The first 800 miles
At 5:30 in the morning on a typically gray May 1st in Seattle I stop at my friend Tim’s apartment and we load his stuff into the car. We are headed to Berkeley where more friends (Todd and Lisa) have volunteered to feed us dinner and let us crash for the night. Tim is going to Yosemite for the weekend (he’s a hiking nut who has never been South of Mt. Shasta) and I’m headed to Wildflower for my second 1/2 IM ever, my first long-course tri since 1991, and my first early-season long tri. We drive, and drive, the clouds thin out. The first full tank of gas nets 48mpg (Honda Civic VX, a great car). If I had my bike on top it would be at least 8mpg lower. We drive, and drive, the other cars seem to drive faster the farther South we get. Thirteen-plus hours later we finally reach the bay area. The "best billboard of the trip" award goes to the CA state govt. for the two Marlboro style cowboys riding their horses together across the photogenic western scene. Across the bottom (in Marlboro style white letters) it says, "Bob, I’ve got emphysema."
A short while later we reach Todd and Lisa’s place in Berkeley. We unload the car, construct and demolish several monster burritos apiece, catch up on the events in our lives, and hit the sack.
The next 300 miles
A little later start today. Tim and I load up the car, say, "See ya tomorrow night" to Todd and Lisa, and head to the Oakland airport to pick up a rental car. I’m going to drive the rental because Tim is only 24. The car turns out to be a little Hyundai 4-door. I fit everything in with no problem (bike on the back seat with no wheels) arrange to meet Tim on Saturday night, and I’m off. To avoid Silicon Valley traffic I take 580 to 5 South (I later find that this may have been a miscalculation, but I had allowed plenty of driving time). The windmill farm near Livermore is always interesting, then it’s a long fast drive along the edge of the central valley. I feel tired and discouraged today. I didn’t sleep well last night or the night before, and yesterday’s marathon drive took a toll as well. The drive seems to take much longer than I remember from last year, but it’s not completely unpleasant, the Hyundai is a much better car than I expected, the California hills are sun drenched and golden, and I stave off boredom listening to oldies on the radio and watching the turkey vultures, magpies, and various kinds of hawks that soar and flap over the freeway. Lunch is at an _In-n Out Burger_. I have a couple cheeseburgers and fries and give the place a strong thumbs up. If you like burgers, give this chain a try.
After lunch I get off the freeway, head West, and get to Paso Robles at a little after 1:00. I’ve intentionally driven South of lake San Antonio in order to drive in along the latter part of the bike course. I want to see this hill at mile 42 that I’ve heard so much about. It’s a beautiful winding drive through the hills until I cross the dam at the South end of the lake, then I start up the hill. I’m impressed, but not scared. The hill is comparable to climbs around the Seattle area, and the descent looks fast but manageable, pretty much what I had mentally pictured.
I reach the race site and get parked. Just like last year (when I did the swim and bike of the Olympic distance race) the place is chock full of hard-bodies, dark tans, and high-dollar-low-weight-guaranteed-invisible-to-wind bicycles. I’m unloading my 8-yr-old Cannondale with 32 spoke wheels, box section rims, and 28mm (yes, 28mm; more on that later) tires and headed to registration, feeling pale and hirsute with my unshaved legs. Wouldn’t you know, the guy behind me in line is a Seattle triathlete, we exchange e-mail addresses and chat about training and racing.
After returning my bike to the car, it’s time for the afternoon RST get together and I find the crew on the lawn as advertised. There were fewer people than I expected, but everybody was very friendly and pleasant. Tri-baby wrote down everyone’s name so I won’t recite them here (not that I could anyway). After hanging out for awhile we wandered over to score some shady grass and watch Scott Tinley and Dave Scott’s presentation. They each rambled on a bit, displaying a mixture of pride and self-deprecating humor, ribbing each other about past races and their advanced ages, but mostly just turning the program over to questions from the audience. Tri-baby’s question about drafting and the ITU probably perked up the most ears. We also found out that Dave Scott wasn’t going to race because of an ankle injury.
