Ironman Adventure (Part VI)

From Another Perspective
-or-
A Parental Interlude

My parents were having a somewhat different experience. Sure, they were glad to be there for their little boy. Sure, my mom was still worried something would happen to me. Sure, my dad was impressed with the general level of organization and craziness. But they were having a GREAT time! The folks running this thing did a fantastic job creating a festival environment. From busing you around to the best cheering spots to providing noise makers to playing music and running commentary, they did their best to take as good care of the spectators as they did the athletes. Plus there’s just something contagious about that much excitement. They got to cheer for me on my way in and out of the water, and a couple times on the bike. They had updates of my progress on their cell phones (though not the GPS data they would have liked.) And of course my mother can make friends with anyone.

It wasn’t all good mind you. One spot they wanted to cheer from was being obscured by a particularly nasty and uncooperative spectator. And at one point the athlete tracker stopped updating my information. It claimed I’d never gotten past halfway on the bike. Though they’d SEEN me past halfway. So it was hopefully a temporary glitch. But I could be dead and they wouldn’t know it. This wasn’t helped by the fact that I was WAY off of the estimated times I’d given them, so they didn’t see me finishing the bike or starting the run either. And the real heart attack came when mom got a phone call from a Kentucky number and was CONVINCED it was someone at the local emergency room calling to tell her that her baby was suffering from heat exhaustion or severe being-hit-by-a-car or something. That turned out not to be the case, but they decided just to head to the finish line and get a good spot to watch there for a while.

And they got a PERFECT spot. They were right alongside the finish chute just past the finish line. From where they were, they could see the big video board of people coming down the chute, then turn and watch them actually cross the finish line. And though they did this for several hours, it never got boring.

Some people crossed the line looking like they’d barely worked up a sweat. Some were clearly only being held together with spandex and determination. One guy did cartwheels across the line, another stopped, did twenty push-ups, stood back up, then collapsed across the line. More than a few had no idea who or where they were, and one guy just kept running. Volunteers had to run after him and tackle him to get him to stop. But the truly amazing part was that everybody, every single person, from the show-offs to the train-wrecks pressed the button on their watches as they crossed the line (even if the did so on their way to the ground.) Yup. This is a special breed alright…

But even more impressive to my parents than the nut-jobs finishing were the volunteers staffing the finish area. There was one guy whose only job was to put medals over peoples heads. Then, past him, there were dozens of men and women standing in a line. Each time someone finished, a volunteer would come over and take charge of them. They would evaluate how well the athlete was functioning, how well they were moving, and decide whether to escort them to their family and friends, to the medical tent, or into a wheelchair. They got you water, the finishers hat and t-shirt, congratulated you, all the while keeping an eye on you for any signs of shock, trauma, exhaustion, or any of the dozens of other things all that exercise can do to you. As medical professionals themselves, my parents really appreciated this, and each decided they wanted to volunteer for my next race (whatever that would be.)

It helped that the finish was along a permanently closed off section of 4th Street that was packed with bars and restaurants, where outdoor concerts and festivals were frequently held. So any time the human drama grew tiresome, there was beer and victuals a few steps away. They were having a pretty good time. Now there was just hoping their son would come across in one piece…

Ironman Adventure (Part V)

Bike 112 Miles
-or-
Why is it Always INTO The Wind?

The bike offers plenty of time to think. I spent the first few miles being grateful that they weren’t enforcing the drafting rules back here in the middle of the pack. There were so many of us bunched together that keeping 7 meters apart would have been patently impossible anyway. It was all I could do to keep from passing on the right when someone slowed ahead of me. But I was moving right along, feeling good. I kept eating (nearly 2 hours in the water meant 2 hours of not eating I had to make up for.) I kept peddling. Sure, 112 miles is a long way, but how bad could it be?

Then we hit the hills.

I had trained in Chicago. Now I’m not saying Chicago’s flat on a molecular level, but the step up to the sidewalk is the biggest change in elevation in most areas. I knew there were “gently rolling hills” and a few “challenging climbs” but… Wow. These weren’t short steep climbs; they were long stretches up or down. And given the out-and-back or loop nature of most of the course, any down was likely to be an up later on. And before long, I decided I liked the up-hills better than the downhills.

On the advice of the fine folks at my bike shop, I’d bought a set of gears for my back wheel that was better suited for a hilly course (bigger low gears mostly.) So I found myself cruising past people on the up-hills simply because I had more mechanical advantage. Uphill was also an excuse to sit up and get out of the efficient but uncomfortable “aero” position. I wasn’t going fast enough for it to make much difference, so why not stretch a little? So not only were the up-hills good for the ego, they were good for the body too.

Downhill was a different story. 30 miles an hour may be creeping along for a car, but on a bike it’s a thrill ride. The scary kind. At 35 miles an hour some trick of the wind or the road surface made for a disconcerting wobble. And at 40 mph… helmet or not, that’s not a fall you get up from with verve and aplomb. So from time to time I found myself doing the ultimate Ironman no-no: using my brakes. I might pay for throwing away energy like that later on, but right then, not knowing the road surface very well, other bikes on all sides of me, scabs from recent falls barely healed, I chose the better part of valor.

Essentially those passing on the uphill were the ones with the best gears. Those passing on the downhill were the ones with the most guts. Only on the flat did the legs matter.

