A week ago, I lined up on the beach at Horny Corner to
compete in the Bayshore 70.4 triathlon…I had just returned from 2 weeks in the
desert of Las Cruces, working late hours, and not having my weekends to
myself. I got my bike put together
ok the day before and my wetsuit fit reasonably well. I hadn’t worn it in over a year, so there was the
possibility that the already snug-fitting shoulders would have been too small
for the 10 pounds I had gained over the preceding six months.
I stood on the front line, having said good luck to one of
my friends, and hello to a coworker who was also racing. I set my goggles in place—they fogged
up. I took them off my eyes and
licked the insides. They fogged
again. I had neglected to use antifog
solution, because I never use it except for races like this, where the cold air
meeting my body heat creates the ideal environment to not be able to see anything
once the fog has filled in.
My fingers were covered in Vaseline from having globbed it into my
biking socks, so I was careful not to actually handle anything but the goggle
straps. My goggles fogged up again
with 1 minute to race start.
I am not this strong.
I just had to deal with this crap.
The race started and I ran into the water, hit the dive to
transition into swimming, and then did what I could to relax. I felt the icy water envelope my
shoulders, my upper arms, and my forearms, and then creep into the rest of my
wetsuit. I saw my left hand disappear into the
murky brown, and then the right—the tempo was automatic. Though I had only swum once
during my trip, the lifetime of being a swimmer made my body know what to do. My
biceps and triceps hardened under the strain of the cold, and I set out to
relax and focused on rotating my body core. It was my goal to get through this swim doing the least damage
to my body as possible, but without being able to relax, I could not cruise
through an easy aerobic swim. I
felt the usual crowd drop away, and had a vague concept that there might be
several people in front of me. I
would not go after them.
I am not this strong.
I exited the water at the halfway point and heard someone
yell “That’s a good warmup for you.” I assume this was directed at the guy I
was trailing. We had swum side by
side, with me unable to navigate a straight line, drunkedly wandering right and
left across the narrow swim course.
I smacked into him at one point—it was completely my fault. I entered the water again. Some time shortly after the final turn
around, I rolled over onto my back and simply said to myself “This hurts,” and
then I rolled back over and continued on.
I would exit the water in fourth place, not knowing that until the race
was over.
I was numb—my arms and shoulders stiff from the cold and I
hobbled into transition and set about getting myself together for the
bike. I lacked the ability
to pull my wetsuit off with the ease I was used to. I yanked on the left leg three times, eventually giving up
and standing on the wetsuit leg to pull my left foot out of the narrow hole. I
yanked on a pair of rolled up arm warmers, only vaguely aware of what my
fingertips were pawing at during the process. I had opted to not leave my bike shoes clipped into my
bike, so I hobbled out of transition and threw my leg over the bike at the
mount line and got going.
My general plan was to ride at a conservative, but decent
power level—with the underpreparation I had for this race, the idea of blasting
my wattage PR was out of the question.
I decided to cruise out for a bit, and let a couple of racers blow past
me with ease. 160 watts was a good
starting point, I would sit here for a few minutes, at least until I reached
the river trail. I was cold.
I managed to get my arm warmers rolled up to the top of my
arms, so I had a chance of warming up.
As I made the left turn onto the river trail, I knew it was time to
settle in. Over the next 10
minutes, I would ratchet up my power, and ultimately decide that 190 watts was
what felt reasonable for this race.
Perhaps I am this strong—it was what I had held two years ago on this
same course.
The course was littered with patches of sand from the
brutally wet winter Southern California had been having. As I approached the troll bridge, I saw
an alternating landscape of bike path and sand dune—this area had clearly been
submerged by the San Gabriel River. A brief glance to the walls of the course
showed dirt with a darkened line at roughly the height of my head. A volunteer diligently worked to sweep
away the deepest of the sand traps.
Later on, I would see the bloody shoulder of a competitor who has not as
lucky on these hazards as I was—I am not that strong, I rode cautiously.
At the halfway point, I had averaged 189 watts, and gone
about an hour and twenty eight minutes.
I was conscious that the wind had just barely been blowing at my face on
the way out, and there was a very minor uphill grade , so I though I might be
able to split a little faster and bring in a time down near 2 hours and 50
minutes, and that idea came shattering to pieces in the shape of an onshore
flow that rivaled the strongest that I ever see while training on this
course. The front that was moving
in had arrived.
An hour and thirty minutes later, I had averaged at total of
188 watts on the bike, just a few shy of my wattage PR, but my legs
burned. I was undertrained for
this. A half ironman is a
substantial undertaking, not to be underestimated. I transitioned to run, feebly pulling my arm warmers
off, and applying sunscreen. I could
not find Brian, so I decided I would ask a spectator to spray sunscreen onto
the back of shoulders.
