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FLRC Newsletter - August 2004 |
| Tupper Lake Tinman Triathlon—Why I Race | |
This year's Tupper Lake raced promised to be different than last year's for several reasons. First, I now knew I could do a Tinman, despite my training (or lack thereof). Second, I had focused on this race for several months, passing on other racing opportunities, rather than enter on a whim. Good, bad, or indifferent, I knew my running form was much better; I wasn't as sure about the swim or the bike. I had already decided to leave the clip-on aerobars at home. Third, I had done the race the prior year, and so had some idea of the rhythm (where to be when, etc.) of the race weekend. The run course was different, but it actually went out past the campground we had used last year, so I had some idea what to expect. Fourth, my wife, Jeanne, was competing in the accompanying sprint race—she didn't want to be bored for 8 hours (her words). This meant staying in a motel room, both because our car was full of race gear, but also because of her prerace routine. Fifth, I had a much better idea of who was coming up from Ithaca, both club and nonclub members. Finally, I had some unintended external motivation—things are not going well at work, and I was carrying a lot of anger to this race with me. I was coming to compete with the ghosts from last year, not just complete. I was hoping to break 5:30—swim in 35:00 (1:40/100 yd), transition in 5:00, ride in 3:00 (18.8 mph), transition in 5:00, run in 1:45 (8:00 miles)—but I had no idea how the race would go. This race was going to be a test; a different reason to race.
Race weekend started off pretty much the same as last year—we drove up on Friday, coming in via Rt 3 so that I could review the course. It isn't a flat course, but I actually prefer the rolling bike courses.
We detoured up the sprint bike course so Jeanne could get a sense of it—it is not an easy course, but it is mostly all up on the way out, and all down on the way back.
We got to our motel around 4 pm and checked in. We still had two hours before meeting others in the club at the prerace meal, so we decided to stretch our legs and ride our bikes up to the registration. The motel owner gave us a nice back route, and we managed the rough stretch of Rt 3 over the Racquette River without incident. Registration went smoothly enough—the "T-shirts" this year were actually some sort of dri-release running shirt, really nice. We browsed the vendor fair, and I actually satisfied a long-time desire: RudyProject had produced "Tour de France" sunglasses as a promotional stunt, and was selling them for half the price of their other sunglasses. For whatever reason, RudyProjects fit my head better than any other sunglasses I've ever worn, so I pounced eagerly—Jeanne agreed somewhat more reluctantly. (I think it helped that I promised to get her a triple front crank for her Klein later in the year.)
Anyhow, we rode back to the motel with our loot, and while Jeanne stretched I took a short jog. Along the way, my training buddy Greg and his wife Erica passed me—they were on their way to registration and stopped to say hi. Turns out they were camped about 200 yards up the road from us. I took this as a good omen.
At 6pm, as prearranged, we showed up at the prerace pasta dinner. There, we met up with KC, Jane, Mark and Helen and Rob and Warren, as well as Greg and Erica, whom we invited to join us. Jane had seen Terry H. around, and Matt and Hollie stopped by while we were eating, so we only missed Jim and Laurie (that I knew of). The meal was good. This time, I knew how to arrange my plate and have room for the lasagna at the end—a big plus. I ate plenty, but not too much, and stopped by the bike fair to drool over a Cervelo P3K on display—the Zipp 909 wheelset alone cost more than all my gear (bike, wetsuit, running shoes, etc.). Sheesh.
Jeanne and I spent a quiet evening at the motel. Most of the other rooms were taken by triathletes and their families. Most intriguing (and energetic) was the family from Kodiak, Alaska. Like us, he was doing the Tinman, she the sprint. They were originally from the Northeast, and were spending the summer visiting; they had brought their tri-bikes just in case.
Race day morning dawned early and grey: thick, pea soup fog. I was immediately glad for the motel room, because the bikes were dry. We got moving at 5:30 am to get a good parking spot near the transition area; it was a comfort level thing for both of us. Once safely parked, Jeanne napped and I worked for about 45 minutes, as the parade of triathletes began. When Jeanne awoke, we ate breakfast—power bars, the breakfast cookie provided by the race group, bananas, oranges, and water—no eggs (although Rob and Warren had threatened to serve me some!).
We unloaded, thoughtfully leaving our wedding rings behind in the car, and did the swim marking/bike check routine. The race announcer was taking great delight in announcing the air temperature (46 degrees, up two degrees already!) and the water temperature (65, no 66 degrees!).