And what legs! Our ages were written on the backs of our left calves, which provided at least one reason to look. Ostensibly it was to know what age group someone was in (and therefore whether you were competing with them for a Kona slot or just standings among your peers.) But it also offered some entertainment (one girl had written “and single” below her 29) humility (getting passed by 50 and 60 year olds helps keep one… focused) and even helped you hold onto a little dignity (the pros had “P” on the back of their calves, lest you mistake them for normal mortals.) In fact, because the course was mostly a big loop you did twice, I got to see some of the pros pass me. One woman in particular hit a hill about the same time I did and (by working harder than I probably should have) I got to stay with her for a little while. Her bike shorts were bikini-cut and showed an incredible amount of muscled hip and thigh. She had ridges of muscle places I’d never seen them before. It was humbling to see that much power up close. When she pulled away, I silently wished her luck, and got back to my own race.

Of course, I was passing people too. There’s a thrill to passing someone in better shape, with bigger calves, with a more expensive bike. But sometimes I’d pass someone who was… big. Not large framed, not heavily muscled, actually fat. On the one hand, I wanted to cheer for them. Not only did they have the guts to enter the race to begin with, but they’d gotten this far with no sign of giving up, giving in, or giving way. On the other hand… I couldn’t help but wonder how they’d gotten ahead of me to begin with. Still, I generally had the air for an “On your left” or a “Stay strong! Looking good!”

The loop nature of the course made for some inadvertent cruelty. The loop was about 40 miles long, so they had both sets of mile markers. When you’re 50 miles in, seeing a sign that says “90 miles” is just inhumane. I know there’s no other way to do it, but…

It also helped remind me of the cutoff times. I had gotten out of the water well ahead of the 9:45am cutoff. The next cutoff was the halfway point of the bike. If you hadn’t passed it by 2:15pm they stopped you and took you off the course. You had to be done with the bike by 6:00pm, past the halfway point of the run by 9:00pm and done with the run by midnight. I thought of these as the bullets I had to dodge. That may seem like a depressing way to look at it, but there’s just no way to wrap your head around 140.6 miles. Making it into 5 separate races (each with its own terrifying immutable deadline) helped.

Mostly, those deadlines gave me something to think about. The worst part of biking for 112 miles is the boredom. You can’t talk to anyone (because of the drafting rules) you don’t have earphones on for the music/podcasts you trained with, so you’ve got to do something to keep from going crazy (crazier.) Some people talk to themselves (amusing when you pass or are passed by them.) I mostly did math. If I continue at this speed, what time will I get to the next checkpoint? How fast would I have to go to get there at this time? If I get to the next checkpoint at this time, how fast would I have to go to get to the one after that at this time? If I get to the next checkpoint at this time, how slow can I go and still make the next cutoff?

The rest of what kept me occupied was eating. I knew I had to eat a lot more than my body thought it wanted, so any time I discovered my mouth wasn’t full, I’d dig into my suit and peel or unwrap something. It takes a lot more concentration than you’d think to hold onto the bar or banana you’re working on and still steer, shift gears, deal with bumps etc. And putting flavor/energy/electrolyte tablets into the bottle between my handlebars and refilling it from one of the bottles under my seat was… Well, if you saw someone doing anything that involved while driving a car, you’d read them the riot act. Still, it wasn’t boring. :)

The funny thing is that no individual moment was all that hard. Just keep peddling. Just keep eating. Do some math. Don’t fall down. Don’t run into anyone else. Try to stay down in the aerodynamic position (no matter how much your back hurts.) Is it time to take more Advil yet? Do some more math. Look! Horses!

Because boredom was as much the enemy as your own body’s betrayal, almost any distraction was a welcome one. The greatest treat was random people parked on the side of the road with their car stereos blasting. They were usually holding signs rooting for someone in particular, but those few moments of rock-and-roll were incredibly energizing, and did as much (or more) than cheering or even cowbells! There were some other entertaining distractions of course. There was a small group of girls in outrageous wigs and sparkly dresses dancing to bad disco on the side of the course. One of the dresses was so tiny that not only could you see her undies, you could tell that those undies were much too tight for her. Yes, I was going past at more than 25 miles per hour, but the “camel-toe” effect is pretty distinctive.

My other favorite distraction was the “town” of LaGrange. To be fair, it was little more than an exit off the highway that we’d pass twice, but they were bussing people from downtown Louisville, and had set up a rather festive cheer zone. And my parents were there. Cheering is always delightful and helpful, but there were 2 people there who were cheering just for ME! It was a slight downhill stretch, so I got into my most sleek, photogenic position, and scanned the crowd. I actually made eye contact with them both times. Of course I was doing this mostly for myself, my own sense of accomplishment. But for those two moments, I was a little boy glowing with “Look Mom, look Dad, I’m doing this!!!”

The second time through LaGrange, they were handing us our “Special Needs Bags” These are bags we had prepared ourselves, and filled full of anything we might need 60 miles into our bike ride. The pros either skipped them or took what they needed and tossed the rest without even slowing. I pulled over, used the portapoty and went through my bag carefully. Most of it was just-in-case duplicates of stuff I already had (extra tubes, inflators, patch kits etc.) I shoved most of the food into my suit, drank my coconut water, and got back on the road. It was a nice break, and because it was past the halfway mark, it meant I’d dodged another bullet (ahead of the cutoff by more than 90 minutes). Now all the big mile markers were for me, and though I was still going up and down all the same hills as last loop, it FELT a little easier.

