Of the five triathlons that I signed up for in 2010 (I've written about 2 so far), the hardest one to hit the “order confirmation” button on was by far, The Lobsterman. Not because it would be an Olympic (International) distance, or because it would be the week after The Pumpkinman Sprint, which I had also signed up for, but because it would be my first ocean swim event. I don’t care if it is in a Bay (Casco). The water is salty, there are currents, it’ll be really cold, and dorsal fin wielding, gill breathing, ‘I can detect a single red blood cell in 100 gazillion gallons of water’ predators will have easy access to wetsuit-dawning prey in that Bay (I just got a chill up my spine). Go ahead, laugh all you want. All season, every day, no matter what I was doing, if I thought about the sport, I thought about that event – in particular that swim. It haunted me. I had nightmares. I may have even pissed myself at one point. Fortunately, that weekend, there was a distraction.
You remember Dan, right? – from my previous blog post “You CAN Get There From Here”. We had, as we ended up calling it, arranged to be each others’ “beotches”. He drove out from Rochester, NY to race in The Portsmouth Criterium which was on Sunday September 19th, the day after The Lobsterman. So, Saturday he catered to me, and Sunday I made his day a little easier so we could each relax and focus on our personal goals for raceday. Since this is a “retrospective” race report, I can honestly say that “retrospectively”, I don’t know that I could’ve done this specific race without his presence. Dan and I went to PA school together (1997-2001) and have remained friends since. I'll admit though, it’s not exactly debauchery, blackouts, and bailouts when we get together.
You remember Dan, right? – from my previous blog post “You CAN Get There From Here”. We had, as we ended up calling it, arranged to be each others’ “beotches”. He drove out from Rochester, NY to race in The Portsmouth Criterium which was on Sunday September 19th, the day after The Lobsterman. So, Saturday he catered to me, and Sunday I made his day a little easier so we could each relax and focus on our personal goals for raceday. Since this is a “retrospective” race report, I can honestly say that “retrospectively”, I don’t know that I could’ve done this specific race without his presence. Dan and I went to PA school together (1997-2001) and have remained friends since. I'll admit though, it’s not exactly debauchery, blackouts, and bailouts when we get together.
After a fair five hours of sleep, my 4:15am alarm goes off and within about 90 seconds I am making my standard oatmeal, brown sugar, and almond butter prerace breakfast. I take it upstairs as Dan rolls off his air mattress. I had been doing fine the last 1-2 days, but when I began putting in my contacts, the bottle of saline reminded me that I would be doing my very first salt water open swim in about 4 hours. A few palpitations later I find myself sitting on the john, not recalling how I got there. I feel nauseated and crampy, and I’m not even at the venue yet. If you’ve learned anything about me on this blog, or because you know me fairly well personally, you’d know that there isn’t much to do race morning except eat and put in my contacts. Everything is already in the car, my clothes for the day are laid out in the order that I’m going to put them on, and everything for breakfast is already on the counter, in the order that it'll enter the bowl, spoon perpendicular to the counter’s edge, and the handle to my oversized oatmeal mug facing west. The only difference this time? I’ve got a bitch to get out of bed. Hehe! Fortunately, Dan is also a Type A, although probably not as weird or quirky. I told him the night before that we will leave at 4:45, and he is waiting at the door at 4:44, backpack slung over shoulder.
The event heavily promoted carpooling secondary to limited parking on site, and it was first come, first serve. The park opened at 6:30am for cars and it was going to be about a 90-95min commute (with a 9am start time to the race – the latest start time of all 5 of my races). I gave us a 15min buffer for “rest stops” if needed. During the previous 4 races I didn’t have the opportunity to shoot the shit or talk shop, aside from the previous week when my wife came with me to The Pumpkinman, but at 5am she’s usually not in all that talkative of a mood, nor does she want to hear about the latest in wetsuit technology or how best to taper your bike interval workouts prior to a 70-mile Time Trial. So, it was relaxing to have Dan as my copilot. At some point though he asked me, “How do you feel?”
“Until you mentioned it, Dan, I was doing great, but since you asked, I’m scared shitless. This is my first open water ocean swim. I never even did a training swim in the ocean water. Stupid, I know.”
“Yeah, you’ve brought that up a few times,” he chuckles. “All the more reason to swim harder and swim faster.”
“But Dan, I told you, today is just about enjoying every second of this race and finishing in under 3 hours. This will be the longest distance I have ever gone and twice as far as any race I’ve done this season.” (0.93 mile swim, 25 mile bike, 6.2 mile run)
To lighten me up, Dan informs, “Well, sharks go for the black object above them that looks and acts weak and wounded, so just don’t look like that and you’ll be fine.”
I call him a few inappropriate names in jest, but I immediately feel better . . . somehow.
Without a potty break enroute (astounding, I know), we pull into the park and begin maneuvering the dirt road toward the venue. As we approach some flaggers I peer off to my right into the shimmering bay and my gaze falls upon 2 bright orange pyramid buoys. My first thought is (which I clearly voiced), “That’s too far. That can’t be right. That’s out to that island. That must be frigin’ deep.”
