Resetting Circadia

We all have routines.  We all have biological clocks.  Most are endogenous or “built in” and usually based on the 24-hour day, however, other examples include weekly (our work weeks vs. weekend), tidal (the moon phases), monthly (ask any female), seasonal (more pronounced in certain parts of the globe – ie/ the Arctic Circle to reference one extreme), and annual. The most obvious of these circadian cues is daylight (which I think we tend to over micromanage with Daylight Savings).

Taken from Wikipedia, in order to be called “circadian”, a biological rhythm must meet these four general criteria:

1.    The rhythms repeat once per day (they have a 24-hour period). In order to keep track of the time of day, a clock must be at the same point at the same time each day, i.e. repeat every 24 hours.

2.    The rhythms persist in the absence of external cues (endogenous). The rhythm persists in constant conditions with a period of about 24 hours. The rationale for this criterion is to distinguish circadian rhythms from simple responses to daily external cues. A rhythm cannot be said to be endogenous unless it has been tested in conditions without external periodic input.

3.    The rhythms can be adjusted to match the local time (entrainable). The rhythm can be reset by exposure to external stimuli (such as light and heat), a process called entrainment. The rationale for this criterion is to distinguish circadian rhythms from other imaginable endogenous 24-hour rhythms that are immune to resetting by external cues and, hence, do not serve the purpose of estimating the local time. Travel across time zones illustrates the ability of the human biological clock to adjust to the local time; a person will usually experience jet lag before entrainment of their circadian clock has brought it into sync with local time.

4.    The rhythms maintain circadian periodicity over a range of physiological temperatures (exhibit temperature compensation). Some organisms live at a broad range of temperatures, and the thermal energy will affect the kinetics of all molecular processes in their cell(s). In order to keep track of time, the organism's circadian clock must maintain a roughly 24-hour periodicity despite the changing kinetics, a property known as temperature compensation.

For reasons of this posting, as it relates to triathlon, and more specifically to training, the obvious one to focus in on is #3, “entrainable”.

 

So, here is what you are thinking . . . . . . . how is this important to triathlon?  Well, it might not be important to your triathlon training, but it became an absolute necessity to my triathlon training in October of 2010, the moment I started my new job.  In the fall of 2009 when I started training for my first tri, I was working 3 days per week, 8am-8pm, usually Tuesday – Thursday.  You can imagine the potential for training having a 4-day weekend nearly every week.  The flip side of that is pretty much not being able to find any time to train on those 3 days that I was working. Let’s just say, I could almost always find time for those long endurance training rides, runs, or bricks, but I also had 3 days of recovery each week which is way too much too often and probably somewhat detrimental.

 

My new job, as a physician assistant, in thoracic surgery, is now M-F.  Two days per week I need to be in the Operating Room before 7:30am, and that is after seeing all of the previously admitted patients, at 2 different hospitals no less.  Now, there isn’t always patients admitted, but usually.  The other 3 days per week I need to be in the office by 8:00am, again after rounding on all of the admitted patients.  In surgery there is always someone “on-call”, someone who answers the pager when it goes off.  For me that is every day from 6:30am to 4:00pm (only M-F), as well as every other M-F being on-call 24 hours per day.  Are you seeing my dilemma developing?  At any point between 6:30am and 4:00pm I may be called to drop what I am doing to get somewhere (in a hurry).  On the weeks that I’m on-call 24hrs/day I may get awoken several times during the night to answer the pager.

So, when does this 41 year old age grouper, with 2011 ambitions to complete his first Half Ironman, find the time to train?  Let’s just say that I need to be done with my daily workout before 6:30am. This means a 3:45am alarm.  When I first got this job I made an attempt to workout in the evenings, after the kids went to bed (about 8pm), but my energy level was terrible at that time of day. I found myself routinely skipping them in lieu of a warm bed.  The other difficult part was falling asleep at 10:30pm after a great workout (wasn’t happening).

 

Afternoons were also not an option.  Upon leaving work around 4pm each day, I’d have to go pick up the kids from school/daycare, make them dinner, help with homework, and then hang out with them until bed – time I was not willing to sacrifice. Often after they went to bed it was the time of day that I’d open mail, pay some bills, do laundry/dishes/whatever.  So, what was left?  That’s right, 4-6am.  I had no choice, and that’s okay, because once I had figured out how to reset my internal clock, I started having the most productive workouts of my life.

