All right, time to decide that this blog is going to have to include races of not just the Good, but the Bad and Ugly as well. (I was thinking, what would be the difference between the Bad and the Ugly? Well. The Ugly might include digestive problems. So, the good news is, this is just a race that went Bad.)
Rode up by caravan with John McDermott, fellow Hastings tri guy, who along with Tom Andrews had told me for two years that Quassy was the hardest race ever. We arrived in late afternoon, a nice expo, had pizza pasta and beer with John’s friend Julie Fortier at a restaurant at the crossroads, spent the night in the Heritage Hotel. Met Robert Posada of Team Nrgy in the lobby the next morning (wearing team gear!).
Set up transition, went back and forth to car to minimize my area. Prepped for the swim: Went down and took 3 or 4 turns in the warmup area – 25 strong strokes, 25 easy to get my heart rate up, get back to the shore, zen-like reconsideration, do it again. By the time the race began, I was ready. Put myself near the right, but not in the corner to avoid being pushed outside the buoys we’d leave to our right, and started in the second row – just ahead of the guys who are holding back, figuring I’m faster than the shy guys.
“Go!” 400 yds of strong pulling, some drafting, some getting knocked to the side by rubber-legged dolphins (hey, Flipper, chill out!), stopped briefly to cough out a mouthful of water. Got past my doubts (gosh, I’m struggling!) and more directly into the effort (so? This is work. So what). And I was strong, and rotating well, a decent loping rhythm, passing some, getting passed, there’s the first turn. That sweet moment on the second leg when I see swim caps with other colors (mostly earlier waves, but one screamin fast woman who must have won, overall, the aquathalon wave behind us), can’t see the next yellow turn buoy with the sun in our eyes, but the orange sighting buoys are many and they work and most of the time whoever I’m drafting off seems to be on course, but I check now and then and let them go astray when i see a straighter path. And lo! I feel good, much better than my last race, and hit the watch, and it’s 37:00 for the 1.2 miles (1:46 per 100 yds), a PR by 2 minutes for a Half Ironman swim.
T1 went OK. Got off my wetsuit without having to sit down – an improvement from the last race and a sign that the swim didn’t knock out. Got on the bike (fondly known as My Beastie) and off to do battle.
The problem, as I post-race realized, was that I was still high from getting third place at the Harry Man Olympic three weeks ago, and second place at the Toughman Half last year, so I was hungry for the podium in a way that wasn’t healthy. So ignoring the fact that an unknown number of guys in my age group probably had left the water before me and were already out of sight, I thought the universe of age group competitors was nearby. There goes that guy in black, or maybe USAT navy blue with 50 on his calf; there goes Glenn, who remembered me from last year’s Toughman (where he took 1st place); there goes this guy with a green shirt from some cycling group in Bethel, NY; there’s a guy with a Gran Fondo shirt and a big 54 on HIS calf – and now, I’m chasing 5th place?! So even though my plan is to stay in Heart Rate Zone 2, I pursue and catch most of them, picking off most of them until I drop my chain going uphill (dammit, don’t I do that one race a year? You’d think I’d learn not to throw both levers almost at the same time). So, ten or more riders, whom I’d worked so hard to pass, pass me.
Now, the wise thing was not what occurred to me. What occurred to me was, “I’m going to catch those SOBs. I dropped my chain in the Stamford Oly last year and tapped my inner fury and had a good ride, right?” (yes, but not a good race…) And I thought by mile 35 or so I had done enough of Z2 already. So I turned on the turbo and rocked past most of those who’d passed me, if you’re coasting you don’t deserve to be ahead of me, OMG a pothole that would’ve sent me flying if I didn’t have my hands on the horns, and you don’t win on the down hills but you can lose on ‘em, but it is GLORIOUS to be doing 35-45 mph! And I finish in 3:02, avg of 18.5 mph for the 56 miles, and it’s not my fastest, but it’s not bad after 4,000 feet of climbing.
Only later I realize: I’m avoiding the reality that there’s another one-third to this race. And it’s more fun to go fast on the bike than to go fast on the run. T2 goes well, McDermott (long finished the aqua bikes) gives me a shout and helps me find my spot, and I’m off. But I leave behind my Garmin on the bike (tick tick ticking until hours after the race is over…) and I almost head back before leaving transition to get it, but turns out I don’t need it because…
I have shin splints. For the first 5 miles of a 13-mile run.
I never had shin splints before and OMG did it hurt. And, of course, everyone passes me. Mr. Green Bethel shirt took off like an Acela train (turns out running is his strength). Glenn passes me, sympathetic but not able to help (“well, you could run on the grass..”). I lose track of how many people go by (bye) – a couple running light enough to be chatting about breaking 6 hours (gone…); a guy who I ask “what’s your tempo” and reports he’s running 8:05s (gone…); another guy who reports he’s running 8:24 (gone…); a 60-year old man, whom I mentally applaud for being strong, I’m sure, but he wouldn’t have passed me if I weren’t running what I guess are 9:30, 10:00 minute miles (gone…)
So I realize: I really want to quit. This really hurts. (Mile one!? How will I possibly finish?!). But I don’t want the DNF. And how can I be a role model to my sons, especially to my 18-year-old adult son, if I quit? And the Ironman in August is probably going to hurt a lot too. So, amazingly, the shin splints stop hurting at mile five. And I can’t go any faster but I’m still running. And it’s a beautiful day and a beautiful course and there’s dappled sunlight through the trees and it’s amazing that I’m capable of running and healthy enough to race and if I just keep trudging I will finish.
And I do finish. And I’ve survived my worst fear: doing badly. Turns out that Glenn, who I thought was 1st or 2nd, came in 8th – so I was nowhere near the podium. Finished the run in 1:58 (9:02 min/mile), finish the race at 5:42:00. That’s 10-15 minutes slower than my two other Half Ironman but still an achievement. 13/60 AG, 176/657 OA.
And I learned some valuable lessons: To listen to my body – I knew I was pushing harder than I could sustain, even though the heart rate monitor said I was in Z1 and Z2 for 92% of the time. Sticking with the plan wasn’t sufficient. To check my ego at the starting line, or I’ll end up running someone else’s race. And to know that I can endure a lot of pain, not succumb to walking, and finish.
A lot of racers complained about how hard the course was, but I really felt, “The fault lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” (Look at that, a liberal arts education IS worth something!) I mean, if you get a flat tire or something, you can curse the gods, but MY race was certainly the result of choices I made. And the roads have been there a lot longer than we have; how can you blame the course, when you’ve chosen to do a Half Ironman?