| Hey you
You're a wild honey child
I'm out of control
Every time you are near me
I'm a wolf child, baby
And I'm howlin' for you
My heart beats faster, hrrrr
Hey hey, and it's overpowered, wow
- The Cult, ‘Wildflower’
Because he's racing and pacing and plotting the course,
He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse,
He's going the distance.
- Cake, ‘The Distance’
Wildflower. Such an innocuous name. The title conjures visions
of sunny meadows, full of butterflies flitting from bloom to
bloom. And in some ways, those visions hold true – the race
venue is beautiful, set amongst rolling meadows adorned with
long grass and dotted with oak trees. Greenery is everywhere,
and the California countryside is full of the markers of spring.
But like some beautiful women (and men), that docile veneer
conceals a cruel and bloodthirsty heart. Mesmerized by the scenery,
the hapless victim is drawn into the trap, disarmed, and then
crushed without mercy.
That’s Wildflower.
Last year, completely unprepared and undertrained, I was defeated
before I got a chance to put my running shoes on. I made it
as far as Nacimiento “Nasty” Grade and called it quits. I had
an excuse to take advantage of; I had a tire that was leaking,
and I actually climbed halfway up Nasty Grade on a flat tire.
But the reality was, I just wasn’t ready. I hadn’t done the
training, and had tried to do the race on sheer guts. My hubris
was repaid with a harsh lesson in reality and I posted my first
DNF in 5 years, only the second of my 6 year racing career.
This year, I came back resolved to redeem myself, to prove that
I had what it takes to finish and to show the race who’s boss.
My training had been ok. Not stellar, but okay. I hadn’t quite
gotten the volume in that I wanted, but I consoled myself with
the fact that I was better trained than I’d ever been this early
in the season, and was much better prepared than I was last
year. So I felt fairly confident that I would get it done.
Apparently my hubris runs deeper than I thought . . .
* * *
We arrived at Lake San Antonio about 9pm Friday night, and
spent the next hour wrestling with our tent (note to self: next
time practice setting up the tent in daylight, so you at least
know what you’re doing … ). CTB wasn’t able to join me this
year, and instead my father had come all the way from Texas
just to spectate. I think he got bit by the triathlon bug in
Kona last year, and he really seems to enjoy the whole spectacle.
I also had my son, Matthew, along for the first time in my racing
career, which was a really nice plus. So it was a weekend for
the Gilcreast men to hang out and bond.
We awoke bright and early Saturday morning, packed up the tent,
and then headed down the hill to registration. I’m rather notorious
for not leaving myself much time before my races, but this time
was different; I had plenty of time to pick up my packet, put
my race numbers on my bike and helmet, and set up my transition
area. I cleared out of transition before 8am and went to wait
with the boys for my wave start at 8:45. So I had plenty of
time to contemplate what was about to unfold.
But for the first time, there was no fear stampeding through
my heart. Apparently, the swim in Kona last October finally
killed my deep water phobia for good. As a matter of fact, the
only thing that I was worried about was the temperature of the
water. The night had been fairly cold, and I wasn’t looking
forward to getting into the lake . . . but I wasn’t afraid.
That was a very nice start to the day.
The minutes and waves passed quickly, and soon enough I gave
my guys a hug and headed down to the water. The lack of fear
actually made everything seem a little surreal. I felt a little
flat, disinterested almost. But that was much better than the
full-on white knuckle struggle that I’d faced in Kona, so I
didn’t complain.
The wave before mine went off, and I waded into the water to
warm up. Brrrr! The water *was* cold, and it took me a few minutes
to summon the fortitude to dive in and swim a few strokes. But
as usual, once I was in the water I acclimated quickly. I swam
a few strokes out, then turned around and headed back to the
ramp to await the starting horn.
The Swim
*BLAAATT*
The starting horn went off, and I waded back down the ramp
into the water. My first goal for the swim was to make it to
the first buoy before the wave behind me caught up. “Find some
feet”, I thought to myself. But the water was too murky to see
more than a foot or so beyond my hands, and so there were no
feet to be found. But still, I made it to the buoy, and around
the buoy, and halfway to the *next* buoy, before the yellow
swim caps of the wave behind me caught up. That was auspicious.
What wasn’t so auspicious was the return of an old problem;
I wasn’t having much success swimming a straight line. I kept
coming up to sight, only to find myself headed off course. So
I spent a lot of time sidestroking, reorienting myself. But
I was making much better and faster progress than last year
(when I went 1:15 or so for the 1.2mi swim), so I wasn’t too
upset about things.
