The following is a retrospective race report just written despite the event occurring in June of 2010.
Second chances are usually reserved for those who need forgiveness for something, or who have just completed a jail term, or somehow escaped serious injury or even death, against all odds. My second chance was not that dramatic. On June 4, 2010, severe weather took away, or at least delayed, what I knew would be inevitable, becoming a triathlete. Today’s King Pine Sprint Triathlon was far more of a relaxed setting to complete my mission (not being an “Ironman” sponsored event). Although not exactly a “traditional” sprint course (1/3 mile swim, 12.5 mile bike, 3.8 mile trail run), it was going to be a much shorter distance, about half as long, as The Mooseman Olympic the week prior, and at a significantly reduced pressure level. The Ironman “M-dot” logos were nowhere to be found. There were, however, many of the same faces that I saw the week before – fellow Riptide Triathlon Club members, and although I still hadn’t developed deep-seeded bonds with a lot of them, just having their relaxed friendly faces present everywhere I looked, was comforting.
I drove to this event the morning of, about and hour and 20min. I think the start time was 8am, so I was up by 4am and out of the door by 4:45, having every single thing packed and loaded in the car the night before. It was just a matter of throwing down breakfast (500cal of warm oatmeal, real maple syrup, brown sugar, and almond butter). This has become my staple meal 3 hours before a tri, as well as 16-20oz of water. Interestingly, my normal everyday morning routine would be to have a large cup of coffee, but I’ve actually chosen to avoid all caffeine prior to races (usually from the bowel effect it has on me – I’ll be using the restrooms enough on race morning without it). I may change this practice next season (but of course will try it in training first!). Inline with my motto “If you’re on-time, you’re late”, I was one of the first vehicles to pull into the ski resort parking lot at about 6am. Seriously, the parking attendants were scrambling for their volunteer shirts and flags as I was pulling into a premium spot right next to the transition area. The sun was cresting through the trees and peeking through some overcast clouds, but the forecast was for a relatively windy day in the high 70’s with some chance of a few drizzles here and there. Anything, aside from snow, would be better than last week.
Having not arrived the day before, I would not have the opportunity to check out or drive any of the course. Perhaps I should’ve made some time a few weeks ago to do so. I know many athletes set aside time to do this, usually planning at least to bike or run the courses well in advance. I wasn’t exactly sure how this would help me, so I didn’t make this a priority, nor did I feel anxious on race day because I hadn’t. Although I wouldn’t consider it a “newbie mistake”, this is certainly a practice I intend to follow next season whenever the opportunity presents itself (“Drive the course. Do the course. Race the course.”).
I managed to set up my transition area only once this time (versus 9 double checks last week), and the pre-race potty visits were easily cut in half. A curious calm was covering me – nothing like last week. Maybe it was the confidence in the distance (sprint), or the lack of the “M-dot” logo everywhere I looked. It just seemed like everywhere I looked common folk just like me were preparing for a fun day with family and friends, with their 15 year-old road bikes, or even mountain bikes, non-matching race kits, and pressureless smiles. Two of those smiles were that of Stu and Christine Thorne, a couple of my Seacoast Riptide Tri Club officers. They were half-gowned in their wetsuits and heading for the beach.
“Shawn, C’Mon, we’re heading to the water exit to do a warm-up swim over to the starting area! Join us!”
