Mark Kaufman

 

Although this race was a great one in so many ways, I’m having a hard time getting  my hands around how to appreciate the success.   I was slower on this race than last year on the same course.  I oh so wanted to go all out and get closer to the podium, now that I had an Ironman under my belt, but at the end of my 4th year of triathlons, I guess I can’t PR every time, even on my local, every-year race.

First mistake:  should have checked my mechanicals on the bike when I racked the day before, or ridden it a little after taking it out of neighbor/training buddy Alan Gold’s Cooper Mini. (Two bikes fit in the back! It’s like one of those stunts with clowns packed into a VW.) Hung out, got to the potty before the hordes arrived – in fact before there was any line at all – bump into Hastings racing teammates Tom Andrews and John McDermott, as well as racing buddy BJ Wilson (all the way from Beacon!). COLD morning and even colder on the beach by Rye Playland; though the water was warmer than the air, dipped in a little too early and ended up clench-jawed chattering while waiting for my swim wave. Great to talk with the wiser and more last minute Bruce Cadenhead – he warmed up around 5 minutes before we started (and wild to see the “mild-mannered actuarial from a great metropolitan newspaper” change in seconds to a powerful swimmer, focused and determined).

Horn blows and we are OFF.  I’m on the far left side, what looks like a shorter distance to that first big orange buoy.

I can’t find anyone to draft off, and I suddenly taste first mental victory: that’s OK, I can swim 2.4 miles and this is shorter, and I am in my fast full-sleeve wetsuit and if there’s no one that fits my speed I will just do it alone.  And the exertion is just that, work, and I am simply breathing when I can, keeping my head down, sighting when I can, and I may not be as fast as that first wave of capital S swimmers but I can swim hard and I start using my new mantra:  “this is not who I am, this is what I do” (meaning, my identity does not hang in the balance of my performance).  And I get to the first turn, it’s crowded but no one kicks me, and off to the second.  And before turning down the longest leg along the breakwater I start feeling swells BEHIND me, the current is like a phalanx of dolphins carrying me to shore!  The tide is low and I have to walk 20 yards in the water to get to the beach and I am done, and that was FUN, felt strong, and turns out it’s my best swim ever:  25:36 — but only 22/75 for my age group (guess we all enjoyed those waves – a tidal by-product of the Super Moon that day?). Anyway, it felt great.

Run up the beach and the long ramp to T1, suit slips off well with that spray-on stuff, I scowl at the arm warmers I had laid out because I’m not cold now!

I’m planning on biking hard and I start in a high heart rate zone, z3 for the first 5 miles,  pass various dawdlers (I’m trying to be nice when I shout ,”on your left”, really I am) and then get into a z2 groove, this isn’t an Ironman, and I quickly realize that my back wheel is out of true and rubbing, every rotation, against a brake pad. I am not sure how to fix it but am dead certain that I’ll lose more time stopping to adjust it than just living with it, and it doesn’t stop me from leap frogging with a dark-helmeted 54 year old (whom I dub “Darth Vader” and to whom I later say  “THERE you are!” when he passes me) and this really strong 67-year old (“you’re 15 years older than I am and you’re kicking my ass!”) and I had forgotten to get body-marked (it was so cold in the morning and no one at the entrance greeted me with a Sharpie) so I know  Darth Vader and some 50-year old are in my age group but unless they see my tag flapping behind the aero seat post they don’t know I’m in theirs.

The road is really rough, cracked pavement and occasional cars, which are scary and sometimes slow us down (to the 67-year old:  “car back!  Car back!”) And at 0:45 my left hip is cramping so I take a salt tablet and a few minutes later I feel a little bit hungry so despite the three capsules of BCAA before the swim and the two more with caffeinated NUUN in my torpedo water bottle, I take a gel, and It. Tastes. Awful.  But I feel strong. And at 2:05 I am just as dead certain that today I will finally break 2:12 on this course.  Until I hit 2:12 and I am still riding (past the Playland Parkway speedometer light flashing 19 mph, thank you!). And I roll in in at 2:15.  Darn.  But:  it was fun…

Jog to transition, swap the shoes and helmet for IM-branded hat (if you got it, flaunt it), start the run – and realize I left my race-belt with my bib at the bike!  Start running back into transition; finally see a ref, who stops me from screwing up by crossing the mat again, and says with the race chip on my ankle I’m OK.  But I realize why I should have been penalized:  guys in my age group can’t even tell from my bib number that I’m stalking them.