Dan pipes in, “Dude, C’mon, that’s less than the distances you’ve been doing in the pool all summer. Don’t worry about it.”
Well, he’s absolutely right. To break my nervous tension I say, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger . . . unless it eats you.” We laugh (but it's really only funny to one of us.)
The event heavily promoted carpooling secondary to limited parking on site, and it was first come, first serve. The park opened at 6:30am for cars and it was going to be about a 90-95min commute (with a 9am start time to the race – the latest start time of all 5 of my races). I gave us a 15min buffer for “rest stops” if needed. During the previous 4 races I didn’t have the opportunity to shoot the shit or talk shop, aside from the previous week when my wife came with me to The Pumpkinman, but at 5am she’s usually not in all that talkative of a mood, nor does she want to hear about the latest in wetsuit technology or how best to taper your bike interval workouts prior to a 70-mile Time Trial. So, it was relaxing to have Dan as my copilot. At some point though he asked me, “How do you feel?”
“Until you mentioned it, Dan, I was doing great, but since you asked, I’m scared shitless. This is my first open water ocean swim. I never even did a training swim in the ocean water. Stupid, I know.”
“Yeah, you’ve brought that up a few times,” he chuckles. “All the more reason to swim harder and swim faster.”
“But Dan, I told you, today is just about enjoying every second of this race and finishing in under 3 hours. This will be the longest distance I have ever gone and twice as far as any race I’ve done this season.” (0.93 mile swim, 25 mile bike, 6.2 mile run)
To lighten me up, Dan informs, “Well, sharks go for the black object above them that looks and acts weak and wounded, so just don’t look like that and you’ll be fine.”
I call him a few inappropriate names in jest, but I immediately feel better . . . somehow.
Without a potty break enroute (astounding, I know), we pull into the park and begin maneuvering the dirt road toward the venue. As we approach some flaggers I peer off to my right into the shimmering bay and my gaze falls upon 2 bright orange pyramid buoys. My first thought is (which I clearly voiced), “That’s too far. That can’t be right. That’s out to that island. That must be frigin’ deep.”
Dan pipes in, “Dude, C’mon, that’s less than the distances you’ve been doing in the pool all summer. Don’t worry about it.”
Well, he’s absolutely right. To break my nervous tension I say, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger . . . unless it eats you.” We laugh (but it's really only funny to one of us.)
See that buoy out there?
It definitely paid off getting here early as we get ushered to an area right beside the registration tent, the food area, and about 50 yards from transition. Prime!!! I can’t throw the car in “park” fast enough, “Now where are those Port-o-Potties? We passed a couple by the swim start and there were no lines. There has got to be more, but I just don’t see them anywhere. “Well, Dan, I’m gonna run down to those and hope that they are unlocked.” I wasn’t expecting Dan to follow me with his camera. The look on my face at the very end of the following clip is priceless.
Upon exiting the johns, Dan is nowhere to be found. I later learn he is off taking tons of photos (all of them integrated into this post are courtesy of him!). After picking up my race packet and topping off my tires to the needed pressures at the tour bus (minivan) I head off to begin setting up my transition area and get body marked. This was the easiest set-up of my brief career. I have come to realize that frankly, I am a minimalist --- helmet backwards and upside down on handlebars (no sunglasses), race number belt draped over helmet, bike shoes just behind front tire (Velcro straps opened), running shoes (no socks) with some baby powder thrown in, as loose as they can be (Yankz laces) just in front of the rear tire, and water added to my powdered nutrition bottles. That’s it. It’s hard to screw that up. And I don’t need to triple check things every 5 minutes for the next hour any more. I’ve got bigger things to worry about (and they swim in the ocean).
Despite having less than an hour before the start, I can’t bring myself to even walk by the swim start. I don’t want to see the buoys. I don’t even want to see the water. I do about a 10-15min light jog (in the opposite direction) followed by an equal amount of time stretching and loosening up. After expressing a gelpack into my cheek and chasing it with some water, the inevitable arrives. It is time to apply the wetsuit. I have never swam 1500 meters in a wetsuit, so I’m trying to decide between sleeves versus sleeveless since I brought both of them. I expect the ocean water to be cold, but will it be really cold? If I go with sleeves my shoulders and neck may tire prematurely, but at least they will be warm. Going sleeveless will surely prevent fatigue, but at the cost of becoming uncomfortably numb I suspect. I based my decision on the fact that I just plain hate being cold. Fatigue I can deal with if I have to – just stop swimming, float, and rest. But I can’t get out of the cold water to warm up once I’m out there. So, full-sleeve wetsuit it is. Alright, I can’t put it off any longer. Goggles, ear plugs, swim cap. I estimate it was about a 300yd walk to the swim start.
