, crawled up the “hill” to Dauphine and cut left. The pace was getting increasingly difficult to maintain, but I was now able to cut off my alarm. My first 6.5 miles was done and I was no longer bound to aerobic zones. If I were to turn in sub 1:40, I would need 50 minutes after the split. I glance down and read 51:17. Not good. Still, though, it’s pretty windy out here (14 mph), and it’s affecting everybody. Just keep going, keep drafting, save it for mile 10.

Dauphine headed west was the windiest part to that point, and it was becoming evident that it was more of a crosswind from the right than a tailwind. It was good to get on Dauphine because it meant that the marathon/half marathon split was coming up. I was feeling pretty good at this point and, in a bit of celebration that I was past the halfway point, I picked it up a little bit. It was hardly a finishing kick, hardly the stiff tempo I would hold from mile 10 to 12; I was just turning the screws a little bit and enjoying watching people break. I past a dozen people on the way to the turn off of Dauphine and into the direct headwind on N Mobile St. There weren’t many people around me at this point, so I stuck as close behind the guy in front of me as I could. Eventually I went around him and pulled for a while. The out-and-back along Cameron St was annoying, good thing I knew it was there, but the remaining half mile up N Mobile was reminiscent of my windy tune-up workout. My pace slid under 8 min/mis for the first time all day and I struggled to just fight it as best I could.

I finally made it to Spring Hill and knew the race had begun in earnest. I knew before I even registered for the race that this section would be by far the toughest. This is the section I chose to do my final pre-race run in. This is the section where I started to pick it up a little bit. For the first time all day, I was put into true difficulty and genuinely wanted to walk. My motivation and subsequently pace fluctuated a bit in the eternity that is the last few miles of a long race, but I made it through the dark part and into a bit of a 2nd wind around mile 10.5. Having already taken my last gel, I was ready to punish myself over the last few miles. Spring Hill just seemed to continue and continue, but I knew its time was almost up when I finally reached the infirmary hospital around mile 11. In good time, I turned off of Spring Hill very happy to see it go, grabbed another cup of water and headed downwind towards Dauphine.

A left turn onto Dauphine meant nothing but straight and narrow to Bienville Square and the finish line. My course recon was sufficient to know that Dauphine itself would not be home to the finish line kick; that I would be better served to wait until I got downtown for that. I instead climbed into the pain cave and made a home out of crystallized sweat and legs threatening cramping. We were still very exposed to the wind, which was about 70/30 crosswind from the left and headwind, but it didn’t matter anymore. Pace was pretty unimportant; it was all about effort. I was trying to keep my HR above 190 for as much of the last mile as I could. Passing a familiar restaurant downtown, I knew I was .7 miles from the line. I was pretty sure I could see the line from where I was, but my depth perception was pretty shot. My mouth crept open and began to take a bit of the inspiratory strain off of my nose. I kicked it in as hard as I could and succeeded in achieving my impromptu goal of going under 1:43, which I had set about 45 seconds prior when I saw that I had 55 seconds to reach the line before 1:43:00 hit. I was not passed by anybody over the last mile, and don't recall being passed over the last 5k.

Total clock time: 1:42:51; 7:52/mi avg pace

Per the Garmin: 1:42:51; 13.22 miles; 7:47/mi avg
First 6.5: 51:16; 7:53/mi
Second 6.5: 50:04; 7:42/mi
Final .22: 1:30; 7:00/mi

The First Light marathon and half marathon was a pretty small race. There wasn’t a lot to do in the way of hanging out. I treated myself to some hot chocolate and a couple cups of coffee (to alleviate an otherwise mind-melting caffeine withdraw headache) and changed clothes before I headed back to the hotel. I dropped off my stuff and headed back out for the solid-food section of the post-race festivities, but with a 7 hour drive home and a snowstorm on the way, I decided it was best to just get out of dodge. This weekend was long enough already.

I didn’t make my arbitrarily-assigned time goal, but I feel like I accomplished every other goal I set for myself. I significantly negative split the course, even though the weather was harsher on the back half. I bested my previous PR by over ten minutes; 10:32 to be precise. I’m a little embarrassed as to how sore the race made me, especially when I spent most of the first 10 miles thinking somehow that I should be running harder because it feels easy.

I know better than to read too much into early season races; I perfected a science of doing that last year. I’m just glad to see my body respond so well to the first race of my fifth year in endurance sports. According to veteran runners, the 5th year is really when you start to realize that you’re getting good at it. I certainly hope so.

Ironman Louisville: Pre-race

2010-09-02T11:09:00.000-07:00

A morning that was very much the result of weeks of visualization started, predictably, 45 minutes before my alarm went off. Having slept about 4.5 hours by the time I woke up at 2:45 to pee, my first logical thought of the day was “that was easy;” I think I’m getting the hang of this whole actually getting some sleep before big races thing.

The next hour and a half was the predictable slog of eating my two sweet potatoes, filling my Rudy Project bag’s bladder with water & NUUN, putting on sunscreen and getting dressed. I missed out on an offer from another racer to hitch a ride up to transition when I went down to pay for another day’s worth of parking, but I was not ready to head up yet, so I had to let her go. Besides that, I was looking forward to the walk. I paid, went back up to the room to grab my bags and flipped on my Ironman Louisville! playlist just as I left the Brown Hotel, bound for transition.

It was dark and pretty sleepy leaving the hotel, becoming less so as I got closer to The Great Lawn. The walk was a nice chance to let my mind wander into a blither place, but it took far more time to cover the distance than I had budgeted for it. In due time, I made it to my bike, slapped on my bottle of Infinit and started to pump up my tires. I’d never tried to pump up my rear tire with my new “crack pipe” adapter for a disc wheel, and quickly tired myself out trying to do so. I gave up and walked my bike over to the bike techs, who were inflating tires with pressurized air guns. That done, I had two more stops: bike-to-run transition bag to pour water in my energy powder and to the porto-potty line. By this time, my playlist is about to finish and my phone is blowing up with messages from various friends and family members wondering where the f*ck I am.

I meet up with Marian and Denise and we walk to swim start. It’s a sea of lemmings, everyone simply following the person in front of him, and still hours before sunrise. Denise shoots some video of the walk and I give minimal effort to entertain the camera, while trying to maintain a sense of tranquility that has yet to really leave me.

We arrive at Tumbleweed about 6:00am, agree on a location to drop my bags and lawn chair and part ways. I find my friend and fellow racer Jonathan and his wife waiting in line and park up next to them. The next hour consisted of uneventful conversation and more laughter than I expected, which in turn made the wait more bearable. Besides that, a bathroom break apiece ate up about half of that hour. In due time, we heard (largely out of context) a 5 minute warning air horn, a gunshot to start the pros, intermittent screaming and a percussive cannon to officially start the race. By then volunteers had amassed and were taking charge, encouraging all family members to step out of line and allow the athletes to tighten up.

Within 10 minutes, Jonathan and I approached the dock, high fived and selected our line. Quickly reaching the end of it and crossing over the timing mat, I punched my Garmin to record the official start of Ironman 2010 and dove into the murky waters of the Ohio.

Ironman Louisville: The Swim

2010-09-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

After several dozen sessions in the pool in which it did not happen, I immediately upon entering the water felt river water shoot into my right goggle. I wrestle with it for the first few hundred yards before cutting my losses and trying to ignore it. I then concern myself with nailing down my form early and finding my pace. The water, though measured at 83 degrees race morning, is cool against my body and in no way warmer, murkier or less comfortable than local Percy Priest Lake and I soon start to wonder what all the fuss is about.

The swim is a combination of a single loop and a point-to-point. You swim roughly 1,200 meters out until you reach a turn buoy, at which point you turn about 330 degrees and swim the remainder of the course down stream back towards transition. I split the swim up as such: warm up until I reached open water (out of the channel), pick it up a notch against the current, lock into a smooth pace and try to find feet after the turn buoy. There are swimmers of all sorts occupying space in the water; unlike mass start swims, the swimmers are seeded randomly, which causes far more time for the swimmers to sort themselves out. Not as intense as a mass start, but I still don’t prefer it.

Exiting the channel and heading towards the turn buoy, I reminded myself to keep my arm cadence high and to swim “smooth.” It was easy work doing so and I found myself largely with plenty of room around me. I check my watch at the turn; though I don’t know how far out it was, I was happy to see that I had made the trip in 26 minutes.

Making the turn and heading back, I was disappointed to see that there was still no established hierarchy of swim talent, making it much more difficult to find someone to draft off of. The trade off was that I was flying past 90% of the field without much effort. Clearly, the only logical choice was to go harder and I picked it up to more of a half-ironman swim pace. I kept looking for feet to follow and soon came to the realization that the only swimmers worth drafting off of would be ones who passed me. This happened twice, both times I kicked up to their feet and both times I couldn’t hold their slipstreams for longer than 50-100 meters. I was more or less content to continue at my smooth but rapid pace as I saw the bridges in the distance. I knew going into the swim that there were 3 bridges I’d have to swim under between myself and the swim exit. The problem was that you can see all 3 bridges after about 500 meters from the turnaround. As one might imagine, actually getting to the bridges was a process that seemed to take far longer than it rightfully should have.

As I neared the second bridge, I started sighting to my left to try to identify how much further then swim exit was. For a moment, I deduced that we had passed the Great Lawn and were in the finish line chute. Unfortunately for your naive author, I was at the time crossing the Great Lawn and quickly running out of gas. Passing under the second bridge, drawing ever closer to the third and leaving Transition area behind me, I really started to suffer. My arms started to burn and threatened to detach themselves from my body. I began to have trouble controlling my breathing and maintaining my form. I really, really, really wanted to see that big inflatable “Swim Exit” sign, but I had simply miscalculated the swim course and was starting to pay the price. What’s more, my efforts towards a more impressive swim split started to slip away as I watched 1:00, 1:05 and 1:10 slip away. I figured I’d be between 1:10 and 1:15, though I had hoped to surprise myself. By the time 1:10 had slipped by, we had made the turn past the Lawn and I could now clearly see the swim exit. I plugged away with whatever strength I had left and soon saw volunteers shoulder-deep in the water helping people up the steps; with good reason too, those steps were treacherous. The volunteer who helped me find my footing was nice enough to unzip the back of my speed suit, which helped me a lot.

Estimated Swim Time: 1:10-1:15
Actual Swim Time: 1:14:11

I climb out of the water, punch my Garmin and see that my swim split was right around 1:14. I’ll take it; still way better than last year. I wasn’t sure if it recorded my lap key, so I punch it again to be sure, remove my cap and goggles, pull off the upper part of the suit and begin my jog to transition through a wall of screaming spectators. It’s all par for the Ironman course and I don’t pay it a lot of mind. Nearing transition I hear Denise screaming, but don’t see anybody I recognize. My right foot is a bit tender as I gave myself the smallest of blisters under my 2nd toe in the days before walking untold miles in my minimalist Vibram Five-Fingers, but I make quick work of grabbing my T1 bag and heading into the change tent to the chorus of cheering spectators and my Garmin wildly alerting me that my heart rate is out of control.

Inside the tent is pretty crowded, horribly humid and featured no volunteer help. Volunteers were there, some of them helping athletes dress, but nobody so much as looked at me as I struggled to slap on my biking gear. I instead made small talk with a guy next to me and continue to dress quickly. Finishing up, I hand my gear bag and wet clothes to a volunteer and jog out towards my bike. Grabbing it and approaching the mount line, I see Amy and her camera as I jog past. I go to punch my Garmin as I get on the bike and am confused to see it say “T2.” Apparently it did read my lap the first time, and had recorded my transition time as my bike split. I have to stop the multisport, erase the memory and start another bike/run multisport workout before I can get it going again. Sill, though, within 15 seconds of mounting, I press the start button and begin my ride.

T1: 5:18

Ironman Louisville: The Bike

2010-09-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

I could already tell that things weren’t going according to plan; I could hear some kind of rhythmic clicking sound coming from my bike. After some deduction, I was pretty convinced it was my bottom bracket, which I had pulled off to clean and replaced. Maybe I did it wrong; I’ll have to stop by Pro Cycling and ask Alex. Add to that, my chain was not nearly as clean as I thought it was earlier in the week and was slippery on the gears. Finally, I went into the race knowing that my chain stay rubbed against the drivetrain-side wall of my disc cover, and generally was left with the feeling that I may have caused more harm than good to my race-day well being by attempting to go all DIY in the months leading up to the race.

Quickly into the bike ride, cyclists began to fly past me. I knew going into the race that I planned to swim well and ride VERY conservatively, so I did my best to take that as a sign of a good swim and keep moving. The stretch along River Rd wasn’t really all that nice for very long. What was a flat became a false flat climb that seemed to have no end. I’ve made trips up to Louisville to ride the loops several times; I was quite familiar and almost comfortable with the loops. But, I had yet to ride the 20-some miles from transition to the out-and-back on 1694, and was quite unprepared for it. Aside from the aid station at mile 5, there wasn’t a whole lot to think about; just the bumpy road, a constant stream of riders screaming past me and fighting myself to take in lots of calories to make up for the glycogen-depleting swim.

Whereas in training, I had programmed my Garmin to show me my current speed, for the race I had programmed it to read average speed and I looked forward to seeing my average speed creep up over the back half of the race. Unfortunately, where in all my training rides I was between 16 and 17 mph, I was looking down at around a 14 mph average through the first 10 miles to 42, and I’m still climbing this godforsaken hill I didn’t even know existed. About mile 12 the gradual climb ended and the course became gently rolling, which gave me some time to enjoy a downhill at least. I kept eating, drinking and waiting for the next aid station. No aid station at mile 10. Nothing at 12. The turn off onto 1694 was around mile 18. Still nothing. I celebrate being on familiar roads once more, but I’m running out of fluids. 1694 is flat for two miles, has a one mile plummet into a valley and then a climb of untold length to the turnaround. No aid station before the descent. No aid station, in fact, until the turnaround point at mile 22.5. That’s pretty s#itty to me. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why it remains so logistically difficult to have aid stations within a predictable distance of each other. “Every 10 miles” should mean “every 10 miles,” not “11 aid stations scattered haphazardly over 112 miles.”

I was pretty excited with myself to reach the turnaround and head back towards the huge hill because it meant that between practice rides and the previous 20 miles, I had seen every part of the course. Thus began the theme of the day: the heat. The sun was out in full force at this point and began to radiate down upon me. I was pedaling along wondering how long it would be before I reached the point where my speed would start to increase, but that point never seemed to get here. I managed to keep my heart rate within acceptable zones cresting the 1694 hill, which is the biggest hill on course, and looked forward to seeing my cheering section on 393. I’m still being continually passed by people and am starting to realize that something is terribly wrong with either my bike or my body. I simply am unable to put any kind of power to the pedals; something crucial is simply missing today.

Turning onto 393 and transversing the mountainous rolling hills, I simply looked forward to finishing up those 4ish miles and seeing my cheering section at the Police Station around mile 40. Finally reaching them, I notice it’s much smaller than I expected: only Marian and Denise are there. Shaking my head in defeated frustration, I yell at them “it’s not my day. It’s REALLY not my day!” And it wasn’t, to say the least. Off of 393 and onto 146, I forget about the festival in La Grange until I’m right on top of it. I was already in a pretty poor state of mind going into this section and was pretty unable to take in all the energy, but I was pleasantly surprised just how many people showed. It was very uplifting to see that many people, and made that half mile or so much easier, but by that point my motivation was already quite sucked out. Motivation was sucked out at mile 45. Oh… Crap…

Eventually, I finally reached the one hill on 393, the mile long plateau and the descent just before the turn onto Ballard School Rd. I took the descent as an opportunity to stretch my back and neck and generally relax for a while. I knew going into it that there was little sense in hammering that downhill because there was a hard left turn at the bottom. I will now cease narrating every unique characteristic about the loops, but will repeat once more that for the remainder of the two looped sections, I knew the course, their hills, descents and turns like my own backyard. I gave myself one more stretch break on the last descent on Ballard School, before the turn onto Old Sligo. The best-advertised aid station was on Le Esprit Parkway, so I grabbed some more water and continued my nutrition and hydration protocols. I felt like I was getting enough calories and at least adequate amounts of fluid, but regulating body temperature became increasingly difficult to do. I started the practice of putting ice in my helmet to help cool my body. It worked for a time, but the contrast of being so hot to so cold didn’t do any favors to my comfort factor. Besides that, the rate at which the ice was melting was absurd. A two-handful scoop of ice, roughly 24 ounces, was gone in 10 minutes. Water from the melted ice cascaded over my face and cheeks as if I had put a bag of water with a hole in it on top of my head. The temperature heated up seemingly without end. I can’t even tell you at what point it became an issue because I didn’t notice it myself; it remains simply the only logical explanation of my perilously sub-par performance.

The stretch along 42 was long, hot and awful. It’s 10 miles long with nothing to see and no aid station. It’s a net downhill, but there is no noticeable descent. Most crushingly, I can feel myself crawling along at a pace not any faster than 14 miles per hour. I see my average speed slide closer to 13.5 and it finally hits me. I had put off this realization as long as I possibly could, but there WILL be no redemption here. My speed is not down because of a hard first section, this is just what I showed up with on race day. A little over halfway down the stretch of 42, I reach the 56th mile of the bike and see my time is right around 4 hours. This all but makes me sick to my stomach. The humiliation; the indescribable humiliation. How is this even possible? How can I possibly be so much slower than in training on the same roads, with better course support, on faster equipment, after fully resting and taking care of my body to the absolute letter? This defies all logic. It was at this point that I started to wonder if I’d be able to even finish this race. It was also when I swore I was not going to write that race report I promised everyone.

Finally reaching the turn onto 393 and starting the 2nd loop, I very quickly changed my mind about the day. I planned to turn in a 3 hour 2nd half, good for a 7 hour bike split and a chance to limp home with a chance at PRing the race with a good run. I suspected this plan was still pretty half baked, but I needed something to shoot for. I looked forward to seeing Denise and Marian at the police station on 393 again. The thought of that got me over the hills one last time. They were still there and telling me how good I looked; all I could think is “Lady, you have no idea what good looks like.” Off I go onto 146. Going through La Grange again, I see that things have thinned out quite a bit. There aren’t many people still out on course, and most spectators have headed back downtown for the run portion. To my surprise, I see my mom and dad out there cheering for me. I didn’t see them at all on the first loop and barely noticed them the 2nd time around. That was pretty disappointing.

This is pretty much where it stops. As much as I like the little details and as much as I think the specifics of the race are what allow them to stand out in my mind, the 2nd lap is simply covered in a fog. I just don’t remember much. Things started looking soft. I was starting to go a little bit insane out there. Not that it didn’t happen on the first loop, but more so on the second loop there were cyclists all over the road lying in the grass. Helmets off, bikes on the shoulders, lying in whatever shady area they could find. Police, ambulances and sag wagons were overworked cleaning up the mess. Each one I passed, I saw dreams crushed. Still, each one I passed made doing the same look more and more like a good idea.

I had run out of Infinit about 10 miles before Special Needs, so I took on a bottle of Ironman Perform for calories and salt. Eventually, Special Needs comes and goes and I start taking Infinit again. I continued to shovel ice into my helmet and keep going. I use the ice pack I put in my special needs bag until it’s not cold anymore. I throw it away at some point, but can’t remember where; I hope I didn’t litter. The aid station before Le Esprit (I can’t even remember where it was) had run out of water. I had my aero bottle mostly full of hot water and a little bit of extra hot water, so I kept going without grabbing anything. After climbing one of the hills on Old Sligo, I see this mass of cyclists stopping near some trucks. I panic for a moment thinking it was a time cutoff, but soon find out that there are people giving away water. They claim the aid station on Le Esprit had also run out of water, so I went ahead and filled up. The next aid station did, in fact, have water, but it wasn’t cold and hot water did me no good at that point. I grabbed a bottle of Perform simply because it was cold and headed towards 42.

Hwy 42 was something I looked forward to for a while. Before the race started, I was looking to get to the last turn onto 42, around mile 80, before I could start to complain about the bike. I wanted to ride comfortably in my aero position up until that point, then just tough it out over the last 30. Not to say my pacing strategy wasn’t shot to hell hours before then, but I still looked forward to being able to bitch about it. I split up the rest of the course into 3 parts: 10 miles to 393, 10 miles to River Rd and 10 miles of downhill/flat to transition. It was hot, it was boring, it sucked. There’s nothing to say about it. It sucked ass. I was broken. It was over for me. Just try to get off the bike without being DQ’d.

Lacking energy or motivation, I limped in over the last 30 miles promising myself I’d rest some in T2. All those people lying down on the side of the road looked entirely too damn tempting, so I promised myself I’d do it in the changing tent. Coming into T2, I saw my mom and dad snapping pictures and cheering. Any other time that would have been great, but, ya know, it just wasn’t helping right now.

I drop off my bike and walk in no particular hurry to my run bag and the men’s changing tent. There are, at this point, more volunteers than racers and I still couldn’t get anyone to as much as look at me. Not to say that the volunteers are bad, they’re amazing; but compared to my experience in Madison, I really expected a little more interaction. After a couple minutes of laying down, I slowly change clothes, slowly slip my run nutrition into my pockets, slowly use the bathroom, slowly notice I’m sunburned, slowly backtrack and get sunscreened up and slowly start to jog towards the run out. As I’m jogging, I see a CUTE girl, about my age, who passed me on the bike about two miles from transition. We exit transition on the run about the same time, but she can’t bring herself to run. She makes some comment about how she “wishes she could run like that” and I respond by saying “yeah, we’ll see how long this lasts…” I really hope she starts running soon just so I have something to look at, potentially someone to talk to. All the same, I see some familiar faces as I cross the timing mat and lap my Garmin to start the 26.2 mile boulevard of fire between me and my medal.

Estimated Bike Time: 6:00-6:45
Actual Bike Time: 8:29:24

T2: 10:37

*Note* I programmed my Garmin to automatically lap every 10 miles. Here are my splits:

Miles 0-10 39:26;
Miles 10-20 42:08;
Miles 20-30 46:45;
Miles 30-40 45:34;
Miles 40-50 44:08;
Miles 50-60 44:14;
Miles 60-70 47:40;
Miles 70-80 50:35;
Miles 80-90 50:13;
Miles 90-100 46:17;
Miles 100-110 46:23;
5:08 for the last mile and change

Ironman Louisville; The Run, Part I

2010-09-02T11:01:00.000-07:00

As I cross the mats and start my run I see my parents again. I tell them to meet me at the end of the bridge; I’ve got an important message to give them, but am currently more interested in talking to a friend of mine I didn’t expect to see out there. Mike Phillips, who posts on the Tri-Talk Forums with me and who also ran the Memphis Marathon with me, was volunteering most of the day and jogged with me for a while giving me encouragement and advice. In 2008, he did Ironman Louisville as his first Ironman, and ended up pretty much exactly where I found myself: humiliated, beaten up and questioning whether I could finish by midnight. He said he “never thought he’d be a 16 hour guy” and neither did I, so I was quick to take his words to heart. He told me to walk the bridge, eat, drink and run whenever I could. So, that’s what I did.

I hit the 2nd St Bridge and started walking. I was ready to take Mike on his word and knew my body needed fluids, salts and ice, but it also set me up for my biggest shock of the day: I really started to feel good. Coming off the bike was just horrific and I doubted heavily whether I’d be able to make it by midnight. After a quarter mile of jogging, I received a gentle reminder from my body that running, in fact, is not my weakness anymore. I’ve actually gotten quite a bit stronger at it, so this day might not end up being such a waste after all. Reaching to top of the bridge, I got to the aid station, sucked down some Ironman Perform and slipped ice in my hat and wrists. Then I started running. The bridge wasn’t nearly as bad as I had envisioned it would be, and I quickly found myself at the turnaround near the Indiana state line. Heading back towards the aid station, I passed that girl I wished would hurry up and run with me, but she was still walking; damn. Reaching the aid station, I repeated what I had done prior, laying the foundation of an easily repeatable pattern for each aid station on course and jogged down the hill looking forward to seeing my parents again.

This was a pretty crucial part of the race for me. Seeing my parents at the end of the 2nd St Bridge would be the last time I saw them until mile 14. Over the mind-erasing last 30 miles of the bike, one of my few conscious thoughts was what I would say to my mom as I ran by. Thinking about it made me tear up and shake with chills. It was all too obvious to me by that point that I had found myself in survival mode once more, and that I needed to start asking for God’s help to get me through the day.

So, jogging down the bridge, I see my mom taking pictures. I run up to her and ask her for a favor. She says yes, so I deliver to her the speech I had rehearsed on the bike. I take off my glasses, bury my head in her shoulder and ask her to pray for me, because I can’t do this by myself anymore.

Leaving her, I headed towards 3rd St and the start of the two loop, out-and-back marathon section. Heading down 3rd towards the turnaround point 6 miles up the road, I really did feel great. At that time of day, the only runners that were on that part of the course were the sorry souls who just escaped the bike cutoff, like me, and were largely physically broken by that point. So, from the very start of the run to the very end of the run, with few exceptions, I was flying past the entire field. The first 3 mile flew past without me really noticing it. Before I knew it, I was popping my first gel at mile 4. I passed Denise somewhere in there; I’m sure she said something encouraging, but I was in the zone. I kept going, kept eating, kept drinking, kept icing, kept running 10 min/mis between aid stations, walking the stations and kept praying that this high would last as long as possible. It did last a while, much longer than I’ve heard from fellow racers. Still, as I knew fully well, it did pass, around mile 8, and dumped me into the most painful low of the day.

I knew from asking another athlete that the turnaround was right around mile marker 8/20, so I didn’t waste valuable energy worrying about where it was. Coinciding perfectly with reaching the turnaround, my legs very quickly became heavy, my smile very quickly inverted and my body very quickly reminded me that it has put up with a lot of my shit today and that I shouldn’t expect this run to be easy. The Ironman shuffle sets in. My running slows. I can no longer run all the way to the aid stations and start walking as soon as they get in sight. I remember a tip I heard on a podcast that if you’re ever in a race and find yourself “running” slower than 12 minute/mis, then you may as well be walking and conserving energy, rather than “jumping up and down, without really getting anywhere.” All to say, my pace dropped pretty considerably. My Garmin auto-lapped each mile and showed me my split, so I was able to watch my average pace per mile drop from 11:30 to 12:30 to 14:00 to quite a bit slower than that. Reality was setting in, in a very painful way.

Similar to the end of the bike, the trip back downtown on the first loop is a haze of pain and self-doubt. My only entertainment is seeing my pace drop off severely, seeing racers all around me walking, sitting, lying down, being carted off by ambulances and on gurneys. It’s chaos. All I know to look forward to is the Ford Motivational Mile and Special Needs bags, both somewhere around the 12 mile marker. In the interest of space, I’ll skip over the hour and a half it took me to backtrack towards downtown; sufficed to say it was all blood boiling on hot asphalt in the summer heat.

Reaching the Motivational Mile near mile 12/24 meant that I was very near downtown and the halfway point of the marathon. I run over the mat, but do not hear the customary beep of the computer reading my chip’s information. Sure enough, I look up on the screen and see no motivational message bearing my name. I’ll have to be satisfied with the half-naked cheerleaders in cowboy hats dancing about, pretending they’re having a great time. I can’t help but wonder how much money they get paid to do that? They’re out there about 10 hours and never really seem like they get tired. Surely they rotate out.

Anyway, off to downtown, still suffering. The sun is finally starting to set and I don’t have to put such a premium on make sure I grab ice at every aid station. So much for my goal of being a daylight finisher; that’ll have to wait until next year. How many times will I have to put this off until next year? The end of the loop and the start of the 2nd half of the run isn’t until after mile 14, so there’s a bit more trudging back downtown than I would have rather done. I pass mile 13, pop my 4th gel and finally get to the special needs bags. I grab my pepto tabs, some more salt pills, and a half a flask of heavily caffeinated gel, which should provide me with the rocket fuel I need to propel me to the finish line in a huge hurry if it comes to that. My body is tired and perilously oscillating between dehydrated and hyponatremic. For the most part, I’m able to tell the symptoms apart and fuel accordingly at the aid stations, and am very glad to pick up some more salt tabs as I’m about out. What’s more, I see spectators start getting thicker and the noise starting to grow louder. I quickly lost count of how many athletes told me that I was “almost there.” All I could do was weakly respond
“not really.”