Bright flat concrete out to the swamp/natural part of the amusement park, turnaround (there’s Alan coming back at me, go team!), back along the concrete and uphill to leave the park, and my pace is slower than I need if I’m going to improve on last year, and my feet slap heavy-footed through suburban streets and grabbing water but not walking the rest stops, this is only a 10k, and my watch from Friday’s workout is set to beep at every ½ mile and y’know, that’s kind of good, because at mile 3.5 or 4, I realize, this is only a 6 mile race.  It’s not 26.  And 6 is really doable.   So I dig in, and try to accelerate, and “this is not me it’s what I do” gives me energy, because what I do is pass people, and suddenly so very soon I’m on the grassy shoot to the finish line and I am DONE!

[A civilized finish line:  where you can enjoy Captain Lawrence IPA – with John McDermott and Tom Andrews, the Tri Division of the CMS Racing Team.]

And turns out:  it’s my best mental game, and the first tri I actually enjoyed the whole race.  Alas, 3 minutes slower than last year:  25:36 swim (= 1:46/100m – a PR!); 1:15:47 bike (= 19.8 mph; I’ve done better); and 45:45 run (= 7:23/mile, slower than last year).

Look, there’s many reasons I might have done better, but I’m not interested in excuses, I’m interested in getting comfortable with these results:  with doing my best every race, but not doing a PR every race; with having a mental state that circumvents personal doubts; with finally enjoying three-thirds of the three-legged beast.  The numeric results were not my best, but they were solid, and adding in some enjoyment, an overall success.

AND, because the amazing Bruce Cadenhead came in second overall (including a run that averaged 6:15/mile!  At 50 years old!) I rolled down to 8/75, putting me in the top 10% for our AG.  I’ll take it. Nice way to end the tri season.

And off to the NYC Marathon in 5 weeks …

This was my first Ironman distance triathlon, and because I am capable of writing three pages for a mere Sprint, this will be longer.  So, feel free to skip to the parts that interest you!

Pre-Race

I used to be kind of annoyed with all the shout outs that other people put in their race reports, but I can’t thank enough my wife Rachel (who gave me the green light last September, put up with all my training and too much talking, and accepted this trip to Quebec as our summer vacation), my son Liam (who tolerated the long rides and early mornings in Canada without complaint) and my cousin Rob Falk  (who inspired me into  triathlons, stayed with us during the week and managed to keep me, and therefore Rachel and Liam, sane). “Sherpa “doesn’t do them justice. They were unbelievably supportive. I mean, can you imagine me on taper mouth?

After a few days in Montreal, we got to Mont Tremblant on a Wednesday, and the lake and hillsides are absolutely gorgeous.

 

Was glad I slept well on Friday night because, as expected, I got about 4 1/2 hours the Saturday night before the race. Not anxious as much as visualizing the start of the swim…

 

For breakfast, bulletproof–style coffee, applesauce with protein powder, power bar sports drink, and a banana. Casually walked (ha!) with wetsuit, etc., the 15 minutes to transition. Body marked, pumped up the tires (at least 3 racked bikes were reported to have blown up the day before), got on the bathroom line, walked back to the swim start, another Porta Potty (like voting, “poop early and poop often!”), wetsuit, and dip in!  Perfect, 71 degree water.  Canadian national anthem (we tread water but no one removes their swim caps)…

The Swim

Crowd into the coral (some 250 in my age group plus all other “50+ men”) and bravely move up to the fourth or fifth row, on the far right side. My strategy is to avoid getting crawled on (which means I have to be faster than the crowd behind me!)  and to leave the buoys to the left, instead of to the right as directed, in order to get relatively clear water.  And the cannon goes BOOM!