Once the beach comes into view I can’t stop looking at that second (and final) orange buoy off to my left. If I can make it to that last buoy, adrenaline will get me back to the beach. Of course, I still have to get into the water first, and that is the part that has been haunting me, interrupting my sleep for the last 7 months. I descend some rock ledges to the wet sand and just before testing the water I turn to Dan, but he’s gone. I haven’t seen a single soul that I know today. There are no familiar faces. No security woobie. It’s just me, that jerk, Peter Benchley, engulfing my every thought, and the Atlantic Ocean. Look at all of the athletes out there doing their warm-up swim. They all look like wounded seals in fluorescent swim caps. Nervously I march to waist deep water. By the time I get there my feet are numb. The loudspeaker blares that there are 2 minutes until everyone needs to be at the swim start. I dive in (towards shore) just to get that initial cold water shock out of the way and allow for some water to enter my wetsuit to begin warming up. It’s the coldest water I have swam in since mid-May when I did my first swim of the season at Spring Hill (that was 58 degrees). Today it’s 61.
The race director gives his announcements, wishes us well, then hands over the mic for The National Anthem. My ear plugs follow the final notes into my ear canals as I decide that I need dead silence for the next 10min to meditate, find a Zenful place, focus intently on what I’m about to do, what demon I’m about to lay to rest, what terror I’m about to collide with. It’s the clearest 10min my mind has ever encountered. My wave (the third wave) is ushered into the water to the end of the pier where the official starting line is estimated to be. I’m selectively in the back but close enough to others to provide me with a small sense of security. I can’t feel bottom now. I pirouette several times to be sure I’m not being stalked. My hands now enter numbville, joining my feet. My face will be next. The first 50-100 yards of my swims, whether it’s the pool, a pond, a lake, or the ocean (I’m anticipating) are the worst. I need that distance to find a groove, settle into my stroke, and get my breathing rhythm syncopated. As I turn to look for the first buoy and choose my line, the ten second countdown begins. I pee in my wetsuit for the first time. It takes about 20 seconds. I’m fine with the delay, but I’ve put this off long enough, “Okay, Peter Benchley, this is for you, you son of a bitch.”
I had been given some pointers and advice about ocean swims. First was from Dan, “Don’t act like an injured seal.” Yeah, thanks bro. Second, at that distance (1500 meters), you may get thirsty – “don’t swallow any of the salt water”, and the taste “sucks”. “The currents will screw up your swim lines, so sight more often”. “The waves will probably cause some nausea”. “Visibility underwater will be horrible”. “The salt water makes you more buoyant, so you’ll probably swim faster than expected”. That’s nice and all, but if I get a great swim time it’ll be because I’m trying to get my frigin ass out of that water ASAP, not due to a little salt holding me horizontal.
Well, everyone was right, plus I’m swimming with a purpose. Once in a groove I begin sighting every 4-5 breaths. I immediately come up on some other athletes and begin taking on water into my goggles. WTF! These goggles are 6 weeks old and have never leaked. I need to stop 3 times to empty them and readjust. Finally they seem to be staying suctioned to my face and I can fall right back into my stroke like nothing happened, but now I’m pissed and my purpose escalates. I begin treating this 1500m swim like it’s a mere sprint distance (500m). As I round the first buoy I’m stunned to see two swimmers wearing light blue caps, from the wave that started 3 minutes ahead of me. I feel much better now, but I’m wondering how much longer I can keep up this pace. That second buoy is so far away that I can’t spot it, so I’m relying on the swimmers in front of me to guide me toward it. Visibility underwater is less than 2 feet. I can barely make out my fingertips in front of me with each stroke. If you don’t look up (sight) every few strokes, you’re more likely to make contact with a fellow swimmer before you even see them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’d rather swim in 200 feet of crystal clear water than 7 feet of dark murky water. I have no idea how deep this water is or what is approaching me, so when a few strands of seaweed get caught in my fingers or drape themselves across my forehead, I begin a brief freakout phase, but I honestly think this improved my time. I figured if I had the perfect swim, which I certainly was not confident that I would, I could sneak in around 35 minutes. Finally approaching the second (final) buoy, the field is looking thinner, and I notice that I am passing other colored swim caps from wave 1. Wondering if 35 minutes seems suddenly more feasible, I round that buoy and locate the beach, but my shoulders and upper back are bonking. I choose not to sight as often, slow my stroke, and concentrate on my recovery phase. Within 30 seconds I’m feeling that I’m producing my most efficient open water stroke of the season. There is no one around me and it’s hard not to smile. As I approach the shoreline, knowing that I can swim in water faster than I can walk through water, I elect to swim until my fingertips brush the sand beneath me. When I stand, I stop, turn around, and take a few seconds to actually take in what I have just accomplished. I flip an imaginary bird into the Bay and say, “I win.” Nothing can go wrong the rest of the race. And my swim time means absolutely nothing (but I don’t mind telling you that I crushed my goal of 35min with a 28:39, 166th/388 total male athletes).