A quick word on the aid stations: these were areas where dozens of volunteers were handing off water bottles, bananas, power bars, and catching trash. The rule was if you were caught littering or throwing trash anywhere but the designated areas, you’d be disqualified. So the volunteers tried to make this fun: They put bullseyes around garbage cans and hockey nets for us to toss empty bottles at. They were doing the “last chance to throw things away” dance at the end of the aid area. And they actually RAN at top speed in an effort to more closely match velocity with us when handing things off. Sure, some of the bananas were mashed by the time they were in your control, but I didn’t see a single bar, bottle, or banana fall.

Not everyone along the course was so supportive… Someone had painted an Ironman logo (the “M-dot”) on the road with a circle around it and a line through it. And they’d thrown hundreds of tacks along the road as well. What harm were we doing? Sure, traffic got a little strange for a few hours, but come on! I didn’t hit any of them, but did pass people who’d gotten stuck with flats twice. Technically, assisting another rider would disqualify both of you. But cyclists are just programmed to ask “are you okay?” or “do you have everything you need” when you pass someone broken down. Around the 100-mile mark, I passed someone obviously dealing with a flat and asked if she had everything she needed. Turns out her spare tube was torn or the wrong size or something. I still had 2 extras so gave her one of mine. Screw the rules; it’s the right thing to do.

Speaking of “screw the rules” I REALLY had to go to the bathroom. They’d been very clear that any public urination would get you thrown off the course. They’d promised portapotties every mile on the run course, but there just weren’t that many on the bike. I know the “right thing” is just to let it flow and damn the consequences, but I’d come this far without having to, and I had decided to be stubborn. I was so close to the transition area, but I knew from experience that when I have to go, I make mistakes. And this would be a bad time to make mistakes. So after a mile or two of earnestly looking for portapottys, I gave up and started looking for discrete shrubbery. I waited for a cop to pass me, found a thicket that looked like it needed watering, and dismounted. Success. Back in the saddle with just a few more miles to go.

Here I was, nearly done with the hard(est) part. Most of the way was literally down hill from here. Sure, my feet were killing me despite the cushioned insoles I put in my bike shoes. And my back was pretty sore from being hunched over for 6 or 7 hours. But I was going to finish the bike WAY ahead of the cutoff time, and there were even some other cyclists to make conversation with. Just when it seemed like it was start to get fun, it suddenly got incredibly scary. An electric shock was running down the inside of my right thigh. Stretching it out didn’t help. And it didn’t seem momentary either. This could be a race-ender. But I couldn’t think about that. I just had to keep trying things. I tried biking with one leg for a while (something I’d actually practiced as part of my training. You never know.) That helped a bit. Then I put both feet on the pedals, but only pushed with the good leg. Better still. Finally I used it just a little, then a little more. I could still feel something, but the leg worked. Okay, it was just a moment in time. I can do this.

It was time to sit up, stretch in the saddle, pedal backwards, and generally get my back and legs ready to switch to running. I started going through the transition in my head, reviewing what order I’d do things, and generally getting excited to be done with all the yucky stuff and out on the run. That was my strength, my bread-and-butter, my happy place. No equipment, no fighting for breath, getting kicked in the head (hopefully). We were getting to the good stuff. My “cool down.” All these happy thoughts got me through the cramp-induced panic and into the transition area.

Here, one of the coolest things EVER happened. I’ve never felt more like a rock-star than when I threw one leg over my bike, rolled to the “dismount line”, clipped out of the other pedal, and just handed my bike to a volunteer. They took my bike back to the rack for me so I could hobble off to the transition area. It may not sound like much if you’ve never done a triathlon, but that’s like valet service combined with a lap dance to us. And the hobbling was because there are huge bindings on the bottom of the bike shoes. Makes it easy to pedal, but awfully tough to run. Still, there were a few hundred yards separating me from my beloved running shoes, and I had places to be. So hobble briskly I did.

Again, I yelled out my number, and some angel of a volunteer found my transition bag and ran it over to me. Back to the boys’ tent to change shoes, stuff more food in my suit, and get back out there. I had just purchased some fancy elastic laces so I could just pull my running shoes on. This seemed BRILLIANT, especially after my last tri, when I forgot to untie my shoes, so had to untie double knots in transition. I switched my sunglasses for my regular ones, since the sun would surely be down before I finished. I pondered briefly whether to bother with the hat. I really only put it in there to help remind me to… Oh. Right. So I took off my helmet, and put on the hat, glad that me-yesterday was a hell of a lot smarter than me-today. I drank my coconut water, hit the portapotty one more time (just to be safe) and breezed out of the tent with a nice rolling gait. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like an athlete.

Ironman Adventure (Part IV)

Words of Advice
-or-
Grasping for Genius

Our room was up on the 24th floor, which meant I spent a great deal of time on the elevator. When the “normal” people weren’t teasing us for not taking the stairs (“I thought you were big bad athletes!”) we talked amongst ourselves. And the conversations always started the same way: After seeing the bike, the funny clothes, or the wrist-band, I would ask “Is this your first?” If it was, I’d ask if they’d done a half, how their training had been, what their goal was. If not, I’d ask how many they’d done and what advice they had.

