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70mi to Kona
Executive Summary
CaliMan ½ Ironman Triathlon
1.2mi Swim / 56, er, 59mi bike / 13.1mi Run/walk
Splits (by my watch):
Swim – 1:08:08
T1 – 13:36
Bike – 3:39:06
T2 – 5:50
Run – 2:36:38
Tot: 7:43:18
Da Long Version
6:27am. I’m frantically strapping my Bento Box onto the top
tube of my bike, trying to think of what else I’ve forgotten.
The brisk morning air is full of the race announcer’s warnings,
informing us that the transition area will close in three, now
two minutes. I still have my underseat bag and my computer in
my hand, my wetsuit is lying on the ground behind me, and I
haven’t yet been bodymarked.
‘F#ck it . . .’ I dump everything in a pile next to the bike,
grab my wetsuit, swim cap and mask, and sprint for the fence
to hand my bag to CTB. I toss her the bag, give her a quick
peck on the cheek, then head to bodymarking. ‘F#CK!! . . CARISSA!!’
I run back to the fence and motion her back to me. ‘Forgot my
nutrition.’ I inform her tersely. I open the side pocket of
the bag, scoop out a couple of powerbars and a handful of gels,
and sprint back to my bike “The transition area will be closing
in one minute!” booms the loudspeaker. I dump my handful of
calories into my helmet and sprint back to the bodymarking area.
At the bodymarking table, a volunteer efficiently stamps my
race number on my arms, and marks my age on my calf. I step
off a few feet and struggle into my wetsuit before stepping
into the mass of triathletes shuffling down the ramp towards
the water. Then with yet another curse, I turn and run back
to the bodymarking table, where my swim cap is lying next to
the ink pads. I snatch it up and head back to the water, wondering
what else I might possibly have forgotten.
* * *
The day didn’t start so chaotically – far from it. In fact,
I was more prepared and focused for this race than I had been
since, well, since ever. This was my hurdle, the one obstacle
I had to get past before I could turn my sights westward, towards
the island paradise of Hawaii, and the triathlete’s paradise
of Kona. So I was taking it very seriously.
My preparations started Thursday night; my dual life as a triathlete
and musician meant that the logistics were tricky. I had two
gigs this weekend in addition to the race. So, I was subbing
out the Friday night gig, hiring another keyboardist to take
my place with the band at a public show in Petaluma. The Saturday
gig was a well-paying private gig in SF, and I couldn’t afford
to pass up that income; the plan was to race in the morning,
then drive back and do the gig that night. While that may sound
crazy, it’s a far sight better than the old days, when I used
to gig the night before a race. That habit led to all sorts
of misadventures, like showing up for the race start 3hrs late.
But I digress.
In order to make this bout of temporary insanity come off,
I had to pack all my musical gear (keyboard, guitar, gig bag,
keyboard stand, guitar amp, amp stand, costume bag) into my
car on Thursday evening. One of my bandmates who lived nearby
was going to come pick up my car and drive it up to the gig
on Saturday, and I would be able to drive straight to SF from
Folsom and meet them at the gig, assuming I finished on time,
of course. Luckily, that wasn’t really much of a concern. Downbeat
was 9p, so realistically I only needed to be out of Folsom by
5p or so to make it comfortably. Since the race started at 7a,
that gave me 10hrs to finish the race, get packed up and headed
for SF. More than enough time.
After packing my car, I went thru and prepared all my race gear;
wetsuit, swim mask, bike, helmet, bike gloves, bike shoes, skinsuit,
running shoes, headsweat, socks, powerbars, gels, warm-ups,
towel, sunglasses, bottles with Accelerade and Endurox . . .
I think that’s it. I packed everything neatly into my tri bag
and headed for bed.
Friday
I took the train into SF, worked a half day, then had CTB come
and pick me up in her car to head to Folsom. After enduring
a few hours of the oh-so-pleasant traffic that clogs up Hwy
80 betw The Bay Area and Sacramento, we finally arrived at the
race area in Folsom around 6:30p.
I went to registration to pick up my race packet. The woman
behind the counter asked me about my health insurance, and I
informed her I had none. “Well you know, if something happens
and you have to go to the hospital, they can refuse treatment”.
Really. I had no idea. Twit.
This wasn’t my first ‘interesting’ exchange with this particular
woman; she seems to be at the registration table at every J&A
event, and every interaction I’ve had with her has been less
than pleasant. She didn’t stop me from picking up my packet,
or from signing the waiver, so I can only assume her comments
were motivated by pure meddlesome stick-yer-nose-in-where-it-isn’t-wanted-ness.