Well, everyone was right, plus I’m swimming with a purpose. Once in a groove I begin sighting every 4-5 breaths. I immediately come up on some other athletes and begin taking on water into my goggles. WTF! These goggles are 6 weeks old and have never leaked. I need to stop 3 times to empty them and readjust. Finally they seem to be staying suctioned to my face and I can fall right back into my stroke like nothing happened, but now I’m pissed and my purpose escalates. I begin treating this 1500m swim like it’s a mere sprint distance (500m). As I round the first buoy I’m stunned to see two swimmers wearing light blue caps, from the wave that started 3 minutes ahead of me. I feel much better now, but I’m wondering how much longer I can keep up this pace. That second buoy is so far away that I can’t spot it, so I’m relying on the swimmers in front of me to guide me toward it. Visibility underwater is less than 2 feet. I can barely make out my fingertips in front of me with each stroke. If you don’t look up (sight) every few strokes, you’re more likely to make contact with a fellow swimmer before you even see them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’d rather swim in 200 feet of crystal clear water than 7 feet of dark murky water. I have no idea how deep this water is or what is approaching me, so when a few strands of seaweed get caught in my fingers or drape themselves across my forehead, I begin a brief freakout phase, but I honestly think this improved my time. I figured if I had the perfect swim, which I certainly was not confident that I would, I could sneak in around 35 minutes. Finally approaching the second (final) buoy, the field is looking thinner, and I notice that I am passing other colored swim caps from wave 1. Wondering if 35 minutes seems suddenly more feasible, I round that buoy and locate the beach, but my shoulders and upper back are bonking. I choose not to sight as often, slow my stroke, and concentrate on my recovery phase. Within 30 seconds I’m feeling that I’m producing my most efficient open water stroke of the season. There is no one around me and it’s hard not to smile. As I approach the shoreline, knowing that I can swim in water faster than I can walk through water, I elect to swim until my fingertips brush the sand beneath me. When I stand, I stop, turn around, and take a few seconds to actually take in what I have just accomplished. I flip an imaginary bird into the Bay and say, “I win.” Nothing can go wrong the rest of the race. And my swim time means absolutely nothing (but I don’t mind telling you that I crushed my goal of 35min with a 28:39, 166th/388 total male athletes).
I walk. No really, I walk, all the way to transition from the beach. Everyone else is swiftly going by me. I’m basking in glory. It just doesn’t much matter how long it takes me to finish the race. The swim leg is over . . . and I won. I don’t see Dan until I arrive at my Bike. I can’t recall a single word that I said to him in T1. All I know is that I’m pretty frigin happy.
A quarter mile of gravel groomed the fan-lined road which led us out of the park. Shortly after hitting the pavement and I get up to my speed and cadence, I fall into aero position, then that moment happens. It’s that Zen-like, thrilling, hyperfocused, nearly orgasmic block of time where I hear nothing but the wind coursing through the vents in my helmet as I peer over my thumbs at the scrolling road. I am one with the bike. It lasts so much longer this race because the first half mile is all downhill, even needing to tap the breaks a few times secondary to congestion and corners. I am grateful for this, but all good things must come to an end. Having not driven the course, I have no idea what to expect. A new friend, and local chiropractor, Brian, had given me the lowdown about the course a week earlier when we were paired up as volunteers on the Pumpkinman Half bike course. He told me it was a beautiful ride with several good rolling hills. Then he said, “I’ll see you there. I’m doing that race for the third time.” When he told me what his time was from last year I figured at some point he’d pass me today (knowing that his age groups’ swim wave was a few after mine). I didn’t think he’d pass me in the water, although I really had no idea how strong of a swimmer he was.
In my previous 4 triathlons I had gotten out of the saddle to hammer a hill a total of 8 times (twice in each of them). So, I was a little worried when within the first 5-6 miles I had already met that quota. Fortunately, the climbs didn’t seem as long. My previous PR (personal record) for a bike leg was 18.3mph at last week’s Pumpkinman Sprint race (14 miles). I was confident I could hold a 17.5mph average over this 25 mile course. By the turnaround point I had been forced out of my seat to crawl up an incline four times, and yes, this number doubled by the time I was back to the awesome fans and the gravel path. Of course, the last hill was the most brutal. It was the first time I ever had to make a decision to push through the pain or risk falling over because I was going so slow. Why though? I didn’t feel like I was pushing the pace. I kept saying to myself, “Dammit Shawn, what gives? Was it the fact that I raced (my “A” race) last weekend? Did that take too much out of me? Am I flat because I spent the week recovering? Was my nutrition off? I know it’s a nice day, but it’s not that hot, so it can’t be sodium depletion or dehydration. Okay, I had to quadruple the number of hill climbs, but they weren’t that long or steep.” Anyway, I decide to spend the last quarter-mile on the bike recovering, mostly coasting, and trying to get my breathing under control.
In my previous 4 triathlons I had gotten out of the saddle to hammer a hill a total of 8 times (twice in each of them). So, I was a little worried when within the first 5-6 miles I had already met that quota. Fortunately, the climbs didn’t seem as long. My previous PR (personal record) for a bike leg was 18.3mph at last week’s Pumpkinman Sprint race (14 miles). I was confident I could hold a 17.5mph average over this 25 mile course. By the turnaround point I had been forced out of my seat to crawl up an incline four times, and yes, this number doubled by the time I was back to the awesome fans and the gravel path. Of course, the last hill was the most brutal. It was the first time I ever had to make a decision to push through the pain or risk falling over because I was going so slow. Why though? I didn’t feel like I was pushing the pace. I kept saying to myself, “Dammit Shawn, what gives? Was it the fact that I raced (my “A” race) last weekend? Did that take too much out of me? Am I flat because I spent the week recovering? Was my nutrition off? I know it’s a nice day, but it’s not that hot, so it can’t be sodium depletion or dehydration. Okay, I had to quadruple the number of hill climbs, but they weren’t that long or steep.” Anyway, I decide to spend the last quarter-mile on the bike recovering, mostly coasting, and trying to get my breathing under control.