I was, however, annoyed with the aggro boys in the water. Despite
the fact that I was staying away from the ‘fast’, direct buoy
line, I continually had to deal with fools trying to swim right
over me. If we were in a pack, ok, I can understand that. But
when the FIQ (fool in question) and I are the only swimmers
in a 50 foot radius? What’s the point in trying to shove me
around? There’s plenty of water to choose from. That said, my
newfound confidence allowed me to take it in stride, and by
the end of the swim I’d actually learned how to hold my line,
and muscle back whenever somebody tried to shove me around.
I hit the turnaround buoy in 29:31 . . . on pace for a PR.
Better yet, once I was around the far end of the rectangular
course, I didn’t have to worry about sighting as much, and so
I could keep my head down and just swim. Which is just what
I did. Soon enough, I found myself back at the ramp, walking
out of the water in 59:01 by my watch – a five minute PR. Woo
hoo!
(tangent: this is one of the things I love about this sport,
the way that the challenges continually change. After my near-meltdown
in Kona over the swim, who woulda thought that 6mos later the
swim would be the best part of my whole day?)
I purposefully took it easy through transition, knowing that
it was going to be a long day, and not wanting to get wound
up unnecessarily. I took 6min or so to walk to my bike, get
out of my wetsuit and into my bike togs, and get rolling.
The Bike
I rolled down the chute, and out onto the course. It didn’t
seem to be nearly as crowded this year as last; I think this
was an artifact of my wave’s start time. Last year I was contending
with MTB competitors as well as Long Course competitors in the
early miles, but this year the MTB competitors were nowhere
to be seen . . . probably not yet out of the water.
It’s at the one mile mark that the race course begins to show
its teeth; the steep, long climb up Beach Hill. I shifted into
my lowest gear, and tried to keep my effort as light as possible.
But still my HR was in the 170s before I finally crested the
hill and headed out of the park. I settled in for a long day.
Unlike last year, this time I was psychologically prepared
for the multiple hills in the early miles, and I stayed very
disciplined, keeping my HR in the 130s and 140s as much as possible,
holding my effort to 130w or so. Unlike most races, where I
get out of the water and start catching riders, this time it
seemed an endless parade of riders passing me. I even wondered
aloud if I was the slowest guy in the whole race. But still,
I held my discipline, keeping my reserves for Nasty Grade.
The miles rolled by. The aid stations were sparse and widely
separated, but that couldn’t really be helped, given the last
minute backing-out of nearly a thousand volunteers from Cal
Poly. Luckily, I’d worn my CamelBak, so I had plenty of hydration.
In place of last year’s crushing heat were moderate temps and
pleasant breezes.
I kept rolling, and kept watching the parade go by. I rolled
through 14mi in the first hour, and it was looking like that
pace would hold steady, for a 4hr ride. I’d hoped for something
closer to 3:30, but oh well. I was determined to ride a smart
race, and not waste my reserves early.
A little while later we hit the 19mi mark, and the right hand
turn onto Jolon Road. The worst of the hills were behind us,
for awhile at least, but instead there was now a slight headwind
. . . *sigh*. No easy way. Keep ‘em turning.
By this time, I’d started to notice several packs of folks
who seemed clueless about the drafting rules, rolling along
within feet of each other. I kept my mouth shut, however, and
just made sure I rode legally, soft-pedaling for a few revs
to drop back whenever someone passed. At one point, a marshal
came by on a motorcycle, just as a group of three was rolling
along in a mini-peloton. At that point, I broke my silence “You
guys better break it up – that’s an official”. But neither they
nor the official seemed to notice, and the motorcycle rolled
on without dealing out any penalties, which really surprised
me, since they were quite obviously in violation. Whatever.
Ride your own race, Ron.
As the miles clicked away, the road surface deteriorated into
a crazed quilt of haphazardly patched seams that sapped my momentum
and jarred my molars. After 5 miles or so of that, I joked with
another rider, “I thought this was Wildflower, not Paris-Roubaix”.
He chuckled grimly . . . as he rolled past.
A few miles further, about the 31 mile point, I got a bigger
jolt. There was (once again) a mini-peloton of about 4 riders
clumped up ahead of me, obscuring the road. I was thinking about
how little respect for the rules they showed, when someone in
the group let loose a yell and the gruppetto split to all directions.