After the presentation the group was going to go eat at the pasta feed but I was still feeling pretty drained and eager to settle in at the King City Motel 6 so I hit the road. Not very social of me, but I probably wasn’t the best of company at that point anyway. An uneventful drive to King City, dinner at the family restaurant by the motel, check on my bike, transition practice, and final race packing and it’s suddenly almost 9:00. I call my wife and talk about feeling tired and a little discouraged about my race prospects. She’s properly supportive, but laughs at the idea of practicing transitions in a motel room. I tell her if she’d have come along she could have seen it first hand, complete with Speedo. Alas, she had to teach college students about cognitive psychology. I say goodnight and turn off the light.
I wake up and feel a strong need to look at the time. My watch says 4:30 and my alarm is set for 4:50. What the heck, I’m awake now, let’s get the show on the road. I heat water on my camp-stove (outside my door) for my mixed oatmeal/cereal/raisin breakfast and slather on a layer of Bullfrog sunblock. Breakfast goes down with a bottle of Gatorade, I carry my bags to the car, and I’m on the road shortly after 5:00.
I reach the race site pretty quickly but the line into the parking area crawls along. I don’t quite understand the delay, but I make it into the lower lot in good time. I grab my bags and bike and I’m off to the transition area. My transition sets up flawlessly, and I’m body marked, I wait a short time in line for the porta-johns and have a moderately successful visit, finally it’s 7:00 and I have over an hour before the race. Time to find some peace and quiet. I find a relatively quiet spot and sit down for about 20 minutes to simply relax. I don’t think about the race, I don’t think about anything very intensely. It feels good at this point to just sit still in the morning sun with my eyes closed.
All right, time to get moving again. Back to the transition area where I mess around with my stuff and decide it’s finally time to don the wetsuit. I spread the _Sport Slick_ stuff on my shoulders, neck, and ankles (I bought it yesterday at the QR booth). I put some on the bicycle seat too. It's the first time I'll be riding more than a 40k in my Speedo and I figure that chafing prevention is key. One final check on my transition layout and I head down to the water.
The wet 1.2 miles
When I reach the boat ramp I wade in on the finish side and rub some spit into my goggles. The water feels cool but not breathtaking. I swim a quick 15 yards or so to the end of the dock and back just to get wet. Swimming is my weakest leg so I'm just hoping to have a steady swim and hit the beach with minimum aggravation. At my long ago 1/2 IM I had a 35 minute swim without a wetsuit, so that's my goal for today. Back at the boat ramp a burly looking triathlete comments on my yellow O'Neill Tinley model wetsuit. "Not many of those around any more." His O'Neill is a sort of sickly brick red color. I say something about standing out in the crowd as he heads out into the water. It's true, almost everyone else is in sea-lion black.
Finally it's time for the pros to set out. They jump the gun like they always do but this time the announcer makes the volunteers stop them and pull them back. More waiting, great. I'm in the 30-34 men's wave which is #7. Once the pros start for the second time the rest of the waves go by quickly. As the announcer calls for us red-caps to get ready he enthusiastically states that our wave is the largest of the day with 220 athletes. I groan a little at that. Last year there were 150 in my short course wave and it was like swimming in the Maytag when I wash two or three pairs of running shoes. I'm not eager to experience that again. Oh well, just hang back and relax. I put my goggles over my eyes and the countdown starts. There goes the horn.
I walk in slowly from my back-of-the-pack start and dive in as the water hits stomach level. Instantly, my goggles fog over. I forgot to rinse them before putting them on. Too late now, there's no space to stop without getting pummeled. I resign myself to following the blurry splashes of the swimmers right in front of me and spend the first leg of the swim getting way too intimate with my fellow 30-34 men.
We take a right turn round the buoy on the L-shaped course after swimming the first short section and I keep up the same ragged sequence of strokes, breaths, and looks ahead into the fog that have brought me this far. It's still crowded and I can't see more than 15 feet. Will it even help much to rinse my goggles? I hate to stop. I'd have to swim off to one side, which side would I go to? My mind is busy debating all this stuff and I'm churning through the water like a spastic cat. This is not the smooth catch and glide with occasional clear glances ahead that I had hoped for. Time drags on slowly. Maybe it will get better when we turn. The glare of the sun is really the problem. Yeah, that's the ticket. I'll be able to see after the turn. I resolve to swim to the turn and test my theory. In the meantime I'll just follow the splashes and caps, even thought there are fewer now than before. Finally, I see the yellow pyramid marking the turn. I angle around the bend, look forward to sight on the next turn that should be just ahead and I see ... fog. So much for my glare theory. There doesn't seem to be anybody ready to swim over me so I finally stop and dunk my glasses, empty them out, put them back on and the miracle of visual perception returns. I can actually see the turn marker ahead, and the orange balloons that mark the return leg. I set off to finish this watery ordeal but all hope of establishing a rhythm is gone. I'm so paranoid about swimming straight that I am pulling my head up to sight on nearly every stroke. It's just not a good day for me to swim, but the return seems to take less time than the outward leg and before long I see the balloon arch above the start and the finish area next to it. It's about time.