“First lap?”

“Yeah…”

“Well keep at it.”

Turning onto 4th St and seeing the finish line is harder than I thought; harder than I could have imagined it would be. I want to be finished so badly. The last 6 miles had been complete agony, and I had no reason to think that the next 12 would be easier. Upon that discovery, I looked at my watch to see how my pacing was. My first 8 miles had been very fast, very smooth, but I hadn’t banked as much time as I was hoping. I did the first 14 miles in 3:15, and it was 8:30, meaning I had 3:30 to finish the 2nd lap. I knew I was over halfway done, but it wasn’t until that point when I was able to give myself credit for being halfway there.

So, here we are: dehydrated, body threatening cramping, totally exhausted, still 12 miles to go, half of which is the last 10k of a marathon at the end of an Ironman Triathlon; and now, on top of everything, I have to start thinking about RUNNING FASTER or I may not be allowed to finish.

I’m fighting back the tears of utter panic when I pass my mom and sister heading back onto Third St. “It’s gonna be close,” I whimper hopelessly. “It’s gonna be really, really close.” “We’ll be here…” they respond.

Oh, God, please don’t let this happen to me.

Mile 1: 12:39;
Mile 2: 11:21;
Mile 3: 11:24;
Mile 4: 11:40;
Mile 5: 11:20;
Mile 6: 11:57;
Mile 7: 11:26;
Mile 8: 12:21; (turnaround)
Mile 9: 12:33;
Mile 10: 12:40;
Mile 11: 14:27;
Mile 12: 14:08; (motivational mile)
Mile 13: 16:22;
Mile 14: 20:17; (downtown)

Ironman Louisville: The Run, Part II

2010-09-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

It would be pretty irresponsible of me to say that I felt “better” on the way out. The cramping was still there, I was no less tired or worried about my impending DQ, but making the turn and heading back out on lap 2 granted me a shift in focus. I was no longer forced to look at the finish, knowing how eternally far away from it I was. More importantly, I had a VERY clear objective: I had 1:45 to get to the turnaround and 1:45 to get back. It’s hard for me to calculate what kind of pace per mile that is, so I will myself to stop thinking about it until the turn. I, once again, took comfort in the straight and narrow path with little to look forward to.

The panic of being downtown was all it took. I had come too far to fail now. Heading back towards Churchill Downs, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Clearly, I had come out of whatever low I had been in prior and the only thing I could think about was banking as much time as I possibly could. By that point, night had fallen in Louisville. The approaching blackness made the stoplights shine brighter by contrast. As much as I looked forward to caffeine supplementation at mile 19, there was no reason not to put in heroic efforts now. Worse case scenario, it may be the difference between a medal and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on; best case scenario, it may take the pressure off the last 10k. So, off I went, picking off stoplights. I would run to one intersection and walk to the next. I could feel my body accelerate. I can feel my running pace speeding up. I can feel my walking pace speeding up. I can see my mile splits coming down again. 20 minutes; 15 minutes; 13 minutes; 12 minutes. I’m hauling ass down 3rd St as if I’m running away from all the demons of the turnaround, all my hopes and fears and self-doubt. And I’m making pretty good time.

The nausea sets in about a mile into it. It doesn’t slow me down so much, but it does start to make me worried. My New Year’s Resolution was pretty well publicized this year, and I want so badly to keep it: do an Ironman Triathlon without throwing up. I’m pretty confident the task would have been much easier had I finished 2 hours ago, rather than finding myself with 3 hours still left. Using past experience, I know that sometimes it’s best to just puke and get it over with, so I start to devise a plan. I can’t risk throwing up vital energy, so I make my plan to vomit as soon as I see the mile 16 aid station. Mile 16 is the location of my 5th gel, and final non-caffeinated one. It’s best to throw up before I take it to give myself every opportunity to keep that one down.

I reach the aid station and stop off in the porto-potty. I say a quick prayer and prepare myself. This is it: this is going to happen now or not at all. I take a deep breath, lurch back and… burp violently. So long, nausea; let’s get moving again.

I take my final gel, toss the flask, pound some water and keep going. I’m starting to lose track of the time here, things are becoming a blur. I remember reaching Denise and Marian again and telling them to go downtown for the finish. I remember turning onto Southern Pkwy and being really bummed out that there were no more stoplights to pace my efforts. I started picking out light poles, roughly every other pole, and doing the run/walk thing with them. All I think about is getting to the turnaround. I feel like I’m banking time here, but I won’t know until mile 20. I left downtown at 8:30, so I have to be at the turn by 10:15. I keep going, keep digging, fuel minimally to stave off dehydration, cramping and bonking.

Getting to mile 19, I know I’m almost there, but I’m excited to take my next gel. The gel flask I picked up in Special needs has two gels in it, mixed with 200mg of caffeine. This is my secret weapon, the last little bit of stimulation that will push me over the final 10k. I play Russian roulette with my nausea again, and win again, so I pop the gel. I hate the way the caffeine makes it taste, almost spicy, but I get it down. I feel it almost immediately. I fight off what must be a placebo effect and wait for the caffeine to hit my system. The buzz soon comes, but it’s hard to tell if it really makes me hurt less. What I do realize is that it seems to give me a headache, so I’m conflicted as to whether I want to take this last one. Stomach’s holding and I’m still moving; this is a good thing.

Finally, I can see what looks like the turn. They’ve handed me a glow stick by this point, though my first one didn’t have a connector piece. I had to shove the stick in my pocket for a mile before I could grab another one to put around my race belt. As I reach the 20 mile marker and near the turnaround, I see a man walk up to a volunteer. The volunteer, seeing the man, says “Hey, it’s the Grim Reaper! Didn’t expect to see you here so early!” I make the turn and look at my watch. I can’t get over the conversation I just heard. I recognize this guy immediately. As I pass him after making the turn, I say “I didn’t think I’d EVER see you on a race course.” He laughs, but I’m frightened and want nothing more than to be as far away from this guy as I can. This guy works for the WTC. Ironman has cutoff points. One such point is at the 20 mile marker. You have to be past the turnaround and heading back downtown by 10:30, or the “Grim Reaper” throws up his hands and informs you that your day is over.

But, I look at my watch. I gave myself until 10:15 to get to the turnaround. It’s not 10:30. It’s not 10:15. It’s not even 10:00. My watch reads 9:50. I had ran that 10k in 1:20, and had 2:10 to run the next 6 miles. I’m overcome with relief. To see myself now: when the pressure was on, my body came through. I can walk every inch of 6 miles in 2 hours with time to spare. This race was over. All that was left was the finish. I thank God for that and tell myself that I only have to eat and drink enough to avoid total system shutdown and this was in the bag. I’m so happy. I’m telling everyone I see: “we’ve got 2 hours. Two hours to run 6/7 miles (depending on which direction they’re going). We did it guys, we did it!” For a while, everyone seems happy. Soon they start to get annoyed, so I stop bringing it up. I do my best to soak up every moment of this last leg, trying to remember all of it forever.

I remember at some point I found Mike Phillips again. I tell him about what’s going on so far and he has little to say other than to marvel at how much time I’ve made up so far. I mention to him that I’m battling nausea that comes and goes and immediately remember that I brought pepto tabs for this very reason. FML. I immediately take out two of them and pop them in my mouth. There’s no aid station anywhere, and they quickly coat my teeth and the inside of my mouth. I can’t swallow them without any water. FML, X2. He tells me that I’m making great time and if I can keep any semblance of that pace up that I should stop worrying about finishing and do it already. He says he’ll meet me at the finish line; I can’t wait to see him again.

The high I’d been riding since mile 15 stuck around for a very, very long time. I ward off bad thoughts until about a mile after the turn. I start to notice all the people going the other way. With as much time as I had remaining to go 5 miles, they had as much time to go 7. When I reached mile 22 and had only 4 left, they still had 8, and far less time with which to complete it. I start to say silent prayers for them, those valiant souls who must know deep down they have no chance of making it. It all comes crashing home for me when I see a familiar face. Somewhere around mile 22, I see that good-looking girl I saw coming out of T2 and on the bridge; the one who wishes she had the strength to run and the one I was wishing would run with me a bit. I saw her walking on my side of the road, walking in the opposite direction… wearing street clothes… with no medal. She may as well have had DNF stamped on her forehead.

Oh God, oh crap, oh damn, oh no, oh SHIT, oh FUCK, oh GOD, oh SHIT, oh DAMN, OH… CRAP… This is real, man. This is TOO REAL FOR ME. I want OFF THIS RIDE RIGHT NOW, MAN! This is NOT FUN ANYMORE!!!

Not only that, I’m starting to bonk. And hard. Harder than I’ve ever bonked before. Being so concerned with cramping, I hadn’t been taking in much other than water. With the realization that I had plenty of time to reach the finish by midnight, I thought the caffeinated gel was more risk than it was worth, so I tossed it without taking the last one at mile 22. So roundabout mile 22, I completely run out of blood sugar. My glycogen is gone. I’ve got nothing left. About this time I start walking next to another racer and we start talking. She’s from New York, or Chicago or Oklahoma or somewhere, I don’t know. Not that I’m not trying to listen, but I’m SUFFERING! It’s just so uncomfortable. It’s like running when you’re tired; everything about your body is telling you to just slow down. Problem is, when you’re walking you can only slow down to not moving at all, which is not getting me any closer to the aid station and getting sugar in me. I walk with my new friend in absolute agony, allowing her company to tow my sorry ass to the mile 23 aid station. I’m bitching and complaining every step of the way, mind-bendingly impatient. She puts up with me partly because she likes the company and partly because she couldn’t go any faster if she wanted to. We are necessary evils to each other.

After what seems like a month, we reach the mile 23 aid station, and I bid her farewell. I know once I get calories in me, I’ll feel well enough to start running again, but I’m going to be damned if I’m going to miss this station. I grab a fistful of cola and drink it down. I grab some Ironman Perform and drink on that. I take a cup of water and a Powergel and park up next to some spectators. Quickly explaining my predicament, they invite me to sit with them and offer me a beer. Everyone’s a comedian… I sit there, finish off my Ironman Perform and go to work on my Powerbar gel. Those who know me personally know I absolutely loathe Powerbar gels, so it’s not unlike doing shots of hard liquor getting it down the hatch. One of the spectators is talking to me about how upset he is they changed the on-course drink to Ironman Perform. I’m not really paying attention. Just eat and leave. Just eat and leave. I cut him off saying that I have a race to finish and they bid me well.
With a renewed energy, I grab a banana piece and continue running my lamp posts. I’m backtracking to the Ford Motivational Mile, interested to see what it says this time. I get there to find it completely shut down. Talk about a freakin’ buzzkill. Talk about people giving up on you. Just when you think that every spectator, every volunteer, every police officer will be there alongside you no matter how long it takes, you get to the one part of the course that’s supposed to give you the MOTIVATION to finish and you see them rolling up tarps and packing their computer. So lame.

There’s nothing to look forward to between now and the finish. 3rd St is cloaked in darkness and few people remain. I looked forward to running the stoplights again, but being that 3rd St is a one-way street, all the stoplights faced the opposite direction; I could not see them until I was right on top of them. Getting past mile 24, I knew I was getting close. I was inspired. I did a lot more running than walking. My walking became almost nonexistent. I continued to run past people just happy to get to the finish. Passing mile 25, I see that I have 10 minutes until 11:00pm. I try to run the entire mile, but only make it about a quarter of the way before I decide it simply isn’t worth the effort. I try once more and stop one more time before unleashing the final kick.

One volunteer tells me I’m two turns away, which inspires me even though the same thing could have been said three miles ago. Someone else tells me I’m 4 blocks away. That’s enough for me; I start to run and vow not to stop again. I pass Broadway, and glance less than a block down to see my hotel; I’d be there soon enough. I continue to run toward the turn onto Chestnut. My right arm starts cramping at the inside of the elbow. I extend it and run with one arm bent, one arm hanging at my side. I keep going. My right calf begins to cramp pretty severely. I drop my right hip to take off the strain. I’m running like a stroke victim (no offense to a friend of mine whose wife is a stroke survivor) down 3rd St when I turn off of it for good. I turn onto 4th St just two blocks away from 4th St Live! and all I can see is the spotlight. I make my way closer and notice that I’m all by myself, which is the only way I’ll have it.

I enter the wall of spectators. I can feel the texture of something other than asphalt under my feet for the first time in 6 hours. And I hear it. Screaming. Nothing even close to sensible. And I see Mike Reilly standing in the chute, having come down from his booth to salute the late finishers. I pump my arms. I roar at the skies. I slap high fives, giving Mike Reilly one personally. Ten feet from the finish, I stop and violently pump my arms three times, fully taking in the moment and the accomplishment. Upon the third fist pump, my right calf locks up completely and I almost fall face first across the line. I catch myself, stand up for the photographers and give them what has to be the worst finish line expression I’ve ever had.

It takes all of about 5 seconds for Mike Phillips to find me. He’s quick to hurry off the other volunteer, telling her that we’re friends and that he wants the honor. After grabbing my medal, hat and picture, we meet up with my cheering section for the typical empty-headed conversation about what an incredible experience the finish was. Mike bids farewell saying he hopes next year he doesn’t know anybody racing so he doesn’t have to stay up so late! I silently hope he gets what he wants, and we all (sans Mike) head to the Convention Center for food and to retrieve my Morning Gear Bag.

Estimated Run Time: 4:30-5:30, though I admit this was no-man’s-land and didn’t know what to expect
Actual Run Time: 6:02:36
Mile 15: 14:48;
Mile 16: 14:49;
Mile 17: 13:18;
Mile 18: 12:29;
Mile 19: 12:55; (caffeinated gel)
Mile 20: 13:57; (turnaround, and see Grim Reaper)
Mile 21: 14:24;
Mile 22: 13:56;
Mile 23: 17:54; (bonking episode)
Mile 24: 17:25; (no Motivational mile)
Mile 25: 13:25;
Mile 26: 12:10;
12:27 for the last little bit, of course forgetting to stop the watch immediately upon finishing

Estimated Total Time: 12:30-13:30

Actual Total Time: 16:02:06

So what is my opinion of Ironman #2? I’d be lying if I said I had a strong one. There are great things to be said about parts of it, sure. But this whole experience was just one huge punch in the stomach for being such a cocky asshole all year. It totally caught me by surprise, and I simply hope I never have to experience something like this again. I’ve got a long way to go still.
I’m happy with my swim, happy with my run and thrilled at my ability to reach deep enough to get the job done when the need arose. Other than that, I really, really want this to never come up in conversation again.
I get another chance in 10 months. Lots to do… Lots to do….

Waxing Philosophic - Pre Ironman Louisville

2010-07-21T13:39:00.001-07:00

At the suggestion of my only follower, and for the benefit of myself for subsequent Ironmans, I wanted to take a minute to reflect on my thoughts, feelings and expectations going into my 2nd Ironman triathlon. This information was compiled in the time period of 6-4 weeks pre-Ironman and is in no particular order, except for my obvious attempts at segmentation.

Physical:

-Training-

The addition of speed work and weight training to my training plan drastically changed the way I trained for this Ironman and the way I feel leading up to it. I've been using a 36-week pen-and-paper training plan written by Ben Greenfield, a triathlon coach and jack-of-all-trades fitness buff in Spokane, Washington. I began his Triathlon Dominator plan the week of Christmas and raced 5 times, 4 of which I wrote race reports for on this blog. Without going into too much detail, I PR'd every single race, won 3rd place in my age group in 3 of them and demonstrated a much stronger swim and run over all distances.

The Triathlon Dominator plan is not my brainchild. I purchased the plan online and have asked Mr. Greenfield for his clarifications along the way. Out of respect, I do not want to delve very deep into the contents of the plan. I will, with his permission, write a full report after Louisville about my feelings on the effectiveness of the plan. For now, very generally, my training week looks like this:

Monday: Weights morning; Bike (CNS) afternoon
Tuesday: Swim (CNS) morning; Run (CNS) afternoon
Wednesday: Weights morning; Bike (Strength/Power) afternoon
Thursday: Run (Strength/Power)
Friday: off, though I find myself often doing a Swim (long)
Saturday: Run (long); Swim (long) if I didn't do it Friday
Sunday: Bike (long)

CNS workouts are drills that typically don't tire the body. Strength/Power workouts are typically either hills or track work. Long days are logically periodized based on the time of the year.

Despite enjoying a lot of success over the short course, my long bike rides and runs did not feel easier or appear to be any faster than last year. I feel like I have more endurance than I had last year, experiencing the same amount of pain but deferred until later in the runs. That said, the summer this year has been sweltering, hotter than typical summers in Tennessee. When I run early enough and can keep myself cool, I run strong, in control and finish the workouts feeling relatively fresh. When I allow the heat to overcome me, I've found myself in several awful death-marches approaching 14:30 minutes per mile. This will be key for me on race day: I have to keep myself cool no matter how hot it gets if I expect to race to my potential.

-Expectations for race day-

I'm going into this race in the best shape of my life. I feel very confident in saying so, and my results earlier in the year have definitively proven that. I'm faster over the short course, have more endurance and have a much better idea of what to expect in all stages of the race. Training in the summer heat was a horrific experience for a very long time (~6 weeks) before I really felt like I had made noticiable physiologic changes, but I now feel as if I truly am acclimated, which should play to my strengths relative to my age group compatriots from the midwest.

- I expect to swim very competitively in my age group and put in time on my two friends who are racing with me.

- The bike will be a veiled test of my patience.
I plan to keep my heart rate in control the entire bike.
I plan to never exceed my lactate threshold heart rate (163 bpm), even on the hills;
as a result, I fully expect to lose a lot of time on the steeper climbs, slowing down to under 8 mph in some spots.
I expect to get to Hwy 42 on the 2nd loop (~mile 85) before I entertain internal complaints about discomfort and the desire to get off the bike. If those voices start talking on the first loop, I'm in trouble.

- The run will be a further test of patience.
I expect to walk every aid station, but otherwise run the entire course, which would be a first.
I expect to keep my heart rate in control until mile 20 and
I expect to gradually increase my effort from there.
I expect to average around 11 min/mi during the first 20 and to run as fast as 8:30 min/mi over the final kick.

I further expect to cry again when I finish. :-/

- Goals-

1) Complete the Ironman
2) Complete the Ironman without vomiting (my New Year's Resolution)
3) Become a daylight finisher
4) Run the last 13.1 miles of the marathon in under 120% of the time of the first 13.1

Mental:

-my training plan-
In a lot of ways, this race was much harder to train for than Ironman Wisconsin. Ben's plan included a lot more intensity work, both short and medium workloads at maximum sustainable paces, and not much in the way of sit-on-your-ass-and-recover... y. It also includes a nutrition plan, which changed my diet and my life: since starting the plan, I've pursued and completed a rigorous certification in sports nutrition. But that's a discussion for another day; certainly not on my race report blog! :-D

All that to say, the plan I've been on is radically different than to which I am accustomed. You can sit behind a computer and read research all day long, but the only evidence the athlete knows is personal. How will this plan prepare me for the unique challenges of Ironman? I can't bring myself to trust my results from earlier in the year. It would stand to reason that doing speedwork would make you faster over courses where you have the endurance necessary to run the whole time. Setting a 5k PR was all well and good, but I've never ran a marathon; I've never gone 26.2 miles without taking unscheduled walk breaks. I'm not wholly confident I have the necessary endurance to do so in isolation, much less after a 2.4 mile tempo swim and a 112 mile tempo bike. It's difficult trusting a new methodology that involves less long runs and more quarter mile repeats at 5k pace.

-Opinions of Louisville's course-

There's really only one thing to mention here; it's the heat. The heat scares me. I went into this operating under the assumption that training in Tennessee, about 120 miles closer to the equator, would prepare me to handle the heat. The only thing it has done is put a very real fear in me. I know more so than the mid-westerners what kind of carnage to expect if the mercury decides to creep up into the mid 90s. It's not making things easier.

Not only the heat scares me on that run course. Let's face it: I went into Ironman Wisconsin a virgin. I knew it would hurt and my only goal was to survive. I'd never wanted anything in life more so than to see that damn finish line, and I'd go as far as I had the capability to go to get there. By the end of the 15.5 hours I spent out there, I had discovered more about myself than I could have imagined existed. I saw places in my soul that keep me awake at night. I saw my body so thoroughly stripped down that I was willing to quit with only 8 miles left. If I could put it into words, I'd write a book about it. All I know to say about it is that the things I saw that day made me realize that there must be a heaven, because there certainly exists a hell. The main difference between this race and the last one is now I know what it looks like. And every fiber of me dreads going back there.

-Thoughts on my body-

I remember the end of training for Wisconsin and how I felt. I wish I could remember it more vividly but I did a pretty good job of blocking it out, almost remiscent of a trauma patient. Still, I have to believe this year is worse. The weather's hotter and there's more of training with less rest. I have felt my body slip further and further into the depths of overreaching. The only thing worse than the depression, the handicap all that effort brings, is the knowledge that I have to continue digging before I can start to crawl out.

Emotional

-Race Day Playlist-
"Thuder Road" Bruce Springsteen
"You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" Bob Dylan
"At the Bottom" Brand New
"Sex on Fire" Kings of Leon
"Lookin' Out My Backdoor" Creedence Clearwater Revival
"Ramblin' Man" The Allman Brothers
"Wonderwall" Oasis
"Free Fallin' " Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
"Come Sail Away" Styx
"I Gotta Feelin' " The Black Eyed Peas
"Born to Run" Bruce Springsteen
"Brick By Boring Brick" Paramore
"The Melting Point of Wax" Thrice
"All Around Me" Flyleaf

Thunder Road starts it off. It's the song I've listened to the most during the huge volume time period 8-5 weeks out. It's very rich in imagery and promotes visualization. This will get me into a transcendental mood, to look into myself and begin to gather inner strength.

You Ain't Goin Nowhere is simply a fun song with fun lyrics. It's a bouncy song that will just make me happy. At the Bottom is a more emotional (emo) song that will prevent me from being "too" happy. Sex on Fire will channel those happy and nostalgic feelings into a more focused and race-applicable version.

The next 3 songs, Lookin Out My Backdoor, Ramblin' Man and Wonderwall all sound good and will keep the good feelings going. They do signal a shift in focus: this is when I begin to ready my bike and equipment. These are songs selected for their music rather than their lyrics, so at this point I stop looking inward and channeling strength and begin to get everything race-ready. I will not be paying much attention to the lyrics at this point, just enjoying the instrumentals.

I should finish prepping somewhere around Free Fallin'. This and Come Sail Away are escape songs. They will allow a few moments to take me completely out of my body, out of the stresses of race morning and be somewhere else for a little while.

I Gotta Feelin' is the first of a block of pump-up songs. The way I see it is that Ironman presents a hard morning, a hard mid-day, a hard afternoon and a hard evening. More often that not, however, they lead to very good nights, so in that sense the song fits. Although criticized for it's lack of originality lyrically, I speak from experience when I say the only thing you think about in the last 10 minutes pre-race is "let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, let's do it, Let's Do It, Let's Do It, LET'S DO IT, LET'S DO IT, LET'S DO IT, GO GO GO GO!"

Born to Run represents the bike course. There are obvious parallels between motorcycle riders and road cyclists, and the song is about departing into the unknown at the risk of self-destruction. It's about breaking free of the bonds of fear and public opinion. The end of the song greatly parallels the end of the bike course:

"The highway's jammed with broken heros on a last chance powerdrive. Everybody's out on the road tonight, but there's no place left to hide." I fully plan to pass people over the last 30 miles, people who wanted to act like heros on the first lap and blow themselves up, having to embarrasingly drag themselves back to T2.

"Someday girl, I don't know when, we're gonna get to that place where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun" Ironman finish line chute, having finished before sunset

"But til then tramps like us, baby we were born to run. Ah, honey, tramps like us, baby we were born to run. C'mon Whitney, tramps like us, baby we were born to run." End of the bike, 26.2 miles away from "getting to that place where we really wanna go."

Brick By Boring Brick is the ultimate focus song. It's the climax of the playlist, just as Misery Business was the climax of last year's playlist. It's features very percussive instrumentals and powerful vocals. Though it's relatively weak lyrically (as applicable to the race), the song is about running away from comfortable alternate realities and embracing life, which can be painful but is ultimately more rewarding. This song will bring every bit of excitement to the surface. It's a forceful song anyway, but it will be heard one week after seeing them live at the Honda Civic Tour in Nashville.

The Melting Point of Wax and All Around Me are both return picks from last year's playlist. They take the last two spots more out of tradition than purpose. The Melting Point of Wax, beyond inspiring me to push through the pain in pursuit of a greater glory, will make me think of my celebratory tattoo post-race. Going into the race, I plan to tattoo the lyrics "I will touch the sun or I will die trying" onto my back. Those 10 words, moreso than any phrase I've ever heard, perfectly sums up my opinion on Ironman triathlon, my body and what I plan to do in my life.

All Around me is all about the finish line. The song, written as gospel, details an out of body experience with Almighty God, and the indescribable high it gives. The feeling you get at the finish line of an Ironman, in my opinion, proves the existence of God and Heaven. That kind of feeling, that level of accomplishment and totality, simply is not meant to be experienced by the vast majority of people. It's the realization of God's promise to make good on all His promises if you are willing to follow His plan and suffer untold trials, countless setbacks, emerging doubt, often anger and put up with the pain associated with anything worth having. And more so than any emotional high I've ever experienced, it's a feeling you've earned.

-Post race emotion-

I didn't think I would cry at the end of Ironman Louisville through most of training. Seeing as how I'd already finished on and already knew what to expect, I didn't feel it would really mean much to me. Once the huge volume started, I began to beat up my body so completely every week and I began to celebrate simply finishing each workout, it became very apparent that all the same emotions would be there. I'm pretty sure it will all come pouring out once more; hopefully not for as long this time.

There are always more things to put. Things will come up, things will become unimportant. I still have not run my 20 miler, and I still have a long swim and a 75 mile bike before I'll get to it. The race taper is just over the horizon, and I know the weeks and days leading up to the race may well give me entirely new things to worry about. I hope to well document the pre-race and have others help me document the actual race. The only promises I'll give is that there will be a race report to come out of this. When, how long and what level of content is dependent upon too many variables.

In the meantime, keep the comments coming.

You can follow me online on race day at ironmanlive.com; bib number 919.

Headfirst Performance Half Ironman

2010-05-16T10:44:00.001-07:00

1.2 mi swim -> 56 mi bike -> 13.1 mi run

May 15, 2010

The day started at bit later, and a lot more stressed, than they typically do. I travelled with my buddy Johnathan to Taylorsville, Kentucky for this race, and our combined lack of planning and execution slowed things down a good bit. Having already seen the course and transition, we planned to get be out of our hotel at 6:30 and at race site at 7:00 when it opened. All told, we arrived at Taylorsville Lake around 7:20; 40 minutes before the gun.

I got a pretty decent warm up just frantically rushing through the pre-race necessities. Never getting truly worried I wouldn't have everything ready in time, it was a whirlwind of a half hour getting my race packet, setting up my transition area, putting on sunscreen, using the restroom twice, mixing and taking my energy drink and visualizing the day. Denise was there, of course, snapping pictures and looking more excited about the race than I was. I finished the tasks at hand about 10 minutes before race start, so I slapped on my wetsuit and headed down to the water for a warm up, albeit not much of one.

Having felt the water the day before, it almost felt a tad warmer, but still wonderful. The water was extremely high, flooding two parking spaces, a couple sidewalks and who knows what else that can typically be seen on the water's edge; promising a swim that would be longer than it should be. Over the course of my ~300m warm up, I noticed the sun rising in exactly the direction we would be swimming. Not knowing how much time I had left, I swam back to shore and just did some dynamic stretching to stay warm. The race director had a quick athlete meeting to discuss the course and the flow of transition and to answer the many questions racers had; the event website wasn't very forthcoming with pertinent information. He said the swim would be a mass start from the water's edge and that we would get started in 5 minutes. I continued to stretch, hop around and otherwise psych myself up for the day until I started to hear the countdown. I punched my watch with one minute left so I could have an accurate prediction of my swim time. One extremely long minute later, the siren wailed and I plunged into the water right at the front; where I'm now convinced I belong.