The advice was mostly common sense, but I devoured it as though it was the difference between life and death. The most common response was “Just enjoy yourself.” After hearing that a dozen times, I finally got the nerve to ask what that meant. Turns out that is triathlete speak for don’t push too hard and try to take in the details. Reasonable, if somewhat mind-boggling. Other brilliant suggestions included taking it slow (save as much as you can early on, so you have it to spend toward the end), and treat the first one as a learning experience (don’t try to have a brilliant race, just take notes on what to do for the next one). On particularly wonderful suggestion was not to bother bringing an extra tire (everyone carried extra tubes, but a sliced tire could end your race.) You could line the sliced section of your tire with a folded dollar bill and it would ride just like new. It was hilarious to me that the least expensive piece of gear I’d be carrying would be actual cash…

But the most critical advice, the bit that actually did save my race came from my friend’s little brother. He asked about my “nutrition plan” (what I was planning to eat during the race and how often.) I intended eat a Pro Bar or banana every hour or so. He thought for a moment and replied that that would work as long as I didn’t plan to run. Wait, what? Since you can’t eat anything during the swim, you start the bike in a pretty serious calorie debt. Between the heat and the exertion, your body probably won’t let you eat much on the run. So you have to spend the bike not only getting even, but getting as far ahead on calories as you possibly can. A meal worth of calories every half hour was a much better idea. The rule, he said is that if you feel good, eat. If you feel crappy… eat.

Now I was wracking my brain to figure out where I could PUT all that food. I would get to pick up my “special needs bag” at the half way point on the bike, so I only had to keep 3-4 hours of food on my person at a time. However, I only had 2 small pouches in the back of my suit, and had stubbornly resisted strapping pouches/bags/boxes to my sexy aerodynamic bike. So I did what any frightened athlete would do: I called my coach.

Jeff, whose common sense and tough love had gotten me this far, once again saved the day. “You’re wearing a one-piece tri suit right? Just stuff things into the armholes, up the legs, into the chest where it zips… I can carry a whole grocery store with me if I want to.” GENIUS!!! I planned it all out: 2 pro bars and a tube of pills in each pocket (Advil for pain and “Sport Legs” to help prevent lactic acid build up), a banana and some shot blocks in each armhole, and a tube of Zym Tabs up each leg.

The last piece of advice I got, however, was the one that occupied my mind the most. “Nothing ever goes quite as expected. Always have a backup plan.” I thought this stunning valkyrie meant sign up for a second race (which I’d already done.) No, she meant for any given step of this race. What if you start cramping, if your stomach rebels, if you break a chain ring… I make backup plans for a living, and I have a very vivid imagination. My coach’s words floated back to me “Success isn’t keeping anything from going wrong, it’s recovering well when something does.” Well, at least now I had plenty to think about.

Ironman Adventure (Part III)

Swim 2.4 Miles

-or-

Getting Kicked in the Head for Fun and Profit

The jump into the water had been less traumatic than I thought. I got off to the side, took a moment to check in with the cosmos, and started swimming. I was focused on swimming as slowly as possible: a mellow economy of motion that was more glide than hurry. It didn’t work. After 200 yards I was exausted, gasping, and hopeless. But on the bright side, this always happens to me, so I knew something would get me out of it. This time it was looking up and seeing someone stroking slower, kicking slower, and still moving faster than me. Okay, think technique, sing your swimming song (“Learning to swim in Lake Michigan” to the tune of “Lannigan’s Ball” by Enter the Haggis) and get this done.

That worked. I found a groove and just kept moving. There were occasional distractions of course. The swim start was “self seeded” meaning the slower swimmers were encouraged to put themselves further back for a later start. This ideally meant that there would be less bunching up, less getting kicked in the head or reaching out for water and getting thigh instead. But the course still closed at midnight, no matter what time you started, and I wanted all the time I could get. I started in the first third, whether I belonged there or not. I therefore got bumped into and swum over a bit more often than I would have otherwise. An interesting aside: All the men were wearing pink swim caps, and all the women were wearing white ones. But everyone shaved their legs and were wearing one piece bathing suits. So every time I got a hand full of smooth muscled thigh or calf, I involuntarily looked up to check their swim cap color. I don’t know why. I was in no position to enjoy or apologize… Though I did discover the only circumstance under which a straight boy does not enjoy being nestled between two mostly naked exquisitely muscled women: When they trying to swim somewhere in a hurry!

About a half mile in, the water got pretty shallow on one side of the river. No, I mean REALLY shallow. My hands hit bottom. I knelt, then stood. The water came just above my ankles. There were a few people around me doing the same. We exchanged looks, glanced at the race officials on kayaks nearby, then started jogging. A half-dozen feet to our left our peers were swimming along, while we strode past them. I wish I had a photo: Triathletes so hard-core they run on water. I did all I could not to think about WHAT I was running on, or what might be trying to burrow into my very favorite feet, implanting parasitic embryos... Eventually, a log failed to trip most of us, and we were back to swimming. We followed the yellow bouys in search of the red “turn around” bouy.

The first 3/4 of a mile were against the current, in a small inlet between an island and the shore. Then we turned around the island and swam downstream to the transition area. So the turn was not only a welcome checkpoint, a sign of solid progress in an event without mile markers or clear views, but it meant the swim was about to get easier.

Just as I rounded the bouy, the sun broke over the horizon. If I’d started any later, or moved any slower, I would have been swimming into the sun (not pleasant in the least.) But as it was, I got one breathtaking moment of beauty, then dug in for the easy part of the swim, absolutely sure I had this. Endurance sports are a study in fear and arrogance. You had to scared enough of the thing to work your ass off, but confident enough to get through the tough parts. With one fancy corkscrew turn I’d gone from fear to arrogance. The rest was just work.