The dismount is a breeze. I walk my bike to the rack and hang it by the seat. Leisurely, I take a seat in front of my tire and de-velcro by shoes. My back and quads are thankful for the rest, but I wonder if I’ll need assistance getting back to my feet. I easily slip on my Mizunos then pull up my calf compression sleeves another half inch. I’ve told you in the past that with each race this season I broke a Cardinal rule - “don’t try anything on race day that you haven’t already tried in training.” These compression sleeves on my calves are this race’s installment of that sin. After the bike leg I still haven’t composed an opinion. From the fence about 15ft away Dan asks me how I’m feeling and how the ride was. I tell him it was the toughest ride of the season and I felt slow, “to just have stayed on the bike during that final hill climb was a moral victory.” I grab my drink and walk over to him. There is no urgency. I’m clueless about my time because I forgot to start my wristwatch when my swim wave started. “You didn’t happen to have started your watch, did you?” I ask Dan.
“Yup” he replies with a smirk.
“Do I have a chance at 3 hours or not?”
“Depends how fast you can run I suppose”, his smirk becomes a grin.
“If you tell me I have an hour to run 10k, then I think I have a very small chance.”
He now laughs, “Well, according to my watch, which is of course an unofficial time, you have one hour and six minutes.”
“What?!?! Seriously?” I lean against the fence and take a few more small swigs of my drink. I think at one point we turned around and wondered if the food section had fired up any grills yet. “Well, I better leave soon so I can have a 3-5 minute buffer in case something happens out there.”
We touch fists and I tell him I’ll see him at the finish line.
“Yup” he replies with a smirk.
“Do I have a chance at 3 hours or not?”
“Depends how fast you can run I suppose”, his smirk becomes a grin.
“If you tell me I have an hour to run 10k, then I think I have a very small chance.”
He now laughs, “Well, according to my watch, which is of course an unofficial time, you have one hour and six minutes.”
“What?!?! Seriously?” I lean against the fence and take a few more small swigs of my drink. I think at one point we turned around and wondered if the food section had fired up any grills yet. “Well, I better leave soon so I can have a 3-5 minute buffer in case something happens out there.”
We touch fists and I tell him I’ll see him at the finish line.
I’m 66 minutes and 6.2 miles from a sub-3hr Olympic (International) distance. This past summer, on fresh legs mind you, each time I did 6.2 miles, I would average about 53-56 minutes. Now I had to break 66 minutes, but it would be after the most difficult bike leg of my rookie season. Let’s face it, the most discouraging and often painful portion of any triathlon (at least to me), is the first half mile or so of the run. The legs feel like waterlogged oak tree stumps rotting from the inside. Your stride is nothing like you practiced in training. Going another 50 feet seems unimaginable. You surely don’t look like a runner.
Not far from T2 a woman (a volunteer I think) is cheering me on (I think?) – “Let’s go! Turn over those long legs of yours! Lengthen your stride! High knees. C’mon, you can move faster than that!”
What the frig? Geesh, if she follows me the entire run I may be capable of finishing in 48min. I invite her to be my personal coach and motivational speaker for the next 6 miles, even offering to pay her 100% of my winnings, but she laughs and replies, “You won’t win unless you get those legs moving.”
“Thanks coach!”
I’m not sure what to make of that exchange. It doesn’t help. My legs still hurt. Termites are having their way with my thighs and I’m not expecting it to improve all that much. So, I turn my focus on the mental game. I’ve heard stories about this, but it was always during an Ironman event. Well, okay, I’m a rookie and this is my longest race of the year, so I guess this is kind of my Ironman moment for this year. My friend Amanda said she might be able to make it up here to cheer me on. She had a 25-30 mile bike ride on her training schedule, but since the race didn’t start until 9am, she was fairly sure she could get in the ride and make it up to my race to see me on the course somewhere. Amanda is training for her first Ironman in June of 2011. We live quite close to each other, and with my previous job allowing me weekdays off, and she running her own business, we did several long rides together over the summer. We have very similar abilities on the bike, I can swim circles around her, and she can run backward faster than I can run forward, even with a tail wind. Seeing her out there would be just the lift I need. I’m struggling and certainly slowing. I have not been able to find my running legs after a mile into this. I’m looking for her. I’m looking for something. Anything. I need some mojo. The next hill awaits me. I can’t accept any more of these after this one. It’s all I've got left. One foot in front of the other. It’s a constant rerun in my head. It’s the only way up this hill. I make eye contact with everyone lining the roads now. I don’t miss a single set. I need to see someone that I know. A second cousin’s neighbor’s coworker’s junior high school’s Home Ec assistant would be fine at this point. As I crest the hill I can only look down, willing my feet, one at a time, to plant in front of me, moving me forward.