 

 

After the first 3 months at my new job I was finally starting to settle in, so with the holidays in the rearview I put the plan in place.  Starting in January every 2 weeks I would set my alarm clock to awaken me 15 minutes earlier than the previous 2 weeks.  By April, when I officially transitioned into my 20-week Half Ironman training program, I was getting up at 3:45am each morning.  Of course, this sleep had to be made up somewhere.  That wasn’t difficult at all.  When you get up before dawn with the roosta, it’s pretty easy to fall asleep before 9pm, and I was.  Generally within about 10 minutes of me plopping my tail on the couch, I was fighting REM.  It is a fight I don’t mind losing and have no will to win anyway.

 

But will it be enough?  That 20wk training plan that I have requires 2 workouts per day 2-3 days per week, and always with a day of rest each week.  And that is where the adjustment must be made. I will need to sacrifice that day off in lieu of taking one of those evening workouts and shifting it to that “off” day.  Inevitably, on one of the other “double workout days”, I will just have to suck it up and do the evening one, which sometimes will be on the weekend, except I need to reserve the weekend days for those longer workouts lasting 2-4 hours, usually involving a BRICK.  

 

It took me 3 weeks in January to methodically go through that 20wk plan and make all of the adjustments to allow it to potentially fit “my” life.  It took me nearly 3 months to reset my circadian rhythm.  Yet, I still find myself needing to make weekly, if not daily adjustments to that day’s “plan”.  Why? It is an amazing sport that I love.  Where else can I be in the same race, alongside (ok, behind), the pros? You must lead a healthy lifestyle in order to coax your body into doing the extraordinary.  The families, other athletes, the volunteers, and fans, are simply the best of any sport. You’re never too old. After all you will always only compete against those of similar age. It’s never too late to reset your rhythm, but you’ll have to get up well before dawn if you want to crow with the iron roosta.

Pardon my Vanity

After a lot of drafts, drawn by yours truly, the final design of my logo was sent to a graphic artist at epixgear.com a few weeks ago.  epixgear.com is a site specializing in custom triathlon apparel.  They were the only site that I could find that would allow a client to order a single trisuit whereby most have a minimum order quantity of about ten.  Not only that, but they have 8 different templates and about 25-30 colors to choose from, and have a graphic artist that will work with you on a logo design.  And it can all be easily done from their website.  All communication that I had with their staff was super.  I never had to wait more than 24 hours for a response to my emails, even on weekends.

I'm hoping my trisuit is ready for my first race, The Mooseman International, but they have said that it usually takes 6 weeks for custom orders to be shipped, especially in the Spring due to high volume.  But I've seen a picture of my trisuit, complete with lettering and logos and I've got to say that it's pretty frigin cool.  I really don't care how vane or self-promoting it is.  It's fun, and for me, that is really what it is all about right now.  My hope is that as this blog gains popularity (if it does), and I become more established in the triathlon community, that I can use this as a launching pad for raising funds for charity.

So, without further delay . . .         

the iron roosta logo

"Screw you, Peter Benchley!"

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.

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.)

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

Today is the Day

The following is a retrospective race report just written despite the event occurring in June of 2010.


Second chances are usually reserved for those who need forgiveness for something, or who have just completed a jail term, or somehow escaped serious injury or even death, against all odds.  My second chance was not that dramatic.  On June 4, 2010, severe weather took away, or at least delayed, what I knew would be inevitable, becoming a triathlete.  Today’s King Pine Sprint Triathlon was far more of a relaxed setting to complete my mission (not being an “Ironman” sponsored event).  Although not exactly a “traditional” sprint course (1/3 mile swim, 12.5 mile bike, 3.8 mile trail run), it was going to be a much shorter distance, about half as long, as The Mooseman Olympic the week prior, and at a significantly reduced pressure level.  The Ironman “M-dot” logos were nowhere to be found.  There were, however, many of the same faces that I saw the week before – fellow Riptide Triathlon Club members, and although I still hadn’t developed deep-seeded bonds with a lot of them, just having their relaxed friendly faces present everywhere I looked, was comforting.

