I'm one of the first people in the park and I get a great parking spot. Hook up my mp3 player and set up my transition area. This year's theme song is Moby and Everloving, as well as Marc Cohn, True Companion . One important Lesson Learned from the Timberman last year was how useful having a theme song was during the bike and run to get me into the groove of things. Finally go back to the van, get into my wetsuit and neoprene booties for the cold water, and head to the start. The neoprene booties are actually a great idea because they make walking over the trails and beach much easier than barefoot. Hm, something to remember. There are only five waves to start the swim, and I'm in the last one (all the women in the triathlon.) I warmed up a little in the water, but when my wave started I had a sudden panic attack. It was a really bad one, probably caused by the extremely cold water. My arms felt weak, I could barely kick, and I was convinced that I was going to drown. It took everything I had to not turn back. Actually, pride worked really well: I told myself that if I quit now, I'd be the only one out of 500 athletes to quit, and all the spectators would see me. That did the trick. So did Enya and Caribbean Blue, as well as telling myself that the panic would pass and I'd find a groove. I did, and it didn't take that long. Not having any swimmers around me helped, and amazingly enough I swam in a straight line most of the time and always found the next buoy right away. No wandering aruond trying to sight buoys straight into the sun, as at Timberman last year. When I finally got out of the water, a couple of things happened: first, I started pulling out my ear plugs, and in doing so unhooked and lost one of my earrings, which really angered me (it was a favourite) and got me out of focus. Then I looked at my watch: 39 minutes!! Three minutes faster than last year! OK, so maybe it was because last year all I did was search for buoys, but I hadn't had to deal with a panic attack. And I hadn't really felt like I was swimming all that hard this year, although the water was too cold to breathe bilaterally.
Anyway, the swim went darn well, all things considered. I couldn't believe I had gotten out of the water in under 40 minutes. Transition wasn't the smoothest: I was still ticked off about losing my earring, and pulling off the neoprene booties was a new concept. Another girl in my age group was heading out at the same time as me. "Go, go, go!" she yelled to me as she ran by. Obviously a first-timer. I really wanted to tell her that the finish line was another 70 miles away. I ended up passing her on the bike anyway, and saw her walking the run. When I got on the bike the first thing I noticed was that I wasn't cold. That's really unusual in a triathlon. When you first hop on your bike after getting out of the water, you're soaking wet and it's still early in the day. The first few miles, even in mid-summer, are very chilly as you get all that air passing over wet skin and wet clothing. But today the heat was already intense, and even in the shade around Newfound Lake I was warm. It was going to be a hot day.
The bike course was a two-loop course around the lake and on some back roads. First, I hate two-loop courses: you find out the bad spots on the first round and dread them on the second. The road surface was exceptionately bad on the back roads. It sucks up a huge amount of energy from a cyclist, since so much effort is spent trying to cushion the blows. I find that I get headaches on these sorts of roads. But those are the only bad things I can say about the course. It is otherwise spectacularly beautiful. All the athletes were pointing that out at the end of the event. The summer sun was out, there was no wind, and everything was lush and in bloom. You had rolling pastures and fields, mountains in the distance, and quaint villages and country houses and farms to gaze at. Heck, the course rivalled the UK Half-Ironman for breathtaking scenery, and that's saying something. It was also EXTREMELY HARD! Apparently the Moosmeman bike course is about the same elevation gain as Timberman, but between the rough road surface and the technical hills, there's no breathing space. You're always in a hill, especially the short ones that tend to be harder than long easy ones. There was one three-mile downhill stretch on the far side of Newfound Lake that you could relax on, but most of us chose to use it to put the bike on the big chain ring and make up some time. There was a major kneeshaker around mile 10 that I really didn't think I would make it up. I was taking it easy on the first loop and making sure I could get up hills without too much effort. On the quiet backroad I passed one of the volunteers, a young girl dressed in a blue Celtic outfit and playing the fiddle. Imagine that with the rolling green pasture and mountains in the background. As one triathlete later said, it made you want to get off your bike and fall asleep in the meadow. And going by the park on the start of the second loop was really fun: the crowd was huge and really great, and one girl yelled out "I love your suit!" which, of course, is the ultimate compliment to a woman on a bike.