“Wooooo. Shawn! (clapping) You’re looking strong. You got this.” It’s Amanda, and obviously she is delirious. I look strong? “How do you feel?”
I say nothing. I shrug. If I think about how I feel, I’ll soon be walking. I need to go to a place I haven’t been before, but I have no idea how to get there. All I know is that if I keep going forward and follow the course, a finish line awaits me. Moments ago all I wanted to do was finish. Suddenly, I must be damn sure that I finish in under 3 hours. A deep breath, relax my shoulders and neck, and increase my cadence. I’ve got this. From that second, until I hit the turn around mark, I don’t recall much of anything. I fantasized about crossing the finish line and gazing at the red digital numbers as they approached three hours.
A tap on the shoulder interrupts my dream. “Brian! Hey man! How’s it going?” Not being sure what swim wave he is in (which really means how much of a head start I had on him), I’m not surprised that he has finally passed me, I was just guessing it would’ve been near the end of the bike leg.
“I’m feeling pretty good, Shawn. You holding up okay? Only a couple more miles, man.”
“I’ve been struggling most of the run, but I should be alright.”
“You’re fine. Maybe I’ll find you later.”
And suddenly he is gone. He takes off, and although I would’ve liked to have tried to hang with him to the finish, I just can’t go any faster. It’s a major accomplishment to not reduce myself to a walk at this point. Right now, that’s all that matters. “Just keep running. Just keep running. Just keep running.”
It’s getting close to noon now and the sun is out in full force. Although only about 60 degrees, it seems to feel more like 80. I’ve been hitting every hydration station. I chose not to carry fluids with me. This may have been a mistake. Or maybe I should have drank more on the bike. It doesn’t matter much now. I’m back at the point where I should be seeing Amanda again. That’ll be a welcome sight. Brian gave me the encouragement to carry me a mile or two, but I already know that I’m going to need substantially more for that final push up that last damn hill with just under a mile remaining. It’s the same long hill that we coasted down at the start of the bike as well as the run. That inevitable task has been fresh in my mind for 2 hours now. “Save something for that last hill,” I keep saying to myself. The problem is that my tank is empty right now.
Not far from T2 a woman (a volunteer I think) is cheering me on (I think?) – “Let’s go! Turn over those long legs of yours! Lengthen your stride! High knees. C’mon, you can move faster than that!”
What the frig? Geesh, if she follows me the entire run I may be capable of finishing in 48min. I invite her to be my personal coach and motivational speaker for the next 6 miles, even offering to pay her 100% of my winnings, but she laughs and replies, “You won’t win unless you get those legs moving.”
“Thanks coach!”
I’m not sure what to make of that exchange. It doesn’t help. My legs still hurt. Termites are having their way with my thighs and I’m not expecting it to improve all that much. So, I turn my focus on the mental game. I’ve heard stories about this, but it was always during an Ironman event. Well, okay, I’m a rookie and this is my longest race of the year, so I guess this is kind of my Ironman moment for this year. My friend Amanda said she might be able to make it up here to cheer me on. She had a 25-30 mile bike ride on her training schedule, but since the race didn’t start until 9am, she was fairly sure she could get in the ride and make it up to my race to see me on the course somewhere. Amanda is training for her first Ironman in June of 2011. We live quite close to each other, and with my previous job allowing me weekdays off, and she running her own business, we did several long rides together over the summer. We have very similar abilities on the bike, I can swim circles around her, and she can run backward faster than I can run forward, even with a tail wind. Seeing her out there would be just the lift I need. I’m struggling and certainly slowing. I have not been able to find my running legs after a mile into this. I’m looking for her. I’m looking for something. Anything. I need some mojo. The next hill awaits me. I can’t accept any more of these after this one. It’s all I've got left. One foot in front of the other. It’s a constant rerun in my head. It’s the only way up this hill. I make eye contact with everyone lining the roads now. I don’t miss a single set. I need to see someone that I know. A second cousin’s neighbor’s coworker’s junior high school’s Home Ec assistant would be fine at this point. As I crest the hill I can only look down, willing my feet, one at a time, to plant in front of me, moving me forward.
“Wooooo. Shawn! (clapping) You’re looking strong. You got this.” It’s Amanda, and obviously she is delirious. I look strong? “How do you feel?”
I say nothing. I shrug. If I think about how I feel, I’ll soon be walking. I need to go to a place I haven’t been before, but I have no idea how to get there. All I know is that if I keep going forward and follow the course, a finish line awaits me. Moments ago all I wanted to do was finish. Suddenly, I must be damn sure that I finish in under 3 hours. A deep breath, relax my shoulders and neck, and increase my cadence. I’ve got this. From that second, until I hit the turn around mark, I don’t recall much of anything. I fantasized about crossing the finish line and gazing at the red digital numbers as they approached three hours.
