Triblog

Ironman CdA 2006: Part II

Posted on February 4, 2020 by Al

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.”

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Ironman CdA 2006: Part I

Posted on February 3, 2020 by Al

PRE RACE PARANOIA

An Ironman is a bit like a wedding: “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue…”. I’ve got a lot of old rituals to keep, and I’m always trying out something new. Often, one forgets things, and borrows from friends, and I don’t know anyone who is perpetually upbeat about the whole affair – feeling down is part of the game.
Even though I’ve been at this game for 8 years now, the only things “old” in my equipment stash are my bike and shoes: both entering their seventh season. Of course the bike now sports new aerobars and wheels, and a new drive train (chain rings, bottom bracket, cassette), but I think this is the old part of my equation. Much of my attire is “new”: my red racing visor, sunglasses, tri top and shorts, runnings shoes and socks, biking “cooling” sleeves, and wet suit have each seen only 1-2 races before this Ironman. I’m using a coaching service (“borrowed” workouts?) for the first time in prep for Ironman Hawaii. And I’m still in my first year of my secret weapon, my Altipower hypoxicator, which uses blue soda lime crystals to suck out carbon dioxide in its rebreathing apparatus.

An Ironman is different from other triathlons, not only because of the daunting distance, but also because it introduces two or three new disciplines, in addition to swim, bike, run, and the transitions between them. Pacing, hydration, and nutrition are the keys to success on race day. Because every body’s needs for these are different, and vary depending on weather and terrain, one can’t always rely on experience to get them right on race day. Each Ironman is a learning opportunity, and the subtle balance among effort, drinking, and eating, so easy to understand and experiment with in shorter races, becomes an all-consuming obsession for the Ironman.

……….

Weather service predictions start to gain a little bit of accuracy about 6-12 days out. So the final two weeks before an Ironman, we all become weather seers, obsessing over the subtly changing forecasts as the day comes closer. By the weekend before, it became obvious that the unsettled, cooler weather regime of the previous 5 weeks would start to break down soon, and give way to a high pressure influence, raising temperatures above seasonal norms, and providing no cloud cover for our race. By Tuesday before, the back room discussion at the NWS confirmed that race day temps would be somewhere between 87 and 92 F, with the peak of the heat wave probably coming Sunday evening into Monday. This would also mean a morning wind in our faces as we pedaled back into town of the last 15 miles each loop of the bike leg. Those not prepared for this or understanding its effects on one’s race plans would risk a serious blow up starting about mile 85 in the bike, which would put their marathon times at grave risk.

While I am no fan of heat for this race, I have learned to make peace with it. Once again, as last year in Madison, I would be ready. I would not be one of those who pulled up short on the bike, or, worse let the heat conquer my concentration on the run. A whole series of obvious little tricks, systematically applied, would be my allies here. Water showers at every bike aid station. Strict attention to taking in about a quart of fluid every hour. Ice and sponges at every opportunity on the run. Little things like that were going to make a big difference on this day. Sun tan lotion in all the right places also helps. (Lesson #1 from this Ironman: when you switch from a one piece to a two piece race outfit, your lower back might get exposed – suntan lotion is needed there, just as much as on the nose and neck and backs of the shoulders.)

……….

The days before an Ironman flow by almost as an out of body experience. For most of us, we’re in a vacation environment, yet unable to relax and enjoy ourselves. I remember at the start of my family’s cross country bike trip, the night before feeling a sense that I was about to totally immerse myself into an unknown, hermetically sealed process, which would totally consume my every waking (and sleeping) hour. While this was a voluntary undertaking, trying to herd our 5-8 member group across 3400 miles on bikes with an RV in tow over two months seemed impossible to contemplate. Even one day at a time was hard to do. My sense of excitement and anticipation was overpowering – both the process and the end point required that we solve as yet unknown problems, and that we pay attention to mundane details with a religious fervor. Simply procuring and devouring food required the logistics of an army. Add to that keeping the RV gassed, watered and sewered, making sure bike tires were pumped, rendezvous were arranged and met, heat was dealt with, a place to sleep at night was found and arranged – the list of tasks was endless and Sisyphean. I know now that we finished, but at the start, while I was sure our goal was doable, I knew that its accomplishment would require total attention to the exclusion of the outside world, such as reading newspapers, paying bills, and learning math.

An Ironman, while only one day, requires much the same narrowing of focus, with the added thrill of knowing that your body is going to get seriously abused to the point of collapse. And you don’t really know how it will all come out.

So you turn to the only source of succor available – the other athletes. Knowing people who are actually racing, as opposed to friends/family who are on the other side of the looking glass, is a godsend. I’ve come to enjoy listening to all their tales of anxiety-spiked confidence ahead of time, and their delicious, devious explanations of just how their day went, and how it did or didn’t meet their expectations and goals. Everybody’s got a story at the Ironman, and they all want to tell it.

So I tried asking people what their plan was.

Exaggerated cool: “I’m just going to see what the day brings, try to enjoy myself, think of it as just a long training day.”

Obsessed with details: “What do you put in your special needs bag? I’m trying to figure out whether I need another 600 calories there, or if I can just go with the bananas and Gatorade for the whole bike ride. “I don’t really like Gu, I prefer PowerGel.”

Worried about missing the One Secret: “I saw that new aero water bottle people put behind the seat. Do you think that’s faster than a bottle between your aerobars?”

Angry at the world: “Why do they have us take our special needs bags all the way down THERE?”

Excessively Kona conscious: “Last year it took a 10:19 to qualify – with this heat and the higher numbers in the my age group, I think they’ll be one or two more slots. I just missed the roll down by two last year.”

And when they turned the question on me, here’s what I had to say, (somewhat sheepishly): “Well, I’ve already qualified for Kona at Wisconsin last year, and just did Boston, so I really only started training the third week in April. I’m only 7 weeks into my actual training program, and I’m just taking a one-week taper, so I’m going to experiment with some pacing and nutrition ideas for the heat.” Translation: I have no idea what I’m going to do, I hope I can find the motivation to actually Race when the hammer comes down in the marathon.

THE START

“Hey, Pat! You found me!” Among 2270 wetsuit-clad triathletes, what are the odds I would see my closest friend among them at the water’s edge just five minutes before the gun was due to go off? Probably quite good, as I’d also seen Richard, another compatriot from the South Sound Tri Club, coming out of the water just as I went in for my warm-up. An Ironman is really just a mobile small town, ratcheted into existence for 3 or 4 days every year.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Pat grinned back at me through his goggles and his greying mustache. He kept smiling. “You wouldn’t tell me where your secret starting spot was, but when I was out in the water, I looked back and saw this … gap in the crowd right here.”

‘Right here’ was about 20 yards from the far left edge of the start line, which extended several hundred meters to the right along the shoreline of Lake Coeur d’Alene. I had brought Pat out here yesterday morning, for his orientation swim, and explained about the “tri-modal” appearance of the start: a bunch at the far left, on the direct buoy line to the first turn, 800 meters away – these would be the ones who thought they had a chance to go real fast, and wanted the shortest route to keep their time down; a bunch in the middle, those who wanted to get a good start, but didn’t want to be in the melee along the buoy line; and a bunch at the far left, those who were simply afraid of being caught up in the chaos of a mass start in an Ironman Triathlon. The folks in bunches 2 and 3 hoped they would be free of turmoil as the gun went off, but their start would be cruel joke on them.

But Pat and I were starting in my secret spot, where few swimmers dared to go. Given the correct trajectory, our first 2-400 meters would be relatively calm, as long as we kept up a brisk pace. I’m sorry, but I won’t get any more specific than this about my spot, as it’s worked for me two years in a row, and I don’t want it to get too crowded in the future.

“No helicopter”, I shouted at Pat, who looked quizzically in the sky. “Usually at one of these things, they’ve got a helicopter overhead at this point, for pictures and TV shots. Makes me think I’m at a Really Big Race, when there’s a helicopter at the start.” What we got was the national anthem, a few quick breaths, and hand shake, and “Good Luck” to each other. Then the cannon boomed.

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Ironman Coeur d’Alene 2005

Posted on February 3, 2020 by Al

One of my last orphan posts…

Ironman USA – Coeur d’Alene June, 2005

I’ve been here before, but this time, I’m getting desperate. Last year I was fourth, and the top THREE got into the Hawaii Ironman World Championships at Kailua Kona – known to tri-geeks as “Kona”, or “Mecca” for those into religious metaphors. I’d already made my pilgrimage the year before, and now I want to get back on my own right.

I’d caught the bug for Ironman about 14 months into my triathlon career. In February, 2000, I was out on my “long run” one Sunday, and realised that the 13 miles I was doing (the longest I’d ever run in my life up to that point) seemed almost tolerable. I could actually envision running for 26.2 miles without dying or shredding my knees. So I went to the computer, and looked up “Ironman California”, which was to be held for the first time in May, near my sister’s home in North County San Diego. I discovered – horrors! – that the event was full. So I surfed around for another option, and found Ironman Florida, in Panama City, on the first weekend in November – just before election day, 2000. I registered, charged $300 to my credit card, and had a goal.

I came back humbled. I’d felt good for 9 hours – roughly through mile 10 of the run – and then the wheels came off. It took me 3 hours and 20 minutes to do the next 16 miles, half running and half walking. Even though I was only 2 years into my triathlon/running career, I felt a distinct bitterness, but also a sense of hope. I devised a Five Year Plan – a race by race timetable of how I would get my time down in order to qualify.

I had learned my lesson on registering for IM California, and had signed up in May for the 2001 race. I also signed up for the August 2001 Ironman Canada – figured, why not, Canada was closer, and racing there annually might give me a better shot. In Oceanside the next year (2001), I felt I was not yet ready to push the bike portion, and also was determined to not walk a step of the marathon. I rode 20 minutes slower than Florida, and ran one hour faster, not walking a step. Now, I figured, it was just a matter of getting the bike time down, while keeping my running stable.

Canada 2001 provided a further lesson in Ironman pacing. My bike time was back down to my Florida level, but the run was also at Florida speed. Hmm, something’s not working here, and my 5 year plan is going backwards!

For the next summer, IM California was off the books (somebody had died on the bike course, and the Marines – we biked in Camp Pendleton – didn’t want the intrusion anymore), so I’d signed up for IM USA in Lake Placid and Canada once again. Well-trained for Lake Placid, I didn’t race at all, due to my mother’s illness starting a week before the race. And Canada – a repeat of Florida and Canada ’01.

This brings us to 2003, and the inaugural running of IM USA – Coeur d’Alene. Now, by this time, I’d learned a bit about weather and racing. Specifically, let the temp go over about 62F, and/or let the sun come out full force, and my body (along with most others) starts to decompensate while running. It’s hard to get enough fluids in when the temperature goes up, to replace the body water and salt lost by the increased sweating. I’d begun to let this knowledge affect my mental preparation, becoming overly concerned with weather reports and race day conditions, when what I really should have been doing was learning how to acclimatize myself and pace myself so I could remain hydrated, and thus running (each mile I walk is AT LEAST 7 minutes slower than my slowest running pace). I also should have learned my lesson, preached by all tri coaches, and personified by me in California, that the true key to running faster in an Ironman is to be a better biker. Specifically, one must be a strong enough biker to go at an easy pace, so as to not be tired for the run.

IM CdA would give me a chance to prove myself on these two points, I hoped. Not. The weather, which had been cloudy and 65F up to five days before the race, rose by about 5-10 degrees each day, so much so that by the time I got to mile 80 on the bike, the thermometer was reading 98F, and I was baked. I had to get off and sit under the shade by the greyhound race track in Post Falls for five minutes to revive. I wobbled in to T2, saw my wife Cheryl broiling in the shade of an underpass, and quit. I didn’t see the point in trying to “run” in that heat. I already had my finisher’s medals and T-shirts from 4 IMs. Who knows what damage I’d do to try to get a fifth, having no chance to qualify for Kona, being one of the oldest in my age group.

