It's really, really cold standing in the water at the start of this half-Ironman. Well, there's certainly no chance of deja vu with last year's record-breaking hot, brilliantly sunny Mooseman, now is there? Today the sky is stone grey, spitting drizzle at us, and temperatures are around 14C. I've been warming up in the swim area to make sure I don't repeat my panic attack at last year's start when I stuck my face in horrifically cold water. My expectations for this race are quite high: my swimming has improved dramatically, I've done some intense workouts for tackling hills on the bike, and my running endurance is pretty great. Yep, should be kicking butt today! 
So the gun goes off (I'm in the last wave), I start swimming and push myself over the little bumps of fear and whispers of anxiety that try to stop me. They have stopped another girl who's treading water and looking around wildly. I pause and ask if she's OK; she says she is so I swim on. I see the main pack of swimmers ahead of me and figure I'll catch up eventually. And I keep figuring that for more or less the entire swim. What's wrong?! How come I can't swim faster? I don't even have anyone to draft off of! As I round the first buoy I get a bit more confident, but now I can also feel my hands starting to freeze. By the time I round the second buoy my hands are very sore and completely stiff. I can't pull my fingers together to grip the water, so I end up clawing at it and doing something close to a fist drill. My disappointment grows as I get closer to shore and realise that I'm among the very last in my age group. To top it all off I realise that I'm swimming over my favourite gold hoop earring, lost in precisely this spot at exactly this time last year. Grrrrr....
OK, regroup. I can hammer on the bike, right? I trot over to my bike, get my wetsuit off more easily than last year, but now I start to fidget and struggle putting on a long sleeve shirt (it's really cold.) At least my brain is functioning enough to remind me to towel off a bit so that the windchill isn't too harsh on the bike. I carry my shoes and socks with me to the bike mount area because transition is way too muddy to risk putting them on. A volunteer washes my feet off with freezing cold water while another volunteer kindly holds my bike for me as I struggle into my socks and shoes. Finally off on the bike. The first few miles are unbelievably rough. I'm happy that the swim is over, but I just can't seem to get oriented and get going. I have to keep telling myself that the finish isn't imminent; it's hours away. I have to settle in and relax a bit. I pass a few people early on as we climb up and down West Shore Road.
My hands are so frozen that I can barely shift the front chainrings, and my handlebar tape has been recently cleaned with mechanic's soap so my hands are slipping all over the place. Argh! This is just NOT GOOD! I bunny hop with another woman dressed completely in black (she even has a tuque on) until we reach The Hill. I call it Red Devil Hill thanks to one of the nicest and most tireless volunteers I've ever met.
This year I'm ready for The Hill. I leap out of my pedals as soon as I pass the Red Devil, not waiting until my legs are too tired or burning up too much. My strategy works! I grind up The Hill, passing everyone else, breathing pretty hard, but smiling and responding to some great spectators cheering us on. A little breather, a long downhill, then more uphills and I'm feeling so much more confident now. The Hill, the thing I had feared since almost failing on it last year, was what I needed to get my act together. I relax a bit, telling myself I'll get going on the second loop. I rip off my bike number going down the 3A when the wind makes the stupid thing flap and cut the inside of my legs. My right foot is completely frozen. In fact, it's so bad that I start seriously worrying about frostbite. Both ankles are stiff from the cold and that affects my pedalling technique. I try scrunching my toes occasionally to bring them back to life, but the on-and-off drizzle keeps the road wet enough to prevent the feet from drying out. On the positive side of things, the rough roads don't seem to bother me as much this year as they did in 2005. Thank God for small favours. I also tap into one of my favourite biking songs, Everloving by Moby, and that gets me focused and gets my cadence up a bit.
We go up the 104 after going through Bristol. I try not to think too much about the fact that I've hardly passed anyone and that there are very, very few cyclists on the long stretches of the 104 ahead of me. I've never been so far behind since my first year of triathlon when I didn't have clip pedals and aerobars. But my confidence comes back when we turn onto Cass Mills Road and I zip up and down the hills without last year's agony. Back onto West Shore Road, go by the park and lots of cheering spectators, then settle into my second loop. I have a gel, having pushed my hunger as far as it will go. Now I'm a little more relentless in my cadence, in getting out of the saddle for hills. Red Devil Hill comes up again and I'm ready for it, using the same strategy I used on the first loop and finding that somehow it's actually easier this time around. Damn! Climbing up to the 3A is a bit brutal, but after that I put the bike into the 52-12 gear and really motor, checking my watch frequently and realising that I'll have to run one hell of a half-marathon if I want to finish in less than six hours. Three more gels (I took four on this course overall), more climbing, and I'm back at Wellington State Park getting ready for a run.
Transition is OK. I spend a little bit of time massaging my completely frozen feet, worrying that they might not be able to flex on the run. I put on my cap and head out onto the run. The beach start is much longer than I remember it and the first few metres are very soft so running is impossible. There's a great reggae aid station with an awesome crew that's been singing since the start of the swim. They're handing out crackers and pretzels and are preceded by a sign that asks "Do vegetarians eat animal crackers?" I ask them if they've answered the question but the blank looks I get suggest otherwise.
The remaining 30 metres on the beach are OK for running. I get onto the road and see all these really fit, really fast athletes running back toward the park. They're flying! Did somebody put something in the water that I didn't get? My stride is short and I take it easy, feeling slow and ungraceful as I watch the elite, intense gazelles on the course. I'm definitely hungry so I grab a Carb-Boom at the first aid station. Things are feeling pretty good after my first Pepsi and I'm starting to pass a lot of people. I run through a brief period of nauseau, which I blame on the Carb-Boom (it had that effect on me last week during a training run). I rely on my running song from this winter, Afterglow, to relax and get into the groove. It's on the second loop that amazing things start to happen. I start to run faster and realise that I can hold the faster pace. At the turn-around on the second loop I look at my watch. 5:34. Hm, can I run just over 5km in less than 26 minutes to get in under six hours? Well, it's worth a try! So I start running, and running, and running harder. On the long climb in front of Camp Wicosuta I lean into the hill and find myself actually accelerating. But most of all, throughout the run, I find myself just so happy to be running and giving it almost everything I've got. I pass other runners as if they're standing still; I charge up hills and spectators do double-takes. In the long stretch just before the park my stride gets loose and I feel a bit more power than I usually do at this stage of the game. Not quite enough for a real sprint down the chute, mind you, but just enough to cross in....6:00:06.