A tap on the shoulder interrupts my dream. “Brian! Hey man! How’s it going?” Not being sure what swim wave he is in (which really means how much of a head start I had on him), I’m not surprised that he has finally passed me, I was just guessing it would’ve been near the end of the bike leg.
“I’m feeling pretty good, Shawn. You holding up okay? Only a couple more miles, man.”
“I’ve been struggling most of the run, but I should be alright.”
“You’re fine. Maybe I’ll find you later.”
And suddenly he is gone. He takes off, and although I would’ve liked to have tried to hang with him to the finish, I just can’t go any faster. It’s a major accomplishment to not reduce myself to a walk at this point. Right now, that’s all that matters. “Just keep running. Just keep running. Just keep running.”
It’s getting close to noon now and the sun is out in full force. Although only about 60 degrees, it seems to feel more like 80. I’ve been hitting every hydration station. I chose not to carry fluids with me. This may have been a mistake. Or maybe I should have drank more on the bike. It doesn’t matter much now. I’m back at the point where I should be seeing Amanda again. That’ll be a welcome sight. Brian gave me the encouragement to carry me a mile or two, but I already know that I’m going to need substantially more for that final push up that last damn hill with just under a mile remaining. It’s the same long hill that we coasted down at the start of the bike as well as the run. That inevitable task has been fresh in my mind for 2 hours now. “Save something for that last hill,” I keep saying to myself. The problem is that my tank is empty right now.
As I take a left onto the last road that leads to the finish, and prepare to climb, Amanda is awaiting up behind the stop sign on a small embankment. She walks down towards me. Under my breath I am begging for some encouragement. I am hoping she says something like, “Only 100 more feet.” It would be even better if she said, “Only 100 more feet, and you’re way under 3 hours.”
“Alright Shawn! You look great. How do you feel?” again clapping.
I simply can’t speak. I thought about what I might say to her if I saw her again, but all I could do was throw my hands up in the air, palms to the sky, and shrug with a quick shake of my head. That’s it. No energy to form words at this point. Or maybe I’m just conserving what fumes are left. I can’t waste calories moving my lips. As I struggle to trudge on past her, I start feeling bad. I mean bad as in Amanda drove all the way up here to cheer me on and show her support (after her 40 mile bike ride), and I didn’t even thank her on the course. What a putz. One word, “Thanks”, was even too much to muster.
The runner who is now passing me I have been secretly competing against the entire run. I somewhat coasted by him down the hill during the first mile and we had exchanged positions numerous times since, never likely more than 50ft apart. He had the number “43” on his right calf, and by the way, based on his physique, didn’t look like he should be in front of me. That just goes to show yet again that it is not about the body that surrounds the engine, it’s about the engine that feeds the will (I just coined that). Unless he is feeling like me, I’ve got no chance to overtake him one last time. He’s appearing strong and is creating separation rapidly. He left more than just fumes in his reserve tank. He is actually driving up that hill, whereby my feet are not even leaving the ground. So, in that respect, I would technically qualify for an official speedwalker. I can now hear the announcer’s voice over the speakers with blaring music in the immediate background. The crowds lining the streets are getting thicker and I can now see up ahead where the pavement turns back to gravel, the sign that there is only about an eighth of a mile remaining. Without thinking about it, my speedwalking status turns immediately into a graceful and competent runner’s stride. Engulfed with adrenaline, and not wanting to give the appearance that I’m about to puke, or having not trained enough, I put on the façade that “this is a walk in the park” (almost literally). I think its working. Even a better feeling than that of completing my first triathlon was crossing the finish line at The Lobsterman today. Twice the distance as I had ever gone before, and yes, in under 3 hours. I made it . . . smiling yet again.
“Alright Shawn! You look great. How do you feel?” again clapping.
I simply can’t speak. I thought about what I might say to her if I saw her again, but all I could do was throw my hands up in the air, palms to the sky, and shrug with a quick shake of my head. That’s it. No energy to form words at this point. Or maybe I’m just conserving what fumes are left. I can’t waste calories moving my lips. As I struggle to trudge on past her, I start feeling bad. I mean bad as in Amanda drove all the way up here to cheer me on and show her support (after her 40 mile bike ride), and I didn’t even thank her on the course. What a putz. One word, “Thanks”, was even too much to muster.
The runner who is now passing me I have been secretly competing against the entire run. I somewhat coasted by him down the hill during the first mile and we had exchanged positions numerous times since, never likely more than 50ft apart. He had the number “43” on his right calf, and by the way, based on his physique, didn’t look like he should be in front of me. That just goes to show yet again that it is not about the body that surrounds the engine, it’s about the engine that feeds the will (I just coined that). Unless he is feeling like me, I’ve got no chance to overtake him one last time. He’s appearing strong and is creating separation rapidly. He left more than just fumes in his reserve tank. He is actually driving up that hill, whereby my feet are not even leaving the ground. So, in that respect, I would technically qualify for an official speedwalker. I can now hear the announcer’s voice over the speakers with blaring music in the immediate background. The crowds lining the streets are getting thicker and I can now see up ahead where the pavement turns back to gravel, the sign that there is only about an eighth of a mile remaining. Without thinking about it, my speedwalking status turns immediately into a graceful and competent runner’s stride. Engulfed with adrenaline, and not wanting to give the appearance that I’m about to puke, or having not trained enough, I put on the façade that “this is a walk in the park” (almost literally). I think its working. Even a better feeling than that of completing my first triathlon was crossing the finish line at The Lobsterman today. Twice the distance as I had ever gone before, and yes, in under 3 hours. I made it . . . smiling yet again.