It actually sounded colder than I felt, but I was a little concerned.
I am extremely near-sighted, and have discovered that Speedo makes (relatively cheap) optically corrected goggles. Rather than change my routine, I was going to swim using those, and then put my contacts in during the swim-to-bike (T1) transition; the thought of fumbling with contacts with cold hands wasn't confidence inspiring. Other than that, things went well. The transition area is very well laid out: the bike racks there are the metal ones similar to what we will be using at CLT this year, and the race organizers worked around the trees nicely, and I actually was in a shady spot. I spent most of the next hour laying out my gear and just admiring all the equipment on the bikes around me; between the profile bars (integrated or clipped on), food and water carrying devices, disk wheels, and what have you, there was an amazing diversity around me. Jane Miller was racking just across from me, so I got to ogle her new bike, complete with the "NeverReach" bottle in back. My bike looked almost naked with just a water bottle, pump and spare tire carrier under the seat—I was beginning to get envious! I went over my transitions carefully; the only issue: I had left my watch back in the room, so I wouldn't be able to check my run pace.
With around 20 minutes to go, I got the wetsuit on; I was wearing the tri-top under it this year, no struggling like last year to get that on when I was wet. I had done this at the reservoir several times, and had no problems. Plus, in 66°F water, I figured the extra layer would help. I also doubled up on the swim cap, putting my silicone one under the provided cap, because of the colder temperature. As I left the transition area, I passed Mark hurrying in with his bike. Felt bad, seemed like he was getting a late start, but there wasn't much I could do to help him. I went over to my corral in time to hear the prerace announcements, to exchange some last minute well-wishes with Greg, Hollie, Matt, Rob, Warren, Laurie, and Jim. As we did so, the fog magically lifted, and the sun came out. I was wondering if they were going to delay the start, but it was now clear as a bell, and you could see all the way to the last buoy—it looked farther than last year. Jim and I were in the same age group (the "white caps") and we watched together as first the sprint—I couldn't pick Jeanne out the crowd of gold caps and black wetsuits—and then the various age groups took off: the dark blue (actually, a dumb color given the water color) of the teens, the green of the twenty-somethings, the red caps of the thirty somethings, and finally us.
The water was surprisingly warm—guess the air was colder than I realized. I moved to the front of the wave, remembering from last year that I was one of the stronger swimmers, and wanting to minimize contact issues. I was a little worried about the lack of warmup, but there was little I could do now. It was a ragged start, but before long, I was out ahead of the pack, but not away from contact. Unlike last year, I was swimming right beside someone of my own ability, and we kept bumping into one another the whole way around the course. This may sound annoying, and at times it was, but what was happening was we were correcting each other: I would look up, see the next buoy and make for it, bumping into him, straightening him out, and vice versa.
We seemed to catch up to the slower swimmers in the previous wave rather quickly, but at least I knew to look for them this year. Despite the bumping, I was in a pretty good rhythm, and although it seemed to take longer than last year, was soon at the end buoy. Again, I was lucky, and was able to turn around the buoy without issue. The sun was still a problem, despite the (slightly) later start, but at least I wasn't startled by it. I was in more of a pack of swimmers this time than last, some with green caps (who had started 10 minutes ahead of me) as well as red. Between my bumping partner and the other swimmers, I didn't have much trouble keeping in the right direction, though I was looking up frequently.
My first clue I was nearly done swimming was the lake weed raking my face—yuck. I'm used to it by now, though, and got ready to make the transition. Hand hits the bottom, up on my feet, and start running.
The goggles were a mixed blessing here—I could see, but it was somewhat foggy, so I followed the feet of the people in front of me into the transition area. First order of business: switch to contacts. Goggles off, wetwipe hands, undo lens cases, saline solution, pop in lenses—no problem at all. Swimming must have kept my hands warmer than I thought. The wetsuit came off nicely—got the top off while I was running up, and without much of a struggle. My quads did twinge momentarily while taking it off, something to figure out later. Got the rest of the bike gear on—as a concession to the cooler weather, I wore a bike jersey over my tri-top—and loaded up with PowerBars and Gu. Once again, I got to the start just in time to be held up for traffic, but it was only 20 seconds or so before I was on my way.