I drove to this event the morning of, about and hour and 20min.  I think the start time was 8am, so I was up by 4am and out of the door by 4:45, having every single thing packed and loaded in the car the night before. It was just a matter of throwing down breakfast (500cal of warm oatmeal, real maple syrup, brown sugar, and almond butter).  This has become my staple meal 3 hours before a tri, as well as 16-20oz of water.  Interestingly, my normal everyday morning routine would be to have a large cup of coffee, but I’ve actually chosen to avoid all caffeine prior to races (usually from the bowel effect it has on me – I’ll be using the restrooms enough on race morning without it).  I may change this practice next season (but of course will try it in training first!).  Inline with my motto “If you’re on-time, you’re late”, I was one of the first vehicles to pull into the ski resort parking lot at about 6am.  Seriously, the parking attendants were scrambling for their volunteer shirts and flags as I was pulling into a premium spot right next to the transition area.  The sun was cresting through the trees and peeking through some overcast clouds, but the forecast was for a relatively windy day in the high 70’s with some chance of a few drizzles here and there.  Anything, aside from snow, would be better than last week.

Having not arrived the day before, I would not have the opportunity to check out or drive any of the course.  Perhaps I should’ve made some time a few weeks ago to do so.  I know many athletes set aside time to do this, usually planning at least to bike or run the courses well in advance.  I wasn’t exactly sure how this would help me, so I didn’t make this a priority, nor did I feel anxious on race day because I hadn’t.  Although I wouldn’t consider it a “newbie mistake”, this is certainly a practice I intend to follow next season whenever the opportunity presents itself (“Drive the course. Do the course. Race the course.”).

I managed to set up my transition area only once this time (versus 9 double checks last week), and the pre-race potty visits were easily cut in half.  A curious calm was covering me – nothing like last week.  Maybe it was the confidence in the distance (sprint), or the lack of the “M-dot” logo everywhere I looked.  It just seemed like everywhere I looked common folk just like me were preparing for a fun day with family and friends, with their 15 year-old road bikes, or even mountain bikes, non-matching race kits, and pressureless smiles. Two of those smiles were that of Stu and Christine Thorne, a couple of my Seacoast Riptide Tri Club officers.  They were half-gowned in their wetsuits and heading for the beach.
“Shawn, C’Mon, we’re heading to the water exit to do a warm-up swim over to the starting area!  Join us!”
They didn’t have to ask me twice.  I pulled a U-ee and followed them down the carpeted path to the water’s edge.  Many swimmers were making there way across the lake from the finish to the start in order to warm-up.  I spit in my goggles (natural anti-fog), applied my red swim cap, and hoisted the torso half of my fullsleeve wetsuit over my back.  Hardly missing a stride, I met the 68 degree water with a purpose and dove right in.  Five strokes later I can no longer see bottom and my anxiety level begins to rise exponentially.  For me, I’d prefer being in 200ft of crystal clear water where I can see the bottom like I’m simply looking through a window, versus wading in 7ft of water where I can’t even see my hand extended out in front of me.  Basically it eliminates surprises.  I love surprises, but I prefer them to be screened first.  To reacquire some reassurance I look up to locate some other swimmers.  Well, they’re alive and still swimming with their heads down, so I suppose I’ll be okay too.  Face back in the water and breath back into my rhythm, I restart.  I’m able to go for 20-30 yards before the tops of a few weeds nearly brush my chest, and all of that work to calm myself is ruined in a heartbeat.  I again need to stop and verify that I’m not the only one in the water.  Nope, more than 10ft away is Stu.  Frankly, he looks like shit.  He’s breathing hard and doing a pseudo-backstroke.  He warned us this might happen.  Stu can hammer a hill on the bike while making it look like you’re pedaling backwards, and he can effortlessly run circles around anyone 15 years younger than him.  But Stu will tell you, “I can’t swim.  I hate swimming.”  It’s been confirmed – he’s not a fibber.  This gives me the confidence that I need right now (sorry, Stu).  I won’t be the last to exit the water.  I may even swim twice as fast as Stu.  But I’m not stupid.  By mile 3 he’ll pass me on the bike, and I’ll have to be okay with that.  (But when he did, I wasn’t).