But on the second loop this other girl in my age group in an orange suit whizzed by me, and all my plans got thrown out the window. I just wanted to kick her butt. I chased after her for the first few miles, gaining on the downhills since I was a bit bigger than her. But when we got to that kneeshaker, she leapt out of her saddle and zipped up the entire hill. I couldn't believe it. It took everything I had just to grunt to the top, and when I got there she was out of sight. Still, I kept chasing. It took another 15 minutes before I caught up with her (on the long downhill stretch), and then I just followed her, noticing that she was more erratic on straight stretches. It takes focus to cycle as efficiently as possible in a straight line while on your aerobars. An official followed us for a while on a motorcycle to check if I was drafting, and after he left I charged by her. I took a chance and kept biking hard, wondering how I'd recover for the run but deciding that it was time to go a bit beyond my comfort zone. I passed four other cyclists, all men who had probably gone too hard on the first loop. Orange Girl then charged by me just as we started back into the short, steep hills. Damn! Into the final backroad she was so far ahead that I lost sight of her. I was still trying to go hard while dealing with a headache from the rough roads. Only in triathlon do you learn to get rid of headaches without pills.
Into the park, get my feet out of my shoes, and hop off the bike. Go into transition, pull on socks (the run starts off a beach, and I didn't want to run barefeet in my sneakers with sand!) And I go right by Orange Girl. She can barely run. YEAH!!!! I win! But I still have to run for two hours after going hard on the bike - not something I'm good at. Running on the beach is brutal, so I start walking to preserve some energy. Then out on the road the heat is intense and I feel pretty weak. Oddly enough, though, the heat doesn't get to me, thanks to all the overdressing I've been doing since April. Boy, did that ever pay off. It takes about three miles of shuffling before my legs come around. At the first major hill, my legs start burning so I actually have to walk up. I pour lots of water over my neck and head to cool off and wonder why no one else does this (it makes a huge difference.) The aid stations don't have Gatorade; they have this disgusting stuff called HEED that makes me quite sick. I run almost the entire course on Pepsi and two Clifshots. After the steep hill is a long downhill where I finally get my stride back and settle in for the rest of the run. The second loop is a little quieter, and on the way back I notice this woman running in the other lane, not in the triathlon. She's got a huge stride, and as she passes me she yells "Great pace! Keep it up!" It's Karen Smyers. I GOT CHEERED BY KAREN SMYERS!!!! What a great way to finish the run! There are three miles left and my legs are a bit stiff. I'm starting to wonder how I'll do twice this distance - after a bike ride twice as long as today's - in July at Ironman Lake Placid. Well, fear can be a good thing. I'm still smiling today and pretty thrilled to be here. People keep yelling "You look strong!" and I actually feel really good. There's nothing left for a sprint finish, though. I get in at 6h06 - that's nine minutes slower than Timberman, but two months earlier in the season and half the training.
Here are the stats:
SWIM: Rank: 317 (out of 500), Time: 39:07, Pace: 32:36 (min/mile)
Transition 1: 3:19
BIKE: Rank: 304 (out of 500) , Time: 3:22:15, Pace: 16.6 mph
Transition 2: 2:19
RUN: Rank: 182 (out of 500) , Time: 1:59:39, Pace: 9:09 min/mile
FINAL STANDING: Total Time: 6:06:37 (winning time for F30-34 was 4:56)
Rank in Age Group Category: 15/33 F30-34
Rank in Gender: 56/113 F
So I'm actually pretty amazed at how well I did overall - far better than I did at Timberman, even though this was a much more competitive crowd. It's early in the year for half-Ironman, so most people who were here were very experienced and getting ready for (or had already done) Ironman Lake Placid. What amazes me most is how great my run was: I had almost the exact same time as Timberman, after a much harder bike ride and under far tougher conditions. Heck, I even had to walk some portions of the course. And I never felt the stiffness or fatigue that I describe in my Timberman race report. So overall, I'm surprised and quite delighted. Doing well on the run beats succeeding at any other part of a triathlon. I attribute a lot of that to doing the ChiRunning throughout the winter and completely changing the way I view running. I've gotten faster not through physical effort but by believing in new things.
The weak spots: hills on the bike. I had a hard time getting up those. Not quite sure what's behind that: a new bike that doesn't have the sprightly Marinoni geometry, not doing any weightlifting for my legs this year, not doing enough hills in training. I think it's the last one. Nutrition will also have to get worked on. I have a great nutrition plan for a half-Ironman, but it will have to change completely for Ironman. I'm not sure what to do for this. There will be a few equipment tweaks. I love the Mavic Ksyriums SSC SL I got with my Litespeed, but they're nowhere near as tough as my Rolf Vector Comps. That seems to be in line with most reviews, which talk about the Comps as being heavy but indestructible. I should have ridden those on this bike course, since my Ksyriums now need trueing. For the run, I won't be doing a marathon in my Kukinis. My right hip was screaming in the half-marathon - and that was WITH orthotics.
