THE SWIM
I look to my right, I look to my left; I still can’t believe it’s so UNCROWDED here in this little Secret Spot. I line up in the second row, and eyeball the folks in front of me and to my side, trying to figure out if any of them are “stupid starters”, people who have no clue how fast they are going to swim relative to the field, and are way too far up front. I look behind me for the even worse species, those who don’t realise how fast they really are, and are about to swim over me in the first 200 meters. There’s hardly anyone back there, either!
The gun goes off, and I run into the water, dolphin dive behind the lead swimmers’ feet, and take off. In keeping with the “less is more” philosophy I’ve adopted for this race, I have not checked the water temperature before the race. During warm-up, it felt down right perfect, maybe a touch above 65F. Just as I’m learning to value the warmer temperatures, I’m also learning to enjoy the colder water – the faster/harder you swim, as well as the better your wetsuit, the warmer you are going to get. Overheating can be a big problem on the swim, oddly enough. I have a few close encounters with ungainly swimmers, but I maintain my two strategies for dealing with conflict in the water: I keep my attitude cool (“don’t take it personally”), and if I just can’t live with my neighbor, I move. Also, if someone insists on swimming at my exact speed, I pull up, and tuck in behind for a quick draft for 50-100 meters, then motor ahead to a new pair of feet. Works every time.
At the first buoy, there’s always some guy or gal who’s been swimming blind, and doesn’t realise we are TURNING here. I have to nudge them left, or they might keep going all the way down the lake and run into the seaplane about a half mile ahead. We swim into the sun for about 200 meters, which makes sighting VERY easy – you can actually do it with your eyes closed, the sun is that low and that bright.
I cruise onto the sand at the end of the first loop, and sneak a glance at my watch as I cross the timing pad – 32:30 or so. WELL, that’s odd – faster than I’ve ever done a half ironman or Olympic distance swim, much less the first loop of an IM. I start to sing praises to my coaches, who are having me do 20% more swimming that I’ve ever done before. This one little fact sets the tone for my day, telling me I do have some racing speed in me, and I might as well move into full-on Race Mode as far as mental attention is concerned – don’t want to make any mistakes if I’ve got a good day in me here.
The second lap contains little to snare my attention. Just stretch out, slow down the stroke, and look for good feet to follow. I’m out in 1:06.15 – a new personal best for an ironman swim, and a faster pace than I’ve ever done an Olympic distance, too. I attribute most of that to the tremendous draft 500 people in front of me make; the water is moving forward in a bit of a current from all those bodies churning up a wake.
Remembering my IM Wisconsin experience, where an over-eager wet suit stripper ripped my shoulder strap, I talk the helpful volunteer through a slow motion yank off of my suit. Grab my T1 bag from the ground, and whip into the change tent. I don’t know it at the time, but I’m second out of the water by 5 seconds, and first out of T1 by over a minute. I’m leading the race on only 7 weeks of training, and a one-week taper.
THE BIKE
Previous years on the bike leg, I have motored through town and out to Lake Shore Drive. This time, I try to rein it in a notch, and stay totally, stupidly slow. Meaning I’m going about 20 mph, and passing more than I get passed. I keep checking out legs and race numbers, but don’t see anyone in my age group in the first 15 mile loop along the lake. About 7 miles out, Mitch Hungate, whom I race against 2 out of 5 years (he’s three years younger), roars by me. Mitch is a compact little guy, who can barely reach the handle bars from his saddle, so he’s got a distinctive low flat posture on the bike. I yell his name as he goes by, hoping he’s cruising on to a good day. It’s all my fault he’s here. Two years ago, after he did the Troika Half in 5:03, I told him he would do well in the Ironman, if he just committed to 12 weeks of focused training in the spring. He saw himself as basically a Sprint/Olympic distance dabbler, and didn’t understand that he was speeding up while his peers were slowing down or dropping out.
“But Al, we like to do rock climbing – we’re just getting into it in the spring, when the snow is just exposing the lower walls.” He and his wife are inveterate Northwest mountaineers, climbing, hiking, camping. More logger than lederhosen, though. “I don’t even know how to train for it!”
“You did really well there in Spokane, Mitch. You’ve got a great chance to make it to Kona with your 1/2 IM time – you’d just need to commit to 15 hours a week for 2-3 months. You’ve got the swim speed, so you don’t have to add any swimming to what you already do. All you really need to do is just throw in 3 or 4 long runs of 2-3 hours, and 3-4 bikes of 5-6 hours. Otherwise, just what you’d normally do when you start training in the spring. Coeur d’Alene still hasn’t filled up yet – just go sign up on line this week!”
Damned if he didn’t do it. And damned if he didn’t finish 6th in his first IM in 2005, just missing a Kona slot in the 50-54 AG. Apparently he saw how close he was, and signed up again right away for this year. And here he was, passing me 7 miles into the bike.
“Hey, Mitch! Hungate!” I yelled as I saw him flow by. He looked around at me, but didn’t seem to recognize either my voice, my bike, or my face. Just then I thought, “Wait a minute. He ALWAYS beats me in the swim. What’s going on here?” Of course right after that I said, “He’s FLYING by me on the bike – I must not be ready for this race.” Then, the moment passed, and I went back to cruise control.