And then Brian ran up, having arrived just minutes
before. He took the sunscreen and
put a layer on me. And I began to
hobble to a run. I am not this
strong.
I had forgotten my shot blocks in transition, and since this
race was as low key as it was, I asked Brian to go back and get them for me—he
did, turning around on his bike, and grabbing the blocks off my towel. I needed these. No one is strong enough for a 13 mile
run after a bike without calories.
I quickly decided that the run was going to have to be a
run/walk. I ran for 6 minutes,
then walked for 1, and readjusted my shoes for the first two rounds. About 3 miles in, someone came up on my
shoulder, and I asked how they were doing. The voice was familiar—it was Shane, my coworker…we
exchanged some race talk—“That first mile killed my legs,” from Shane, with me
responding that my legs were still being killed. He pulled away from me, and I continued on. I am not that strong.
On the return leg of the first run loop, I was told to go up
the ramp at Junipero by a volunteer.
“Seriously?” I responded, and was told yes…and I said thank you, and thought
that I am not that strong. I walked up the ramp, and then resumed my run/walk
plan. I did not know if my
legs would hold up through the next 9 miles. I continued a run/walk/hobble/walk/run plan.
A little after my turnaround for the second run loop, my
friend Steve showed up, and said he would run with me on his first loop while I
was completing my second—Steve had not been on his bike since October, so it
was not surprising that the hellish wind took him a little longer to deal
with. Steve would pull ahead of me
at times, and then we would group back up, with Steve walking a little longer
during the walk breaks to keep us even.
On my second time walking up the ramp at Junipero, my abs seized on me
briefly, and I decided I needed more salt, but I wasn’t sure how I could take
in more than I already had been—a gram of sodium an hour should have been
sufficient for these conditions.
I finished the race in obvious distress. There were no finish line smiles, no
fists pumping in the air. It was a
hard day, and I had finished.
There was no celebration—I am not that strong.
I chatted briefly with Steve’s husband, and told him where
and when to meet him on the course, and then packed up my stuff in
transition. As I sat down near the
finish to wait for Steve to come in, I had an ocular migraine, which is not
common for me, but not uncommon either.
I have one of these every so often, and sometimes they are the harbinger
of a blinding headache to come later on—I hoped that would not be the
case. I smiled at the dog at the
aid station, and asked if the volunteers minded if I sat in the shade while I
waited for Steve. I am not strong
enough to stand in the sun after a half iron while having a migraine and
waiting 30 minutes for my friend to finish.
Later in the week, I came down with what I believed to be a
hellish cold, and had to take a day off work. I am not that strong.
The day off came on the heels of my having to send yet another
email detailing out why an acceleration to due dates on some work I’m doing was
not possible—I am stretched across too many programs, with too many people
making demands on my time. I have
sent too many of these emails recently, and somewhere I wondered if anyone
cared…while no one person is to blame, the totality of the workplace has created
a system of throwing eggs against a wall and picking up the ones that don’t
break, and throwing those eggs again, until there are no eggs left to be broken.
The next day, I was wired on Sudafed, and went for an easy
run—it was the fastest easy run I have ever done, approaching and exceeding my
10k pace at times. At least the
run was short—it would cause minimal damage. I stopped the Sudafed that night,
and returned to my normal workday, and normal training on the day that
followed. On Saturday, I had a 3
hour ride to do, and some people I have ridden with recently were going on a
ballbuster of a ride through the hills of Palos Verdes, to which I decided not
to respond. I am certainly not
that strong. I suffered with my
aerobic ride on roughly the same course I had raced the previous week. I was very tired.
My swim team had a social that Saturday, and I went, but
declined the after party at a bar down the street….I had no desire to do
anything other than sleep and still had my bike to pack, and a long run to do
the next day. I sent a
message to my book club that I would not be able to make it on Sunday. There were not enough hours in the day.
So I approached my run, knowing that I should be able to
slog through 9 miles if I did it sensibly. My first mile barely broke 11 minutes, as I felt the weight
of the previous week’s punishment on my quads and glutes. The effort was unreal, and I told
myself that I would loosen up, that I was that strong. The following miles came at an
effort. I saw a friend of mine
walking in the haze, and waved hello—there was a time that we had once run
together. I felt the grip of my
shirt across my chest, as I perspired in the cold gloom, unable to see more
than a half mile in front of me. 3
miles became 4, and then I reached the halfway, and my shirt weighed me down
even more. 5 miles into 6, and
each step became painful—an effort to lift my leg and make the next step, so I
stopped and I walked. I quit
triathlon once or twice a mile as I walked home. I decided I would not bring my bike on this next work
trip. I would not do the interval
session that was planned for Tuesday.
I am not that strong.
I am not this strong.
So, I will just put one foot in front of the other. I will pack my bags. I will sleep, and I will wake
again. I will swim, and I will
run, and I will find a stationary bike to ride, because I am not that strong.
