Once More Unto The Breach

“Maybe it’s time you let me pull for a while!” I shouted sideways into the wind.

I’d been plowing down Government Way in Coeur d’Alene, finishing the first of two 56 mile loops on my bike in this year’s Ironman race. I hadn’t seen DIck Nordquest for about 20 miles, after he started powering up the hills in the middle portion. He passed me on the first one, the longest and steepest, English Point hill. He’s got one of those wide-kneed pedaling styles, splaying out with every stroke, and the hard uphill effort makes him jockey the bike from side-to-side. He’s hard to miss from behind, amongst all the other younger, taller, and straighter pedaling competitors surrounding us. Once you get into the 60 and above age groups, there are so few of us who are competitive anymore, you get to know every one, and don’t mind a little trash talk on the course.

As he puffed and wavered up past me on that first hill, I said, “That’s OK, my coach told me to just let everyone go by up the hills.” Then, the grade easing from 14% to 3%, I shifted and, keeping my effort steady, motored easily on ahead.

Next steep section, he was back: “Did he also tell you to wait for me to catch up?” Eyes twinkling, he went ahead. I pulled in behind (4 bike lengths of course) on the next downhill, deigned to pass, and let him go once again. For fifteen hills.

Then I lost him up ahead somewhere as the road flattened out, rolling slightly downhill with a following wind, until the left turn onto Government. Slowly, over six miles into the head winds off the lake, I reeled him back in. Pulling up, I thought I’d give him some food for thought, make him think I’d been following close in his wake al this time.

He apparently took the bait, because two miles later, as we turned into the final downhill of that first loop, Northwest Blvd, he comes grinning up beside me one more time, clearly having fun with this back and forth game of bike tag. We’ve been racing against each other for at least ten years; he’s done 68 IMs, going to Hawaii for the past 21 years. He used to beat me by nearly an hour; now, he’s lost the ability to run well off the bike, and so I routinely trounce when we get to lacing the sneakers for the final leg of this 140 mile race.

But we still swim and bike about the same speed, so we took the opportunity to just enjoy it for a while, because, as Dick said, “The other guys just keep dying off, and here  we are, still having fun!”

I lost him for a while after I stopped to pee at mile 60, and pick up my second half drink powder a few minutes later. He pulled up beside after getting his own special needs bag.

“Well, you’re gonna lose me for a while,” I said. “I’ve got to stop and put this powder in my bottle, then fill it up.”

One last sly dig: “I could fill that up for you right here!”

Next time I saw Dick, he was standing at the urinal inside the men’s changing tent. I whipped through the transfer from bike/helmet/shoes to visor/racing flats a minute or two faster than him. As I ran by, I did a fake double take. “Dick, what’s wrong, you’ve been there for three minutes, ya let me catch you!”

But, he’s always got to have the last word. On the way out under the arch to run 26.2 miles, I’m getting slathered with sun screen on my shoulders. He walks by, with a wink saying to the greasy-gloved volunteers, “Make sure you get some on his sunglasses so he can’t see me running ahead of him.”

And off he goes, like a bat out of hell, getting 50-100 meters ahead by the time we hit the first turn around on the Dike road, less then a mile into the marathon. As we pass by each other, I point and say, laughing, “You’re not going to run that fast the whole way, are you?”

We both know the answer to that one. As usual (I’ve done this to him about 4-5 times now, each year at IM CDA), I pass him for the final time between miles 1 and 2. And, thankfully, Dick’s both paying attention, and seriously helpful at this moment. As I pass by, he says, “You know, that guy in the blue top who just went by had a ’60’ on his calf.” [We all get our age marked on our left calf]. I note his jersey – “Peak Fitness – and his white cap, and watch him steam on ahead, probably going 30-45 seconds/mile faster than me.

“Well, I’m just going to let him go. I go my own speed, my own pace, no matter what. Anything else is a mistake.” He agrees as he’s slowing down (what choice does he have?), and that’s the last I see of Dick except for the remaining three turnarounds.

I turn my attention forward to Mr. Peak Fitness. After the mile 3 aid station, he suddenly appears right in front of me. He must have stopped to pee, or something, there. He turns on the speed again – he really seems to be a faster runner than I am – but before he can pull away completely, as he’s going by, I say, “Peak Fitness? Where’s that?”

Right here in Coeur d’Alene, apparently; a small chain of health clubs, of which he’s part owner. Hmm, I suppose he must be pretty fit then. His race belt says, “Phillip”, but spectators along the streets in the neighborhoods section of the course keep yelling “Chip!” at him. So, Chip it is then.

He keeps pulling away until about six miles, then I can spy him up ahead, less than 100 meters, and not gaining on me. The one major hill on the course – which I’m SURE he knows about – is in the middle of the 7th mile, just past the aid station. He takes a bit longer than usual with his drinking and walking, and I cut mine short. I pull even by the base of the hill.

