2007 Triathlons

Respect your efforts. Respect yourself. Self-respect leads to self-discipline.
When you have both under your belt, that's real power.

Clint Eastwood



My Running Pages.
2001-2002 Journals 2003-2007 Training Journals Photos Other Stuff
2001 Training Journal Jan-Sept 2003 1999 and 2001 Pictures The 2001 Venice Trip!
January - March 2002 Sept - Dec 2003 2002 Pictures Why Do I Run?
April and May 2002 Jan-Oct 2004 The Northside Trail 2002 Training Program
June and July 2002 The 2004 Timberman Tri! 2003 Pictures The 2002 Greece Trip!
August 2002 2005 Journal The 2003 UK-France Trip!
September 2002 2006 Journal Triathlon Life Lessons
October 2002 2007 Journal The 2004 Egypt Trip!
2008 Journal The 2005 Triathlons (and Ironman)!
The 2006 Triathlons
The 2007 South Africa Trip!

2007 Goals: Complete an Ironman in 12.5 hours
and
Run an Ultramarathon



The Mooseman Triathlon, June 3 2007

Thursday May 31         We are in Bristol, New Hampshire this weekend for the Mooseman Half-Ironman. It's my third time at this event: I love the people, I love New Hampshire, the cottage on the lake is heaven, and the even itself is well-organised and a lot of fun. It's also a great check-up on my training and useful for finding weak spots, and I've got plenty of time to correct things before Ironman Canada.

We arrive a little late for a bike ride but I really feel like I need to run. The weather is grey and spitting a little. I start from the cottage on Waring Road and head west on West Shore Road. There's not much of a shoulder on that road, so I take every side street I can find. The first one is Upper Birch Drive, a new sub-division that ends with a really steep look, steep enough to make joints and Achilles tendons ache. Back down to West Shore Road, finding my stride and my song, and turn up Hemp Hill Road. The name might make you wonder a little, but the New England houses, foliage, and sense of peace are exactly what I'm looking for. I figure things can't get much better than this, but they do when I find a dirt road that goes around a settlement of houses. Running through the trees and finding such beautiful scenery gets my legs going. I start picking up speed and when I get back to West Shore Road I find it easy to maintain a pretty good pace out to Alexandria. Lilacs are blooming, everything smells fantastic, and I sort of like the quiet that comes with the fine drizzle that's turning into rain. I stop just past Cass Mills Road. It's time to turn around, even though I feel like I could run forever. I know in a way that feeling is really escapism: I don't want to go back to the cottage. I'd rather be out here alone and safe in my silence. Last Sunday my aunt - OK, she wasn't really my aunt, but we had known her so well and for so long that I consider her my closest relative outside of my immediate family - passed away from cancer. Her death wasn't unexpected, but like all deaths of those who are very close, we simply cannot deal with them until they occur. There's no way the mind can bring itself to get ready for something like this. It's a strange form of denial, knowing the inevitability of what will happen and yet not acknowledging it.

Well, I was acknowledging it now. I made myself turn around and start running back to the cottage, but I'd run a little ways and then have to stop since crying and running seem to be pretty hard to do simultaneously. I was pretty grateful that it was really starting to rain now, and that there was hardly any traffic. Eventually I settled into a fast pace, finding energy that I didn't think I had and that I hoped would be with me on Sunday. 1h07


Friday         This evening we're on our way back from Concord, Massachusetts and we stop at Silver Lake State Park near Hollis, New Hampshire to squeeze in a bike ride and a run before it gets too dark. My goal is to bike in two states on one bike ride, and get my tempo 1h30min bike ride and 30min run in that I like to do a few days before a triathlon. We start south on the 122 and pass through the lights at the intersection of the 130 and 122. After that there's much less traffic and we're into beautiful New England countryside in the late evening sun. Turn onto the 113 at Pepperell, where I promptly drop my chain when I start climbing the little hill after the roundabout. Traffic is a bit heavier but people go by slowly and give us lots of room. Stop for a few minutes to get my bearings on the map, then turn onto the 119 to Townsend and eventually the 13. I don't like the 13 too much; it's a little less scenic than the other roads, but we take the 130 back to Hollis and get our share of hills. I can't believe how lucky we are to have bike such a beautiful route on a hot, muggy evening. I finish it off with a great 30min run and a swim in the park.