A few words from the race director, a singing of the National Anthem, and everyone in a red cap was herded to knee-deep water (my age group was in the first wave of swimmers).  I selected the far back corner of swimmers, along with a few other Riptiders who convinced me that this was the right move – newbies should probably stay away from the middle of the frantic pack, to remain uninjured and reduce stress levels.  There were 39 athletes in my swim wave (and age-group), and when the horn sounded, I was one of the last 3 to submerge myself and start swimming.  I stay to the far right, yet still encounter swimmers, obviously with similar strategies, coming into view.  I pass numerous competitors in the first 200 meters.  As the field stretches out, I decide to get in the mix a bit and take a more direct route to the first buoy. I sense that I am going too hard and my stroke is suffering.  Also, my shoulders are already tiring – something I worried about last week, but not this week, because I am in a full-sleeve wetsuit. Even though I move my focus to settling into a more comfortable and relaxing pace, and improving my technique, to my surprise I continue to pass other swimmers.  I even see a few that are completely off course, one even moving perpendicular to me in order to be sure he goes to the right of the buoy, avoiding disqualification.  Because the official results don’t rank my swim time in my age group (wave), I can’t tell you what “place” I came in for the swim, but I suspect that I was one of the first 10-15 out of the water (from those 39).

As I exit the water and begin the task of peeling off my wetsuit and running up a carpet-covered wooden ramp that leads from the beach to the road, about 75-100ft I would guess, I catch my left big toe and it rolls under my foot (otherwise known as “turf toe”).  Immediate severe pain, but the adrenaline kicks in.  The fans are lining the ramp, just feet away, and I can’t alter my gait, visually admitting that I’m hurt.  By the time I cross the road and head into T1, I’m limping.  What I need now is a bike, hoping that a stiff clip-on shoe will squash the pain.  T1 goes about as well as I had hoped.  As expected I have a very difficult time putting socks on wet, somewhat sandy feet, but it only costs me about 20-30 seconds.  The problem is, that is about how long some athletes spend in transition all together.  No issues otherwise.  I’m happy with where and how I had everything set up. However, I found myself wondering where to store my wetsuit, wanting to follow good “etiquette”, but not trying to waste more time and look silly in the process.  I think I just rolled it into a partially manageable ball and placed in under my bike, which made it a little awkward getting my bike off and then back onto the rack, but it seemed to be what I saw a few others do.

Mounting the bike was done on an appreciable incline, so although I had no plans to mount while in motion, a few others tried it with varying degrees of success.  Successfully clipped in, I look up, then quickly to my right, and see someone snapping a picture of me.  And that is where the story takes a little twist.  Days later I actually see that photo (see below). To prove that I must have had a really good swim, that blurry guy in the background, wetsuit half off, at the top of the ramp across the street, is a fellow Riptider.  He is one of the three that I started the swim with.  Considering my swim time was 11:43, I must have beat him out of the water by 3 minutes because my T1 time was 2:38.  Why is this important?  Well, five miles into the bike course he passed me rather easily. It was at this moment that I realized, “Okay Shawn, you learned to swim, and you obviously aren’t slow, but let this be a lesson – you didn’t spend enough time on your bike!!!”  For the next 7 miles on the bike my only task, aside from taking in my Cytomax drink, was to keep this guy in my sights.  Don’t lose him.  Maybe I can catch him on the run. I figure he was always within about 50-100 yards, until my bike pump fell off my bike frame and went tumbling into the adjacent gravel.  I was forced to spin around, dismount, reattach it, and start off again.  This may have only cost me 30 seconds, but it was just enough for me to lose sight of him.  I scrambled to relocate him, hammering the hills, both up and down, but it wasn’t until I approached T2 that I saw him again, putting his bike in the rack.  I had to have made up some ground, but at what cost to my legs.  It was a struggle to even swing my leg over the seat once I came to a complete stop, let alone, jog to the racks.  It was the heaviest and as dead as my legs had ever felt (aside from maybe last week).  Although I have nothing to judge it against, my T2 time is 1:12, and seemed flawless.  As I make my way to the transition exit chute, someone is screaming at me, “You catch him!!!  You catch him, Shawn!!!!!!  Don’t let him outrun you!!!  You can do it!!!”  Ironically, he is pointing to "that guy" I've been stalking.  To this day I’m not sure who it was.  I think it was Matt McCabe (sorry if it wasn’t).  Thanks anyway!

I’m thankful that the first quarter mile or so is all downhill.  I quickly realize I will regret that hill later, but at least everyone has to conquer it.  Once I hit the bottom of the hill I look up and see that I have made up no ground on him.  Of course, I haven’t lost ground either.  It was right about now when the mild abdominal cramping began.  Weird.  That never happened in training.  It’s not dissipating either.  My prerace meal was the same.  All of my meals the day before were the same.  Shit, the Cytomax!!!  Dammit!!  I did it again.  I tried something for the first time in an actual race.  I didn’t learn my lesson from last week (remember the Valium?)

