If I fail this time it just may cause a full-on tail spin. Despite me needing to give self confidence a big ole hug right now, I wasn't feeling the love. I had never gone into a race with as little confidence as The Pumpkinman 70.3 (2012). The 2011 PMan was suppose to be my first attempt at the 70.3 distance, but that ruptured disk in my neck derailed me 3 weeks prior (see my entry, "The Gift"). Once recovered enough to begin training again, 4 months later, I began preparing for Rev3 Quassy 70.3 (June 2012).
I was clearly in the best shape of my life the moment before the horn sounded, although quite apprehensive about the most difficult course I had ever laid my rubber and soles on. Four of us who were doing that race had travelled down to the venue the month before in order to ride the bike course on a Saturday, and run the half marathon course on Sunday, both of which were the most challenging "workouts" I had ever done in and of themselves. It was unimaginable to think of attempting them back to back (after swimming 1.2 miles), especially four weeks from then. Quassy was my second attempt at a 70.3. I felt immaculate. It was going to be suffer-filled and painful, but on that day I had the confidence to pull it off, and having that mindset going in is more than half the battle. But alas, after a fantastic, uneventful, beautifully paced swim, I got on the bike, and less than two miles into my ride I struck a large, flat stone or piece of slate on the edge of the breakdown lane. It flipped up and struck my rear derailluer, bending it, causing the chain to come off, get jammed, thus leaving the bike unshiftable. Bike support showed up over an hour later and a tech worked on it for over 20min but could not make it functionable. I was loaded into a box truck and brought back to the venue. My day was done. My second attempt was over. But that was the very least of my problems. The day before leaving to travel down to Quassy, the job I was suppose to start when I got back, was ripped out from under me. I had no full-time job. (see my entry, "Resolute")
Between early June and early September 2012, I felt fortunate to have been able to scrounge up an average of 29hr/wk working in various urgent cares between Boston and Barrington, NH, until my eventual full time position came along in November at Dartmouth Hitchcock - Manchester. The hours and the commutes were crazy and inconsistent. I could find no routine. I couldn't create any sort of a training plan that was remotely executable with the vulnerability of my work hours. All told, retrospectively, I logged an average of 2.1 hours of training per week during that 3 month stretch. Some athletes train 2hrs a day for a 70.3 event. In 90 days I went from the best shape of my life, to the worst in 4 years.
So, now we jump ahead. I was first to arrive at the 2012 Pumpkinman 70.3. Yes, that's right. First car in the athlete's lot. Shocker, I know.
There is only so many times you can check your list of necessities before you just have to assume that you've forgotten to pack one thing that you'll need at some point during the race. But for me, that light bulb never came on that day, although I had hoped to get some goggle defogger (which I had never used before). About a mile into the Quassy swim I began to cloud up, and knew it would be worse at PMan. But I couldn't find the time to pick some up. So, the spit was going to have to suffice today.
The air was comfortable, barely, and the dew on my feet was cool. My headlamp lit the way to the packet pick-up tent. I was second to arrive there. I was delayed from struggling to get air into my tires over at my van (tourbus) secondary to fighting with the nozzle on my bike pump. (Hope that doesn't come back to haunt me later). Transition (where I had volunteered during yesterday's sprint race) was about to open. Only one pitstop before entering (Port-O-Potty). Sorry, no PR's today on potty visits.
I was ecstatic to find my transition position was at the end of a row (furthest in), meaning I was against the side fence. I only had one athlete on one side of me. There was enough room for a lawn chair if I wanted. Maybe even a picnic table.
I was going to be able to really spread out; set up base camp for the day. Instead of using the normal “designated” space beneath my racked bike for lining up the bike shoes, running shoes, etc., I decided to line up all of my necessities against the fence. I felt like I was in a penthouse with the amount of room that I had. I even slung my wetsuit over the fence, left my transition bag right there, lined up my shoes, nutrition, butt balm, anti-chafe stick, and extra clothes. I know that I’ve said it before, but I’m quite the minimalist when it comes to setting up. Yes, I still have a few OCD moments, but compared to others I witness painstakingly checking, rechecking, adjusting, and readjusting over the course of 45min is crazy to me. Although, when you think about it, how well your race goes can certainly revolve around what you bring to the race to get you through it, and all of that stuff sits in a 2-foot by 1-foot spot under your bike. You may take six hours to finish a 70.3, and only spend a total of three minutes in your transition area, but if you are missing one necessity, your race can go to crap in a real hurry. So far it didn’t appear like I had overlooked anything.
This being the end of my third season in triathlon, I have begun to develop, or should I say, realize, that I require a “quiet” time, alone, to just proceed through an affirmation of sorts. Sometimes it is before I dawn my wetsuit, and sometimes just after. Today, it’s both. I stroll out of the backside of transition onto the hilltop that leads down to the water. I roam off toward the tree line and try to blend in; remain inconspicuous. My mind focuses on a few thoughts:
1) Just find a way to finish this, no matter what it takes. Stopping, failing to cross the finish line
today, is not an option.
2) This is MY race. MY event. No one else around me matters. If I finish last, I will have won.
3) Stay calm. Every stroke, revolution, and stride has a pace, and that pace will be serene, tranquil, and
smooth. Smile and acknowledge everyone.
smooth. Smile and acknowledge everyone.