Sunday         There's not much of a race report. I did the race, beat last year's time on the swim, hammered on the bike, and was disappointed with my run. But after trying to get the whole story online and suffering through IE browser crashes, I've pretty much had it. Here are the photos and the stats:





SWIM: Rank: 388 (out of 517), Time: 38:26, Pace: 32:10 (min/mile)
Transition 1: 2:29
BIKE: Rank: 361 (out of 517) , Time: 3:06:29, Pace: 18.0 mph
Transition 2: 2:28
RUN: Rank: 359 (out of 517) , Time: 1:59:20, Pace: 9:07 min/mile
FINAL STANDING: Total Time: 5:49:21 (winning time for F35-39 was 4:34:32)
Rank in Age Group Category: 9/26 F35-39
Rank in Gender: 70/142 F





Ironman Canada, August 26 2007


Wednesday August 15         "Fear puts me in my place. It gives me the humility to see things as they are." Laurence Gonzales Deep Survival
"What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for some goal worthy of him. What he needs is not the discharge of tension at any cost, but the call of a potential meaning waiting to be fulfilled by him." Viktor Frankl

A very packed bike box the night before leaving for BC, an early morning flight over Maine and seeing the sun rise and Mt Katahdin from 13,000 ft, and the city of Montreal on a clear day.






Photos from BC Travels
The BC ferries, Cathedral Grove on Vancouver Island, my feet in the Pacific Ocean (three oceans in one year), traveling to the Similkameen Valley, and photos from the cottage in beautiful Keremeos.










Saturday August 25         The Night Before



I've just finished checking in my bike and my gear bags. The vibe coming out of the transition area is great. Athletes are walking around putting their stuff away and joking with each other and being humble about tomorrow. That's what I love about this sport. I see Sister Madonna Buder just outside the gate waiting with her bike to check in and I swear she looks younger than last year. She certainly doesn't look 79 years old. The weather forecast for tomorrow isn't my favourite - chance of showers and partly overcast - but I guess that means I don't have to worry about extreme heat, high winds, or heavy rain. I've got to see the good in everything.

I put the two quotes up about fear and striving just before leaving for BC. The meaning I had given my experience at Two Oceans earlier this year had been centred on fear. It was an examination of how I face it and how it defines me. I had almost forgotten that whole exercise and introspection over the summer until I started reading Deep Survival by Laurence Gonzales, and then out leapt those two sentences: "Fear puts me in my place. It gives me the humility to see things as they are." It's my lesson from my experience at IMC last year. Fear is a good thing, and this year I haven't been avoiding it or stuffing it away somewhere, glossed over with optimism and an anything-goes attitude. I've been using it, but what I like about the Deep Survival quote is that it reminds me why I need to use fear. To keep me humble, to make sure I remember my very little place among all the great things that make this world go around.

But I still need to find inspiration and guidance for tomorrow. It's not in the environment: I'm not used to seeing desert-like topography and massive mountains for inspiration, so I don't know how to use them. It's not in the people who are with me. I'm on my own for finding my One Thing. And just when I thought I had nailed it and found the secret in the world around me, J writes that I have to find it within. Hm, back to square one. Somewhere between humility, fear, respect, and awe, there's my One Thing.

I go to the other sages to see what they have to say.
"Grandmummy, I need really good weather and perfect winds tomorrow."
"Check. The winds have always been good for you,"
"Uncle Bob, lots of energy for the hills, and respect for them, just like you used to talk about in Gaspe."
"Working on it."
"Aunte Therese, sharp thinking. I gotta be on the ball here."
"Bien oui. Je serais la pour toi."
"Aunte Nicole, laughter and joy and the freedom of riding my bike."
"Oui! Et une grosse tassette!"
Quiet.
"Meow!"
Huh?
"Meow!!
"Oh, Chickie, how could I forget?! Of course, you're absolutely right: Remember what's important. It's not my average speed, my swim time, the number of gels I should be taking, or my place on the run course. It's savouring my presence here, being here now. Moments and times like these are fleeting. I must see the beauty - look for it, even - in the world around me. That is what's important. Thank you, Chickie."