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Lessons Learned
- Music. I know I talked about this last year, but it was important again this year. Have a "theme song", something that characterises your outlook for this race and what it really means to you.
- Warm-up hard for the swim. Again, I said it last year, but I didn't follow through on it this year.
- The best one today: it's OK to go outside my comfort zone on the bike. In fact, it's really good. I'm strong enough on the run that I can afford to push harder on the bike. And going outside our comfort zones is what this is all about, isn't it?
As far as crowds, organisation, and professionalism, there's nothing else like Ironman. I've never seen anything - sporting event or otherwise - organised like this. Even the National Capital Events in Ottawa will feel amateurish. I went for a run yesterday along the Mt. Van Hoevenburg recreation area, where the bobsled events were held during the Olympics. It was a pretty good run, given all the driving we've been doing lately. I felt stiff for the first 20 minutes, but pretty great after that. This morning I sorted my gear and put the bags together for the transitions. I had the brilliant idea of putting a very clear to-do list in each bag, and at the bottom of each list I put a little thought or quote to inspire me when I started that phase. I think I'm ready. Nervous, and anxious. But amazed that I'm here and that I've gotten myself this far. I'm rereading Antoine de Saint-Exupery's Wind, Sand, and Stars , and there's one passage I read this morning where he talks about the people who chose to put up ramparts between them and a life of meeting fear and the elements "on terms of equality." Tomorrow, I'll face those head-on.
You know what? It wasn't that hard. Well, it wasn't that hard compared to what I was expecting , and I was expecting - and prepared for - excrutiating pain, long periods of empty time wondering when the finish line would appear, muscle cramping, tears of pain and anguish, and major stomach problems. Planning for the worst case scenario was probably the best thing I did (that, and training with an extra layer in hot weather for the past three months. That was absolutely brilliant, not to mention a great exercise in discipline.) If anything, what today did was prove even further that most people who do these things and talk about how brutal Ironmans and triathlons and marathons are are simply unprepared. As Lance Armstrong said today (when he won the Tour de France for the SEVENTH time) after being asked how he had done it: "Hard work." And attention to detail.
OK, the race day recount. We arrived at the transition area just before 5am, having woken up at 3:30. Yep, that's right: 3:30am. I felt great, but I had also gone to bed at 9pm. (We've been staying at the most wonderful cabin at Mt. Van Hoevenburg Cabins , HIGHLY recommended.) Got bodymarked, checked my gear bags, and went over to the bike. The organisers had thoughtfully decided to play Enya while competitors were getting ready in the transition area. It gave the morning such a serene feeling. I wish all triathlons did that for their participants prior to the swim start, but most would rather get everybody hyped. Walked down Mirror Lake Drive and put my special needs bags in the run and bike bag areas. Watching the fog clearing out from Mirror Lake was quite nice. We had lots of time until the start - almost an hour - and I was so grateful that we had arrived early. This was one morning that I was really taking my time, double-checking all my bags. When it came time to put my wetsuit on I was shaking with nerves and cold. I followed the crowd down to the water, walked in, and was pleasantly surprised at the warm temperature. Waiting for the start while standing and shaking with nerves in the water was probably the worst part. Mentally, I was getting ready for a panic attack when the gun would go off, and I was also trying to just appreciate the moment. One whole year of training and thinking about this day, and here I was, at the start line. How incredible was that? It was a beautiful morning, no clouds, no wind, patches of mist drifting over the lake, and 2000 athletes laughing and talking to each other. I had Tina Turner playing in my head, Better Be Good To Me , and how can you not smile when thinking of Tina Turner? When I had picked up my race kit Friday afternoon, I had had the good luck to get my numbers from a volunteer, an older man named Emmett, who had done six Ironmans (including twice at Kona). His advice, when I asked him for it: "Just enjoy the day." That had been my race plan for today: savour every moment of my first Ironman. There's only one first, and there will never be another day like today.
The gun went off, everyone cheered, and I braced myself for a panic attack. Which never happened. That's because my first antidote to a panic attack is to smile and be grateful for actually being here. Those things weren't hard to do on the day of my first Ironman. I remember swimming under that start line, hearing the voice of Mike Reilly (the announcer for all the Ironman events), and being amazed at the fact that I was here. The focus for the swim was to relax and to try to swim while breathing bilaterally (which I couldn't do at the Mooseman). You couldn't see the bottom of the lake, but the water was clear enough to four swimmers in either direction. People weren't aggressive, but there was a lot of kicking and shoving going on simply because there were so many of us. The most annoying part was slamming into the occasional idiot swimmer doing the breaststroke or who had suddenly stopped and was treading water. I really surprised myself during the swim with how relaxed things were and how smoothly I was swimming. No one else was shooting by me like a torpedo; in fact, I was doing most of the passing. Getting onto the famous buoy line was pretty much impossible on the first lap. And seeing the scuba divers at the far end, about ten feet below us, watching for anyone trying to cut the corners was pretty funny. After the first lap my watch said 38 minutes. I nearly passed out. How in the world had I managed to swim my fastest 1.9km when it had felt so easy? (Drafting.) And the second loop was even easier since I found the buoy line right away and stayed on it, never sighting once.