Sensing some unfinished business, I signed up again for the next year. The weather was a bit better – mid 80s – and my pacing was a bit smarter. My bike time was halfway between California and the other three finishes I had, and my run time and finishing time likewise was halfway between them. But, I’d “aged up” and was now at the bottom of my age group, so my time was good for 4th place – a trophy, a “podium” finish (meaning I got to go on stage and shake Dave Scott’s hand), and the supreme disappointment of just missing a Kona slot.

So I signed up AGAIN for CdA, for 2005. By the time I got there, I was also signed up for IM Wisconsin for that fall, as a “back-up”. By this time, I’d developed a support group of like-minded athletes and friends, who kept my mind occupied during the lead up to the race.

IM CdA 2005 – The Race

World’s Shortest Race Report

Pre-race: cool, even showery. I forgot my jacket, and buy a cool looking bike one with the race logo. Everyone thinks it’s perfect for me; I’m a walking advertisement for the gear tent. Friday night’s pasta dinner is in the big tent. We go with about 10 folks from the SS Triathlon Club, siting in the back row. Loads of food, loads of jittery talk. Many first timers, who want to know what they can only learn by experience.

Saturday: we have the by now ritual lunch with the Manants, fresh from their dance camp, at the local Greek restaurant. In the PM, I start a new ritual – a giant sized Jamba Juice for dinner.

Race Day: Oops, it’s warming up, maybe into the 80s. Oh well, can’t win ’em all (but I’d like to win just once on the weather here). Sun rises about 5:30 this far north, this close to the solstice. Body mark, check bike, blah blah blah.

Swim: I head for my special spot – aiming directly for a large post about 50 yards into the course. It’s maybe 70 yards to the right of the direct buoy line; I figure no one will want to swim towards an obstacle they’ll have to swerve around. Plan works, I’m in clear water until about 400 yards in, then BOOM, I’m swamped by everyone to my right heading towards the buoys. Oh well, more chance for feet to follow. Idea is to cruise the swim, which I do in about 69 minutes, 8th in division, 1 minute slower than 5th. Third fastest T1and T2. Bike is a cruise for the first loop, a little work and drafting in the second, when it rains just a bit and I feel strong. 5:54, 5th in division, 12 minutes behind 4th. At this point, I’m in 5th place. On the run, which I do just under 4:30, I pass one guy, and am passed by another. My time is 3rd, 20 minutes behind second. That’s key, as the guy finishing second is the one who passed me in the run, and I finish 20 minutes and change behind him. I walk maybe 3-4 miles in the race, which just might translate into an extra 20 minutes.

I’m fourth overall, but I feel ecstatic. For the very first time, I can actually see HOW I might be able to get the improvement I need to qualify for Hawaii. The heat didn’t bother me this time, despite temps in the low 80s on the run – a combination of specific heat acclimatization (run when it’s hot!), psychological neglect of the impact, slower start, and increased hydration have brought my run time down 15 minutes from last year, with bike and swim times the same.

What I now see is just how slow I have to go at the start of the run to be able to (a) absorb enough fluid to stay reasonably hydrated and (b) run all of the miles, not just 22 of them. I felt good in the last four miles, enough to hug my wife at the turn into town coming off Lakeside Drive, and to then turn on some jets for the push through town to the finish. My mantra at the end of the race is I See How!

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Xterra World Championship, 2004

Posted on February 2, 2020 by Al

An orphaned post, from 2004, in which I reach my highest world championship finish ever, matched again in 2019…

Xterra World Championship Race 2004

In previous years, I have stayed at the host resort, the Outrigger (now a Marriott). The place is plush, set right on the ocean, with rolling lawns dropping from the low-slung hotel complex down to the lava rock shore. Two pools, restaurants, and a slew of ocean view and fronting rooms provide a totally packaged upscale experience. However, it’s a bit dated, and on either side, places like the Fairmont and the Westin have outclassed it. But it’s peaceful, and I remember many idle sunsets and mornings lounging at the water’s edge, reading and listening to the surf crunching against the rocky lava outcrops that define the shore.
There was always a wedding to watch most evenings, usually a few folks lined up beside a small cloth gazebo, just at sunset, with the poor minister looking away from the light show behind him, while the bride, groom, and lucky guests ogling the flamboyant triumph of the evening’s herald, totally wrapped up in nature’s show. Brides usually took off their shoes as soon as possible, and insisted on photos with the palms and clouds and surf and setting orb behind them.

But the place was costing too much, and the hotel had little to no provision for eating in the room, so this year, I searched for something a bit more reasonable. Wailea, where the race has been held nine years straight, is a planned community, all of a piece, each plot of land meeting exacting standards so it all fits together as seamlessly as Disney World. This was in reaction, I think, to the Wild West land rush that befell Kihei, just to the north, during the first explosion of Maui tourism. There, the old California/Florida model ruled: you buy the land, you build what you want. A beach front two lane road runs for miles north from Kihei almost to Maalea, all along an endless strip mall, Hawaii-style, with condos interspersed either on the shore, or just across the road. Not as cocooning an atmosphere, but a bit more alive, and a lot cheaper.

I chose a 2-3 story condo complex at the south end, right on the border with Wailea, for quick access to the race activities. For $95 a night, I got a 1 bedroom condo about 3 times the size of my previous hotel room, with a small, but full kitchen, a living room and balcony, from which the evening sunset was fully visible. Right across the street was King Kamaole beach, a sward of lawn ending in sand and lava stumps, to which I could repair for morning swims, snorkel expeditions, or evening sunset meditation. Sure, I didn’t feel quite so pampered, but neither did I feel swindled, or falsely luxurious.

Arriving five days in advance, and now fully acclimated from nearly two weeks on the Big Island, I tried out my new found sweat resistance on the Practice Course, a feeble attempt to re-create the actual conditions of the real race course, which is only open to bike travel on the day of the race. I seemed tuned, and ready to roll. My run training for my upcoming attempt at qualifying for the Boston Marathon in Sacramento 5 weeks later had me peaked perfectly for a short (less than 10K) finish to the grueling Maui course.

The swim was its usual self. Clear, warm and placid waters offer a soothing way to start the day. But the loss of our beach-side transition area to new construction resulted in a little mini-transition zone, about a foot square for each of us, where we could put shoes and whatever for the 1200 meter run up hill (gaining 300 feet) to the new, unified T1 and T2. I paced it easy, keeping my heart rate under control, and gradually gained ground on several more eager, younger racers, hitting T1 about mid-pack.
Immediately we’re into the outback up the desert-like lower slopes of Maui’s volcano. My new, dual suspension Specialized Epic, though heavier than my old carbon fiber Trek, goes up hill very briskly, and I walk in all the usual places, “Heartbreak Hill” chief among them.

I’ve got a few places on the race course I want to handle better this year, after three previous efforts left me beaten down by the terrain, heat, and searing sun. I want to ride all the way up “Ned’s Climb”, named for mountain biking’s elder statesman Ned Overend, who used this last sustained uphill to put away his rivals for two straight Xterra titles in the late 90’s. I want to be more aggressive on the downhills, and I want to put some more strength into the rolling middle section of the course. I succeed in all efforts, but I still fall 2 or 3 times on the clunky double fall line jeep roads, filled with instant potholes from disrupted melon sized jagged boulders. On my first fall, on a sharp left hand turn at the top of a steep climb heading down an equally steep descent, where I’ve run aground several previous times, I jiggle out of control trying to avoid a woman who’s having even more trouble than I am. I’m still in a pack of riders at this point, most of whom highly prize their downhill speed more than their legs and shoulders, and come careening around the corner yelling at me to get out of the way. I’m entangled with my bike, one foot still clipped in, writhing on my side feeling like my calf has been wrenched worse than any fall I’ve taken on a ski slope. I shout back, “You know, I could be lying here with a broken leg!” I get up, hobble back on the Epic, and slam my way down from rock to pit to dust bowl until I reach a flatter section. There, a race marshal on an ATV roars up, asking if I’m OK. Apparently, someone took my crack about a broken leg seriously.

Later, in the new section near the end, most riders have slowed down, but I’m still pumped. So pumped I arrive at a little squiggly section filled with baseball-sized rocks, that I had noted previously while doing practice runs. I felt confident I could scream through here. Taking it at a higher speed than the day before, my front wheel is twisted right out from under me, upending me once more. I grumble, “Aw shit”, feel a lump and blood start to rise from the front of my right calf, and leave it behind as I get on for the final 800 yards. The first 700 go just fine. The dirt road ends about 50 yards before the transition area, bouncing across a curb, then a paved road, and onto the grassy slope where we park our bikes. People are skidding to stops after about 25 yards on the grass, and I prepare for my exit. Just as I drop over the curb, a really loud bang comes from the rear wheel. I know my tire is instantly flat, so I hop off, planning to run my bike the last little bit. If you gotta blow, what better place to do it?

But the force of the tube’s explosion has ripped the tire completely off the rim, and as I start to roll down the hill, the tube and tire immediately become entangled with the chain and derailleur. Won’t move. So I hoist the bike on my shoulder, at the perfect place to be seen by the crowd, who cheer madly for this grey haired guy CARRYING his bike down the hill to the finish. I laugh, realising they think I’ve been running with it for some time. It’s actually a relief to do the last 100 yards this way.

T2 goes very quickly, despite being harassed by a camera crew who are fascinated by the tire destruction. I get out on the run, which I know starts with a couple of serious challenges. First, we go through a five foot diameter drainage pipe – who wants to bend over while trying to run at this point? Next, a series of 20% up hill grades, followed by a scramble down a slickrock gully onto the flats. Throughout this first 2.5 miles of the “run”, there is a helicopter circling over the desert scrub, high enough so there’s no backwash, but low enough to be really noisy. I love doing races where there are helicopters; usually I only see them at the start, and then they go way ahead to follow the leaders, and leave us mortals unseen. I feel like a pro as the thing dives in now and then to get some background shots for the Super Bowl Saturday CBS Sports Spectacular they air every year (but not the the Seattle market – KIRO there has an INFOMERCIAL in place of the race. Grrrr!) I’ve planned to run, no matter how slow, up each of the grades, knowing that all the uphill work comes early on, and there are no real beaches to drain me later. Out of the flats, I’m feeling good, and ready for the downhill – it follows a paved road to the beach, and everyone is running down the asphalt, relieved I guess to be out of the dust and Kiawe bushes. I notice that the side of the road is a thick grass strip. I hop the curb, and turn on the jets. This may be the fastest 3/4 mile I’ve ever run. I pass quite a few who are hobbling down the road, while I’m running as if I’m skiing a powder slope – soft like a down pillow it seems.

We go through the trees to a black and white pebbly beach, then a short bit along a tourist beach – which I actually RUN – and onto the seaside walking path in front of the resorts. Next, the final injustice of a cruelly sharp lava outcrop at water’s edge, then onto the grass of the Outrigger’s luau grounds, and into the finishing chute. I have achieved all my goals for this race: biked up Ned’s, pushed the rollers, fought my fear on the downhills, run the whole run, and beat my previous bike time by fifteen minutes. I check the clock as I enter the wall of cheers: 3:50! Nineteen minutes under my previous best, super even allowing for the easier run. I finally gave this course the race effort it deserves. I give a side saddle leap for the photo at the finish, accept my flower lei, and gratefully seek the shaded tent for water and food.

I sit in humble happiness for a few minutes, then go after my time card: 2nd place! Double wow! Of course, the guy who comes in third seeks me out, only to complain how he blew a tire and lost at least fifteen minutes trying to fix it. Welcome to the club, I think as I commiserate with him, feeding his belief that, but for the flat, he would have my second place medal today. Tough luck buddy, part of the race is being ready for all that comes your way. Avoiding flats and other mechanical difficulties is a big part of how you succeed.