For those of you who are interested in seeing where I am on the course on race day, go to Ironmanlive.com . Click on the banner that says Ironman Canada (third from the top), and then look for Athlete Tracker. Look on the left side of the page, toward the bottom where it says "Athlete Finder." You can look for me by searching either for my bib number (2269) or last name (Rooney.)




Sunday August 26         2007 Ironman Canada         A good day. No, a great day. It was one of those days that brought things into perspective; you know, when you’ve had your doubts and your questions for a long period of time about how you see the world, and you think, “Hm, maybe I’m on the wrong track, but I think I know where the right one is.” And then this day comes and, amazement, you are right.

It didn’t start out that way, though. It started with an alarm - no, nine alarms going off (I was a bit paranoid about sleeping in) - and me listening to the wind howl outside the cottage. Occasionally the wind would gust and give the cottage a good shake. But I remembered a sign I had passed while riding my bike earlier this week near Comox on Vancouver Island: “When you can’t see the bright side of things, start polishing the dull side.” So I figured, “Hey, it’s not raining! Awesome!”

The morning routine was similar to last year’s, including where I parked the car. I was trying to put myself in a state where I could see myself as being really focused but still delighted and awed at the wonderful day. It was all about searching for that balance that I hadn’t had last year. I had my iPod with me and as I set up my transition and checked my gear bags I listened to Enya’s Caribbean Blue over and over again. Definitely a great idea: it kept me calm and it gave me something to focus on as the swim approached. I often have that song in my head when I’m at swim practice; the pool is painted blueish and I like looking around at the other swimmers with that soothing music in mind. I needed to give my brain something to hang on to, to wrap around when I was swimming. I pumped up my tires in the dark and hoped that I had gotten the pressure right.

The good signs kept coming. I met up with a friend early when I arrived in the transition. “I think we’re both going to have a good day,” she said. As all 2,500 of us waited on the beach for the start, I watched a long triangle of Canada geese fly low and directly overhead, so unusual with the huge crowds screaming and the helicopter chop-chopping away. Somewhere I wanted to believe that nature was on my side, that all of this was part of some greater vision that the world would have for us today. Just to make absolutely sure that all luck was on my side, I had my purple top, my purple LiveStrong bracelet, my purple watch, and my purple cycling socks with me. How could things possibly go wrong with so much purple involved?

Not that I had much vision when the swim started. I was in the same area as last year, lined up with the first row of buoys and close to the front, and for the next 1h15min I couldn’t see a damn thing except thrashing black legs and arms inches away from me. It wasn’t the violence of last year, thank God, maybe because I was ready for the worst-case scenario. OK, it might be because I’m a lazy swimmer and I never put a whole lot of effort into something that’s such a small part of the day. The congestion as I’d approach a buoy was a bit nuts, though. Arms would push my legs down, there would be no room to move, or I’d get squeezed between two swimmer heading toward each other. Then as the little touch of panic would spark in me, I’d get a hold of myself, tune into Enya, and hold my ground. I have to say, I was proud of myself. Keeping a grip on your state of mind when someone is pushing you underwater is no mean feat. I probably didn’t really get going until the last third of the swim when we thinned out a little, which is also about the time I always find that I really get sick of swimming. It’s hard not to think “When is this going to end?” when the scenery doesn’t change for over an hour.

And just as you do start picking up speed and getting into a rhythm of things, you have to stop and hobble over the long, rocky shore to transition. That shoreline must be the worst one on the Ironman circuit. I was really worried about stepping on a sharp rock and re-injuring my foot. The volunteers did their usual great job in pulling off my wetsuit, and I got my swim-to-bike bag and hustled into the change tent. The woman beside me, obviously from the US, said with a huge Southern drawl, “Do ya think we need ahm wohmers?” No, it’s not that cold outside, even if you are from Texas. You’re going to be on the bike for six freakin’ hours. You don’t need arm warmers.