At the swim seminar the day before, they’d taught us about drafting off of other swimmers, which was legal and encouraged in the swim (despite being illegal on the bike.) Plus, looking up to determine your position causes your form to suffer briefly. So I followed the legs in front of me for a while, enjoying both their draft and the current pushing me along. This may not have been the best move. When I finally did look up, I was halfway across the river, nowhere near the bouys. Apparently the legs I was following had s**t for brains. When you’re swimming 2.4 miles, the last thing you want to do is swim 2.5.

I headed back for the yellow bouys and dug in, searching for the red bouy that meant I could get out of the water. Along the way my swim cap kept falling off, and I had to cram it back on while still swimming (try it sometime). I had to dodge bridge abutments that seemed to sneak up on me. I had to balance using my legs enough to keep the muscles loose against using them too much and wearing them out before they were called upon to do the real work… And all along keeping 4 kicks to the stroke, 3 strokes to the breath, 10 breaths between looks for that damn red bouy.

There it was, with the (inexplicable) floating Ford logo on one side and the stairs out of the water on the other. Volunteers reached out and helped me up the steps, and I started the endless barefoot run from the swim finish to the transition area proper. At this point, you had two choices. You could start tearing off your swim cap, goggles, and unzip your skin suit to get ready for transition, or you could focus on moving in straight lines and not falling down. I wisely chose the later.

A stream of us (there were actually people behind me!!!) ran up a path (my parents cheering for me meant every bit as much to me as the fact that I was still alive), across a bridge, down a chute, then along numbered rows of bags. Volunteers helped us find our bags, then reminded us which tent to go into (based on our sex presumably). Inside the tent it was find a seat, swimsuit off, goggles and swim cap off, sunglasses on, socks and bike shoes, food into pockets, drink a little, eat a lot, and make a run for your bike. Though the fancy compression socks help in a lot of ways, they’re as hard to put on as a damn wet suit. I had, of course, forgotten that swimming in my tri suit meant pinning my bib on in transition (HAVE to get a race belt!!!) And running in bike shoes is… undesirable. But on the bright side, volunteers not only took your bag from you when you were done, but helped you put on sunscreen all while being generally encouraging at you. A guy could get used to this kind of treatment.

Binky (my bike, trusty steed, and, by now, close friend) was right where I left her. I clipped on my helmet, and ran for the bike start. Biking in the transition area was strictly prohibited. Woe to he who touches shoe to pedal before the “Mount Line”. With crowds cheering on either side, I reached the line, swung a leg over, and was in the saddle for the longest portion of my journey (both in hours and miles.) Gears clicked, wind flowed over my teardrop shaped space helmet, and the road flew by. Speed felt GOOD!

Ironman Adventure (Part II)

The continuing saga of my very first Ironman Triathlon.

The Beginning
-or-
What the $%^# Was I Thinking?

I suppose you could say my adventure actually began much earlier : When a girl dumped me and I decided to spend the time, money, and energy I would have spent on her training for long distance triathlon instead. Or when I went on line, miraculously found an Ironman that hadn’t sold out yet, then put it on my credit card before I chickened out. Perhaps it was when I took money out of my retirement account to buy a bike that cost more than some cars I’ve owned. Or when I signed up for swim lessons, personal training, a gym membership. When I booked the flight to Kentucky, reserved the hotel room, got the time off work, put my bike in the mail... But whenever it began, the middle just kept getting more interesting.

Arriving at the hotel was incredible. There were almost three thousand who had signed up for this thing, and most of them were staying at the Galt House. The lobby was full of expensive bicycles and incredible calves. Even without the identifying marks that would come later, it was easy to tell who was there for the race. They seemed to radiate… efficiency. For the first time I felt like I actually belonged in this crowd. I was a candidate in a very selective fraternity only days from initiation. And, (to follow the metaphor a little too far) the hazing was all self imposed.

That first night I retrieved my bike from the UPS Store, where they’d held it for ransom (literally refusing to give it to me until I’d paid a 50$ “stowage” charge) and reassembled it. Picture a hotel room strewn with bike parts, tools, and loud music. It only took two calls to my bike shop back home, two hours, and two grease stains (on somebody else’s carpet for a change!) and Binky was back in one piece. Then an easy eight-mile run (just to get the airline-induced kinks out of my legs), a quick dinner (fillet mignon “sliders” with crumbled gorgonzola and balsamic soaked onions!) stretching (always stretching) drinking water (“You’re not free and clear until you’re peeing clear!”) and blissful sleep.

The next day my parents arrived. I now officially had spectators and a support team. Since they’d driven overnight from upstate New York, I let them sleep through packet pick up. They didn’t miss much. While we stood in line to be ID’d (like the SAT’s, they don’t want you racing for someone else) weighed, (more to sell fancy scales than anything else) and our USTA memberships confirmed (they sold a convenient 1 day memberships if needed). Then they secured blue hospital wristbands onto us. These were our all access passes (and further assurance no one could race in our place.) Finally we got The Goodie Bag. Alas, it’s not as exciting as it sounds. It’s mostly advertisements and coupons, though there are some useful things: our “bib” (the super tough piece of paper with our name and number on it) our “chip” (the electronic doohicky that straps to your ankle to keep track of when you’ve crossed certain points like the start and the finish lines), and the color coded bags to put all your gear in.

By this time it had been more than 4 hours since I’d eaten. All the training has done such strange things to my metabolism that I get a little wobbly if I don’t get a meal every 4 hours or so. And now at last I had that which every athlete dreams of: Parents to spoil them rotten race weekend!

As we wandered town looking for first food then the groceries I’d need over the next couple days, I was constantly on the lookout for the telltale wristbands. What were they eating? What were they buying? How were they preparing? I don’t know that I got any useful information, but I couldn’t stop looking.