I stumble across my buddy Chris from Vancouver, WA, who’s in the age group below me. He had caught me at the bottom of the downhill after Ned’s, then I passed him on the short uphills after that, but he went by for good and got about five minutes on me in the big final downhill. Geez, I wish I had the courage to go downhill faster! He has somehow come in first, and is feeling quite chipper as a result.

That night at the awards dinner, he and I sit at a front table along with a couple of other winners. I’m starting to warm up to the idea of getting in front of a national or international race and accepting an award for a job well down. This marks the third time I’ve been there (twice at this race), and each time feels like such a gift. I hope I don’t ever think I’m ENTITLED to a high placing. Getting here is such a complex effort of mind, muscle, emotion, hope and dreams. So many ways to stumble, so few times to feel self-fulfilled. Somehow, I’ve mastered Maui, at least this one time. I’ll take it with a big smile, I decide.

Posted in Hawaii Stories, Races, Triathlon Central | Comments Off

Ironman Music By The Lake: Coeur d’Alene 2004

Posted on January 31, 2020 by Al

This may be the strangest race report I ever wrote, before I ever had a blog to put it in. From 2004, my first Ironman podium, at Coeur d’Alene 2004…

“Let’s go down to the Lake and listen to music”. I ran into the room, looked at Cheryl, and grabbed the signal splitter and spare headphones.

At about 5:30, I’d started listening to “You Can Call Me Al”, my collection of mellower music burned to a CD especially for pre-Ironman use. I’d kept telling myself I would stop listening when a song I didn’t necessarily want to hear came up. I’d gone out on the front lawn of our B&B, the Barager House, splayed across the lush, new-cut grass, and plugged in. The set starts, oddly enough, with Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al”, there mostly for the title, although I especially like his phrasing on “duck down the alley way with some roly-poly little bat-faced girl”. But then I heard him sing “I need a photo-opportunity, I need a shot at redemption”. Well, what could be more apt, with Cheryl making my life a constant photo-op, and begging me a year ago to not leave Ironman racing with my DNF at Coeur d’Alene. Hmm. What’s next? A couple of piano chords, followed by Paul McCartney launching into “Once there was a way, to get back homeward … sleep … and I will sing a lullaby… Golden slumbers …” God, there comes a time about nine hours into the race, when all I want to do is just lie down and go to sleep; then, I realise that “Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time …” Don’t I know it. But why did you have to remind me? I thought I was listening to this music to FORGET about the race for a while, to relax before I have to work. “And in the middle of the celebrations, I break down … carry that weight a long time!” Well, at least they finish with “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make”. The best closing line to a career I ever heard.

What’s next? “The sky was falling, and streaked with blood” – Bruce Springsteen’s eulogy to the FDNY boys who went up and never came down, “Into the Fire”. Exactly where I’m going tomorrow. “May your strength give us strength, may your faith give us faith, may your hope give us hope, may your love give us love.” Enough to put tears in my eyes – but not yet; I know what’s coming later. But first, Mick and the boys, doing the two songs I always associate with the most improbable of comebacks, the Mariner summer of ’95: “Tumblin’ Dice” and “Sweet Virginia”. My father was visiting us that year, the last good one he had before he got really sick and died in December of ’96. It was the first sweet innocence of a pennant race for the former sad sacks of the diamond, who snuck into the playoffs a day after the season ended; and the last summer of strength I had with my dad, although at the time I didn’t know it. Each night, after the Mariners won (and they seemed to win every night that summer), I’d put these two songs on and go outside into the cool forest air, letting the music swirl around me and just wash the power of youth and guileless success all over me. My father, who never did see John Elway and the Broncos win the Super Bowl, after faithfully following them from Aspen the last 15 years of his life, seemed to take a detached amusement from the efforts of Ken Griffey, Randy Johnson, Alex Rodriquez, Edgar Martinez, and the others as they tried to work a miracle. Well, I told myself, I can’t stop yet – I’ll wait until the next song, if it’s not as good a memory boost as that.

Uh-oh, another piano intro, then Don Henley rasping, “Desperado… why don’t you come to your senses … these things that are pleasing you can hurt you somehow…” The song perfectly captures the world seen from a young 20-something male point of view; and yet, “your pain and your hunger are driving you home…” I mean, what is a 55 year-old man DOING this for, anyway? Well, maybe it’s because, “You’re losing all your highs and lows, ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away?” The cymbals clash, the strings crescendo and fade, and I realize, I’m never going to be able to turn it off on a song that doesn’t really get to me (after all, I did make this CD from songs I really, really like!), so I turn it off anyway, and go in to find Cheryl, take her down to the lake, and listen with her.

Dave’s sherpa, Chip, is sitting on the porch, staring dreamily at the steamy evening sky. Down here, Coeur d’Alene seems exactly like a sleepy Midwest town, one with big old houses, surrounded by now-giant trees planted when the homes were new. They crowd the air, shading the sun, keeping in only a hint of heat, enough to keep us in shorts and tank tops, to be sure, but not the searing sun up the hill by the big box stores. Chip smiles, whispering into the cell phone plastered on his ear. I wave, and find Cheryl just inside the scrolled screen door.

She says, “Sure”, like she’d been waiting all week for me to ask this. And now, the night before the race, at last, we get to hold hands and walk the block and a half down to the shore.

“What a great spot!” I murmur. “Why isn’t everybody staying at the Barager House?” We pass the tree where, the afternoon before, Dave Scott had set up for his interview with who knows which pro, for the OLN video airing who knows when come winter. A few steps later, we spy a VW pop-up EuroVan in a driveway, housing another Ironman hopeful. We aim across the alleyway, and onto the grassy slope at Lake’s edge. On the way down, I’ve been fiddling with the mini-plug splitter and two headphones we’ve brought. Finally, I get them working right, and we can both listen to the next track.

“A-wah-oo-wah; a-waa-oo-wah” syncopates through the velvet African barber-shop quartet harmonies, then Paul Simon incongruously croons, “She’s a rich girl, she don’t try to hide it, diamonds on the soles of her shoes. He’s a poor boy, empty as a pocket (empty as a pocket) [how does anybody come up with a phrase like that?!] he’s got nothing to lose… She’s got diamonds on the soles of her shoes …” This song has NOTHING to do with racing, but I love it – I wish I could write one-tenth as good as he did in this little New York minuet.

Next, applause, then “Wake up Maggie!”, and Rod Stewart does it un-plugged. Between his ragged voice and Henley’s, you could saw down a redwood. Everybody’s known a head-kicking, bed-wrecking girl like Maggie Mae. But what that has to do with my race, I have no idea. However, I feel tears start to well in my eyes, maybe because I married my Maggie Mae, or maybe because I know what’s coming up.

First, Bruce, doing a live version of “Living Proof”. This one opens up with a little boy crying in his mother’s arms, but not a ballad or lullaby, rather a pile driving rhythm to emphasize it: “On a summer night, in a dusty room, comes a little piece of the Lord’s undying light, crying like he swallowed the fiery moon … like the missing words to some prayer …” Kids. The ultimate expression of the permanence and value of the universe, an un-meltable glue between the two folks who made one. “I went down into the desert sand … trying to shed my skin, to burn out every trace of who I’ve been …” Hmm, maybe THAT’S why I’m doing this crazy race, or maybe, it’s just to remind myself I’m alive – Living Proof.

Then, the Gothic organ of Neil Young’s “Like A Hurricane”. This is it, I think, this is the message for me. I’m going to be “like a hurricane” tomorrow – swirling with awesome power around a calm center, a steady eye. Thanks, Neil. But my eyes swell up a bit more. Why, I wonder?

“Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ for a train”. Now, the way Janis Joplin rasps makes both Rod Stewart and Don Henley sound like a mellow version of Bing Crosby. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”. Yeah, if you worry about that, worry about the RESULT, then, you sure can’t be free to succeed. Who wouldn’t cry about Janis, leaving us with only 5 years’ worth of her songs and tears?

Uh-oh. Jungleland. Now, there is nothing on the PLANET that gets to me like Clarence Clemons’ sax solo here. EVERY time I hear that, I get transported. The version I’ve burnt on this disc is the live one, when it seems to take forever. I could live inside those notes, stop just outside of time and feel that rising breath, the backing band, Bruce’s melody transmuted by his sax player’s vision. Drums building with the horn, cymbals urging Clarence to hold it just one moment longer, to raise the bar and pour all his passion, power, memory, courage, grace and skill into that one note, into one perfect moment. When it comes, I drain the tears down each cheek. Because I’m lying down, they water the grass under my head. Cheryl notices, and wipes them away.

I reflect, as Bruce finishes his opera about the Rat and the Barefoot Girl, that I’ve seen some perfect moments – a book, a movie, a sentence, a scene – something where an artist’s skill, his entire history, his self-confidence, all come together to transmit directly on the emotional throughway – no thought, no knowledge, just pure feeling. An artist performing, in the end for himself, to satisfy himself, achieving what he always knew he had in him. I know I’ve got a perfect race in me; I know what it would feel like, to go as fast, as hard as I can (not at top speed, but at the RIGHT speed) for the entire journey, for however long it has to be. I’ve seen athletes morph into artists, so I know it can be done: Florence Griffith Joyner in her Olympic 100-meter win, only thirty steps or so, but each one perfect; Greg Louganis, converting his body into a torqueing, falling work of art. The speed, the achievement is not the goal; it’s the feeling of, “Yes. This time, this ONE time, I got it right. That’s what I can transform myself into, if only for this one race, this one moment in time”. Just like Clarence Clemons did for those three minutes with his saxophone.

I think this is the end of the disc, but … Paul’s piano pounds in, “When I find myself in times of trouble … speaking words of wisdom, Let It Be.” Let it be. Tomorrow, I can’t control things. I have to let it be.

We sit up. The sun still grazes over the slightly choppy water below us. Thunderclouds drift away from the hills across the bay, leaving pink and purple bruises in the sky. A seaplane rises from the resort dock, and circles to a low pass over the lake before heading south on a sunset cruise. Some kids to our left kick off their shoes and shirts, and race each other to the sand, jumping, splashing, shoving, then shrieking as they hit the water, quite cold compared to the air. A couple of wet-suited swimmers lap back and forth between Independence Point and our tree. They’re not in the race, or at least hiding their silver bracelets if they are. Seems like a perfect time and place to marshal my inner eye, and head for … what?

We get up and walk down to the point, where, in about 12 hours, 2000 ironman wannabes, and maybe five times that many volunteers and spectators will crowd the sidewalk and generate enough buzz to run all the Starbucks in town that day. I’m ready for my race, whatever it will bring.

Posted in Races, Triathlon Central, Wanna GoTo Kona | Comments Off

Fire Up Those Glutes!

Posted on January 21, 2020 by Al

An EN asked for help getting her glutes to fire when running. I took the opportunity to reflect back on how I have been attempting to resurrect my running while challenged by various lower limb difficulties…

Over the past four years, working with a couple of Physical Therapists and by myself, I’ve done a number of exercises designed to help with my lower core, which I define as hip flexors, Glutes, posas, and sartorious muscle groups. The whole idea was to add to the strength I already have in Quads, hamstrings, and Gluteus Maximus, to eliminate the pains I was having with high hamstring tendonitis and knee osteoarthritis. I also re-committed to weight training beyond the body weight work involved in exercises.

I am glad to say that today, I am finally better/stronger than I have been in the past four years. Here are the exercises I found most effective (in order of effectiveness):

• Single leg bridges. Work should be felt in the upper outer quarter of the butt.

• Something I call the bird dip. Stand on one leg, keep the other mostly straight. Lean forward at the waist, then lean back, extending beyond vertical. Imagine one of those office desk toys where a bird seems to continually dip its beak forward into water and bounces back.

• Single leg squats

• Hip raises: standing on one leg, drop the opposite hip and bring it back up again, using the upper/outer hip muscles of tghe leg you’re standing on.

• Leg press in the weight room. Can be squats, leg press sled, whatever. Getting to 2.9 x your body weight is the goal, but be careful not to exceed 90% flexion art the knee.