My Litespeed was patiently waiting for me at Rack 47. We were out onto Main Street in not time. The sun was just coming out of from the clouds and it was neat to see the massive crowds lined all the way up Main Street and the hundreds of helmets ahead of me. I couldn’t believe how many people were out today. Actually, the first thing I noticed was that I had overpumped my tires and felt like I was sitting on something closer to 160psi than 120. If I was careful or if it got too hot today, there was a good probability the tires would explode and lift me clear over Richter Pass without a bike. Otherwise I wasn’t feeling as strong or as fast as last year. But that was OK: I had a mantra lined up just for that - “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not exactly the most tautologically correct thing a person could come up with, but it worked. Out to Eastside Drive and someone shouted “A deer!” Sure enough, there was a deer trotting down the side of the road in the opposite direction. Nature wasn’t giving up on us.

A sudden 100 degree veer to the left and we were on MacLean Creek Road. The hill just after that turn-off, the steepest one on the course, seemed harder than last year. Surprisingly, that didn’t really get to me. After the hill I started finding my groove, getting into a good gear and figuring out who I could pass and who I should stay with. Once we were on the long stretch from Okanagon Falls to Osoyoos things seemed to settle in place. The course didn’t seem as crowded as last year, people were a lot quieter, and race marshals on motorcycles were out en masse enforcing the draft rules. I stopped in Oliver at a porta-potty. There was a lineup and the girl behind me said, “I tried going on the bike, but it just wasn’t happening.”

Back on the bike, and back to repeating to myself, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.” Just keep it smooth and remember what’s important. Like the massive rock face at Vaseux Lake that reminded me of the mountain that caught the dawn at Two Oceans in Cape Town, and the beauty of it all. Or just how good it feels to be cruising down the road on my bike on a gorgeous summer morning, feeling what a human body can do when it is at its peak and performing well. Wave and smile at all the people cheering in their cars as they roll by slowly. Laugh at the signs on the side of the road written for various participants. So much to be grateful for.

The huge Canadian flag at the Husky station soon popped up on the horizon and I started to get ready for Richter Pass. I started zipping by people right away, but it was still a bit discouraging that the hills seemed harder than last year. But by the time I got to the top of Richter I realised that I was doing better overall than last year; the air wasn’t suffocatingly hot, and I felt a lot happier. The crest of Richter Pass and the drop into the Similkameen did catch my breath, though. The sheer verticality of the descent into the Similkameen, and the stunning - and I mean stunning - Snowy Mountain in the distance. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and I started crying at the sight of it all. This is what I had missed last year when smoke from wildfires in Washington state had obscured the horizon.

By the time I had stopped sniffling and had gotten a hold of myself, we were onto the rollers. The funny thing about going downhill fast for any amount of time is that it makes people feel like they should be biking hard once they reach flat ground or a set of uphills. It’s a funny quirk of human nature, and it can really drain you if aren’t aware of it when you find yourself charging up the seven rollers at top effort. But I was developing a new mantra (smart me!). Knowledge is power. I know that I am getting caught up in an attitude of speed. And so because I know, I have power. It was the same process as getting a grip on myself in those panicky moments during the swim earlier today, and the same process that distinguishes children from adults.

I grabbed a bottle of water at an aid station. I was sticking to my race plan of alternating gels and eLoad every 15 minutes when my timer went off. I had even started eating when I wasn’t hungry, figuring I’d lose my appetite later in the day so I had better get as many calories in before my intestines stopped absorbing nutrients. But I hadn’t counted on running out of water so quickly, mostly because I was using so much of it. I was taking a swig or two after each gel, I was pouring it over me at the top of each hill so that I’d cool off as I went downhill, and I was using it to mix with my eLoad concentrate. I still liked my system, though, and when a volunteer handed me an ice-cold bottle I upgraded my IQ another notch.

One of my favourite things last year had been having Moby’s Everloving in my head, and later throughout the year thinking of the course every time I heard the song. It’s the kind of music that suits the grand scenery and the feeling of travel that I get when I do long bike rides. It makes me think of the movie Seabiscuit and the beautiful scene when Seabiscuit and his jockey finally get their act together and win their first race. Just like during the swim with Caribbean Blue, I’d tune into the song when there would be a gap in my focus and discouraging thoughts would come creeping in. “What a long day. And so much more to go.” Play the song, which leads me to look at the scenery, which reminds my that there are things here in life far greater than me, which reminds me of Chickie and of J’s emails.