……….
Slipping around the hot corner, through the big crowds in town, it sounded kind of quiet. So I raised my left arm up a few times – it always works: I got a big wall of sound as I started up the gradual grade out of town. On up to the first hill, I ratcheted down my expectations, and resigned myself to getting passed by all the younger legs. But wait! There’s a leg that says “58”. His race bib says “Evensen”.
“Even Evensen!” I hollered. “Good to see you back out here.” I’d never met Even. Back when I did my first IM Canada, I researched previous years’ finishers, and found his name among the Hawaii qualifiers. He was from Philomath, OR, a Portland suburb. Strictly a long distance guy, I never saw him in regional 1/2 IMs nor Olympic distance, like I did other Portland racers. Then one day about 3 or 4 years ago, I saw a little news item on RaceCenter.com, which is based on Portland but covers the whole Northwest, that Even Evensen had been in a car/bike accident, suffering a broken pelvis and vertebrae. He was in traction for months, and his triathlon club was asking for donations to help him cover medical expenses. I sent him $50. I’ve got a strong spot of empathy for someone my age getting hit by a car out on the road; I’ve seen two of them die in races I’ve done. Maybe this was a way to keep the jinx off me.
Six months later, I’m watching TV in my library, and get a call from … Even Evensen. Now that’s a name you never forget, so I knew who he was. He was calling, he said, all the people who’d contributed, to thank them and give a progress update. He said he had pins in his back, and was going to get back on his feet, get riding again. “My goal is to do another Ironman”. I could say little except express sympathy and encouragement.
Then last year, I saw him in the race list. I worried, as usual, about the effect on MY chances, given he was more than an hour faster than me in Canada. He did not finish; his swim and bike were each a minute slower than mine that year.
As he went by I yelled, “I sent you money when you were laid up.”
He slowed up a bit (easy to do on the uphill slope), and asked “What’s your name?” I told him and he said, “Al, I will be forever grateful to all the people who supported me then. I’m just so glad to be back here again.”
“Well, you’re looking good. Keep it up!”
“Thank you so much for your help, and for remembering me.”
“Well, I thought at the time, ‘You know, there but for the grace of God…'”
Even pushed on up the hill. One guy at least in front of me. I assume there’s at least one other, maybe two, so I’m in 4th now, or worse I figure. And drop that thought, as it’s not helpful in moving on.
……….
One other bike in my AG passes me up that hill, but I keep to my plans. No pressure, just live with the heat, and set up for the run. Keep hydrated, fed, and positive. Don’t race other people, but find someone at a compatible speed to stay with. Don’t ever feel like you’re working. These are the tasks at hand, and take all of my attention while biking.
On the second lap, Richard Ling from our South Sound Tri club goes by, again on the first hill. Odd, as Richard is usually out of the water ahead of me in shorter races. He sees me first, and hollers, “Hey Al, you’re looking good.”
I think about asking about his swim. Knowing he’s really intent on success in this race, I keep the thought to myself. Instead, “How’s it going, Richard? You’re looking good up the hill.” He should – he’s about 3 inches and 20 pounds smaller than me, and can blast a sprint tri bike about two minutes faster than me.
“I’m doing OK, just sticking with the plan,” he says as he flies by. It’s baffling, but there he is, much farther back than he should be.
Soon after, Tom Herron motors on past me, saying hi. Tom is another guy I’ve corralled into this race. He’s an awesome runner, going 3:21 this year at Boston as a 50 y/o. For two years I’ve been trying to get him here, and finally he registered last September, just a week before entries closed. He’s got Kona speed in him, if he’d just believe in it. The bigger story, though, is his wife, who trains and races with him. She underwent foot surgery in January, and is back in the race now, doing her first ever Ironman (Tom did the Grand Columbian two years ago, finishing in a lonely 12 hours.)
“Go, Tom! Keep it up – you’re gonna break 11:30 easy the way you’re going.” Tom and Richard are both doctors, so they will tend to finish what they start.
……….
It’s usually about this time I start finding my own little peloton – sometimes we’re as small as two. Either I pick someone going just a teeny bit faster than me up a gentle slope, or (more often) I find myself gradually leapfrogging with another rider. Most often it’s either a woman, 35-50, or a guy 25-30. This year it’s a lad named “Kubiak”, who seems to be the only one who can hang with me as I step up the intensity out of the hills onto the Appleway flats. When we hit the Centennial bike path, I know I can get a little closer, as there is zero chance a motorcycle referee is going to follow us along here – no room. Then the dog track, where I often drop people, but he’s still hanging with me into Post Falls, and onto Pole Line road. Up the last hill to the aid station, and I wish him well as he goes by – “Enjoy the downhill tail wind up ahead”, and he says back “I’m sure I’ll see you again.”
And I do catch him, just at the bottom of Huetter Rd, and we cruise on in the last six miles along Seltice and Northwest Boulevard. I intentionally slow down the last two miles, and he floats on by one last time.
“Thanks for the company” I say, when what I really mean is “Glad to have someone to push me just ever so slightly, and to pull for me with that little Ironman Draft.”