I bit down on the impulse to vent some of this bile aloud, and
moved off to the table where a ‘mandatory briefing’ was going
on.
Another volunteer was giving us the rundown on the course,
which was a complicated one. The bike and run were both point-to-point,
which meant that T1, T2 and the finish line were all in different
places. This meant that instead of setting up a single transition
area, we would have to put all of our bike-to-run gear into
a bag, which would be transported to T2 for us. The bad news
was that we had to do this before 8p tonight, and there would
be no allowance for dropping these bags off the following morning.
This was news to all of us, and bad news for many; there had
been no notice of these arrangements on the website or in on
the pre-race schedule, and now we were finding this out one
hour before the deadline. I was lucky; we’d come straight to
the race venue, and so all of my gear was still in the car.
But had we gone to the hotel to check in first, all of my gear
would have been 20min away, and it would have been nigh on impossible
to get my T2 bag back on time. Given the short notice, I think
the no-exceptions policy as outlined by the volunteer was unforgivable.
J&A took at least $200 from each of us, and had a duty to
do a better job of accommodating those of us who were caught
off guard by the last minute changes.
I packed my T2 bag, dropped it off in the designated spot,
then headed out. CTB and I found an excellent salmon teriyaki
dinner at a small restaurant near our hotel, then turned in
by 10p.
Race Day
The alarm went off at 5:30a, and after some groaning and moaning,
CTB and I both got moving. She made us a quick breakfast of
instant oatmeal while I put my bike on the car and packed the
rest of my gear.
We got to the race venue about 6:10, and after a brief walk
up and over the hill to the first TA, I began setting up my
transition area. By now it was 6:25 and suddenly all my careful
preparations were going out the window as I realized I’d forgotten
to put my seat bag, bento box and bike computer on my bike,
and now time was running out.
So now I’ve finally gotten my preparations completed, I think,
and I’m shuffling down the ramp towards the water. All the last
minute-ness of this morning has led me to this moment with no
time to think of the part of the day that I usually dread the
most – the swim. As I walk through the tent and first see the
lake spread out before me, I realize that I’m not exactly overjoyed,
but I’m also not really that scared, either. In fact my first
thought upon seeing the rectangle of buoys is that the swim
looks short.
What? Short? Well, yeah – in comparison with the long line
of buoys that stretched off into Lake San Antonio 3 weeks ago,
this compact quadrilateral seems, well, short.
The race announcer is making jokes over the loudspeaker, and
as if he can read my mind, he mentions that he can personally
certify that the course is 1.2mi long; they certified the course
by having him swim it, and since his stokes are accurate to
within ¼”, and since he took 2,682 strokes . . . it’s
exactly 1.2mi.
I put on my swim cap, and my mask, and step down into the water.
I’d feared the temperature, but the 64degF water doesn’t feel
quite so bad. I work my way down the ramp, then notice that
I’m smack dab in the middle of the mass, and work my way back
up the ramp towards the back. I have no intention of getting
swum over by 1,400 triathletes. This is going to be a mass start,
full IM and half distance competitors all heading for the same
buoy. The full IM athletes will do two loops, whereas the half
distance folks like myself will only do one.
“2 minute warning!”
As the air starts to crackle with suppressed action, I breathe
deeply and slowly to keep my heart rate down. I glance up and
now the buoy that seemed so close a few minutes ago now seems
a lot farther away.
“One minute!!”
The mass of competitors are twitchy, eager to go. I’m still
working on keeping myself calm.
“Five seconds!! . . .”. There’s a timeless pause, then the
horn goes off. My finger stabs down on the start button on my
watch, and we’re off.
The Swim
The mass of triathletes move off quickly, and just like that
I’m exactly where I always am – last. I’m trying to swim freestyle,
but can’t quite get into the groove. My wetsuit feels too tight,
and I feel constricted, unable to get a full breath each time
I roll to breathe. I wind up taking two or three strokes freestyle,
then two or three dozen strokes sidestroke. With this hodgepodge
strategy I make slow, steady progress towards that far away
buoy. As the minutes tick by, I get a little more comfortable,
and start to use the opportunity to practice my sighting, with
mixed success. A few times, things go well and I catch a fleeting
glimpse of orange just before I put my head back underwater.