• Clam shells.

As for getting glutes to “fire”, I think the best way to do that is to run fast. Start with strides, and work up to short, hard intervals at better than 5k pace. Jogging along at an “all-day” pace is a sure-fire way to train the glutes they don’t have to fire. Making them work will wake them up.

Unless I had an actual broken bone (I guess I would put a torn ligament into that category as well, although it’s never happened to me), I have always found that running, weight lifting, and daily body work is the road to healing. “Rest” to me has always meant doing less volume, frequency and/or intensity. Persistence pays.

Posted in Injuries and Recovery, Training Diary | Comments Off

Ironman Wisconsin 2005

Posted on January 19, 2020 by Al

An orphaned post from 2005…my first Kona Qualification!

It’s hot. Baking, searing, tar bubbling, mind numbing hot. And it’s the day before another Ironman. But somehow, this time, finally, I’m calm about it. I knew a year ago when I signed up for Wisconsin, there was no reason for being here, for going to cow country in the humid midwestern late summer, no reason except to get to Kona. Of course, I’d studied the weather history: average daily maximum 73F, maybe a chance of rain. In 2003 and 2004, it had been upper 80s, almost 90. Surely there would be some break from the pattern, some allowance for my history: Florida in November melting like Iowa in August, two Canadas in the high country sun, Coeur d’Alene at 98F, and again at 88F, Xterra World’s in scorching 90F Kona winds (at that one, the women’s winner said afterwards she remembered nothing of the run, save counting to ten and starting over again, endlessly.) Surely, the triathlon weather gods would take note, and at least give me an average day.

As usual, I’d followed the National Weather Service web site’s daily discussion and forecast for the Madison area, for the last three weeks. I’d watched as the weather pattern changed from a mild, breezy prospect to ever higher chances of a sultry, center of a high pressure haze of a midwestern pavement egg fryer of a day, for Sunday only. On Saturday, I sat outside, granted in the shade, but trying for one last moment to convince my body that this weather was normal. Since May, I’d been doing all my long runs at the hottest times I could find. And I was sitting there, just trying to let it all go. Let go of any concern I had about what the temperature, or humidity might be. Let it all go except for the moments that I would find myself in tomorrow. Besides, didn’t I learn the secret at Coeur d’Alene in June? Hadn’t I discovered the last piece of the puzzle, the one remaining element I would need to take me over the top? The need to go whatever speed I must, given the conditions, to absorb the fluids and calories to make it to the end still running? It’s not about the bike, it’s not about the run, it is, the end, about having enough water and sugar to keep my muscles going for 12 hours, more or less. There is a complex trinomial equation here, solved only by actual experience, with the variables being weather (a combination itself of temperature, winds, and humidity), effort, and digestion.

In the evening, I add another little change to my routine, one I started in June at CdA. I go to Jamba Juice, and get the biggest smoothie they have, that is, the highest calorie shake available. I think it’s a “Peenya Coolata”, complete with banana and protein boost. 960 calories. This oughta clean me out, about as low fiber as I can get. In the morning, I plan to add yogurt, and an earlier Metabolol, to complete my high liquid plan for improved race day nutrition. I can’t give up on the oatmeal/brown sugar/raisin chaser though.

Morning, 9-11, 4:00 AM. It’s almost routine now: oatmeal, contacts, sun tan lotion, body glide, HR monitor, chip strap, powerskin suit. Almost no need to wear anything over that, its 73F already. Drive into town, find a parking spot downtown, and walk through body marking, special needs drop off, bike preparation (water, Perpetuum, Hammer Gel, computer reset), and T1/T2 bag check. This gives me a half hour to kill. I stretch, then lie down behind the chairs in the changing “tent” (actually a conference room inside the Monona Terrace Convention Center) to grab a few final tunes off my iPod. Amazing how there’s almost no one in here, while the place is mobbed everywhere else. At least TWO wives wander in with their husbands, while other men are stark raving nude. I guess they don’t have a clue.

Outside, I take a final stop at the porta pot, then sit down to put on the lower portion of my T1 wetsuit. It takes a good five or ten minutes to put on correctly. Then I head over to the downhill helix from the roof of the parking garage to the swim start. On the way, I run into the Professor (that’s what Larry, at the gym, calls him – his real name is Jonathon), who was doing his first Ironman. He’s my age, and I’d been watching him learn how to swim at the Bally’s pool where I do most of my training. He’d been following the Total Immersion method with all the little drills. But learning to swim in your fifties, learning how to swim for speed and endurance, that is, must be a very frustrating challenge. I know it’s taken me six or seven years to get a half way decent long distance stroke, and I spent my youth on swimming teams, and three years as a summer time coach. In any event, he was there with his wife, walking down the helix from the transition area to the swim start. I introduce myself, remind him of who I am, and we chat it up a bit. I tell him he’s ready, he should just stretch out and relax as he swims. Easy to say, hard to do, I know. I feel very calm, and in control, knowing just where I need to go, and what to do. My two piece De Soto wetsuit is great for this situation – the sun is already out, and walking along in just the bottoms keeps me cool. Past the timing mats, I ignore the plea to “keep moving into the water”. Mike Reilly has an urgency in his voice, sounding like they know they’ve got a bottleneck with over two thousand people having to pass thru a ten foot wide portal, then line up for the swim, all in less than 20 minutes. But I seem to glide right thru the crowds. Past the portal, I take the time to put on my top, strap on the goggles, and place my cap jauntily over my left ear, the one with the silicon ball in it, preventing waterlogging and deafness there. Once ready, it’s into the water, which is – you’d never guess – hot. They claim its 73 or 4, but I bet it’s closer to 78/9. I’ve never swum in a full suit, much less the warmer two piece DeSoto, in water this hot. I hope I don’t boil over.

The swim is two narrow counter-clockwise rectangles, 800 meters by 100 meters – plenty of space to the first buoy to allow us to sort out and avoid crowding ourselves. Just like in Coeur d’Alene, there is a broken spot in the middle of the line up. Here, they have a water ski jump platform about a third of the way across the start line. I line up just to its left, about one or two rows back – there seem to be about five rows worth of people, and, just like at CdA, more than half the crowd is way off the the right. In my spot, I hope to be protected for a bit by the jump platform from the swimmers angling in to the buoy line.

As it turns out, most of them stay over there. More and more triathletes, even experienced ones, seem to be avoiding the melee swim starts, and trying to get clear water. Me, I want to have people around me, just not on top of me. I sight off of them – sort of like “Ask the Audience” in “Who Wants to be a Millionaire”. Since it’s very hard to go against the general flow anyway, and since the sum of everyone else’s sighting is probably pretty accurate, I just look around me and try to avoid bumping into people on either side, unless they are obviously going cross-grain from the general direction of all the caps in front of me. And of course, I want to find some feet to swim behind.

It all works perfectly for this race. I don’t get bumped, I don’t get lost, I don’t work too hard, I find feet which pull me down each front and backstretch. The only thing is, I am HOT! So I feel like I’m going easy, not wanting to burn up. I get out at about 1:08:30, within my narrow range of 66.5 – 69.5 for the IM swim. My average heart rate, though, is not nominal – it is 141, way above my usual 131 for the swim. I don’t think I hurt anything by going at that pace – it felt easy, but my poor cardiovascular system was working overtime trying to keep my skin temp cool. Hopefully, water and evaporation will accomplish that on the bike, at least until it reaches 87F. Then, I know what happens.

T1. At IMMOO, this is all part of the fun. The transition goes up a spiral parking ramp, four levels, then inside to an air conditioned convention center, where the conference rooms have been commandeered for the changing areas. I walk up and out of the lake, and into the arms of a WAY over eager wet suit stripper. I have already taken off my top, and am in the process of trying slip my shoulder straps down. In a misguided effort to help, he grabs the narrow strap and gives a sharp tug, while I’m trying to tell him to just wait. He rips the thing off – I mean he literally RIPS my shoulder strap, luckily only in one place, not two. Next time, I’ll just take it off myself in the change tent, it’s faster. I’ve got to let that pass, though, as it’s in the past, and worrying about it after the fact won’t get my to the finish line any faster. I WALK to the base of the helix (everyone else is running), and then RUN up the helix, on the inside. Hard work, but I must pass 100 people while I’m doing it. My swim is at the front end of the top of the bell shaped curve – about 1-2 people get out of the water every second. Since my T1 time is less than 7 minutes, and most everyone else is 8-10, I may very well have passed more people here than I did on six hours of the bike.

The changing room is capacious, with plenty of seats, and quiet, too. I race to the chairs closest to the exit, dump my bag, don my helmet and glasses, pocket my pills, roll my socks onto my feet, grab my shoes and go, asking a volunteer to put my swim stuff into the bag. A quick pee at the sani-can on the way to the bikes (NEVER pass up a chance to pee in T1 at an Ironman!), I grab my bike and shift it to my right hand, still carrying my shoes on the left. This sucker is LONG! 2079 bikes along the narrow roof of the Monona parking structure. All the way to the top of the downhill helix. There, just before the timing mat, I stop with a couple of other smart guys and put my shoes on, walk over the mats, clip in, and roll down the hill. Like I said, under seven minutes, a minute better than I’d hoped, given the distance, climbing, and strangeness of this T1.

They call the Madison course a lollipop, or a stick and a loop. Ride out of town, a gentle up and down into Verona, then do two loops of a 38 mile course, and ride back to town the same way you came. The course has a reputation for hilliness, but in actual fact, there is first a gently rolling, rising section to Mt. Horab, a hillier middle section to Cross Plains, and then another easier ride back to Verona. Repeat. My plan to do all my long rides around home in Gig Harbor was the right idea. Our terrain is the same, but without any of the flatter parts! What I couldn’t replicate, of course, was the heat that day. The outward stick and first loop went along just fine – riding easy, I kept it at about 3 hours, without any strain, and looked on target for the 6:06 I’d planned on. But when the temp shot over 87F the second time thru Verona, I knew I needed to back off on the effort, or I’d never get the water and fuel I’d need for the rest of the day.

Apparently, many others didn’t understand this. More than 200 people were brought back from the bike course that day, having given up or broken down DURING the bike. I saw them passed out or just zonked on the side of the road, lying in the shade, looking not defeated, but just blank. I knew that feeling from CdA in 03, when I stopped for five minutes under a tree, and gave up after a 6:24 bike, not even starting the run. That race, in 98F weather, with less humidity, had the highest Ironman dropout rate – over 15%. That is, until Madison 05. Nearly 20% didn’t make it to the finish line today.

Me, I no longer feel like I’ve got something to prove, or demons to exorcise about quitting at CdA. Now, I do an Ironman a moment at a time. No past, no future, just an endless now. As the saying goes, when you wrestle a gorilla, you don’t stop when you want to, you stop when the gorilla wants to. I just try to pace and fuel myself at the level I know will work for what’s happening on this day. And thank goodness, I’ve experienced enough different conditions, and especially hot conditions, to know what that level is for almost anything up to steam room temps.

So I’m going slower on the bike, but keeping up with the Perpetuum, Hammer Gel, and Gatorade. A little water to top up, and a lot of water over my head. There is wind, but it is a loop, and for every head, there is a tail. And, the secret I’ve been saving – the stick back into town is mostly downhill, and more important, with the wind. I don’t speed, just use this to save some strength. Keep the pace going, and end up in T2 at about 2:42 PM, slower than I’ve ever been in my life. I’ve passed no one, and have not been passed, by anyone in my age group. And I don’t care. I just want to represent myself well for these conditions. In the end, I guess, I do have something to prove.