Anyway, about a mile or so into the run the course goes offroad.  Trail running.  It was the one characteristic that had me contemplating signing up for this race.  It was the designated “State Club Championship” race, so I felt I should.  I never ran cross-country in high school.  I’m not sure what to expect, other than a sprained ankle.  Let’s just say, I hated it.  Maybe because I hadn’t trained for it, or I have a fear of the unknown in general, but I won’t do another triathlon that includes “trails”. I encountered holes six inches deep, tree roots six inches high, shrubs and low brush that abraded by knees, and regular small hills with 15-20% grade, although only 20-30ft long.  Needless to say, it was an exhausting run, obviously compounded by my bike hammering.  All I could picture around each corner was encountering some monkey bars, monster truck tires aligned two by two, or a drill sergeant screaming, “Get over that wall, recruit, you frigin’ pansy!!!”  Was I doing a triathlon or attempting to survive the obstacle course at boot camp?  Thankfully, I see the pavement ahead and I can’t get there soon enough. The other thing I see, still a little over 100 yards ahead of me is “that guy” I’ve been chasing.  The fact that he overtook me so easily just a few miles into the bike leg, yet I was able to keep him in my sights the entire race, was actually quite an accomplishment for me I think. That may have been more impressive than meeting my goal of finishing in under 1:30:00. My time was 1:29:15.  Without “that guy” in front of me, I wouldn’t have.

By the way, I spent the next four hours having a hard time standing up straight due to intense cramping.  I made more bathroom stops during my 90min ride home than I did during my prerace preparation (and you know how many that usually is). Despite the longest ride of my life, you can't wipe the smile from my face and the immense sense of accomplishment from my heart.  I just did my first triathlon.

Fading Numbers

It’s been at least several weeks since my last post, which happened to have coincided with the end to my rookie triathlon season.  I guess a great sign that you’re addicted to the sport is the immense depression that accompanies the start of the “off season”.  It was a whirlwind ride to get from point-A to point-B (a sorta couch potato to quarter-ironman in a single season).  I certainly could not have anticipated this dramatic letdown effect that I’ve been forced to face.  With that though, I’m still clinging to one last race, The Seacoast Half Marathon next week (11/14/2010).  Yeah I know, it’s not a “tri”, but it’s my “A” race from a running standpoint.

Reading others’ blogs I have found that I thoroughly enjoy their “race reports”, a written review of how a race went, including preparation (down to how many grams of Vaseline they applied to their toe blisters), nutrition (“I changed the brand of oatmeal I ate in order to gain a competitive edge.”), port-o-potty maps and schedules, in case you still haven’t been able to figure out how to pee in your wetsuit and swim at the same time (I tried.  I couldn’t), descriptions of that sound of a disc wheel blowing by you at 28mph, uphill, by the cyclist wearing the $499 aerodynamic helmet and who’s bike paint and clothing kit match perfectly (yes, I’m jealous), and conversations some runners had with a competitor while sprinting the last quarter-mile to the finish (“I’ve been holding back the whole race.  Are you ready to get your ass handed to you?”).  Seriously though, I learn a great deal from these reports.  I’ve been too caught up in my “Me vs. Me” attitude this season that I think I missed a lot of that sort of thing out on the courses.  Don’t get me wrong, I still pay attention to how I finish within my age-group, after all, I’m a male, so I still have a competitive “spirit” about me.  Whenever a guy passes me I’m looking at their calf for their age.  I want to know where I stand.  I want to get better with each race, each season, and in each sport.  And in essence, as long as I keep beating myself and improving my times, it only stands to reason that I will surpass those who are remaining content in their accomplishments and stagnant in their training.

I’ve decided to do a series of retrospective race reports to reflect upon my first triathlon season. It will include some of the ups, downs, weird moments, inspirational flashes, and other observations along the way, including the rookie mistakes that I made.