Here are the stats:
SWIM: Rank: 467 (out of 549), Time: 40:40, Pace: 33:54 (min/mile)
Transition 1: 3:33
BIKE: Rank: 424 (out of 549) , Time: 3:20:08, Pace: 16.8 mph
Transition 2: 2:28
RUN: Rank: 302 (out of 549) , Time: 1:53:18, Pace: 8:39 min/mile
FINAL STANDING: Total Time: 6:00:06 (winning time for F30-34 was 4:42)
Rank in Age Group Category: 21/32 F30-34
Rank in Gender: 81/162 F
I'm a little disappointed overall. All the numbers are slower than last year, except the run. Worst of all, my overall ranking is much worse than last year. The winning time this year in my age group is a full 15 minutes faster than 2005, so obviously course conditions were pretty ideal this year and not in my favour. The funny thing is that two years ago a 6hr performance at Timberman was good enough. But maybe disappointment and setbacks are a good thing: I'll be angry - and motivated - for the rest of the summer as I train for Ironman Canada. Maybe now is the time to tap into that anger and use it to move up.
Lessons Learned
- Race strategy. I knew exactly how I wanted to swim/bike/run this triathlon before I started. I knew the course, and knew myself. In previous triathlons I hadn't spent that much time thinking about my strategy or being very specific about it, figuring that I'd be happy enough just to finish. But knowing the course and planning for it made all the difference. Having a very specific strategy for Red Devil Hill, for example, got me to the top faster and more easily, even on the second round.
- Warming up for the swim is over-rated. Yeah, yeah, I wrote differently the last two years. But it turns out all I had to do was swim for a few minutes as a warm-up, nothing more.
- Love it. There were moments on the course, especially the run, when all I did was think about how much I loved everything about today, this moment, this sport. I loved running hard and hurting. Those were the moments I did best and that linger with me after the race.
For those contemplating Mooseman as an early season half-Ironman, be warned that the bike course is considered challenging by pretty much all participants. Sure, the forums on the Endorfun website recommend tri bikes for the course, but afterwards a lot of people confided that they would have preferred their road bikes: hills are short but relentless, and a rider is constantly shifting. There were a number of times that I got surprised by a short steep hill that appeared in a curve of the road and demanded quick gear changes. About a third of the course is on very rough pavement. West Shore Road almost requires you to ride down the middle, even though it isn't closed to traffic. Cass Mills Road can snap a fork if you don't have your wits about you and some awfully fast reflexes. There are no long uphill grinds, just lots and lots of short get-out-of-your-seat and quick pedal over the crest of a hill. The run course is also hilly, but the hills are long and only one - very short - is worth walking. Aid stations are phenomenal and plentiful on both the bike and the run, and the volunteers are what you would expect of an Endorfun event: superb. There are police at every intersection, the course is well marked, and this year Mavic was a sponsor and patrolled the course with extra bikes for those who had a major breakdown. The downside (if you can call it that) is that the field is very, very competitive. Most people who do this race are either getting ready for Ironman Lake Placid or have done it. There are no beginners here.
Race morning is a gorgeous, clear sky and a strong northwest wind. I haven't done a Canadian race in a long time, and the first thing I start to notice is the difference between American triathletes and Canadian triathletes. As I set up in transition and listen to the conversations around me, I don't hear anyone analysing the course and no one is talking about the wind. We all know that wetsuits aren't allowed (the water is 25C), but no one is adjusting their transition area as a result of that news. Americans really are more intense and tactical, and I sort of enjoy that. I think I've just become a true tri-geek over the years and these events are my only opportunity to talk about my favourite sport with other geeks. What I don't miss is Americans's tendency to try to intimidate each other in transition.
There are only 24 of us in the long race and we're all pretty nervous at the start. All of us stand around on the dock waiting for the first person to jump in the water. You'd never know we're among the fittest and most trained people in the province. The swim course is 2.5 laps in a river with a ferocious current, and we have to swim across the river to get to the start. By the time I get to the start line I'm pretty glad about the forced warm-up swim and more confident about swimming without a wetsuit. We can barely stay in place treading water as we wait for the gun to go off, then it's downriver to the first buoy. Making use of some of the insights I got last week during the swim across Grand Lake, I toss out most of what I've been learning at the pool lately and go back to the Total Immersion ideas for swimming. I push down with my shoulders and chest to bring my legs up to the surface of the water and notice the increase in speed and decrease in effort immediately. I'm "scooping water" with my arms, especially on the upriver stretch. The only thing I do differently is keep a high stroke count. That seems to work for me, but I'm not quite sure why. On each upriver stretch I catch up to the main pack. Woohoo! I'm not getting left behind! Occasionally I draft off another girl with a red tank top and that saves me from sighting, but on the last lap I pass her and just keep going.
The swim seems to last forever, not helped at all by the psychological downer of doing so many laps. I see 52 minutes on my watch when I get out and start trotting to transition. And what a sight transition is: other bikes are still in it!! I'm not the last person out of the water, not by a long shot! Transition goes well; I seem to be in and out a lot faster than everyone else. A pack of us start the bike course at the same time and we climb out of St. George together. I'm feeling strong and aggressive, perched on the nose of my saddle, even though my legs haven't made the transition from swimming to biking yet. They're oxygen-starved and hurting, and on the long false flat that goes straight into the wind I start to wonder how I'll find the strength to do this course twice. The first third of the course is quite hilly, mostly short hills that aren't worth shifting down for. I do OK in these, although the slowly but surely the pack leaves me behind. Well, at least they're not sprinting ahead!
Food becomes a big puzzle throughout the bike ride. I'm ravenous - clearly breakfast was insufficient - but there are too many hills early in the course to give me the chance to grab a Gu. I have lots of scenarios that I train for with respect to nutrition, but not a single one of them assumes that I'll be hungry right at the start of the bike. And I've been training on the principle of one Gu every 30 minutes, which is clearly not enough today. But I don't have enough Gu packets with me. Uh oh. BIG uh-oh! Well, the point isn't that I'm hungry today; the point is that today is a pre-Ironman race and this nutrition snafu is a good lesson learned.
In the second third bike course we take a left turn that puts the wind in our back and the hills become gentler. The chip-sealed road is also smoother and a lot more fun to bike on. I get into my aerobars a bit more and, in the last third that's flat and downwind back to St. George, really get going and enjoy the ride. It's an incredibly scenic part of the course, and a summer morning in late July by a sparkling river on a fast bike is about the best place in the world to be right now.