An interesting thing I discovered about Whole Foods: They may have the best selection of the strange and obscure food-stuffs I need for my pre- and during-race routines (young coconuts, steel cut oats, coconut water…) But it’s damn near impossible to find the more basic artificial and thoroughly processed necessities there. Thank god for parents and their cars…

The “expo” is always one of my favorite parts of big races. It’s a chance to pick up that thing you forgot. Or to learn of something you didn’t know you needed. Or get clothes with references to the event all over them. There’s humor and free samples and cool displays… It’s basically a way to separate people from their money. And since triathlon is a pricey hobby to begin with, they were working hard to squeeze out those last few bucks. There was a place renting out fancy wheels. Another rented out GPS devices so your friends could watch every step on their “smart phones” and laptops. Of course you could get anything imaginable with the Ironman logo on it. There was even a full service bike shop right there in the middle of the hotel ballroom. I was trying to avoid jinxing myself by getting anything with an Ironman logo on it until I’d earned it. As such, I just got a toy you breath into to strengthen your diaphragm, and an extra pair of compression socks. The only t-shirt I wanted wasn’t for sale: The one that said “Finisher.”

The next order of business was biking the run course. I thought this was brilliant for several reasons. First and foremost it let me check that I’d put my bike back together correctly. Second, it was a little workout to stay fresh without wearing myself out for The Big Day. Finally, I like to be as familiar with the course as you can. Where will there be shade? Where are the hills? Are there any spots where the road is uneven, narrows, or turns sharply? Is there a Starbucks I can sneak into if I need a pick-me-up? Because I had shipped my bike almost 2 weeks earlier, this was my first time on Binky in a while, and it felt good to be back in the saddle. The course looked good, I felt good… This might just happen!

But first, more food! They held a banquet for us in the local convention center. The food was standard buffet fare (heavy on the pasta of course) but the event was mandatory since the “Athlete Briefing” followed. I was mostly excited to meet up with a friend’s little brother (who was also doing the race.) We found each other remarkably easily, chatted a bit and ate as only triathletes can (“We eat more in one sitting than most people do all day.”)

At some point we were interrupted by the event’s master of ceremonies and race-day announcer : the “Voice of the Ironman.” You see, one of the cheesier traditions (that all the first timers secretly look forward to) is that as you cross the finish line the announcer says your name and declares “You are an Ironman!” So this guy kept referring to himself as the one who was going to say “You are an…” But he never finished because a) the first timers wanted to earn it, b) the superstitious didn’t want him to jinx anything, and c) he was going to have to say it nearly 3000 times the next day.

This guy was good. After a cheesy motivational video (who among us had gotten this far and still needed motivation?) and the obligatory recitation of sponsors he got to the fun stuff. We’d all filled out a questionnaire when registering, so he read some of the more interesting personal accomplishments people had listed. These honest-to-god included “I am still married” and “I am pretty.” He shared that we came from 16 different countries (including one guy from Mexico who had done Ironmans everywhere they’d ever been and was in the Guiness Book of World Records for it) and thanks to the one guy from South Dakota, represented every state in the US. He had the 800 of us who were first-timers stand up. It was nice to see we all had the same look in our eyes: determined as hell but good-lord-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into? Then he asked the oldest and youngest competitors to come up on stage. The 77 year-old man and 68 year old woman hadn’t come to the banquet, so the two 72 year-old men came up instead. These guys looked (and moved) like they were in their 50’s. One of them had done 60 Ironmans in his life, and was doing 2 more THIS SEASON. I was torn between relief (if they could do it, I could do it) and intimidation (I’m going to get my ass kicked by guys twice my age!!!). There was a 21 year old woman who had won her age group in all the shorter races so was ready for a bigger challenge. And finally there was the cocky bastard who wouldn’t turn 18 till the next day (just barely making the minimum age requirement for race day.) He slouched smugly in front of these over-the-hill athletes and radiated his certainty that he’d smoke us all. Turns out his parents were not only there, but doing the race with him as well. Our host asked the older guys to give the younger kids some advice, then all shook hands and left the stage.

Next we were asked to stand if we’d lost weight over the last year’s training. Of course almost everyone stood up. Then to stay standing if we’d lost more than 20 pounds. More than 30? More than 40? By the time he’d gotten up to 70, there were 3 people still standing. He invited them up to the stage so he could ask them more questions. One gentleman had lost 86 pounds. He said the hardest part was having to buy new clothes every few months. A young lady lost 120. She used to do sports but at some point everything got away from her. She wanted it back. She got it. Given all she’d already accomplished, her success race day was more or less a given. But the last guy lost 201. That’s not just a whole person, that’s a whole BIG person. He said he had to lose 80 just to be able to get on a bicycle. I… I can’t even fathom what it takes to go from barely walking to swimming, biking, and running all damn day. Even our host, paid to talk, was left speechless.