But most of the time I get nothing but a faceful of water. But
at least I’m making progress.
About the time I get to the first turn buoy, the fast swimmers
from the first wave are right there, bearing down upon the same
buoy. I stay wide of the buoy and watch in awe as they slice
past. They move so easily and smoothly through the water that
I almost think they are being pulled along by a towline underwater.
At this point, I’ve made it around the first buoy, and suddenly
I’m moving a lot better. Whether it’s the example of the fast
swimmers, or some draft, or some current within the water, I
find the second buoy approaching much faster than the first
did. I make another left turn and just like that I’m headed
back in.
The return leg goes much quicker, or at least so it seems.
I’m warmed up, I can get into a rhythm, and periodically I can
find some feet to follow. But since these are the fast swimmers,
they tend to disappear very quickly and leave me swimming after
a fleeting burst of bubbles in the water. I keep swimming my
own pace, and eventually find myself walking out of the water
in 1:08 – slower than slow, but 7 minutes faster than I covered
the distance at Wildflower 3 weeks before.
T1
I walk up the ramp and head for my bike. I’m determined to
take it easy and not let adrenaline get ahead of me, so I take
my time. When I get to my bike, the pile of stuff that I’d dumped
an hour before is waiting for me, and so by the time I get everything
situated, nearly a quarter of an hour has passed. As I finally
trot over the timing mat and swing my foot over my bike, I hit
the lap button on my watch – T1 has taken me 13:36.
The Bike
The bike course has been advertised as fast and flat, and the
first few miles are living up to that billing. We’re flying
along, 20mph+, past intersections and spectators. A couple quick
miles of that, then we snake through a little switchback and
we’re onto the bike trail that runs along the American River.
As we come out of the trees and see the river alongside for
the first time, we get a taste of what the day has in store;
a breeze is blowing right into our faces. But it’s just a taste
– the real winds will come later.
Fairly quickly, I make my way around the first turn and over
the bridge to the other side of the river. This is Nimbus Flats,
where I’ll be changing into my running shoes in a few hours.
We roll up and over another bridge over Hwy 50, and onto the
grounds of a jet and rocket engine testing facility. The roads
are closed, and we’re rolling pretty well, but it’s also pretty
windy. It seems like it takes my bike computer forever to get
from 15 to 16 miles. When it finally rolls from 15.99 to 16.00,
I celebrate a little bit; “53 miles to Kona”.
I’m trying to hold my effort back, to not leave my run on my
bike. To that end, I’ve told myself no real work until after
40mi. So I keep my effort light and easy. As I work my way around,
the wind keeps increasing, until by mile 20 (as marked on the
road – my cyclocomputer read 21.5mi . . . more on that in a
minute) I’m struggling to make 12mph. But I’m not quite so worried
about it; I know that since the bike course consists of numerous
out-and-backs I’ll be able to pick up a tailwind when we hit
the turnaround. In the meanwhile, I tell myself it’s good practice
for Kona, and try not to fight it. Instead I try to keep my
effort measured and steady, taking whatever speed I can get.
After I hit the turnaround, I get my payoff and my speed picks
up dramatically.
I’d been keeping my eyes out for CLM, who was doing the full
IM, and I got my first sight of her after that first turnaround.
She’s down on the bars, looking very focused. “Lookin’ strong
Cathy!” I shout as I roll past.
As I head back up the road, I roll over the 25mi marking. My
cyclocomputer reads 21.6mi, and I warn myself not to rely on
it; don’t want to get excited about a bike computer reading
that apparently is going to get further and further behind as
the race goes on. It seems like no time at all and we’re back
out on the main road, and the wind is worse then ever. I maintain
my strategy of minimal effort into the wind. Since wind resistance
mounts geometrically the faster I go, it doesn’t make sense
to tackle it head on; each increment of speed I manage to pour
on will only repay me with twice as much resistance. So I bide
my time until the turnaround.
As I work my way along, I roll over the 35mi marker. I look
down at my bike computer and it reads 31.3mi. What? I realize
now that the road markings aren’t terribly accurate and decide
to rely on my bike computer after all. A nasty darker side of
my mind suggests that what with the logistical f#ckups of the
day previous, I may wind up riding more than 56mi before I’m
able to get off the bike.
I work my way up to and around the turnaround, and then take
a minute or so to catch my breath, and see that CLM is still
right there, looking just as strong and focused. “Looking good
Cathy – come and catch me!”