The second lap is pretty much the same. I surprise myself by doing it in exactly the same time as the first lap, even though my hips are hurting a little more and my quadriceps are getting tired. In the flat part back to St. George I'm thrilled that not one single sprint triathlete passes me, even the leaders! I screech into the bike dismount area, accidentally clamping down on my front brake and forgetting my back one, then getting confused with my shoes and just about topple over on my bike. Success in triathlon only comes with great humility. Trot over to the bike rack, have major issues with getting my Gu packs into my back pocket, and finally make it out onto the run course. I'm doing OK on the run, but right away I know that by the time I find my running legs the course will be over. 15km is just not long enough for me to start running strong. I still pass quite a few duathletes and Olympic triathletes, but get passed by other long distance people. Bummer. I don't start picking up speed until after the turnaround; my running legs finally return and I really start to run. The course itself is pretty boring, but occasionally there glimpses of the coastline and the Bay of Fundy, a fantastic gorge and mill, and some really nice fields. I do run faster when I see them and slow down when I can't find something in the scenery to inspire me. Stop for a Gatorade and two Pepsis, but otherwise I don't take in any food even though I'm hungry. I'm in a great, great mood in the last two kilometres, enjoying my run and how things feel.
It was an OK race, but not a great one for me. The two things I've been really working on this year - the swim and, since Mooseman, the bike - have really improved. The St. George bike course is much easier than Mooseman, but I still felt stronger today and more tactically intelligent than two months ago. I relied far too much on the run to do better amongst the other participants, however. But before I get too discouraged, I remind myself that three years ago what I accomplished today seemed inconceivable. Keep up with the pack on the swim? Never. Two loops on that bike course? Impossible. Run negative splits? Ouch! It's so easy to fall into the trap of comparing our performance to other peoples' and not realising that we measure it against ourselves over time for a true definition of progress. If I look at today's race in that perspective, it qualifies as a pretty outstanding success, and it also gives me a lot of hope for what I can achieve in the next three years.
Lessons Learned
- I ignored my very first Lesson Learned from this year's Mooseman: have a detailed race plan. Well, not really a race plan, but important principles that tell me exactly how I want to race this day. This will be the single most important thing to work on between now and August 27th.
- Rye bread toast with almond butter as a pre-race breakfast just isn't enough food, even if it's great for my weekend workouts. I was seriously hungry out on the course today, but I didn't want to ease up to eat. Nibbling on Sharkies before the start was a great idea, though, even if it meant scraping gummy sugar bits off my teeth for the rest of the day.
- I normally listen to my favourite race tunes on my iPod as I set up transition in the morning. That sets up my attitude for the rest of the day. I didn't do that today since I was chatting with friends, but I really should have. I've got to view transition set-up as an opportunity to start creating my day, not as a mere list of things to do before the start.
- Another music-related lesson: I viewed this race as a fast training day rather than as an event. Because of that, I didn't really develop a detailed "attitude strategy" for each sport. I didn't have a song in my head that would help me characterise each segment, and I hadn't thought things through enough before. When I wanted to find more speed, I didn't have something to use to help me get it. I'll definitely be putting a lot more thought into my music selection for Ironman Canada.
- Going fast on the bike is fun, but I pay a high price for it. As I write this I have a slightly torn left hamstring, a painful neck pain, a screaming hip, and my right ear is ringing loudly. And Ironman is four weeks away.
- A bike gear malfunction gave me a lot of insight about what I should be paying attention to during my training rides and what's not important on race day. When I started the bike course this morning my bike computer's sensor that registers cadence wasn't working. This had obviously happened between the time I racked the bike and the time I went through T1. I wasn't going to stop to fix it, so for 2h30 I rode my bike with a great big "0.0" in front of me. This forced me to shift and pedal based on what I felt was an acceptable force to my legs rather than a desired cadence range. I spent less time worrying about shifting and bike more smoothly than I usually do. I think I paid for this later during the run (a high cadence turns into a faster run for me), but it tells me that I should continue reinforcing the connection between how I feel and what my cadence is during my training rides.
I'm staying at the most incredible cottage in the area (Old Tower Cottage in Keremeos), where yesterday the owner welcomed me with a loaf of fresh, homebaked bread. Waking up in a sun-filled cottage that has a spectacular view of the entire Similkameen Valley was so great that I just had to go for a run, even though today is technically a day off. The area is extremely quiet and exudes that feeling of serenity and isolation that I really like. Laced up my running shoes and headed out for a short (40min) run, going south on Middle Bench Road until it joined up with Upper Bench Road, then just running an out-and-back. The views were amazing, and it was neat to listen to the wind just howl across the valley. Left adductor is pulling a bit. My legs feel very stiff and bloated. It's actually quite discouraging - I felt so weak during my bike ride yesterday evening - because I expect to feel strong. Run back and find that running into the wind is nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. Strength in adversity?
I pedal out on Middle Bench Road and turn east onto the 3A. Past the Bear Fruit Stand that marks the beginning of the climb to the base of Yellow Lake. The bike is humming smoothly, the air is quiet. I'm just trying to stay happy and relaxed, which is a bit of a challenge because I'm in the little chainring and I haven't even gotten to Yellow Lake yet. Look at the mountains; get my strength from them. A girl on a scrappy road bike passes me on one of the long climbs past Olalla. OK, so climbing hills isn't my strong point. She stays in sight and we pass the Apex Ski Area exit that marks the beginning of Yellow Lake. The road winds through a very narrow pass in the mountains and the elevation gain around the curves is pretty steep. But it's breathtakingly beautiful and my stay-positive-no-matter-what attitude is starting to pay off. I expect the climb to go on forever, but next thing I know - I'm passing Yellow Lake! I catch up to the girl ahead of me easily and just keep going. The road is very narrow here and cars pile up behind me until I reach the Twin Lake golf course and figure it's time to go home. Downhill feels amazing. I should try a flat triathlon one of these days!
