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.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Natchez Trace Triathlon
March 22, 2009
550 yd swim 300 yd swim -> 15 mi bike -> 3.1 mi run
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 (2nd 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 (2nd 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 2nd 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 2nd 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 (3rd in AG; 8:43/mi)
Total time: 1:21:38 (2nd in AG)
As it turns out, there was a guy who absolutely smoked me. He finished 6th 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 5th in the 25-29 age group had I given the same performance. 2nd was enough to get a prize, though, and I came home with a neat looking tile with the race logo and my designation as 2nd 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!
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Memphis Marathon
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...
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...
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Music City Triathlon
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.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Manchester STAR Triathlon
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..."
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..."
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Monster Triathlon
200 yd swim -> 16.7 mi bike -> 3.1 mi run
When my alarm clock went off at 3:30 this morning, I felt something that I wasn't expecting. I felt good, rested. Apparently, my attempt to get exactly 4.5 hours of sleep worked pretty well, and climbing out of bed wasn't a problem. To this, I give credit to those 3:30 wakeup calls for Wednesday morning swims.
I fancy drinking my Ensure as the most difficult thing I do all day. It isn't, of course, but it is more difficult than one would imagine. Consuming 500 calories in about 2 minutes when you're not that hungry to begin with hurts sometimes. Makes me gag, but I got it down, loaded up the truck and got outta town a little after 4:00am. The trip was quite the little haul, 80 miles one way, but I pulled into the race venue around 5:30. The site of the race was a fitness center and outdoor pool on one side and a cemetery on the other. An odd little location for a transition area, but I'm not one to balk at a race over such a trivial issue. I was one of the first racers present, so I got a sweet spot near the bike in/bike out gate to rack my bike and set up my transition area.
The typical pre-race ritual followed: set up the bike and run gear in a most obsessively compulsive way while listening to my half-hour pre-race mix, use the restroom (a few times), pick up my race packet, get body marked, and begin to zone in. Among these must-dos, I talked with a guy from Birmingham known only as J Bruhn. He ended up finishing 3rd overall. Pretty quick.
After a 10 min run warmup and 10 min swim warmup, I found myself on the pool deck at 7:00am and beared witness to the first racer plunging into the pool. The race was underway! Being number 24, it was less than two minutes before I toed the line and was given the go ahead to start the race.
The swim went pretty well. So much better after that warmup. I ended up passing one or two swimmers along the way, but overall felt I was seeded really well. Although I started to lose my breath towards the end, I was really happy with my pacing. After all, it was only 200 yds. Exiting the water, I was ready to test my hand at what everyone has said is a REALLY hilly bike course.
Target swim time: 4:00
Actual swim time: 3:50
T1: 0:24
After a quick exchange (I really do have fast transitions), I was out on the bike course. The course got interesting fairly quickly, as we found ourselves tackling hills almost immediately out of the park. There was a short but quite steep hill followed almost immediately by a slow, steady, fairly long climb. I was beginning to get passed by those who had practiced for this race and cursed my lack of ambition and opportunity as I struggle up the hill, already in the lightest gear my bike has. A little over halfway up the hill, we passed a white sign stating "No Whining," which put my mind at ease a little. I've heard that the bike course has "two pretty good size hills," and made the conclusion that this had to be the first one. Even if I'm struggling, at least I know everyone else is too.
At the top of the hill, we enjoyed flying down the other side. Climbing is always worth it to me if we get to descend afterwards. I love going fast.
As I started to settle into my own, calm myself down and get ready for the long haul, the course became easier. Some rolling hills that didn't produce any real problems. I would get chased for a while and eventually passed by a cluster of riders every once in a while, but this bothered me less and less as the day went on. I just did my best to chat up the volunteers and try to enjoy the scenery; which wasn't hard on this course. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The green, rolling hills in the morning fog were reminiscent of WildFlower, except these seemed to calm more than excite.
At one point later in the bike course, I'm heading up a long climb, but with a pretty easy grade. I'm in the saddle coasting along without much thought, except wondering how much more of this bike course there was. As I turned right onto the main road to finish the hill, the cop controlling traffic asked "quite a long hill, wasn't it?" To which I replied "No. Wasn't too bad." It dawned on me about 30 seconds later that this was the second "pretty good size" hill. It wasn't a whole lot. Maybe I was in the middle of my second wind or something. Maybe I should have gone up it faster...? Pacing was hard without a bike computer or a watch.