The start of the swim was pretty indicative of a mass start, with nothing but arms, legs and torsoes all around you. Punching, slapping, kicking and tugging abound, we sorted ourselves out in the most primal way we could. It took about 350m to get everything under control, at which point I found some feet to follow. I didn't think I would find anybody until the turnaround at 500m, so that was a good sign for me. With the sun in my eyes and swimmers still flanking me on all sides, it was very difficult to see how much further we had to swim. There wasn't much action on the first out pattern and I found the turnaround buoy in good time. I followed the pack around it, making the turn much tighter than my lead swimmer, and headed back down towards the dock.

The second 500 was the hardest one. I got pretty lazy on sighting and found myself drifting out into the middle of the lake a few times. The last time, on my second or third detour, I lost about 30m on the guy I was following. Wanting to catch him before the turn onto the second loop, I surged back towards the course. I maintained what I'd approximate to by my 100m TT speed (~1:25/100) for what seemed like 5 minutes pulling myself back in, just turning myself inside out to be back in a draft zone. I found myself behind some feet about 20m from the turn and vowed to not let that happen again.

Heading back out, I found myself sighting a lot more often. I leapfrogged my lead swimmer and grabbed onto a faster one; one I knew would I was stuck with for better or worse as the field was quite thin by now. Pulling myself and a swimmer next to me, the three of us took off down the familiar out stretch into the sun for our second and final lap. I had similar problems finding the turnaround buoy from a distance, but this time was able to sight when I was three buoys away. After making the turnaround, I found one last swimmer to carry me. Although this swimmer had a bigger kick that would make him much easier to follow, the guy was a pretty worthless pull because he kept swimming off course to the left. I found myself sticking close to the buoys and doing a lot of the work, waiting for him to find his way back. With about 100m left to the final turn, I dropped him and sprinted home, feeling like I'd had a good swim and interested to see my place overall in the discipline.

I'd seen the swim exit and knew exactly when to start dolphin diving and when to get out and start running, so I executed that well and headed up towards transition. Pulling my wetsuit halfway, I glanced at my watch and saw a very disappointing 41:XX on the display. I knew the swim was long, but how long exactly is just something we'll never know. Still, I felt like I'd had a good swim, that I was in a pretty good spot as far as swim time placement and that I had put myself in a good position to hold off some of the better bikers.

Swim time: 41:18 (2:04 per 100 yd, which is a crock of $#!+; 2/5 in AG, 47 sec back)

Transition was a tad slower than I'm used to, but after Rev 3, I didn't think it was a particularly good idea to roll without socks. Slapping them on and hopping on my bike, I shot out of transition not at all looking forward to the very hilly ride to come.

T1: 1:14

The bike didn't start out very well. In unVelcroing my left shoe, the Velcro strip came out of the hook and I had to stop completely to get that in place. Add to that the second steepest and most difficult climb of the day was at mile 0.1, spiking my heart rate and taking a lot out of what would be my average pace. Glancing at my watch, I was once again let down by the cheap Nike HRM I was loaned after the family dog chew my Garmin to pieces. Somehow water had seeped under the screen and fogged it up from the inside. If I stared at it for a second or two, I could make out my time (total time since the gun), but reading heart rate was impossible. Once again, I managed to find myself in the middle of an important race without access to heart rate data. I'm so f*cking glad I bought a new Garmin; the idea of having to do this for more races makes me want to hurt people.

After cresting the first big hill and catching my breath, I focused mostly on my other borrowed watch; Jonathan lent me his Garmin 301 as he had all the information he needed on his bike computer. It read everything (pace, distance, time) except heart rate, and it was a big help throughout the day. Turning off of Park Rd and onto Brair Ridge, I tried to stay aero and on the higher side of my aerobic threshold effort. Being a weak cyclist, it took about 40 miles to reach a point where people were no longer flying past me. I'd hoped to find some of them later on the run, but for the time being it's best to just race my race and shoot for the best overall time rather than trying to go with any packs. Not that I could if I wanted to...

Having driven the course once and the back half twice, I knew I could expect, for the most part, zero flat road and constant changes in pitch. Nothing in and of itself was particularly difficult, but the sum of the parts would be more than enough to steal a piece of my soul. I could remember the more notable climbs and their various landmarks, but didn't have much of a grasp on when they would arrive. I tried my best to chip away at the miles and wondered how long it would take Jonathan to catch me. I had guess 10 miles, but the pass was made about mile 12. He hanged back for a minute to chat about how long the swim was and share collective frustrations about the start of the bike before he rocketed off out of sight. I knew I had the first water station and the turn onto the out and back hill at mile 20, so I kept going and thought about that.

The turn off came a little later than expected, about mile 22, and I'd hoped that it didn't mean the bike course was going to be long as well. After heading down the 3 miles of steady grade and the one mile climb to the turnaround, I found myself having to pee pretty bad. The descent down the hill I just climbed was far too fast and dangerous to try it, but I gave it my best shot on the climb back up to Brair Ridge. I succeeded for a moment, emptying about half of my bladder before I had to start pedaling again, lest I find myself stopped and falling to the side. I hosed my leg off with water and eagerly plugged away at the next aid station in the same place as the last one, but 8 more miles into the ride; not only that, but the station sat at the halfway point on the bike. Splitting my time, I noticed I'd brought my speed up 1 mph over the last 10 miles. This was a good thing, no doubt, but only the difference between 15 and 16 mph, either way promising a pretty disappointing bike split.

There just wasn't many fun parts of the bike. It was constant up and down, open to traffic and extremely lonely, not to mention parts of it were very rough. There were two glaring exceptions to the following generality: turning right onto 55 in Bloomfield and turning onto 44 after going through Taylorsville. Other that those, the course was just monotonous, beautiful at points, but painfully boring. As far as I'm concerned, that sums up the bike pretty well. I was very ready to finish it around the long climb at mile 40 and had to exude some good ole' fashioned HTFU to slap out the remaining 16 miles.

My speed had increased quite a bit over the second half, but I accidentally split the time again, so I'm not really sure how much faster I ended up, if at all. I took in my second round of Delta-E at mile 45 and finished off my Infinit at mile 50. Looking for the final turn back onto Park Rd after mile 50, I was surprised to see it come a bit earlier than expected at mile 52. As soon as I turned, I saw Jonathan halfway through his first loop on the run and figured he had a pretty good bike. I shot down Park Rd knowing this ride was almost over and that I would finally begin the most anticipated discipline very, very soon. I knew better than to fly down the huge downhill leading into transition and very smoothly dismounted to a wave of self-satisfaction that I had finished the mentally and physically painful bike with a decent time.

Bike time: 3:18:30 (16.9 mph; 4/5)

Transition, again, was a tad slower than it would have been in short course. My shoes, visor and race belt went on well enough, but I stopped at the porto potties to let go of what refused to leave my bladder during the bike. Finishing that, I redressed, slipped my EFS flask into my pocket and crossed the timing mat, taking care to punch the start button on Jonathan's Garmin to give me a very accurate run split time once this all was finished.

T2: 1:20

I knew two horribly unwanted about the run course right out of the gate:
1) the same huge hill at mile 0.1 of the bike also served as the first part of the run
2) the run course was a three-loop out-and-back course along the first, and last, 2.5 miles of the bike course.

If it served as any consolation at the time, I knew two things that would work to my advantage when this was all said and done:
1) the very familiar huge hill would serve as a great springboard for a final kick should I need it. A great thing for me as I typically can out kick the pants off of guys who finish around the same time as me.
2) the boring, exposed and mentally draining run would be an extremely valuable simulation of Ironman Louisville's run course, which is a two loop out-and-back marathon course that gets very dull towards the end.

My heart rate does not spike as much as I thought it would have, nor as much as it did the day before when we checked it out on foot. As soon as I got to the top, I saw the first aid station and took notice of my distance: .5 miles. Good, a nice round number. As it turned out, Denise got wrangled into working the first aid station, so I grabbed a cup and some warm words and I set out on my predetermined pace. My strategy for the run was to hold aerobic threshold (roughly marathon pace) for the first 7 miles, bump it up to lactate threshold (roughly 10k pace) until mile 10 and then sprint just as hard as a damn well could over the last 5k. Hard to say at this point if my legs would hold, my GI tract wouldn't close up shop an hour too early or my mind would feel so inspired to crack the whip. Guess I'll have to wait and see. If you do long course racing long enough you become, at least in some aspects, a very patient person.

The three loop out-and-back course had three aid stations, one on each side of the 2 mile loops and an impromptu one sandwiched pretty close to the midpoint. So over the course of the run, you would encounter an aid station every mile at the half mile marker. Said another way, I could expect to get water at mile .5, 1.5 and 2.5 before I turned around and did that stretch another 5 times. My nutrition plan was to shoot a serving of gel, about 75 calories worth, at every turnaround, taking in my last hit at mile 10.5. So long as I got enough water in, I figured I'd be fine on both calories and salts. However, it was another aspect of my nutrition that seemed to be quite the bother for the first loop: I had popped a pair of Delta-E packets with 10 miles to go on the bike. It's not that it made me feel bad, it was just that it made me really gassy. Over the first loop, I probably stopped and forced a burp about 8 times. Not painful, but frustrating. I'll definitely need to look into that.

I didn't spend much time on the course before Jonathan caught me on his second lap. We talked a bit as he jogged past me, not much faster than I but faster than I wanted to go. I was happy to trot along and take in as many landmarks as I could. I had programmed the Garmin to split every mile, so I would be able to see how much my pace would fall off over the course of the day. My first mile (including the beastly climb) was just off 10:00. My second was 9:15. From there, I saw it slowly slide from the low 9s to the mid 10s over the course of my loops. I was feeling alright, body was responding well enough, but there wasn't a lot to do about it as long as I was holding myself back.

Getting to the turnaround at mile 2.5 was a nice feeling, because it meant I had seen every inch of the course and would be assured no more surprises. There were a few hills on the loops, but nothing that really required any additional effort or a change to my rhythm. I kept plugging along and increasingly noticed that it was getting pretty hot out there. The high for the day wasn't supposed to get past the mid 70s, but I think it got closer to 80. More importantly, the course was in one word: exposed. There wasn't a foot of shade to be seen from the road, not a grandpa with a garden hose nor a kid with a super soaker. I unzipped my tri suit all the way down, which helped considerably. Although it's never particularly reliable, Smyrna weather has forced me to do a handful of runs in very hot conditions, so I figured it would give me an advantage so long as it didn't push me straight over the edge.

I wasn't the only person who was hot. The way the course was laid out made it pretty difficult for runners to hide from each other, and I saw a lot of people with broken spirits. There was carnage everywhere, even on the first loop; people walking, people cramping, people double fisting water onto their head and chest. This weather should be pretty indicative of Louisville's weather, so it's best to try to figure out how best to deal with it. I kept at my pace, slowing though it may be, and kept things under control.

Seeing Denise at the turnaround to start my 2nd lap, I told her that I'd only want water over the course of the day to save me the conversation. Told her I was feeling "good so far," and that if I had to ask for HEED, that it was because I was cramping. We both expressed our hopes that it wouldn't happen and I took off on loop number two. I tried to take notice of the people on course, specifically ones in my age group. I recognized two guys that were probably in my age group, but were both ahead of me considerably; though one of whom was doing more walking than running. I file that information in a folder entitled "things to think about on the 3rd lap" and got back to business. I notice several other runners along the course, but only talk to a few. On that course, people are about the only thing to look at. Reaching the mile 5.5 aid station, I expressed my deep gratitude that the station existed; originally the course only had the two. Drinking my water and leaving the station, I knew that the next time I saw it (mile 7.5), it would be time to kick up the intensity a little; something I didn't know whether I should look forward to.

Seeing Jonathan for the last time as I headed out towards the halfway point was an interesting experience. Not solely because it's always good to see a friendly face on course, but I could see a noticeable change in his demeanor as the sun and the miles slowly ate away at him. Plugging away at the last 2.5 miles he had, he wasn't left with much other than to wave weakly; I would know that feeling soon enough. Turning the corner and heading back, I celebrated being exactly halfway through the course. One mile later, I knew it was time to go. I don't think I picked up my pace all that much. I couldn't read my heart rate, so I had to go by feel, and "feel" is an extremely subjective thing that late in a race. I saw my mile splits pick up slowly, but really just oscillated back towards the 10 min/mi mark. The end of the 2nd loop was the hardest mentally and the time when my mind spent the most of its time out of body.

Approaching Denise's aid station once more, I dropped off some useless equipment. If my watch wasn't going to give me heart rate, there wasn't much sense in wearing the watch or the chest strap. I dropped them off, drank some water and made some offhand remark to the effect of "this is gonna hurt" as I took off at a faster speed than I'd allowed myself to go to that point. Getting closer to being thoroughly overheated, I completely peeled off the top of my tri suit and ran shirtless; which actually helped a lot in my cooling mechanisms (but not much in the way of evening my tan).

Still feeling relatively together, adequately hydrated, fueled and mentally ready for more intensity, I started looking for my AG compatriot heading the opposite direction to finish up his 3rd and final loop. I knew the sooner I saw him the less chance I had of catching him. I stared down each figure round each corner in a panic until I was able to rule them out as the wrong person. I knew that once I hit the last turn, I'd pop my last gel shot and turn the heat up all the way for the last 2.5 miles. I managed to make it to the middle aid station without seeing him. My watch beeped at mile 11 and I still did not see him. Winding round and round, seeing dozens of runners too tall, too female or too different a stride, I continued my search. I felt relatively certain I didn't miss him and that he hadn't already finished. As I neared the last bend before the turnaround, I saw and passed him going the other way. I checked my watch to try to gauge how much time I had to put on him. I rounded the turnaround, shot some gel and water, and estimated I had 2.5 miles to make up 3:30 on him. Guess it was time to go. And when I say go, I mean GO!!!

My pace shot down to 8:30 and didn't fluctuate much from that other than on the slight hills I had remaining. I counted 7 or 8 people between him and I, and started counting people as I passed. Most of those still on course were pretty well broken down and I was flying, so the passes were quick and aplenty. 3 people go by. 5 people. I reach the aid station at mile 11.5. Pass 3 more people. Come up on another group. Mile 12. Where is he? Where IS he? And then I see him off in the distance. He's not going very fast. "If you see him, you can catch him." I cut into myself. I see nothing else. I slip my tri suit top back on and zip it up in preparation of the finish. We near the last bend before Denise's aid station. I'm gaining ground very quickly. I am Craig Alexander and he is Chris Lieto. In keeping with that analogy, he stops, walks and hangs his head. Oh, yeah. I've got him. The pass is coming; it's all a matter of whether he's going to try to come with me. I fly past him. I glance back. He's running again. But the gap is opening. It's opening...

I shoot up the road towards Denise. For the first time she doesn't have a cup ready, and for the first time I'm not in a position to wait on her. I fish out my gel flask and drop it at her feet. She smiles and makes some meaningless encouraging comment. I cut her off with a frantic "I think I have have him." "Huh?" I fly past her as fast as my legs will carry me, grab a cup of HEED on the table, and leave behind nothing but the words "THE GUY RIGHT BEHIND ME IS IN MY AGE GROUP!!!"

I hit the final downhill, open up my stride and pound away. I'm glancing back every 5 steps and see my self-declared rival still running, but slipping further and further away. He's passed by another guy trying to reel me in, but not only is he not going to catch me, he's easily identified as too old for me to care how fast he finishes. Rounding the last bend towards the finish stretch, I take one last glance behind me, pound me chest with my fist and head into the chute. I notice my time: 6:13:03. A PR!!! A ten second PR!!!

Run time: 2:10:38 (9:58/mi; 3/5)

Total time: 6:13:01.5 (an 11.5 sec PR; 3rd out of 5 in the male 25-29 age group, and what SHOULD have been an award!)

I give away my chip as Jonathan jogs up to me. I fill him in on the end of my run, my internal struggle to reel in the 23 year old, and my general good attitude towards the day. I get distracted several times, but eventually find myself headed down towards somewhere I wanted to go for the last 13 miles, the lake. I plunge into the cool water and struggle to breath for a little while. I allow my core temperature to drop down, wash my face and hair of all the sweat and enjoy being finished.

We eventually run into the race director and are informed that they are not going to post results anywhere, that they'd "be online soon." Add that to his comment that because "we're all winners" and that we all got "prizes" (a choice between a pull string bag and something even more worthless) they were not going to give away the awards they claimed on their website they would give away. No awards means no awards ceremony, which means I've got no reason to stick around. Changing clothes and packing the car takes a moderate slice of forever, but Jonathan and I eventually get everything ready to go, talk to every racer I cared to talk to, and mount up bound for Louisville. As far as I'm concerned the perfect way to end this day, a day that's little more than the best predictor for Ironman Louisville I could hope for, is to spend it looking at Ironman Louisville's swim, run, transition and first 20 miles of the bike.

I think I had a pretty good showing today. Despite a long swim, a hilly bike and a hot and mentally tough run, I managed to best my showing at last year's flat as an A-cup 70.3 New Orleans. I knew my fitness was better than last year, and find myself very happy that I finished 10 seconds on the negative side of last year's time, as compared to an equally possible finish on the positive. Being finished is a bittersweet feeling. I'm glad to be done with my early season A-race. I'm glad to have 6 months of training in the books, and to have already enjoyed huge fitness gains. I'm glad to be able to relax for a week and eat the foods I've been denying myself. The bitter brings to mind the realization of how much work is yet to come. How much July is going to hurt. How much Louisville is going to hurt. I'm certainly in no mood to want to race for a while. Thinking about the back half of the Louisville Marathon is unsettling me now. Still, it's mostly sweet. In the scheme of this year, this race means nothing. Louisville means everything. And at the end of the day, I think it's essential to realize that, to learn what lessons there are to be learned from this epic predictor race and to put that nose right back into the grindstone come June.

Bittersweet. Mostly sweet.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep." - Robert Frost

*Editor's Note*
I published this RR in it's entirety before I recieved my split times. My times are now accurate, but I'm not going to edit my entire report to reflect my times as they were, compared to what I thought they were during the race.

One aspect worth mentioning: there was a mix-up during registration. I saw when I picked up my race packet that my age was listed as 24. Because this race was not USAT sanctioned, I assumed the "age up" rule was not in effect, and I'd race in the 20-24 year old bracket. As it turned out, I raced in the 25-29 and the guy I passed at the end was racing as a 24 year old, therefore NOT in my age group. Can you say BUZZKILL?

Rev 3 Olympic Triathlon

2010-05-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

1.5 km swim -> 40 km bike -> 10 km run
May 9, 2010

It's not my style to talk about the trip or the experience of the event outside of the race itself, but I think this race should involve a small but significant exception. The Rev 3 Triathlon series is in its infancy, but they've been busy writing a lot of checks with their mouths; state of the art timing systems, live athlete tracking, family- and children-focused environment. Most importantly of all they put up 5 figures of prize money to tempt the best pros in the world to come compete. And come they did. Over the weekend, I was able to snag pictures with Matty Reed, Chris Lieto, Torenzo Bozzone, Bjorn Andersson, Jordan Rapp, Julie Dibens, Mary Beth Ellis, Pip Taylor and race director Heather Gollnick. Check 'em out on Facebook!

Despite a late and enjoyable evening with old friends, I got a pretty decent night's sleep (~6 hours) and woke up relatively refreshed. Trying to be quiet and not wake up Jenna (my very accommodating friend who has put me up this weekend and every time I come to Knoxville in the last 4 years), I got my breakfast down, everything finished up and headed down to race sight about a half mile away at about 6:15. The pros left at 7:45 and my wave was closer to 8:30. I walked down (bikes racked the night before) to Transition, housed in a parking lot just across Neyland Drive from the Tennessee River.

While I was getting things ready, a guy recognized the tattoo on my leg. In any other triathlon that would have meant my M-dot and the line of questioning would have involved which Ironman I did, how many I've done and which one I plan to do next. This time was about my Pi Alpha tattoo. Turns out the guy and his buddy were Pi Kapps from Virginia Tech who came down to race. Not only that, they were both Pi Alphas. We talked for a bit about our respective trips before I left them to finish getting ready. It was real bummer running into them in transition less than an hour before the gun went off, or I might have been privy to a wonderfully nostalgic conversation. All the same, I wished them well and got back to business.
*If you have no idea what I'm talking about here, google Push America. Pi Alphas are alums of Push America events. If you want to donate to the cause, let me know; I know several guys who could use some help in their fundraising goals.*

I usually don't race the Olympic distance, which provided me with a number of conundrums. First of which was a conflicted feeling of foot care. The race seemed too short to want to put on socks for the bike or the run, and simultaneously too long to attempt to slug it out with no lubrication. This day, I went with Vaseline. I lubed up the walls, heels and toe box of my biking and running shoes with (generic brand) Vaseline and hoped for the best. My warm up run left my toes feeling a little hot and bothered, so I slapped some more in there as the announcer was barking at us stragglers to get out of transition and head up to the swim start. Very similarly to my last point-to-point swim race (70.3 New Orleans) I mosey out of transition confident that everything would be in its place when I finished the swim. I slip my wetsuit on halfway, mix up my energy drink and walk along the path up to the start of the swim. Counting down the minutes to my wave getting in the water, I down my Delta-E energy drink, pop my GU Roctane (which I got several samples of during the expo) and watch the other waves do their thing.

Sooner than expected, I got the call to head down to the water. The official temperature was 69.4 degrees, though I didn't know that at the time. All I did the previous day was dip a toe in to feel the temp and thought it a bit chilly. I was wondering how comfortable the entrance would be. To my excitement the water felt all but ideal not only jumping in, but would feel great the entire swim. Not to mention the water, which had been dammed upstream, was flat as glass. So I swam over to the start corral, did that thing you do to warm your wetsuit up, and waited for the siren. I punched my watch at the 90 second notification so I wouldn't have to fumble with it at the gun. Positioning myself immediately behind the first line of swimmers, I treaded water feeling ready for a great race. At the siren, I got to experience once again the wonderful chaos of a deep water swim start, albeit a bit subdued with only about 100 people in there.

I could tell right away that the swim was going to go well, but I had no idea what to expect time-wise. My PR for a 1.5 km swim was unknown, but I could recall that it was set during my only other fair Olympic distance race. I've done 2 Olys in my 3 previous years, and one of them was literally in a hurricane. My first Olympic went well for the time, but it was only my 4th triathlon and at the end of my first triathlon season in 2007. Whatever my time was, it certainly wasn't indicative of what my time should be for this race. (It was 36:42)

In any case, it was very easy to draft for the first part. The course was a hybrid between and clockwise rectangle and a point-to-point. You swam for ~500 yards into the sun, turned around and swam the remaining yards, past the starting dock and down to a further dock just across from transition. On the first out, there was more jockeying for position that there was actual swimming. So long as I had feet in front of me, I was content to let the first part serve as a warm up, since we weren't allowed one before the race. The swim was directly into the sun, so I scarcely had any idea how much further we had to go. Gradually, the field thinned and we passed the giant boat that served as my only landmark; the turn buoy should be just beyond that. Eventually we turned, my vision returned and it was largely open water from here on in.

Feeling strong in the water, I hunted around for some fast feet to carry me to a decent swim. I've never really tried to draft in a race before and wasn't sure the best way to go about it. Luck was on my side, tho, as there were a handful of stronger swimmers in front of me throughout the last 1,000. My effort resembled a lot less that steady state effort I've been doing in the pool for years and more like the interval work I've been doing recently. I'd see a swimmer up in front of me and sprint to get up to him. Once I was on his feet, I'd relax and catch my breath. Soon after he'd drop me and I'd surge again, catching either his feet or someone else's. This continued until I found myself with nobody left to carry me across the final 300 meters. I could tell the swim exit was close, but didn't really see the dock until I was right up on it. I wished I had gotten in the water the day before so I could have known the course's landmarks better. Still, the swim felt very fast and I was interested to see how my time would end up.

I exit the water and have a bit of trouble getting my suit off. I eventually wrangle it off of me and glance at my watch; it reads 23:xx. I double take. There's no WAY I did the swim that fast! I am floored. I didn't know what to expect, but figured 30 minutes was a nice round number to shoot for. I'm VERY happy with my swim time and already start to look forward to bragging about it. Transition was smooth and I soon mounted my bike to screams of Denise and Marian on the sidelines. My day was already going light years above what I expected and I was interested to see how I'd handle the rest of it.

Swim time: 22:28 (1:33/100 m; 9/31 in AG, though I was 8th out of transition)
T1: 2:01

I knew two things going into the bike: my fitness, time goals and, subsequently, expectations were a lot higher for the swim and the run than the bike. I just didn't feel like my bike fitness was really where it needs to be. Add to that the fact that I'd driven the bike course twice and had seen firsthand just how HILLY it was. So, my goal was to do the fastest bike my body felt like giving me that day, but more focusing on coming in off the bike fueled, hydrated and brimming with enough energy to lay down a smoking 10k PR.

Having seen the course not only in the days prior, but racing much of it over years of TriDeltathon races, the first 4-5 miles around campus were uneventful. Eventually, we exited UT on the opposite side of campus and headed out towards rural south Knox county for the meat and potatoes of the ride. As we crossed the Henley St bridge, one of the coolest parts of the bike course, I got to witness the pro men coming back into town. I saw Bjorn Andersson in the lead, Lieto quite a bit back, and a string of noticeable pro men behind him, namely Torenzzo, Matty Reed and TJ Tollakson (why didn't I get a picture of TJ? Gah, I WANTED to! Never saw him. More on that at the end).

Leaving town and heading out to the hills, I started taking my calories on board. I didn't know what to expect out of the bike, so I didn't know how much fuel to take in. I ended up with 3 scoops of Infinit (~450 calories, ~110g of carbs) mixed heavy and put in a gel flask. I figured I'd nurse on that, possibly not even finish it, but take my last little squirt before I got back into campus. As it turned out I found myself with less than half a flask by mile 8. At that point I switched to mostly water, trying to keep my mouth moist but I suppose not really DRINKING a ton. I managed to overdo it a bit on bike hydration, though. I found myself having to pee really bad in the last 3 miles. I was wondering how it would affect my ability to run, but knew there was no way I was stopping!

I'm not going to go into a lot of detail about the idiosyncrasies of the bike. I'd seen it enough the days before to know what to expect. There was a lot of climbing. The terrain was mostly rolling with some flat, and a handful of climbs that never really seemed to come down. There were two climbs of note, each lasting about a mile. They both looked like absolute quad-shredders from the car, but ended up not being so horrible when it came down to it (no Nasty Grades!). The descents on the back end of them were very fast, quite winding/technical and pretty cold. Some of the roads were extremely bumpy and uncomfortable, some were plushly flat and well paved. All in all, the bike was about what I expected, easier than I feared it could have been. It made evident that I need a new bike fit, tho. I experienced a lot of discomfort on the bike.

I noticed the 10 mile marker was placed entirely too early in the ride. Approaching it, I estimated it had been about 50 minutes into the ride. My mind was a blur of images. This was way faster than I thought I was capable of doing (and it was). I didn't see another mileage sign until I was headed back into town, but did watch the numbers on my race watch creep higher and higher and higher, systematically removing any possibility of excessively lofty bike splits.

I noticed I had lost my heart rate about 45 minutes into the bike. Despite my best attempts, I never really did get it back. I was more than comfortable going by feel on the bike, and I suppose I would have been okay doing so on the run, but to have this happen just infuriates me. Why is it asking so much that a HRM measure HR?