T2, while retracing our steps (without going back down to Lake level) in and out of the Convention Center, goes much faster. I unclip before going up the helix, pop off my bike at the top, and run inside in my socks. A volunteer grabs my bike and racks it for me. Inside, a quick pop of some pills (salt and Race Cap), on with the visor and wrist band (for my drippy nose), on with the shoes, an attempt at peeing, and out I go. Move the legs, make them run, get the thighs loosey goosey, the first mile is a gentle downhill. Aid station number one, improbably, comes about 4 minutes into the course. I start my pattern there: walk; Gatorade – chug; water – chug; water/ice, pour over head, down the front and back of tri suit; sponges – under shoulder straps of suit. At the second or third station, I switch from drinking water to drinking Coke. Every time I see chicken soup, I take it. When there’s shade, I take it. When there’s sun, I live with it. When there’s a hill, I slow up it. When it’s down – down I’m good at, I can actually make up time on most everyone going downhill. I think it’s the hills where I live, running them all the time, and the weight lifting to ward off the thigh pain.

I look forward to the big and little landmarks – the students on State Street, the huge Camp Randall football stadium we run thru, the railroad tracks, the path along the lake (with the “Penguin” aid station – my favorite, we pass it four times), the cop at the start of the second State out and back, who keeps giving us the Green Bay score – we pass him four times as well. Come to think of it, we pass most everything four times on this two loop course which is actually a series of out and backs repeated twice. Because it’s urban, there’s always something happening, something new to see. And all around me, the steady “plop, plop, plop” or “shuffle, shuffle, shuffle” of the other runners and walkers. There are two in particular I keep running into. One is an early twenties guy from the UW (Wisconsin), whom everybody calls “Bucky”. I finally figure out that Bucky is what they call their mascot, the Wisconsin Badgers. He runs some and walks some. In the last few miles, I pull away from him, after urging him to stay with me to the end. Another guy, late thirties, keeps passing me. I finally ask him what’s going on, and it turns out, while he’s obviously a faster runner than I am, he stops at EVERY porta pottie, peeing incessantly. Good for him, at least he’s well hydrated. We have what amounts to a five minute conversation over the course of four hours. And I also run away from him at the end.

I’ve got to confess something here. Remember Jimmy Carter? When he was running for President in 1976, he gave a Playboy interview, trying to humanize himself. Of course, they asked him about extra marital sex and he said, “Well, I HAVE lusted in my heart”. Meaning he was tempted, but remained true to Roslyn. Well, I was tempted by this course, but in the end remained true to the tri. There was a spot, along an out and back which was actually separated by a median strip of trees, and a little more than 1 mile total length. And, for some strange reason, there was no timing mat at the turn around, like there was at State Street. One could theoretically stop at the start of the out and back, where there was an aid station, pop into the porta pottie, wait a minute, and then SKIP the out and back, saving 10-20 minutes (depending on if you did it once or twice). Lord, it looked tempting. When I pulled up to the “T” the second time thru, I checked it all out, after having realised the first time thru the lack of timing mat. I planned my ruse, and thought how it all might be feasible. But when it came time to actually do it, I was feeling better and better. The run was getting EASIER. I lusted in my heart, but only there. I loyally ran down to the end of the path, turned around, and came back to the T.

Now I had less than five miles to go. Back to the Stadium. Back to the spiral staircase/pedestrian overpass at the hospital on Park. Back to the bohemian student neighborhoods. With three miles to go, I started to think about turning on the jets. I gave it a go when I saw someone ahead I thought was in my age group, who seemed to be going slower than me. As a matter of fact, I KNEW he was in my age group, as I’d read his number on an out and back. The fact that he might only be on his first lap occurred to me, but didn’t stop me – I was going to catch him. In the end, a bad choice – I only had a mile and a half of fuel in the jets, and had to labor to make it up the hill to the Capitol, around the corner, and down the finishing chute. 12:33, my slowest Ironman ever. But, I felt good, proud, and strangely happy. I’d negative split the run (second half faster than the first), and kept up with my nutrition and fuel, and conquered whatever psychological demons I may have had about racing in the heat.

At the feeding tent, I met up with the bathroom guy, and we shared war stories for a bit. I was sitting with my top down, my skin gasping for some coolness now that the sun was well and gone. Eventually, I made my way to the results computer. I found my name, and read my place. FOURTH! DAMN, I’M GETTING TIRED OF THAT NUMBER. Three times in a row now I’ve been fourth at an Ironman, finishing just out of the Kona circle. Yeah, I get to go on stage, get a plaque, and some free socks and wrist bands. So that feels good, but I REALLY WANT TO GO TO KONA, YA KNOW!

Oh well, I’ll get over it. I think I’m still making progress, and I can take what I’ve learned here into Idaho next summer, and vault up another 20 minutes, who knows? Give it one more shot and all. God, I’m such a junkie.

…

The next morning, I take another look at the results, trying to fathom whether there’s any hope the first two guys might not take a slot. But before I plunge into the details, I send off an email to my family: “Thank you guys for caring about my Ironman performance, and following me even though you were not here. Being here all alone makes it even tougher than the race (and the weather) already are. The rigors of the event require me to suppress emotions for so long, through stuff that I really want to break down about. Knowing that you’re behind me, no matter what, helps carry me on.”

Checking out the results, I notice first all the dropouts. Then, I see I’m 399 – both the highest overall finish for me in an Ironman, and my highest percentage finish as well. My swim is good, my run fantastic relative to the field. In my age group, I have the third fastest swim (#2 didn’t finish), the sixth fastest bike (# 1 & 5 DNF), the fourth fastest run, and the fastest overall transitions. Not bad. But, the first guy (who swam 58 minutes!) is from Appleton, and, more important, the second is from Mexico. Why would anybody come here from Mexico, finish second, and not take a Kona slot? I mentally give it up (writing an email to the tri club back home), and head on to the awards banquet. There, the people at my table, who at first had seen me as just an anonymous old guy, after I get my stuff on stage, are now all, “Wow, can I see that?”. They seem genuinely impressed by my effort. I know that the FIFTH guy was an HOUR behind me, and all I did was survive. No racing here.

As the meal ends, I notice Jonathon a few chairs away. We chat again, He’d dropped out on the bike. He thinks maybe he’ll try again, but at Vineman, not CdA (which is STILL open to registration). I talk about my resignation over Kona, but as Marc Roy announces the start of the roll down, I tell him, “Well, I’m going to go over there and see, just as a matter of course. But I don’t think there’s a chance”. I don’t tell him that I’d overheard the first and third place guys (or what I thought were the first and third place guys) talking about the third place guy’s chances at a roll down slot. I assumed the first place guy, from what he was saying, was going. I totally spaced on the fact that the guy from Mexico was not there. Or maybe I thought he’d signed up, but had to catch a plane.

I sit down near the roll down table. The pros roll way down, of course. People either have slots, or don’t want to go. The 30-35 year old guys is a killer. About six slots go untaken, and after five are snapped up early on, Marc starts calling out names and numbers with no response. He gets up to 16 or something, and I mumble – this one’s not going to get snapped up – nobody this low is going to be here. Maybe … but, WHOA, number seventeen grabs it, it rolls down 9 slots I think. What a break for that guy! He got the roll down gods’ pixie dust today.

Up towards the older age groups, with fewer slots and more free time, there are no roll downs, so Marc quickly gets to “Men’s 55-59, there are two slots, neither was taken, so they roll down to …” Now Marc is all business about this, no smiling, totally deadpan when he does this (same thing every race for this guy – he’s BORED with the roll down), so there is no excitement or drum roll except inside my brain, where fireworks are going off. I’m having trouble thinking, “Did he actually say NEITHER was taken, oh my god he did say that, it’s me, I got it I got it I GOT IT.” “Yowzah” I shout out loud as he starts my name and I run up to grab my certificate and break out a beatific beaming smile.

Now, of course, I have to go thru the rigorously confusing registration process in order to lock in my spot. They give us a packet of stuff, including a product brochure, which a guy from some foreign country looks at, and starts filling out. It’s just an order form for T-Shirts, not the actual registration, for god’s sake! To do that we have to wander over to the table where people are paying their money for the opportunity to later sign up on line. (Like I said). The instruction sheet is ominous: “After 30 days from the date of your qualifying race your application will only be available on line at this specific link … [fractured your syntax, did you?] … Once your application becomes available online, you have only 15 days to complete your application or you will forfeit your slot …” I just got in by the skin of my teeth, and now they’re threatening to dump me? And on and on (the grim story of this process is found here). In any event, what I have to do now is find the place to pay $485 (check, cash or money order only) so I can get my highly secret and most valuable Certificate Number, which will be my secret code to actually register for the damn thing.

For the past five years, I have been taking with me to every Ironman a now-tattered envelope containing a blank check and a passport photo. Back in the day, you needed to submit a photo when you registered, so they could check it against the you who registered, and the you who showed up at the race. Seems some people were paying other faster racers for qualifying spots, either just for the $, or because the qualifier already had a spot. And they so want to be “fair” in their allocation of slots. Don’t talk to me about E-Bay auctions, the “CEO Challenge”, and sob stories for the NBC Ironman show. If Kona slots are so precious and sacred, why do they throw those things around? Anyway, I’d always assumed lightning might strike and I could get in. But it took four years of doing the miles to translate my speed into the endurance to get near a roll down. I faithfully took the check and photo (now no longer needed) to each race, and felt a little sad when it went home unused to rest in the “Triathlon” folder in my drawer again. This morning, after looking at the results, I ALMOST went to the awards lunch without it, figuring I had no chance and why carry around the symbol of my frustration? But I tucked it into my shirt pocket at the last minute, thinking, hey, you’ve been dreaming this long, don’t stop yet.

So here I am, waiting with a couple of other lucky souls at the round table where Paula Newby-Fraser and Sherry Bramblett are ready to take my money. Paula (natch) has more people lined up by her, so I sit by Sherry, fill out the check, give her my particulars, and snatch the precious certificate, with the magic number “IM-0108” on it. This I won’t ever forget or lose, I vow, until I’m old and grey (which I already am, so who knows?)

I float out of the ballroom, and wander around the Monona Terrace, knowing I have to talk to SOMEBODY, but not knowing whom. I make it to my car in the parking structure, overlooking the lake. It is WARM here, still, even in the shade. I drop off my stuff, cruise into the corner to catch a breeze, and whip out my cellphone.

Cheryl first. I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times now, and it’s always the same, but this time, it’s extra special, because I’ve already told her the result, and she’s got NO IDEA what I’m about to say, which is something on the order of “Guess what, we’re going to KONA!”, and then, of course, I well up with a lump in my throat, and she’s so happy to hear it, she knows more than anyone what this means to me. I go on through Shaine in Connecticut, and Cody in Seattle, and Leigh in Cardiff, and they’re all there, and they all want to come. I realise that a big part of why I’m so happy is that I get to be an excuse for anyone who wants to come to the island of Hawaii and have a big party. Annie, of course, is in school, so when I get back inside, I sit down and log in to the free wireless in the Center, to let her in on the secret. Then I remember the South Sound Tri Club, to whom I’d sent the race report, and give them an update:

“Well, the roll down gods shined on me this time, and I’m going to the Big Dance in Kona, 2006.

Thanks to everyone who has helped and supported me this year as I’ve gunned for this spot, especially Andy, Richard, and Don Hoover. Also, thanks to Tom Herron and Pat and Joan for believing in and encouraging me over the years.

After yesterday, at least I know what the conditions will be like – the IM gurus all said the conditions were more than “Kona-like” – gusty winds and temps up to 94F.”

Next, I head to the Ironman Store, before they break it down and head for home. I snag a Finisher’s vest, and scoot downstairs to the photo shop. They have shut down and are packing for home, but I talk the head clerk into showing me my shots. I buy a bike pic, and pass on the finish line – who wants to see his worst time ever.

Down here in the soon-to-be empty meeting room, which faces floor to ceiling windows right at lake level, I call Cheryl up again to try to mellow down. The photo folks are carting their boxes out the door at the opposite end of the room, and the reps for the next meeting are moving through, planning where to put their tables and charts. The carpet and drapes mute this all to whispers, and Cheryl pops on the line.