All of this started getting me worried about my mental state. Here I was hearing my dead cat talk to me about race strategy, and thinking of emails from someone I’ve never met. Maybe I was getting dehydrated. The rollers were coming in pretty relentlessly, and I really had to sit back and keep a hold on my discipline. A woman in a bathing suit on a gorgeous carbon Trek would blow by my on every downhill and flat, and then I’d pass her on the uphill. Eventually we’d start a conversation together. Once we reached the false flat to Keremeos, I started leapfrogging with Gord on a red TT. Another conversation until I found myself going faster than the packs of cyclists around me and had to bike harder than I wanted to in order to find clear road.

Things settled back to normal on the out-and-back to Cawston. I didn’t feel as stiff as I had last year at this point. The out-and-back is quite a mental challenge: you’re watching cyclists going by in the other direction with grimaces on their faces due to the headwind that you know you’ll be facing in a few minutes, you’ve still got the climb at Yellow Lake to think of, and the road itself requires constant gear changing even though it seems flat. But in spite of all that I was feeling happier and happier. Things were going well. My bike tires hadn’t exploded (yet.) I still had an appetite, and indeed I had to stop at the bike special needs to get more gels out of my bag. My body wasn’t feeling tired or stiff.

After the turnaround, the realisation that the winds were just as strong as they had been this morning, and that it looked like we were going to get drenched on the climb at Yellow Lake. The turn onto Route 3 at Keremeos put everyone into their granny gear as we inched ahead in the wind. We passed a cyclist asleep (I hope) in the grass by the side of the road. I passed a woman and we chatted for a while. “How’s it going?” she asked. “Really good, considering everything that’s going on,” I replied. “Yeah, I’m really starting to feel the distance now.” she said. But the funny thing was, I was actually feeling really good. Last year at this point on the course I had felt like toast. This year I didn’t even feel as if I had bike 150km.

The climb at Yellow Lake is preceded by one of the most deceptive false flats I’ve ever seen anywhere. The only way I knew that I’d be going uphill even before the start of the climb at the Apex sign was because I had bike this part of the course in both directions before. Knowledge is power. I know this is a false flat and I will feel weaker than what my eyes tell me. Because I know this, I have power over my attitude. Once we passed the Apex sign, the course seemed to come straight out of something you’d expect to see at the Tour de France: a narrow lane on the climb marked off only for cyclists, covered with chalk messages, and lined with hundreds of spectators standing and screaming encouragement, running beside you, and deafening noise. It’s like that for almost two kilometres. And people said the nicest, most incredible and encouraging things to help us up that hill.

At the top of the hill I marvelled at how easy the climb had been and how much better things were going than last year. I passed the infamous aid station where I had stupidly grabbed a bottle of Gatorade last year. Instead, I tossed an empty water bottle and got another one to get some weight for the downhill that was coming. A pack of us were going downhill together and as one person would pass me I’d find the bike getting sucked into their draft zone. At such high speeds and surrounded mostly by heavy men, that zone extended for quite a ways. The last 20 kilometres to Penticton and the transition flew by in that downhill and by the time I was clicking out of my pedals I was feeling happy and hopeful. Unlike last year, I wasn’t thrilled to be off the bike. I didn’t even feel stiff or tired.

Transition was, as I told one of the volunteers in the change tent, a spa treatment. Someone handed me my bag as I went over to the tent, where I sat down in a chair after grabbing a cup and pouring some Coke in it. I sat back, sipped my Coke slowly, waved to the other girls running out of the tent ahead of me, and relaxed. For, like, ten minutes. I think the volunteers were getting a little worried. I put on my running shoes, double-checked my list, read a page from J’s last email, finished off my entire bottle of Coke, then finally decided that maybe it might be time to get on with things.

I put on my Fuel Belt (more Coke!) and headed out. It felt good to be upright again. In fact, it felt so good that I started running and looking at the sky at the same time. Wow, did I ever feel great. I wasn’t running too fast, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I could run the entire marathon.

It was when I thought of all the distance ahead of me that I’d falter a little. How many times do we try to teach people that the best way to tackle a big problem is by breaking it down into lots of little ones? I stopped thinking of 26 miles or 42 kilometres and thought of this step, this moment, how I felt right now. I looked up Main Street as I had this morning and saw the incline that would sap my energy. Knowledge is power: I know that I have an incline coming and that it will make my legs burn a little more than usual. Because I know this, I have power. I can adjust my speed, expect my legs to burn, remind myself that I’ll be rewarded on my way back with a nice little downhill.