I wish I could tell you that I had a plan in preparing for my first season.  Everyone else did (or seemed to).  It’s all I kept reading about, hearing about, and being implored to create.  Well, I didn’t.  What I mean by that is that I didn’t have the next 7 months of my life mapped out on a calendar, with each meter swam, pedal stroke spun, fingertip drill completed, and fartlek run fulfilled.  I was merely trying to be a sponge, enjoy the sport, learn the lingo, and immerse myself in the company of amazing people and families, all in the spirit of fun, health, and life.  I was okay with going “planless”, after all, they were just “short” distances.  I can already feel my attitude about this evolving.  Without a plan fashioned by guidance and experience, I know that I will only go so far on my own before I plateau, and knowing me, this will breed frustration.  I awoke each day knowing “approximately” what I’d be doing for the next several days to a week, based on what race was coming up and how long I had to prepare before it was upon me.  As I discovered weaknesses (at first everything was a weakness), I would alter this “ghost-plan” to improve them.  Example:  Upon comparing my split results from my first two triathlons with others in my age-group, I quickly noticed that all of that work I had put into the pool to learn to swim efficiently the previous 8 months was paying off, but everyone was going 1.5-2.0mph faster than me on the bike, and although my 5k race times per also improving, trying to “run off the bike” was a whole new kind of running that my legs were just not accustomed to.  So, by mid-season I replaced one of my weekly swim workouts with a harder bike workout, and I added a regular bike-run brick workout. Anyway, my basic plan was this in its simplest terms: - when time, life, and schedule permitted, I would alternate swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run, swim, bike, run workouts, etc.  Within that context I would alternate speed and endurance workouts.  Essentially I had only 6 workouts:

1) swim speed (a lot of 50, 100, 200m drills/focus)
2) bike endurance (a single weekly long ride, a lot in aero-position)
3) run speed (fartleks, track, sprints)
4) swim endurance (a single long paced swim)
5) bike speed (quick bursts over short distances, hill repeats)
6) run endurance (as single long paced run, often with negative splits)

I did not assign days or write them on a calendar.  If on Sunday I knew I could plan to be at the pool for 5am before work the next day, I’d do my swim/speed workout on Monday.  If I wasn’t able to find the time to workout Tuesday, but on Wednesday I was able, I’d do a different sport and the opposite type from the previous workout (so, if my previous workout was a swim/speed, my next would have to be either a bike/endurance or run/endurance).  Doesn’t it seem simple?  That’s it.  That’s how I structured my workouts during the season.  For me, during my newbie season (3 sprints and 2 Olympics  --  with five 5k’s and a half marathon thrown in), it’s what worked in my life.  Let it be known that I just signed up for my first Half-Ironman (The Pumpkinman), on 9/11/2011, and I already have in my possession a detailed 5-month training plan to build to that distance that is very specific to my experience and needs.  Like I said, I know I can only go so far being “planless”.  At the “Half” distance, if you want to do well, I think a plan is highly recommended.

Well, it didn’t take long to experience my first few mistakes.  I signed up for 5 triathlons and 6 road races this season, aggressive for a first-timer, but I had nothing to lose and a wealth to gain.  However, I had 3 Sprint distance races with Olympic bookends (Oly, Spr, Spr, Spr, Oly). Neither is recommended (that many races, and starting with an Olympic distance).  Five tris could be justified. Unfortunately, mine were rather clustered together early in the season, then again later on, and this made both training and recovery quite difficult.  I did choose all “local” races though (highly recommended).  By this I mean that it would not be an issue driving to the race the morning of the race if I chose to do so.

The Mooseman Olympic (International) distance race, the first weekend in June, was my first triathlon.  I wanted my first to be an actual “Ironman” sponsored event to get the full effect of the “hugeness” of the sport.  I wasn’t disappointed.  Within 10 miles of the venue you begin seeing the Ironman logo on just about everything.  Once at the venue, it’s inescapable (stickers, key chains, sunglasses, visors, socks, wetsuits, goggles, transition bags, shot glasses, chip clips, bikinis, onesies, disposable diapers, etc.).  Although a morning person by nature, I decided to get a room up near the venue.  The problem is that I made this decision the week before the race.  Bad idea!  “No vacancy” was a theme I encountered about 20 times on the phone and internet during an afternoon of frantic attempts to mitigate my “out of character” poor planning woes.  The room that I booked  was 2 hours north of my house, and 30min past the venue, which just meant that I essentially saved 90min of driving time on race morning.  All to gain 90min of sleep?  Baaaaa!  Yeah right!  “No one sleeps the night before a race,” I was told several times.