The buoys are bright yellow and plentiful – the first I leave to my left, but the rest are wherever the pair of feet I’m following will lead me. The first guy scarcely kicks, just rolls from side to side, “engaging his core”; the next guy kicks light but steady; the next guy is all over the place, and tactically does a frog kick when I touch his foot. But shameless drafting / joining the school of fish is the route to the finish line. And nothing is better than passing the guys with the swim caps from the next wave:  red, then green, then gray?!  I’m passing the younger guys who started 9 minutes ahead of me?  After the sainted red buoy – OMG, almost halfway done!! –shoulders started tweaking so I started breathing on my left side. It’s less comfortable for me, and I lose sight of The Feet of my drafting target, but apparently more powerful; I bury my head down more, lift my head less on breathing, and pull past the victims within a few strokes.

A couple of times at the end, guys who clearly aren’t sighting swim on top of me – I arch my back to get away, and my legs start cramping horribly.  Pretty damn scary. So, I imagine what it feels like to stand in the shallow end of the pool in li’l ol’ Hastings on Hudson – and I relax out of the cramps. The finish comes sooner than I expect – and shallow! – and I’m out!!  Get my arms out, volunteers strip off the rest of the wetsuit, start running, and I literally start laughing out loud – I just swam 2.4 miles!  in open water!  After getting inspired by Rob’s first IM, 10 years ago!

I had planned on swimming the course in 1:20; the awesome Coach Debi predicted 1:15; and I actually finished in 1:11.  I am ahead of my goal of breaking 12 hours!  (But of course I didn’t know this until the race was over; I hadn’t set my watch properly, and was manually resetting it from Swim to Bike as I ran…)

T1

We run a full kilometre from the swim to the banquet tent transition area, wetsuits in hand, red carpet the whole way, people screaming!  Shouting! and here’s Rob with a solid high five (“Primo!”) and I am absolutely giddy. I hunt for “1906”, grab my bag, run down the rows of bags to the men’s changing area; dump out everything; finally take off my prescription goggles and  put on my “racing” glasses with cables to wrap over my ears; dry feet with orange towel, put on socks, bike shoes, New! Sunglasses!, helmet, click clack down the aisle to the exit, get a volunteer to slather me with sunscreen, run out the tent; the side lines are packed with more cheering people; click clack to the second aisle, up to the third row, across to the fifth rack – and almost everyone ‘s bike in my area is still there. So, I am among the first in my age group out of the water!   (Post-race data shows I actually swam 55^th in AG.  Ah, well, ignorance is bliss).

But there’s a long way to go, of course, and momentary delusions will not interfere with doing MY race.

The Bike:

My goal for the bike was to stay in Z1 (that is, heart rate zone one, 121-131 bpm) for the entire 112 miles. That’s what’s needed to survive the marathon that would follow. At the same time, I wanted to average 17.3 mph so that I could complete the bike in 6:30 hours, and the race in 12 hours or less. Bottom line: I had to keep Coach Debi happy with a low HR (or suffer her I -Told-You-So’s), but hit 17:20 minutes or less for every 5 miles that my watch would report, to keep ME happy.

So, it is a lovely day, around 70 degrees when we start, partly cloudy, and I tuck into my aero bars, and everything is beautiful and speedy. Lots of shade (to start – the warehouse parts of the closed highway come later), I do the first 5 miles in something like 15 minutes, the next in 17, the next in an unbelievable 12 minutes, so I’m banking a lot of time and staying in Z1.

And suddenly my hips start cramping.

This makes no sense, since I already drank a 28-ounce torpedo/sippy cup of sports drink in the first 15 minutes, and I haven’t been biking for long yet, but the pain in both piriformes (to be exact) is so severe that I can no longer tuck. And I suddenly remember Debi’s advice: If you’re cramping, or nauseous, and your sweat isn’t salty, take a salt tablet. I had bought a few –with caffeine – took one, and was back in action pain-free and zooming along. (Doggamn, I have the right coach.)

And I am tooling along at excessive speed but staying in Z1. The roads are fantastic and mostly smooth and not technical (no sharp turns). Guys and some gals pass my on the up hills (z1, baby, patient, patient) but I’m “on your left!” on the  downhills, sometimes passing while coasting, at one point passing a younger guy with a USAT team kit, and I realize:  I’m not skinny; I’m aerodynamic!