Thw swim was over, I was out of the water and looking for a volunteer to help me get out of my wetsuit. Jumped onto my back, chatted and laughed with to her as she pulled off the wetsuit from legs, wished her a good day, and back on to the carpet that took us to the transition area. The one thing that the organisers missed in all this was explaining the flow of the transition to the athletes prior to the race, either during the race meeting or (better) with a diagram on the event website. I figured out that we got our own bags by running down between the racks to our number, then heading to the change tents with the bag and our wetsuit. Found a chair in the tent, another awesome volunteer came over to help my with my sunscreen. Shoes on, race belt on, sunscreen and massive amounts of Vaseline, helmet, read the quote on my list for the bike phase ("33 you're on your way/Every day's a new day") and I was off to my bike. Fortunately, the tires hadn't exploded in the hot morning sun (a fate that befell another competitor). The bike mount area was really narrow and thanks to a fast swim I was in a crowd of 30-39 males - the absolute worst competitors on the course. They were yelling at each other while bikes were swerving as people got on. Slowing down and watch out for other people was just not an option for them.
The bike course starts with a long climb out of Lake Placid. We rode in large packs, not worried about being called for drafting while in the hills. What surprised me is how chatty people were and how much joking was going on. At that point, contrary to the the mounting area a few miles back, we were all in this together. The scenery was stunning. Looking around at the fields and mountains helped get my mind off the fact that I was being passed by other cyclists as if I was standing still. No one seemed to be racing, but they did seem to be in a hurry. Didn't they realise we had 112 miles ahead of us, and then we were running a marathon? The long, nine mile downhill into Keene was fantastic. Some parts go by a lake that was perfectly still in the morning, reflecting the mountain and cliff on the other side. As I was going down (it seemed to go on forever), I started adjusting my race plan. First, I had to find a Porta-Potty, then I had to start my countdown timer for food. My plan was to ride the bike course as if I was out on a nice, easy Sunday bike ride, always remembering that I had a marathon to run when I got off. Got to a washroom at an aid station after Keene. The volunteers at Ironman are amazing: as I slowed and uncleated for the porta-potty, one girl ran out, grabbed my bike, and opened the door to the Porta-Potty for me. How much better does it get? Back on the road, I started my countdown timer for every 20 minutes for a ClifShot. This was actually a stroke of luck: my favourite Wal-Mart watch that had been with me through all my triathlons and runs of the past four years had died on the first day of this trip. The $15 purple watch I bought the following day at Wal-Mart in Ticonderoga, New York wasn't water resistant. So when we were at the sports expo on Friday I splurged and bought a Timex Sleek, which I had wanted for some time. The Sleek has also sorts of USEFUL functions (most watches don't), and one of these is a countdown timer. Thanks to that timer, I remembered to eat on the bike course.
From Keene to Jay, the bike course is quite flat and follows a gorgeous, shallow river with fields to one side and mountains on the other. I was doing quite well on the flat, recalling bits of songs that are so perfect for long bike rides (Magnet from the Lance Armstrong/Nike commercial, and The Unbreakable Chain by Daniel Lanois.) At Jay, we turn left and start going up the worst of the hills. Just as the downhill into Keene seemed to go on forever, so did the uphills from Jay. Cyclists were bunching up again, talking to each other. We climbed until the turn-off to the out-and-back, a quiet country road that was a bit rough in spots. But the best part was the turn-around in the village of Hazelton: you could here the dance music they had blasting at the aid station from at least two miles away. The volunteers were all dressed in Hawaiian outfits, poking fun at the famous turnaround in Hawi for the World Championships at Kona. There was so much energy and fun coming out of that place that you couldn't help but feel great when you left it.