4) It’s not a matter of “if”, but rather, “when” will my body revolt. At that moment, remember, lean into it.
Today is a Gift.
Today is a Gift.
It’s time to prepare to swim. 1.2 miles. I still don’t know how athletes do it. I mean, warm up just before getting into their wetsuits. I see these guys get on their bike trainer, then go for a run, they get warm and sweaty, and then they slip on their suits. Copious amounts of heavy lube or not, my warm, sweaty body will not go into a wetsuit without a team of professionals to assist. Therefore, I don’t warm up anymore. And today there will certainly be no exception. You see, I warmed up before the Quassy 70.3, and as I was attempting to cram my clammy frame into my sleeveless wetsuit, it tore about a 5-inch hole right across the top of the buttock. And yes, this is how I swam the 1.2 miles – with my ass sticking out. By the time I had made my repairs to the wetsuit using rubber cement, suturing material and iron-on patches, several weeks later, it was early August. I was at Ellacoya with the D’Abrosca’s, and Dave and I decided to do some pre-Timberman swimming. Well, I hadn’t worn my newly repaired suit since my expert repair. But I had put on over 15 pounds in the previous 2 months. In the face of my excessive application of Pam cooking spray, the moment I tried to tug the back of the wetsuit up over my bloated arse, it tore a 14-inch hole, nearly separating the legs from the torso, becoming a 2-piece. Now not repairable, I was down to only my XL Fullsleeve suit for the last three tri’s of the season. I attempted to order an XL sleeveless using my triclub discount code, but that model was backordered with an expected shipping date of early October.
So, for today's PMan 70.3, it was with great caution and precision that I meticulously snuck into the only wetsuit that I had, which I had never tried to squeeze into at this weight. Uncomfortably, task completed. Catastrophe averted.
The announcer: “Athletes!!! Please begin making your way down to the water. Transition will be closing and the mandatory meeting will be starting very soon.”
Not that I was going to change anything now, but I glanced over my transition set-up one last time, grabbed my swim cap, goggles, and earplugs, and made my march down Spring Hill to the water’s edge.
The entire solo flight down the hill I was constantly scanning the field and gathering crowd for my kids.
Nothing.
I know it’s 6:45am. I know it’s a 40 minute drive from our home, but I wanted them there. I wanted to kiss them, hug them, and give them high fives until the horn sounded. I needed them there. I needed to see them each time I entered and left transition during my race. I knew it was going to be a long day, but that’s all I wanted. It was my one and only concern, but as my wave toed the line, I turned for one last scan. Nope. Couldn’t find them.
“3 – 2 – 1 – GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!!!!!”
Calm, controlled, steady, rhythmic, stay long, stay straight, reach, pull, complete exhale, recover, head down, tuck chin, roll, calm, controlled, steady.
The water is perfect, aside from the dark and murky part. By the time I reach the first buoy, I'm wishing for my sleeveless wetsuit. My shoulders are already feeling fatigued, as is my neck, and my body is heating up quicker than I had anticipated. The swim wave size is equally as perfect. I'm keeping everyone to my right, and since I only breathe to the right, I know where every other swimmer is, and I know what they are doing. Squeaking past the first buoy, I make the sharp left turn, and I feel my entire body settle into it's ideal swimming rhythm. Stay straight and reach. Stay straight and reach. It's getting easier. That calm I was searching for is finally here. I'm already coming up behind the previous wave of swimmers as we all find our personal space within the pond in our imaginary lanes. Although my triclub can swim at this pond during designated times, I have not been here to swim in two years, since I last did the Sprint race. Yet still, I must keep my eyes closed when my face is submerged. I don't want to come up onto a partially submerged old milk carton, begin to freak out, and crap my wetsuit. Seeing weeds from the bottom doesn't bother me all that much, although I'm not happy about it. As I make the final left turn towards the end of the first loop, we're in the shallowest of water, and not only can I see weeds, I am touching them. And they are touching me, which is even worse. Why I can't get over that is beyond me. Nevertheless, I'm making my way around the large bouy that denotes the end of the first swim lap, and now the congestion of athlete's has significantly increased. Navigating, sighting, and keeping my eyes open underwater has suddenly become crucial to prevent a swift kick in the noggin, a bloody nose, or a black eye. I maintain my tight line to the left of all swimmers, and it is infinitely helpful, but I'm now exerting much more energy than I had planned. I'm finding myself trying to pass many of them to get into a more open area of water before creeping up on the turn buoy; the more dangerous portion of the swim leg, since most try to hug the turn. My plan is successful, but it takes a lot out of me, and my breathing rhythm is now a mess. And to top it off, my goggles are starting to fog. I frigin' knew it! Before I travel another 100m, I can't see a thing. I'm forced to stop and rinse. Not once, or twice, but about three more times during the final 600m. It does, however, distract me from paying attention to weeds and milk jugs, so I guess it wasn't all for not. During the final 100m I recall some old advice: "Kick your legs to warm them up for the hill climb." Yeah, that hill climb. I'm not preparing for a record breaking performance here: just getting up the hill without needing CPR will be just fine today. I do take the advice seriously, for about 5 seconds, then I go back to my kickless stroke. My legs will be plenty warmed up for the bike portion after I gingerly walk up that hill.