As they cleared away, I suddenly saw what had caused the ruckus
. . . there was a *huge* rattlesnake, the approximate diameter
of a coke can, right in the roadway, rattling and hissing, and
right in front of me. “OH SHIT!!!” I yelled as I veered to the
right to go around the slithering hazard. Unfortunately, in
my split-second choice to go right instead of left, I was rolling
towards the snake’s head, instead of it’s tail. I spent the
next the next few seconds waiting and dreading the sharp sting
of fangs biting into my ankle and veered even further, off the
roadway and into the dirt and weeds on the shoulder. Luckily,
I passed the creature without incident, and without falling.
I got the bike back on the roadway and tried to calm down. As
usually, my cognitive processes were about 10sec behind my reflexes,
and I realized I was never really in too much danger . . . the
snake wasn’t coiled and so wasn’t in a position to strike. I
even felt a moment of sympathy for the poor thing, which was
only trying to cross the road when it suddenly found itself
surrounded by bicycles.
My heart rate had spiked a good 15bpm as a result of the snake
‘incident’, and so I soft pedaled for a bit to calm down. THAT
was exciting . . . I got my heart rate down and kept rolling.
By now I was about 2-1/2 hours into the bike, and the sun was
starting to get a little more aggressive. “Great. Just in time
for Nasty Grade”, I thought to myself. And sure enough, over
the next half hour the temp rose, and I started to sweat more
heavily, so that by the time I hit the shallow beginnings of
Nasty Grade, it was déjà vu all over again.
At least this time my tire wasn’t going soft on me . . . I
downshifted and tried to spin, but just wound up slowing down
instead. I rolled past the right-hand curve where I’d quit the
year before, and quietly congratulated myself for the improvement.
But it wasn’t enough to offset the fact that I was only halfway
up the hill . . . I continued on, spinning and suffering.
But a quarter mile or so later, where the pitch of the road
increased (again!), my HR had been in the 170s for 15 min, and
I decided discretion was the better part of valor. I dismounted
and walked.
More and more riders passed me, but at least my HR was settling
a bit. As he passed, one rider commented “you . . . *huff* .
. . might have *puff* . . . the right . . . *huff* . . . idea
there . . .”
I finally crested the grade, remounted, and took the right
turn . . . into more climbing. But it was fairly short, so I
stayed in the saddle and gritted it out.
When people talk about the WF course, Nasty Grade gets mentioned
as if it’s the only tough part of the day. But from my perspective,
Nasty Grade is just the tip of the iceberg; it’s merely where
the suffering really gets started. Over the next few miles,
there were more climbs, not terribly cruel, but in the aftermath
of Nasty, they each felt like Everest in their own right. Even
the long, sweeping descent that I blitzed down (max speed 48mph)
didn’t give me enough time to recover – the succeeding climbs
still seemed unreasonably harsh, and my heartrate never dropped
below 160. Finally, I decided I needed to let my system reset,
and so I pulled over. I took off my helmet and CamelBak, and
stretched out full length on the ground to rest.
A few minutes later, my HR had dropped to 118, and I felt like
a new man. I remounted, and suddenly the current hill wasn’t
such a beast after all. I spun up with relatively little drama.
From there, it was just survival mode back to transition. There
were a few more long climbs, but that 5min rest was probably
one of the smartest things I did, because I found myself more
able to manage my effort and not blow up.
Still, I must admit – I wasn’t having fun. I had pretty much
convinced myself that when I got back to transition, I’d pack
up my gear and call it a day. The last 15mi of the bike had
savaged my hamstrings, and I wasn’t at all excited about continuing.
For some reason, the whole endeavor seemed so pointless to me
now. “Why do I do this?” I asked myself. “What’s the point?”
Perhaps it was related to the ‘flatness’ I’d felt at the start
line, perhaps it was fatigue, perhaps it was just the epic bonk
I was working my way through (I’d long since realized that I
wasn’t taking in enough calories, wasn’t carrying enough calories
with me, and hadn’t taken in enough calories the day before,
and I didn’t care). Whatever the reason, the whole exercise
just seemed like a big waste of time, money and energy.
I finally made it back into the park, over the last climbs
of the bike, and blitzed down the road to transition. 4:26 and
change for the bike . . . that took me more time than the pros
take to do the whole race. I rolled back to the racks, and racked
my bike.
Despite my earlier decision, I found myself putting on my running
shoes, tugging my cap onto my head, and heading out onto the
run. And as I jogged through transition, I was surprised to
find that my legs had some spring in them . . . or maybe that
was just the relatively new shoes. Whatever the cause, I jogged
over the timing mat, made a quick detour to give Dad a hug and
Matthew a quick peck on the head, then continued on.