Get to the cottage, head out for a run. Oh, I love this route. It's a very simple out-and-back along Upper Bench Road, which is in the side of the Similkameen Valley and pretty much deserted. The only trees are those in the orchards, and the silence is healing. Yesterday's massage turned out to be a very wise decision: I'm feeling pretty loose, and even my left adductor is quiet. The stay-positive attitude now has its own momentum; I don't have to work at it anymore - it's now fueling me. I've also figured out that the key to doing well on this course is to relax. 2hrs (bike: 1:30, run: 35min)
I let the expansiveness of the valley get to me. I've been trying to figure out how to use the mountains for strength on race day and during this run I finally figure it out. Mountain Pose. The simplest of yoga poses (well, except for Corpse Pose, and we definitely don't want to go there!). How often do we hear our yoga instructors tell us "Stand in Mountain Pose." Stand with the strength of a mountain. I turn back at the top of a hill and run back. The sun has come over the edge of the mountain and I cross into sunshine. My shadow is running in front me; I look at my legs moving in their short, steady way and I have to admit that I'm pretty proud of them.
So this is the last entry before Ironman. Every big challenge like this makes us face the question "Who am I?" We've put so much work into getting here, obsessed about it for so long, that we don't want to let the day fall into an experience of merely physical exertion. It has to mean more than that for it to be worth all that we put into it. This morning's run was incredible for the insight it gave me about the mountains.
Up at 3:20am for breakfast. I've got my race plan out for one last time, listening to my playlist on my iPod. I plan to leave the cottage at 4am, but I'm a bit early so I take a few minutes to nurse my coffee and think my day through. On the drive to Penticton I see chalk marks on the road at Yellow Lake, and there's a truck laying down pylons on the long hill down into Penticton. I get a good parking spot, then join a crowd of people trying to find their way to the body-marking area. Areas are blocked off and race volunteers keep pointing us in the wrong direction, so we're constantly doubling back and wandering around buildings until we find the boxes for the special needs bags. In transition I find my bike and start searching for a pump. Lesson for next year: bring my own pump or (better) just pump up my tires the day before. Now why doesn't everyone do that? It took over an hour to find a pump, and then I started having issues with the valves on both tires. Shoulda brought my pump. During all this I meet Cherie from Texas and we stay together until the start, talking about how nervous we are. I line up straight with the buoys, figuring that swimming in from the side would probably be just as rough as starting in the centre (true.) The cannon goes off, Tina Turner's Simply the Best starts playing, and suddenly I've got a huge smile on my face. What a great way to get the day going!
And that was the best part of the swim. Before this race I had read as many race reports as I could find, and all of them mentioned how rough the Ironman Canada swim was. In fact, it was even considered by some as rougher than any other Ironman swim. Until today, I couldn't figure out how that could be so: wouldn't any 3.9km swim of 2000+ athletes be pretty much the same? Nope. IMC really is aggressive and people are out to kill - well, drown - the competition. There's no gentle bumping around like Lake Placid's swim. For the first 1.6km of triangle, there are violent kicks to the head, hands moving onto my back and pushing me down, pinching, and even the occasional deliberate punch to the head. My goggles are fogging up already and this starts getting to me, even though the buoys are perfectly lined up and easy to spot. Somehow not being able to see clearly gives me a sense of restriction. So I worry about my goggles until another female swimmer sidles up to my right (women are wearing pink bathing caps; men are wearing blue.) We start a vicious fight: she's pushing me down when she can, I'm trying to outsprint her but there are too many slow swimmers in front of me. Finally my smile starts to waver and anger seeps in. I kick and kick as violently as I can, moving ahead and toward her until I can kick something substantial. Oh, like her chest. That works very well and it's terribly satisfying. She falls back and now I've got the edge I need to start pushing around other swimmers and find a better rhythm. The two corners are very hard to find (grey buoys), but finally on the 1.8km swim I find my rhythm and feel strong and smooth. I'm disappointed, though, when I finally do get out of the water and look at my watch: 1:19. And I thought I had been swimming faster than last year! However, I have been swimming more slowly at all my events this year, so I've definitely got some work to do over winter.
I find two volunteers to take my wetsuit off. These guys are pros! I run up to them, hop down when they say "On your bum!", and suddenly whoosh! they pulled my wetsuit right off in less than half a second! Wow! Trot to find my swim-to-bike bag, then into the loud and crowded change tent. I deliberately slow down to think my way through this as carefully as I can. I have this terrible image of being at Mile 60 on the bike having forgotten Vaseline on some key body parts. Time spent in transition is paid back double on the bike. I go to the sunscreen station (a guy with a small hose who basically hoses you down!) then to the porta-potty (don't want to stop on the bike course) then to my bike. Click in, send a small prayer and think of my bike nickel (thank you, Juanita!) that will magically remove all tacks, staples, and fatigue from the bike course, and head out.
It's a gorgeous, sunny, windless day at this point. There's no sound but the whizzing of cyclists down Main Street, which seems so odd without any traffic on its four lanes. In my race plan this short section is Phase 1: checking out my bike for noises or strange sensation, and seeing how I feel. I actually have very sore gluteal muscles from the ART massage, which worries me a little. Hopefully they'll warm up by the time I get to the hills. We turn off Main Street and pick up the road that will take us out along Skaha Lake. It's very quiet on this part of the course, which surprises me because I expected the companionship and bantering that had been present on the Lake Placid bike course. Interestingly, there was none of it at all throughout the day. Us Canadians have a few things to learn from Americans. Around Mile 10 we veer off to the left onto Maclean Creek Road, the steepest hill on the course. It's quite hot and the pavement is lousy. I can see people really struggling in the hill and there are some spectators around to cheer us up, but frankly this just doesn't count as a hill, or at least not an intimidating one. I ride by most people wondering what in the world is wrong with them.
After Maclean Creek Road the route winds along some ranches and farms in a really nice country area. We zip down some curves and into Okanagan Falls where we move onto Highway 97 that travels along the Okanagan Valley and its lakes. It's a long (60km), slightly downhill part of the course that's known to lead cyclists into temptation, but today everyone is behaving and I'm doing lots and lots of passing. However, the course is packed with cyclists as far as the eye can see. There are simply no open spaces, and there's lots of drafting going on. There are also lots of people deliberately drafting, which really burns me. Who wants to finish a race knowing that they cheated? What kind of satisfaction do you get out of that? I brake often and maneuver to the far right as often as I can, which really isn't easy. I'm stuck passing and getting passed by a huge - and I mean REALLY overweight - man for miles and miles. But I also leapfrog another girl who looks unbelievably strong and steady on the bike. We actually stay together for most of the bike course, and at one point as I pass her I tell her that I'm flattered to be able to keep up to her, she looks that good. We continue to laugh each time we leapfrog and share snippets of conversation.