I swim until my fingers hit the concrete, stumble up to ankle deep water and pull off my now fog-free goggles and unzip my wetsuit. My neon red aqua-socks are right there before the swim finish chute. I step on the suit and free my feet, a few steps up the ramp as I pull off my swim cap, bend over to slip on my aqua-sock and - whoa - I almost fall over as all the blood rushes to my head and my inner ear does cartwheels. OK, sit down to put these on. I do, my horizon returns to horizontal, and the second aqua-sock is on. I hit my watch and my swim tag goes to the volunteer as I jog through the chute, then its up the stairs, passing a few bare-footed athletes along the way. At the top I look at my split - 40:20 - Ouch, there goes the tight schedule for the day. Oh well, it's a good thing I don't do this for a living.
There's the second pine tree on the right of the transition area, there's the first row with a 700 number, make the left, and there's my bike. The transition goes like clockwork (see, Jane, that motel room practice pays off) and I'm off on the bike.
The middle 56 miles
I make it out of the transition and I’m on the rough, twisty first mile that runs along the lake before we head uphill. Here’s my plan: 1) ride hard but not all-out, 150 heart rates on the flats, go by feel on the hills; 2) drink a lot of water; 3) drink almost all of my homemade goo solution by the end of the bike (light corn syrup, water, and kool-aid -- about 2000 calories in a small water bottle); and 4) eat some pretzels for salt. Biking has traditionally been my strongest leg, but I tallied up my mileage for the year and it was only 1100 miles when I left home. Not much compared to past experiences. Oh well, this whole race is an experiment.
There’s the turn. Pull that right hand lever all the way back and away I go up (sounds like) Beach hill. I’m one of those rare triathletes who likes to climb and I have a lot of ground to make up after my swim. I start picking off the competition. Quickly a theme emerges that will be played out all day long -- a large percentage of people seem completely unaware of something called the blocking rule. I don’t get too bent out of shape about it but it gets frustrating eventually. It’s really a pretty simple rule. I don’t get it. Is it beneath people to ride in the "slow" lane? Maybe that extra effort to turn the bars a millimeter is just too much? I just say, "on your left" and go by as I put in an extra burst of speed. Now my heart is pumping along in the 170s and I’m breathing at max intake, but I’m hoping to get out there away from this mass of bikes and just cruise. Besides, this is my best stuff and I like to go with it. The crest of the hill is just ahead and there’s a short opening ahead before the next ragged bunch of bikes. I get my legs spinning into a higher cadence and gulp a swallow or two from my jet-stream. I’d like to settle into cruising mode but I know that won’t be possible for a few miles. There are some pretty good sized rollers coming up.
The next few miles are blur of passing, getting passed, trying to obey the drafting rules, and seeing lots of other people who evidently aren’t much concerned about such trivialities. At one point a group of about six athletes in a tight but disorganized group passes me and continues to pull away on a downhill. Nobody seems to be actually pacelining but all of them are inside each others’ draft zones and they are shifting around and pulling each other along like an aero ameba. Maybe they all think they are just passing and repassing each other (conveniently forgetting about the "drop back out of the zone before repassing" part of the rule). The motorcycle marshall has been by several times but they don’t seem to be saying anything about drafting. The only action I see them take is when a guy ahead blatantly rides on the wrong side of the yellow line for at least a minute as he slowly overtakes yet another small group of bikes. Even then they apparently give only a warning -- I don’t see any number being written down and the rider isn’t forced to stop.