I drove up to the venue (Wellington State Park), the day before, so I could pick up my registration race packet, walk the beach, find my bike rack spot, drive the bike and run courses, visit all of the vendors, and take in the entire experience as best as I could.  This isn’t necessary for non-Ironman sponsored events (in my opinion), but this one was, plus it was my first ever triathlon.  Since I heard about that “not sleeping” thing the night before, I decided to skip all of the evening-before activities, dinner, and Q&A sessions with the Pro’s, and just get to my hotel room early and chill.  There is a rule that I kept hearing about for months, “Don’t try anything on race day that you haven’t already tried in training.”  Well, for 4 of my first 5 races, I did, and I usually regretted it.  Lesson learned.  At about 8pm the night before the race, I took half of a Valium, convinced it would be worn off by my 3:45am alarm time.  Well, I don’t think it wore off until about the post race meal.  And it didn’t help me sleep either.  Never again.  

There’s a saying in sports that when you score a touchdown, hit a homerun, or nail a game winning basket, “Act like you’ve been there before.”  I tried.  I really did.  My nervous energy had to have been apparent.  I found myself staring at $8000 bikes, pretending to “talk shop” with the other racers who were setting up their transition areas on either side of me, and feeling awkward about dropping my drawers in front of about a thousand people to get body-marked (the single coolest right of passage for any triathlete). Make no mistake about it, I was scared shitless, but I think I covered it up very well.  Over the next 45min I think I used the port-0-potty about as many times as I checked , double checked, and triple checked my transition set-up.  Nine I think was the final tally on that.  During that time the light sprinkle interrupting the sparse rays of sun was starting to turn into a steady rain from the solid ebony ceiling.  Contemplating the change into my wetsuit, word was spreading that because of a severe weather warning, the start of the swim would be delayed 1 hour.  Packs of athletes began covering their bikes’ handle bars and seats with plastic shopping bags and accessory rain gear (I hadn’t planned that well). While wading through the small ponds and streams that had developed amidst the metallic bike racks, lightning and thunder took over the stage.  Most began seeking shelter.  I hurried to the beach down at the swim start and huddled under some sort of open wooden structure with about a hundred others, right next to a woman wearing an official USAT referee badge around her neck and holding a Blackberry with an animated Doppler display on the screen.  The news wasn’t good.  Although I was standing about 50ft from the water’s edge, it was not visible through the sheet of water engulfing the local airspace.  Standing.  Waiting. Soaked. Discouraged. Nearly a year learning to swim, 3 months of riding my new bike, cutting 5 minutes off my 5k times since last fall, and today was NOT going to be the day that I became a triathlete. With no let-up on radar, the official announcement blares over my neighbor’s 2-way radio, “We’re gonna have to cancel the swim.  We will still race, but the bike will be a single-file time-trial format start from transition beginning at 9:15.”  The monsoon, perhaps the worst that I’ve ever seen, lasts another half hour.  A second announcement comes in, “Due to flooding on the bike course, we need to shorten the course by 11 miles by eliminating the final lollipop loop.  The run will remain unchanged.”  For as “up” as my heart had been leading up to the start gun, it had just sunk to a depth that I wasn’t aware existed in me.  I begin thinking of going home (many actually did).  I should’ve been with my wife at her Relay for Life overnight event just north of Boston anyway.  She had our two young kids with her, undoubtedly would be up all night, and all I could think about was how I hoped this horrific weather had avoided them, wondering if they were dry and safe.

By the time all of the athletes who stuck around for a “good workout” were lined up with their bikes, it was about 9:30am, 80 degrees, humid, and not a cloud in sight. The word “gorgeous” comes to mind.  Inside my body there was a fight brewing.  Due to the excitement of the moment, my heart rate never felt below 140, even standing still, yet my limbs felt demented from the remaining Valium obviously still circulating.  Cotton mouth and the uncomfortable feeling of wishing I had taken that 10th trip to the bathroom were the last symptoms to hit me as I approached the timing mat.  A last look to be sure my timing anklet was secure, the flagger gives me the signal to mount.  The screaming and faithfully brave fans that remained lining the bike shoot were welcoming and deafening, cowbells and all.  That was just the giddy-up I needed.  If you can’t smile now, you’re probably dead.  Hardly a sole knows me here, yet in the first 300 yards I’ve heard my name bellowed twice and my race number a few more.  To whomever you were, Thanks!