“Hey.” I say as I pull beside, but don’t pass him. “Have you done this race before?” I ask in as innocent a voice as possible.

“Oh yeah, in 2005. My club is right on the course, so I really need to do this.” So he did it last when he was 55; now he’s sixty. This means he’s doing the race when he will be at the youngest end of the age group each time. Probably serious about it.

“Yep, I was there then; the weather was just about exactly like this year.”

“Uh-huh. How many have you done?” he asks.

“All of them,” I reply, smiling. We make one or two more remarks about the hottest and coldest days for the race, and then he tries pulling ahead of me again, still on the lower third of the hill. It works for about 15 seconds, then, seeing about 90% of those around him walking up the Bennett Bay hill, he stops his trot, and eases into a stiff legged walk.

I’ve been thinking a bit as we’re talking, noticing he was not really smiling, but more grimacing. And thinking how good a downhill runner I am, and how I know I could put some distance on him if I could just get to the top ahead of him.

So I decide to break the rules for two minutes, and burn a couple of matches. Running as hard as I can without breaking from a 4 beat breathing pattern (one breath for each 4 steps), I charge up the hill, whip around the cone at the top, and race back down, trying as hard as I can to work up to that 4 steps/breath pattern. That mile, which I usually do in 10:45 or so, was 8:55, my fastest on the day. I figure I must have put 1 and a half to two minutes into him right there.

I was hoping to do two things. I wasn’t trying to pass him so much as put enough distance between us so that he could no longer see me up ahead of him amongst the scores of runners which would soon separate us. And in the sea of bodies making up the double (each side of the track) aid station ahead, hundreds of volunteers and racers, most walking, going every which way, I hoped he’d lose sight of me.

And, I hoped to demoralize him a bit, to dissuade him from even trying to catch me, after seeing the speed I was capable of down that hill (I was probably going better than a 6:15 minute/mile pace at the steepest part.) I made a tactical move which was really a strategic decision. I was going exclusively for the win, more than any specific time. I would have two more big races in October and November, and my time goals would have to wait until then, I guess.

About mile nine, I saw Dick motoring along, still running. And not far behind him, Rob Ladewig, whom I’ve been having similar battles with at recent IMs. They both smiled as we passed by. No sense hating anything or anyone at this point in our 12 hour days, I guess. I had 7-9 minutes on them at this point, and was gaining. No worries there, as long as I stayed within myself for the rest of the race.

Coming out of the neighborhoods, onto the Lakeside downhill through town, roughly half way, I came up on a cramping Faron Reed. Another Old Guy, although he’s only 58. But last year at Arizona, he went 10:30 to my 10:55, after I’d nipped him in the last mile the year before by 8 seconds, to steal a Kona slot from him. I passed him without a word, as I’m not sure he’s ever forgiven me.

Next turn around, I calculated about I was about five minutes up on Chip, five minutes gained in 7 miles. So I figured I could afford a potty stop, mostly to check the color of my urine as anything. And get a mental breather. Clear, and clearing.

Back through town, down by the lake in the neighborhoods, and I’m feeling pretty good. Unbeknownst to me at the time, though, I had laid the ground work for an uncharacteristic slowdown in the last 9 miles of the race. I had stopped taking two sponges at each aid station, stopped putting them under the shoulder straps of my tri suit, as I was not really feeling hot, and my socks were getting wet, causing worries about blisters. A long shallow hill out of town, up and then down to the open Boulevard along the lake.

Mile 18. Where my coaches say I can start racing. I felt frisky at mile 16-17, but by the time I got to Mile 18, I could sense my head getting fuzzy, and the motivation missing to blast through the last hour as hard as I could. Which basically means not slowing down.

I think several things were going on. I’d made an (unconscious) decision that I was primarily going for the win, which would be my 3rd in the last six years here, second in a row. I had two more big BIG races later in the year, and I needed to be able to recover quickly from this one to get in the training I’d need for Hawaii and Arizona. And, I was probably getting over the magic 2% dehydration line.

The air temperature was about 80F; humidity 45%, and the sun was searing at near solstice levels. Without the sponges dripping water onto my trisuit to help cool me off, my sweat glands had to pump up their output. My suit was dry, meaning the sweat was drying as fast as I could make it, which only increases the rate of flow – and water loss. And I can only absorb so much fluid if I want to devote any meaningful amount of blood flow to my working muscles; I was already at my maximum intake. The only way to get more fluid would be to go slower, devoting more blood flow to my gut instead of my legs.

So for whatever reason, I trotted more than ran the last 6 miles, walking up the hill I raced with Chip two hours earlier. At this turn around, I calculated at least a 7 minute lead, so I still had no real need to work harder if I wanted to win. The guy would have to suddenly start going over a minute a mile faster than he had been just to have a hope of catching me. And even if he did, I was sure I had enough in reserve to pound back any attempt to actually pass me.

So I just plodded along, content to win and drop my course record time by six minutes, instead of pushing into agony territory. What a wimp.