They didn’t have to ask me twice. I pulled a U-ee and followed them down the carpeted path to the water’s edge. Many swimmers were making there way across the lake from the finish to the start in order to warm-up. I spit in my goggles (natural anti-fog), applied my red swim cap, and hoisted the torso half of my fullsleeve wetsuit over my back. Hardly missing a stride, I met the 68 degree water with a purpose and dove right in. Five strokes later I can no longer see bottom and my anxiety level begins to rise exponentially. For me, I’d prefer being in 200ft of crystal clear water where I can see the bottom like I’m simply looking through a window, versus wading in 7ft of water where I can’t even see my hand extended out in front of me. Basically it eliminates surprises. I love surprises, but I prefer them to be screened first. To reacquire some reassurance I look up to locate some other swimmers. Well, they’re alive and still swimming with their heads down, so I suppose I’ll be okay too. Face back in the water and breath back into my rhythm, I restart. I’m able to go for 20-30 yards before the tops of a few weeds nearly brush my chest, and all of that work to calm myself is ruined in a heartbeat. I again need to stop and verify that I’m not the only one in the water. Nope, more than 10ft away is Stu. Frankly, he looks like shit. He’s breathing hard and doing a pseudo-backstroke. He warned us this might happen. Stu can hammer a hill on the bike while making it look like you’re pedaling backwards, and he can effortlessly run circles around anyone 15 years younger than him. But Stu will tell you, “I can’t swim. I hate swimming.” It’s been confirmed – he’s not a fibber. This gives me the confidence that I need right now (sorry, Stu). I won’t be the last to exit the water. I may even swim twice as fast as Stu. But I’m not stupid. By mile 3 he’ll pass me on the bike, and I’ll have to be okay with that. (But when he did, I wasn’t).
A few words from the race director, a singing of the National Anthem, and everyone in a red cap was herded to knee-deep water (my age group was in the first wave of swimmers). I selected the far back corner of swimmers, along with a few other Riptiders who convinced me that this was the right move – newbies should probably stay away from the middle of the frantic pack, to remain uninjured and reduce stress levels. There were 39 athletes in my swim wave (and age-group), and when the horn sounded, I was one of the last 3 to submerge myself and start swimming. I stay to the far right, yet still encounter swimmers, obviously with similar strategies, coming into view. I pass numerous competitors in the first 200 meters. As the field stretches out, I decide to get in the mix a bit and take a more direct route to the first buoy. I sense that I am going too hard and my stroke is suffering. Also, my shoulders are already tiring – something I worried about last week, but not this week, because I am in a full-sleeve wetsuit. Even though I move my focus to settling into a more comfortable and relaxing pace, and improving my technique, to my surprise I continue to pass other swimmers. I even see a few that are completely off course, one even moving perpendicular to me in order to be sure he goes to the right of the buoy, avoiding disqualification. Because the official results don’t rank my swim time in my age group (wave), I can’t tell you what “place” I came in for the swim, but I suspect that I was one of the first 10-15 out of the water (from those 39).
As I exit the water and begin the task of peeling off my wetsuit and running up a carpet-covered wooden ramp that leads from the beach to the road, about 75-100ft I would guess, I catch my left big toe and it rolls under my foot (otherwise known as “turf toe”). Immediate severe pain, but the adrenaline kicks in. The fans are lining the ramp, just feet away, and I can’t alter my gait, visually admitting that I’m hurt. By the time I cross the road and head into T1, I’m limping. What I need now is a bike, hoping that a stiff clip-on shoe will squash the pain. T1 goes about as well as I had hoped. As expected I have a very difficult time putting socks on wet, somewhat sandy feet, but it only costs me about 20-30 seconds. The problem is, that is about how long some athletes spend in transition all together. No issues otherwise. I’m happy with where and how I had everything set up. However, I found myself wondering where to store my wetsuit, wanting to follow good “etiquette”, but not trying to waste more time and look silly in the process. I think I just rolled it into a partially manageable ball and placed in under my bike, which made it a little awkward getting my bike off and then back onto the rack, but it seemed to be what I saw a few others do.