“You know”, she says, “I’m thinking how lucky our kids are to have seen you go all the way through this. They were all really too young to see you working your way to become Medical Director, what it took in terms of luck, and opportunity and perseverance and ambition. This time, they’ve seen you go from nothing – you know, we all went up there to Goodman that New Year’s day when you did your first run. And saw how hard you had to work to become a runner, and how disciplined you had to be to train for an Ironman. They saw your ambition grow, and heard you announce your plans and your goals. Went through all the successes and failures up to now. And this seems so perfect a way to get in, because, really, most good things have more than a little luck behind them. You worked hard, you had your goal, and then you had your luck, too. I hope they all learn something from this.”

I sure have.

Posted in Races, Training Diary | Comments Off

STP In One Day – VIP Style

Posted on January 18, 2020 by Al

Another orphaned post…

Seattle to Portland Bicycle Classic – a venerable 200 mile bike ride from, you guessed it, Seattle WA to Portland OR. It’s been around since the late 70s, and every year attracts thousands of two wheel aficionados. It’s viewed as a rite of passage for Northwest cyclists; whenever two or three are gathered together, they will always want to know, “Well, have you done the STP?” Once your bona fides are established, then you’re asked, “One day or two?”

Because, you see, the ride starts at 4:45 AM from the University of Washington Husky Stadium parking lot, for those going the whole way in one day, and 15 minutes later for those staying overnight along the way. It is quite macho among beginner/intermediate cyclists to be seen as someone who can go 200 miles at one sitting, although why one would want to sit for 10-16 hours on a bike is quite beyond me. The one time I did the formal ride, I did it in one day. But because it was actually the GHTP (Gig Harbor to Portland), my distance was about 175 mi, in about 11 hours. Way boring, resulting in a semi-sprained ankle from overuse. Of course, the fact that I had done TWO half Ironman races in the previous two weeks had nothing to do with that. My son was starting Reed College, in Portland, in the fall, and he and my wife drove down there to check out the area one last time that weekend, giving me a ride home.

The usual ride follows a route avoiding most hills along the way, and incorporates a number of rest stops, about every 20-40 miles. Long pace lines develop, seeded by bike clubs who train all winter and spring for the event. They roll down the highway with about 5-15 trading the lead, and sometimes twice that many sucking along behind. For the two day riders, belongings are trucked half way to Centralia/Chehalis, for camping or moteling Saturday night. Once in Portland, you are on your own for the return trip.

A few years ago, my company, Group Health Cooperative and our associated medical group, took over the title sponsorship of the ride. This year, a local TV personality, John Curley of the Evening Magazine, decided to devote one night’s segment to the STP. Now, Curley is famous for being an “Everyman”, trying activities which the rest of us would like to do, but don’t have the resources or time to attempt, like sky diving, entering a frog jumping contest, or, in this case, riding the STP in One Day.

This being television, there had to be (a) commercial tie ins and (b) a human interest story. The commercial tie ins included: Soft Ride bicycles, who would provide Curley with his bike (their rep riding with him); the Cascade Bicycle club, who provided some race team members and route finders; and Group Health, who provided a mess of doctors and our own cycling team (women’s). The human interest was two fold. First, would Curley make it all the way in one day without breaking down? Second, they filmed (at another place and time) the story of a benighted family who tried tackling the Oregon Coast on recumbents for their first ever extended bike tour (what this had to do with the STP I never did figure out.)

I somehow parlayed my past life as the Cooperative’s Medical Director, and my current reputation as a serious biker into a spot as a hanger-on/supercargo. After a couple of group rides to establish my ability to draft as well as anyone at 19 mph, I met up with another GHC doc from Tacoma at 3:45, and headed thru the morning mist to UW. There, it was dark and raining. We slowly coalesced, and under the glare of the parking lot lights and the TV spots, we slowly picked up steam towards the Montlake cut.

Our entourage included the aforementioned cycling teams (GHC and Cascade); a guide car from Cascade; the KING5 minivan with cameraman, sound guy, producer, etc; GHC’s cycle team trailer and union driver; Damien, the guy from PR/Marketing in charge of GHC’s bicycle initiatives, driving a sag wagon; and a mechanic’s car, filled with wheels, tubes, pumps, and (we would learn) the endless conversation of a chain smoking mechanic. And, oh yes, about 15 GHC docs and managers, desperate to participate in this magic media event.

Since I had the Coeur d’Alene Ironman coming up in two weeks, my plan was to bike no more than 140 miles, and hopefully no less than 120, but in segments, not at one stretch. I figured 60/50/30 would do just fine for me. The first segment went well, through a sleepy Sunday morning along Lake Washington and down towards Renton/Kent/Auburn. Near Peasley Canyon on the Valley Highway, we approached a traffic light, turned red. I thought I could get my jacket off, rolled up, and around my waist before it turned green (the morning’s rain had turned to a warming day, and I was starting to feel a bit sweaty). We’d been doing a good imitation of a peloton for most of the day, or maybe a lead pack and following group, but we were all together for these first few hours. I had the jacket half off when the light turned green, and everyone else rode on. I figured, how fast can these guys be, I’m an IRONMAN, for crying out loud, I just did an Olympic Distance triathlon the weekend before, 40 K at 22 mph. I forgot that was on my TT bike with race day clothes and taper. They had a 30 second head start, and while I could match their speed, I never could catch them. And they were certainly less tired than I was. The GHC sag wagon rolled up, asked me if I wanted to ride, I said, “No, why don’t I just draft behind you?”

They didn’t tell me they’d never followed a bike tour before, much less had any experience with motor pacing. Which was OK, because while I’d seen “Breaking Away”, and watched the Tour de France for a decade, I myself had never actually ridden fast behind a vehicle before. The were driving a standard van, so they provided a fair wind shield. One guy looked out the rear window; Damien, the driver, watched nervously in both his rear view mirrors. At about 22-24 mph, on the flat road, I was spinning my wheels easily, like there was NO CHAIN. This was pretty cool, as long as Damien didn’t slow down suddenly, and I didn’t try to speed up.

We managed to survive our mutual inexperience. As easy as the pedaling was, it had been quite nerve-racking, so I was glad to get back to the more friendly environment of a pack of cyclists. We bounced through the rutted streets of Sumner to our first pit stop. The GHC cycling women were all decked out in their team colors, including windbreakers and shorts with “Group Health Cycling” along the thighs across the upper hips. Now, the rest of us had been given GHC cycling jerseys, and free GHC water bottles, but I wanted the full kit. I asked one of them how I could get some of the shorts. She said, “Well, I think first you’d have to be a woman.”

“Um, I’m a gynecologist; does that count for anything?”

She looked non-plussed, and drifted away warily.

Curley was outfitted in a bright red cycling jersey with his name in five inch high caps across the back. Just so the camera would know where he was at all times, I guess, or maybe he really did have an ego that big. The whole point of this ride, we were told, the reason GHC was putting over $10,000 into the event (remember the commercial tie in – nothing’s free!), was to get Curley to Portland in one day, riding the whole way. I suppose they could have put him into the van and driven him from set-up shot to set-up shot, but the man has some pride (and some chops). It was clear he was not only going to ride the whole way, but he was going to do it at a serious pace.

So off we went to our rendezvous with The Hill. There is one hill of note on the STP, about 350 vertical feet over a mile and a half or so, south of the Puyallup valley to the top of (inventive name here) South Hill. As hills will do, the group was separated into the climbers and the posers. On this day, I was a poser, and chugged in with the stragglers to an impromptu rest stop up on the plateau. By this time, several of us had learned the value of the one tandem we had with us, and quickly fell in behind that duo. Biking near them was a bit strange, and they had helmets with built in radios, and were constantly talking to each other at a very soft level, unlike the elevated decibels bikers often use to overcome the wind and traffic noise around them. It was un-nerving to feel them glide past, each whispering a bit like someone on a semi-secret cell phone conversation.

About 65 miles into the ride, we crossed the “Y” in south Parkland, where highway 7 splits to the east, and a narrower road shoots along the edge of Fort Lewis. Somewhere in there, my bike started developing chain/cassette issues. Rather than worry myself over trying to fix it, and then catching the group again, I just hopped a ride with the mechanic, who eventually found the time to jimmy a fix for the stuck chain. However, I did have to endure his stream-of-consciousness monologue, which went something like this:

“Jeez, these guys are worse than the race I followed last weekend. We did that one in our regular mechanical van. I’ve got everything I need in it; I keep it all organized, and can always find whatever I need. We lost that one though, because the IDIOTS running the race suddenly STOPPED in the middle of the road when the peloton got to the bottom of the hill, they didn’t even flag or signal or anything like anybody normally would to, those guys must NEVER have followed a race before I had to swerve off the shoulder just so I could keep going cause I NEVER get caught way behind the racers they depend on me, and if they get a mechanical, well, they EXPECT me to be there to get them going again, whether its a wheel or a chain, or a derailleur, or whatever, so I had to [here he lit up another Marlboro] swerve through a ditch off the side of the road into some farmer’s FIELD and hit a patch of potholes in the dirt from the COWS or something [pause for breath] – know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I was in a race once when…”

He was asking but he wasn’t listening: “So I popped out the differential in our van, they’ve STILL got it in the shop and those guys at the race, that race director, he just won’t admit any responsibility so I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it, I mean, the shop just basically VOLUNTEERS me and the van on the weekends for the races, I don’t think they get any useful advertising out of it, but hey, I LIKE to follow races, I’m GOOD at it, and the racers come to EXPECT me to be there, you know what I mean?”

I didn’t, but I didn’t dare tell him, for fear I might miss his drift.

“But like I said, these guys are even worse this week, they don’t seem to have a plan, but what do I care, at least we’re getting PAID this week, and this rental they’ve got me in is covered too, but so what, ‘cause it doesn’t have near the room the van does, so that’s why I don’t have an extra chain for you. I think I can get it going the next time we stop.”

Well, that he did, but by the time he fixed things on my rig, the peloton was at least five miles up the road, so I hitched another ride with the Group Health union driver, in a dually pick up pulling the GHC women’s cycling team’s logoed trailer for our bikes. This burly, bearded guy, all smiles (who wouldn’t smile at time and a half, and double time over eight hours on the weekend!) gently placed my bike along one wall, bungeed it tight, and covered it with a quilted moving van blanket. I shared the cab with one of the women’s cycling team members, who was trying out her injured knee with bad results, and so she sat morosely silent along the second row of seats, pondering the breakdown of her body.

Looking ahead, I noticed a clot of our riders milling about a grassy verge along the edge of a newly built mini-mall. “Umm, something’s happened there, I think we better stop.”

The driver pulled into the side street, effectively blocking not only it, but also the entrance into the mall with his truck and trailer combo.

The riders surrounded a downed colleague, who lay dazed, helmet-less, on the grass, blood oozing from a head wound. Piecing together the story, it seemed like one of our docs had suffered a freakish accident. He’d been riding with two others, who had been stopped by the light about 100 yards behind. When they didn’t answer his call, he looked back over his shoulder, trying to locate them. His front wheel had clipped the curb. Now, this should have been just a minor accident – the curb fell down from a wide, soft grassy shoulder, and his landing would have been almost pleasant, except for the street lamp planted in the exact spot where he jumped the curb. Looking backwards at the time, he never saw it, and managed to hit it full on with his helmet. The long and the short: his day was done, the medics were called, and he visited the ER with one of our tag alongs, the official crew physician, who was indeed an MD, but also the wife of one of our riders. After about 45 minutes to sort this all out, we were on the road again. All this happened out of sight of the King5 cameras, so the viewing public was thankfully shielded from the gruesome event.