Eventually the hills ended, the loop took us back through the familiar roads of the Henley Bridge, through campus and back to Neyland. I halted any more accelerations in lieu of spinning my legs out, trying to prep them for the run. Seeing the runners dot the street gave me a better idea of where the run would take us and I was quite ready to see how my body would handle the unique blend of intensity and endurance that the 10k presented. I hopped off my bike to hear Denise grab the mic from the announcer and (still screaming) cheer me on, which made me smile. I felt an interesting sensation as soon as I dismounted and started to run barefoot; there was excessive pressure and soreness in the balls of my feet from all the churning and burning along the bike course. Hopefully that wouldn't affect my run stride. Though the transition area wasn't well marked, well known or well announced to athletes actually in there, I figured out where the exit was and took off down Neyland, hoping for a fast end of the day.

Bike time: 1:35:38 (17.38 mph; 9/31 in AG)
T2: 1:28

I glanced at my HRM a dozen times over the course of the run, but I never did get HR data again. I was very thankful for the way my training plan was laid out, otherwise I'm sure my pacing would have been off. I do quite a bit of track work repeating miles at 10k pace (or slightly faster), so I got to be pretty proficient at knowing what that pace feels like. Having adequately fueled and hyper-hydrated on the ride, I was glad to fuel pretty minimally during the run. At each aid station, I splashed a cup of water into my mouth, getting between 2-4 ounces in there and the rest on my chest. This kept my mouth moist, gave me enough water without being too much and sufficed as my only cooling mechanism; it was a mild day, but over half of the run was in the sun.

The run course, like the swim course, was a bit of a hybrid between an out and back and a point-to-point. You ran just short of 2 miles on Nayland Drive, hopped on the Greenway for a little bit, turned around at mile 2.8, headed back to transition (to make 5.6), ran past transition and up to the finish. I knew there was a big climb past transition heading up to the finish, but had no idea what the run course was. It was very poorly marked the days before the race, so I wasn't able to see it. I had to just trust that it was as flat as people said it was.

I spent most of the initial out patter measuring my split times. I did my first mile in 8:XX, but was unsure of the precise moment where transition ended and the run began, so I couldn't be sure. The 2nd mile was 8 flat and I'd hoped to make the 3rd mile at least that fast. My pacing plan was to hold LT until the turnaround, pick it up about 10 seconds per mile on the way back, then all out sprint up the final hill and into the finish. At mile 2 was the end of Nayland Drive, so my focus turned to the hidden entrance to the Greenway. As I neared the turn, the volunteers cautioned me to be careful going down the steps. Oh, you've got to be kidding me! There were about 8 steps that began what was about a quarter mile sharp descent into the Greenway. This was going to be a lot of fun going back up...

I took notice of the mile marker signs on the Greenway and was able to give myself smaller checkpoints. I saw James near the end of the out and back section and motioned to him. It was cool to see him there; I knew he was a run course marshal, but thought he was going to be further up in a section only the people doing the half ironman would see. Making the turn at the turnaround, I kicked it up just a tad and tried to focus on my breathing, knowing it would be completely flat until the mammoth climb back to Nayland. When it came, I focused on shortening my stride, increasing my turnover and pushing through my toes, but I could feel my body screeching to a near standstill. On top of the hill, you get a little downhill heading back to Nayland to catch your breath, so that's what I did.

The 2nd stretch down Nayland was just painful. My body was responding extremely well, I wasn't cramping and my energy felt fine. It was just the accumulation of mental and physical pain the day had brought. I zoned out a few times trying to ignore it and just let me mind go blank for a while. I couldn't find the mile 4 marker, but knew I wouldn't hit my quite optimistic goal time of 45 mins, largely because of the unexpected hill and crucial break in my rhythm. Eventually, I passed the one mile marker (going to other way), and knew I'd be in transition in less than 8 minutes, which made me feel a lot better.

Taking in my last shot of water and running alongside transition, I knew my day was almost done. I could hear spectators and volunteers cheering, but my vision was starting to go and all I saw was furry, white and out of focus. Getting to the otherside of transition and approaching the hill I told myself that this is the place where I was "either going to go or not." I decided I could handle a little more suffering, so I kicked it up another notch and went deeper into the redline. Cresting the hill and heading back down it towards the park, I opened up my stride and really plugged away at it. I approached the finish line chute with very real and not often experienced levels of lactic acid coursing through every vein in my body. A good finish line kick got me across the line and gave me a chance to catch my breath and enjoy the end of a pretty good race.

Run: 49:35 (8:00/mi; 9/31 in AG, see below)
I left T2 in 9th place, passed one guy by the turnaround, and was passed again by the finish

Total time: 2:41:11
9th out of 24 finishers in my age group

Post race was pretty uneventful, and a little bit distressing and confusing. After all the bragging they had done about their new advanced timing system, the times were screwed up when I checked them. A mysterious 5 minutes had been added to my swim time, completely negating the breakthrough swim I had and throwing my mood for a loop. I was pretty confident that my watch did not mysteriously read my swim 5 minutes fast and that they had just messed up the timing of the waves (they did and changed it eventually). Additionally, they had only measured my run time to the turnaround, so at first glance it said I had finished sub 2:20. Yeah, I wish...

The food was a huge disappointment and there wasn't really anything to do post-race that wasn't already there for the expo. I checked out the pro's awards ceremony and snagged another picture or two. It seemed as if something was amiss when the ceremony ended. It took a while for me to realize that TJ Tollakson was nowhere to be seen; I would have liked to get a picture with him. He ended up 11th, just off of the leaderboard, and I couldn't find him in the ocean of people stretched out across the lawn. I left without much of a search as I was pretty ready to head back to Jenna's to wash off the sweat and river, get some lunch and knock out this annoying little 3 hour drive back to Smyrna to spend at least a little time with my Mom. Probably not the best thing to do, screwing around all day in Knoxville on Mother's Day.

In all fairness, I'm a little deflated looking at my bike time. I know it isn't as bad as it looks, but it looks like I slowed down a lot. Their splits were at odd times, giving one after 12.4 miles, after another 3.4 miles and at the final marker in transition. At a glance it looked like I slowed down severely at the end, but a lot of that can be accounted for by the towering climb on Neubert Springs, the rough roads just outside of downtown, the 2 steep climbs on Cumberland and Volunteer and the spinning towards the end.

I would have like the run to be 2-3 (or a breakthrough day at 4-4:35) minutes faster, but that was under the assumption that the course was flat. Seeing the plummet into the Greenway, the subsequent climb out of there, and the tenth of a mile of breathlessness thereafter, I knew that was far out of reach. Don't think my split times were lost on me: I averaged 8 min/mis exactly to the turnaround and 7.99 min/mis over the last 3.4. I wished it had been closer to 7:45s, but to see such an even split was a pretty cool sight. Couple that with the knowledge that BOTH climbs on the run course were over the back half.

All in all, I see this race as a crazy breakthrough in the swim, a decent bike and a solid run. I could feel my body was well nourished, well fueled, well trained and just firing on all cylinders even late in the race, which is certainly the best omen of all.

YMCA Indoor Triathlon

2010-04-10T15:46:00.000-07:00

500 meter swim -> 12 mi bike -> 3 mi run

April 10, 2010

I woke up probably earlier and more excited than I should have for this race, but after a horrifically cold winter I was excited as could be to race another triathlon. Time could not pass fast enough as I ate breakfast and got everything ready to go. It seemed anticlimactic to head out for a triathlon without a bike and to only go as far as the local YMCA: the site of 40% of my training. Still, I arrived about 7:50, just in time to watch the first wave go at 8:00.

Norton and Kellie were both racing; Norton at 8:00, Kellie at 8:45, so it was cool to watch them. I cheered them on for a while, learned what I could about the “course” and the dynamics of the event and otherwise kill time. Eventually time clicked to within an hour of my wave start at 9:30, so I pounded a 5-hour energy, dropped all my casual clothes off at my locker and started my warmup. I feel like I got in a great warmup on the spin bike. Managed to grab the closest bike to the stairs, get it adjusted to fit my body, found my gearing and did my cardio warmup by 9:15. I didn’t get as much of a swim as I would have liked, but felt it sufficient to get my arms ready to go.

Before the race started, I couldn’t help but ask around to figure out who the competition was. There were a lot of dark horses on the participant’s list, but one guy that got vouched for was a guy named Nicholas. He was a lean, middle aged runner friend of Kellie’s. Evidently, he’s got a relatively healthy resume of marathons in the low 3:00s and has been racing for years. I don’t know anything about his bike or his swim, but I mark him and hope he doesn’t run away from me. He’s in a late wave, but manages to get it switched to mine, which I don’t think was wholly coincidental. :-)

As soon as the cue was given I lock into my pace. I feel my form is solid and know based off recent training that my pace is true to the distance. There are three lanes with two swimmers apiece, with Nicholas and me on opposite sides of adjoined lanes (two swimmers between us). Right off the gun, he starts to slowly pull away from me. His pace is only seconds per 100 faster than mine and the swim simply isn’t long enough for him to gain much ground. I lost touch with him after about 200 meters, but managed to find him again at about 400. Don’t know if he slowed down, I sped up or if he just never made the distance I gave him credit for. I felt great about my pace, which happened to almost uniformly match a female swimmer right next to me on my side of the opposite lane. My flip turns made a noticeable difference, with me gaining a half a body length on her with every one. I dropped her into my drafting zone on the last turn and caught sight of Nicholas about 1.5 body lengths up on the last 25. I managed to pull within a half a body length by the wall and we exited the water with essentially the exact same time. Having nothing more to do than to slip on my running shoes, I pounded him in transition, beating him to the spin bikes just up the stairs by the better part of a full minute.

Swim: 7:56 (1:35/100m)

Transition: 0:45

I’m the first one to the bikes, so I assume I’m the first out of the water; I find out later this isn’t the case. Nicholas trickles in right as I get locked into place and begin to spin, but I don’t know how much ground I’m able to make on him. Swimmers slide in one after another, but I don’t pay them much mind. This is, by far, the strangest triathlon I’ve ever done. The spin bikes are hooked up to bike computers that tell you your speed. Speed is based upon how fast the wheel moves, and wheel speed is based upon cadence. A glaring omission: gearing. Essentially: race strategy is to put on as little gearing as you can safely spin, rev your legs up to 100+ rpm, and hold it as long as you can. Nothing like outdoor cycling, to which I and just about every triathlete on the planet is accustomed. It doesn’t take me long to find my pace, which ends up being a laughably inaccurately fast 22 mph. It’s extremely difficult to gauge my speed relative to anyone else’s as everyone’s legs are churning at blurring speeds.

I’m pretty convinced Nicholas is in front of me and is pulling away. If it were as easy as dropping a gear and chasing him it would have been one thing, but my legs just don’t spin much faster than that. He continued to “pull away” from me for about 20 minutes before he started to cramp. I kept up my whirring while I watched him slow to a stop, dismount and stretch for two or three rounds before he gets back on and starts again. I KNOW I’ve put a significant amount of time on him, but how much? I have to wait until T2 to find out. Other than occasionally flashing my mile marker to my timer and cheering section, there just wasn’t much to do other than struggle to control my breathing. With about a mile and a half left, the unthinkable happens: some heavyset, older guy in a cotton t-shirt and cheap basketball shorts slides off his bike and makes his way towards the treadmills. I’m flabbergasted, but am left with nothing to do other than pound out the last mile and change and hope to find him on the run. Finishing up, I make a flying dismount off the spin bike and bee-line it to the treadmill a volunteer has set up for me.

It’s all calibrated, save for me to hit the little green start button. In the time it takes me to press it, the black screensaver flashes on and I start wildly pushing on it to get it moving. It does, but is no longer set up to automatically turn off at the end of 2.9 miles. Nicholas joins me, literally the treadmill next to mine, and locks into his pace. I look at his vitals and he looks at mine: I’m at 8mph with .35 miles done; he’s at 8.5 and starting at zero. Thus, the cat-and-mouse stage is set; flanked on either side of me by a strong and proven runner and a come-from-nowhere cycling king running at 6.5 mph with over 2 minutes under his belt.

Bike: 32:39 (22.1 mph)

Transition: 0:30

My heart rate is already over lactate threshold, so I match my pace to the treadmill and focus on my breathing. Admittedly, 8 mph (7:30/mi) is pretty ambitious when my predicted sprint pace is about 8:05/mi, but I’m lulled into the far too familiar feeling that my body can click along forever at my chosen pace; this feeling is typically followed by a very painful back half of the race. I’m glancing at Nicholas’s screen at bit too often and eventually find his time, pace and distance minimized. Well, rats; I minimize mine as well and try to go off my watch. At some point, I catch a glimpse of the cyclist on my left side, and he’s sped up to 7.5 mph. I don’t think I can catch him and start to race for 2nd.

The run was a blur of burning lungs, dry mouths and slow stopwatches. I tried to shoot water into my mouth every so often and towel off my face for little more effect than to give me some sort of additional sensory stimulation. The time clipped by slowly, I descended into exhaustion at roughly the same speed as Nicholas, but I continued to hold my lead. He turned his information back on, as did I for the most part, and slowly gained on me.

After about 1.8 miles I began to reach the threshold of what my body had to offer that day. I could feel the lactate building and knew that I was on the cusp of blowing up completely. Had I been closer to 2.5 I might have pushed through, but I didn’t think I could hold out that long. I tried shortening my stride, tried lengthening it, tried heel striking to mimic a lazier stride, but eventually peeled off. I lowered it down to 7 mph. Then to 6. I held it at 6 for about 15 seconds, caught my breath and kicked it back up to 8 again. By this time Nicholas and I were surrounded with spectators cheering us on. Kellie, ever the helpful one, kept yelling at us to pick it up, that we only had one mile to go, to quit “bird dogging” (evidently she meant looking at his screen) and in general voicing her expert opinion that we weren’t going hard enough.

“The Duel” as I like to call it, started at about mile 2.5; perhaps a bit before and a small slice behind me for Nicholas. Still, it was towards the end of the run. The cyclist who’d beaten us both to the run hopped off and was finishing up his last lap around the track. It was Nicholas and I left to fight for the scraps. Glancing at his screen, he was keeping up his 8.5 pace and I was holding with my 8. He had closed the gap quite a bit and was within a tenth of a mile to me. He kicked his pace up to 9 mph. Feeling like I had it in me with a half mile left, I kicked it up to match his 9. Seeing my move, he clicks his speed up one to 9.1. I follow. He goes to 9.2. I follow. 9.3. 9.5. He holds at 9.5 and I go to 10 (10 mph or 6 min/miles). I hold the 10 mph pace until my heart starts to explode and kick it back to 8.5 with .25 miles to go. Nicholas holds his 9.5 pace for a pregnant few seconds before he blows and lowers it back to 8ish. We are LITERALLY neck and neck as I hit 2.9 and hop off.

I sprint over towards the stairs and climb up to the track: one lap around is the last tenth of a mile and the end of the day. Nicholas finishes within seconds of me, but is unable to give any kind of chase. By the time we had both surfaced on the track, I had a gap of about 30 feet. By the completion of the first bend it had swelled to 50. Seeing that, I no longer felt the threat and sprinted it home, snapping the invisible tape moments before asphyxiation. I look down at Kellie and Norton smiling and giving congratulations in an utterly incomprehensible way. I just laugh, knowing we had put on quite a show; a race that close in a setting where people could literally watch every second of the race unfold.

Run: 22:26 (7:28/mi)

Total time: 1:04:16

Nicholas and I catch our collective breaths and become instant buddies. We walk a lap to cool down and talk about the day and its idiosyncrasies. I eventually find out that the guy who beat us both by over 2 minutes is in the beginner category, this being his first triathlon, and that I’m currently in first place of the advanced category; I don’t know if I should take it as good news or bad. I get further information that he is a former competitive swimmer since he was a kid. Evidently, he beat Nicholas and I considerably out of the pool, but had a pretty lax transition time, still allowing me to beat him to the bikes.

I proceed to hang out for the rest of the race. My time is beaten twice over the day, leaving me with 3rd in the Male Advanced category and 5th overall. Still good for a $10 gift card to Toot’s and a great story to tell. This is the start of my 4th season of triathlon, I’ve raced approaching 20 races to date, but I can honestly say this is the first one I’ve actually RACED. It’s an odd feeling, a good feeling. It does a good job at teasing me of successes later to come.

Tom King 1/2 Marathon

2010-03-13T16:08:00.000-08:00

Tom King Half Marathon
March 13, 2010

It hasn’t been that long since Wisconsin, but it certainly feels as if it has. A Middle Tennessee spring is in the air, with a threat of rain all week and the severe likelihood of it on race day. After the worst, whitest, coldest winters I can ever remember in my conscious life, I was extremely happy to see the mercury creep over 50 degrees and be in some semblance of shape.

Scratch that, I’m always too hard on myself. Tom King is the first race of the year; the first via point on a carefully crafted Ironman training plan, culminating in Ironman Louisville at the end of August. It was my first chance to put 3 months of training to the test, and I was extremely eager to find out what fruit I would sow.

I felt confident on race morning in both my training and my nutrition. I followed Ben Greenfield’s Holistic Fueling for Ironman Triathletes almost completely to a T (one “approved dessert” on Thursday night ruined my perfect record), and I was interested in how my body would respond to the stress when properly fueled. Even more than that, I couldn’t wait until this experiment was over and I could go back to using Mr. Greenfield’s advice as guidelines more so than actual rules.

Pre-race entertainment was watching Marian finish her 2nd 5k and snapping her time by over 2 minutes. Shortly thereafter, I went to do some strides and warm-up before my race got started. Not without monkey wrenches in my plan’s gear work, I tried to put my mind at ease; tried to convince myself that it would be okay, that it wasn’t going to slow me down any. But my mind couldn’t stop going back to the day before, when I woke up from a mid-morning nap to discover my sister’s dog had turned my Garmin 305 into a chew toy. After over a year of having my pace, distance and heart rate at but a glance, I’d have to do this one by feel. A fraternity brother let me borrow his HRM, but the thing could not be counted on, as it was reading my heart rate during warm-ups in the upper 220s. After sipping my energy drink, finishing my stride work and stopping for one last bathroom stop, I headed towards the start line wanting nothing more than today to be indicative of my fitness, so as to plan my future training accordingly.

The first 3 miles flew by way too fast. I found myself, surrounded by a thousand of my closest friends, chewing up what was left of Davidson Rd. and entering Shelby Bottom’s park. Grabbing some water, taking a generous shot of my EFS Liquid Energy shot and waving at Tiago, I hopped on the greenway and continued to plod along at what was my best estimate of my Lactate Threshold; 183, according to my late Garmin. My current monitor kept registering me in the mid to upper 180s, which may or may not be accurate. I was experiencing the tempest that is typical of endurance races: feeling way too good for the first half or so and protesting your mind that you can and should pick it up some. I fought it off, inviting those thoughts back into my head at mile 10, and concentrated on my breathing; keeping it rhythmic and powerful.

I was hoping to extend myself a little bit before I saw the frontrunners this time around. The course is out and back, so it’s a necessity that 90% of runners will be privy to a few seconds of the race at the front unfolding. I made it to a bit past mile 5 before I saw the lead cyclist coercing everyone to the right hand side so the leaders might have room. Seeing my buddies Tim, John and Jonathan motoring past 2 miles ahead was enjoyable, but short lived. As if it wasn’t hard enough to keep things in check, it was around mile 5.5 that a familiar little short-haired blur whizzed past me. To my equal parts dismay and excitement, I called out to my friend Peppy who’s preparing for the Country Music Marathon. We exchange words for a while before she continues on her personal pace, unfortunately a tad faster than what I’m comfortable with before the halfway point. I can’t help but feel like $#!+ after getting chicked by a friend of mine, whom I’ve never even seen in the “runner” frame of mind. The turnaround point is less than a mile up, so I just tell myself that she’ll come back to me on the back end.

I reach the turnaround roughly at the 10k mark and see the clock reads 52:30. After some fumbling computations, I notice that that’s halfway through a 1:45 half marathon. 1:45 is my goal and I hope to negative split the race, but I know that this point is not the halfway mark. I know deep down that there’s about no way I’m going to be able to pick it up that much on the way home, but I can’t help but hope. I can more or less ignore my heart rate and go by feel now, so we’ll have to just see how many pennies of my energy I have left to spend.

The strong feelings of the first 5 miles began an easy descent over the next 3. I could really feel the wheels start to fall off around mile 8. As my effort kicked up a couple notches, my heart rate and (probably) pace plateaued; there was an uneasy equilibrium for the next few miles, but there was just no speeding up. Continuing my breathing and popping my 3rd gel shot at mile 7.5, I thought of nothing other than getting to the aid station at mile 10. Numerous rewards to be had at mile 10: my last gel (which I always celebrate), the last uphill of the day, a change of scenery and an opportunity to start headhunting all the hammerheads that have gradually trickled by. Low levels of pain and high levels of motivation to continue accelerating gradually changed hands and I tried to keep everything in control as “things fall apart; the center cannot hold.” Other than a runner 5 feet from me taking a hard fall on a wet bridge, there weren’t too many distractions from the burn in my lungs over the next 2.5 miles. I like the race, but hate the course. It’s a very mental run.

Eventually, as all things both evil and altruistic, the road ended and spilled out into the mile 10 aid station. I finished off my nutrition and handed my empty flask to Paula. Luckily, she was willing to take it and save me the increasingly difficult task of holding it. Having seen the last 5k enough times the day before to be sure there were no surprises, I started to pick it up a tad and look hungrily for Peppy and several other marked men. The effort was there but the legs, just as the economy, became wise to my previous frugal spending and started to demand more for its work. While it didn’t really dawn on me until well after the race, I’m as dehydrated as I’ve been in a calendar year. With only 4 aid stations, I probably took in between 8-12 oz of water over the course of two really intense hours. You never think about these things when it’s in the high 40s and misting, but my cells are beginning to see a lack of symmetry between water coming in and water going out; unfortunately, with only one way to tell me.

The cramps came in isolated bouts and did little more than freak me out. Mostly located in the right calf, there was nothing to be done about them with no aid stations and less than two miles left in the race. Just keep running and give up any hopes of a finish line kick. As I near the stadium, within a mile from the finish line, I can see enough of the Titan Tron that I’m not going to make my goal time anyway, so I’m content to just trot it in. No faster, no slower. Trying to keep my legs from locking up as they tend to do, I entered the stadium with a fair amount of cumulative pain and ready to finish up. A spasm seizes me just yards in front of the finish line and draws out a grimace just in time for my finish line photo.

After the finish, I take a moment to catch my breath and stretch my calf. I can’t really say that I’m bummed with my time; it’s squarely within what I should have expected going into the race. More importantly, I have a wonderful testament to my current fitness upon which I have the next 5 months to build. And it seems like these days, any race where I don’t cry at the end is a good thing. I’m such a girly man.

Primary Goal: 1:45

Secondary Goal: 1:49:23

Actual Time: 1:53:23

Ironman Wisconsin - Pre Race

2009-09-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

After over three years of training and anticipation, I awoke in my hotel room somewhere just within what could be called Sunday morning in nervous excitement. Waking up over an hour before I expected to, the 1:50am wake-up would work in my favor I was sure; there is no such thing as too much preparation time. Just because I was too excited to go back to sleep doesn’t mean I wasn’t tired, however. I threw on my long sleeve shirt, blue jeans and sandals and headed out to try to find some breakfast.

The IHOP was about a half mile from my hotel and, as I was accustomed on this trip, I had no car. I walked all the way until I got into the parking lot before I saw the sign read “Open Daily 6am-12am.” Well, horseshit. I had to turn around and backtrack to the hotel and hope either the Denny’s or Perkin’s were open. East Washington Avenue was still bustling with activity at the 2:30 hour; with last call behind them, one of the largest party schools in America were heading home or grabbing some late night grub after what was certainly a long night. I find myself tearing up twice thinking about the finish line. Miles 140.5-140.6 are going to make all this worth it. I’ve thought of nothing else for so long.

Denny’s is open and brimming with energy. I look around at the restaurant, of which is well over half full of customers with plenty of loiterers as well, and don’t see a single person with an Ironman wrist band. Being that I sat by myself, the service was quite quick. I order my breakfast, a “create your own Grand Slam” and listen to my iPod to pass the time. I’m not visualizing the day; I’m just waiting and trying to not let all the adrenaline in my body make me sick. And people-watching. Breakfast comes and I do my best to eat all I can. I ate oatmeal (1/4), yogurt (all), hash browns (1/2), eggs (all) and toast (1/2), washing it all down with a large orange juice, some water and a half glass of milk for my oatmeal. I’m bloated, but my watch reads 3:15am; I’ve got plenty of time to digest.

Upon getting back to my hotel, I have little to do in a large amount of time. I sit and watch 300 and try to make as many “natural stops” as possible before leaving the hotel. After wasting away over an hour, I put my tri suit on under my clothes, make one final check that everything is in my special needs bags, and head out of my room towards my parents’ car right at 5:00. There’s a girl wearing an Ironman bracelet in the lobby of our hotel room who needs a ride. She’s a pro from Brazil and would go on to become the 4th overall female finisher, though I did not know this at the time. It’s clear her first language isn’t English during the exchange, but we eventually convince her that we have room in Denise’s car and we all exit together, bound for Downtown Madison.

I stumble out of my parents’ rental car a couple blocks from the Monona Terrace (the coolest transition area in all of triathlon) and start the playlist on my iPod I created specifically for this day. I drop off my special needs bags and head down to check out my bike, which I had racked yesterday afternoon. Still carrying my finish line drop bag, I head over to body marking. After I was marked, I asked a volunteer where I could find some Gatoraid, as I had not a drop of liquids on my bike at the time. She radioed race management and we both found out that there is not one bottle of Gatoraid anywhere in the Monona Terrace; she recommended I walk back to the Capitol building and get some at the local Walgreen’s. Seeing Ben for this first time of the morning, I head back to my bike and grab the emergency $5.00 I always keep in there and head back Downtown. After the quarter mile or so, I find out that Walgreen’s is only open from 7:00am-10:00pm. Asking another volunteer, I was advised to go BACK to the Terrace, walk up to the roof and ask someone in the VIP tent for some of theirs. During this commute, I stop by the volunteer tent (which already has food out for the 3,000+ volunteers) and ask them. The race director is standing there at the time and tells me that there is water in transition already. Water will do at this point, so I head back to my bike to fill my bottle.

Now it’s come time to pump up my tires. I borrow a bike pump from the guy next to me, but quickly give it back as I’ve forgotten something important. I rented a Zipp 404 and a disk wheel combination from Race Day Wheels, and both of them have valve extenders; I need a special adapter to get air in my tires. This means a walk back into the Terrace was in order so I could dig the valve out of my T1 bag. I grab the stickers for my wheel while I’m in there and head back to my bike. By the time I get back there, my playlist is winding down and people are heading out to this swim; I’m running out of time. I get back to my bike and find out there are volunteers with compressed air tubes filling bike tires for athletes; what’s more, they have the valve extender I needed and immediately go to work on my tires. The stickers meant to go over the holes on my valve were wet and wouldn’t remove, so I just racked my bike and got ready to head down to the swim start.

Ben is there, as we agreed, and we head towards the helix together. As soon as I pick up my drop bag, I notice something else: my wetsuit is not in it. Mother Fucker! I guess I took it out of the bag when I got bodymarked and left it on the ground. Sure enough, at the end of transition I see it sitting there folded up in such a way as to fit best in my bag. I put the bottom half on and walk down the helix with Ben, talking about the day and giving what advice I can give. We get to the bottom and are adequately distracting each other from the fear and the promise of pain the day will hold. I spot William Jenks from the forum on the way to the water; I hadn’t been formally introduced to him, but I recognized him and his wetsuit from Facebook pictures. I shake his hand and talk for a minute, but I have business to attend to. Ben and I are following the sea of people down to the swim and looking for the drop bag location. We make it all the way to the water’s edge before finding out that we had passed it several hundred feet ago. We have to backtrack through the ocean of athletes until we find the location. Dropping off our bags and heading back to the water, I forget my last thing: I’m still wearing sandals. Drop them at my bag really quickly, and Ben and I are ready to enter the water. Even after all the chaos, we’re still walking in at 6:45.