Mounting the bike was done on an appreciable incline, so although I had no plans to mount while in motion, a few others tried it with varying degrees of success. Successfully clipped in, I look up, then quickly to my right, and see someone snapping a picture of me. And that is where the story takes a little twist. Days later I actually see that photo (see below). To prove that I must have had a really good swim, that blurry guy in the background, wetsuit half off, at the top of the ramp across the street, is a fellow Riptider. He is one of the three that I started the swim with. Considering my swim time was 11:43, I must have beat him out of the water by 3 minutes because my T1 time was 2:38. Why is this important? Well, five miles into the bike course he passed me rather easily. It was at this moment that I realized, “Okay Shawn, you learned to swim, and you obviously aren’t slow, but let this be a lesson – you didn’t spend enough time on your bike!!!” For the next 7 miles on the bike my only task, aside from taking in my Cytomax drink, was to keep this guy in my sights. Don’t lose him. Maybe I can catch him on the run. I figure he was always within about 50-100 yards, until my bike pump fell off my bike frame and went tumbling into the adjacent gravel. I was forced to spin around, dismount, reattach it, and start off again. This may have only cost me 30 seconds, but it was just enough for me to lose sight of him. I scrambled to relocate him, hammering the hills, both up and down, but it wasn’t until I approached T2 that I saw him again, putting his bike in the rack. I had to have made up some ground, but at what cost to my legs. It was a struggle to even swing my leg over the seat once I came to a complete stop, let alone, jog to the racks. It was the heaviest and as dead as my legs had ever felt (aside from maybe last week). Although I have nothing to judge it against, my T2 time is 1:12, and seemed flawless. As I make my way to the transition exit chute, someone is screaming at me, “You catch him!!! You catch him, Shawn!!!!!! Don’t let him outrun you!!! You can do it!!!” Ironically, he is pointing to "that guy" I've been stalking. To this day I’m not sure who it was. I think it was Matt McCabe (sorry if it wasn’t). Thanks anyway!
Second chances are usually reserved for those who need forgiveness for something, or who have just completed a jail term, or somehow escaped serious injury or even death, against all odds. My second chance was not that dramatic. On June 4, 2010, severe weather took away, or at least delayed, what I knew would be inevitable, becoming a triathlete. Today’s King Pine Sprint Triathlon was far more of a relaxed setting to complete my mission (not being an “Ironman” sponsored event). Although not exactly a “traditional” sprint course (1/3 mile swim, 12.5 mile bike, 3.8 mile trail run), it was going to be a much shorter distance, about half as long, as The Mooseman Olympic the week prior, and at a significantly reduced pressure level. The Ironman “M-dot” logos were nowhere to be found. There were, however, many of the same faces that I saw the week before – fellow Riptide Triathlon Club members, and although I still hadn’t developed deep-seeded bonds with a lot of them, just having their relaxed friendly faces present everywhere I looked, was comforting.
I drove to this event the morning of, about and hour and 20min. I think the start time was 8am, so I was up by 4am and out of the door by 4:45, having every single thing packed and loaded in the car the night before. It was just a matter of throwing down breakfast (500cal of warm oatmeal, real maple syrup, brown sugar, and almond butter). This has become my staple meal 3 hours before a tri, as well as 16-20oz of water. Interestingly, my normal everyday morning routine would be to have a large cup of coffee, but I’ve actually chosen to avoid all caffeine prior to races (usually from the bowel effect it has on me – I’ll be using the restrooms enough on race morning without it). I may change this practice next season (but of course will try it in training first!). Inline with my motto “If you’re on-time, you’re late”, I was one of the first vehicles to pull into the ski resort parking lot at about 6am. Seriously, the parking attendants were scrambling for their volunteer shirts and flags as I was pulling into a premium spot right next to the transition area. The sun was cresting through the trees and peeking through some overcast clouds, but the forecast was for a relatively windy day in the high 70’s with some chance of a few drizzles here and there. Anything, aside from snow, would be better than last week.
Having not arrived the day before, I would not have the opportunity to check out or drive any of the course. Perhaps I should’ve made some time a few weeks ago to do so. I know many athletes set aside time to do this, usually planning at least to bike or run the courses well in advance. I wasn’t exactly sure how this would help me, so I didn’t make this a priority, nor did I feel anxious on race day because I hadn’t. Although I wouldn’t consider it a “newbie mistake”, this is certainly a practice I intend to follow next season whenever the opportunity presents itself (“Drive the course. Do the course. Race the course.”).
I managed to set up my transition area only once this time (versus 9 double checks last week), and the pre-race potty visits were easily cut in half. A curious calm was covering me – nothing like last week. Maybe it was the confidence in the distance (sprint), or the lack of the “M-dot” logo everywhere I looked. It just seemed like everywhere I looked common folk just like me were preparing for a fun day with family and friends, with their 15 year-old road bikes, or even mountain bikes, non-matching race kits, and pressureless smiles. Two of those smiles were that of Stu and Christine Thorne, a couple of my Seacoast Riptide Tri Club officers. They were half-gowned in their wetsuits and heading for the beach.