The wind was incredibly strong and getting stronger. It was, however, in my favour because it was a tailwind for the route to OK Falls, and would probably die down later in the evening when I turned around and came back to Penticton. Running through Penticton with the thousands of spectators on the course was the easy part. People cheered and said I looked strong, which made me at least feel that way. Having a FuelBelt made it easy to resist gorging at the aid stations. In the long stretch by Skaha Lake before OK Falls it was quiet and I ran alone. I listened to Marc Cohn’s True Companion in my head and let myself be awed by the sight of the sun on the far shore of the lake. I listened to my feet. I smiled and smiled and smiled.

The turnaround at OK Falls is preceded by a huge downhill. It’s so long and the people trying to run up look like they’re having such a hard time that you really start to worry about how you’ll handle it. I was also out of my precious Coke and looking forward to the two FuelBelt bottles in my bag at Special Needs. My strategy was to walk up the hill at a fast pace, but I was delighted to find out that I was feeling so good that I didn’t have to slow down. I ran by the spot on the side of the road where last year I had stopped and called it quits. This was good. Now I had to worry about the open stretch of road along the lake where the headwind was really strong. But when I got to that stretch, I found that the wind and the ice in my spots bra were keeping me cool. Wow, was this ever working out well!

Around Mile 23 I could no longer feel my legs. They were moving and keeping me running, but I think the pain and fatigue had numbed them. But all I had to worry about now was running another five kilometres, and I had the crowds of spectators to help me with that. I also had a kilometre to run for each person from whom I had asked for help on today’s course. Now not only were my legs numb, but I was trying to run and not cry. I held it all together until Lakeshore Drive and the finish when I let all the emotions go through.

The Results

Overall Place:       1183 out of 2200 participants
Total Time:         12:41:34. One hour faster than IMLP, and two hours faster than last year.
Division Place:        53 out of 150 women 35-39
Swim Division Place:         70 out of 150
Swim Overall Place:         1388 out of 2200
Swim Time:         1:18:53
Swim Pace:         2:05min per 100m
T1:         9:55
Bike Division Place:         53 out of 150
Bike Overall Place:         1398 out of 2200
Bike Time:         6:32:44
Bike Pace:         17.1mph
T2:         10:56
Run Division Place:         42 out of 150
Run Overall Place:         878 (woohoo!)
Run Time:         4:29:08
Run Pace:         10:17/mile (first and second half of marathon at the same pace!)


Lessons Learned
Nothing assures success as much as failure. If I had not had such a bad race in 2006, would I have had such a profoundly great one in 2007? Probably not. I took a lot of chances with my training this year, trying things I would never have considered before. I was more disciplined than I had ever been in a race, although that was something I learned at Two Oceans in South Africa. When my mind faltered, I knew how to pull myself together again. These were all things that came as a direct result of their absence in 2007. So next for Ironman Lake Placid I can’t forget:

  • To bring my own pump to transition the morning of the race and not chase after one. Have my iPod with me while I’m doing my pre-race stuff and listen to Enya or something soothing that makes me think of special times. Rehearse my drive into town before the morning of the race and know exactly where I’m going to park. Change in the change tent, which is almost empty and is a good place to get away from the hype and the other athletes. Move slowly and absorb the wonderful significance of the day that’s about to unfold.
  • During the swim, take it easy. Have a song and a plan to keep things together when it gets nuts. Don’t worry about going hard, just keep it smooth.
  • Drive the bike course and the run course and know both in excruciating detail. Knowledge is power. To get power, get knowledge.
  • Coke! Does that surprise anyone? My nutrition strategy worked perfectly, at least in today’s weather conditions. If it had been hotter, I might not have been so lucky. But Coke and experimenting with it at home gave me some idea of what I could expect.
  • Likewise, my training strategy was good. I think opting out of the shorter, harder workouts and going for more sustained threshold training sessions was the right decision for me. I’m convinced that’s what made my run so easy.
  • See meaning in everything. Add significance to it all. This comes from within. Don’t expect someone to come along and tell you what these things are.











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Last updated on September 15 2007 by Helen Rooney