At last the Voice of the Ironman gave up the podium to the race officials who went over the rules with us. We’d already gotten it all via email and again as hardcopy at registration. But they had to make sure. And not only did they manage to make it entertaining, I even learned a thing or two. The rules around “drafting” were long and involved. Because triathlon is supposed to be an individual sport, they want to make sure you don’t get any benefit from biking behind someone else. So while talking about how far ahead you have to let someone get before you can attempt to re-pass them, the guy in charge of the bike course had some advise mostly for the guys. He said “at some point you’re going to look over and see that you’re getting passed by a girl. Just let it happen. Your friends won’t be watching. And some of these women are FIERCE!” The guy in charge of the run course asked how many of us were just trying to “avoid the glow stick”, and a bunch people applauded. Apparently at sundown, all runners still on the course are given glow sticks for safety. Many people’s goal was to finish before the glow sticks got handed out. I was still hoping just to finish by midnight (the Deadline). But I still admired my more ambitions brethren (and sisteren. :)

My parents had wisely skipped the banquet and wanted to take me out to dinner afterwards. Eat again so soon? I couldn’t possibly! Oh wait, yes I could. Conventional wisdom is that 2 nights before the race is the most important nights sleep, as no one sleeps well (or long) the night before. This second dinner had me out later than I would have liked on this most critical night, but I knew better than to pass up any opportunity to spend time with my parents (or to let them feed me.) Downtown was WILD! A band called “Sister Hazel” was performing right in the middle of 4th Street Live (the section of downtown permanently closed to traffic packed with bars and restaurants). There weren’t many blue wristbands out this late, but there were a few. Then sleep. Man I love sleep.

The final day before the race was a bit of a blur. A practice swim in the river, and a last minute “swim tips seminar” (mostly focused on convincing people to buy “skin suits” from the expo). Double-check all my equipment bags (I handed my dad my checklists, and as he read off each item I held it up and put it in the bag), turn in the gear bags and put my bicycle in its numbered slot on the bike racks (each athlete had their own volunteer guide them through the transition area and gear check process). Drive most of the bike course with my parents (oh my god… I knew there were hills but this was INSANE!), eat huge quantities of pasta, then to bed while the sun still shone. It was still important to stick to The Plan, but at this point events took on a sense of inevitability. Preparations were past. This thing was happening , whether I was ready or not. Nothing left to it but to do it.

Ironman Adventure (Part I)

This has turned out to be longer than I'd intended, so I'm going to publish it in parts. I hope you enjoy!

140.6 Miles Between Showers
-or-
I Drank From the Ohio River and Lived to Tell the Tale

I awoke one Sunday morning in August planning to have an adventure. Oh, I know the best adventures aren’t planned; They jump out at you when you’re looking the other way. And the best things in life probably are free. But every once in a long long while, something you’ve planned for over a year and invested a medium sized fortune in can be pretty cool too.

I stood on the dock in a fancy swimsuit, bright pink swim cap, tinted goggles, and dollar store flip-flops. The swimsuit was of the sort banned in international swim competitions for offering unfair advantage, but which triathlon still allows. The swim cap said IRONMAN on it, a label I hoped to earn by the end of the day. The goggles were prescription, an extravagance of necessity. The flip-flops were strictly against the rules and had been snuck past security since I wanted to protect my feet up to the very last second. And the very last second was approaching at breakneck speed.

There were thousands on the dock with me, similarly attired. “Age Groupers” competing for a spot at the world championships in Kona Hawaii, or for fun, for pride, for reasons forgotten or impossible to articulate. Dozens more were already in the water. These were the “Pros”, professional triathletes who were actually paid to be there, and competing for money as well as Kona spots of their own. Some of us made conversation, some moved around a bit trying to stay warm. The smart ones sat down, cleverly saving any energy they could. But we all looked at each other in the watery pre-dawn light. What had their training been like? What’s their strongest event? Have they done this before? What kind of day are they going to have? There was more skin, more muscle, more energy coursing just below the surface than you’ve ever imagined in one place. With quiet calm or nervous excitement, we all waited.

There were a number of things I was waiting for. Things I’d envisioned with increasing frequency and clarity over the last months, days, and minutes. A bugle decidedly hadn’t been on the list. Still, the sound that replaced the announcer’s voice, the music, and the pulses pounding in our ears was a bugle call piercing the morn. Its message couldn’t have been clearer: CHARGE!!! This should have prepared me for what came next, or at least put me on notice to expect the unexpected. But of course the fact that we weren’t supposed to start for at least 10 more minutes led me back into my reflections, observations, and anxious haze. The gunshot therefore caused me to jump so severely that I pinched a muscle in my neck.

This bodes not well.

While I tried to work the unearned agony out of my neck and shoulder, I did get to watch the professional athletes begin their race. It looked just like a film of people swimming, only in fast-forward. Water nearly undisturbed, arms sweeping forward like elegant machinery, they flowed up stream.
“Come on! You can go faster than that you slackers!” This got more chuckles than it deserved. Now the sitters stood, the stretchers shook, the chatters fell silent, and the worriers cranked it up a notch. We may not have started ourselves, but this was getting very VERY real.

Finally something I did expect, had envisioned came to pass. A woman was introduced and sang the (American) National Anthem. By unspoken concensus, swim caps weren’t considered hats, and they remained on. No one sang along (conserving breath?) and, unable to see either the singer or a flag, everyone faced more or less where they pleased. It was clear there weren’t many Cornell alums around when, during the penultimate stanza, I was the only one whose fist shot into the air and yelled “RED!” From the looks I got, I should probably consider trying to knock that off. But that was not on my list of immediate concerns.

This gunshot I was prepared for. I tossed my contraband flip-flops to my mother who seemed more nervous than me. The line crept forward, split into two as volunteers guided us to our entry points. At 3 second intervals, pairs of athletes got a tap on the back and launched themselves into the water. Some slipped in, some leapt mightily, some announced their presence with great cannonballs, but none dove head-first. The water, whose color and clarity called to mind chocolate milk, could have hidden anything. While we were all clearly insane, no one was interested in a concussion ending their day before it had begun.