“Shawn, C’Mon, we’re heading to the water exit to do a warm-up swim over to the starting area! Join us!”
They didn’t have to ask me twice. I pulled a U-ee and followed them down the carpeted path to the water’s edge. Many swimmers were making there way across the lake from the finish to the start in order to warm-up. I spit in my goggles (natural anti-fog), applied my red swim cap, and hoisted the torso half of my fullsleeve wetsuit over my back. Hardly missing a stride, I met the 68 degree water with a purpose and dove right in. Five strokes later I can no longer see bottom and my anxiety level begins to rise exponentially. For me, I’d prefer being in 200ft of crystal clear water where I can see the bottom like I’m simply looking through a window, versus wading in 7ft of water where I can’t even see my hand extended out in front of me. Basically it eliminates surprises. I love surprises, but I prefer them to be screened first. To reacquire some reassurance I look up to locate some other swimmers. Well, they’re alive and still swimming with their heads down, so I suppose I’ll be okay too. Face back in the water and breath back into my rhythm, I restart. I’m able to go for 20-30 yards before the tops of a few weeds nearly brush my chest, and all of that work to calm myself is ruined in a heartbeat. I again need to stop and verify that I’m not the only one in the water. Nope, more than 10ft away is Stu. Frankly, he looks like shit. He’s breathing hard and doing a pseudo-backstroke. He warned us this might happen. Stu can hammer a hill on the bike while making it look like you’re pedaling backwards, and he can effortlessly run circles around anyone 15 years younger than him. But Stu will tell you, “I can’t swim. I hate swimming.” It’s been confirmed – he’s not a fibber. This gives me the confidence that I need right now (sorry, Stu). I won’t be the last to exit the water. I may even swim twice as fast as Stu. But I’m not stupid. By mile 3 he’ll pass me on the bike, and I’ll have to be okay with that. (But when he did, I wasn’t).
A few words from the race director, a singing of the National Anthem, and everyone in a red cap was herded to knee-deep water (my age group was in the first wave of swimmers). I selected the far back corner of swimmers, along with a few other Riptiders who convinced me that this was the right move – newbies should probably stay away from the middle of the frantic pack, to remain uninjured and reduce stress levels. There were 39 athletes in my swim wave (and age-group), and when the horn sounded, I was one of the last 3 to submerge myself and start swimming. I stay to the far right, yet still encounter swimmers, obviously with similar strategies, coming into view. I pass numerous competitors in the first 200 meters. As the field stretches out, I decide to get in the mix a bit and take a more direct route to the first buoy. I sense that I am going too hard and my stroke is suffering. Also, my shoulders are already tiring – something I worried about last week, but not this week, because I am in a full-sleeve wetsuit. Even though I move my focus to settling into a more comfortable and relaxing pace, and improving my technique, to my surprise I continue to pass other swimmers. I even see a few that are completely off course, one even moving perpendicular to me in order to be sure he goes to the right of the buoy, avoiding disqualification. Because the official results don’t rank my swim time in my age group (wave), I can’t tell you what “place” I came in for the swim, but I suspect that I was one of the first 10-15 out of the water (from those 39).
As I exit the water and begin the task of peeling off my wetsuit and running up a carpet-covered wooden ramp that leads from the beach to the road, about 75-100ft I would guess, I catch my left big toe and it rolls under my foot (otherwise known as “turf toe”). Immediate severe pain, but the adrenaline kicks in. The fans are lining the ramp, just feet away, and I can’t alter my gait, visually admitting that I’m hurt. By the time I cross the road and head into T1, I’m limping. What I need now is a bike, hoping that a stiff clip-on shoe will squash the pain. T1 goes about as well as I had hoped. As expected I have a very difficult time putting socks on wet, somewhat sandy feet, but it only costs me about 20-30 seconds. The problem is, that is about how long some athletes spend in transition all together. No issues otherwise. I’m happy with where and how I had everything set up. However, I found myself wondering where to store my wetsuit, wanting to follow good “etiquette”, but not trying to waste more time and look silly in the process. I think I just rolled it into a partially manageable ball and placed in under my bike, which made it a little awkward getting my bike off and then back onto the rack, but it seemed to be what I saw a few others do.