As I finally pull back into the rec center, I begin getting ready for the dismount and transition. As I pull in, I see Barry Knight just finishing the run. I couldn't believe this guy. He's finishing the race as I'm finishing the bike course, during a SPRINT DISTANCE race! He was first overall, no surprise, with a time of 1:02:57. What a beast.
Target bike time: 1:00:00
Actual bike time: 56:45
Swim + Bike time: 1:00:35
T2: 0:35
At this point, I'd like to rewind to my pre-race ritual. I have always debated on going sockless for my races, the shorter ones anyway, but it has never worked for me. I've tried it in both training and races before, but I always blister up and the rest of the run is really uncomfortable. After reading the Body Glide label stating it's "Great for Feet, too!" I decided to try it on my warmup run. It seemed to work well enough, so I took a chance, lathered up and went sockless.
What a great idea! Not only did the shoes go on my feet like butter, but my feet felt as good, if not better, than they do wearing socks! For shorter distance races, I'm totally hooked on this stuff! Body Glide=amazing!
The run was pretty uneventful. I was having some light GI problems on the bike that signaled bad things for the run, but they never came to fruition. The first mile of the run seemed like the longest, but the race volunteers were great; never too far away. At one point just after the 1 mile marker, I was to make a hard right turn, U-turn onto the road and follow the guard rail to the next cone. I wasn't quite paying attention to the volunteer and missed the U-turn. I found myself in someone's front yard with no clear paths. A quick moment of confusion was dashed when the volunteer screamed the correct directions to me. Just a little embarrassing.
The run felt pretty good. My pacing went pretty well. I was huffing and puffing, and had side splits about halfway through, but nothing ever made me slow down. I wanted to stay on an 8 min/mile pace, and I stuck to it quite well all the way to the finish.
Target Run time: 28:00
Actual Run time: 26:39
Target Race time: 1:30:00
Actual Race time: 1:28:11
After snacking, hydrating and chatting, I was eager to check out my time and placing. This was a pretty small event, so I figured I would podium in my Age Group, despite not having really trained for it. I thought there was a mistake when I saw that I had the fastest time of anyone in my Age Group. There were a few 19 year olds and 25+ year olds that beat me, but nobody in my category got the better of me. I was really excited to walk up and accept my gold medal as the lead finisher in the Male 20-24 AG.
After the ceremony, I checked out the split times. Turns out I was the ONLY person in the race in the Male 20-24 AG. Kind of a buzzkill. I didn't deserve to win, anyway. I just enjoyed the race and beat my target time, which is the only things I try to do in races anyway.
All in all, it was a pretty good race. I feel like I got the most out of myself, did the best I could given my lack of training and really enjoyed the scenery, the atmosphere and the people. Only 7 days until my next race at Cedars of Lebanon. Until then, tri on!
When my alarm clock went off at 3:30 this morning, I felt something that I wasn't expecting. I felt good, rested. Apparently, my attempt to get exactly 4.5 hours of sleep worked pretty well, and climbing out of bed wasn't a problem. To this, I give credit to those 3:30 wakeup calls for Wednesday morning swims.
I fancy drinking my Ensure as the most difficult thing I do all day. It isn't, of course, but it is more difficult than one would imagine. Consuming 500 calories in about 2 minutes when you're not that hungry to begin with hurts sometimes. Makes me gag, but I got it down, loaded up the truck and got outta town a little after 4:00am. The trip was quite the little haul, 80 miles one way, but I pulled into the race venue around 5:30. The site of the race was a fitness center and outdoor pool on one side and a cemetery on the other. An odd little location for a transition area, but I'm not one to balk at a race over such a trivial issue. I was one of the first racers present, so I got a sweet spot near the bike in/bike out gate to rack my bike and set up my transition area.
The typical pre-race ritual followed: set up the bike and run gear in a most obsessively compulsive way while listening to my half-hour pre-race mix, use the restroom (a few times), pick up my race packet, get body marked, and begin to zone in. Among these must-dos, I talked with a guy from Birmingham known only as J Bruhn. He ended up finishing 3rd overall. Pretty quick.
After a 10 min run warmup and 10 min swim warmup, I found myself on the pool deck at 7:00am and beared witness to the first racer plunging into the pool. The race was underway! Being number 24, it was less than two minutes before I toed the line and was given the go ahead to start the race.
The swim went pretty well. So much better after that warmup. I ended up passing one or two swimmers along the way, but overall felt I was seeded really well. Although I started to lose my breath towards the end, I was really happy with my pacing. After all, it was only 200 yds. Exiting the water, I was ready to test my hand at what everyone has said is a REALLY hilly bike course.