It didn’t last. My hamstrings started to complain just about
the time I rounded the bend and was out of sight of my family,
and once again my HR spiked up to the 160s. I slowed down to
walk.
I must admit that my run training has been sorely neglected
of late; I had a few good weeks in the first part of April,
but as the month wore on, I fell off the wagon. Still, I had
no intention of running the whole way in any case, so I wasn’t
terribly concerned about it.
However, my DNF on the bike last year had given me no exposure
to the run course, and as I trudged through the early miles,
my motivation plummeted as the course revealed its true savagery.
Volunteers tried to motivate me to run on some of the climbs,
but I ignored them. When one guy was especially adamant and
aggro on a long tough climb, I snarled at him to back off and
let me run my own race. “I do appreciate your efforts, but .
. . leave me alone” I added, in a lame attempt to soften my
comments.
That was in the second mile, and when I hit the 2mi marker
and hit my lap button, I saw that it had taken me 20min to go
that one mile. That nearly crushed me right there, but then
when I hit the 3mi marker in 10min flat, I realized that the
2mi marker must have been drastically misplaced.
I continued on - there were hills, and more hills, and more
hills, and more uphill than downhill. I was doing a decent job
of running the downhills, and walking the uphills, but when
I hit the climb between miles 4 and 5, I found myself bent over,
pushing my knees with my hands, HR in the 160s . . . while walking.
This was getting ugly.
To add insult to injury, I wasn’t sure what the cutoff was,
but I was pretty sure that I was going to miss it. It was now
closing in on 4pm, and I figured I needed 12min/mi to make the
cutoff, but there was no way in hell I could do even one 12min/mi,
much less 8 or 9 of them in a row. My emotional state was in
free fall, and I felt even more the pointlessness of it all.
The only thing that kept me moving was the simple fact that
there was no other way to get back to transition. I kept telling
myself that I’d take the first shortcut I could find, and just
quit.
Trudge trudge trudge. By now, my heartrate was pretty much
under control, but my hamstrings were through. I’d pick it up
to half-heartedly shuffle along, but would only make it a few
hundred yards before I’d stop to prevent them from locking up
entirely.
Definitely not having fun. I was also feeling quite lonely
– most of the time, in a race like this, I’m able to walk with
another racer, and ease the miles away with conversation, but
today, everybody was moving faster than I was. It seemed that
perhaps I was the slowest guy on the course after all. So I
had no company but my own internal dialogue.
I realized now that when Peter Reid said he considers Wildflower
to be equivalent to an Ironman, that’s no hyperbole. That’s
a straight-up fact. This course is savage, brutal, and unrelenting.
It’s primarily a strength course, requiring more effort and
exertion just to make forward progress than I’m accustomed to
giving. I realized that if I ever come back to this race, I
need to train for it as if it *is* an Ironman.
On the heels of that thought, I realized that as tough as Kona
was, this course was tougher. Pretty intense when you consider
it’s only half as long. Where the run in Kona is relatively
flat, and gives you a chance to recover and reset, Wildflower
starts ‘tough’, then gets ‘difficult’, and just keeps getting
harder. It softens you up with Nasty Grade, works you over with
the succeeding hills, and then when you’re weakened, the run
comes along and just hammers you remorselessly, delivering blow
after blow.
Beautiful, cruel, and bloodthirsty. That’s Wildflower.
I trudged along, and finally found some fleeting measure of
resolve; I might not make the cutoff, and I might have to come
back *again* next year to redeem myself again, but I would at
least go the distance. The course could whale on me all it wanted,
but I would keep getting back up until the bell rang. That glimmer
of determination was so faint, and faded so quickly.
The miles slowly ticked away. Fewer and fewer runners came
by. Was I the last one on the course? Would I get pulled from
the course? That thought haunted me – I had vivid visions of
being pulled from the course only a mile or two from the finish
line. Again, it all seemed so pointless – I’d already blown
the cutoff, what was I trying to prove by going the distance?
It wouldn’t count . . . there would be no medal, no announcer
calling my name at the finish . . . why why why?
While my mind asked ‘why’, my body kept moving. Sometimes instinct,
momentum and habit are the only things that carry us through.
Rationality says ‘stop’, and the body just refuses to pay attention.
So it was for me. I got past the seven mile marker, and back
to the camping area. Just down that hill was transition, and
an end to my suffering. But even as I decided to call it quits,
my body mindlessly followed the chalk arrows on the ground,
continuing on the course, away from transition. It seemed I
wouldn’t be giving up after all.