I roll down the road for a bit, then I pull over to pull off
my light fleece jacket and put it into my Camelbak. Then I get
back on the bike and down on the aerobars.
My strategy pays off; I fly down the road like I’ve got a rocket
of my own attached to my bike. 23mph, 25mph . . . for the next
20min I fly down the road in a gleeful song of whirring chain
and humming rubber. I enjoy it, loving the respite from the
wind.
As we approach the final third of the bike course, the course
becomes more rolling and my legs are starting to feel the effects
of my ride. My bike computer rolls through 40mi, and a few minutes
later I roll over a big 45 spray painted on the road. Obviously
the markings are incorrect, but I begin to wonder if the bike
course is going to wind up being short. I enjoy the thought
of that for a second, before darker thoughts give me pause;
what if I was to finish this race, only to have it be refused
as a validating race due to a course mismeasurement? I tried
to put that out of my mind and just keep making progress.
I needn’t have worried. The last out-and-back section that
I’m on seems to stretch on and on and on, and before long I’m
worried that the course is going to be long. At this point I
see CLM once again, and shout her a greeting.
As I emerge from this out-and-back section back onto the main
road, I’m getting eager to get off the bike. My computer now
says 54mi, and it should only be a couple more miles to transition.
But as I turn off this road and head back across the engine
testing facility, I realize it’s almost certain that the course
is long; my bike computer rolls past 55mi, 56mi, 57mi, and I’m
still nowhere near T2. I chalk it up to a bad calibration (although
I’m not so certain about that – I calibrated it for 700x23 tires,
and I’m riding on brand new 700x23 Contis.) But it doesn’t make
sense to get upset about it – I’ve got to get to T2 one way
or another, and on the bike is better than on foot.
Eventually I find my way out of the test facility, back over
Hwy 50 and finally I’m approaching T2. My computer reads 58.9mi.
– nearly 3mi long. I do some quick math and think that a 5%
margin of error is a little more than I’m willing to believe
of my computer. I’m pretty certain the bike is long.
There’s a sign directing me to yell out my race number, which
a volunteer quickly repeats into a walkie talkie. As I ponder
this cryptic bit of communication, I come around the corner
to the timing mat and all is made clear; I’m directed to hop
off my bike and hand it to a catcher, which I do, and then someone
hands me my bike-to-run transition bag. I hit my lap button
and look down – the bike has taken me 3:39 and change.
T2
I trot into the changing tent and begin transition; I dump
the bag out on the ground, and then take off my helmet, gloves
and camelback and stuff them into the bag. They don’t really
fit, and so I ask a volunteer if the bag will be near my bike.
He assures me that they’ll rebag it, and so I don’t worry about
it too much.
As I sit changing into my running shoes, I ask another competitor
changing nearby if he had a bike computer on his bike. “58.8mi”,
he responds, as if his mind has been on the same thing. Now
I’m sure – it’s straining credibility to think that both of
our computers are off by the exact same amount. I decide then
and there that what with the attitude at the registration table,
the last-minute unannounced changes, and the course mis-measurement,
this is going to be my last J&A race. It’s too bad, because
my first triathlon was a J&A production. But I’m tired of
the way they run things. I’m tired of having to show up the
day the race to pick up my packet, even for an Olympic distance
race. I’m tired of the logistical misfires. Actually, I’m just
tired. I put my cranky thoughts out of my head and get moving.
I trot over to the sunscreen table and liberally slather myself,
then head out onto the run course. T2 has been 5:50. 13 miles
to Kona.
The Run
It’s now nearly noon, and the chilly breezes and overcast skies
of the earlier hours are gone. It’s now hot, hot, hot. As I
try to ease into the run, I’m staying in whatever pockets of
shade I can find.
It’s really hot, and I don’t feel like I’m running well at
all, so I’m quite pleased to see the first mile pass in 9:30
or so. 12mi to Kona. But I also see that my heart rate is 168,
and I worry that maybe I’m pushing too hard, so as I pass under
the first bridge, I stop to walk for a bit to let myself recover.
I walk for about a half mile and let my heart rate drop below
140 before picking it back up again.
Despite my earlier grumbling, I have to hand it to J&A
for those aid stations; they were a positive smorgasbord. At
mile 2 (14:45 – 11mi to Kona) I stop and grab a handful of Oreos,
a few cups of water, and a package of M&Ms. That really
does the trick, and my spirits are pretty high as I trot away.