Mounting the bike was done on an appreciable incline, so although I had no plans to mount while in motion, a few others tried it with varying degrees of success. Successfully clipped in, I look up, then quickly to my right, and see someone snapping a picture of me. And that is where the story takes a little twist. Days later I actually see that photo (see below). To prove that I must have had a really good swim, that blurry guy in the background, wetsuit half off, at the top of the ramp across the street, is a fellow Riptider. He is one of the three that I started the swim with. Considering my swim time was 11:43, I must have beat him out of the water by 3 minutes because my T1 time was 2:38. Why is this important? Well, five miles into the bike course he passed me rather easily. It was at this moment that I realized, “Okay Shawn, you learned to swim, and you obviously aren’t slow, but let this be a lesson – you didn’t spend enough time on your bike!!!” For the next 7 miles on the bike my only task, aside from taking in my Cytomax drink, was to keep this guy in my sights. Don’t lose him. Maybe I can catch him on the run. I figure he was always within about 50-100 yards, until my bike pump fell off my bike frame and went tumbling into the adjacent gravel. I was forced to spin around, dismount, reattach it, and start off again. This may have only cost me 30 seconds, but it was just enough for me to lose sight of him. I scrambled to relocate him, hammering the hills, both up and down, but it wasn’t until I approached T2 that I saw him again, putting his bike in the rack. I had to have made up some ground, but at what cost to my legs. It was a struggle to even swing my leg over the seat once I came to a complete stop, let alone, jog to the racks. It was the heaviest and as dead as my legs had ever felt (aside from maybe last week). Although I have nothing to judge it against, my T2 time is 1:12, and seemed flawless. As I make my way to the transition exit chute, someone is screaming at me, “You catch him!!! You catch him, Shawn!!!!!! Don’t let him outrun you!!! You can do it!!!” Ironically, he is pointing to "that guy" I've been stalking. To this day I’m not sure who it was. I think it was Matt McCabe (sorry if it wasn’t). Thanks anyway!
I’m thankful that the first quarter mile or so is all downhill. I quickly realize I will regret that hill later, but at least everyone has to conquer it. Once I hit the bottom of the hill I look up and see that I have made up no ground on him. Of course, I haven’t lost ground either. It was right about now when the mild abdominal cramping began. Weird. That never happened in training. It’s not dissipating either. My prerace meal was the same. All of my meals the day before were the same. Shit, the Cytomax!!! Dammit!! I did it again. I tried something for the first time in an actual race. I didn’t learn my lesson from last week (remember the Valium?)
Anyway, about a mile or so into the run the course goes offroad. Trail running. It was the one characteristic that had me contemplating signing up for this race. It was the designated “State Club Championship” race, so I felt I should. I never ran cross-country in high school. I’m not sure what to expect, other than a sprained ankle. Let’s just say, I hated it. Maybe because I hadn’t trained for it, or I have a fear of the unknown in general, but I won’t do another triathlon that includes “trails”. I encountered holes six inches deep, tree roots six inches high, shrubs and low brush that abraded by knees, and regular small hills with 15-20% grade, although only 20-30ft long. Needless to say, it was an exhausting run, obviously compounded by my bike hammering. All I could picture around each corner was encountering some monkey bars, monster truck tires aligned two by two, or a drill sergeant screaming, “Get over that wall, recruit, you frigin’ pansy!!!” Was I doing a triathlon or attempting to survive the obstacle course at boot camp? Thankfully, I see the pavement ahead and I can’t get there soon enough. The other thing I see, still a little over 100 yards ahead of me is “that guy” I’ve been chasing. The fact that he overtook me so easily just a few miles into the bike leg, yet I was able to keep him in my sights the entire race, was actually quite an accomplishment for me I think. That may have been more impressive than meeting my goal of finishing in under 1:30:00. My time was 1:29:15. Without “that guy” in front of me, I wouldn’t have.
By the way, I spent the next four hours having a hard time standing up straight due to intense cramping. I made more bathroom stops during my 90min ride home than I did during my prerace preparation (and you know how many that usually is). Despite the longest ride of my life, you can't wipe the smile from my face and the immense sense of accomplishment from my heart. I just did my first triathlon.
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