At some point I stop to pee – tried but failed to do it while coasting, I’ve been potty-trained too well – and realize I will never again wear a one-piece with short sleeves (or one-piece at all!) on a long race – whatever speed it gives me, I lose taking it off and on in the outhouse!

After the first lap, banking into and climbing out of transition area, I’m giddy again, and I actually tell another rider, “OMG, I’m doing an Ironman,” and I realize I should shut up, because that’s much more interesting to me than to anyone else. I stop briefly for my special needs bag, grabbing a couple bites of my almond butter and honey sandwich (now, THERE’s some calories) and more salt tablets (like Underdog’s Secret Super Energy Pills – which I had previously assumed were made of amphetamines, but now know they were made of salt. And caffeine).

Ok, the second and final loop at around mile 80 is getting tiring and folks are grumbling about the heat, and there’s a little headwind for a few miles, but I’m joking with other riders that we’d be complaining about the rain or whatever, this is just hard work, right?  There’s that steeper hill again at the end, I’m suddenly in the high end of Z2, even though I’m spinning slowly  in the lowest gear I have, but I’ve been saintly for most of the race, and I am listening to my body, and I get to the end feeling strong.

And finished in 5:58!  A huge result!  I could run just 9 minute miles, do a 4-hour marathon, and break 11:30!

Ah, But if only could slog as fast as 9-minute miles…

T2

I knew that volunteers would take my bike when I finished the ride, but here was my second mistake (after wearing the speed suit):  I hadn’t mentally prepared for what that meant. So I’m cheerfully running to the transition tent and realize:  my Garmin (with HR monitor) is still on the bike. And my extra salt tabs. But what am I going to do?  Run around the racks of bikes looking for the nice man who has my bike?  Mistake no. 2:  Yes.  Or, when I saw Rachel and Rob and Liam, I should have said, “Get me Salt!”  Or I should have asked other racers for salt tabs….   Put on Aquafor between my toes, changed socks and shoes, grabbed hat and clip-on sunglasses, race belt with gels (and only 3 tabs) and go cheerfully into…

The Run

So, I’m feeling pretty pumped up, and decide I know my heart rate well enough I can get by without the watch, just listen to the body and if I feel I can go faster, Don’t Do It. And I see my family in the corner in front in front of our condo and get revved up, and ask a guy how fast we’re going, and he says 9 minutes, cool, that seems doable. I stop for my second portapotty – I had probably 10 bottles on the bike – losing time, but necessary.

By now, it’s getting hot. Like, mid-80s and humid.  (In Canada!) The course is pretty shady and very flat, and I get a sip of water at every rest stop (each a km or two apart) and a cup of ice – some cubes to chew, and the rest to throw down the back of my one-piece and settle into my pants – wow,  that’s a wakeup call!  But the gels and shot blocks are starting to taste way too sweet, and I take a salt tab and it’s good for a few miles but by 10 or 14 km I am slowing down, averaging 10 min/miles, and the slog begins… Out of the shade, past the family again (Hooray!) uphill into the race village and then a loop outside and around it (stopping at special needs to change my soakin’ socks) and then past that oh-so-tempting fork in the road:  to the left, “Finish Line”, to the right “Second Lap”; but I’m wearing a computer chip, they’d know it if I skipped the last 13.1 miles…

And I realize a third mistake:  I hadn’t really mentally prepared for this second half marathon. Physically, I was ready, but to avoid thinking about how huge this thing was, to keep some measure of calm, I hadn’t processed that the race would be like the 18- and 20-mile runs I had enjoyed while training. I had pictured the beginning, and the glorious Finish, but not the middle.