At the direction of the race officials, we swim out a good ways to make room for the people still entering the water. We make it over to the boat ramp in plenty of time to see the pros make their start at 6:50. After that, it was time for Ben and I to make our departure as we headed back into the mass of athletes and seed ourselves as best we can before the start of our race. I’m treading water with 8 minutes to go and just trying to take it all in. Over the intercom I hear Mike Reilly’s all too familiar voice barking orders and giving encouragement. “Who’s ready to be an Ironman today?” We all cheer. Oh, I’m ready Mike, I’m ready. The remaining minutes tick away quickly and the national anthem plays. Taking one last look at the time clock, it reads 6:58:30; 90 seconds to go. Then, out of nowhere, the very familiar sounds play out. The airhorn blasts, I hear shouting, people in front of me begin to swim, the water is churned white, I see arms begin to flail and, just as last year, I hear the opening riff of “Sugar, We’re Going Down” by Fall Out Boy blast out of the loudspeaker. And then, nothing. All I hear is the water. Oh my God, here we go. Ironman Wisconsin is officially underway!

Ironman Wisconsin - The Swim

2009-09-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

I knew I could expect something I’d never experienced before on the 2.4 mile, 2-loop Ironman swim: the pandemonium of a mass swim start. The course is rectangular; the swimmers head north past 7 yellow buoys and turn west at the corner for a couple hundred yards before heading back south towards the start and finish area along 7 orange buoys; red buoys marked all 7 turns. The swim got progressively less crowded as it went along, but I did not find open water until the second lap. The first few hundred yards seemed to inch along as I found myself doing as much lateral movement as forward motion just trying to get around people. Every few strokes left me slapping someone’s feet, having someone slap my feet, running into the side of someone, someone swimming over top of me, getting hit in the torso or arms, even once being kicked in the throat. It was never horribly cramped and I never felt unsafe, but the entirety of the experience was a lot to try to take in.

I went as easy as I could stand and then some on the half mile trip north. I was concerned with my time slipping off my goal of 1:30, but it never really got me down. For one thing, I could do nothing to change my predicament; for another, everyone was being slowed. It was a traffic jam in the water. I even did a little breast stroking in the water, which I’ve never done in a race before. The quagmire of black bodies and red and white heads remained the only story to tell through the first turn. As warned by another athlete, there was a slight hold up at the first turn. Too many athletes who didn’t know the course took just the smallest of moments to tread water and figure out which direction to go, slowing everyone else up. Upon turning back south and heading towards the Terrace I, somehow, recognized William on my right. I tried to swim with him for a little while, as his pace was just the smallest little bit ahead of mine, but lost him after about 150 yards in the sea of Ironmen-to-be. The proximity was becoming less of an issue with each yard passed, but it was still very much a problem; 30 minutes was simply not enough time for the race to seed itself out. I passed the time by sticking to my incredibly easy pace and counting the buoys as they passed. Knowing there were seven of them, I had checkpoints to get to; none of which were very far away at all. Rounding the turn buoy and heading east towards my second lap I struggled to see the time clock. I even, at one point, treaded water for a few seconds trying to catch a glimpse of how much time I’d spent on my first lap. It wasn’t to be, however, and I made my turn with no knowledge of whether I was on pace.

The big story of my final trip away from the Terrace was my bladder. It was obvious I had to use the restroom, but I couldn’t seem to go. It’s a very difficult thing, peeing while swimming. You’re body is completely horizontal, both your feet are engaged and your core is contracting and flexing with each stroke. I kept slowing down and getting closer and closer to actually going, then getting sick of the effort and speeding up. I hoped to hold it all the way until the final turn before going, but I soon lost the ambition and pulled off a little over halfway down the stretch to relieve myself. As far as I was concerned, you should pee in the water as much as possible because that will be the quickest bathroom stop you will make all day.

The field had spread out considerably by this point, and it became more of a swim than a jockey as I neared the red buoy out so far from the swim exit. Turning south, I was really gliding in the water. I took the opportunity to really extend my arms and try to make up some ground. I wouldn’t call it swimming hard, as I had already logged over 3,000 yards, but it was my first chance to really give some effort into it. It worked out very well, too. Just as I saw the northernmost part of the Terrace, I started to feel real fatigue in my arms and shoulders. I kept pushing at that Ironman race-pace extremely happy that I had found the balance between pushing too hard and “dogging it” in fear of pushing too hard. Making the final turn and heading towards the swim exit was a really cool feeling. I didn’t quite get the feeling of accomplishment I thought I may have, I was more concerned with simply being finished with the swim. I was completely intoxicated by the race and wanted to be out of that water and headed up to transition.

Every stroke and every sight got me closer and closer to the finish. Slowly but surely, things began to come into focus. First, it was the big inflatable “Swim Finish” sign. Then, the thousands of spectators began to resemble more of that than the blur of white they appeared to be in the previous hour and a half. 200 yards up, I could see volunteers ripping people out of the water. With patience and mental discipline, I eventually felt the discomfort of fine gravel on my tender feet and found it incredibly hard to find my balance. Clasping a volunteer’s outstretched hand, I was lifted out of Lake Monona and was upright once again. I heard the crowd for the first time as an official Ironman athlete… and it was beautiful…

I take off my goggles and cap and have my immaculate vision once more. Doing the preliminary work of removing my wetsuit as I ran up to the wetsuit strippers, I motion at one of them and he motions back. He instructs me to lay down as he and another volunteer grab the torso of my suit and rip it off my legs. Handing it back to me, I take a few moments to make sure I still have my goggles and cap in the suit’s arm before jogging up towards the helix. The crowd was incredible! All I heard was incoherent screaming. It was a cinderblock wall of families and friends from all corners of the globe craning for a glimpse of their loved ones. Heading up the helix towards T1 seemed to take a really long time, but I really didn’t mind it due to all the excitement.

The flow of transition, which only seemed hazy in the days leading up to it, made complete sense as I was directed into the room with our swim-to-bike bags. Calling out my number down the line, a volunteer handed me my bag before I could even run down there and I headed to the “get naked room” to prepare for the next leg of the race. Athletes swarmed the changing area, and volunteers were all around helping everyone out. Finding a place in the corner near the exit, I began to put my bike equipment on. It was a difficult and slow task as my body was still soaking wet from the swim. A volunteer helped me put on all my clothes and talked with me throughout the process, making me feel so great and so appreciative of them. I knew they were going to help me out so immensely throughout the day. By the time I exited, I had removed the top half of my tri suit and put on bike shorts, a bike jersey with food in the pockets, socks, sunglasses, my helmet, arm coolers, my Garmin (which I then powered on), a disposable camera for taking pictures on the bike, and a bottle of salt capsules. That done, the volunteer put all my swim gear in my bag, tossed it in a receptacle with the rest of the bags and wished me the best of luck on my journey. The exit proved a little confusing, but once I left the changing area it was all quite clear.

It was the better part of a quarter mile from the changing area to the mount line, so I left my shoes off and ran in my socks. Exiting the Terrace onto the parking structure where all the bikes were, I was once again greeted by thousands of screaming spectators. A volunteer quickly slathered my neck in sunscreen and I jogged towards my bike. Having a very low number, my bike was all the way on the opposite side of the deck, near the helix. I could hear Denise and my mom screaming at me as I neared the opposite side of the deck and prepared myself to receive my bike. I pumped my arms and pointed towards them as I jogged past, but only caught the slightest glimpse of them. I got to my bike and a volunteer held it while I put on my shoes. Taking it and thanking him, I clip-clopped towards the mount line. I heard a girl scream “Go Patrick” in front of me and smiled. It took a good amount of time for me to notice that the girl was Ben’s fiancé Meg, but I eventually recognized her as I ran past. Running past that wonderful tape line, I hopped on my bike, punched the start button on my watch and proceeded down the helix.

One down, two to go!

Swim Time: 1:25:07

T1: 10:16

Ironman Wisconsin - The Bike, Part I

2009-09-17T10:01:00.000-07:00

The descent down the helix was fast and exciting, but it was a no-passing zone, so I couldn’t shoot down it as quickly as I may have liked to. The Wisconsin bike course is often and best described as a lollipop. You begin with the stick, a 14 mile trip to Verona, and proceed to make the candy, two 42 mile loops from Verona to Mt. Horeb to Cross Plains and back to Verona. After the second loop, you ride the inverse of the first 14 mile ride and head back towards Downtown. Easy enough, huh?

Immediately coming off the helix and departing north out of town, you spend a fair amount of the first 3 miles on paved bike trails and side streets until you get to the Alliant Energy Center, a premier Expo center for the city of Madison. I suppose you could compare it to the Sommet Center of Nashville. As I approached the center, I recognized a familiar cyclist. I doubt anyone out there will catch this reference, but just a few cyclists ahead of me, I saw Dave from “The Distance,” an amateur movie made about 3 people training for the 2008 IM-MOO. I pulled up next to him and talked to him for a little while. He told me that Josh had injured himself and didn’t train enough and that Tammy had made the opposite mistake and found herself overtrained for the event. He said he was feeling great, that his swim was better than last year and that he thought he would have a great day. Didn’t take long for him to ride away from me, but it was cool to talk to him all the same.

The first 14 miles were, in a word, uneventful. I was very excited to be on the bike and to be in the middle of the race I’ve had my sights on for 3 years. The roads connecting Verona and Madison were horribly paved and were very physically jarring to ride over. It appeared as if the whole road was paved with 12 foot squares of concrete, sealed together by asphalt, except that each square was set at a slightly different height. It was a rough ride. It went by soon enough, though, and I soon found myself in Verona embarking on my first of two loops. It had been obvious to me for some time that I had hyperhydrated the night before as I had peed a dozen times since my wake-up. I had to do so yet again ending “the stick,” so I stopped at the porto-potties at mile 15 to relieve myself; a volunteer actually held my bike up the entire time I was in there and handed it to me afterwards, which was awesome. Grabbing my first bottle of Gatoraid Endurance at the aid station, I knew I was once again racing a WTC race!

It’s unfortunate for me to say this, but the next 15 mile trip to Mt. Horeb was very uneventful as well. I got the first taste of Wisconsin’s rolling farmland and was able to familiarize myself with the idea of being on an Ironman bike course, but there wasn’t much to see or do. I concentrated on staying aero and pushing as hard as my legs would allow me on its rationed energy. I had packed two Larabars and a Powerbar Triple Threat, which I hoped would last me until the Special Needs bag pickup at mile 56. I started eating, kept drinking and took in all the countryside.

After the first true climb on the day, a very easy grade, gradual climb over a mile or so, we made it to the city limits of Mt. Horeb for some much needed excitement. I saw groups of spectators for the first time since leaving Verona and it was a chance to actually go through a town with houses, people, music and cheering. I scanned the roads for anybody I knew, but didn’t see anybody as I motored past. Exiting Mt. Horeb, we made our way to mile 30 and the first part of the course worth discussing in pre-race: Witte and Garfoot Rds. I’ve seen a YouTube video of the “roller coaster” that was this road. It was a stretch of 3 or 4 miles of peaks and valleys as high as hills, but in close proximity as rollers. The road went up and down and up and down again as you transverse the most BEAUTIFUL countryside. I truly, truly enjoyed this part of the course. Each hill I descended carried me up the next one, and the view was more than enough to get me through it. I think the Zipp wheels and the aero helmet helped a lot; I was noticeably faster on the downhills than anyone else around me. I didn’t pedal on a single downhill the entire ride. At the end of Garfoot, I saw another climb I’d seen before in last year’s pro-race recap, which was enough motivation for the nerd in me to get myself up it. Shortly thereafter, just before mile 39, we got to the part of the course I most looked forward to: a one mile descent on the other side of Garfoot Rd. It was much more technical that I expected, and everyone in front of me was braking, so I had to as well. You really needed to, though, unless you had the course memorized and are an incredible bike handler.

With that stretch behind us, we had another ten miles of boring before we saw anyone. This, in my opinion, was the toughest part of the course. This is after the first stretch before Mt. Horeb, so it’s not a new phenomenon. You were low before Mt. Horeb, than got on a high again going through it, only to have it drop you off in another low. Not only that, everyone knew what was coming next: the two hills on Old Sauk Pass Rd and Timber Ln. Watching the miles tick away on my watch and continuing my pace, nutrition and hydration plans, I prepared myself for what was to come. After what seemed like forever, we turned onto the very start of Old Sauk Pass and passed a tent with some people camped out around it. Not very many people and not much excitement, but the first sign of life we’ve seen in a while and the front bookend to the incredible challenge to come. Old Sauk Pass winds around and around as flat as can be for a while, building tension, before it starts to kick up. I don’t know how steep it was, but I’d have to estimate it’s between an 8 and 10 grade for about ¾ of a mile. After it begins to climb, you wind left and start to see spectators. Cowbells rang and people shouted. I broke out my camera to take some pictures as I climbed the hill. Every time I did this, either in the middle of nowhere country or in the midst of the most challenging climbs, EVERYBODY loved it. I got more encouragement than any other part of the course. Being a good climber relative to people of like pacing in most races I do, I ground up the hill in the smallest gear I had and flew past many people. At the top, you got a mile or so to catch your breath before you turned off onto Timber Ln. Not far from the turn was the steepest, toughest hill on the course, referred to by some as “the Rockstar” because of the number of people on it. It was, as promised, reminiscent of the great climbs of the Tour de France, with a 4 person deep wall spanning the entire climb. Talk about a sight; I took a quick picture and was greeted by the roar of drunk college guys in banana suits and drag. “Yeah, Patrick! That’s awesome!” I jumped out of the saddle and hammered up the hill, passing more of my like-pace brethren. The top of the climb came in good time and I relished the excitement, but more so the completion and a chance to catch my breath and pull down my racing heart. It’s going to be really nice finishing this section the second time.

A number of dull miles ensued as we left Cross Plains, bound for Verona. They passed quickly enough the first time, but I could feel the effects of the day thus far; I knew the second loop was going to be hellacious. As my watch ticked closer to 56, it became more and more apparent that we were headed back into town, as we saw more and more spectators and heard more and more noise. I had made a goal for myself to not get lapped on the bike by the pros. I had made it to mile 53 without this happening. If I could make it to the turnoff point where you finish your “stick” as you head back into Madison, then I would have accomplished it. Mile 53.5, a mile and a half from the turnoff, I saw a Ford Fusion with the official Ironman race time, right at 5:00:00. “Cool” I thought, nothing thinking of it. Moments later, the men’s leader comes rocketing past me. Not far behind him were the top 6 men, one of whom was defending champion Chris McDonald. I yelled encouragement at him as he passed, but was a little upset at not making my goal. Oh, well, it was kind of a random, stupid one.

Entering Verona (a bit before the previous excitement) was really a cool experience. The crowd walls got thicker, and they had blocked off the course from traffic with barricades and sponsor’s signs. Going through the Timex bike bonus was breathtakingly awesome. It was just a surreal experience; in that moment, I was experiencing the awesome power of Ironman. Going through the aid station in Verona, a couple miles from the turnoff, I was refilling my Gatoraid when I passed my cheering section. Half of them had missed me going through, and I had a full Gatoraid bottle in my mouth as I passed, so I couldn’t say anything or even acknowledge that I saw them. Worst spot possible to try to catch my attention, but I kept a mental note of where they were to make sure I’d get to see them the next time around.

Passing the turnoff point, I celebrated not getting passed by any of the women at least, and began to scan ahead for the special needs bags. Eventually, we got to them (around mile 59, actually) and I got another awesome experience, tearing through the entirety of it while people pulled off to get their bags. It was like a Tour de France feeding zone; it was mass chaos and confusion as people pulled off to get their bags and pulled back into the lane of travel. Everyone was shouting to get out of the way, or that they were passing on the left. My bag was all the way at the end, so I got through the commotion and picked up my bag. I stopped to use the closest porto potty for the second time on the bike and realized that it was the same one I had stopped at on the first loop. There was a line this time, so I took a second to stretch my back, which I wanted to do anyway. I didn’t really mind the rest all that much! After a quick break, I pulled out the additional Larabar and Powerbar Triple Threat, shoved them in my jersey pocket and shoved my Mom’s homemade chocolate chip oatmeal cookies in my Bento Box before heading out on loop two. I was already tired. I looked forward to enjoying the sweet vacation from energy bars, but I knew, as everyone else on that course, that the second loop was going to hurt like crap.

Ironman Wisconsin - The Bike, Part II

2009-09-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

I don’t really know what to say about the 2nd lap. It was the same course as the first, and everything was exactly as it was three hours ago. That is to say, the same as it was one octave of exhaustion below the first. The boring stretch to Mt. Horeb seemed longer and more boring the second time around, but I still had relatively high levels of energy in the tank. Eating the cookies helped my mood, but it wasn’t quite the treat I expected it to be. Energy bars taste like garbage when you eat them in everyday situations, but when you’re exercising, you really do develop a taste for them. At the time, it’s exactly what your body needs to yield the best results possible. My mom’s cookies just didn’t do it for me. They were sweet, they were delicious, they were soft and thin and chocolaty. In the end, though, they were just too sweet. I ate on them for about an hour and a half before throwing away what was left of them. All I could taste was the vanilla extract. The thought of continuing to eat them made me grimace. So, I went back to the bars and enjoyed the variety, very satisfied with the diversity and another hour and a half of proper nutrition in the books.

Riding through Mt. Horeb the final time was nice in the sense that I knew going into it that I would never see it again. This became a common theme throughout the second loop. It’s unclear to me if and when I’ll ever be back. I may do IM-MOO again some time down the road, but I know my current goal is to do a tour of all the American M-Dots. So, last time in a decade. In any case, it was great to see the familiar streets and people. Witte and Garfoot were certainly harder the first time, but they flew past once again with but a glance of the gorgeous countryside along it. The mile-long plummet on the other side was just as nice, perhaps more so because I need the rest even more. The ensuing 15 mile commute to Cross Plains and Old Sauk Pass was much worse the second time and I started to notice my pace dropping off. It was getting harder to stay in the aero position and I found myself coming out of it whenever possible. My butt began to hurt so much that being out of my aero position was just as painful, so I had to find that balance.

Old Sauk Pass Rd and Timber Ln. were so much worse. My body was so roasted after the roughly 85 miles completed thus far. The crowd had thinned and it just wasn’t as magical an experience. I passed several people on both climbs just as before. I’m reasonably confident that not only did I pass more people on the second lap than the first, but I got more comments about my pace from both racers and spectators on the second go-around. They both hurt worse, though. The Timber Ln. climb was hell on wheels. I could only get my heart rate up to about 185, but I was going to failure. A semi-permanent grimace was etched on my wide open mouth as I struggled, out of the saddle, up the climb. Motivated only by what spectators were left and seeing the top of the hill oh-so-terribly close, I got my fragile body up the hill. I swear I felt 50 pounds heavier the second go-round. Exiting Cross Plains, the next 10 miles of boring were expected, but not welcomed. By this point, I was in real awe of not only my mileage, but my average pace thus far. I was certainly on the top end of what I considered possible going into the race. I could limp home and still make my goal time. I was tired and very sore, and I had my doubts about how I’d handle the marathon, but I was go excited at the idea of getting off this damn bike.

Verona finally appeared in the distance, just as it had before, and was even more beautiful that the first time. I took special care to quickly exchange bottles at the aid station and hug the far barricade so I would have an opportunity to feed off my cheering section. It had thinned some, but Denise and my mom were still there toughing it out, and their cheers gave me what energy I needed to make it to the turnoff point. The second trip through, I noticed some sidewalk-chalk graffiti with my name on it, which was a very cool sight to see.

Turning off onto the short 14 mile trip back into town was so relieving, but I had certainly forgotten two things about this little stretch: there are a couple climbs worth suffering over and the roads were so rough! The climbs came and went with little agony, but after 105 miles of riding the rough roads were almost unbearable. I slowed down considerably and simply grunted my way over the street, occasionally glancing at the distance reading on my Garmin, and watching it tick closer to 112. I knew I had to sweat out these damn poor streets until I hit the Alliance Energy Center at mile 109, then we’d be off the main roads for good. More patience was needed and drawn forcibly from my mind, but I eventually saw the building in the distance and eagerly dropped off John Nolen Blvd. Going around the Energy Center, retracing my steps along the side streets and the cool-as-hell bike trail hugging Lake Monona I knew I was just moments away from Downtown. Then came the stunning sight I’ve wanted to see for the last 6 and a half hours: the Monona Terrace. As I approached the great building, I threw my fists up and smiled in accomplishment. I put my bike into my easiest gear and spun up the helix, listening to the faint roar of the crowd from the top level. Finally rolling around the last turn, I entered T2 and handed off my bike. A little wobbly at first, I jogged my way into the Terrace to the music of my family screaming my name.

T2 was even better than T1. It wasn’t nearly as crowded and I got to sit down. There was far less clothing to put on, and the task was easier with dry skin. I was much more coherent and had a much deeper conversation with the volunteer helping me change. He was a big cyclist who was earning his spot to race at Wisconsin next year. I shared with him that I had volunteered last year, and how exciting it is to finally be doing it. After getting fully dressed, I bid him farewell, but stopped and stretched out my abs before exiting. I was in no huge hurry to hustle out of T2 and start my 26.2 mile death-march, so I didn’t really do anything in much of a hurry. As soon as I got outside, a volunteer slathered me up one more time with sunscreen and I hit the porto potties again before I embarked. Everyone in my cheering section with a camera had multiple opportunities to snap pictures of me exiting the porto potty and running towards the start of the run. I was so excited to see them again and so glad to be off the bike. I’d found my running legs before even exiting the transition area and knew that after another 26.2 agonizingly painful miles that I’d forever be an Ironman. At that juncture, just as I crossed the timing mat and reset my Garmin to record my running time, I was ready for the sacrifice. “Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.”

Bike Time: 6:58:55

T2: 9:20

Ironman Wisconsin, The Run - Part I

2009-09-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

From the moment I had started the run, I reverted to a pacing strategy where I’d jog for 4 minutes and walk 1. I had received many pieces of advice telling me to do so, most recently from Nate. When it all came down to it, my opinion on the matter was that this was “the Ironman Shuffle;” this is going to take a really, really long time no matter what pacing strategy I chose. It gave me no benefit to pretend otherwise. I had to disappoint some volunteers early on, to see a racer walking with 26 miles to go, but most people who knew anything about racing felt much less pity when I told them my rationale. Quickly into my “run” I altered my plan include walking the entirety of every aid station, the entirety of every reasonable hill and any time my heart rate went over zone 2. The latter did not happen a single time, because my body simply was not capable of that kind of effort at that juncture, but my pace was right around 13 minutes/mile; a pace I thought I could hold the rest of the day with the number of walk breaks I was taking.

Immediately leaving T2, I was able to bear witness to the pro men finish. I had missed the top 3 or so, but I did get to see Chris MacDonald, a hero of mine, finishing up his long day at the office. Some miles up, I was passed by the 2nd place woman, and then, about a hundred feet behind her, I saw defending women’s champion Hilary Biscay in 3rd. I yell out to Biscay that she’s my favorite female pro triathlete hoping that’d help her kick, but I guess it didn’t. I think I had missed the first female finisher in the porto potty, as I had to stop one more time within the first mile to drop off some solids. I can ride a bike literally all day and be fine, but the instant I start to run my body immediately goes code brown. It was like that all year.

The first 5k heading up towards Camp Randall Stadium was horribly winding and didn’t seem to have much rhyme or reason to it. It seemed to me that they were just stretching out an otherwise simple path to make the loop an even 13.1 miles. My Garmin, just as in training, beeped at me every half hour to remind me to take in something substantial, and I drank Gatoraid at every aid station, which was the caloric load I was accustomed to. The issue was that it was not the nutritional plan I was accustomed to. Throughout the last half of my Ironman run training I was using EFS Liquid Energy Shots, made by First Endurance Nutrition. It has the caloric density of a gel, but the consistency is a liquid; I suppose roughly the thickness of hot maple syrup. It’s also packed with electrolytes and other good frou-frou stuff; they package them in 5 oz flasks and one liter refill bottles. After my last (what I would call) long run of training, I had placed both empty flasks in my sink before crashing hard in my bed. My roommate’s fiancé, not knowing what they were, threw them both away. MOAB, the local bike shop that sold them to me, were sold out of them when I had left for Madison. Turns out, MOAB is the only dealer in a 50 mile radius that sells them. What’s more, there’s only one bike shop in all of Madison that carries that specific product, and they were sold out of them. Being that the Ironman is sponsored by Powerbar, all that was available on course or at the expo were Powerbar gels. I loathe Powerbar gels. But, in a survival situation, you take what you’re given. I was afraid of what this may do to the end of my day.

Approaching Camp Randall Stadium was an awesome spectacle. After almost completely circumnavigating it, you eventually turn right into the stadium, perform a loop around the far corners of the playing field and head back out the door you came. It just so happened that I had a walk break just before entering, and it took me right at 4 minutes to run around the stadium, which gave me another walk break immediately upon leaving. A volunteer was telling me how he was “kicking himself for not bringing a football” to toss to us as we passed. I remarked that if he threw a football at me right then, I’d probably just let it hit me in the face; tired did not even begin to explain it.

Exiting Camp Randall, we headed north and very quickly found ourselves on the Howard Temin bike path, a wonderfully shaded, flat, smoothly paved pedestrian pathway right on the edge of Lake Mendota. I was warned that the trip in the opposite direction seemed like it went on forever, but the eastbound direction seemed very nice, indeed. Besides that, I knew the only big climb on the run course on Observatory Dr. was coming up. I mean, come on, Observatory Drive? You KNOW that thing is going to be a wall. Nearing mile 5, I saw it and began to walk up very slowly. No big efforts here, the thing was steep and very long. The opposite side was very nice, I was able to ramp my body up to speeds of 9 to 8 minute miles descending down. Very shortly thereafter, you come to the best part of the whole course: the turnaround on State St., marking roughly the halfway point on the loop. Similar to the big climb on Timber Ln., people crowded the streets 3 and 4 deep and screamed encouragement at everyone. The street was covered sidewalk to sidewalk in chalk graffiti and music blared out of the official Ironman speakers. It was a huge pick up, and I had a very long spell of jogging from the start to the turnaround and all the way back to the next aid station when we left it behind us.

After all the excitement on State St., I was a little happy to reach the Temin Bike Path once more, en route to the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr. The serenity of the water, the wonderfully cooling shade and the flat, gentle expansion on the path gave me a chance to really let my mind come down off all the excitement of the day, which was bordering on overload. Right around when the straight and narrow began to wear on me, we came to the halfway point of the straight stretch and began running past the inspirational signs our friends and family had made for us in the Janus tent during the pre-race expo. The signs literally stretched a mile in both directions, and I was able to recognize one that Denise had made me along the way. Eventually, I neared the Ford Motivational Mile in the opposite direction which gave me some motivation to make it back there in a short amount of time. From there, it wasn’t a half mile to the turnaround. Making it back to the big Ford display, I crossed the mat and eagerly looked up to see what inspirational sign my friends had left for me. After a few steps, I read “197. P. Allen. Fetus Fold!” Damn you, Ben. Damn you.

Knowing the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr. left you about 4 miles from Downtown, I was given new life. Jogging back into town, I was greeted by a guy I didn’t think I’d see all day. Jeremy from the forums recognized my last name on my tri-suit and ran up to me. He talked about how his bike had suffered some abuse in the days leading up to the race and how it just annihilated any chance of him accomplishing his goals. He went on to say that he started the run in a waddle and wasn’t sure if he could even finish the event. He and I soon realized we had similar athleticism left and similar remaining goals, so we stuck together and discussed the day away. My conversation with him adequately distracted me from the ensuing miles, and we eventually found ourselves past Camp Randall Stadium, on short route back to the turnaround Downtown and halfway through our run. I started to feel real fatigue for the first time on the run about two miles from the halfway point, but the wall soon came crashing down and we soon bore witness to the other side of State St., less than a mile from the turn. We ran past Jeremy’s family first, and my sister parked up not too much further. I dropped off my sunglasses with her as the sun was about a half hour from setting and continued around the Capitol to Martin Luther King Blvd, the site of the finish line and the halfway-point turnaround. I didn’t think I had “earned” my Ironman finish yet, and I was so excited to see my cheering section again that I got a huge surge of adrenaline when I passed. It had actually grown since the start of the run, as Binkley and Beth were also Downtown with homemade signs and fresh lungs. I shouted and waved at them and got that energy back ten-fold. Crossing the timing mat at the halfway point, I noticed it had taken us just under 3 hours to do the first half. My body still felt relatively good, all things considered; I still had some tricks up my sleeve for the end of the run. I could soon abandon my gels plan and switch to the warm salty chicken broth and sweet, caffeinated “defizzled” (read: flat) coke, which would please my tired palate and provide easily burnable rocket fuel to push me towards the finish. Fully expecting to jog the whole last 4 miles, I motioned over to my cheering section that I expected to be back at 9:45.