The hardest part of the bike course (for me) was the stretch between Wilmington, when you reojoined the main road after the out-and-back, and Lake Placid. It's probably the most spectacularly beautiful part of the course, with the massive Whiteface Mountain in the background and a stunning river along the road, but it's a never-ending, deceptive uphill and you're dealing with a headwind funneled between the river on your right and rock wall on your left. This was probably my psychological low point of the entire race. I was angry that I was already tired on the first loop and that I couldn't seem to accelerate. But then we passed one woman cheering us on who said "There's a huge crowd waiting for you up ahead." Hm, we weren't far from Lake Placid. And she was right: there was a MASSIVE crowd waiting for us at the top of the hill that goes into Lake Placid. They were cheering, yelling our numbers, and getting us to smile again. I stopped at the special needs area (a volunteer sees you coming, spots your number and yells it out to volunteers amongst the bags. They find your bag and run to you when you've stopped.) The guy who had my bag mentioned that he also had a Litespeed Ultimate. I told him he had good taste while digging into my bag for more ClifShots. Then off I went for my second lap.
The second lap was quieter. Cyclists were further apart and weren't talking as much. The sun was out and really warming things up. At the aid station past Keene I threw out my empty Gatorade bottle and got another (quite a cool thing to do while biking by.) My appetite was decreasing: when my countdown timer would beep, I would check to see if I was hungry before reaching for a ClifShot. On the second loop, I was down to one ClifShot an hour, but I wasn't too worried about that. I was drinking much more Gatorade than I had planned - I picked up another water bottle at the Hawi aid station - and I was worried about that. Sure, fluids are less risky than solid food on an Ironman, but I didn't want too feel bloated when I got off the bike. I spent a large part of the second lap getting mentally ready for the stretch between Wilmington and Lake Placid that I had found so discouraging before. But the toughest point came just before Wilmington, in the long climbs to the out-and-back. I really struggled in those hills, managing a cadence of only about 75rpm in my lowest gear. I could also feel blisters forming on my toes and the soles of my feet were getting sore. But the Wilmington-Lake Placid part went well, mostly because I had gotten ready for it. In fact, I was getting happier and happier: the end of the bike was coming, and I was really looking forward to the run. I tried not to think too much about the fact that the run was a marathon. Stopped drinking Gatorade 45 minutes before the end of the bike so that I wouldn't slosh too much on the run. I always find that part (disciplining myself not to take in more Gatorade) brutal, but the horrible memory of my very first half-Ironman when drank too much just before the run helps me stick to my plan.
Up the hill, through Lake Placid, by the people who are already on the run course (how discouraging), zip through the small streets of the town, and finally off the bike with a huge smile on my face. Trot over to rack my bike, then to the bag racks for my run bag. Into the tent, find a chair, pull of my bike shoes, and discover no less than five massive blisters on my heels and toes, in spite of all the Vaseline I had put on them before the bike. I had a scary moment when I first put on my running shoes and felt my blisters burning as they rubbed against the shoes. The answer: more Vaseline. I put gobs and gobs of it on my toes and ankles, which seemed to work. A volunteer came over and saw my list on the ground and said,"Type A personality, huh?" I laughed and said, "Yeah, but stress-free, thanks to the list." Picked up some salt tablets, put on my cap, and headed out of the tent.
Running out of the tent was the strangest experience: I was so happy to be running, and the funny thing was - I felt great. My legs felt as if they were ready for a marathon! And not a peep from the blisters. I saw my mom just as I turned onto the course, waved, and started downhill. My focus was on finding a good posture, getting into my stride, and feeling out the status of my stomach. Surprisingly, everthing was doing well. And right away I started passing people who had zipped by me on the bike. I got some Coke at the first aid station. I also tried a salt tablet, letting it dissolve under my tongue as I ran, but hated it and spat it out. I don't think I needed it, in spite of the hot weather. Took in a bit more Coke and some Gatorade at the next station, and kept on downhill to the turn-off. I was running well, and it was evening, about the time when things got quiet and the scenery seemed to soften. At one point the course went by a red barn and a huge field. Spectators had lined both sides of the road with signs to cheer on the runners (my favourite: "Go IronTurtle" And another one asking DMW to marry him/her. What happens if he/she didn't see it?). Yet for all that beauty, no one seemed to be looking at it. Everyone had gone into this world of pain and didn't seem to want to come out. I was running up all the hills at this point, and stopping at aid stations only long enough to grab some disgusting orange Gatorade. I kept running at what seemed to be an effortless pace, feeling no pain or fatigue. On my way back into Lake Placid I did have to walk up the two major hills in town. At the top of the second hill there was a huge crowd and a guy with a microphone yelling out our numbers and cheering us on. They were so inspiring. The crowds were thick and loud all through town, and they seemed to respond really well to what felt like a permanent smile on my face. It seemed as if I got more cheers than other competitors. I didn't stop at the special needs station for my bag, which had my blue shirt in case the evening got cold. When I had packed the bag I thought I would be running slower and that it would be fairly cold.