The next mile passes in 10:45 (10mi to Kona), and along the
way I start running with Kate, who’s doing her first half IM.
We actually run side by side for a few minutes without saying
anything, and then I feel rude. “M&M?” I ask. She takes
me up on the offer and I shake a few out into her hand. “It’s
hard to hurt too bad when you’ve got M&Ms, I say”, and it’s
true. Suddenly I’m absurdly happy to be here, hot and sweaty
and all-but-certain that I’m going to finish and validate my
slot, and that wonder of wonders, I’m going to Kona. We roll
thru the 4mi marker in 9:39, and I have to let Kate go while
I stop to recover again. 9mi to Kona.
This pattern continues for the remainder of the race; run a
mile or so, walk a few minutes to recover. As I pass through
the 5mi marker, I tell myself ‘8mi to Kona’, and suddenly that
seems so close that I have to hold myself back from a sudden
surge that comes out of nowhere.
The rest of the run kind of blurs together; I keep running
and walking, and dousing my singlet, and counting down the miles
remaining to Kona. Before I know it, I’ve counted almost all
of them down and I’m walking towards the 12mi marker. I’ve promised
myself to run the last mile, and so I’m doing a last-minute
marshaling of resources, trying to see how much I have left
for that mile, when I hear footsteps behind me. I glance back,
and see that it’s another ½ IM competitor, who I’ve been
playing tag with for most of the run. He seems to be sizing
me up for a last minute pass, and just like that my competitive
instincts kick in. “He’s not taking MY placing”, I think.
In a kneejerk reaction to that splash of testosterone, the
peace-and-love side of me tries to tell me that since I’ve walked
so much, I really can’t claim to be racing, and therefore shouldn’t
make this guy a particular target of my competitive ire. But
just as quickly the other side of my head says ‘screw that –
it’s a RACE, and how you got here is irrelevant – you’re ahead
of him and if he wants to pass you, make him EARN it’. I decide
that if I hear him start to run, that’s it – I’m going.
But as I come around the corner leading to the 12mi marker,
there’s a short downhill, and I see my opportunity to leave
him now. I’ve always run well downhill, and so I just unchock
the wheels and let ‘em roll down the slope. As I approach the
bottom, I see something that’s been hidden by the trees for
the previous hundred yards; there are about 5 1/2 IM competitors
strung out before me, walking up the next slope to the bridge.
I realize that not only can I prevent the other guy from passing,
I can actually pick up some places. So I walk strongly up the
hill, and as soon as the road turns flat, I throw the throttle
open as wide as I can.
Bam – pass. Bam – another pass. Bam – yet another. Either these
guys are more evolved than me and don’t see the point in competition
at the back end of the pack, or they’re more tired. Either way,
I don’t care; the competition is keeping me moving and I just
roll across the bridge. On the other side, there’s a slight
grade of maybe 10yds that feels like Everest, but I grit my
teeth and keep running. Then I’m within sight of the race bazaar,
and as I make the next-to-last right turn up the hill, there’s
CTB sitting by the road, waiting for me. This is another short
hill, and I grit my teeth and keep chugging. Finally the hill
is done, and CTB is running beside me as we turn the corner
and cover the final yards to the finish arch. As I approach
the mat, a moment of whimsy overtakes me, and with a smile on
my face I attempt a cartwheel. The cartwheel and I both fall
flat, however; my arms don’t buckle but I’m unable to get my
feet back under me and so I flop down on the mat flat on my
back. The remaining gels in the back pocket of my skinsuit break
my fall, and I climb sheepishly back to my feet, unhurt. I collect
my medal and clear the finish area. I’ve done it – I’m going
to Kona.
Summary
I’m really happy with this race. My goals going into the race
were (a) to finish, (b) to run well off the bike, and (c) to
break an hour for the swim. That last goal didn’t happen, but
this was the best that I’ve ever run off the bike. Considering
that I’ve only been seriously training for a little over a month,
I’m pretty happy with the results. Now I can turn my focus towards
preparation for Kona, sans distractions and worries.
CTB and I packed up my stuff, and headed back to SF. She dropped
me off at the YMCA, where I took a quick shower before heading
to the Westin St Francis for my gig. I managed to catch a quick
nap before downbeat, and got through the gig without falling
asleep at my keyboard. I was pretty grumpy by the time I was
packing up and loading out, but I eventually got packed up and
made it home to bed by 2:30a – a very long day.
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