Exiting the water, all I can again think about is trying to find my kids. They've got to be here by now. I've been in the water for about 40 minutes. Walking from the beach and making my way up the hill, I'm scanning everywhere. Nothing. Only friends within our tri community are shouting out to me, and it is certainly helpful and greatly appreciated, but I really want to see my kids, stop for a few moments, give them a kiss, a hug, and a few high-fives, but I can't find them. Maybe they will be on the other side of the transition area once I mount the bike. That is a logical place to hang out for the day, especially if they showed up a little late. I'm confused as to whether I should be angry, hurt, indifferent, or concerned that something has happened to them. By this time my wetsuit is peeled off my upper body. I was going to take it off while on the water's edge, thinking it would be easier treking up the hill, but after 1.2 miles my balance is never great intially, and with the good crowd present, I decided to keep my legs in it until I entered transition for fear of faceplanting or pulling a hammie in front of too many spectators. Once on the pavement of the parking lot (in transition), I fluidly jumped out of my remaining wetsuit, rinsed my feet in the kitty pool to remove sand, grass, and hay, and scooted my way over to my penthouse. I threw my suit over the fence to hang it and proceeded to have one of the smoothest T1's ever. There was no competing for space. Nothing had been moved, knocked over, or was hidden from view.
I still don't have the courage to attempt anything professional-appearing with my bike mounts and dismounts. I don't clip my shoes in, mount my coasting bike barefoot, then fluently slip one foot at a time into my shoes while navigating the initail road exiting the venue. I'm in awe of athlete's that can do it. But today it's not part of the plan. I need to finish. This bike needs to hold up, I need to focus on avoiding injury and accidents, and staying nutritionally sound. All I have to do is make it to mile-2 of this bike leg and I will have made it farther that I ever have in a 70.3, but that, of course, will not be good enough. There's no consellation prize for making it to mile 3. Leaving transition is a small paved hill which takes you out to the main road. These are where the bulk of the fans and family set up base camp for the day. I'm going about as slow as I can go without falling over, hoping to see Carter and CC, or at least hear them yelling and screaming, but I'm left with a void. The next 3+ hours on the bike I will wonder if they are alright. But for now, I fall into aero, coast down that first hill, and enjoy one of my favorite feelings in all of triathlon - the cool breeze on my damp body and the wind rushing through the seams in my helmet.
It is always a smart thing to try to ride or run a course prior to showing up to race the event. I've done it a few times now and have found it invaluable. About 5 weeks prior to PMan 2012, I rode about 60% (first loop) of the bike course. I knew the area anyway, since I grew up in "The Berwicks". I staked out the major rough patches and potholes on the roads, even though most of them have been previously marked with a bright spray paint. I knew where the inclines were and had already found comfortable gears to climb them in, and I knew where I'd be coasting to recover, as well as building speed to regain back some time. Any dangers I might come across were burned into my brain. But that did not become the issue today. At right around the 35 mile mark I began tightening up. My left quad, just above my knee, was sending me "the signal". You know, that "one false move and it'll enter into complete lockdown" signal. Yeah, great. I've got 20 more miles to go and I thought I would need to be more concerned about that "tissue" between my thighs wearing thin, and now I have a quad to contend with. Optional treatment included getting off the bike, finding a lawn, and doing some stretching, or just being cautious and battling through. I chose the battle.
As predicted, and as advertised, within the next few miles, my sweet spot was souring. Despite the rather excessive Butt Balm applied in T1, I was "thinning" down there. I love my saddle too. I mean I really love it: Cobb V-flow Max. Exponentially better than my previous 2 saddles. I couldn't imagine putting my ass on anything else. But alas, my ass right now is just way out of shape. Not enough riding this summer. Any "tolerance" I had layered upon my taint, had evaporated. All I can think about is how badly I really need to get off this bike and start my half marathon. I'm spending more time off my saddle than planted on it. It's the only somewhat comfortable position. Even on the flats, I find myself standing. I'm lurching left, then lurching right. I'm grabbing my tri-shorts more than my handlebars. I'm now scared as Hell to run a half mile, let alone, a half marathon. I'm going to have to hit the pause button in T2 and do some medical maintenance/first aid. I mean, I expected this, but not to this degree.