Having driven the bike course and knowing it in fine detail from obsessive research, I know that Richter Pass is coming up at the 65km mark. I spot the huge Canadian flag that's flying at the Husky gas station in Osoyoos which sits on the intersection where the course turns west onto Highway 3 and Richter begins. Richter Pass intimidates me because it's so long. I know everyone talks about Yellow Lake as being the true challenge of the course, but it's only 3.8km long and really not all that steep. Richter is 11.4km long, climbs over the tall west wall of the Okanagan Valley and drops us into the impressive and inspiring Similkameen Valley. As we approach Osoyoos I keep glancing to the side of the mountain on my right; if I look almost straight up, I can see the cyclists doubling back up Richter. Finally, the Canadian flag shows up, we turn right, and Richter looms up ahead of me. The climb isn't all that bad; in fact, it's much easier than it looks. I'm passing people awfully quickly, which is strange (and even worrisome: do they know something I don't?) But now that we've turned uphill we've completely lost any wind we had to cool off, and the sun is bouncing off the pavement like a mirror. Halfway up the hill I'm drenched and a little woozy from the heat. Thankfully there are so many spectators lining the course that I don't get a chance to dwell on the frying pan feeling. However, I do have to worry about slower, unsteady cyclists who are wobbling around me mere inches away. As we climb the pack thins out, but it's stressful cycling. Sometimes I wonder how in the world some of these people trained for an Ironman. Did they ever even get on the bike before the event?
Richter goes on and on and on. The worst part is that I've forgotten where it ends. Is there a slight downhill before the last of the four big climbs? All I remember is that there's an aid station after the summit. The massive crowd of spectators and loud cheering clears up any doubt. Yes, there's a big downhill that misleads you into thinking you're done, followed by a climb that's not so steep as it is blistering hot. My face is on fire! Cresting Richter and putting that behind me is incredibly satisfying, though. We head down a long straight hill and it feels so good to finally cool off a bit. People fly by me in the downhills (now how frustrating is THAT?) and when the course flattens out we're all surprised that we have to gear down into our small chainring. "Feels like we're going uphill" grumbles one guy next to me. Phew, so I'm not the only one struggling on what seems like flat ground! We pass through an aid station, and I realise that cyclists and aid stations seem to function a lot better here than in Lake Placid. I think the volunteers are better at handing off bottles and cyclists aren't slowing down to a crawl to pick them up. I toss one bottle and the empty gel packets and get ready for the rollers.
There's one more insane downhill before the rollers start. Cars and RVs are backed up on both sides of the road for as far as I can see, and the air starts to smell a little smokey. The south wind is bringing in haze and smoke from wildfires in Washington state. I miss the breathtaking scenery of the Similkameen (so glad I drove the course on Friday when I saw it all!) but I don't really need it to inspire me through the rollers. All the race reports had kept saying that the seven rollers after Richter and before the false flat to Keremeos were taxing and steep, but again I climb them without any thought. My race plan had "Don't power through the rollers!" written in it half a dozen times, so I make sure I'm gearing down just enough to keep a good cadence while not affecting my heartrate. A girl in a bathing suit passes me down one roller. "Sorry!" she yells as she goes by, and I wonder what she's apologising for until I realise she's peeing on the way down. The next woman who passes me points at her and mouths "How disgusting!" As if no one peed in their wetsuit! At the bottom of one particularly steep roller, and I can see an abandoned bike off in the ditch and a man with a shredded leg on a stretcher getting tucked into an ambulance. Suddenly it gets very quiet in the pack.
Onto the 19km false flat. We now have a slight tailwind on a stretch of the course that's notorious for gale-force headwinds! I keep reminding myself not to hammer to hard, and I don't - but I pass other cyclists as if they're standing still. It's elating and worrisome at the same time. Then it gets really maddening when I see how much drafting is going on. I stay tucked in my aerobars and focus on keeping my rate of perceived exertion as low as possible. Still, it feels like my bike is gliding forward on its own. Throughout the entire ride I have Everloving playing in my head. It's a smooth, almost hypnotic bit of music that lends itself so well to cycling and to this section of the course in particular. We turn up Daly Drive to the out-and-bike, and I get a chance to jump out of the pedals and stretch my legs a little. It's very quiet now, since we're seeing all the cyclists going the other way and realising how far back we are. On the way back I have to sprint to get out of a pack of really competitive men who are slower than me but a little too proud to admit it. We climb one short but really, really steep hill and get a good laugh when a straggler going the other way yells "Don't feel bad! You could be me!"
Back onto Highway 3 and the small climb to the base of Yellow Lake. We're spread out quite a bit, and I get passed a little more frequently than before. I'm taking stock of how my body is feeling and I can sense stiffness setting in. And heat. Gosh it's hot. It feels like I'm in an oven. When the climb to Yellow Lake really begins - and it's hard to miss because of the sudden, huge crowds and all the chalk on the road - I'm frying. Most people pass me in the first section of the climb, but as the hill gets steeper I gain speed and become the fastest cyclist in the pack. As I near the top I jokingly pant when a few spectators cheer me on. It's so hot. But there's an aid station at the very top of Yellow, and that's where I make my Big Mistake: I reach out and grab a bottle of orange Gatorade.
What was I thinking?! I know from hard - very hard - experience that I have to stop drinking and eating 45 minutes before I start the run. It's only 40km (downhill) to Penticton, yet within minutes the Gatorade is totally gone. As if to underscore my stupidity, I grab another bottle at the next aid station ten miles later. And finish that off, too. It was literally and figuratively all downhill after that.
Down into Penticton with a bit of a tailwind. When we enter the city the course flattens out a bitl; as I slow down, I realise my back wheel feels a bit cushy. Look down and yep, I've got a flat. It doesn't seem to be completely flat, maybe a slow leak. I decide to hammer the last 8km of the course to get into transition before the air in the tire is completely gone. I can't tell you just how hard it is to sprint 8km on a bike with a deflated rear tire after a 170km bike ride in 30C heat. T2 couldn't have come soon enough. I'm so exhausted as I unclip out of the pedals I don't even have the energy to be happy or relieved that the bike is over. A volunteer grabs my bike for me and I get my bike-to-run bag. The change tent is a lot calmer than it was this morning. A volunteer, an older woman who doesn't seem to understand what I'm saying (which is something complicated like "Go away"), tries to help me and I get a bit snarly with her. I just want to be left alone so I can get everything done, but she keeps fussing after my clothes, turning my number belt around, taking stuff out of my bag, putting stuff back in. I see Cherie heading out for her run. She recognizes me and says I passed her at Yellow Lake. I tell her to start and I'll catch up with her later. Oh, how presumptuous!