I knew that I was one of the weakest cyclists in the field last year, and I knew I wasn't in the cycling shape I was before. I wanted to start slowly and build, so I flipped the FlightDeck bike computer to RPM mode and started watching. I did drink some Gatorade immediately—just because (of last year's experience)—no stomach rumble this time. I didn't have a working HRM, so I was going to have to guess at my heart rate as I went along. As before, I started getting passed almost immediately, at least until the first hill at about 2.5 miles. I spun right up passed a number of cyclists. It felt like I was doing better overall than the year before; there certainly more cyclists out on the road.
I kept rolling along, passed the sprint turnoff (hoping Jeanne was okay) and on up the road. As before, the first 10 or so miles of the course are rolling enough that I don't notice the lack of aerobars.
Not that I wasn't getting passed quite regularly. The parade of expensive bikes was something to see. Something I wished I didn't see was the blatant drafting, with packs of five or six men (and it was always men) would come by in just about a perfect paceline. Oh well, I did my best to avoid doing the same, and kept going. My biggest problem was passing on the right—some cyclists refused to get off the white line, despite the wide, clear shoulder, and I refused to get into auto traffic to pass them, so I go by them on the right. I wasn't happy about it, but it seemed the less dangerous course.
At the top of the first hill, about 13 miles out, I grabbed a Powerade from one of the volunteers to replace my nearly empty Gatorade. I had only one bottle cage (dumb) so I stuck the Powerade in my back pocket.
Bad move: I began having back pains shortly thereafter. Plus, I couldn't figure out how to drink from the bottle—there was no cap to pull up, and when I tried to drink, nothing came out (I later realized there was a foil seal under the cap, and while the volunteers were removing them, I might have gotten a bottle that they missed). So I stuck it back in my back pocket and rolled on. I was coming to my least favorite part of the race: the long stretch between miles 20 and 28, which isn't flat, but isn't as rolling as the first 20 miles. Plus, the wind seems more of a factor on this stretch. Whether it was the lack of aerobars or my general cycling shape, other riders began pulling steadily away. I was showing 22 mph (and I had calibrated my computer, so I was pretty confident of that reading), and I was losing ground. Still, I kept my head and rpms up, and started munching on a PowerBar to help time pass. As I made my way through the town of Cranberry Lake, I noticed lots of people were out to cheer us on, which was nice to see. I actually saw my friend Greg heading the other way and we shared encouraging words. I knew Hollie, Matt, Rob, Warren, Laurie, and maybe Jim were ahead of me, and I was sure Terry had passed me, but I couldn't pick them out.
Knowing the course better, and having the computer, the turnaround didn't seem so far away this time, but the miles were starting to drag. I was relieved to get to the turnaround. I swapped the Powerade and my empty Gatorade bottle for water (finally getting that load off my back) and grabbed a half a banana—I smiled, remembering Mark's tale from last year. As I started to head back, I got passed by a man and a woman who were casually chatting. I think this did me in more than anything: Here I was, working my tail off, and these two seemed to be out on a training ride, yet were passing me quite easily. I didn't know what it was—I was 30 miles out, with 26 to go, and I was struggling. I couldn't hold to a steady rpm; one moment I would be at 70, the next at 90 (and it wasn't the road going up or down). My legs were very rubbery. I also couldn't keep my mental focus; sometimes focusing on another rider and trying to stay with him/her helps, but I would pick someone out, then drift off in a mental haze, and when I snapped out of it, they were long gone. I also tried different riding positions, standing on occasion. My butt was fine, it was my legs that were gone. It didn't help that the wind seemed to be swirling—instead of a constant tail wind, I found myself battling head and side winds. I began interacting with the folks at the side of the road to help myself, and to cheer others on as they passed me; it wasn't quite as steady a parade, but it was still pretty constant. There was one group of five particularly energetic kids (with two anxious moms; I guess dads were racing) who were cheering everyone on that I recall, and then there were the two cyclists who passed me just after a semi hauling logs had whipped by; I teased them about "no fair, drafting a semi." One of them said something that I didn't hear, but it turned out to be Jim saying hi, as I found out later. I tried watching for Jane and Mark going the other way, but that was impossible. I also noticed that I was feeling rather queasy and didn't know why.
The miles slowly passed—eventually I got to the 35-mile mark where to my mind the big hill going back started. The hill going this way was a different climb, less rolling. This was more to my liking, maybe because I was using different muscles when climbing, getting out of the saddle. On the last steep little climb up that hill, around the 40-mile mark or so, my quads cramped like they haven't cramped in years: They felt like bands of steel had been put into my legs. I didn't fall over, having enough momentum to get to the top of the hill and start pedaling, but I was pretty depressed, and not sure how I was going to finish the ride. I somehow got over the last of the big hill, and started the descent. I didn't push the descent, but instead rested everywhere I could and just tried to keep pedaling when I had to.