Target swim time: 4:00
Actual swim time: 3:50
T1: 0:24
After a quick exchange (I really do have fast transitions), I was out on the bike course. The course got interesting fairly quickly, as we found ourselves tackling hills almost immediately out of the park. There was a short but quite steep hill followed almost immediately by a slow, steady, fairly long climb. I was beginning to get passed by those who had practiced for this race and cursed my lack of ambition and opportunity as I struggle up the hill, already in the lightest gear my bike has. A little over halfway up the hill, we passed a white sign stating "No Whining," which put my mind at ease a little. I've heard that the bike course has "two pretty good size hills," and made the conclusion that this had to be the first one. Even if I'm struggling, at least I know everyone else is too.
At the top of the hill, we enjoyed flying down the other side. Climbing is always worth it to me if we get to descend afterwards. I love going fast.
As I started to settle into my own, calm myself down and get ready for the long haul, the course became easier. Some rolling hills that didn't produce any real problems. I would get chased for a while and eventually passed by a cluster of riders every once in a while, but this bothered me less and less as the day went on. I just did my best to chat up the volunteers and try to enjoy the scenery; which wasn't hard on this course. It was nothing short of breathtaking. The green, rolling hills in the morning fog were reminiscent of WildFlower, except these seemed to calm more than excite.
At one point later in the bike course, I'm heading up a long climb, but with a pretty easy grade. I'm in the saddle coasting along without much thought, except wondering how much more of this bike course there was. As I turned right onto the main road to finish the hill, the cop controlling traffic asked "quite a long hill, wasn't it?" To which I replied "No. Wasn't too bad." It dawned on me about 30 seconds later that this was the second "pretty good size" hill. It wasn't a whole lot. Maybe I was in the middle of my second wind or something. Maybe I should have gone up it faster...? Pacing was hard without a bike computer or a watch.
As I finally pull back into the rec center, I begin getting ready for the dismount and transition. As I pull in, I see Barry Knight just finishing the run. I couldn't believe this guy. He's finishing the race as I'm finishing the bike course, during a SPRINT DISTANCE race! He was first overall, no surprise, with a time of 1:02:57. What a beast.
Target bike time: 1:00:00
Actual bike time: 56:45
Swim + Bike time: 1:00:35
T2: 0:35
At this point, I'd like to rewind to my pre-race ritual. I have always debated on going sockless for my races, the shorter ones anyway, but it has never worked for me. I've tried it in both training and races before, but I always blister up and the rest of the run is really uncomfortable. After reading the Body Glide label stating it's "Great for Feet, too!" I decided to try it on my warmup run. It seemed to work well enough, so I took a chance, lathered up and went sockless.
What a great idea! Not only did the shoes go on my feet like butter, but my feet felt as good, if not better, than they do wearing socks! For shorter distance races, I'm totally hooked on this stuff! Body Glide=amazing!
The run was pretty uneventful. I was having some light GI problems on the bike that signaled bad things for the run, but they never came to fruition. The first mile of the run seemed like the longest, but the race volunteers were great; never too far away. At one point just after the 1 mile marker, I was to make a hard right turn, U-turn onto the road and follow the guard rail to the next cone. I wasn't quite paying attention to the volunteer and missed the U-turn. I found myself in someone's front yard with no clear paths. A quick moment of confusion was dashed when the volunteer screamed the correct directions to me. Just a little embarrassing.
The run felt pretty good. My pacing went pretty well. I was huffing and puffing, and had side splits about halfway through, but nothing ever made me slow down. I wanted to stay on an 8 min/mile pace, and I stuck to it quite well all the way to the finish.
Target Run time: 28:00
Actual Run time: 26:39
Target Race time: 1:30:00
Actual Race time: 1:28:11
After snacking, hydrating and chatting, I was eager to check out my time and placing. This was a pretty small event, so I figured I would podium in my Age Group, despite not having really trained for it. I thought there was a mistake when I saw that I had the fastest time of anyone in my Age Group. There were a few 19 year olds and 25+ year olds that beat me, but nobody in my category got the better of me. I was really excited to walk up and accept my gold medal as the lead finisher in the Male 20-24 AG.
After the ceremony, I checked out the split times. Turns out I was the ONLY person in the race in the Male 20-24 AG. Kind of a buzzkill. I didn't deserve to win, anyway. I just enjoyed the race and beat my target time, which is the only things I try to do in races anyway.
All in all, it was a pretty good race. I feel like I got the most out of myself, did the best I could given my lack of training and really enjoyed the scenery, the atmosphere and the people. Only 7 days until my next race at Cedars of Lebanon. Until then, tri on!
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