My official time was 2:54:28 (I started in the 3rd swim wave - 3 minutes after the gun went off)
Several moments after finishing, Dan found me and gave me some water. After a few high-fives and pseudo man hugs, he asked me if I wanted anything else. I think I said “yes, whatever you can get is fine”.
As he walked away, I bent over to loosen my shoes, and when I stood back upright, the next thing I remember was lying on the grass with 2 guys kneeling over me asking me if I was okay. I was a bit confused. One of them looked me in the eyes, which were apparently not completely rolled up into my head, and shot off to go get help.
“I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Someone went to get help at the medical tent. Just stay down.”
“How long have I been down for?” as I sit up and hug my knees.
The remaining athlete, “I saw you go down. You were right beside me. Probably only a couple of seconds.”
“I think I just stood up too fast after I loosened my sneakers. I’m okay now.”
Just then, a volunteer came over with someone from the medical tent, a Nurse Practitioner, and handed me a banana and some pretzels. They helped me up and saw that I was steady. I was embarrassed and humbled, but most of all I was sincerely thankful, and I certainly let them know. What a tremendous community this is – triathlon (or multisport). It’s like nothing I have ever been around.
Dan walks over to me and hands me a banana and half of a bagel.
“Thanks bro, but I just ate a banana.”
“What?”
“Yeah, right after you walked away, I passed out apparently. They called some folks over from the medical tent who gave me a banana and some pretzels, which I scoffed down, and they hung out with me for a few minutes.”
“What? Did you see a shark or something.”
“No, you dink. I’m fine - just stood up too fast and a little volume or salt depleted.”
“Damn, I would’ve thought you might of passed out before getting into the water, not after you crossed the finish line. I’ve got a bag of really salty tortilla chips in the car with your name on it. Let’s go eat.”
“I’ll race you there!” The sweet smell of the post race spread was emanating from the other side of transition, which happened to be right next to my tour bus.
In each of the four triathlons that I completed this season, each had its unique set of obstacles, unforeseen complications, and challenges. Some you can try to plan for. Some you just can’t. What remained a true constant was the immense sense of invaluable accomplishment as you cross the finish line. It doesn’t matter if you finish first, or on the podium at all, or if you were the last one to cross that day. And your time is surely secondary. At one point in my very first blog post I stated, “If you finish, you win”. Well, I got to win every race this season. I’m 5-0 and looking to stay undefeated.
“I’m okay, I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Someone went to get help at the medical tent. Just stay down.”
“How long have I been down for?” as I sit up and hug my knees.
The remaining athlete, “I saw you go down. You were right beside me. Probably only a couple of seconds.”
“I think I just stood up too fast after I loosened my sneakers. I’m okay now.”
Just then, a volunteer came over with someone from the medical tent, a Nurse Practitioner, and handed me a banana and some pretzels. They helped me up and saw that I was steady. I was embarrassed and humbled, but most of all I was sincerely thankful, and I certainly let them know. What a tremendous community this is – triathlon (or multisport). It’s like nothing I have ever been around.
Dan walks over to me and hands me a banana and half of a bagel.
“Thanks bro, but I just ate a banana.”
“What?”
“Yeah, right after you walked away, I passed out apparently. They called some folks over from the medical tent who gave me a banana and some pretzels, which I scoffed down, and they hung out with me for a few minutes.”
“What? Did you see a shark or something.”
“No, you dink. I’m fine - just stood up too fast and a little volume or salt depleted.”
“Damn, I would’ve thought you might of passed out before getting into the water, not after you crossed the finish line. I’ve got a bag of really salty tortilla chips in the car with your name on it. Let’s go eat.”
“I’ll race you there!” The sweet smell of the post race spread was emanating from the other side of transition, which happened to be right next to my tour bus.
In each of the four triathlons that I completed this season, each had its unique set of obstacles, unforeseen complications, and challenges. Some you can try to plan for. Some you just can’t. What remained a true constant was the immense sense of invaluable accomplishment as you cross the finish line. It doesn’t matter if you finish first, or on the podium at all, or if you were the last one to cross that day. And your time is surely secondary. At one point in my very first blog post I stated, “If you finish, you win”. Well, I got to win every race this season. I’m 5-0 and looking to stay undefeated.
As we make our way out of the park, I look out into the bay and begin laughing. The buoys are gone, and so is all of the water in the bay. Reduced to nothing but a sandbar, like someone had pulled the plug out of the drain, I realize that I was probably swimming in 6-8ft of water the entire time. But what I didn’t know, made me stronger (nor did it eat me).