Unfortunately, the descent didn't last forever, and there seemed to be a hundred little hills until the finish. Every time I got up one little hill, I'd think "one more hill to go." When I saw the sprint turnoff, I knew I only had one hill to go—only to be wrong once again. This really crushed my spirit, and I'm not really sure how I got up these little rollers. My quads felt like they were held together by pins, and the rest of my legs were rubber bands. Some of the other riders who were struggling offered encouragement, such as the woman who played tag with me over several rollers, before disappearing. And the spectators cheering on the side helped, too—amazing the places some of them stood.
When I saw the "3 mile to go" sign, I knew I was going to make it, but not by much. That first hill was a real thrill to ride down; saw my maximum speed there (41.8 mph), but it was over all too soon, and I still had 2 miles to go through town. I tried gearing way down, and getting my rpms up to stretch my legs for the run, but I really couldn't do it; I struggled just to get to 95 rpm (instead of the 105 I can normally do at this point). Even here, I was getting passed; I didn't think there were many racers behind me. I wish I could say the finish line was a welcome sight, but all I could think was "How am I going to run?" Helen was taking pictures, and I tried my best to convey the way I felt; I think she took it as how I felt about her taking my picture (I explained later).
Amazingly, I was able to uncleat (get my shoes out of the pedals) and get off the bike. Before the race, I had reminded myself that if I had trouble with the cleats, I could just slip out of the shoes, but I was in no shape mentally or physically to attempt that simple act. I walked my bike back to its place on the rack, and went through the motions of changing into running gear. It didn't help that my designated spot was in the shade of a tree. Bike helmet, gloves, shorts, shoes, and top off; run shoes, shorts, race number belt and hat on. I took the water bottle out of the bike cage, took a last longing look at the shady spot, thinking seriously about a nap, and began walking toward the run start. I wasn't sure why I went on; part of it was that I had worked so hard on my running that I didn't want to lose out on all that effort; part of it was that I viewed this triathlon as a test, and I hate failing tests; and part, frankly, was the aforementioned anger—I'm not a quitter. So I ate a Gu packet, sipped some water, and kept walking. I heard Erica call out to me, and turned for a photo; I can't wait to see it, for she wants to call my expression "I'm toast"—and I was. I also heard Jeanne call out. She was carrying her gear to the car, so I knew that a) she had finished; and b) she was still moving, both good signs.
By the end of the grass (400 yards or so), I decided I could try a trot.
After all, running does use different muscles than cycling, or at least I told myself that. I could hold that without any problem, though I wasn't going as fast as the people around. Still, I was moving in the right direction, and it didn't hurt. Just past the half-mile mark, I saw my friend Greg coming the other way, with Rob right behind him (though, in my fog, I called Rob "Warren." Ugh. Rob understood). I hadn't realized that benefit of the new run course—while some might find the parade of runners depressing (Rob and Greg were 5 miles or so ahead of me), I actually benefitted from it, watching to see who else I might recognize. The first aid station came up quickly; I just had water, but it was nice. I was startled when I saw the 2-mile mark: Running wasn't that hard. Even the sight of hundreds of runners on the course ahead of me didn't bother me. I was running! Slowly, but I was going. I walked though the aid station, getting more water.
After the third mile, the course doubled back towards town; on the old course, this was the 10–11–12 mile stretch where I had cracked last year, so it was sort of revenge to just run through it, however slowly.
I fell into a pattern, running between aid stations, and alternating food intake at each aid station: orange at one, banana at next, Gu (or similar; I had some packets with me) at third. There were aid stations every mile or less, so that was a big plus.
Just past mile 3, where the course rejoined Park Street, I thought I saw a mirage: five energetic kids shepherded by two anxious moms cheering runners on. No mirage—same group from the bike course now on the run course! Their energy brought a smile to my lips.
Somewhere between the 5th and 6th mile, just about where Greg and Rob and I passed, I saw Jane Miller going the other way, and cheered her on. The symmetry amused me. I was actually in a good rhythm, but I was beginning to doubt my pace. Something told me I was doing 10:00 miles, not 8:00.