On the second loop I ran a while with a girl from Ontario. She was quieter than me. I think I annoyed her with all the talking I was doing, but I couldn't help repeating how beautiful I thought the area was. We walked up hills together, and passed one man writhing on his back, a medic at his side calling in the walkie-talkie for an ambulance. When we came back after the turn-around, the ambulance had arrived, the man was passed out and had two IVs stuck in him. Talk about scary. The evening was cooling off a bit, thankfully for him. Surprisingly, I didn't feel any cold. In fact, I had been grabbing ice at every aid station and pouring it into my sports bra or stuffing cubes under my cap. I dropped the Ontario girl as we were going up one of the last hills. Once in Lake Placid, with about three miles to go, I started accelerating. It was so easy, too. I don't know where the energy came from, but I was happy to run fast and people seemed to be going out of their way to cheer me on. It was almost dark, and as I ran everything seemed ethereal: I was a few minutes away from finishing an Ironman, I was running easily, and I wanted to savour every step that was left. About half a mile before the finish line were some timing mats with volunteers on either side of the mats. They saw me coming with my huge smile and starting screaming and cheering. "There's the smile of a finisher!" yelled one (just after the mats is the split in the course for the people going on to their second lap and the people who are finishing.) I just nodded, since by this point I was getting choked up and couldn't really talk, and ran faster. As I turned onto the oval I was wiping my eyes, unsuccessfully trying not to cry, and sprinting. Passed one poor soul who was bent over and shuffling, saw the clock over the finish line (13:40) and sprinted down the last stretch. That was the best finish of my life. After 140 miles, my legs somehow had the strength to keep running faster and faster every time I asked them to. And after months of training, months of wondering if I could do this, I had arrived. I was an Ironman.
I've got to say something about the finish line at the Ironman, because it's incomparable. OK, so I didn't get Mike Reilly yelling "You are an Ironman" when I crossed the finish line. That bummed me out a bit: it's a huge motivator for us age-groupers who train and watch the Ironman Hawaii videos, so not hearing that voice and that phrase was alittle odd. But as soon as you cross the line, two volunteers come out immediately on either side of you to hold you up in case you collapse and wrap you up in space blankets. They ask you how you're feeling and try to determine whether or not you're lucid. I told them I was feeling fine, if a bit emotional, and that I didn't need to go into the medical tent. They said there was pizza being served, and I suddenly discovered that I had regained my appetite. As I was making my way over to the food one volunteer said I didn't look like I had just done an Ironman.
The numbers (1977 starters, 116 in the women 30-34 age group):
Swim: 1h17 minutes, pace is 2:01 per 100m.
Rank after swim: 65th out of 116 in my age group, 1296 out of 1977 overall.
Bike: 7:21. The first lap was 3:30 (average speed: 15.99mph), and the second lap was 3:51 (average speed 14.52mph.) Overall average speed: 15.22mph, much slower than I had expected.
Rank after the bike: 74th out of 116 in my age group, 1520 overall.
Run: 4:45. First lap was 2:17 (10:28 min/mile), second lap was 2:27 (11:17 min/mile.) Overall pace was 10:52 min/mile.
Rank after the run: 31st in my age group (out of 105 finishers),and 831st out of 1900 overall (that's the rank only for the run, not the entire event.)
Overall: 13h40min. I finished 55th in my age group out of 106 finishers (there were 10 drop-outs), and 1211 out of 1900 finishers. I passed three of the pro women on the run.
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Lessons Learned
- Research. Be obsessed. Study everything you can get your hands on about what you're getting into. The people who were disappointed yesterday were the people with unrealistic expectations. They hadn't given 100% in training. How in the world could they give 100% on race day?
- Use nature to inspire you. I lucked out in that this was one of the most beautiful events I've ever done anywhere in the world. Using that beauty was tremendous inspiration, especially when things got tough on the bike. And it made me completely forget the pain on the run.
- Make lists. My idea of putting lists of every single thing to do in each transition bag was fabulous. The list took the worry completely out of the transition, helped the volunteer figure out what I had to do without me wasting time telling her, and got me motivated for the next phase when I read the little quote I had put down at the bottom of each list.
There is triathlon, and there is Ironman, and after today I will never again confuse the two. One is a sport that anyone can do; the other is a lifestyle and an obsession meant for intense, passionate people with no social lives. I really amazed myself today. And I'm looking forward to next year's Ironman.