Rounding the last corner and coasting into the parking lot of Spring Hill, I hear the hooting and hollering of Karen and Carin (D'Abrosca) from their front row perch on the edge of the pavement off to my right. They made it. I don't see my kids. They are off frolicking with other kids, but at least I know they are safe. Karen yells, "Two down!!! Two down!!!" -- meaning all that is left is to run. I hold up two fingers (in a devil horn fashion) and smile from ear to ear as I let out an enormous sigh of relief. Unclipping my left shoe at the dismount line and placing it onto the ground provides the relief my private areas have been longing for the last hour. But it is bitter sweet. After unclipping my right cleat I make an attempt to swing my right leg behind the seat. The moment I shift all of my weight onto my right leg, the distal belly of my right quad seizes up and locks down. I immediately succumb and drop my right leg back down to the ground, straddling the frame's top tube. Massaging and pounding it with my fist is of little benefit, but I'm paralyzed and it's all that I know to do. A volunteer is huddling with me, making sure I don't tip over, which at this point, is a viable option. Each time I think I'm ready to swing that right leg over, I feel my left quad tighten again. By my best guess I remain there for almost three full minutes. I'm not in a rush today, so fifteen minutes probably would've even sat well with me. I finally just go for it. That is when the second issue arises. My swinging right leg's hamstring notifies me that it wants a turn at this catchy lock down position, but I stave it off . . . for now. If it's possible to limp on both legs simoultaneously, I'm doing it. It's a long, slow walk to my parking spot in transition. With bike planted back in its rack, I attend to my ragged and seemingly decaying lower body. My T2 time only explains half the picture (12min 50sec). I am on the hot top rotating between quad, hammie, and gluteal stretches, over and over and over again. I'm pacing the center path in transition, testing each muscle group to see if it's ready or not. Once I think it is about as good as it is going to get, I pull down the top half of my one-piece "iron roosta" trisuit, face the fence at the edge of the treeline, and assess the raw damage. I need some butt chamois cream, but I am fearful that it's application will only triple the pain, at least initially. I can't believe that I am actually contemplating running 13.1 miles without any first aid "down there". "Will this hurt like pouring salt on an open wound?" I negotiate with myself and do a test patch. Whoa! It has an amazing cooling effect. Let the lathering begin!!!
I'm so excited that I begin to jog out of transition and forget that my legs haven't voted to do the same. This is not a democracy. I demand that they begin working. I order them to release me. But, I'm vetoed. I pass by Halen, a friend, and local endurance athlete. I've got a "look" about me, and I can tell because of the "look" she is giving me. I stop. Her encouraging words become necessary, "Walk it out. Stretch it out. Go easy. You got this."
I inquire, "What do I do? I don't know what to do. I'm cramping everywhere"
"Walk then stretch. Walk then stretch. Your legs will find you," she reiterates.
I think I gave her a fist bump or high five and thanked her before I gingerly staggered down the hill towards the main road. By the time I walk 30 yards I'm in need of another pep talk, and I'll get one from Karen and Carin.
Karen: "How are you doing? It took you a while to get off your bike."
Me: "Yup. My right quad and left hammie are having a bit of a disagreement."
Karen: "But you made it off the bike. This is as far as you have even been, right?"
Me: "Yes, but it's about to get tough. Really tough. I knew that it would, so here I am."
Carin: "We just saw Dave come in."
Me: "Yeah. He passed me about 5 miles ago and I tried to keep up. I asked him what took so long and and I think he called me a bad name. We'll probably see each other on the run a couple of times. At least I hope so. I've got a feeling that I'm going to need him."
Karen: "Two down. Have fun. You're going to make it."
Me: "I hope you're right, but it's going to take me a lot longer. I was thinking I'd be coming in between 1:00-1:15pm, but it'll probably be closer to 1:30pm." (6.5hrs+ from my start).
Karen: "I'll do my best to have the kids there at the finish."
Me: "That'll be awesome. Alright, let's go run a half marathon."
Because I do have some pride, as soon as I step away from Karen, with a plan to begin walking, I can't bring myself to do it since this is where the crowds and fans are so concentrated. It should only be several hundred yards, so I decide to put on a poor rendition of a game face and briskly jog. Surprisingly, it's not half bad. I see several more friends, all of whose presence are immensely appreciated, especially since they know my story. But I quickly come to realize that the first chance I get to walk and do some stretching, I'm all-in.
I need a plan . . . I think. I don't know. The initial plan is to NOT walk any part of the run, even if it is barely jogging, but I can already see that I need to develop a contingency plan, or two, or three. Do I walk at the water stops, positioned about every 1-2 miles? If so, how much? One hundred yards on either side? Do I walk all of the inclines? Declines? And jog the flats? Do I jog until I just can't anymore, take a 1-3min break, then jog again?
Pace is out the window, kicked to the curb, eliminated entirely.
Just get to the finish.
I decide on the former - I'm going to walk the water stops, hydrate and fuel, and jog in between.
I'm carrying about 24oz of water (Four 6oz bottles on my FuelBelt), each with 1.5oz of Hammergel and 4 scoops of Endurolytes dissolved within them. This was to last me about 7-8 miles, figuring I would take a large mouthful about every 5-6 minutes. Once empty, I'd use the aid stations over the remaining distance.