Heading back out of Downtown on the same route as before, a volunteer handed Jeremy and I the ever familiar glowsticks. “You have to have these to continue running.” It’s a safety issue, allowing motorists to see you. It also provides quite a spectacle to see the beaten but valiant few who struggle on well into night. This was a description that suited Jeremy and I well as we plod along back towards Camp Randall. Turning back and heading the opposite direction would mean that the day was over, that I had seen all there is to see, and that I was an Ironman. After 3 years of waiting, all I had left was 2:45 of suffering left to endure before I could get on with my lifetime of pride.

Ironman Wisconsin - The Run, Part II

2009-09-17T09:34:00.000-07:00

Leaving Downtown Madison for the last time, it didn’t take long for me to realize that our pacing was slowing down. After our extended jogging session leaving the turnaround ended, we were doing 13 min/mi despite expending the effort of 10:30s. We did a stint of walking until we neared State St and saw Jeremy’s family once more. Jeremy gave his smile and wave and dropped off his sunglasses as well as we headed away from the excitement and into the lonely. Our pace was slowing, but we kept to the plan and hoped we could bank enough energy for a kick at the end. Having seen the course just 3 hours earlier, we were very proficient at rationing our jogging strides to coincide with the course’s small hiccups. Bound for Camp Randall Stadium once more we pushed our jogging stints as far as they would go, stopping because we had to more often than because our 4 minutes had expired.

Eventually the 5k mark on the loop came and went and we entered the Stadium for our very cool second loop around. We jogged the whole thing, but it was much slower and more painful this time. Scarcely making it out of the stadium, we stopped for another walk. My body has never been in motion for this long and I could sense problems over the horizon. Jeremy had given me a couple capsules of chewable Pepto-Bismol at the turnaround, which I took although I was not suffering GI issues yet. Round about the 16 mile marker, on the other side of the Stadium, I started to feel a sinister process brewing in a very unhappy stomach. Wishing it away provided a weak defense and over the next mile it grew to full-blown nausea.

The nausea manifested itself over a half mile or so. Once it had matured, it slowed me down to a crawl. Jeremy stuck by my side and talked me through every uncomfortable step. I tried many things to reverse the process: I tried sucking on peppermint candies, I tried forcing down water, I tried eating nothing at all. The damage had already been done from lack of variety in my day’s nutrition plan. As night fell in Madison, I continued to slow Jeremy down more and more along the Temin Bike Path. The shade and view of the water were no longer noticeable under the veil of darkness, so it didn’t help to quell the anger in my stomach. I limped along with Jeremy, doing more walking than jogging, until we got to the great climb on Observatory Dr. Jeremy was recognized by another racer who lived close to him and they began talking. As they walked and talked, I faded back. Jeremy began barking encouragement at me from above: “Come on Patrick! Keep going, man!” Soon their conversation soon turned to their favorite races. One of them brought up a race in Buffalo and all I could think about was buffalo sauce, buffalo chicken tenders and hot wings; the conversation was making me more ill by the second. I stopped and held my knees. Then began walking again only to have to stop once more. Jeremy tried to pull me up the hill with words of motivation, but my body was failing; I had to let him go. At the top of the hill I decided to jog down the other side. Coming down the hill, I caught Jeremy and his new friend once more, but they quickly dropped me again as we neared State St. Thus setting the stage for what was next to come.

I think it probably took the better part of an hour to go the 2 miles from the start of Observatory Hill to the completion of State St. heading back towards the turnaround on Lake Mendota. I could not eat, could not drink, could not think of anything, not even finishing. My whole world was forcing back the urge to vomit and trying to comb the nausea to the side. I wanted nothing more than to run to the finish and puke my brains out. My jog now resembled more of a weak limp, but I headed down State St. towards the turnaround as fast as my body would allow me. Hitting the turnaround, I punched m y Garmin to record my second-to-final split of the day. I was a mere 7 miles from the finish. Leaving behind what was left of the crowd at that time, I neared the aid station at the end of the road feeling worse than I had all day. I had to use the restroom and remembered from previous experiences of, -clears throat-, “excessive consumption,” that using the restroom often helped my nausea. The one porto potty I saw immediately was occupied, so I sat on the sidewalk and laid on my back. This was a frightening alarm to race volunteers and local police. I had 2 or 3 people come to check on me, but my weak response of pointing to the closed door of the porto potty and a mumble were enough to dissolve any immediate danger. I’m sure they kept a close eye on me, though, as it was clear to anyone who saw me that I was near my body’s breaking point.

Eventually, I noticed two more porto potties across the street and forced myself to my feet. Hobbling over to one that was vacant, I sat down, locked the door and rested my head on the side. And waited. I would have stayed in there as long as it took. I had finished using the toilet, but I had no will to move, no reason to do the death-march any longer. I sat there and collected my thoughts. I tried to use meditation and breathing techniques to slow my body down and get over the nausea. Eventually, I determined I was not going to feel any better, so I put my suit back on and walked out down the street through the aid station. I had made it roughly halfway through the station when I had to stop and hold my knees once more. A well-meaning volunteer asked me if I was okay, asked me if I needed anything, asked me what was going on. I told him that I was about to vomit. He left me alone for a time before offering me some bratwurst. I don’t know if he offered it to me before I had told him about my nausea, but it really didn’t help the situation. I started walking again for about a step before passing the point of no return. I sprinted over to the side of the road to what I thought was a trash can. Turns out it was a can filled with cool water and sponges, long since abandoned with the setting sun. I grabbed the can with both hands and vomited. It was an extremely forceful experience; my hands dug into the side of the can and my feet lifted off the ground. As I emptied out the contents of my stomach into this can all I could taste was orange Gatoraid and gummy bears. That’s all that was in there. The spell continued through dry heaving once everything had been expelled. I continued to hold onto the can for a moment. Nausea still dwelled in my gut for the longest of moments before evaporating completely. I may as well have been cured of leprosy. After a few seconds post-evacuation, I was clear and ready to run again.

Before I continue, there is something I need to clarify. I don’t know how to say it; I’m so frightened that it happened at all. This is going to be difficult to write, perhaps more so than it was to experience. As I mentioned before, my body made a complete 180 after vomiting and I felt completely better. The nausea that had so tortured me for the last hour had lifted and I was ready to move again completely unrestrained. Well, the key phrase was that a couple pregnant seconds had to pass between vomiting and feeling better. Oh, God! How to write this? This is the epitome of everything I’ve been afraid of for the last 3 years, the most evil manifestation I could possibly have foreseen.

There I was, holding the trash can, having seen the last of my running nutrition over the last 4 hours. My vomiting stint was completed, but the nausea was still there. I picked my head up slightly and began to assess the situation. Vomiting was my last option. Having done that and still not feeling better, only one option remained. The only thing I could do at that moment was to find a space on the sidewalk and lie down. I would lie down until someone came and got me. I had all but ruled out feeling better, so for that eternity of a second or two, I took my hands off the trash can and prepared myself to lie down. I was not waiting to feel better; I was waiting for someone to call EMS.

I quit.

At that moment, in that situation, I knew I did not have what it took to run another 6.5 miles. No amount of time was long enough. I could not force myself through this anymore. No matter how long I trained, no matter how long I’d been racing that day, no matter how much I had put into this, I couldn’t go anymore. So I quit. For that moment in time I had DNF’d. And there was nothing in the world I could do about it. The moment, though, did pass. I did feel better, and I did keep going. But the horror of that realization; it will haunt me forever.

The next 5.5 miles were just the horrid death-march I’ve only seen twice in my life: at the end of WildFlower and at the end of the Country Music Marathon. I would jog with a lean and then walk. Time stood still. Only minimal progress was made. I had no idea how slow my pacing was, but I didn’t care; I was more than willing to take what my body would give me. I had no worries about missing the cutoff time and being disqualified and I did not fear my stomach acting up again as there was nothing in it. All that remained was the longest 10k of my life and nothing to make it any less repulsive. The never ending trek down the Temin Bike path towards the turnaround on Lake Mendota Dr and the Ford Motivational Mile eventually parted ways and I was interested to see what the board would read this time. Passing the giant Ford semi, the screen read “197 P. Allen. Fetus Fold.” once again. What to say about it? Nothing. There are only 4 miles left. Next stop: Camp Randall.

I caught Jeremy somewhere on the way back to the stadium and told him what had happened. I told him about the hill on Observatory and the pit-stop on State St. He shared that his friend soon dropped him and he planned to walk most of the remaining time into Downtown. I walked and talked weakly with him for a little while, but soon the time came to bid farewell to him. Saying, simply, “I gotta go man,” Jeremy wished me well and said he’d see me at the finish line if not before. More than likely not before.

I had run past 4 or 5 aid stations before I tried eating again. I would get into a habit of taking one pretzel and washing it down with water. It was a less than ideal nutrition plan, but it was manageable and got something in my system. I knew deep down that it would not solve my problems, but something is always better than nothing. At one point I also tried a cup of broth and a peppermint candy. Both seemed to work for a time, but not for very long. I trudged on. Inching my way closer to Downtown I thanked what few spectators were still there and kept hobbling my way there. Past the Temin Bike Path. Past Camp Randall Stadium. Past the quick elevation changes along the pedestrian walkway. My body was out of energy, and any kind of effort was simply a physiological impossibility. I marched along the course guided only by orange cones and lines on the ground. I was not even motivated to finish, not motivated by the crowd or the shirt or the medal or the tattoo. I had no motivation. But, frankly, as long as I was moving forward I didn’t need any. I marched and marched and marched, jogging as much as I could, walking when I had to, stopping once or twice to center my thoughts, just wondering how much farther could this course possibly span. I knew I was getting closer and closer to the turn off onto State Street. Every street looked like State and nobody seemed to know how far away it was. My Garmin was still on, miraculously, and I checked it periodically to see that I was 24.5 miles into my run. It had to be close.

Eventually, the road bended to the left and I saw it. Couldn’t see the street sign, but I just knew it was it. I turn right onto State St. As I’m turning, a spectator told me to look up. All I saw was the Capitol Building, standing tall, fully illuminated with floodlights from below. “You’re almost there!” The sight of the building made me weep. I hobbled up the uphill street whimpering, tears in my eyes. Every spectator was cheering me on, encouraging me by name. They could see my face; they knew how emotional it was for me. I was passing walkers; I knew I would not walk again. My whimpers became louder when I turned onto Mifflin in Madison’s Downtown Square and ran past the final aid station a half mile from the finish. I ripped off the glow sticks on my race belt and struggled to hold back the tears, struggled to dry my eyes for the magic that was the turn onto MLK Blvd. I heard “All Around Me” by Flyleaf play in my head. It was exactly what I had envisioned the finish would be like: an out of body experience. The energy of the crowd all around me, my outstretched fingers feeling the finish line on them, the awe and disbelief of finishing the toughest single day endurance event in the world. As I neared the end of the street, more spectators cheered. “Just two more turns! Just two more turns and you’re there!” The crowd was growing now, and getting much louder. The darkness vanished into white light and incoherent noise. I turn onto Martin Luther King Blvd. I see my family. I see my friends. I see the finish. “I’m alive!” I scream “I’m alive! I’m alive!”

Running under the black Ford inflatable sign, I knew I was on camera. I was in the finish line chute, and I was all by myself. Adrenaline surged through my body. I roared with excitement. I jumped for joy. I pumped up the crowd and turned them into a frenzy. I slapped high fives as I neared the finish. There’s no tape, which disappoints me but takes nothing away from the moment. The finish line is just in front of me. Cameramen bend down and get ready to take my finish line picture. I cross the line, close my eyes, lift my arms and give out the biggest, manliest roar of my life. I’m an Ironman. Oh, myyyyyyy Gooooooooood!

Run Time: 6:43:40

Total Race Time: 15:27:18 (A new personal record! haha)

Two volunteers soon catch me and walk me from the finish line through the finisher’s area. She briefs me on where the food is. She asks me my t-shirt size and hands me my finisher’s shirt. She grabs my finisher’s hat and hands it to me. She directs me to the volunteer handing out medals and allows her to place it around my neck. She asks me if I’m okay and directs me to a photo backdrop where they get a finisher’s picture of you in all your new schwag.

Exiting the finish line area, I find my sister and hug her. Then I see my mom. I hug her as well. And cry. I cry harder than I’ve cried in my adult life. Tears and spit and snot pool on her shoulder. It’s over. It’s all over. Denise comes down and I hug her. Then Binkley and Beth. I stay in the area and take pictures for a long time before heading back to the bleachers to watch the last hour of finishers. 20 minutes later, I see Ben finish. I do my best to catch him in the finisher’s chute, but I never did see him until the next day. I stay until the last official finisher just minutes before midnight. Then, midnight strikes, the day ends, and I’m ready to head back to the hotel. Nothing left to say. Nothing left to think. Nothing to wish were different. I’m an Ironman. And that’s all I’ve ever hoped to be.

New Orleans 70.3

2009-04-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

Oschner Ironman 70.3 New Orleans
1.2 mi swim -> 56 mi bike -> 13.1 mi run

I woke up and it was still dark outside. Well, of course it was, but was it the middle of the night? I’ve already had to get up once for a bathroom break. Wake up is at 5:00, what time is it? 4:50. Good thing, I can feel my heartbeat in my throat; there is no getting back to sleep. I kill some time checking email and text message conversations until I hear the alarm start to wail. Already very much into the attitude of the day, I slip on my heart rate monitor chest strap, my bike jersey, tri shorts and sandals. After a bathroom detour, I grab my Ensure and head down to the patio-area of our hotel for some reflection. Sitting on a swing and eating breakfast, I contemplate the magnitude of the day. This is my first attempt at racing a half ironman. I’ve completed 2, one in 8:25 and an easier one in 7:35, both of which were battles of attrition. My plan is to go sub-6. My training has not supported such a goal, but I’m going to try anyway.

Race day weather’s been all over the place the last week. Cool and calm to hot and humid to harsh thunderstorms. When the moment came the clouds parted and promised little chance of rain. It’s a good thing, too. Riding in the rain would be a recipe for disaster (see Music City Triathlon). I finish breakfast and meet up with a guy who volunteers to drive me and another racer to race site. His name is Doug, and he was going to race but injured his shoulder, so he’s now volunteering for the race. He hurries me through one more bathroom break, then I toss my gear in his car and we’re off. Doug used to live in Knoxville and is a big-time Vols fan. I express my indifference, and he replies “well, we can’t all be perfect.” The three of us talk triathlon all the way to T1. We get there something less than an hour before sunrise, and it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. Tour buses and cars everywhere, Lake Ponchartrain in the background, and the parking lot to UNO’s Research campus in the foreground. The parking lot is transition, and there are almost 3,000 bikes covering almost every square inch. Skylights coming from the middle of transition dance in the heavens and rock music blasts. Then all I could notice was bikes. An ocean of athletes and their bikes. Blue bikes, red bikes, big bikes, small, Cervelos, Felts, Giants, Kuotas, Quintana Roos, Argon 18s, every kind I’d ever heard of and then some. Doug lets us out and we head off. I think we have plenty of time. (We don’t).

Body marking is pretty smooth. It’s already set up, and 75% of athletes are already through it. I get marked up, say goodbye to my fellow racer and carpool buddy, and head to my rack. I checked in my bike the day before, so it’s all set up and I already know where my rack is. It’s really hard to navigate the area, so I’m glad I don’t have to search. One girl was frantically looking for hers. I assist in looking for a while to no avail. She goes off and looks for someone in charge; don’t know if she ever found it. I have to use the restroom one more time, so I get in line. I might have had plenty of time when we got there, but I proceed to spend the next 20 minutes waiting for a porto potty. I know I’m on a bit of a time crunch, but I force myself not to worry. I’ll get everything set up before transition closes at 6:45. After that, it’ll be another hour before my wave goes. I get through with the line, set up my transition, fill my aerodrink and fuelbelt bottles and am literally walking out of transition, wetsuit and drop bag in tow, when the announcer proceeds to kick everyone out.

It’s about a 1.5 mile walk to swim start; the swim is a straight point-to-point line against the wind, and the beach trail winds a little bit. I use the walk for visualization: find your pace, breathe, sight; get out of the water, get your goggles off, your cap, use the wetsuit stripper; put on your socks, helmet, glasses, shorts… I make it through the entire race 3 or 4 times over and it puts me at ease. There’s a sea of people walking to the swim start and I people watch the entire way there. There are a real rainbow of people here, all shapes and sizes, all colors, different sexual orientations, all different parts of the country, all ages, all here for the same reason. To explore the limits of their athletic ability.

I’m about a half mile away from the start when the pros catch me on their swim. They are swimming towards me, towards T1, so I hurry to the water’s bank to watch them pass. I can’t make out faces, but I know it’s a stacked pro field: (2007 Ironman World Champion) Chris McCormack is #1, 2008 Ironman Wisconsin champion Chris McDonald, uber bike Chris Lieto, 2008 Olympian Brian Fleishmann, and 2008 Ironman Arizona runner-up TJ Tollakson are all racing for early-season gold. The women were stacked even tighter; there’s former Olympian and World Champion Johanna Zeiger, Texan and all around babe Desiree Ficker, 2008 World Champion runner-up Yvonne Van Vlerken (though she didn’t race), multiple Ironman champion Heather Gollnick, Ironman champion and Cystic Fibrosis survivor Lisa Bentley, uber runner Kate Major, uber biker Lindsey Corbin, 2008 Ironman Lake Placid champion Caitlin Snow and one of the most decorated and experienced Ironwomen in the history of the sport: the one and only Natasha Badmann. Had only I known who all was racing! At the time, the only one I knew about was Macca. Hooray for big ticket, branded Ironman races!

The pros had started, that means the race had started, which means I should begin my pre-race playlist. I pop in my headphones and start to get my game face on. I pass the porto potties, the drop bag location, pick up my timing chip, and make it over to the start in time to see Nate in corral. He’s too far away for much intimate conversation, but we share a word and a wave before I head back to the drop bag spot. I’m getting changed as my playlist is winding down. As the last few notes of “Enfilade” by At the Drive-In rang in my head I was about to blow with nervous energy. I drop off my bag, almost forgetting my cap and goggles, and head to corral less than 10 minutes before the start. The 24 & under age group weaves their way through the corral and get in the water moments before our start. I get some water in my suit, do that-thing-that-you-do-to-warm-your-suit-up, and begin to lasso my racing heart. Trying to find a decent set of feet, I ask the guy next to me how long he expects to take. “My goal is 4:15.” I meant on the swim, but that answers my question well enough; that guy’s way too fast. We’re alerted that we have 90 seconds left, 1 minutes, 30 seconds, 10, then with one surge of adrenaline ignited only by that loud piercing blast of the airhorn, we were off at 7:48am.

The water was slightly cool to the touch, but not at all uncomfortable. 68 degrees at race start. It was slightly salty to the taste, as I made it all of 100 yards before swallowing a mouthful of it. My first thought was that I just drank water with 70 ppm of fecal matter. Gross. Going against the wind was a task, but the wind was pretty calm and the water was not choppy, which was nice. I couldn’t find anybody to draft off of, so I settled into my own pace and started plugging away. The Clearwater-chasers took off and were never seen again, but I kept pace with several of my green-capped, similar-aged compatriots. I knew there were 13 buoys, 6 yellow, a red buoy representing the halfway point and 6 more yellow. I tried sighting for a while and just saw a sea of caps. The buoys were over 150 yards apart, so I couldn’t really see much of the course in front of me. Eventually, I realized that I could keep on course without sighting, simply by gauging my placement relative to shore (when breathing on my right) and the buoys (when on my left). That worked well enough for a little while, but soon found myself zigging and zagging, adding several yards to the course. I’m still not all that good in open water.

I’m wondering how far I’ve gone as I’m swimming along. I don’t remember passing the red buoy yet, but I haven’t really been looking for it. After another few hundred yards, I catch the red buoy on a sight. I’m halfway there, and not really sick of swimming yet. I have a much better idea of how much farther I have to go for the rest of it, because I start counting the buoys. There’s one buoy; 2, 1/3 of the way there; etc. I can’t help but wonder how fast I’m going. I feel like I should be going a lot faster than I did last year. I really worked hard at my swimming over the winter and knew that really killing the swim is a vital ingredient to my ultimate goal of finishing in less than 6 hours. After some more flailing, several kicks, a punch to the face, some singing in my head and not much else of interest, I leave the 6th and final buoy behind me. I can see just over a retaining wall that swimmers seem to be veering off to the right into a little alcove. All I can see is the wall and a line of orange buoys steering swimmers into the nook. After making the turn and a little swimming in water 1.5 feet deep, I can see the banner marking the swim exit. As I get into the shallow water, I dolphin dive to shore and high kick my way out of there. There’s no timer and I have no idea how long it took me to do the swim. All I know is that I’m out of breath, but still feeling really good about myself.

Predicted swim time: 32.5-40 minutes
Actual swim time: 39:17

*Note* I did not bring a waterproof watch, and was never given any idea how long my swim had taken. As far as I knew, I was 35 minutes or faster.

As per my plan, I get my goggles and cap off, and get the top half of my wetsuit down to my waist. Wetsuit strippers are there, so I lay down in front of one for some assistance. With one jerk, the stripper slips it right off. How cool is that? That was so easy! I grab it from her and hustle to transition. A great sportsman alerts me about 5 steps from the pavement that I had dropped my goggles. She picked them up and handed them to me. How grateful was I! They would have been long gone otherwise. I find my bike with no problems. Denise is just outside the gate snapping pictures. I’m panting so hard I can barely talk. I toss on all my clothes and gear and head out towards bike out. I punch my Garmin to start the timer, cross the mount line and begin the bike; the discipline I’ve completely ignored in training and the discipline which would be the deciding factor in my success.

T1: 2:50

I didn’t make it 100 yards before I missed my first turn on the bike. I didn’t really think it would happen with such a big race, but I have to quickly negotiate a right hand turn for our initial out-and-back down down the beach. My Garmin almost fell off my bike from where I had jerryrigged it in between some cables, but I managed to grab it and slap it on my wrist. Very early in the bike, less than 5 miles in, there was a spectator with encouraging words branding a sign stating simply “at least the swim is over.” “You’re freakin’ right! That swim was terrible,” remarked a rider next to me. All I could think about was “what was so terrible about it? It was a straight shot with no wake.” I settle into my aero position and begin to cruise.

I’m happy to report that my Garmin did not give me any of the problems it had during the Natchez Trace triathlon, and I found the thing to be incredibly useful for pacing. On the initial out pattern heading east on Haynes I was cruising at or above my 18 mph goal pace in high zone 1. This was EXACTLY where I wanted to be. I could not believe that this was going so well. It spiked only when we crossed over the bridges; there were 3 undulations along Haynes that forced some spinning of gears, but the views were well worth it. Without any effort at all and with no discomfort of any kind, we turned onto Hwy 47 around mile 14. I was excited to see 14, because that meant ¼ of the ride already knocked out. The water stop was a welcomed sight, and I managed to pick up a Gatorade bottle without any real problems. I sucked what was left of my watered-down Lemon-Lime Gatorade available pre-race and poured in what was handed to me: Orange Gatorade Endurance in a squeeze bottle. I programmed my Garmin to beep every 15 minutes to remind me to eat a Clif ball. ¼ of a Clif Bar every 15 minutes with enough Gatorade to wash it down. Should give me plenty of calories and enough electrolytes to carry me through the day.

Soon began the familiar sounds of “on your left! On your left!” as people flew past me on the bike. What was true of sprint distance races didn’t quite hold true in the longer distances; I was actually passed by a handful of road bikes. At the same time, I passed about as many new carbon tri-bikes that cost several multiples of my bike. Still I always kept within myself and raced my own race.

It started around mile 25 for me. It wasn’t my back or my legs, it was my butt. My butt was starting to get really uncomfortable, and the ride isn’t even half over. The wind is blowing east, so for parts of it I’m in a crosswind and really should keep in my aero position. I was finding it increasingly difficult to will myself to follow this strategy. The scenery didn’t help either, we really were in the boonies. Once we got on Hwy 90 and continued to head away from New Orleans all there was to see were marshes. Endless swampland spanning in all directions except forwards and back. I’d seen enough of this growing up in Florida to not be awe-inspired by it. It was just... dull. I instead focused on keeping my pace, position and nutrition plan and watched the miles tick down. The halfway point at 28 was a welcomed sight and I looked forward to heading back into town. I was at 1:31 at the 28 mile point, a wonderful time indeed! I wanted to finish the bike in 3:00-3:30, and knew that the faster my bike time the better my shot at finishing sub 6. I also knew I had a stretch of 10k or so with a nice little tailwind. I might just make this yet!

I used that stretch of road as a carrot, stay in your aero position for now and you’ll be able to stretch out then. Which was good advice, I was going into a headwind. It was all making sense now: cruising the flats at 20 mph in z1? I was in a tailwind. I’ve been in a tailwind almost all day. Now I’m in a headwind. And the headwind continued. It was nothing I hadn’t experienced in training, but those training rides took a lot more time then I cared to spend on the bike for a race. It was very difficult to stomach the idea of riding at 14 mph in the middle of a race. But there wasn’t much to do about it. Just get and stay as aero as possible. My butt got worse, and I succumbed, and stood. I couldn’t hold my aero position, and my performance suffered.

It took much longer to reach the 2nd water stop. I had passed a water stop a few miles back that offered water and gels, but no Gatorade. I had everything I needed except Gatorade, so I passed it by. I was starting to really get worried that I wasn’t going to be able to stay hydrated in the growing heat and humidity. Around mile 32, I had slurped the last droplet of Gatorade out of my aerodrink and was left with no contingency plan. 5 minutes later, my watch beeps telling me to eat something. I can’t without anything to drink, it’ll just make things worse. I roll all the way through the 2nd stop and hear a volunteer shout that they were out of Gatorade. I’d rather pick up someone’s half drunk and discarded Gatorade bottle than have to… WAIT! A volunteer was picking up ejected bottles and handing them to people. I have to make a complete stop and ask her specifically and forcefully for some Gatorade before she gives it up, apologizing. I was so overcome with relief and gratitude that I spilled my guts in thanking her. That was a close one!

The last 20 miles were hell on wheels. I was quite ready to be off my bike, but there was not much I could do about it. Miles inched by but passed nonetheless and eventually reached the 42 mile mark (3/4) and turned off of Hwy 47 for good, ready to be out of this crosswind for good. Be careful what you wish for, because Haynes was a headwind. A soul-crushing headwind. I was completely beaten mentally. I saw my pace slide away. I saw my 3:02 bike split slip through my fingers like so much wet sand. My sub-6 day was going to require a superhuman run, but I felt like I had it in me if I could find my running legs fast enough. I started front loading my nutrition towards the end of the bike. I had experienced bloating in training, so I planned to eat and drink my last calorie around mile 50, giving my stomach at least 20 minutes to digest before the running started. I nervously and persistently checked my Garmin to gauge how much time I had left. 50 miles. 52 miles. 53. 54. There’s the University, should be any time now.

Then, out of nowhere, T2 was in sight. Although my Garmin had been consistently a half mile ahead of the course’s mile markers, I had only traveled 55 miles and change as of hitting the dismount line. I very much had been given jelly legs from the windy ride, but was so relieved to be off the bike. I really need to work hard on bike endurance this summer, because it is my only weakness. I’m at 3:16 according to my watch, which isn’t bad by any means. My worst-case scenario could easily have been 20 minutes slower than that. I hit the dismount line, almost fall over punching the lap button on the ole’ Garmin and head into the sea of bikes for the last time.