And this middle just wiped me out. I tried dividing it into 4ths (thank you, Lori Carlo!) but each km felt farther away.   I walked every rest stop, taking  pretzels and oranges and more ice  in my pants;  another potty stop, trying to settle my stomach (Darn this one-piece!); slogging getting slower; and with around 8 km  to go was suddenly dangerously dizzy. Face and hand felt tingly, lightheaded floatiness comes over me, and I am suddenly aware that if I am not careful, I won’t make it.  Managed to get to the next rest top, but no pretzels were available – just chicken soup, but not for me, I haven’t had chicken since 1981 – so I keep getting slower, afraid if I stop I simply won’t start again, and besides, Age Group-mate Howard (friend of Stephen Grossman) has been leap frogging with me all day and is on my tail.  Make it another kilometre to a stop, walk a few minutes while I take some pretzels and water, ANOTHER pit stop (Howard: “we’re gonna break 12 hours!”; my thought balloon:  maybe you will, but…)  And it’s starting to get dark, and I should take off my sunglass clip-ons, but that takes too much time and energy…

And I’m out of the path!  Going past the corner where Rachel, Liam and Rob had been – they must be at the finish line!  And up the hill towards the race village, down past the swim start, up again and around that damn loop; and down, down, downhill along cobble stones into the chute, and people are screaming!  Shouting my name (Rachel, of course, but I didn’t know it), and I pull off the sunglass clip-ons and hold up my hands and ROAR as I. Cross. The. Finish. Line.

And despite my 4:27 run (I had been shooting for 4:00) I’ve made my goal by breaking 12 hours – 11:49, to be exact.  Doggamn. I did it.  I’m a stumbling mess and Rob works his way in to the “athlete’s only” recovery area and gets me to the massage area and then some delicious poutine.  (French fries, cheese and for today only, vegetarian gravy.  Salt! Salt!  I am human again!). And Rachel and Liam are just outside the tent. God bless ’em.  And I am an Ironman.

Stats

11:49 total, 42/237 AG (= top 18%), 564/2,352 OA (= top 24%).

Swim, 1:11:30 (= 1:34 min/100 yds.), 55^th AG.

T1:  7:46

Bike:  5:58:27 (= 18.75 mph), 65^th AG

T2:   4:24

Run: 4:27:18 (= 10:12/mile), 42^nd AG

Post-Race

Now, a few days later, the endorphins have worn off, I’ve had some sleep, and I’m feeling reasonable:   There are things I would have done differently; I would have liked to enjoy and perform better on the run; I will never leave home again without a supply of salt tablets. But I exceeded my expectations on the swim and bike, and really had fun for 2/3 of this huge day. And, because I met my goal, I don’t feel compelled to do another Ironman.

But, then again, I might anyway.

Signed up for this race to join the Team NRGY folks, as a prettier (and earlier-announced) alternative to the NYC Tri on the same day.  Spent the night at a hotel in Princeton, lucking out when eating dinner at the bar and watching the Pan American swimmers (inspired by how THEY catch the water!).

Bullet-proof coffee, apple sauce with protein powder, some sports drink for breakfast at 4:45 a.m. Picked up registration on a hot, humid morning; even the lake at Mercer County Park was warm, at 83 degrees (wetsuit non-legal). Saw Jason near the team tent, met up with Chris Vaughan (cousin Rob Falk’s friend), re-met Kevin L. who another age grouper recognized as the runner who amazed us all at Nationals last year by his apocryphal, sub-6:30 run; got my transition area set up (distinctive orange towel).  “Never turn down an available toilet” but still suffered the long lines.

Warmed up in the water, after really two rest days (Friday’s practice swim in the Hudson was a bust — the current had been too strong), and felt good.  Note to self:  8 oz. of sports drink 20 minutes before the start isn’t enough on a hot day; I was starting thirsty, but got a sip from a stranger’s water bottle.  Chatted more with Chris (Coach Debi set up our battle: “should be interesting – he’s a faster swimmer but you’re a faster runner”) and met his husband Philip.  Usual jitters magnified by having to tread water before the start (no wetsuit!  “It’s the wetsuit that protects me from drowning!”), got in second floating “row” (bolder than usual) and “Get outta here!” was the verbal starting gun.

A good swim — no self-doubts to weigh me down. Mentally paced myself (ah, the first big yellow buoy – this is only the first 15%, keep your hopes down), lots of orange sighting buoys gliding past, shot down those destructive thoughts (“boy, this is a hard pace, I don’t know if I can keep this up for 2.4. miles…” “Shmuck!  You’re not doing the Ironman today!”), focused on keeping my butt high in the water and when I engaged a “hollow back” I felt like a wave or a dolphin was pushing me forward and catching the water and feeling STRONG.  And that great feeling of not passing a few, but a LOT of guys in the orange-swim cap wave that started 5 minutes before mine (even if they included older men)…  Finished in 30:08, 1:55 per 100 yds., not my best by far, but FELT my best.  And getting mentally ready for the Ironman swim is key.