I watched those ahead of me, picked my spot, and advanced. At last it came. A tap, a step, the bathwater embrace of the Ohio River. It had begun.

Chicago Marathon: Disaster Edition

Have you ever done anything stupid? No, not that girl you dated or that guy you slept with, I mean REALLY stupid. Like going-to-grad-school or getting-involved-in-a-land-war-in-Asia stupid.

One time in college, I went into an exam more or less without studying. It was a pretty hard-core electronics class, so it wasn't something you could just bluff your way through. I figured if I was going down, I might as well go down in flames. I spent the night before the exam (otherwise prime cram-time) preparing my wardrobe and accessories. The day of the exam (held in a gymnasium with one table per student) I walked in in a tuxido. I proceeded to lay out a table cloth and silver service including a decanter of grape juice and a crystal dish of home-made snack mix. I was a little shocked the proctors didn't make me put out the candles in the candelabra, but maybe they were just giving me points for style. I think I still wound up with a B in the class, but that's not the point. It was still pretty dumb.

Well I think I've finally topped it. I just ran a marathon I hadn't trained for.

I hadn't PLANNED not to train for it of course. It was originally supposed to be a nice long workout between the two Ironman triathlons I was doing this season. But then life got complicated and I had to cancel the second one. This completely took the wind out of my sails. Throw in money troubles and job difficulties and I just wasn't running at all. I'd have canceled the whole thing except a dear friend REALLY wanted me to run it with her. Since I didn't have any goal of my own, helping her to hers seemed worthwhile. But she runs a bit slower than I do, so that wasn't any more incentive to train.

At about the 2 week mark, when I realized I'd run a total of 20 miles in the last month, I started to wonder how much I could get away with. I stopped running at all. I stopped stretching. I ate like crap, didn't get enough water or sleep, and generally wasn't taking very good care of myself. These weren't all deliberate choices mind you, They just started happening, and I didn't do anything about them.

A couple days before the marathon, it did get more deliberate. I started breaking rules. I didn't go to bed early 2 nights before (or the night before for that matter.) I ate something different the night before (and not very carbohydrate-y at that). I had a different breakfast than usual the morning of, and didn't have much of it. I didn't even stretch.

Now when you actually plan to do things wrong, other unplanned things start going wrong as well. It's as if chance is trying to get in on the action. The otherwise impeccably reliable Chicago Transit Authority completely screwed me (late trains, trains that didn't open their doors, trains that skipped my stop entirely... excitement.) By the time time I got down to the starting area, they'd already closed my assigned starting corral, as well as ALL the paths to get to where I was going to meet my friend. Not that that mattered, since she was in the corral already. The one I couldn't get to. I got creative and managed to get my gear bag checked anyway and found a spot to jump the fence to get into one of the corrals.

Not to be deterred by my persistence, chance reared its ugly head again. While jumping the fence, it caught on my shorts and tore them a bit. Doesn't sound like a very big deal, does it? It wouldn't be except that I was used to running in triathlon shorts. Since they're also swim trunks, you don't wear undies underneath (since wet undies CHAFE!) Yup, I was running commando, and sincerest apologies to anyone I ran in front of.

The race started before I could find my friend. Based on where I was and where we had planned to meet, I figured she was somewhere ahead of me. So I did my last deliberately wrong thing for the day: I started out at a pace I knew I couldn't keep up in an attempt to catch up with her.

Once the race was underway, I discovered another dire misjudgement: My caffine intake was based on my traithlon experience. The thing is, passing fluids while swimming and (to a lesser extent) while riding a bike don't need to slow you down much. However, the level of bladder irritant I had taken on board was DISASTEROUS for a running-only race. I had to stop 5 times (two of which involved waiting in line for a port-a-john).

Now for all that, I still never found my friend (who was the only reason I was running the infernal thing to begin with.) And almost worse, I still had a pretty great run (just a few minutes off my personal best). So I didn't even come away with a cautionary tale on why you should follow all the rules, take good care of yourself, and train conscientiously. Overall, the day was a complete failure.

On the bright side... Nope, no bright side. I'm gonna go take a shower.

YIKES!

73 days to Ironman.

I'm getting a little more serious about my training since the Big Race is approaching at breakneck speed. I started working with a personal trainer at my gym to help me figure out what I'm supposed to do with my upper body and this thing you people call "weight training."

Today was just a quick check in to show me the exercises I should be doing for the rest of the week. I thought it went pretty well, and I didn't feel to bad/shaky/sore afterward.

Until I tried to take my shirt off. I actually can't make my arms do it. Guess I'll skip the shower today and hope that it gets better before bedtime.

This is going to be hard...

In other news, I swam in Lake Michigan for the first time yesterday. I was supposed to swim with the Chicago Tri Club, but those wimps didn't show up because of a little rain. When you're in the water, what difference does it make? I did learn a few things though.

In a large enough lake, there can actually be waves and tides and stuff. And it's actually possible to get seasick while swimming. The water is surprisingly clear. And in a wetsuit at least, 60 degree (Faharenheit) water is actually quite comfortable. I only got a quarter of a mile in before the lifeguards went off duty (I don't think I'm a strong enough swimmer yet to at-your-own-risk it...) But I've got a full mile and 2.5 miles worth of intervals scheduled for later in the week.

So yeah, I'm still crazy.

How about you? How's the springtime treating you? Drop me a line if you get a chance. I'd love to catch up with you.