It's a wet, overcast morning and the forecast says it will stay that way until late afternoon. Ugh, I hate rain. I'm up at 4am because I want a parking spot in the park and because I remember how much I hated being rushed last year. There are showers on and off as I set up my transition. Everything is wrapped in plastic bags, which I realise will add time to my transitions, but it's a good trade-off if it means starting with dry shoes, glasses, and cap later on in the day. Like everyone else, I don't bother with sunscreen. The weather's looking pretty awful. I chat with some friends from New Brunswick who are here for the event, then put on my wetsuit and head down to the beach. As the American and Canadian national anthems are sung, I look up and see a tiny patch of blue sky. Hm, maybe things will change. But it's still pretty grey as I walk to the start of the swim and stand in the water waiting for my wave. I'm too chicken to warm up, which I remember was a mistake last year but obviously not one I've overcome. The waves are staggered differently this year. Someone was wise enough to put the testosterone-crazed Men 30-34 age group ahead of us. That age group was after mine last year and created a lot of problems on the course (until the run, that is, when I pass them!)
And we're off! My smile kicks in, stays on my face, and I feel thrilled to be in a triathlon again. I live for these days, particularly when I'm training in the dead of winter and I remind myself why I'm doing this. The swim is always the scariest part, but in a strange way that's what I like about it. It's scary - but I'm here doing it. I enjoy the feel of passing lots of women, and of sighting buoys early on and swimming in a straight line. But after we turn the first corner, I notice that everyone is way out to my left. I'm convinced I'm swimming in the shortest line between buoys (which are on our right), so why aren't the other swimmers closer? Am I missing something? Only about three of us, swimming very steadily and strongly, seem to be on course. And it gets even worse when we go around the second corner: now everyone is WAY over to the left and I'm alone. It's a bit of a bummer not to have a chance to draft off someone. I get some consolation when the M40-44 age group leaders pass me - on my right. OK, I'm on track and on the shortest course. Everyone else in my age group is lost, not me. I occasionally charge past a swimmer in my age group, or swim more strongly to ward off someone else as they try to move up. It's part of my race strategy, and it's pretty cool to be strong enough to do this.
The swim ends, I'm out of the water and checking my watch: a few seconds under 38 minutes! Another record (for me)! A slightly faster time that Lake Placid, without the benefit of drafting or a buoy line at the bottom of the lake. Transition goes well, even though everything is wrapped in plastic bags. I take the time to make sure all the sand is off my feet and ankles before putting on my shoes. What's most satisfying is that all the bikes around me are still racked. That's a first! I'm so used to having a slow swim and having my bike area to myself. I head out to the bike course, climb on the Litespeed, and pedal out of the park. As usual, everyone passes me as if I'm standing still. The sky seems lighter now, and it hasn't rained since before the start of the swim. The road is drying, there's no wind, and it's cool. The hills seem much easier than last year, too. In fact, at Mile 10, the location of the Marsh Hill Monster, the course's toughest climb, I get confused. I tell myself that they must have changed the course a bit, because we still haven't passed the hill. Well, we just had! The Litespeed and I had simply eaten it right up! In the next climb, I pass lots of people who are grinding their way up. One of these people is a really loud woman in light blue shorts who is talking to another participant. She's well into the middle of the road as I pass her, then as I draw up alongside she jerks her wheel to the left - and right into me. She curses, yells, and grabs on to my race top. Somehow, through some miracle, we don't crash, but not long after my legs are shaking from the scare.
The hills are over, we head down to the funky aid station and onto the flat part of the course. There's a headwind, but the course is downhill and smooth. I pick up the pace and really put pressure on staying steady, smooth, and fast. Like last year, there are lots and lots of people fixing flats on the side of the road. I've got Moby's Natural Blues playing in my head. I chose that song as my race day theme because it's more competitive than songs I usually chose. I notice that when I think of another song I slow down and take it easy. Ok, we'll stick with Natural Blues. The first pros are making their way back and I keep an eye out for Peter Reid, one of my favourite triathletes and an inspiration behind a lot of my running. Hm, don't see him. That's not good. My groin muscles (adductors? abductors? Whatever.) are acting up terribly. For the first time in my life I have to worry about muscle cramping. During the swim I had noticed that my right groin muscle was a little tight, but now going up the hills both muscles are cramping and very painful. Time to haul out same heavy-duty visualisation techniques: a massive hand massaging both muscles, and the smell of menthol or some sort of massage cream wafting up my nostrils. Hey, it works. I don't worry too much about burning out on the run: the run is my favourite part of a triathlon, and that attitude will be enough to get me through it. At one point on the return, there's a green VW Jetta parked on the side of the road and a guy with long grey hair watching us zip by. I wave and he cheers me on. Two miles down, I see him again. He waves at me. Two more miles down....and I see him again! Now he yells and screams when he sees me (all of it encouragement), but it's starting to freak me out. I see him two more times on the course and start to wonder if there's ever been an incident of triathlon stalking. This guy's weird. I even see him later on the run. Back in the hills, the girl who nearly crashed into me catches up and we chat for a while. "Great," I think to myself, "She's being loud, obnoxious, and in the middle of a lane while going uphill. Just like last time." She boots it on a downhill and I let her go. I'm having fun climbing hills that were so hard last year and are so easy this year. No lactic acid build-up, no heavy breathing, no knee shaking.