I wish I could say that I made it to mile 8 before feeling like I was "bonking", but essentially, the entire run (from the onset) felt like a bonk. For this reason, as soon as I was clear from all fans and out "on my own", the first walk was initiated. My legs were like Jell-O, prior to being refrigerated. They ached. My limping from the previous cramps was also still required. Although nausea was a current prominent symptom, I decided my muscles needed fluids and fuel. Over the course of the next half mile I drank half of my fluids (with the Hammer Gel and Endurolytes). It was only 12oz, but I immediately felt bloated. I assumed if I jogged now, the sloshing around of that fluid in my stomach would exacerbate the nausea, and it did. I had to stop again. Stretching in the breakdown lane, I began comtemplating making myself throw-up so I could run. I ran 100yds, walked 100yds, ran 100 yds, etc. Just when the nausea crested, I'd pull it back. Once resolved, I'd start to jog again. Although discouraged at my progress, at least it was working. This was my pattern for the next few miles until I reached the turn around point. Just then, the nausea lifted, my legs felt refreshed (and I use that term loosely), and I jogged the next 3 miles. I must have hydrated myself because I now had the urge to pee. I had never used an "on-course" port-o-potty, mid-race, but today that was going to change. At the top of the next hill, next to a major water stop, that record would fall. Relieved of my bladder burden, I headed back towards the venue to complete my first of two loops. It was still a series of alternating between walking and jogging. I'd be lying if I called it running. Actually, I feel guilty calling it jogging. It was more like shuffling, which was dramatically slower than those speedwalkers you see. I had gone back to interval sips of fluids as well, and as predicted, my fluids had run out at about mile 7. The new plan was to jog until I was 100yds from a water stop, pause to take in some fluids and a few calories, walk 100 more yards, then resume shuffling. At the turn-around I was so hopeful to see my family, even though I couldn't have predicted when I'd be showing up there, but they were again no where to be found. Knowing the pain I was in, what distance I had just run, and what I still had left to do, I was immensely discouraged. You can hear the finish line, almost smell the food, and see the venue, but you have to repeat what you had just endured, except acknowledge that the second time around will likely be three times as grueling. Pulling away from the crowds again, I was reduced to my roosta shuffle. I'm now spending less and less time jogging. My legs are getting crampy again, especially as I climb that slow steady hill back to that major water stop again. The hill takes nearly everything I have. I don't know what to do now. I've never been this far. I've never felt this bad. I've never been this confused, this weak, this nauseous, this dizzy, this uncomfortable. I've got to go against conventional wisdom and try something. Flat cola. I hear about it all of the time, but I've never taken a sip of it during training, recovery, or a race. I grab a cup. It's the sweetest, most precious thing that has ever touched my lips (see, I told you I was delerious). Stretch and sip. Sip and stretch. This is good. What else can I do? This may work. Ahhh! Pretzels! Yes, of course. Salt. I grab a palm full. I want to grab a patch of grass under a shaded tree and collapse, but someone would surely see me. After a leisurely snack, I set out to conquer the last several miles. After just a few hundred yards, Dave (D'Abrosca) is running my way, heading back to the finish line. He slows. I slow. The conversation is brief, economical, and with instructions:
Dave: "Here, take these." He hands me a couple of white capsules.
Me: "Salt? I can't take yours, man."
Dave: "Take them. They have them at most water stops. Take a couple more when you get back to this spot."
And with that we fist bump and separate. He is about 30-40min ahead of me and I suspect he knows this and will inform my family and friends at the finish line so they know when to start being on the lookout for me. Unfortunately, I'm out of fluids, so downing these capsules will have to wait for the next water stop. By the time I get there, the cola and pretzels are having a positive effect, and I don't think it's placebo.
It's past mid-day now. The sun is high and warm, but not hot. Nevertheless, every sponge that I come across is exsanguinated over my head and face. I round the culdesac, marking the beginning of the final leg of this 70.3 mile journey. As previously instructed, I stop for my salt tabs, downing them with cola. I think I'm a cola-believer now. My intervals of the whole jog/walk thing is continuing, but my walks are getting shorter and my run paces a bit faster. For the first time since hitting the "start" button on my Garmin, I actually look at it. Remember, time was NOT suppose to be a consideration today. Just finish, baby. Just finish. But, curiosity defeated me in a moment of weakness. 6hrs, 31min, and some change. I can see the 11-mile marker. I've got to come in under 7 hours. Krypey!!! I was hoping for 6:15, give or take 5-10min. I just need to run a couple of 14min/miles. Heck, that's probably my walking pace. Okay, whatever is left in the tank is about to be emptied. There is no more walking. Approaching the last little climb, my ears perk to the sound of Steve Molind on the mic in the distance. The crowds get more and more dense with each stride. Are they cheering louder? Yes. Are they clapping harder? Yes. It's different than last time I passed by this spot. They know I'm going to finish. Can I call this a formality now? Yes. This last hill climb seems a bit more like a descent. My adrenaline is through the clouds. I'm thanking every volunteer, looking them straight in the eye, giving a painless smile, practically laughing, and slapping the left side of my chest in complete appreciation for making my day.
After rounding the back side of transition, I take that last left turn into the chute. Karen and Carter are there, by themselves, and in normal fashion, I nearly lose it right there.
Karen: "He wants to run with you!!"
Carter: Simoultaneously, "Daddy, I'm gonna run with you!!!"
Me: "Awesome! Let's finish this together, but don't beat me too badly."
Carter and Karen are running just outside the fence down the chute. The grassy hill can be treacherous, especially when wet, and I was worried my son would roll and ankle in his Crocs, so I fired a warning and pulled back a bit. My face was lit up and so was his. That last 100 yards, running beside my boy, was worth every second of training and every moment of the 70.25 miles I had previously left in my wake.
When the last 5 yards were upon me, I stopped, walked to the finish mat, and pulled my hat over my face as I bent over at the waist.
On the speakers came, "Hey! Anyone ever wonder what an iron roosta looks like? Well , here he is!!!!"
I looked down at my timing anklet, one step away from that mat. I paused, took a deep breath, thought about my Independnece Day 2007, my kids, my parents, and my ultimate goal. Three times I signed up for a 70.3. One more step.