By now, there were no spates of running. Each mile was taking
an agonizing 16 to 17 minutes. I realized that I still had more
than an hour of exertion to go, and it was heartbreaking. But
something kept me from turning around and walking off the course.
I don’t know what. Habit? Ego? Momentum? I can’t say it was
any kind of resolve or stubbornness, because any defiance had
long since been pounded out of me. All that was left was survival,
one step at a time.
From mile 9 to mile 10 was a long downhill. When I got to the
turnaround at the bottom, the volunteers were striking the aid
station. Yet another nail in my coffin. I rounded the cone and
headed back up the hill. The only bright side was that now there
was absolutely no point in quitting; the shortest route back
was to follow the course. I would go the distance.
Trudge trudge trudge. The minutes dragged by. I dragged myself
back up the hill, through the camping area, and through the
12 mile marker. Just a little more than a mile to go. There
was no anticipation building, no excitement about the finish,
just a weary thankfulness that it would soon be over.
Wildflower wasn’t done, though; as if to add insult to injury,
the majority of the last mile is a steep downhill, on asphalt.
I’m usually a very good downhill runner; when I ran cross country
in high school I used to gain handfuls of time on the downhills.
I would just lean into the wind and let gravity take over, trusting
my legs to stay under me. But today, it was not to be. My legs
were so fried, so wobbly, that I didn’t dare let myself go.
So the descent was a halting, jerky mess.
Finally, I was down, and rounded the corner and could see the
finish. But unlike every race I’ve done, I couldn’t summon the
will to put on a finishing kick. There was simply nothing left.
I walked. Only when I passed the registration booth, and turned
into the finishing chute proper, did I pick it up into a slow
shuffle.
As I neared the finish line, I saw my boys sitting in the stands.
At the sight of my son, who’d never been to any of my races
before, the emotional flatness that I’d felt all day gave way.
Inexplicably, I began to cry. I choked it back as I crossed
the line, and a volunteer handed me a cool wet towel. But when
another volunteer held up the medal to put around my neck, I
lost it again. This inconsequential knickknack, that I’d given
up for lost, was mine after all. But the emotion wasn’t really
that rational; the closest thing I can remember was after the
swim in IMC, when I lost it in the transition tent. I wasn’t
crying for any particular reason, I was just crying.
I walked away from the finish line, medal around my neck, and
sat down on a table and let the sobs work their way out. They
petered out in 30sec or so, just as another volunteer came up
and asked if I was okay. “Yeah, I’m just beat”, I said as I
hastily wiped my face with the wet towel to conceal the tears.
“Thanks”. I got up to go find my boys, pack up and go home.
Maybe there would be a next year, but for now, I was just happy
it was over.
Exec Summary (chip times)
Swim - 1:00:16 (PR)
T1 - 0:05:16
Bike - 4:26:24
T2 - 0:03:23
Walk - 3:11:33
Total - 8:46:52 (Personal Worst for 1/2IM distance by 46:52)
Stats (by Polar)
Temp: 77degF
Tot Ascent: 5360’
Avg Power: 132w
Max Power: 475w
Avg Speed: 13.4mph
Max Speed: 48.2mph
Kcal: 6828
* * *
Now, sitting here on Sunday afternoon, I can see pretty clearly
my problem; nutrition. I didn’t carry any powerbars with me,
and was only carrying gels. So I was fighting a pretty epic
bonk the latter stages of the bike. Then, on the run, the aid
stations were poorly stocked (water and h20 only for the most
part), and so I didn’t get many calories there either, just
barely enough to keep me from completely shutting down. There
were a few times that I found myself wobbling around, weaving
side to side, which I know from training-run experience is a
symptom of bonking for me.
I don’t know if this is normal for this race, but I would have
expected a lot more for my money than a few bananas and oranges.
At a couple of the aid stations, when I asked for pretzels,
the volunteers went into their own, personal stashes for me.
Somehow that just doesn’t seem right. I can forgive the sparse
aid stations on the bike, due to the crisis with volunteers.
But it doesn’t seem like that should have affected what supplies
they had for the aid stations.
Of course, maybe I was just so far back in the pack that everything
was gone by the time I got there. Whatever. I don’t really wanna
make a big deal of it, I just found it disappointing.
On top of that was the weird lack of motivation; I don’t know
why, but I just wasn’t up for the race that much, and so found
it hard to dig any deeper to perform better. Maybe that’s related
to the nutrition problems; I know that I start to get fuzzy
and tenuous when I bonk . . .
Anyway, thanks for readin’.
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