I know from the moment I start running I'm in trouble. My legs just don't have the fresh feel or spring in them like they did last year when I started the marathon in Lake Placid. Still, I go into deep denial and tell myself that it will clear up when I get the Pepsi at the first aid station and I find my groove, use my marathon song (The Riddle, Five For Fighting) to carry me through the rough patches. But it just never happens. Lakeshore Drive is suffocatingly hot, and when I grab a Pepsi at the first aid station my stomach suddenly expands. That's not supposed to happen! The course turns onto Main Street (after we see the eventual winner run by on the other side of the road, minutes from finishing) and when I glance at my reflection in store windows I'm shocked to see that my stomach is bloated out by several inches. The shock lasts all the way up Main Street, a long and difficult part of the course because of its slight uphill. Out to Skaha Lake and straight into a wind that has picked up throughout the day. It's tough running. The wind is relentless and does nothing to cool me off. I'm grabbing ice at every aid station to put under my cap, in my sports bra, and I've even got a small bag tucked between my shoulder blades. The only time I get any relief is when I take the bag and place it at the base of my neck.
But I'm running, which is more than what most people are doing at this point. I'm passing everyone and keeping up with one guy who tells me I've got a great pace ("You don't see much of that around here," he says, nodding at all the walkers.) But I know I'm in trouble. I start walking even the small hills. At Mile 10, I stop and put my head down to deal with dizziness and overwhelming nausea. At the turnaround in Okanagan Falls my watch reads just over ten hours. Wow! If I could keep this pace up, I could finish in twelve hours. Two miles later, I sit down on the side of the road and call it quits.
I'm in the beginning of hypoglycaemic shock. My vision is blurred and narrowing; breathing is a struggle; I'm completely disoriented and all I want to do is lie down and sleep. Those two bottles of Gatorade so thoughtlessly consumed on the bike are now sitting in my stomach and preventing any calories from being absorbed. A race official walks over and I tell him I'm DNF. He radios the finish line to record it, then calls the sag wagon to come pick me up. I wait and wait and wait, smiling as hundreds of people run or walk by me and tell me I should keep going. Twenty minutes later, I'm still waiting. By now guilt and pride are taking over. I think of everyone on the Ironmanlive website who will wonder what has happened to me if I don't cross the finish mat. So I keep going.
I know from experience that the best way to get through a rough patch is to find someone else and walk or run with them. I start talking to another man who's walking. Anthony is a cop from Vancouver with the Cops for Cancer team. We pretty much do the rest of the race together. We get to watch the sun set on our walk back, meet other Cops for Cancer people and chat with them. We taste-test everything each aid station has to offer and decide that grapes and lukewarm chicken broth make a fabulous combination. We start running at Mile 22 and he's faster than me. I still have to walk every now and then. But just after Mile 23 I start running for good. The spectators are what keep me going: hundreds and hundreds of them on either side of the street, all screaming and yelling the most amazing encouragement. The noise is deafening. Turn on Lakeshore Drive (away from the finish) to do a very short out-and-back, and battle some serious nausea. I'm calling on every trick I know, every bit of inspiration I've ever come across, every prayer just to keep going. I've never had to dig this deep to keep moving. It's just under 1km from the turn-around to the finish line, and when I see the red lines of the clock at the finish line I'm overwhelmed: I really didn't think I'd finish this course.
Here are the stats:
SWIM: Rank: 1531 (out of 2352), swim division place: 95 out of 154 W30-34 Time: 1:20:44, Pace per 100m: 2:08) (yuck!)
Transition 1: 10:00
BIKE: Rank: 1162 (out of 2352) and 41 out of 154 W30-34, Time: 6:12:32, Pace: 18.0 mph
Transition 2: 9:30
RUN: Rank: 1715 (out of 2352) and 113 out of 154 W30-34, Time: 6:10:29, Pace: 14:09 min/mile (11.11 min/mile in the first half of the marathon, 17 min/mile in the second.)
Total Time: 14:03:13
Rank in Age Group Category: 91 out of 154
Rank overall: 1532 out of 2352
Overall, I'm very unhappy with the race. No, that's an understatement. I'm damn mad! And so, so disappointed in myself! A great bike means nothing if you waste it all on the run, or throw away a race because of poor discipline. I am also humbled. Ironman has reminded me that I can never lose my fear and respect for this distance, and that ultimately I alone am responsable for how well I do, whether in life in general or on a 140 mile course. I didn't straggle in at 14 hours today because I got a flat or conditions were tough; I bonked because of a stupid decision I made.
But at the same time, I somehow managed to dig myself out of a really deep hole. I didn't quit. I made the best of what was left of the course and stayed open to learning a new way of looking at triathlon. That's got to count for something. And up until Mile 13 I was on track for a 12 hour Ironman, a standard I never thought I had the physical ability to do. And that I'm going to do next year, right here in Penticton!
Lessons Learned
- Bring my own bike pump race morning and/or pump up the tires the night before. This was added stress on the morning of the triathlon that I didn't need to deal with
- Drive the bike course. Actually, know the bike course. I already knew the bike course right down to the kilometre and gradients, thanks to all the race reports I studied over the summer. But whereas I used to subscribe to the clearly stupid belief that ignorance is bliss, I've thankfully come to realise that in fact knowledge is power. And seeing the course beforehand and knowing exactly what to expect on race day made me ride smoother and make better decisions about exertion.
- Smile, but stay focused. I tend to smile a lot during triathlons, and that attitude of gratitude has definitely made my events very special. But it takes energy to keep it up if it's forced in any way. 140 miles is a long time to smile. I needed to slip into a more serious state of mind to conserve energy, reflect more about the decisions I needed to make, and respect the course.
- Specific training. My training program to get to Ironman was great. This year, unlike previous years, I had decided to make sure that each training, particularly on the bike, had a very specific focus. There were flat Fridays when I'd ride on the old highway to Jemseg for the sole purpose of maintaining a 95rpm cadence and learn to deal with headwinds. My long rides on Sundays existed only to get to as many hills as I could. Throughout the IMC bike I could feel just how effective each focus had been and just how much I used what I had learned over the summer.
- I love Coke.