Done!
Exiting the water, all I can again think about is trying to find my kids. They've got to be here by now. I've been in the water for about 40 minutes. Walking from the beach and making my way up the hill, I'm scanning everywhere. Nothing. Only friends within our tri community are shouting out to me, and it is certainly helpful and greatly appreciated, but I really want to see my kids, stop for a few moments, give them a kiss, a hug, and a few high-fives, but I can't find them. Maybe they will be on the other side of the transition area once I mount the bike. That is a logical place to hang out for the day, especially if they showed up a little late. I'm confused as to whether I should be angry, hurt, indifferent, or concerned that something has happened to them. By this time my wetsuit is peeled off my upper body. I was going to take it off while on the water's edge, thinking it would be easier treking up the hill, but after 1.2 miles my balance is never great intially, and with the good crowd present, I decided to keep my legs in it until I entered transition for fear of faceplanting or pulling a hammie in front of too many spectators. Once on the pavement of the parking lot (in transition), I fluidly jumped out of my remaining wetsuit, rinsed my feet in the kitty pool to remove sand, grass, and hay, and scooted my way over to my penthouse. I threw my suit over the fence to hang it and proceeded to have one of the smoothest T1's ever. There was no competing for space. Nothing had been moved, knocked over, or was hidden from view.
I still don't have the courage to attempt anything professional-appearing with my bike mounts and dismounts. I don't clip my shoes in, mount my coasting bike barefoot, then fluently slip one foot at a time into my shoes while navigating the initail road exiting the venue. I'm in awe of athlete's that can do it. But today it's not part of the plan. I need to finish. This bike needs to hold up, I need to focus on avoiding injury and accidents, and staying nutritionally sound. All I have to do is make it to mile-2 of this bike leg and I will have made it farther that I ever have in a 70.3, but that, of course, will not be good enough. There's no consellation prize for making it to mile 3. Leaving transition is a small paved hill which takes you out to the main road. These are where the bulk of the fans and family set up base camp for the day. I'm going about as slow as I can go without falling over, hoping to see Carter and CC, or at least hear them yelling and screaming, but I'm left with a void. The next 3+ hours on the bike I will wonder if they are alright. But for now, I fall into aero, coast down that first hill, and enjoy one of my favorite feelings in all of triathlon - the cool breeze on my damp body and the wind rushing through the seams in my helmet.
It is always a smart thing to try to ride or run a course prior to showing up to race the event. I've done it a few times now and have found it invaluable. About 5 weeks prior to PMan 2012, I rode about 60% (first loop) of the bike course. I knew the area anyway, since I grew up in "The Berwicks". I staked out the major rough patches and potholes on the roads, even though most of them have been previously marked with a bright spray paint. I knew where the inclines were and had already found comfortable gears to climb them in, and I knew where I'd be coasting to recover, as well as building speed to regain back some time. Any dangers I might come across were burned into my brain. But that did not become the issue today. At right around the 35 mile mark I began tightening up. My left quad, just above my knee, was sending me "the signal". You know, that "one false move and it'll enter into complete lockdown" signal. Yeah, great. I've got 20 more miles to go and I thought I would need to be more concerned about that "tissue" between my thighs wearing thin, and now I have a quad to contend with. Optional treatment included getting off the bike, finding a lawn, and doing some stretching, or just being cautious and battling through. I chose the battle.
As predicted, and as advertised, within the next few miles, my sweet spot was souring. Despite the rather excessive Butt Balm applied in T1, I was "thinning" down there. I love my saddle too. I mean I really love it: Cobb V-flow Max. Exponentially better than my previous 2 saddles. I couldn't imagine putting my ass on anything else. But alas, my ass right now is just way out of shape. Not enough riding this summer. Any "tolerance" I had layered upon my taint, had evaporated. All I can think about is how badly I really need to get off this bike and start my half marathon. I'm spending more time off my saddle than planted on it. It's the only somewhat comfortable position. Even on the flats, I find myself standing. I'm lurching left, then lurching right. I'm grabbing my tri-shorts more than my handlebars. I'm now scared as Hell to run a half mile, let alone, a half marathon. I'm going to have to hit the pause button in T2 and do some medical maintenance/first aid. I mean, I expected this, but not to this degree.