Predicted bike time: 3:00-3:30
Actual bike time: 3:12:58

I’m trying to jog to my rack, but it’s more of a wobble. I try to smoothly slide my bike onto my rack, but it’s more of a toss. Denise is there taking more pictures of me in transition, but I’m all business. I take off my bike shorts, slap on my fuel belt, slip on my shoes, grab my hat and I’m outta there. A very fast transition…except I have to use the restroom for the first time on the day. Not so bad, except there’s no porto potties open. There’s actually a guy standing in line for one! I don’t think it’ll take but a few seconds, so I wait. And wait. One opens and I find myself next in line. Another guy comes and stands behind me. Another relieved racer emerges, but a hurried runner swoops in, ignoring the line and any sliver of sportsmanship and takes the open door. So more waiting ensues and I’m starting to contemplate blowing the whole experience off. A third door swings open and I start to head for the door; as does the guy behind me. He was a bit delirious from the excitement, we both were. He yields the right of way to me and I enter to handle business. After what seems like forever, I’m finished up, crossing the timing mat and reading “begin running” on my Garmin.

T2: 3:39

I had a bad feeling it would take me a while to find my run legs. For whatever reason, my pace and heart rate at a given effort are always a lot higher coming right off the bike. Exiting transition and leaving UNO, I was running 9:30/mi with a heart rate in high z3. It evened out soon, as it always does, and I found myself in the middle of z2 heading down Lakeshore along the beach for our little out-and-back distance waster. From just a few passing glances at the course map, I thought we just had a mile or so before the turn around. I was excited to pass my fellow ride/hotel buddy almost the minute I begin the run. He tells me to hurry up, but I figure I’ll catch him no problem. I’m looking for the turnaround along each bend. Nothing yet, nothing yet. Here’s a water stop, Garmin says mile 1; the turnaround must be at 1.5. Another water stop at 2. It must really be down here. My pace is holding around 11:15/mi. I haven’t found my run legs yet, am trying to get my heart rate secure, and I’m running into a headwind. The wind slowed me down, but it also cooled me off, which was very much appreciated. I hoped I wouldn’t overheat on the way back. I ended up running 3.5 miles before the turnaround got here. I look at my watch: 3.5 miles in just under 40 minutes. It’ll be a pretty tall task getting that average pace back down.

Similarly to the bike, I programmed my Garmin to alert me every 30 minutes to take in a gel. I carried a fuel belt with 3 8-oz water bottles and a gel flask with 5 gels and the powder of 4 endurolyte capsules. At my first feeding I placed the cap in my mouth and shot it in. Really shot it in there. In the hot sun, the Gu had warmed and thinned, making it the consistency of runny pudding. All of my hard training had been in the winter of Tennessee, and I was used to it being the consistency of molasses. I would have to use both hands to force the stuff out. This certainly was one plus of the heat, much easier to swallow Gu. Water was as hot as the air, though, making that pretty unpleasant.

Moments after hitting the turnaround at 3.5 miles (official race time: 37:10), I was greeted by a familiar face. The same guy that posted up at the start of the bike with his “at least the swim is over” sign, was on the run course touting his “at least the bike is over” sign. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” I told him as I passed. He seemed like a pretty nice guy. I’m avoiding overheating pretty well and am finding my pace again on the way back. In the tailwind I’m hitting the 10:00/mi pace I’d like to average for the day. The math is getting fuzzy in my head with the hours and hours of sun and effort, but I know I can still hit 6 hours with a kick ass run. I rationalize that my decision point will be at mile 7. Once I hit mile 7, finished with this out-and-back nonesense, I’ll have less than 10k to go. At that point, it will be do or die. Pick it up, or accept your failure. Is sub-6 worth another 50 minutes of pure agony?

I make the decision at mile 6. I start to pick it up. At mile 6 I start to run 9:45s. At the mile 7 aid station, after taking in a cup full of Gatoraid and rinsing with some cool water, I let out a roar and begin to snap off 9:30s (keeping in mind, my race pace is 10:00).

It happened just after mile 7. Not the crash, that hasn’t really happened yet. No, I see the sign. The ever-inspirational sign that will blast me with repeated doses of adrenaline throughout the rest of the long, hot day. At Wildflower it was the FCA sign, the one about how God gives your body the strength it needs to do what needs to be done. This one was a series of 4 signs held up by a family of little girls. Or maybe they were grown. Or maybe they were men, or dogs, I didn’t notice; I was watching the signs. “1.2 miles across Lake Ponchartrain.” “56 miles to the East.” “13.1 miles to the Quarter.” “Finishing the Ironman…Priceless!” Forget the last sign, that’s cheesy, predictable and inaccurate (you’re not an Ironman unless you finish a full). It was the first 3. The images rang in my head. My mind went wild with imagery. “1.2 miles across Lake Ponchartrain.” I imagined bulleting across the lake, knocking the lake's contents upon the shore; churning the water white with the awesome power of fit arms and legs; leaving the unsuspecting fishermen with nothing to say and nothing to think. How best to describe such an insane image as 2,800 men and women flying across the murky, polluted lake, a lake with only has one good use: fishing? “56 miles to the East” The East, there was something sublime about it. I pictured rough, foreign lands. Asia, the Indies, Singapore, China. On about they go on their daily lives. In much the same way the foreign, unknown habitants of the swamplands. The birds, the alligators, the fish and the reclusive hermits living among them. What must they think as these blue and red and grey rockets flew past them in the sun? Traveling at breakneck speeds, speeds physiologically impossible for the native inhabitants. “13.1 miles to the Quarter.” And there it was, the Quarter. Like a pirate seeing land for the first time in years. A runner and his finish line, that damn line, that torturous, unforgiving, uncompromising prick of a line. Oh, that’s where we were headed, all right. Now, we are running along the woods of a park on the very outskirts of what the government chooses to call New Orleans. But soon, as swiftly as our exhausted limbs can carry us, soon we will be in the Quarter. Soon, we may tell our body to stop, that it has made it, and it was good enough. As this imagery bounced and grew and deepend, I got the most amazing shock of chills all through my body. I felt weightless. My mind cleared and was completely silent. I thought of nothing but these vivid, emotional renditions of what this all could mean. My throat started to tickle and my mouth started to quiver. Such a struggle it is, to continue after 5 hours of constant motion. So emotionally draining. I feed off my emotions, I allow them to strengthen me, to pull me through those awful patches where my mind fails me and I’m left only with this disconnected ball of rubber in motion with no concept of time, place or purpose. And for me, when all that raw, uncensored, inexplicable emotion pours out, when that angry, tired, hurt, frustrated, primal release surges out of every pore in my skin, every orifice in my body, it always seems to manifest itself as angry tears. I can’t help it people, I can’t help it.

Tears never came, but the end result was met and I found another wind. I begin to run 9:20s. Unlike the bike, there was at least one aid station every 10 minutes which gave me access to Gatorade. I stuck to my nutrition, hydration and cooling plan by continuing to take a gel/electrolyte powder every 30 minutes, Gatorade every mile and a cold water bath at every aid station, and my body was responding like music. My mind ached, begged me to stop, but my body grew stronger and faster with each mile. At mile 9, I grabbed my Gatorade cup and informed the volunteer that “I’m going sub-6 today.” She laughed politely and gave some empty words of encouragement. I left thinking "she doesn’t know, she’ll NEVER know."

By mile 10 I was nearing the edge, but I knew I had but a 5k to go. Anybody on the face of the planet can run a 5k, and I’ve trained more than 95% of them. I glaced at my watch and was amazed. 8:30/mi. This is my Sprint distance race pace, my 5k race pace. I’m running it after 5 hours, 40 minutes in motion. Much less, my heart rate. I’m at Lactate Threshold. This is as hard as my body can go without accumulating lactic acid, without putting into motion an evil process that would require me to slow. You go this fast if you can, but at the end of a half ironman you can’t go this fast. You’re body doesn’t have that kind of effort left in it. Well on this particular day at this particular race at this particular moment, my body had that and more. I turn the alerts on my watch off; I don’t care how fast I run, I will not slow down. “To the Quarter.” Keep moving, keep going. Only a 5k to go.

But it wasn’t to be today. As I neared mile 11, I started to feel a tickle in my quad. Then in the other one. Then cramps, deep painful cramps. I slowed to a walk and fought back the all-but-inevitable plunge into the dark, lonely abiss of frustrated depression when your body grabs your heart and your mind and your balls by its collective throat and says “NO MORE!” I frantically shoot the rest of my gel flask into my mouth. About 1.5 gels and a full endurolyte capsule, and wash it down with some water. I start to jog again, about 9:45s. I pass the aid station at mile 11 a quarter mile later and drink some Gatorade. Only 2 miles left, this is do or die. I start going again. I’m back at 9:00s. And again, they lock up on me. I grab my emergency gel in the side pocket of my belt and take it down, followed closely by the rest of the water in my bottle. I check the other two bottles. Collectively, I have enough to wash down the last gel, but there is no more. No water, no gel, no salt, one aid station, and just over 1.5 miles to the line. I’m finished, my sub-6 hour day just melted in the hot, humid Louisiana afternoon.

The locking subsides and I’m about to start running again when I pass a sign on a telephone pole. It’s nonesensical, but states something to the effect of “You are thinking about it, but you are wrong.” But what am I thinking about? What am I wrong about? There are two voices in my head, one telling me I can run sub-6 and one telling me I can’t. Which is wrong? I’ll know in a mile and a half.

Turns out I knew sooner than that. I started running again and made is about a half mile before I cramped again. So I stopped, and walked. And walked. And distressed. It was over. Completely and totally. My sub-6 day. My torrid run pace. All that pain, that misery, was for a lie. To have it all stolen in my last fleeting moments, the last mile of the fucking race. I was embarrassed. I walked past spectators shouting that I was almost there, that I could do it, that it was just around the corner. They thought I was an ill-prepared athlete who had used up all the heart he had. I was a man willing to thrash my body, to run until I collapsed, to blow the gates off of Hell itself and make the devil quiver the strength of human spirit. But I had cramps. My legs wouldn’t move. So I walked, and did my best not to say anything at all.

I felt able to run again as I neared the turn onto Decatur. It was a straight shot of less than a mile after that. No cramping in sight, so I ran. I was doing 10:00s. Then 9:30s. Then 9:15s. Then 9:00s. I turn, and I’m downtown. The familiar French Market I had eaten lunch in yesterda. The narrow street I had walked just 24 hours ago. Buildings on each side weak and weary from decades of weather, wear and complacent maintenance. And there it was one more time, that voice. If you’re going to go sub-6, you have to go now. Go, go, GO NOW!

“To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:50s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:30s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” The voices are louder now. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” People are lined up on either side of me. They are screaming incoherently. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” 8:00s. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter.” I hear nothing but my own voice. I see nothing but the faint cloud of white in the distance. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. To the Quarter!” I’m running now. Sprinting. I’m out of breath. “The Quarter. The Quarter. The Quarter.” 6 blocks now. The roar of the crowd is deafening. “Quarter. Quarter. Quarter. Quarter Quarter Quarter.” I can see the line. I’m 4 blocks away. I can’t talk any more. “To the Quarter. To the Quarter. I’M IN THE QUARTER!!!” People are thickening. I can read the sign at the finish line. I’m in Jackson’s Square. There’s the finish line. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” The scream lasts a lifetime.
It lasts until the chute.

I enter the chute and see the clock. I started at 0:48, so I need to see 6:48. I see 7:00. I slow. And slow. Cross the finish line. Grab my medal. Hang my head. The volunteer cannot get my chip off; it takes her about 6 tries. I follow the crowd to the post-race festivities. I’m beside myself. I could have made it. My God, I could have made it. Those cramps cost me my finish.

Estimated run time: 2:00-2:20
Actual run time: 2:14:30

Predicted total time: 6:00-6:30
Actual total time: 6:13:13
Age Group Place: 52 (out of 80 finishers, 82 starters and 101 registered)

After an hour or so of reflection, I realized that I was being too hard on myself. There’s no way I lost 15 minutes walking half of 2 miles. I lost it on the bike, in the porto potty line, on the swim, in the wind along the beach. I’m text messaging my Dad, who has been following me online at ironmanlive.com. He knows my finish time and all my splits before I do. He tells me my swim was 39 minutes. What the hell happened there?

In the end, I was very satisfied with my race. I proved to myself, less than one year after Wildflower, that I can race this distance. I proved that after 5.5 hours of solid effort that I can dig deep within myself and go faster and harder than I would have possibly imagined. I proved to myself that I can deal with the heat and humidity, and that my run fitness has grown exponentially.

So now, I wait. I have a marathon in a couple weeks to transition to, but after that it’s back to training. I have to get my bike endurance up. After that, I’ll be ready to smash Wisconsin. There’s not much else to say, really. I never did see Nate again. I was hoping to run into Reid and Megan to tell them that I wasn’t upset anymore, that I was satisfied with my race and that I wanted to be social again. I never saw any of them again. It’s just as well. So ends another journey into the depths of my base fitness. Until next time, I think I’d like some ice cream.

Natchez Trace Triathlon

2009-03-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

March 22, 2009

Code name: It'sssssss raaaaaaaacccccccing ssssssseasssssson guysssssssss!

~~550 yd swim~~ 300 yd swim -> 15 mi bike -> 3.1 mi run

The day started in Lexington, TN at 7:00am. Yes, 7:00. The race doesn't get started until 10:00 to avoid the early morning Spring chill. So, after a couple bottles of Ensure, a shower and getting dressed we (Denise and the kids came too) headed up to race site, the Natchez Trace State Park about 20 minutes away. We got to race site 15 minutes before transition area opened, but it already had 3 dozen bikes set up (go figure). The racks were pretty cool; they were not the steel bars that you hang your seat on. They were little wooden crates with spaces 4 inches and 3 feet alternating. The big space was for you to put your gear in and your rear wheel fit in the small space, allowing your bike to stand up facing the exit; all you did was pick it up and go. Neat, huh? J

We're there early, so my early morning ritual is ahead of schedule every step of the way. I set up my area, use the restroom, listen to my race playlist (new songs for a new season), get bodymarked and grab a warm-up run/bike (I have time for both). The transition area is in a valley at the bottom of a fair grade hill about a half mile long. It wasn't all that fun climbing it right at the start of the bike/run and it really wasn't great flying into T2. Blood will be spilt this day. Luckily I saw it enough times to know when to slow down, when to get my feet out of my shoes and how to take advantage on the run. I'm all ready to go sans a warm up swim at 8:30am. Lame.

As I'm setting up my area I notice a kid setting himself up right next to me. I noticed him because of his gear, which I'll get to in a second. He looked young, my age or younger, hard to say. He wore black jogging pants for what seemed like hours so I never could look at his leg and see which age group he was in. I eventually got caught up talking to his parents. They were from Ohio and had come down to kick off the season. He wasn't worried about the cold water (which is a whole other animal), because apparently it gets pretty cold where he's from. His parents must really be supportive of him, I deduced, after sizing up his gear. He was riding a 2007 (or so) Felt B2 with full SRAM Red components. He had Zipp race wheels, 808 front/disk rear, a Rudy Project aero helmet, carbon single-strap tri shoes, Zoot Ultra TT running shoes, some kind of Polar Heart-rate monitor, an Orca full-sleeve wetsuit and a very nice pair of Oakley's. I'm not going to get into how much all this costs, but I put a ballpark around $7,000 for the package. "Oh he's buying his next bike, that's for sure," asserts his mom. "We had to buy him a new one, because he went off to school and grew 6 inches." Man, it must be nice having parents that are supportive, rich and stupid. I finally caught a glimpse of his age: 17. Which means he's probably 16 and will turn 17 some time in the next 9 months. When I was 16 I wanted a car that costs more than $800. Being so young, he's almost certainly not in college, and not member of a triathlon club. I wonder why his parents felt justified. Oh, well, I digress...brat...

9:00 comes and goes and I decide it's time to check out the water. Wetsuits are legal all right. It's cold. Really cold. I felt it the day before at packet pickup and I felt it again today. The kind of water that kills people if they're in it too long (maybe). The race website forecast the water to be between 55 and 62 degrees on race day. I swam Wildflower in 61 without a wetsuit and made it out alive, though that's about all I can say. I eventually slide into my new wetsuit, which I've had since November with no chance to use it, and test out the water. As I'm heading down, a fellow racer says it's 52. I say that the race website claims it "reserves the right to cancel the swim and move all participants to the duathlon" if the water is colder than 55. Guess they chose not to utilize that right. I wander out into it about knees deep. And grit my teeth. It's cold. Daggers stabbing wildly into any exposed skin cold. The kind of cold that you think you can handle contemplating it from a warm living room but will make tough guys turn tail after 5 minutes. I last about that long before I head back up to transition. A race director was giving instructions. "It might be important, we'd better go listen" I tell the guy next to me. He agrees. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I head back several minutes later to give swimming a try. I do a nice, easy 25 yard out-and-back before I felt I was as acclimated and prepared as I cared to be. After 45 seconds in the water my face and hands were beet red. Beautiful.

The race director calls another meeting to discuss the course. He begins the swim by saying "you CAN do this. I swam it yesterday. The problem you'll run into is your face getting really cold, so keep it out of the water as much as possible." "Don't go out so fast early that you hyperventilate, either," added an old and very seasoned age grouper standing next to me. "I've done that before. It's not fun." After the director finished with the usual go-here-then-go-here-don't-go-here schpiel, the duathletes headed to the run out and the triathletes clothed in black neoprene headed to the water. 10:00 rolled around and the horn went off, beginning the 2009 race season!

The swim was a counter-clockwise rectangle and the start was staggered every 5 seconds. They didn't ask for your estimated time and they didn't let you move in line, which stunk for me as I was number 161. A big draw to the race was that it had a collegiate division. So there were about 150 collegiate racers from universities all over the Southeast: UGA, Georgia Tech, UT, Bama, Vanderbilt, Clemson and Union all had representation (did I miss anyone?). So they played guinea pig for the swim and kicked the race off. A familiar face from Alabama's team was the first out of the water. I don't know his name, but I saw him at the Monster Tri and again at the Music City tri last season; good for him. It was soon evident that the water was pretty cold. Swimmers emerged with red faces and red arms, gasping for breath, visibly dizzy. Some happy it was over, some agitated it was so uncomfortable, some near tears at a lost opportunity to realize the fruit of a strength or a difficult winter training program. It really didn't seem like all that much time had past until I was at the water's edge. I double check the security of my two swim caps and my goggles and get into a runner's position. And in an instant, my triathlon season started with "Number 161...beeeeeeep!"

I dove into the water and was greeted by the familiar constriction of the suit. I was breathing every stroke and was fighting to get air in. We've done a lot of anaerobic work in Master's swimming this winter, so I'm used to the idea of making every breath worth its weight. I'm sucking the air in and doing a lot better than most. I instantly begin passing people swimming freestyle, breast stroking, doggie paddling, treading water and otherwise being in the way. I should have moved up... I'm struggling to stay warm and to keep my focus for the first 100 yd jaunt to the first turnaround buoy. It sucks, plain and simple. At the first buoy I turn and start to head back in the sorta-direction of the swim finish and I start to feel pretty warm. Probably just mind-over-matter, power-of-positive-thinking, but I felt quite a bit better after that. All in all, I pass probably 40 people and get out of the water ready to try out my new bike.

Swim time: 4:45 (2^nd in AG; 1:35/100 yd)

I run up to transition and force myself out of my goggles, caps and top half of my suit. I'm worried that I won't have the dexterity to put on my Garmin and arm warmers. My arm warmers were on under my suit and are a little damp, but my Garmin goes on relatively easily. What gave me problems was the suit. I hope it's not too small, but it is quite tight, and my lack of balance didn't help getting it off my ankles. It came off in time and I grabbed my bike, snapped on my helmet and hustled to the mount line. I go to swing my right leg over the seat and don't quite make it far enough; my leg slams into my rear-mounted water bottle cage, cutting it open pretty bad and leaving me with something of a battle scar. I get it over on the second try and cross the timing mat. The beep hits home that the season has started. Let's see if my legs remember how to do this.

T1: 1:15

The initial climb out of transition coupled nicely with the no-dexterity cold hands make it a real challenge getting my feet in my shoes. It takes me a quarter mile or so, but I eventually get them on and fastened. The course is one big loop that takes you on open but empty roads. The hills were rolling and endless, but the bike wasn't horribly difficult. I dropped into my lower cog for almost every hill and spun up them rather than try to grind anything out, which I figured would help me on the run. After getting up the first big hill, I managed to settle into my aero position and get "comfortable" for the 15 miles ahead. It was after 10:30 now, and the sun was out in full force, making the body quite warm and comfortable; I ended up taking off my arm warmers in the first half of the ride and putting them on my aerobars. I was hoping as hard as I could that I wouldn't flat over the course of the ride, as I didn't bring any CO2 or a pump. If I had a flat, I'd DNF.

The bike portion was pretty much the same from start to finish; I'd pass weak cyclists on mountain bikes and road bikes and get passed by stronger cyclists, almost always on top of full carbon rigs and sporting aero helmets. Everyone I passed had a number less than 150 and everyone that passed me had a number over 200. I guess the swim start had some advantages. The 17 year old from Ohio eventually motored past me and I knew I wouldn't see him again. I actually managed to pass a few people in my age group, but I knew that anyone with a number lower than 150 was racing collegiate, so I paid them no mind. Nobody passed me that was any threat.

This was my first triathlon using my Garmin 305, and I was interested to try using the pacing and heart rate data that I'd trained with. I had my LTHR tested for both bike and run, and my plan was to keep my heart rate under my LTHR at all times, though it did not really matter to me how far under it chose to stay. The first 2 miles of the run would be just under and I'd slowly build to anaerobic capacity over the last mile. Anyway, I look at my watch about 2 miles into the bike and I notice that I was receiving HR data and my timer was ticking, but I had no pacing or distance data; my GPS was turned off for some reason. I guess letting it sit in T1 for an hour or so turned it off to save battery power. So I had to flick it off and flick it back on so it could link up. When it was on and working to capacity, I had lost 7 minutes of the start of the bike and something like 2 miles, or at least that's what I guessed. Apart from that, I didn't have any more issues with it, and I was able to use the elapsed distance feature to determine pacing, which was a very nice feature to have! My HR jumped over my LT near the top of some of the longer climbs, but I noticed it stayed 10-15 beats under it for much of the flats.

Having seen the end of the course, I knew that once you had turned onto the last road, you had a half mile of flat, a sharp corkscrew descent, a moderate climb and then a screeching half mile descent into transition. I slip out of my shoes after the last climb and bullet into the park. There were a couple dozen crashes with people approaching the dismount line too fast over the course of the day, but I was out of my shoes and had slowed down enough to seamlessly dismount before the line and run to my area, ready for a lightening fast transition.

Bike Time: 48:57 (2^nd in AG; 18.4 mph)

My shoes were still in my pedals, my arm warmers were already on my aerobars and my helmet was off by the time I got to my transition area. All I had to do was rack my bike, slip on my shoes and grab my hat-race belt pile on my way out. My shoes didn't go on perfectly, but I got them on quickly enough. I went sockless for this one as I had slathered my feet up with body glide really well before race start. Crossing the timing mat and punching the lap button on my Garmin, I was greeted by the "begin running" icon. So that, in a nutshell, is what I did.

T2: :46

I had heard something about a "trail run" on my way out of transition. Not something I'd trained for, but ehh, whatever. The run portion took us out the same street as the bike, but it quickly turned off to a trail. Large tree roots spray painted orange protruded out of the ground and provided extra motivation to watch where you step. The start of the trail run was gently rolling but not very difficult. My plan was to hold my heart rate to within 5 bpm of my LT until the last mile. About a quarter mile into the trail, I checked my Garmin to see it was turned off. Ummmmmmm? I turned it back on, losing some data and again leaving me with no idea how far I've gone. A few minutes later, I noticed it had turned off again. Clicked it back on, and it turned off a third time. After turning it on a third time, I did not press the start button, hoping it would stay on and at least provide me heart rate data. That worked well enough, but the watch would not alert me when my heart rate crept above my LT. After resetting the thing and starting a new run setting, it worked perfectly for the rest of the run; by that point I was out of the woods and running on the road again. I didn't turn it off; my arm was nowhere near the power button. Nate, Reid, any ideas???

The rolling hills got longer and much sharper as the trail went along. My HR shot up to 5 beats over my LT several times scaling various hills, and proved very tough to get back down. The downhills were not all that much of a break either; they were incredibly sharp and technical. In addition, and what I consider the 2^nd worst part of the course after the swim, there were a handful of bends in the trail that brought you to a muddy trench 6-10 feet across. Some had tree roots and stones for the sure-footed runner, others had no way across. There was only one option and that was to cut straight through. Not that I particularly care about keeping my shoes clean, but I've only had my shoes for 3 weeks. This is the 2^nd race they've seen (they raced the very rainy Tom King Half Marathon last weekend) and I found myself sticking towels in them both times because of how wet they got. I was quite thankful I wasn't wearing socks for the run, or I would have probably ended up with some pretty nasty blisters.

After a mile and change (who knows, my Garmin decided to take a nap), the trail broke and we were back on the road. Still wondering how far we've gone, the course brought us to the one and only aid station set up on course, and all they had was water. As I'm drinking and running, I get passed by a tall guy in my age group that I remember passing on the bike. I notice his number: 56. I know he had around a 5 minute head start on the swim, so if I can concede less than that time I'd still beat him. In retrospect, with a number that low he was obviously racing collegiate; whatever, I had a rabbit to chase. I did everything I could to keep up with him, but his pace was just too fast for me. He slowly crept further and further away from me and it became all I could do to keep him in sight. If I could do that, he'd only get a minute or so on me. That would be enough for me to hold on, right? Funny how your mind plays tricks on you during races.

After running for a time, I passed a spray painted symbol in the road. It was a U-turn sign facing the opposite direction with a number 1 in the middle. The first duathlon run! Duathletes ran up this way on a 2-mile out-and-back course before jumping on their bike. At the sight of this, I was reasonably confident that I was in the last mile of the race. After about a quarter mile, we turned onto what I knew was the home stretch. That tall guy gained more and more time on me until he eventually disappeared around a corner in the road. I didn't really care all that much, because I figured I could run a little out of him in the last half mile because I was reasonably familiar with it.

Although my HR was over my LT coming in on the first (corkscrew) descent, I knew I had enough to really push it home. I made it over the last hill and started running down towards the line. I couldn't see it yet, but I knew it had to have been close. As I started down, I could feel my stride opening up. The distance of my stride increased with each step. My knees came higher, my back kick became higher and I soon was moving at what was less running and more flailing. My arms were pumping at my sides wildly trying to keep up with my body. The bottom of my foot felt like it was going to burn right through the soles of the forefoot of my shoe with the friction. I looked at my Garmin: 5:30/mi pace and it's still coming down quick. I was out of breath when the descent started. It was the usual deep inhales and powerful exhales I learned in a semester of Pilates, but it was still through the nose. Towards the end of the run, my mouth was WIDE open and I was sucking the air in to the maximum my respiratory system could possibly cater to. So, the picture is set as I enter the finish line chute. I could feel my legs almost reaching my ears on the back kick as I finished. But I crossed the line with the clock reading 1:30:xx. I was excited to see it: I made a pre-race goal of finishing in 1:30, and I was a handful of seconds off of going sub 1:30 despite waiting in line for 8 minutes before my race started. It took all I could to stop myself before running over a race volunteer, but I pulled it off. The only thing I could think about while they were removing my chip is "I can't wait to see my time; I think I have a shot at winning."