The new run course had a lot more flat road to it, and on a hot day, would have been a problem, but the day was pleasant (65–70°F) and the breeze so devastating on the bike felt good now; it also served to keep the black flies and mosquitos away (thank goodness!). On the stretch to the other side of town, I saw Greg and Rob again. They were at the 12-mile mark and nearly done (in more ways than one), but it was still good to see them. This gave me a little more hope about my pace; they had done about 6.5 miles in the time I had done about 6, which seemed about right to me.
Somewhere between miles 7 and 8, the road ran out, and the race course followed a well-travelled path through the sand over railroad tracks to the Wolf Pond neighborhood. This was where Jeanne and I had camped last year, so it was a welcome sight. There were more spectators here, probably happy to have the race come their way this year. Some were familiar looking: yep, the five kids and their starting-to-be-bemused moms. I suspect I wasn't the only triathlete complementing them on their eternal energy and good cheer. The road was more shady here, but also more rolling, eventually becoming nothing more than an ATV trail.
I passed Laurie without recognizing her, but she called out to me.
Something about being in the woods made me realize I had to pee; there were plenty of portajohns on the course, but this was the first time I felt the urge. I took advantage of the woods, and the fact that the only woman runner around knew me, before rejoining the race. I was expecting a smart-ass comment from her when I passed her again, but she took pity on me and said nothing.
Around the 9-mile mark, the course returned to a road, and started the long way back to the finish. I was feeling my quads at this point any time I pushed the pace, so I just kept plodding on. It was getting a little mentally tough, so I began talking to myself, reminding myself that this was less than the 5´1600 and 5´2000 workouts I had been doing. I also began chatting with the runner closest to me, Larry from Brooklyn (but wearing a Buffalo Tri Club shirt)—he was somewhat slower than I was, but I would walk through the aid stations, and he would run. I really wanted to know how someone in Brooklyn could train for an event like this, but couldn't sustain the conversation long enough to do so.
The course eventually doubled back on itself, crossing the railroad tracks in the same place. I saw Jane again, and did my best to cheer her on. And yes, I saw the five kids and two moms, this time for the last time, but I wasn't sure of it at that time. The road was long, flat, and kind of boring again. I had one amusing moment: Runner #391 had lost, or deliberately left, his/her race number belt along the side of the road around mile mark 12 or so. I had completely forgotten that I was wearing such a belt, and actually had to check if it was still there. It was—obviously, a successful idea, for I never noticed it.
I almost skipped the last aid station at 12 miles, but didn't. These folks were working hard, too. Besides, why wreck a good pattern? I did, however, hide from the photographer at that point (just kept my head down till I was past). Don't know why, but I'd rather see Helen and Erica's photos.
The last half mile was the same as last year, but no repeat of last year's experience. Just the same slow, steady pace. I overtook Larry in the last 100 yards and got my first indication of time; he was looking at his watch muttering something about 5:45. Sure enough, the race clock read 6:05:48, indicating a 5:45:48 for me. I was tired but happy to finish and in no need for the medical tent. I gave some thought about a massage for my quads, but that required money that I didn't have on me. I walked back to where Warren, Rob, Helen, and others were standing by the finish line. I was looking for Jeanne, but couldn't see her. I waited for Laurie and Mark to come in—we missed Laurie, unfortunately, but she quickly joined our little group, along with Jim. After Mark came in, I found my friend Greg and we checked out the posted results; only the swim had been posted, and I had done a 33:56. I tried to find others, but the list was too hard to read; have to wait for it online, I guess. No other results had been posted.
I went and put my gear in and the bike on the car; I still couldn't find Jeanne, though I could see her bike still in the rack. The volunteer guarding the gate wouldn't let me take her bike out, and I was fine with that—good to see he was watching. I knew Jane would be coming in soon, so I went back to the group just in time to cheer her in. It was there that I finally saw Jeanne; she had been further up the chute, near where it started, and had been getting worried, not having seen me come in. After Jane came in, there wasn't much to do other than stand in line for the post-race barbeque. The food was good, but while we were eating, the weather took a major turn for the worse. The wind became a cold blast, and a very cold rain started falling. My hands were turning blue while I ate. Fortunately, it didn't last long, and our car was nearby. It was an easy chore to pick up Jeanne's bike, get it on the car, and get the car's heater going.
The hot shower at the motel was great!
All in all, I had hoped to title this "revenge of the triathlete" after last year's experience, but I couldn't. I had hoped for 5:30, would have despaired with another 6:00, so 5:45 was about "halfway between hope and despair." I answered many questions from last year, but have many new questions:
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