And I jog nicely to my bike (rehearsed it:  13 rows from Run In, 4 racks from the second section) and one of my best transitions in 2:38 (no wetsuit makes it easier…) and start the ride with some but not many AG guys ahead.  As a new experiment, I decide to do what Coach Debi said.  So, 5 to 7 age groupers pass me but I don’t take the bait, I keep my panting down and my RPM up to 90 (easy to do on this flat flat course) and even when I start leap frogging with Mr. White and Blue Shirt (because THIS guy I can beat), I realize I’m peaking into the 150s for my heart rate, and that’s Z4, and that’s crazy, plus to keep up those rotations in the higher gear is wearing out my legs, and I don’t know what HE’s doing next, but I have a run ahead of me.  I manage to JUST beat him on the bike — as we dismount!  Bike split:  54:31 (for a 19.5 mile course) = 21.4 mph.  Not my best, but then this is the new experiment:  do what Debi says.

Another good transition, in 2:21, and as Coach instructed, I’m only jogging not sprinting out (blue and white shirt is still changing his shoes…), and the first mile is OK and then I feel the heat. And the humility.  But I figure, this is MY race, and I can’t complain about the conditions, running is simply HARD and exhausting under any conditions and I and everyone else is slower than normal (except the demonic Kevin!  Here he comes!  There he goes!  Final time shows he did 6:25s!) but doing all as fast as I can without throwing up (unlike a 20-something guy in a USAT one-piece) and by mile 2 I’m wishing it was over, and there’s some shade and it IS beautiful and here’s the sunshine again and it IS hot and I’m slowing down by mile 4 but just keep chugging, this is MY race, I can’t fail, and I pass three age groupers!  (including Chris, but I didn’t even realize it until we met up after the race) and I am done.

And those cold showers.  OMG. Brilliant.  More showers.  OMG. That’s great.  One more time.  Oh, thank you, I don’t need a medical tent after all.

Finished the run in 47:27 (7:38 min/miles), finished the race in 2:17:05.  10/81 AG, 189/1272 OA.  Alas, missed the top 10% for my age group, so not yet qualified for Nationals this year, but this was the best I reasonably could do; the first 4 or 5 guys were just incredible, and the next 4 guys were far enough out of reach…  Did my best, felt solid, a great final stepping stone towards Mt Tremblant next month.

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 1^st or 2^nd, came in 8^th – 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?

 

So, this was my first race of the year, during which I’ve been preparing for my first Ironman, so it’s been a very full, sometimes exciting off-season of training, including more (indoor) biking and swimming than I’ve done before — but not a focus on running.  I had done this race last year, but that had been a winter of preparing for my first marathon. Still, I wanted to do a PR — I always want to do a PR! — and last year I had done 1:35 (7:21 min/mile), “inspired” by the dogged Michael Kalsar on my tail for the first 12 miles before passing me.  (He qualified for Boston a month later, and again in November.) Pre-race, saw my friend Vadim and some of his tri team buddies, and Greg (spectator dad) supporting his 16-year old running his first HM.

 

I was frankly depressed the night before, with 3-6 inches of snow predicted to fall before sunrise; should I even bother risking the injuries that come with running on snow?  Could I just “run for fun” without hoping for a PR in such conditions?  And what does “for fun” mean — is that still racing?  (“Dig deeper, Grasshopper.”  I know, I know.)

But turns out that the roads were fine, except for Mile 9 (the damn NY Life parking lot), and except for dodging puddles.  Temps were reasonable – 32 degrees, climbing to 38 degrees.  Wore tri shorts, tights, wool anklets and socks, wicking T-shirt, wicking long-sleeve, lightweight beanie and gloves.  The 20-25 minutes of warmup convinced me I didn’t need the arm warmers.

This is a mostly pretty but very hilly race, and had quite a few guys training for Boston — Mike from as far as  Princeton, and another guy from Long Island — and  two young guys visiting from Calgary (one running in hiking boots!).  So very local, with some serious ringers.

