70.3 miles. That was the distance between me and the finish line this morning as we lined up for the start of the Patriot Half Iron Triathlon. I have been doing my homework on endurance racing for a while now, and thought I understood most of the issues that one faces when up against a long course race.
But standing there on the beach, facing a 1.2 mile swim, the turn buoy indicating more or less the end of the first half of the swim leg, looked like a speck on the horizon. A half a mile of open water, with no rest stops, no aid stations, nothing but you and the water, can look pretty intimidating. But, I told myself, this is the reward for all the training. I train because I love it, but I also train so I can come out on a beautiful early summer morning and race 70 miles to test myself and see what I can do.
So there we were, 800 or so, at the start. A stunning day, clear as a bell, warm and dry. True to the name of the race, actors dressed as Revolutionary War soldiers stood behind us and fired their muskets to send us off on our journey. Into the water we went. A lovely lake in East Freetown, it was about 73 degrees and calm, which made for a nice swim. But it is a long one. I started out easy, slow, measured strokes, focusing on form and generating power with my core rather than pulling myself with the arms. I had a very specific and well-thought-out race plan for today, which called for about a 35-minute swim. I felt strong and made it to the out buoy with no problems, made the left turn for the return buoy. Made the left at the return buoy, headed for the swim finish. Cruised in at the middle of the pack, comfortable, low HR, feeling good. There’s a maxim in triathlon that you cannot win the race in the swim (there’s too much race left to go) but you can certainly lose it on the swim by going too hard. Not that I was in any danger of winning the race, but the idea holds true for age groupers as well: blow yourself up on the swim, and your day will be short.
Pulled out of the water at 38 minutes, which was OK. I probably could have gone three minutes faster to meet my goal, but swim pacing is very hard to gauge in real time. So I was pleased. Went into T1 easy, knowing that I had some way to go and not wanting to waste any energy in transition. So it was a slow strip of the wetsuit, donning shoes, helmet, etc., and then off onto the bike.
The bike has thus far proven to be my weak suit in races. It’s a long story, but it seems to me that building bike fitness, in particular muscular endurance, is very difficult and incredibly time-consuming. So while I have been very pleased with my progress in running over the past six months, I still have a long way to go on the bike. So I set my goals for the 56-mile bike course modestly: average around 17-18 mph, finish in 3:15 or so, and I should be on course to meet my overall time goal of six hours. Go too hard on the bike, and I would risk blowing up before the run. Go too easy, and I would be disappointed in my overall race time.
The first 20 or so miles went by easy. I had a detailed fuel plan for the race and was very confident that I had the necessary gas in me to make it. I had also spent a lot of time working on my LT problems that had caused me so much difficulty earlier this year, and thought that I had more or less dealt with these issues. So I was pretty confident that my fuel plan along with my training would carry me to my time goal. Through 20, I was slightly above my speed goal, but very comfortable – no lactate issues, no weakness or heaviness in the legs – I felt great. Miles 20-30 were a bit more work due to some hills, but nothing that caused any real discomfort.
Then at about mile 30 I began to feel a slight tugging in my right quad that could only be an incipient cramp. Oh shit, I thought, to go through all this training and preparation, only to blow it on a thigh cramp. I was fueling and drinking and hydrating at all the right levels, but there seemed to be something wrong with my right thigh. It wanted to cramp up, to spasm. So I backed off a bit and spent the next five or so miles figuring out how to generate power without exacerbating the bastard child of the cramp that I did not want to be born. I pedaled with my left leg only. I only used my hammies to pull the pedals up rather than push down. I unclipped and shook my legs out. Coasted on all the downhills rather than pedaling to gain a few seconds. Put the bike in total bail-out gear going up even the slightest hills. And, as luck would have it, the leg responded. The cramp-to-be never ended up materializing fully. There were a few twinges that resembled cramps, especially toward the end and up the last few hills, but for whatever reason, the cramps held off and I made it to the end of the bike in great shape, averaging almost 18 mph, right on target. The odd thing about the cramps is that I seem to get them on very long bike rides, but never when I run. So I was confident that if I could make it to the end of the ride with my legs still intact and firing normally, I would be OK for the run.
So I did indeed make it to the end of the bike, hobbled into transition, changed into my running gear, and headed out for the half-marathon final leg. And it was a bit odd, heading out there in a way – I was absolutely, 100% confident, no doubt whatsoever, that I was going to smoke the run. Once I was off the bike and on the run course, the only thing I focused on was sensing the miles flowing by. I settled into a comfortable pace, about 9:30, and that was it. I was done. I was locked in and I was going to run thirteen miles at that pace. Period. It was kind of strange. I wasn’t even concerned that it was thirteen miles. I just kept playing out my latest long runs in my mind: “OK. Thirteen miles. That’s just to Eastham and back. I can do that.” “OK, ten miles, no problem. That’s just the standard East Orleans Barley Neck-Pochet-Beach Road Course.” “Eight miles, that’s easy. Just the Beach Road to Brick Hill to Tonset Road Run.” “Five miles – you’re kidding. All I have is five miles left? Shit, that’s just Nauset Beach and back.” By the time I hit mile twelve, I was grinning ear to ear. I can run a mile, easy. So I ran that last mile and change and felt like I was really beginning to challenge myself in this whole triathlon thing. Garmin said I was averaging 9:27 miles. I cruised to the line, my legs sore but the right kind of sore, in a shade over six hours (I’ll post splits when they’re published).
One really interesting note on the run. I’m at mile 6.5 (halfway through the final leg) and I hear this insistent shuffling behind me. Obviously another runner coming up behind me to pass. I look over my left shoulder and it’s an older woman with this incredibly determined gait, absolutely flying past me like I’m standing still. I was, by my standards, running pretty well, a sub-9:30 pace. And as this woman flies by me, I see her age (it’s written on the right calf of all racers) and it says SHE’S 70 YEARS OLD! I swear this woman was running at a 7:30 pace, just flying by. Amazing. Taking into account the start order, she went off at least 15 minutes behind me at the start of the swim, so she has made up all that time, and she’s running me into the ground! My jaw almost hit the ground as the disappeared into the distance. I hope when I’m 70 I can walk 13 miles, nevermind finish a half-iron distance race.
So today I’m half an Iron Man. 70.3 miles is indeed a long way, but I was confident that my race plan and preparation would carry me through, which it did. My goal was six hours, and that was a best-case scenario goal. My time was 6:02 and change, which, given the extra minutes I spent changing clothes and relieving myself in transition, is about right. I didn’t get injured, and I executed the race plan. I finished 186th out of something like 800, so I’m very pleased with that.
The two most lasting images from this race are from the beginning and the end. Standing on the beach, searching for the out buoy, wondering how far out it really was, and knowing that I would swim to that small speck on the horizon and back. And then, after finishing, limping back to the paddock to collect my bike, standing there in the transition area alone, having finished, having reached my goal, looking up at the clear blue sky, whooping for joy. I did it. It was my day.
I love racing.