Serendipitously, this allowed me to jump back into the ride, and on we went to our half-way stop. There, while the rest of us stoked up on food and fuel, John Curley paced under the shade trees in front of a frantically trolling camera and sound crew. Exuberantly exclaiming to his unseen audience, he tried to look at once exhausted from our century ride, and enthused, full of an eager anticipation for the next hundred miles. What he really felt, I’ll never know, as his game plan from the start was to make sure the viewing audience saw him suffer. Kind of hard to do, when the producer keeps fluffing your hair up from the helmeted mess it had become, and powdering the sweat off your face. That reminded me to lather on the sun screen, as I had taken off the sleeves and leggings at this stop – the sun had come out, and, 100 miles south of Seattle, it was starting to warm up in a serious, mid-June sort of way. Remarkably, no one else seemed to have remembered sunscreen. Either they were all serious, early morning only riders, or they had labored too long in the Northwest’s gloom to consider the possibility of excessive exposure on this all day jaunt. Whatever; for a few breathless moments, I was a hero. For naught, it turned out, as the rest of the day was spent either in the shade, or under scudding clouds.

Over the next fifty miles, we wound amidst the rolling wooded valleys south of Chehalis. I put in another 30 or so miles, saving my final set for the end of the trip down the Columbia into Portland. After I’d popped back into the mechanic’s van for a 2 hour rest, we crept up on several stragglers, sweeping them back to Damien’s van for a well-deserved breather. Our modus operandus was to have a “pace” car at the front of the peloton, ostensibly for route finding purposes, although the Cascade boys certainly knew they way by heart. Then the peloton, smoothly rolling at about 19-21 mph, followed by the stragglers, the mechanic, Damien’s sag wagon, and finally, the trailer. In the earlier morning hours, the roads had been quite deserted, and this had posed no traffic hazards. Now, however, the Sunday drivers were out in force, and we become a rolling bottleneck, so much so that people had complained to the State Patrol.

The sharp-eyed mechanic noticed this immediately, and pulled off to the side before the cops could stop him. The bubble tops did, however, make threatening noises to the others in our caravan. The gas powered members all stopped at the side of the road; the human powered vehicles floated on, oblivious. I sidled out to Damien, ostensibly the leader (at least, he was the one who’d have to cover any fines for driving to slow, endangering traffic, etc.

I’d had a bit of experience at vehicle supported group rides, so I suggested the obvious: “You know, you should just “leap frog.”

Quizzical stares greeted me.

I went on, “Just let the peloton go ahead. We’ve got multiple vehicles, and numerous cell phones. Send someone on ahead to the next planned stop to wait, and keep one or more of the other cars at the rear, leaving in time to pull into the rest stop just as the bikers are expected to get there. That way, you can sweep up anybody who has a mechanical or needs to ride the sag.”

They chewed on that awhile, and finally figured it out. I asked to be taken up ahead to the next meeting spot, about 35 miles from the finish. Two others tagged along. My plan was to cruise down US 30 into Portland, and arrive there just as the peloton got to the City Limits. Our little crew headed off, in a semblance of a pace line. My two pace mates were noble, but fatigued. After 10 miles of a decent speed, it turned out that I was the only one with any gas left, and had to pull them the rest of the way into town. And even then, I was motoring along at about 85% of the effort level I would use in, say, an Ironman’s 112 mile bike portion. Probably just what I should be doing, with Coeur d’Alene only two weeks away.

We took a pit stop at a little roadside rest about six miles out, to check the map one last time, and, frankly, give the other two a breather. Then back through the final industrial outskirts into the maze of off ramps leading into the city center. There, we got terminally confused, looking for help from out woefully underpowered STP map kit. I gazed wildly around, trying to figure out just where we were, when I saw the lead car come rising over the hill like a black helicopter. Behind them, the 20 remaining members of our STP in one day team. Perfection!

Our little group merged with the big one, and we spent five minutes or so climbing up to the park where we declared ourselves “Done”. Curley had a tearful reunion with his wife, filmed another five minutes or so, and took off with his family for wherever it is TV personalities go when they’ve ridden 200 miles in about 12 hours. The rest of us couldn’t quite believe we had no more miles to ride. For some, it was a first time experience, and they were, naturally and deservedly, quite pleased with themselves. For others, it was just “Like, where’s the showers you promised, Matt” and “What about the pizza, Damien” and “Why can’t we just get on the bus now?” But there were bikes to load, bags to retrieve, and rides home to organize.

The motor coach was idling, waiting for our tired bodies, to take us several blocks to the Y for showers. Damien scooted off to gather the pizzas. We tumbled up to the entrance of the health club. The bus wheezed, then left the parking lot.

“Where’s he going?”

“To get gas”

“What?! You mean they didn’t fill up BEFORE they came to get us – how dumb is that?”

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back by the time we shower and get the pizza.”

Inside, the front desk attendant started having each of us fill out a guest form, clearly designed as part of the sales pitch package. It seemed a bit much just to take a shower, but they lamely explained it was for “insurance purposes”. Those poor guys – insurance companies, I mean (after all, Group Health IS one, amongst other things) – they have to take the blame for everything. After the first three or four started writing, the rest of us formed a critical mass of resistance to bureaucratic authority, and just strolled right on in while the obviously outnumbered front desk staff gamely tried to deal with each individual one at a time.

“Oh, OK, just show me your ID as you go by,” he said, giving up.

Once showered, we wandered back out to the front, and collectively frowned when we saw (a) no bus and (b) NO PIZZA. Luckily, the beleaguered front desk guy started bringing us folding chairs so we could at least sit down. While we formed two circles, Damien drove up and, sliding back the doors of his van, unloaded about fifty boxes of pizzas and drinks. Two dozen of us managed to go through almost all the food and drink in less than 15 minutes. Still no bus, though.

Turns out he went BACK TO THE BASE to fill the gas tank (company policy). Half an hour later, we’re all loaded up, and half asleep as we cruise in style back up I-5 to UW. The only thing missing was a few DVDs of “The Evening Show” to keep us amused while we dreamed of squeaking pedals, creaking knees, leaking skies, and endless tailwinds.

Posted in Training Diary | Comments Off

Boston 2005

Posted on January 16, 2020 by Al

Another orphaned post…

April 17 2005

Boston Marathon

Here I am, in Hopkinton, MA, on the third Monday in April, waiting in a pen just around the corner from the start line. I’m in the ninth such pen, the one for those with numbers between 9 and 10,000. About mid pack, as we’re all seeded by qualifying time.

18 weeks ago, I rounded the corner in downtown Sacramento, having slogged almost a full circle around the Capitol. By that time, I was convinced my legs had turned to mud, and my brain to pulverized granite. While I didn’t find the “wall” at mile 16, 17, or 18, as I had always done before, this time it found me about mile 23. My glycogen ran out, and I went from 7:47-7:55 minute miles – BAM – to 9 minutes plus for the last three. Running at the same effort level, but dropping substantially slower, I knew I was running on fat fuel alone. I was sure my time would fall into the 3:30’s from the 3:22 I’d been looking at for the first 22 miles. I looked up at the clock – 3:26 and counting!!! WOW. I’m going to break 3:28, be under an 8 minute mile average, and SMASH the qualifying time. I cramped my way across the finish, and came to an abrupt halt. If you’d put a gun to my head and said “Run!” I would have croaked, “So shoot me!”

I inched my way thru the chip removal, the bag pick up, and the mylar blanket. I made it to the Capitol steps, and started to call Cheryl. At that point, I realised how I actually HAD made good on my promise to myself, and, for the first time ever after a race, broke down and cried. I gave it a good minute or two, then found a sunny spot, and rang her up.

Now, here I am. So much has happened in the past four months. For starters, I guess, my mother died just after Christmas. She was living with us the last 8 months of her life. She spent less than 30 hours in the hospital before her body finally gave out on her. She was surrounded by all her family. Her granddaughters were already there, and her daughter and grandson (my son and sister) got there 12 hours before she passed on. She was feisty and inquisitive literally right up to the end. My last words to her were a discussion about/reading from a book called “Long Distance” by a journalist who tried a year’s worth of endurance training (for cross country skiing) to experience and learn. During that year, his father died, and he found out not only what his body was capable of, but also why one would want to try such a thing, to begin with. His goal? “I want to gain an intuitive sense of my body and how it works. And at least once I want to give a supreme and complete effort in a race.” The author (Bill McKibben) quotes University of Oregon coach Bill Bowerman, “Running is basically an absurd pastime on which to be exhausting oneself. But if you can find meaning in it, you can find meaning in another absurd pastime: life”. My efforts at racing, my mother’s efforts at living – and dying – they were entwined of course. And my next race would take me back to where my mother and I first met – the city of my birth, and the city of my college girlfriend. Where I hadn’t been (except for a generic business meeting) for 35 years. With my wife, who’d NEVER been there – a California girl, who didn’t really have an intuitive feel for this oldest of American Cities – where It All Began, 380 years ago.

Our first view of Boston was all underground. From the airport almost to our hotel, we traveled under the bay and the old part of town at rush hour in a seemingly endless tunnel. We emerged at the Charles River between Back Bay and Beacon Hill, and took another 20 minutes to go five blocks to the old Boston Police headquarters, recently converted into Jury’s Hotel. For some reason, the bar at this place has become THE hangout for the twenty-something office workers, and each night (Friday and Saturday), it was filled to overflowing at high decibel level with young Bostonians on the prowl.

Our tour did not include the local meat markets. I was more interested in recapturing some scenes from my youth – riding the T, seeing Faneuil Hall, Filene’s basement, Durgin Park, Cambridge, Harvard Square, and … Radcliffe. There, I would visit my high school/college girlfriend on weekends, in her dorm room and (later) apartments. She’d show me all over the city, and I could feel like any one of the 50- or 60,000 other college kids cramming Bean Town. To us, there was only the Boston for students. We were all clothed in Navy Pea Coats, or, later, Army fatigue jackets. Funny, because we spent so much time fighting the war making machinery. At the end of my college years, I went on to Southern California, and she stayed behind to study at Tufts. Fifteen years later, she became a cancer victim.

In her memory, I wanted to see once again her freshman dorm, where I had to sign her out and bring her back unharmed. By her junior year, they’d loosened up “in loco parentis” to where she could live in an apartment. She and her two roommates lived just upstairs from where “Love Story” (a maudlin movie from 1970) was filmed. She had a director’s chair with “Ryan O’Neal” (the male lead) in block letters on the back. I wanted to recapture the walks we’d taken all over Cambridge from the Radcliffe Commons to Harvard Square and back. But either my memory had gone foggy, or the town had changed too much. No landmarks were familiar, and I never could find the exact dorm, or apartment building in which I remembered listening to “Abbey Road” over and over.

On Tuesday, the day after Patriots’ Day, the day after the Marathon, Cheryl and I started our drive to visit Shaine, our middle-born, down in Connecticut. To get there, we hopped a cab to the airport, rented a car, and drove in the exact opposite direction, northeast, to Lynn Shore Drive, where I knew my parents had lived across the street from the ocean in a small apartment house. The day was crystal clear and perfect, warm but not hot; great for sightseeing, but of course not for running 26.2 miles. This section of the highway was about 2 kilometers long, and the only plausible buildings were located at the south end. I of course could not actually remember the place, as I’d left there when I was six months old (so I’ve been told). But I knew someone who might have the answer. I phoned a friend – my sister, actually

“Leigh, I’m standing here on Lynn Shore Drive looking at what I think is our old apartment house.” Why I believed that a place which must have been 30 years old in 1949 would still be around 55 years later, I don’t know. I was still around, so why not my first home? My sister just happened to have sitting on her shelf an old family photograph of the place with all of us clumped on a front porch next to my mother’s mother, who must have somehow come from Iowa to visit. We pieced together the clues and agreed on the correct grey three story structure. We snapped away with our cameras. The gentle Atlantic hissed a bit above the traffic moan. Cheryl fidgeted. I wanted to drive thru the north shore towns into Salem, locale of the hospital where I was actually born. I like telling people I was born in Salem. It’s reassuring to always get back some comment about witches. Cheryl is immune to this, of course, and wanted to see an actual witch house.