Very rarely does someone go by me on the uphills but I seem to be playing leapfrog with a few riders who are faster on the downhills. I attribute that partly to my non-aero equipment and partly to a difference in strategy and soldier onward. As I mentioned a while back, my bike isn’t the slickest machine around. I have aero-bars with swift-shifters, and I bought a jet-stream bottle for this race, but my Cannondale looks like a tractor among Lamborghinis at this race. Mostly that’s because of tires and wheels. Basically I’m too cheap to buy aero wheels for my once-or-twice-a-year racing habit, and I’m not convinced that on this course the tiny aero and rolling resistance benefits of narrow tires outweigh their comfort and puncture disadvantages. Today I’m running 110 lbs of pressure on rough pavement that has the 160 lb pressure guys bouncing around like paint-shakers, and I’ve never punctured or pinch-flatted in over 4,000 miles of using Avocet 28mm tires. Anyway, the big tires look better with my mountain bike pedals and shoes (seriously!).
So the road is flattening out and the bikes are getting more spaced out. I feel good as I cruise along at a low 90s cadence and low 150s heartrate. It’s a beautiful day, the volunteers are doing an outstanding job, and I haven’t been off the big ring in miles. I’m making special efforts to eat and drink, but maybe a little too much effort. I start to feel that nagging full-bladder feeling. Not a must-stop-now call of nature, but the "yellow light" has been turned on. Up ahead the road makes a bit of a downhill, it’s the middle of the country, I’ve got my Speedo on, hey, maybe I’ll just try the euro-pro-water-the-roadside thing. So I’m standing on my right pedal, steering with my left hand and, um, aiming with my right, but nothing’s happening. Maybe it’s the novelty, maybe I’m too tense. I don’t know. As I’m just ready to give up the effort I hear something overtaking from behind and to the left so I, um, let go and resume steering with two hands just as the motorcycle marshall comes by. The woman on the back is leaned clear over watching me closely. I stand on my left pedal and act like I’m stretching (yeah, right), and think maybe it was a good thing the valve wouldn’t open. It’d be just my luck to spend the first 15 miles watching other people draft and then get a DQ for public urination. I guess I’ll just have to ride to the transition or until forced to stop, whichever comes first.
I’m starting to feel warm so at the next aid station I fill my jetstream and then pour the rest of the bottle over my head and back. The big hill is not too far ahead. I’m still feeling pretty good. Not really fresh, but solid. The miles after the 35 mile marker have gone by in a steady blur of impressions where nothing has really stood out, but I recognize the intersection ahead and know that I won’t have any trouble remembering the hill that begins right after the turn. Once more into the breach.
"It never looks this steep in the car," I think as I crank up the road, once again passing a bunch of athletes but wishing I had a smaller gear. I’m not in danger of stalling out in my 42/23, but a 39 chain ring would be more appropriate. I’m keeping my heartrate under 170 except when I stand for brief periods, so my effort needle isn’t pegged, but there’s not much more horsepower under the hood. It’s tough here, but it’s my favorite part of the race. There’s another aid station where I grab a bottle and crank ahead, a turn, a brief descent, and the hill resumes. This part is a little harder. Have I left too much on the last section or is this part just steeper? There’s the top. The view is opening up and it’s spectacular. Just a few miles ago I was clear down there at the level of that beautiful lake. I’ve earned this view. I’ve earned this descent. Time for some speed.
I pedal over the crest of the hill, clicking into bigger gears as I go. In a very brief distance I have spun out my biggest gear and tucked into my tightest aero-tuck. All that elevation gain I paid for in sweat is flying past in a blur. I keep an eye out for the rough spots I remember from yesterday in the car and keep a relaxed hold on the bars. At one point where the road steepens to it’s maximum I watch my computer reading drift from 48 to 49 and then to 49.5, then it’s back to eyes on the road. All too soon my speed drops to where I can pedal again and I try to find the rhythm I was holding before the ascent. Time to just spin in from here.
The last section of rolling hills goes by quite quickly even though I am easing up a notch in effort. I’m trying to assess my prospects for the run but I have no strong prediction. I can tell the hill has taken a toll on my legs because my spin feels a little labored when the cadence passes 95. Still, I’m not exhausted by any means. I also feel well hydrated, with my earlier call of nature remaining a background priority. Back into the park and before long I see the hard-core guys running on the trail along the road. They are spread out quite widely, which I take as a sign that they are from the first few waves of starters. Whether or not it’s true, this thought helps me feel better about being miles behind them. I ride the drops rather than the aero bars down Lynch hill to the transition area. It seems silly to sacrifice the greater control for fractions of a second at this point. One more quick gulp from the jet-stream and I’m slowing to a walking pace in the narrow entry chute to the transition. Tree, row number, towel -- I rack my bike, sit on the ground and run through another smooth transition. My hat goes on as I stand back up, then I’m off into the unknown.