Rounding the last corner and coasting into the parking lot of Spring Hill, I hear the hooting and hollering of Karen and Carin (D'Abrosca) from their front row perch on the edge of the pavement off to my right. They made it. I don't see my kids. They are off frolicking with other kids, but at least I know they are safe. Karen yells, "Two down!!! Two down!!!" -- meaning all that is left is to run. I hold up two fingers (in a devil horn fashion) and smile from ear to ear as I let out an enormous sigh of relief. Unclipping my left shoe at the dismount line and placing it onto the ground provides the relief my private areas have been longing for the last hour. But it is bitter sweet. After unclipping my right cleat I make an attempt to swing my right leg behind the seat. The moment I shift all of my weight onto my right leg, the distal belly of my right quad seizes up and locks down. I immediately succumb and drop my right leg back down to the ground, straddling the frame's top tube. Massaging and pounding it with my fist is of little benefit, but I'm paralyzed and it's all that I know to do. A volunteer is huddling with me, making sure I don't tip over, which at this point, is a viable option. Each time I think I'm ready to swing that right leg over, I feel my left quad tighten again. By my best guess I remain there for almost three full minutes. I'm not in a rush today, so fifteen minutes probably would've even sat well with me. I finally just go for it. That is when the second issue arises. My swinging right leg's hamstring notifies me that it wants a turn at this catchy lock down position, but I stave it off . . . for now. If it's possible to limp on both legs simoultaneously, I'm doing it. It's a long, slow walk to my parking spot in transition. With bike planted back in its rack, I attend to my ragged and seemingly decaying lower body. My T2 time only explains half the picture (12min 50sec). I am on the hot top rotating between quad, hammie, and gluteal stretches, over and over and over again. I'm pacing the center path in transition, testing each muscle group to see if it's ready or not. Once I think it is about as good as it is going to get, I pull down the top half of my one-piece "iron roosta" trisuit, face the fence at the edge of the treeline, and assess the raw damage. I need some butt chamois cream, but I am fearful that it's application will only triple the pain, at least initially. I can't believe that I am actually contemplating running 13.1 miles without any first aid "down there". "Will this hurt like pouring salt on an open wound?" I negotiate with myself and do a test patch. Whoa! It has an amazing cooling effect. Let the lathering begin!!!
I'm so excited that I begin to jog out of transition and forget that my legs haven't voted to do the same. This is not a democracy. I demand that they begin working. I order them to release me. But, I'm vetoed. I pass by Halen, a friend, and local endurance athlete. I've got a "look" about me, and I can tell because of the "look" she is giving me. I stop. Her encouraging words become necessary, "Walk it out. Stretch it out. Go easy. You got this."
I inquire, "What do I do? I don't know what to do. I'm cramping everywhere"
"Walk then stretch. Walk then stretch. Your legs will find you," she reiterates.
I think I gave her a fist bump or high five and thanked her before I gingerly staggered down the hill towards the main road. By the time I walk 30 yards I'm in need of another pep talk, and I'll get one from Karen and Carin.
Karen: "How are you doing? It took you a while to get off your bike."
Me: "Yup. My right quad and left hammie are having a bit of a disagreement."
Karen: "But you made it off the bike. This is as far as you have even been, right?"
Me: "Yes, but it's about to get tough. Really tough. I knew that it would, so here I am."
Carin: "We just saw Dave come in."
Me: "Yeah. He passed me about 5 miles ago and I tried to keep up. I asked him what took so long and and I think he called me a bad name. We'll probably see each other on the run a couple of times. At least I hope so. I've got a feeling that I'm going to need him."
Karen: "Two down. Have fun. You're going to make it."
Me: "I hope you're right, but it's going to take me a lot longer. I was thinking I'd be coming in between 1:00-1:15pm, but it'll probably be closer to 1:30pm." (6.5hrs+ from my start).
Karen: "I'll do my best to have the kids there at the finish."
Me: "That'll be awesome. Alright, let's go run a half marathon."
Because I do have some pride, as soon as I step away from Karen, with a plan to begin walking, I can't bring myself to do it since this is where the crowds and fans are so concentrated. It should only be several hundred yards, so I decide to put on a poor rendition of a game face and briskly jog. Surprisingly, it's not half bad. I see several more friends, all of whose presence are immensely appreciated, especially since they know my story. But I quickly come to realize that the first chance I get to walk and do some stretching, I'm all-in.
I need a plan . . . I think. I don't know. The initial plan is to NOT walk any part of the run, even if it is barely jogging, but I can already see that I need to develop a contingency plan, or two, or three. Do I walk at the water stops, positioned about every 1-2 miles? If so, how much? One hundred yards on either side? Do I walk all of the inclines? Declines? And jog the flats? Do I jog until I just can't anymore, take a 1-3min break, then jog again?
Pace is out the window, kicked to the curb, eliminated entirely.
Just get to the finish.
I decide on the former - I'm going to walk the water stops, hydrate and fuel, and jog in between.
I'm carrying about 24oz of water (Four 6oz bottles on my FuelBelt), each with 1.5oz of Hammergel and 4 scoops of Endurolytes dissolved within them. This was to last me about 7-8 miles, figuring I would take a large mouthful about every 5-6 minutes. Once empty, I'd use the aid stations over the remaining distance.