Thank Yous (aka, the Oscar Speech)
Last year I remember writing that Ironman was unique from other sports I've done so far by its intensity and commitment required in training and preparation. But there's something else that I've come to realise makes this particular distance special: the team that gets you to the start line. Marathons and other triathlons are called individual sports, and they really are: you can pretty much train for them on your own, using nothing but what you know. Ironman, however, is a misnomer. It's not one person, and it's not even an individual sport. Even the most independent, individualistic people (uh, like me) has to finally learn to open up to other people and lean on them for all but the 140 miles of the race. Here's the list of people who got me to the start line and through some of the toughest parts of the day:
- Liza and her staff at ATC. I'm truly fortunate to have met you.
- JP, bike guru in New Maryland. Patience personified. And yes, JP, I cleaned my bike.
- Jonathan, orthotics guy. My running is my strongest sport (OK, maybe not today) because my feet have never been so happy.
- Thank you to everyone in the Masters swim club for the wishes and thoughts and a card. So many people wished me luck before I left, and knowing you folks were tracking us on Ironmanlive is what got me back on my feet at Mile 15 and walking to Penticton.
- Thank you, Juanita, for the bike nickel! My biggest fear on the bike course was running over the tacks that are dumped on the IMC bike course every year. Thanks to the bike nickel, 2006 was the first year IMC had no tacks, and I got a phenomenal bike ride as a bonus.
- Thank you Dave for the bike box, and the time taken to deliver it home!
- Mike and Katy. Without you two, I'd still be dogpaddling.
- Thank you to my 4am drive to the airport! (Don't even ask what kind of wake-up time that could translate to.) There were two very special pages in my gear bags at IMC.
- The only way I can fit a weight workout, a four hour bike ride, and groceries into a working, eight-hour Friday is with flexible colleagues and an understanding boss who doesn't question my hours too closely. Everyone should be so lucky to work with the kind of colleagues that I have. I hope you guys are around in 2007 when I do this again.
But on to the race. Last year I remembered how much I liked having an event to wrap up my season after Ironman. I don't think that was the case this year because Ironman Canada was five weeks later in summer than Lake Placid, but According to Triathlete Magazine, the MightyMan in Montauk was one of the top ten triathlons in the US, and of course that was a good enough reason to go. Rotten weather and a heavy work schedule have meant barely any time on the bike in the past four weeks, so I'm woefully out of shape for this event. We do a two hour bike/run workout late Friday evening after arriving in Montauk, and I'm disheartened when I see how hard it is for me to climb some easy hills on the bike.
But all of that is OK. I don't really want to break any speed records today; this isn't a goal race, and in fact because the triathlon is the last one of the season I figure it's a great time to do some experimenting since there's really nothing to lose. My goal is to try a new attitude during the triathlon. In one of my lessons learned at IMC, I found that smiling and being grateful throughout an entire event was perhaps a tool that I had outgrown. I poured a lot of energy into doing those things, mostly in my earlier years to overcome fear of swimming and lack of confidence in my ability to complete long-distance events. And of course I wanted to finish the day remembering what I had done as a great personal accomplishment. But I'm no longer terrified of swimming, I know I have the ability to do really well at endurance events, and the challenge is no longer mere accomplishment but rather maintaining a high intensity for a long period of time. To do all of that, I need a more serious, intense attitude and really have to work on focus. There's a really good article in this month's Triathlete magazine that asks why there are no real American threats to the Ironman World Championship title. The author reviews the American athletes who once dominated the sport (and some Canadians), and finds that one possible reason for their success is that they didn't simply want to win, they needed to win to overcome their personal demons. They took this business seriously and trained at levels that even other elite athletes couldn't dedicate themselves to.
My serious attitude is challenged right at the start while we're waiting in the tent in transition an hour before the first wave goes. We're waiting in the tent because the wind and rain outside are so violent that there's no point in even setting up transition. I figure the race director is going to cancel the whole thing: who could possibly be expected to ride their bike in these insane winds? And the ground is flooding in the tent - can you imagine what the roads will be like? At 6:20, thirty minutes before the start of the race, I dodge out to go grab my wetsuit that's laying on my bike. Unbelievably, the weather has worsened in the past hour. I run back in, completely terrified and almost vomiting with fear. But then the race director clambers up on a chair and gives the best pre-race briefing I've ever heard. He immediately rules out any suggestion that the event will be cancelled. He reminds us that this what triathlon is all about: challenge, and the spirit of adventure. "In a couple of years from now, you'll be able to say to your friends 'Remember 2006 and what an event that was?' " And he's got me sold. He points to a volunteer holding a box and tells people they can turn in their timing chip if they don't feel confident about starting, but "I'm sure that box is going to stay empty." I love his attitude. I'm proud that I'm doing an American race today - this is the kind of thing Americans do so well and that cautious Canadians could learn a little more of. But I'm still absolutely terrified.
All the women are wearing purple (!) swim caps and are in the second wave. R wishes me good luck before I head down to the lake, but I'm battling fear as I've never done so before. The lake is black, and the starter is yelling at us to get moving. We can't see the buoys and we're not helped by the crabby starter who tells us not to follow the wave in front of us (which we can't see anyway.) R later says that he saw women walking back up the path after their wave had started. Yeah, conditions were that bad. I shuffle into the water and my fear gets worse when I feel how cold the water is. When the gun goes off I get another scare as I see how black the water is, how cold I feel, how crowded things are. I'm angry with myself and force myself into a stroke, focusing only on technique. Focus on form, even if it's slow. I gradually find a rhythm and am once again grateful for the Grand Lake swim this summer. I can see a buoy come up in the water, I've found people to draft off of and I'm actually keeping up with them, and I don't let myself think about anything else. Going around the first corner of the triangle changes all that a little because the turn brings us parallel to the waves and most of us swallow a lot of water. It's the second turn back toward the start that makes things really tough. Heading into the waves and wind is only part of the problem; what's really an issue is that there are no buoys AT ALL, and most of us are totally lost. I'm just not happy about this. As with a lot of other swimmers around me, I have to stop often to tread water to see where I'm going and pretty much guess what direction I should be heading. I'm surprised by how easily I keep up with others, but I certainly don't feel like I'm swimming very fast. My watch reads 39 minutes when I reach the beach (only by following the flash of the camera that's taking photos of swimmers coming out of the water.) Not a bad time given how often I had to stop.
Trot up to transition. I deliberately push away thoughts of gratitude as I walk to my bike. Must focus! The wind and rain are still relentless. I hadn't set up transition this morning, preferring to keep everything in my backpack and wrapped in plastic bags. That turned out to be a really wise decision. Even before the race had started I had decided to go very, very slowly through transition and think it through carefully. I take off my wetsuit, put on a sweater and a rainjacket - it's not that I don't want to get wet, it's that I don't want to get cold (a bad Mooseman memory.) I put on my running cap, forgo the glasses, and adjust my bike helmet so that it'll fit. Put gloves in my pocket, socks and shoes on, the walk out to bike course. At the very least, I feel ready. I've used the time to focus and calm down.