The hard 13.1 miles
In these longer races the switch to running doesn’t seem to induce the same system overload that I get in a sprint or olympic race. As I run up the short hill exiting the transition I can tell that there’s no spring in my step, but I very quickly settle into what seems to be a decent pace. In only a few yards, however, it’s clear that what was a low priority on the bike is paramount on the run -- I start looking for porta-johns. It’s only a quarter mile or so until my search is rewarded. There at the back of that parking lot are three familiar blue cubicles, but there are two non-racers waiting in front. I am at the MUST-GO-NOW stage so I’m resigning myself to waiting when the left-most door opens and a spectator emerges. Now one of the waitees has her hand on the door, but instead of going in she spies me and holds the door open. "You’re a runner, you go ahead." I say a quick thank you as the door slams and I sit down to see if I can, um, kill two birds with one stone while I’m here. After a short time very well spent I’m on my way. I look around to thank the generous waitee again but she is nowhere in sight (I guess she is now a doee rather than a waitee) so I set off to rejoin the string of runners on the road.
Unfortunately the stop has not added any spring to my gait. My legs feel OK, and I even seem to be passing more people than are going past me, but there just isn’t anything in reserve. "Maybe I just need to get a groove going," I think, but my hope for a near-five-hour time is clearly not going to be met.
Before long the road switches to trail. I’m a little surprised at how rough and uneven the trail is. (I had come to Wildflower with a knee injury last year and had taken a pre-arranged DNF after the olympic course bike so the entire run is new to me.) I am pretty used to trail running so it isn’t much of a problem, I just wish the side-slope fell the other direction, away from my weaker left knee. Along this section of run I’m still passing more people than go by me. Many of us exchange a quick, "Good job", or "Keep it up", as we pass. I’m still in this tired but stable physical state but am a little worried about how hot I’m starting to feel. There’s no shade and no wind in evidence.
The trail has turned away from the water and begins a steady uphill slope. Usually I am a better runner on the hills than on the flats -- more power than efficiency -- but I’m struggling now. There’s the famous 4-mile naked aid station. I drink a full cup of Gatorade and pour water on my head and back. I think the impact of the volunteers’ novel cheering efforts would be greater on an unsuspecting competitor, but I knew what to expect thanks to RST. I’m also distracted by my growing battle with the course and the heat. I’ve never been a good hot weather runner and the Seattle weather has yet to reach 70 degrees this spring. My body isn’t responding well to the California sun as I trudge ahead. The sights are quickly behind me and the grade steepens again.
At this point in the race I am faced with a decision. I am hot and struggling and I don’t want to be out here moving my body any longer. The whiner voice in my head is calling for all efforts to cease, "Just stop running and sit in the shade. No one could blame you, it’s dangerous to overheat." The drill sergeant voice provides a counterpoint, "Run! Don’t give in to weakness. Think of the next step, not of the miles left. When the going gets tough...." Ah, but is it really a forced choice between completely quitting and pushing onward 100%? No. I wanted to be racing today. I wanted to have the training and the conditions to push my body at race pace all the way to the finish. I had dreams of having one of those days when you can feel the edge of exhaustion but the strength stays deep right up to that limit. Today it’s not going to happen that way. Today -- right now -- it’s not about placings and times and external measures. It’s about letting go of some of the dreams and excitement in order to hang onto the rock-bottom real-life goal of completing the course. I have to walk for awhile.
There’s a patch of shade starting just ahead. I’ll walk there and see how it goes. I start shifting my mental plan for the rest of the run. On flats and downhills I’ll still run. I’ll walk through the aid stations and make special efforts to drink and pour water on my head. On hills I’ll walk when I have to. I’ll run a race that will get me to the finish. That’s my race from here on in.