I wish I could say that I made it to mile 8 before feeling like I was "bonking", but essentially, the entire run (from the onset) felt like a bonk. For this reason, as soon as I was clear from all fans and out "on my own", the first walk was initiated. My legs were like Jell-O, prior to being refrigerated. They ached. My limping from the previous cramps was also still required. Although nausea was a current prominent symptom, I decided my muscles needed fluids and fuel. Over the course of the next half mile I drank half of my fluids (with the Hammer Gel and Endurolytes). It was only 12oz, but I immediately felt bloated. I assumed if I jogged now, the sloshing around of that fluid in my stomach would exacerbate the nausea, and it did. I had to stop again. Stretching in the breakdown lane, I began comtemplating making myself throw-up so I could run. I ran 100yds, walked 100yds, ran 100 yds, etc. Just when the nausea crested, I'd pull it back. Once resolved, I'd start to jog again. Although discouraged at my progress, at least it was working. This was my pattern for the next few miles until I reached the turn around point. Just then, the nausea lifted, my legs felt refreshed (and I use that term loosely), and I jogged the next 3 miles. I must have hydrated myself because I now had the urge to pee. I had never used an "on-course" port-o-potty, mid-race, but today that was going to change. At the top of the next hill, next to a major water stop, that record would fall. Relieved of my bladder burden, I headed back towards the venue to complete my first of two loops. It was still a series of alternating between walking and jogging. I'd be lying if I called it running. Actually, I feel guilty calling it jogging. It was more like shuffling, which was dramatically slower than those speedwalkers you see. I had gone back to interval sips of fluids as well, and as predicted, my fluids had run out at about mile 7. The new plan was to jog until I was 100yds from a water stop, pause to take in some fluids and a few calories, walk 100 more yards, then resume shuffling. At the turn-around I was so hopeful to see my family, even though I couldn't have predicted when I'd be showing up there, but they were again no where to be found. Knowing the pain I was in, what distance I had just run, and what I still had left to do, I was immensely discouraged. You can hear the finish line, almost smell the food, and see the venue, but you have to repeat what you had just endured, except acknowledge that the second time around will likely be three times as grueling. Pulling away from the crowds again, I was reduced to my roosta shuffle. I'm now spending less and less time jogging. My legs are getting crampy again, especially as I climb that slow steady hill back to that major water stop again. The hill takes nearly everything I have. I don't know what to do now. I've never been this far. I've never felt this bad. I've never been this confused, this weak, this nauseous, this dizzy, this uncomfortable. I've got to go against conventional wisdom and try something. Flat cola. I hear about it all of the time, but I've never taken a sip of it during training, recovery, or a race. I grab a cup. It's the sweetest, most precious thing that has ever touched my lips (see, I told you I was delerious). Stretch and sip. Sip and stretch. This is good. What else can I do? This may work. Ahhh! Pretzels! Yes, of course. Salt. I grab a palm full. I want to grab a patch of grass under a shaded tree and collapse, but someone would surely see me. After a leisurely snack, I set out to conquer the last several miles. After just a few hundred yards, Dave (D'Abrosca) is running my way, heading back to the finish line. He slows. I slow. The conversation is brief, economical, and with instructions:
Dave: "Here, take these." He hands me a couple of white capsules.
Me: "Salt? I can't take yours, man."
Dave: "Take them. They have them at most water stops. Take a couple more when you get back to this spot."
And with that we fist bump and separate. He is about 30-40min ahead of me and I suspect he knows this and will inform my family and friends at the finish line so they know when to start being on the lookout for me. Unfortunately, I'm out of fluids, so downing these capsules will have to wait for the next water stop. By the time I get there, the cola and pretzels are having a positive effect, and I don't think it's placebo.
It's past mid-day now. The sun is high and warm, but not hot. Nevertheless, every sponge that I come across is exsanguinated over my head and face. I round the culdesac, marking the beginning of the final leg of this 70.3 mile journey. As previously instructed, I stop for my salt tabs, downing them with cola. I think I'm a cola-believer now. My intervals of the whole jog/walk thing is continuing, but my walks are getting shorter and my run paces a bit faster. For the first time since hitting the "start" button on my Garmin, I actually look at it. Remember, time was NOT suppose to be a consideration today. Just finish, baby. Just finish. But, curiosity defeated me in a moment of weakness. 6hrs, 31min, and some change. I can see the 11-mile marker. I've got to come in under 7 hours. Krypey!!! I was hoping for 6:15, give or take 5-10min. I just need to run a couple of 14min/miles. Heck, that's probably my walking pace. Okay, whatever is left in the tank is about to be emptied. There is no more walking. Approaching the last little climb, my ears perk to the sound of Steve Molind on the mic in the distance. The crowds get more and more dense with each stride. Are they cheering louder? Yes. Are they clapping harder? Yes. It's different than last time I passed by this spot. They know I'm going to finish. Can I call this a formality now? Yes. This last hill climb seems a bit more like a descent. My adrenaline is through the clouds. I'm thanking every volunteer, looking them straight in the eye, giving a painless smile, practically laughing, and slapping the left side of my chest in complete appreciation for making my day.
After rounding the back side of transition, I take that last left turn into the chute. Karen and Carter are there, by themselves, and in normal fashion, I nearly lose it right there.
Karen: "He wants to run with you!!"
Carter: Simoultaneously, "Daddy, I'm gonna run with you!!!"
Me: "Awesome! Let's finish this together, but don't beat me too badly."
Carter and Karen are running just outside the fence down the chute. The grassy hill can be treacherous, especially when wet, and I was worried my son would roll and ankle in his Crocs, so I fired a warning and pulled back a bit. My face was lit up and so was his. That last 100 yards, running beside my boy, was worth every second of training and every moment of the 70.25 miles I had previously left in my wake.
When the last 5 yards were upon me, I stopped, walked to the finish mat, and pulled my hat over my face as I bent over at the waist.
On the speakers came, "Hey! Anyone ever wonder what an iron roosta looks like? Well , here he is!!!!"
I looked down at my timing anklet, one step away from that mat. I paused, took a deep breath, thought about my Independnece Day 2007, my kids, my parents, and my ultimate goal. Three times I signed up for a 70.3. One more step.
Done!