In the last hour of the bike the weather has gotten really stinking hot and humid. YEAH!!! My favourite conditions!!!! (I'm not being sarcastic, by the way. I really do love temperatures over 30C and high humidity.) It's now so hot that even on the flat with a crosswind, at over 30 kph, my glasses are fogging up with condensation and the sweat is dripping off my arms in a steady stream. What makes the humidity so stifling is the emerging sun that's evaporating all the water from the ground and the foliage. We're racing in a steambath. A heavily tattooed guy on a Cannondale literally screams by me. "Dig, dig, dig!!!" he yells. "I'll see you later on the run course...walking", I think to myself. The second transition goes well. I stop for a few seconds to take in the fact that I'm the first one in my area to rack my bike. Woohoo! Even the girl two numbers down from me with the intimidating black carbon bike is behind me! Before I let this all get to my head, I start shuffling to the run course. My legs are heavy and tired, but good enough to run. What I really want is a porta-potty. Unfortunately, there are no empty ones to be found for a long time. I head out of the park and up the hill with a painful abdomen. The heat on the course is incredible: there's no air to breathe, the heat wafting up from the pavement is blistering, and I'm happy. Still, I struggle up the two-mile uphill at the start of the run and start to question whether I can run this half-marathon in under two hours.
The run course is littered with the walking wounded. I'm further ahead in the pack than usual- everyone around me is a young, male and....walking. People are standing on the side of the road, dazed and confused, or slowing down to a walk when spectators are out of sight. I whiz by the tattooed Cannondale guy, who is now walking and sobbing softly. Here's the lesson: NEVER GO CRAZY ON THE BIKE! The finish line is at the end of the run , not the bike. The volunteers at aid stations are tremendous. One sweet little guy runs after me with a handful of ice after I had asked for some as I passed through the aid station and hadn't found any. I finally spot a porta-potty, but there's someone in it taking forever and a day. Three minutes go by before he emerges, a - you guessed it - M30-34 age grouper looking white and pasty and not so good. As soon as I get back on the course I realise that the three minute break was exactly what I needed: my legs are suddenly at 110%, I've got energy to spare, and my run is strong. The second loop is actually better than the first, although the heat at the turnaround is scorching. No one is smiling now, though that might be because of the serious sunburns on our backs (remember the sunscreen no one had put on this morning?) On my way back I catch up with the girl I had almost crashed into on the bike. Again, we talk a bit. She starts going into the excrutiating and gory details of the birth of her first child. I drop her. By then I've only got two miles left and my legs are strong enough to go faster. Going down the finish chute, however, there's not enough energy left for a sprint. That's fine by me: it means that my pace was as strong as I could manage during the entire event. In other words, I didn't have anything left at the end - and that had been my goal.
It was, overall, a fantastic day. I'm so glad I came back to do this event. I'm even happier with my improvement over last year, not only in terms of time, but in terms of becoming more competitive and changing how I look at a race. My swim and run have improved tremendously this year. For reasons that I haven't quite figured out yet, my bike is, well, not so great. Is that because of the Litespeed? Is it training? I don't know, but I've got all winter to figure it out.
Here are the numbers:
SWIM: 38 minutes (pace per mile is 31:40, rank out of 1202 finishers is 643.)
T1: 3:02 (faster than last year in spite of the rain.)
BIKE: 3:04:48 (five minutes faster than last year. Average speed is 18.2mph, rank is 712 out of 1202 finishers.)
T2: 2:12 (slower than last year. Wearing socks this year.)
RUN: 2:10:40, (pace is 9:59 per mile. Rank is 548 out of 1202 finishers.)
FINAL STANDINGS: 597th out of 1202 finishers, 26th out of 86 women 30-34, and 120th female out of 358. Overall, MASSIVE improvements over last year.