Run Time: 26:08 (3^rd in AG; 8:43/mi)

Total time: 1:21:38 (2^nd in AG)

As it turns out, there was a guy who absolutely smoked me. He finished 6^th overall and beat me by 14 minutes. Third place edged me out on the run, but finished 6 minutes slower. It's too bad there were only 4 guys in my AG; it diminishes the accomplishment. Everyone else race collegiate, and most of them blew my time out of the water. I did notice on the race results that my race age this year is 24. This will be my last chance to race in the 20-24 age group. Next year, I have to rank up; I would have finished 5^th in the 25-29 age group had I given the same performance. 2^nd was enough to get a prize, though, and I came home with a neat looking tile with the race logo and my designation as 2^nd in the 20-24 age group. Guess I'll put it with the rest of 'em, maybe use it as a coaster or something.

There were a few trays of knock-off Oreos and a couple jugs each of Gatorade and water at the finish. I scoffed at what was the most pathetic excuse of a post-race food showing I'd ever seen; I had woofed down 10 cookies and was on my way to the car to change clothes before the announcer reminded us to "check out the free buffet inside. All you need is your race number!" Yeah, I checked that out as well. J

After the award's ceremony it was about that time to get out of town. After gathering all of my stuff out of transition and carting it up that big steep hill one last time, my time at the Natchez Trace State Park had ended. The day will be remembered as the coldest I've ever been in water, my first time using my wetsuit, my bike or my shoes in a bona-fide race, the muddy trail run and the exciting kick-off to the 2009 season. My last triathlon experience of this year will be crossing the line in Madison to become an Ironman. I'll raise my glass to that...and place it on my tile after a much needed drink.

Happy racing everyone!

Memphis Marathon

2008-12-07T14:56:00.000-08:00

Not so much a triathlon as a big step towards Ironman Wisconsin, the Memphis Marathon is the last race on my 2008 calendar.

Although a group of three of my friends said they would participate in the weekend, I ended up being the only one of us to make good on it. I did find a travel buddy in John, an ultramarathoner in my swim class. He was still tired from a marathon he did 2 weeks prior and had already qualified for Boston at the Country Music Marathon in April, so he was just going to keep up traditions.

John and I headed to Memphis right after he got off work on Friday, and we arrived downtown around 5 for packet pickup. I got a call from Ryan, my friend with whom we stayed, and discussed briefly what we were going to do for dinner; I said I'd call him back after packet pickup. After paying a slightly sketchy guy $5 for "parking," we headed into the Memphis Cook Convention Center, which was already bustling with activity.

After getting our bib numbers, we proceeded from one end of the room to the other, grabbing our race packets, timing chips and goodie bags. There was, not surprisingly, a huge runner's expo that we perused briefly. The increasingly unavoidable necessity was hunger, though, and we soon left to meet up with Ryan.

We got to Ryan's apartment and were greeted by him and Jana, his girlfriend. We dropped off our stuff and headed to the local Olive Garden for the traditional carbo-loading. The mood was light and dinner was good. I did what I could to eat as much food and drink as much water as possible. After dinner, John and I grabbed our breakfast of choice from Walmart and the four of us retired to the apartment for the night. The 2nd half of Wedding Crashers was on TV, so we all watched that. Around 11, the movie ended and we all went to bed, with nerves and expectations high.

I got about 3 solid hours of sleep the night before, which was better than I expected. I set my alarm for 5:30 assuming I'd wake up before that anyway. Sure enough, I woke up a little before 4:30 and my mind and heart were already in overdrive, so I went ahead and got out of bed (couch?). After eating breakfast, I struggled to kill the next few hours by watching whatever awful shows/movies are on a 5 in the morning on a Saturday and envisioned the day. With so much nervous energy and nowhere to put it, I quickly turned my stomach into knots and plummeted towards physically ill. Eventually the apartment stirred, lights went on and the clock ticked closer to 7. Around 7:15 we headed for the race site.

Ryan dropped us off about 3 blocks from the finish and John and I parted ways at the entrance of the stadium. The next half hour was a blur of images: trying unsuccessfully to find band-aids for my nipples (I ended up using medical tape), stripping off my warm outer layer and dropping off my post-race bag; looking for Mike at the start line; and just walking around aimlessly in a pre-race nervous frenzy.

I arranged to meet Mike Phillips at the start line near the 4:30 pace team. Mike and I regularly post on the Tri-Talk Triathlon Forum, so I knew him through that. Mike had run 6 marathons prior and had completed Ironman Louisville 2 months ago. He decided to do Memphis "on a whim," even though his ankle has been bothering him. We agreed to run the first 13 together and then one of us would inevitably drop the other.

My mind was a snowstorm of thoughts as 8:00 came and went. I positioned myself in the 9th corral and ended up starting about 8:12. The closing minutes until the start had me reflecting on all the training (more specifically, the lack thereof), what finishing a marathon meant to me (not all that much) and how much this was going to hurt by the time everything was said and done. The motto for the Memphis Marathon weekend is "Ready, Set...Let's Rock." So, when the air horn went off at 8:12, in my best Axl Rose impression, I said "Let's Rock" and began my journey.

Mike and I shared stories for most of the first 4 miles. The marathon and half-marathon courses shared the same route for the first 12 miles, so something shy of 11,000 runners covered the streets like bees on a honeycomb. I felt indescribably good for the first hour and change. The winding streets of Memphis took us through much of downtown before we headed off in God knows which direction. Eventually, we limited our conversations because conversing used valuable energy. We attempted to stay with the 4:30 pacer (by that, I mean those people will finish the marathon in 4 hours and 30 minutes) and did so quite successfully as of the first hour. Mike stopped for a bathroom break around mile 3 and had spent a mile catching back up. I did the same around mile 11, catching him in about half a mile. Other than that, the first few miles were comfortable and all together uneventful. The streets wound up and down through the "bad" part of town and eventually started heading back downtown as mile 13 approached. The roads weren't terribly well paved, and it seemed as if every single road sloped downward as it got closer to the sidewalk; I was encouraged to stay on level ground as much as possible, as the damage to the outside of my leg would soon add up.

The word on the street is that the Memphis Marathon is one of the flattest and fastest around. I misunderstood their meaning. Perhaps veteran runners claim the race comparitively fast, which may very well be the case. Perhaps they refer to the second half of the marathon, which, for the most part, is true as well. But as an uninitiated marathoner, the course certainly wasn't as advertised. The first 14 miles were rife with rolling hills. There were no Heartbreak Hills along the course, but the sum of the parts equaled a draining, spirit-crushing road that proved to be unpredictable to the very end.

When Mike and I finally neared mile 12, we had slowed to the pace I was destined to hold for the rest of the race. At this point, the streets were still crowded with runners. Right after mile 12, the half marathon runners veered right and headed back towards the stadium, while the full marathon runners stayed straight towards Beale St. It was quite an interesting sight: 11,000 runners, about half of which was with me or behind me quickly evaporated into 3,000, most of which were far ahead of me. A sea of bodies became a bread crumb trail that extended as far as the eye could see. As I passed some spectators, I said "I think I'll do another loop. Why the hell not?" I had to throw out little one-liners like that to keep up my spirits.

Running along Beale Street was quite the experience. Bars lined both sides of the street as we plugged along the brick road. Although the place was all but deserted at 10:30 on a Saturday morning, there was an energy about it, a mystery. My favorite part of the race to that point, I slowly let Mike out of my sight. I had a feeling I would be the one to get dropped; it usually ends up that way. The gap opened quickly as we came to the Beale Street hill, the biggest and longest hill we would climb. It wasn't all that steep, and I knew it was coming, so it didn't hurt all that bad.

Running alone now, I passed the time by singing songs to myself and straining to find anybody I knew in the crowd. I tried playing games with myself, breaking up the remaining miles into various groups of 5 miles, 5ks, miles and half miles. Each mile and 5k were labeled, so I was more than occupied trying to figure out how much I had to go, and how best to ration my energy. I didn't have a watch on, which probably played to my advantage; no sense killing myself to salvage a decent time. It was best to just stay within myself and just try to finish. This would be the easiest marathon of my life: the only one where I'm unconcerned with time.

Having not trained with gels, I ran into some GI problems around mile 14 or so. I certainly did not mind stopping at the porto pottie and having a nice, refreshing sit. It felt good just to not be moving for a moment. I had to urinate around mile 19, and decided to sit for the same reason.

The hardest part of the day began at mile 18. I was told by a runner friend of mine that mile 18 is really where it starts. I had hoped to get to mile 21 before the real battle of attrition started, but it was fated that mile 18 would hold stage to it. It was around then that I decided to start walking. No matter how tired I was over the course of the day, I never really walked more than I ran. By that, I mean there was never a period when I would walk for 5 minutes and only could stand running for 3. I walked as much as I needed to and jogged the rest. Walking was surprisingly refreshing and gave me a moment to reassess my situation and keep myself in the right frame of reference. I did more running that walking over the next 3 miles, willing myself to the turn onto Parkway Ave. around mile 20.5. That long, lonely, straight stretch of road was the last obstacle to overcome.

Sure enough, I made it to Parkway and allowed myself some walking time. After a mile of doing the walking/jogging thing, something completely unexpected happened: I caught a second wind. I felt ready to go a little before mile 22. So I jogged into the aid station, grabbed some gatoraid, and kept moving. I jogged the entire mile and entered mile 23 with one more gel to take. I walked, slurped it down, drank some water and celebrated the little victory that I would not have to take any more GU. I had been told that you have to will yourself to mile 23, and the crowd would get you the rest of the way. With that in mind, I started jogging and promised myself I would jog until the finish line.

The entirety of Parkway, which stretches from mile 20.5 to 24.5, was a direct headwind (which was lovely). All the same, the stage was set. I knew turning on the road that the race would be all but over when I turned off of it. Just a long 5k was all that was required of me. Parkway was home to the two great moments of self confidence I felt during the last segment of the race. There was a slight climb as we reached mile (21 or 22). I did a walking stint as I approached the next aid station, obviously in peril. Right as a guy in bright colored tights and a parrot hat (don't ask, I don't know) passed me, I was passed by an older couple. The woman called out to me: "this is it! This is the last uphill! It's all downhill from here!" Hmmm, who knew? It was very soon after this interaction that I saw the Pyramid in the far distance. A look at the course map will tell you that you never actually reach the Pyramid. Moreover, I didn't really know what the Pyramid was for, other than that it was a staple of downtown Memphis. This was all I needed to fuel not only the tourist in me, but to convince me that the end was getting close.

So I jogged starting at mile 22, and was determined to keep jogging. It was about mile 24 that I started catching people. I mean, really catching them. Reeling them in one by one. I repassed the parrot guy some time after mile 24 and we had an exchange. "Man, you came back from the dead." "Yeah, aren't second winds just the best?" I felt better than I had felt in the last 3 hours. This was almost over.

As I had said earlier, I'd been told that you have to will yourself to mile 23, and the crowd would get you the rest of the way. I specifically heard "you pass the hospital, and you can't walk in front of the hospital." You actually pass the hospital twice, once after mile 24 and once right before mile 26. What he meant was that some years, seeing as how this is the St. Jude Memphis Marathon, they will actually bring out St. Jude patients to cheer on the runners. Patients, families and hospital staff line the road and provide some much needed motivation. What did I see as I passed the hospital? Another building and more empty streets. In fact, I did not see anyone other than police and the occasional solitary spectator waiting for their loved one to round the corner until I was inside the stadium. Too bad, I really could have used some excitement.

Mile 25 was the worst of the whole race. Mainly, because it was listed too soon. Running the last 10k, I had come to terms with the fact that I was not going to finish the race in less than 5 hours. Only, mile 25 came up really quickly. Not only that, the time clock read 4:55. That means, I had something like 20 minutes (I started about 12 minutes after race start) to run 1.2 miles. Mile 25 just went on forever. I had no problems running the last 1.2 miles, except that it stretched on for something like 2 full miles. Still in this headwind, I plugged along another downhill under an overpass and back up it. So much for no more hills... I ran and ran and ran. Had I known it would be this far, I would have done some walking. Eventually, we turned off of Parkway out of the wind and out of the sun. I knew it had to be close. Except that there was almost a full mile to go before I got to mile 26. And when I got to mile 26, the clock said something like 5:17. Had it been a mile, that mile (which I ran the whole way) took me over 20 minutes. It was clearly marked incorrectly.

A very puzzling element to the marathon was the fact that you couldn't really see much. Every runner knew that the run finished in Autozone Park, but you never really do SEE Autozone Park. While running downtown, you can see stadium lights about 5 blocks down, but it's in a direction seemingly opposite to where you are going. You know the run is over in a quarter mile, you can hear the faint roar of the crowd and the unmistakable sounds of someone talking through a loudspeaker, where the hell is the park?

When I saw those glorious orange cones leading you into the stadium, I just started laughing. I don't really know why. But hysterically laughing. In the midst of the laughter, I felt my eyes start watering up. Oh, no, none of that. We'll save those for Wisconsin. But the smiles continued. I saw Ryan in the stands cheering me on as I neared the finish line. I saw Denise and the kids, too, they had driven up to see me finish; a sentiment I wasn't capable of understanding. Having already taken off my gloves and sunglasses, I raised my arms up and smiled as I crossed the finish line, hoping to make a worthwhile picture. I allowed the volunteers to remove my chip, place one of those crazy aluminum blankets on me and slip my finisher's medal around my neck. My next thought: $#!+, I have to climb these stairs!

Finish time: 5:07:24; 11:44/mi

After some sweets, pizza, beer and congratulatory conversations with Mike and Parrot Guy, I was as ready as I could be to change into warmer clothes and get back to the apartment. All I wanted to do was lay down and nap. I couldn't eat anything until about 3 hours later, when my stomach was threatening system shutdown. I ended up taking a nap on the bare floor while the rest of the crew (Ryan, John, Ryan's roommate and, eventually, Jana) watched the SEC Championship game. My body didn't seem to mind.

So, I guess that's it. The marathon was a lot more painful than I gave it credit for. It's roughly as painful as a half ironman, but it hurts in a much different way. It's now 5 days post-race and I'm just now not feeling tight and sore. Still don't have my 26.2 sticker. I went by Fleet Feet and had this whole story figured out: I would limp in without saying a word, grab a 26.2 sticker and slap it on the counter...and smile. But, they were sold out. Ugh, it's always something...

Music City Triathlon

2008-09-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

~~1500 yd swim~~ ~~1200yd swim~~ 0 yd swim-> 27 mi bike -> 6 mi run

Subtitle: A Triathlon in a Hurricane

As is typical, wake up came at 4:30am. After breakfast and dressing, I headed up to Nashville Shores on what I thought would be a nice day. Wrong! As I crossed the bridge that takes Bell Rd. over Percy Priest Lake, all I saw was choppiness. More on that later...

I'm assigned bib #2. Don't know how that happened; there were 800 racers that day, and I did NOT plan on finishing second. Nevertheless, the typical pre-race ritual went underway. I got my transition area set up and said hi to Tiago and J ___, the same 19 year old I raced against at the Monster Tri in July. It was cool to see him again. My run warmup convinced me to wear socks for the run portion, as I had a pretty nasty blister on my Achilles from Monday's sockless run. Around 7:00am I put on my speedsuit and start to head down to the swim start.

Before I get out of transition area, the head of Team Magic (the organization putting the race on) made an announcement about the water. Namely, that it was not wetsuit legal because it was warmer than 78* (this I anticipated, I brought me speedsuit which you can use in any race). More importantly, they gave the athletes the option of skipping the swim and doing just a bike, run. I chuckled with the UGA athlete next to me that this was because of the water temperature being too hot, and triathletes just being whiners. Turns out, it was because of the chop. Those who elected to do the swim swam a shortened 1200yds, which would make the course more straightforward.

I didn't think there was any way I was missing the swim, so I headed down to warm up. The waves on the beach were about 3 feet high, and they hit one after the other with amazing frequency. I only swam about 50 yds before calling it a warmup and heading back to shore. I exchanged nervous small talk with some of the other racers as I awaited the start. Team Magic made another announcement and tried to appeal to our better judgements: the waves further out on the course were twice the size of those near the beach. With one last chance to skip the swim, they called the collegiate wave out to begin the race. With a quick countdown, they shouted "Go!" and we all plunged into the water, against the current, and began the Music City Triathlon; a race that won't be soon forgotten by everyone involved.

I start the swim in the roughest water I've ever swam in. The entire field bobbed up and down, up and down, no method of fighting the water. The trip to the first buoy was undoubtedly the longest 400 yd swim I've ever done. All the while in a pack. I'd pass someone, they'd pass me, I'd pass them again. Darting from side to side as the riptide threw us about. All over the course. At one point, someone swam under me without meaning to. It was a sea of thrashing, fighting against the current and the waves. I'll speak conservatively and call the waves 5 ft high, but I'm confident they were at least 6 ft, maybe bigger than that. We were carried up 5 feet in the air and smashed down into the water. It was exhausting and very frustrating. There were times you weren't sure if you were actually moving or not. So much movement up and down, you had no idea if you were making any forward progress.

As I go to round the first set of buoys, I saw something I've never seen before. 45 swimmers, 45 red caps treading water. Where do we go? You couldn't see anything over the waves, boats had been swept away, maybe a buoy had moved. Were we supposed to turn? Go straight? Mass confusion, no movement, only up and down. We eventually turn and take off to the next buoy across the water, now going with the current. I know we were moving faster, but all I felt was the water picking me up and slamming me down. I struggled to breath. I struggled to keep moving forward. I didn't do it consciously, but I'm sure I was fighting for survival. All I knew was that I was in the middle of the lake in the middle of a storm, a bad one, and nobody was going to rescue me. Nobody could, they were fighting just like me.

I was sure I was dead last when I made the final turn and headed for shore. Exiting the water I noticed that not only was I not last, but I was seeded fairly well. It's a little too optimistic to say I was to 50%, but I bet I was top 67%. For the collegiate wave, that wasn't a bad day. I exit the water to a bunch of people standing around. "The swim's been canceled" said a volunteer. Okay, I've done the swim, so what? I misunderstand the situation: they let the first 6 waves go before they officially cancel it. After making the call, they pull everyone out of the water. After all that effort, my swim time was not registered. Not only this, but I would have to wait for almost another hour before I was allowed to start my bike. WHAT??? It was too dangerous. But the first few waves, all the collegiant's, we survived.

By the time it was time for our wave to start the bike, I had already gotten my socks put on. I didn't feel the least bit bad at this defiance of the rules, the way things turned out. I visited transition early and got someone to give them to me. So, with slightly wet socks, I sprint to the bike, grab my gear and head out on the bike course. I sort of hope this wind dies down some...

T1: 2:38

After a textbook-worthy transition, I hop on my bike, hammer up the first hill, put my shoes on and proceed to head out on the course. It wasn't too terribly long before we ran into the wind. The never-ending wind. I have no way of knowing how strong the wind was, but I tell people it was about 20-25 mph.

The bike started well enough, except for the wind. The same ole', same ole' of passing several people while getting passed by others style seeding took place in the first 5 miles. The only thing worth discussing was the headwind. It was interesting to see how each person chose to handle it. I focused on perceived effort and kept a high cadence, while others opted for the high gearing and grinding through it. I don't understand the methodology, but to each his own.

This race was really one of the very few times on the bike that I just did not feel safe. My sentiment was not improved about halfway through the bike session when I saw the ambulances. As I come over a hill, I descended and prepared to turn right, when I was ordered to slow down. Apparently, a girl took the corner too fast, got caught in a crosswind from the right, veered into the left lane and hit a car head-on. It looked like a pretty messy situation, with one girl on the ground and a few others scattered in bloody messes over the road and the ditch. Throughout the 27 mile bike course there was scarcely a stretch of a half mile without seeing someone wreck or have a mechanical issue. It was a real jungle out there.

To further describe the windy conditions, at one point in the bike ride we had to cross an undulated bridge. At the peak of the bridge, the wind had to be 50 mph and it was a direct headwind. People were literally taking their left foot out of their pedals and kicking off the ground like a scooter because they could not pedal into the wind fast enough to stay upward.

I didn't wreck or have a mechanical issue, but I had a problem to deal with of my own. With no aid stations on the bike, and with the bike being much more difficult than anticipated, I found myself at mile 17, still having a GU and a caffeine pill to take, with only a mouthful of water left. After some internal debate, I decide to save my water for the end to take with my pill and gel. No matter what my decision, however, I would be incredibly dehydrated by the start of the run. At least it wasn't hot... -rolls eyes-

At long last I roll into T2 and am ready to finish the run and the race. This is an amazing life experience, but I'm about finished racing for the day. The first two disciplines in these conditions had taken their toll, and I'm already not happy with my times or my seeding. I throw on my shoes and hat and head out ready to finish this stupid race and just go home.

Bike: 1:32:22
T2: 1:09

The run, aside from being dusty and quite windy in parts, was pretty uneventful. The mile markers were very confusing, due to the two-loop affair. I thought I saw markers 1, 2, 4, 2 again, 5 and then 1 again in the span of the first two miles. This didn't affect my pacing as much as it did my psyche.

I had pretty high expectations of the 10k as a chance to really take a bite out of my time last year, but it just wasn't in the cards. I was exhausted, dehydrated and was risking hyponatremia and cramping towards the end. I just limped through it. This was the first time I've ever been able to say I ran a triathlon in which the run was the easiest part. Historically, the run is by far the worst part. Maybe I should have pushed harder (not gonna happen).

Run: 1:00:39
Total time: 2:36:46
Placing: 31 out of 40 in collegiate wave

I was over the whole triathlon scene by the end of the race. I didn't even stick around for the awards. My whole body was tired. I hadn't felt this way since the end of WildFlower. For crying out loud, it took me 2 weeks to post the report. It just depressed me. I am looking forward to Atomic Man; one last chance to fully extend myself before the season ends. The 28th should be a good day, but I'm pretty sure I'll be all tried out for the next 7 months by 3:00pm.

Manchester STAR Triathlon

2008-08-30T10:04:00.001-07:00

200 yd swim -> 14 mi bike -> 3.1 mi run

A pretty fast and hectic day began at 5:15 am... sort of. Missing the 6 hr sleep mark slightly, I woke up drowsy and unmotivated. I turned off my alarm and laid there, working up the energy to roll out of bed. The next thing I notice is I'm shaking off the next bout of unconsciousness. I look at the clock, which reads 6:00am. Crap! I'm gonna miss it!

5:15am was a pretty late start to begin with. The race was at least 30 mins away from my apartment, and it started at 8:00am. I jump out of bed (quite a bit more rested, actually), get dressed, literally chug my 2 bottles of Ensure and head out the door at 6:35. Packet pickup and body marking end at 7:00am, so I have to get there before then. I roll in around 7:10am. There were no problems with registration, but it certainly left me frazzled.

Not exactly getting the pick of the litter on transition spots, I proceed to put my game face on and set up my area. I admire that I'm #9 out of about 100; guess my swim is getting better! I do the typical setup, meditation and warmup I do for all sprint races. As I'm standing in line, I notice 2 people: my friend Tiago who is trying to win overall and another really dark skinned guy that had to be Native American or Middle Eastern or something like that. He was pretty big, a lot of muscle mass on his upper body which led me to believe he would be a shark in the pool, and wearing a bright yellow tri suit. Probably a big engine on the bike, but not such a great runner. Ehh, ignore him. I have bigger things to think about, such as that much anticipated phrase: "Number 9... Go!"

I felt, once again, that I was well seeded in the swim. I had a guy slapping my feet around 100 yds and I let him pass at 125 yds. I passed a guy who had stopped for a breather at 150 yds. and was slapping the feet of another racer in the last 10 yds. So, I felt really good about my swim time. About what I expected, and not too draining. I get out of the water, and the feet I was slapping happened to be that big guy in yellow. So much for being a shark, he started 3 spots (15 secs) in front of me.

Estimated time: 3:30
Actual time: 3:32 (1st in AG)

T1: 31 secs

The bike course, which the website explained as "a few good hills in the first and last mile, but very flat otherwise" was about as advertised. After getting out on the open road for the out-and-back course, I settled in the aero position and tried to slow my HR. After a while, the big guy in yellow passes me. I look at his leg for the first time as he passes: 24. NO!!! Can't let him go! So, I do my best to match his pace, which is faster than I would have like to go. My "big engine" guess was pretty accurate. I tried to match him, then tried to keep him within 30 secs, then tried to keep him in sight. He had gained 2 mins by the bike turnaround. The route back was mostly downhill, so I figured I'd at least match if not take a little out of him on the way back because I had aerobars. However, I focused on not pushing too hard at the end of the bike. I did this last race and blew up on the run, and I knew the run was my last chance at catching him. I shoot through transition, no doubt faster than him, and head out on the run.

Estimated time: 45 mins
Actual time: 42:22 (2nd in AG)

T2: 24 secs

I tear out of the transition area at about a 6 min/mile pace, which is way too fast for me, trying to close the gap on a slight downhill. I eventually settle in to me just slower than 8 min/mile pace and try to keep Mr. Yellow in sight. Once on the open road (again and out-and-back) I can see him. A little after the 1 mi marker, we make a left turn, at which time I figured I was a little over 1 min behind him, so I was making up time (this turn was marked, but no volunteers were there). Right after the left turn, at about the 1.25 mi marker, was the only water stop. In my exhaustion, I don't quite lift my hand as much as the volunteer assumed I would, and I dropped my water. UGH! Can't stop, so I'd have to wait until the way back. The run turnaround also had no volunteers manning it, so the run was on the "honor system" that you actually went around the cone. Not particularly normal for a USAT-sanctioned event. At the turnaround, I was 59 secs behind him. I knew I had a chance to catch him.

The second half of the run was more difficult. I managed to grab a mouthful of water and dumped the rest on my head at the aid station and tried my best to close the gap. At this point, I was nearing explosion, and I was starting to get stomach cramps. I pushed it pretty hard on both the bike and run trying to stay with this guy. I went as fast as I perceived I could, and hoped I wouldn't blow up. The fact that I had to walk for a second wasn't particularly disgusting. That was the risk I took.

At around the 2.5 mi marker, we went back into the woods, and it was the last I saw of Mr. Yellow. I ducked and kicked as hard as I could hoping that he didn't do the same and that I could pull closer to him, knowing he started 15 secs before me. In a hazy state of exhaustion and pain, I weaved all around the sidewalk cutting whatever corners I could and trying to shrink the deficit.

As I approach the end of the run, I'm beginning to wonder where the heck this finish line is. It should be here pretty soon. It has to be just over this bridge. As I'm having this internal dialogue, the volunteer screams at me that I'm going the wrong way. I was supposed to make a left turn at the passing, which was NOT MARKED and had NOBODY THERE. How was I supposed to see that, exactly??? The detour added about 20 secs to my time, and succeeded in frustrating the hell out of me. Here I was, killing myself to try to catch somebody, and the race director didn't think enough to mark the last turn. There's no excuse for that...

Sure enough, there's Mr. Yellow standing at the finish line watching me run across. Great...

Estimated run time: 25 min.
Actual run time: 23:49 (1st in AG, and a new personal best)
Total time: 1:10:36 (+40 secs)

Turns out, I did run a little bit out of the guy. I talked to him after the race and congratulated him. He said that he'd held back the first half of the run, and kicked hard the second half. I had no shot. He missed the last turn, too, so can't make that excuse... Although it was his first race, he said he has a background in cycling and running, and just got his lifeguard certification finished up. Just my luck: the only person in my AG signed up as of yesterday finishes, like 10th overall... The race did, however, have 2 more guys in our AG for a total of 4. Both of the other two guys finished over 7 mins slower than us.

When asked about his performance in his first Ironman, Craig Alexander once said: "If I feel like I got the most outta myself, and I didn't make any stupid mistakes, and I fueled my body well, then I think it would be a success. That being said, if I'm not in the top 5, I'll be disappointed." I think I feel the same. I can' t get particularly bent out of shape for not placing first. I'm not fast enough to win races, and I'm just happy that I'm on the podium more often than not.

Between now and next year, I plan to invest in a tri bike, an aero helmet and maybe some race wheels if I can find some cheap ones. I also plan to come back with a huge, Ironman-caliber endurance engine with some threshold and interval work sprinkled over the summer months. Most importantly, I'll be a year older, a year wiser and will enjoy my last season in the 20-24 AG. So, as I said to myself as I awaited the last finisher and the award ceremony:

"Next year, I'm going to smoke these races..."