The next few miles follow exactly the pattern I’ve decided upon. I’m focused almost entirely inward, struggling with questions about whether I’m doing my best. Wondering if I’m giving up too early every time I drop from a run to a walk. The downhills are definitely the most encouraging part of this run. I don’t know whether it’s the trail runs I’ve done all winter or the strength workouts I’ve done on the bike, but for some reason my quads are feeling fine and I’m able to run down the hills at very good speeds. Unfortunately the flats and uphills remain difficult. At least I’m not getting any hotter. If anything, I’m feeling a bit cooler and better hydrated -- the extra time at the aid stations is paying dividends.
Earlier I had heard a couple of guys discussing how the last long uphill comes around mile 10. Well, I just left the trail behind as the course moves onto the road and that long uphill looms ahead. It’s really a great image with a string of triathletes working their way up on the right and an equal number moving more quickly down on the left. I’m running at this point and small strands of muscle in my calves and hamstrings are starting to catch slightly, threatening to cramp up fully if I’m not careful. "Don’t do this to me," I think to myself and I alter my stride slightly. The change in gait seems to work and the threatened cramps don’t take hold. I’m not wishing pain on myself but it’s reassuring in a strange way to know that I’m pushing myself hard enough to nearly cramp up. I feel more confident that I made the correct choice when I abandoned my harder pace back at mile five.
After a mix of walking and running up the hill I finally reach the turn-around. The shallow grade and relatively smooth road surface make this a good stretch to really stride out, and my inexplicably strong downhill form is still with me. I open it up and try to take smooth, long strides, knowing that it’s a straight shot to the finish from here. I catch up with another athlete who is about my size and running at a similar speed and without a word our strides instantly fall into synchrony. The pace inches higher as we benefit from the matched effort. For the rest of the downhill I feel the best I have felt since getting off the bike. As the grade eases and the assist from gravity weakens, my pace slackens slightly. My new partner, silent until now, says, "Come on. I need you here," and I respond with a small effort that again synchronizes our strides. For the next few minutes we cover ground quickly, but my effort level is rising and I can feel my form slowly failing. Here again I am faced with the decision of whether to push into unknown and dangerous territory and once again I make the choice to back away. "You’ll have to go it alone from here," I say, and drop my pace. The fatigue I’ve been holding back with mental focus floods in and I struggle again as I had been struggling prior to this last, shared mile. Again I wonder if I’ve been weak or wise, but I push the doubts deep inside and keep moving steadily up the road.
With a mixture of satisfaction and relief I recognize the upcoming turn down Lynch hill. One last steep downhill, the long finish chute next to the transition, and this race that really started months ago will be over. I’m able to run a good pace down the hill but the grade is too steep to avoid some impact and my feet and shins ache a bit as I round the turn and see the lake. For some reason the perspective is strange and the lake appears to be much farther away than I know it is. I’m glad my perception is inaccurate. Around the final bend and I can see the finish arch. I run toward the finish with a fast but controlled stride. Perhaps my legs have one last sprint, but it hasn’t been the day for testing such things. I cross the line, hit my watch, and am glad to be finished. I’m happy to be a finisher. My watch says 5:24:09, but I’m not sure what those numbers signify.
The many miles that followed.
This report has become quite an epic tale and at this point it’s time to abandon my detailed linear commentary. I will relate one post race highlight that occurred as I rested in the shade of one of the registration tents on the lawn in front of the store. I fell into conversation with a nice older woman who was sharing the shade and after a time she mentioned that her son had been planning to race but pulled out with an injured ankle. She turned out to be Dave Scott’s mother. We had a pleasant chat and Dave’s father (a veteran of past Wildflower International distance races) joined in for awhile. One amusing quote from Dave’s mother concerned their trip to Wildflower this year. She said it was a good drive but noted, "Our son drives very fast."
All the way home and over the past week people have asked me if I had a good race. Consistently, I’ve struggled to find an answer that felt right to me. It was a good race. It was a bad race. I’m still deciding what kind of race it was. I do know that it was different from my past long triathlons. I’ve only done one 1/2 IM and one IM. Both of those races were incredible, uplifting experiences that put exclamation point endings on long seasons of training. Those races were about answers. This race was about questions:
Was it a good race?
What did I want from this race?
Why do I do triathlon?
What does it mean to do your best?
Why do I seek out these challenges in my life?
They are all good questions. Certainly, in that respect, the answer to the first question is yes.