After leaving the confines of the race venue, it gets so quiet that’s it’s sort of unsettling.  I’m trying to just take it all in, but I feel heavy, groggy, unbalanced.  The only thing I can hear is the wind going through the vents in my helmet. I fall madly in love with that sound. It's all I can hear.  Nothing else exists.  It submits me to become one with my bike.  It’s the first time I have ever felt this way on a bike.  I’ve never experienced a runner’s high, but this has to be the cyclist’s equivalent.  Am I the only one?  Does the quiet rushing air only affect me this way? It’s become the “moment” during each triathlon that I most long for.

I’m in the White Mountains of New Hampshire now. During my car ride through the bike course the day before I realized I was going to need that adrenaline rush on race day because all of my training was not going help me on these hills.  Wow!  Three times as steep and four times as long as anything I had trained on, these “hills” were wicked (for me).  I began wondering if at some point I’d have to dismount because I wouldn't be able to handle the grade, reduced to a walk, bike at my side, tail between my sluggish legs, defeated.  My new goal became:  “Stay on the bike!”

According to my training log, my post-race notes state that “legs felt flat until somewhere between miles 5-8.”  I must have been caught up in the orgasm of the wind raging through my lid to find my groove any sooner.  My notes also state, “only drank about 12oz of P90X Recovery drink on the bike.”  Um, excuse me, Roosta, you’re not recovering yet – you’re in the middle of the hardest bike ride of your life.”  Ah yes, the things I have learned.  (Now I’m a Hammer Nutrition guy and use Heed and/or Perpetuem as my race-day liquid nutrition source).  However, that wasn’t my only mistake – Only twelve ounces of hydration on the bike???  Ah yes, the things I have learned.  This lack of hydration bitch-slapped me near the end of my first mile on the run, and continued to do so throughout the next 5.2 miles.  The course, although somewhat hilly, felt immediately mountainous. Struggling to “speedwalk”, I couldn’t get my focus off of the incredible heaviness in my legs and the dizzying heart rate.  Each hill, despite distance and grade, was a wall.  I didn’t feel this way 2 weeks ago when I did a mock Olympic distance race (just to prove I could do it).  I had swam 1500yds in the pool at The Works at 7am, immediately drove to South Berwick and rode the Pumpkinman Sprint course twice, then hopped off my bike at the Gori house and ran 6 miles.  “Wow, I can actually do this.”  Today though, while scaling another wall, I begin wondering why the F am I feeling so horrible.  I pass the first water station at about mile-2.  I look down at the two 8oz bottles of Gatorade on my Fuel Belt.  They’re still full.  I’m almost 2 hours into a race on an 80 degree day and all I’ve ingested is 12 ounces of a “recovery” drink.  That’s got to be it.  There can’t be another reason.  I kept telling myself, “You are NOT going to walk.  There will be no walking today.  You push through this.  Don’t you frigin stop!”  Now the nausea has crept in and although I’ve just figured out that I need to drink, the thought of puking in the breakdown lane if I throw back some Gatorade isn’t that appealing to me.  Clearly the worst I have ever felt in all of my training, the legs finally stop churning.  I just need to rest and get my heart rate down and I’ll be fine. If I can do that, this nausea will resolve and I can run again.  I see the sign that announces the “Turn around” point.  That inspires me to run again, but it only lasts about a hundred yards.  Walking, but at least on my way back to the finish now, a demanding voice is coming towards me, barking out orders repetitively, “Shawn! Drink!  You need to drink!  You can make it!  Drink!”  Christine Campanella, a friend that I hadn’t seen in over 12 years (except for the afternoon before while roaming the registration area), has obviously also noticed my two full bottles of hydration attached to my hips.  I don’t know who looked more concerned, me or her, but I stopped in my tracks and initialed her orders.  Over the next 2 miles I sipped on the 16oz I had with me until it was gone.  I stopped and walked for several hundred yards three more times, but by the mile-5 marker, I was steadily running, nausea-free, and stable appearing.  As I approached Wellington State Park again, the heavenly sound of cowbells and the inviting cheers of strangers presented themselves again, and it never sounded better.  I had no strength to run faster, but I had the will, and that was enough.  It only felt like the easiest, fastest quarter mile I have ever run.  I’m not naïve. It was clearly the slowest and most grueling, but I crossed the finish line with grit in my teeth and a grin on my lips . . . . a mere "duathlete."  My quest to become a triathlete would have to wait, but not long.  Next week is the King Pine Sprint.

Although my goal was to try to finish around the 50th percentile in my age group for each race this season, I was 78/86 at the abbreviated Mooseman.  Humbled, I can only get better from here.