R and I had driven the bike course yesterday, and I had taken as many notes as I could during the drive. As with IMC, that was a wise thing to do. I know that the first little stretch will be very fast and easy because of the incredible tailwind we'll have (and boy, do we have one today.) I've also chosen Natural Blues as my event song today: it puts me in a serious mindset and makes me feel like pushing a little harder than I normally do. I use the first stretch to settle in, to find that grey zone in my head where all I think about are the mechanics of doing everything right without any energy diverted to emotion. People are biking slowly and even on the stretch back to Route 27 (the main highway on Long Island) I pass lots of people. I'm seriously overdressed and feel like a parachute with my big yellow rainjacket puffing up in the wind, but I'm so grateful for it when I feel how warm my hands and feet are and when the rain drives down even harder. The hill on Route 27 up to the viewpoint just about kills me. I've lost so much fitness in the past four weeks! An extra couple of pounds doesn't help, either. I had really feared this part of the course because I thought that this would be where crosswinds would be at their strongest. Fortunately, I was really wrong: the trees are enough to shelter the worst of the wind, and when I realise that I feel much better about the entire event. So far, the two things I'm most scared of - cold, and crosswinds - haven't happened. And the swim is over. Geez, maybe this is actually going to be a pretty good day!
Around the famous lighthouse at the very tip of Long Island. We catch the tailwind and whip around at a phenomenal speed. I'm tucked into my aerobars and listening to my song, feeling increasingly good. Things get a bit dicier on the out-and-back up East Lakeside Road. The road has no shoulder, it's not closed to traffic, and it's seriously flooding in some spots. To avoid the flooded shoulders, most of us are trying to ride down the middle of the road - where cars and returning cyclists are also riding. The route is a little hillier here, just short little bumps, but enough to make you consider whether you should downshift or take a chance and power over them by standing up on the pedals. Today I'm being conservative. This is because R and I had not only driven the bike course yesterday, we also drove the run course. They don't call the hill at the far end of that course "murder hill" for nothing! Seeing the run course has shaped my biking strategy for today, and today it's all about being conservative.
Back up West Lakeside Drive then down to the start. I lose a lot of energy to the headwind and long hills before the turnaround, and get a little bummed out when I see R fixing a flat on the side of the road. Back on to my second loop. I force myself to eat, which is not something I would have done earlier this year. But I think that was another lesson learned: I have to eat on the bike - even if I'm not hungry - if I want to run well. I'm also testing a hypothesis that Gu is the reason for some of my blood sugar problems and that I should switch back to Clifshots. Back on to Route 27 and heading out to the lighthouse I see the lead motorcycle waving cyclists straight instead of up East Lakeside Drive. Course change! I reckon that the out-and-back has flooded or that the combination of water, cars, and cyclists going in both directions on a road with no shoulder has proven to be a little too dangerous. Woohoo! I'll get off the bike sooner! Around the lighthouse, out of my seat to get up the hill, and settle in again until I get to the hill up to the viewpoint. I barely, barely make it up the hill. How embaressing! Going downhill on the other side I nearly get knocked off my bike by a gust of crosswind.
At last the bike ends. It's taken quite a bit out of me, but I somehow survive it. I trot into transition and...see R standing by his bike (our bikes are racked together)!! Huh?! He was behind me last time I checked! It turns out he's had no less than three flats and decided to call it a day. As I peel off my soaked socks, sweater, and jacket I urge him to run the half-marathon anyway, just to be able to say that he ran up murder hill and to see what his time would be. We both start the run and within minutes he's well ahead of me. I feel really good and slowly start passing most people. Again, my focus is on being...focused. Normally I'd chat with fellow runners at this point in the race, but today I'm staying quiet and not attempting any conversation at all. I'm focusing on my posture, on finding the ChiRunning principles that always seem to work so well. The rain holds off for a while, but I can see a huge black thundercloud to the southwest. At first I think it has already passed us, but then I hear a very loud siren start wailing. It's the siren of the local marina, warning boats to get off the water. The storm hits, and I run in the heaviest downpour I've ever experienced. Lightning and thunder are cracking overhead and I question my sanity as I run through a giant, calf-deep puddle. Everyone is running; not one single runner falters or hesitates. Yep, I love this sport. Get a Coke at the second aid station at the bottom of Murder Hill,then start the long climb up to the far end of the course. It's nowhere near as hard as I thought it would be when I first saw it from the car. I walk when I feel my heartrate shoot up, but that's about it. When I get to the top a runner coming back tells us there's a ferry service ahead. Another woman and I look at each, wondering what he meant by that, then we see a huge puddle at the bottom of the hill. "He wasn't kidding," says the woman. Slosh, slosh, slosh. Then uphill again. Downhill. Slosh, slosh, slosh.
And that's basically the entire run course, done twice. As usual, I find my stride well into the second loop and run the last 5km feeling really great and getting lots of comments from spectators. It's still a slow half-marathon, but those last 5km make up for the time. At the far end as I turn back to the start area for the last time I decide to pick up the pace a little more than I usually do. I want to find that edge of pain and see if I can stay there right until the finish. My legs hurt, my lungs are burning a little, and I'm staying focused. What a great way to finish the season.
Lessons Learned
- Know the course: the ENTIRE course. My bike at IMC went superbly well partly because I knew that course inside-out and drove it prior to the race. Extending that logic to the run course at MightyMan was a great idea, and it shaped how I approached my bike. And I should have taken the time to swim in Fog Pond the day before the race. I lost way too much time looking for buoys. But know the course.
- Switch from Gu to Clifshots.
- Attitude adjustment. I really liked my new attitude. I think I have to start taking myself a little more seriously and pushing myself a little harder during these races. Staying focused for a full Ironman is going to be a serious challenge, though. It's definitely something I'll have to train explicitly next year.
This was still a great way to finish the season. It was a huge confidence-booster, and after the cold and misery of Mooseman it was good to see that I had learned and adapted from that race. I think the biggest discovery of the year was finding that I do have the ability and everything I need to do well at this sport, which is contrary to what I always believed about myself. But what's missing is the attitude to pull it all together. That's my challenge for next year.