She was disappointed, of course, with the cheesy little re-enactment and desultory cramped trip down into a dungeon-like basement of some random renovated 17th century building (“not the actual Witch House, but an historically accurate re-creation in an original Salem settler’s home”). We moved on to the Lexington National Battlefield Park, where the Shot Heard Round the World was fired. We got the whole story: furtive meetings in the Old North Church, Paul Revere, his lanterns and midnight ride, the guerrilla ambushes on the retreating British slinking away from Concord’s armory, empty-handed, leading to the Siege of Boston the next winter, and the Declaration of Independence the next summer. The previous day being, after all, Patriots’ day, celebrating this very place and what happened there in 1775, it should come as little surprise that we showed up exactly 230 years after the events of that night.

I’ve always felt partial to our founding story, the plucky colonists resisting taxes, dumping tea, harassing the Redcoats, and producing the marvelous words of Thomas Jefferson, “When in the course of human events … we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” It is that pursuit of happiness that has most affected me. Any old government can commit to protecting life and liberty, or even property. But how many care about my HAPPINESS!? Who knew that trying to have a good time in life could produce such a powerhouse of a country? Or lead to the 109th running of the Boston Marathon?

Yes, the Marathon. The one I had just wanted to get into, then tried to train for while getting real serious about an Ironman. Can’t be done. To represent well in a marathon requires (for me, at least), 12-16 weeks of 45-55 mile weeks, 5 days a week running, speed, tempo and distance work, and enough rest in between the training efforts to recover for the next one. To do well in an Ironman requires excessive amounts of biking, 8-14 hours a week or more, and easier on the running, mainly low speed stuff with a lot of “running off the bike” (runs right after biking). I had to pick one: train up to my Sacramento pace for running for Boston, or train to a Kona-qualifying level for Coeur d’Alene at the end of June, nine weeks away. Being a triathlete first, and a runner as an adjunct to that, the choice was grim, but easy: bag Boston. On the grand scale of Life Achievements for me, Kona’s Ironman triathlon world championship is at the pinnacle, with Boston being a little cherry on top – fun to eat at the start, but quickly forgotten once the REAL sundae is engaged.

Which means, I had about 16 miles in me, not 26.2. I had hoped to parlay that into a 3:45 marathon (my age-group’s qualifying time), but global warming got in the way of that goal. By 1 PM, reports were the temperature was up to 79F along the route, not ideal running weather. The bright sun, and leafless trees didn’t help any. I would have preferred 50-55, and misty. I had fun anyway, mesmerized by the crowds, the screams at Wellesley, the antics of the runners and the spectators, the beer guzzlers and Red Sox fans once we hit the city. The only time I’ve seen more people in a day was biking from Malibu to Newport Beach on a sunny summer Sunday near the end of our week long California Coast bike trip. But it was a struggle and, in the end, just a very good excuse for a week-long New England vacation.

We finished up seeing my older daughter at college. Cheryl had visited her several times, but I had never been there to see Shaine.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I spent 3 and a half years there from 1966 thru 1969. For some reason, and no fault of mine, I’m sure, Shaine had fallen in love with the idea of going there, after visiting during a junior year tour of Northeast colleges. She has never regretted that decision, and likes being there even more now than when she started. Of course, her boyfriend Thomas, loyal to her these past two years, may play a part in that. Along with all her other friends.

I prowled the campus, looking for all my old dorm rooms. For some reason, all the trees looked bigger, and everything else looked smaller, and older. Except the sports complex, which wasn’t there yet when I attended, and therefore seemed huge and new. I found old photos of me on the swim team, and looked at the track team picture containing (all together) Ambi Burfoot, Bill Rodgers (both winners of the Boston Marathon) and Jeff Galloway, now a famous writer and trainer of the masses for long-distance running. Who knew then how famous and influential in the world of long-distance running those three would become? At the time the picture was snapped, they were all just second stringers, unsung and unknown, until 1968, when Ambi surprised us all by actually winning Boston. To us, he was just the guy who spent every afternoon running endlessly on the huge grass quadrangle surrounding the football field.

Shaine took us out to an Indian restaurant with Thomas. It was great to see her in her own grown-up setting in the same place where I’d spent college, but not re-tracing my steps at all. It’s like getting to grow up all over again, but without the heartbreak.

Posted in Family, Races, Susie Stories | Comments Off

My First Race Report

Posted on January 14, 2020 by Al

I’m collating a number of old posts from 2001-2006 into as book tentatively titled I Really Wanna Go To Kona. Many of the posts pre-dated this blog, and have not yet been incorporated. As I come across those orphans, I will add them here. Leading off, the very first race report I ever wrote, about the very first running race I ever did, the Seattle Half-Marathon, Saturday after Thanksgiving, 2001.

Getting there was easy. The start is right by the Experience Music Project, just down the hill from the Seattle Sonics’ Key Arena. For over a decade, I’ve been trekking up here to follow GP and the boyz on the hardwood. And, for seven years, this was my back yard at work; a half mile from the start of the race, under the Monorail tracks, is my corner office from those days. So I know how to drive in the back way, and park at the “free” AAA lot three blocks from Memorial Stadium. No traffic, no hassles. I know right where to go. Exiting the car, Cheryl and I merge with 10,000 runners and assorted hangers on, crossing blocked-off streets, past the EMP, and towards Memorial Stadium, where the races finish on the Astro-Turf field.

I climb the steps of the south stands, searching for my assigned row and seat, so I can leave my stuff to pick up after the race. A very clever and convenient system – the stands are covered, keeping us dry before and after the race, should a late November shower (more probable than not) bracket the run. I’ve already had my oatmeal at home, and finish my Metabolol about 45 minutes ahead of our 8:15 start. Cheryl lounges while I go though stretches, and take a few laps and sprints on the carpet down below. As I round the finish chute, volunteers are unfolding THOUSANDS of Mylar sheets, ready for us at the finish. The huge mound of shiny, crinkly blankets quivers under its own weight, sounding like the Beatle’s plasticene forest in “Lucy in the Sky…”

Fifteen minutes before the start, I strip down. An overcast day, with wet air, but no rain-drops, and about 42F. I’ve got shorts, yellow turtleneck full zipper long sleeved bike shirt, and a trusty Timex cap. No gloves, tights, or ear gear, like a lot of others are wearing. I intend to warm up fast, and stay warm while running.

I head up to where I think the 80th %ile group are – the back of the runners, the front of the joggers. In the middle of the crowd, it’s warm; there’s lots of room to stretch one last time, and do a few calf jumps. My heart rate is up at 100. I pan around a bit, feeling not only the body warmth of us all packed in together, but the static buzz from everyone’s anticipation. They’ve all pointed, planned, prepped, waited, peaked, and now they’re here, ready to test themselves against the clock. The palpable energy of a mass start road race created an inescapable momentum. During those final minutes under the Monorail, we groan through a few formalities from the dignitaries. Then an air horn bleets, and we’re off.

I’ve got a plan for this race: I want to ramp my heart rate up from 143 to 151 at the end, AND do miles in 7:30 to 8 minutes. I also want to do the first mile at a heart rate of 132. Everyone seems intent on sprinting up Fifth Avenue, so I feel somewhat like a fool while those behind me race by. It’s my first running race – ever – so I’m worried that maybe I seriously misjudged my pacing, and my speed relative to the pack. But after a mile or so the crowd around me had thinned a bit, and most seem to be going my speed.

Leaving downtown. we hit a freeway on-ramp curving in front of the baseball and football fields south of Pioneer Square. Once free of Seattle’s skyscrapers, we approach the fastest walkers, who started 15 minutes ahead of us. Some are ambling, some are powering forward with seriously intent arm swings. But all seem to have no clue – despite hundreds of us running by them every minute – that they are IN THE WAY. We are squeezed into one lane, with a small shoulder, but no sidewalk, and nothing but air on either side. Bobbing and weaving, trying to avoid the bunched walkers in front, and the sprinters coming from behind, I head onto the HOV lane of I-90, the main highway over Lake Washington to the Eastside.

Next landmark – the Mt. Baker tunnel. Carved at great expense into the hills between Seattle and the lake, this multi-billion dollar cave is quiet save for the incessant shuffle/plop of all our feet. Perfectly flat, free from weather; friskier runners pick up the pace. I hold my heart rate steady at 151 (so much for the plan – I got to the max within 3-4 miles!) and let them go by.

Leaving the tunnel, we wind down a 270 degree ramp off the freeway, to head north along the lake. The marathoners, starting 15 minutes behind us, will go straight across the lake, through Mercer Island, and back again. This marks about our half-way point. I check the time – If I want to break 1:40 (a purely artificial standard), I’ll need to do a negative split – run faster on the back half than the front. With my HR nearing 152/3, I decide to go for it.

Here, we are winding through the ritzy neighborhoods along the lake shore. Rich folk have set up spectator stations, and a cheering crowd funnels us along as smoothly as the trees above, and the asphalt below. Little ups and downs appear. I try to keep my heart rate steady going up as well as down, hitting 157 on the rises, and 154 on the downs. I fly by most folk going down, but drop off a bit on the uphills with this strategy.

A left turn away from the lake, and we’re in another neighborhood, more middle class, with most spectators either confused locals, or intense tourists cheering friends and relatives. A couple of significant hills appear. My Ironman training fairly screams at me “Don’t go anaerobic!” But my body doesn’t care – it seems to know I’m in a “short” race (less than 2 hours), so I can afford to scrape right up to and a bit beyond the ragged edge with only 30 minutes to go. I pump up the jets on the steepest hills; I’m starting to keep with the pack up hill now, and pass ’em all going down.

Into the Arboretum, and the road becomes a winding single lane with a full canopy of trees overhead – kind of like mountain biking, but without the bumps, rocks and roots. I’m cutting the corners smoothly, and passing everyone in sight at this point. Except for one guy, about 1/2 my age. He sees me go by, and uses that as a cue to pick up his pace. We stick together, within ten feet either way, silent, for the next 3 miles. Finally, we briefly share thoughts on times and splits, and agree we’re going for 1:40, but will have to burn a bit to get there. He takes off ahead of me as we near the crest of Capitol Hill, and turn down towards the freeway once again.

This awesome downhill provides an iconic vista into Seattle from the giant man-made canyons to the South, across the old World’s Fair site dead ahead, and up to the hills on the right, all bordered by the Sound beyond, with Lake Union at our feet. The Space Needle could be a beacon, if I cared about the concept. At this point, however, I have no thoughts, no enjoyment, and an endless present Now full of ever faster strides, and trying to stay upright on the hard downhill plunge across the freeway to the REI store.

HR is up at 158 now; if it goes over that, I’ll only last 1-2 minutes, I know, so I try to hold just this intensity for as long as I can – maybe 15, maybe 17 minutes to go. I pass my erstwhile running buddy, dragging him into my wake. Many around me have been reduced to a shuffle, or an agonizing combination wheeze and arm whip, while their feet don’t want to rise from pavement anymore. I feel like I can hold this pace, but not one step faster, into the finish chute.

Hitting Mercer, finding the Monorail once again, I know I’ve got about 2 minutes to go, and let it all hang out – 160, 161, any more and I pass out, saving the 164-7 max for the final sprint on the turf

At last, under the arch into the stadium bowl. Somewhere massed along the screaming crowd is Cheryl. I don’t see her, don’t see my time, only see and hear the Mylar crinkle, and the lady urging me into the chute, tearing at my runner’s bib for the little tag. I’m done; I’m learning how to run, at last.

Details: Seattle Half Marathon, held Sunday, November 25, 2001. Time: 1:41.06; 19/172 in age group, 341/1916 overall (male). Temp about 42 F, overcast, dry.

Posted in Races, Wanna GoTo Kona | Comments Off

Ironman CdA 2006: Part II

Ironman CdA 2006: Part I

Ironman Coeur d’Alene 2005

Xterra World Championship, 2004

Ironman Music By The Lake: Coeur d’Alene 2004

Fire Up Those Glutes!

Ironman Wisconsin 2005

STP In One Day – VIP Style

Boston 2005

My First Race Report

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