So, the route winds through downtown Sleepy Hollow (including some ugly warehouse area to make up for deleting last year’s short trail run); coming out of the village (say, miles 1 to 2) is gradual uphill, but steep at the end; miles 3 to 5 are steady uphill (the famous Sleepy Hollow Ramp that starts the serious portion of our local bike rides), with short patch of flat, and some patches of very torn up road; once you’re on the “highway” (Phelps Way, route 117) there are a few swells, but it’s net downhill from miles 5 to 8; the loop into NY Life’s parking lot is downhill, then uphill, mile 8 1/2; somewhere between 9 and 10 there’s another hill, coming out of phelps hospital; pretty flat from 10 through 12 (other than steep uphill coming out of the train station, a swell after that, and back up and to the bridge coming out of Kings Point Park); uphill from 12 to 13.  Important note from the warmup:  the sign at the bottom of the last, very steep hill says “13 miles” but they’re lying, it’s another .3 miles to the top and the finish line.

The race plan was to run in heart rate Zone 1 (131-141) for mile 1, Z2 for miles 2-3; alternatively, to run 20″ slower than my goal pace (7:20) for those first 3 miles.  In practice, I felt I would never catch up to my goal from taking those first miles so slowly; but even though I focussed on HR, miles 1 and 3 were within the planned pace (7:35s), and that uphill out of the village (8:20) would have wiped me out to go faster.

Starting at mile 3, Coach Debi said to just race, so I cranked it up and started counting the people I passed (and those who passed me). And I’m frankly amazed I have this reserve of speed and strength — training at 9:00 minute miles, and finding myself racing much faster — all that biking made different parts of my legs stronger, but still usable.

The success of this race wasn’t the result, per se, but the drive I found within me:  I had to do sub-7:20s to beat my own time from last year; I didn’t care where I placed, but those moments when I felt relaxed, that’s too slow; I’ve trained and raced enough and now feel I can push harder and go faster, and four guys running together just added up my tally that much faster (running together must slow down at least one of them, because they tacitly give each other permission to be satisfied with that pace, and I am not satisfied, I’m chasing last year’s time), and the downhill is glorious (hitting 6:56 one mile and 7:04 the next, but that’s not going to be enough).

And I’m eating shot blocks on the even miles, and then caffeine shot blocks for miles 8 and 10, and then the plan is to run as fast as I can starting at mile 10 and THIS is the thrill, it’s uphill and I’m not much faster and hitting those snowy patches has to be slowing me down so that 20-year old lanky kid whom I passed a while ago manages to pass me, but that’s okay because by the end I’m net 45 victims.

And it’s great to have permission and confidence to not worry about maintaining a reserve, that I will complete this race (obviously), but the demon that I always face is the skinny little boy who thinks he can’t survive this exhaustion, and my abdominal injury from last fall tweaks but I know that means to take shorter strides, and I can’t make up for those slower miles, but overall I’m feeling strong and able to push a little  harder and the course is a little long, and I go up up up that hill at the end and cross the blue and orange  finish line mat and I am done.

Results:   1:39:26 (7:36 min/miles).  Not the time I wanted, but good enough to come in 4/40 AG (50-54), and 92/756 OA.  Course is a little longer than 13.1 (per three different GPS watches).  And the best part is the first 10 miles were fun, steady, and satisfying.  A good building block towards the Ironman in August, and NYC Marathon in November.  It felt strong, and I enjoyed it, and that counts for a lot.

In August 2015, my wife Rachel and I received a call from the summer camp nurse: our younger son, Liam, was ill and required medical care. We took him home a week early, took him for testing at the pediatrician’s office, and upgraded to a full endoscopy, etc.  Our new specialist confirmed that he had Crohn’s.  He’d probably had symptoms for a while, but he’s a pretty stoic 14-year old and hadn’t reported any discomfort before.   His weight gain and growth had slowed down, and we were suddenly faced with finding a regimen that would bring back his appetite and avoid more debiltating episodes.

So far, we’ve been lucky: he’s responding well to intravenous meds, but he’s got a lifetime of medication and adaptation ahead of him.  The relatively good news is that a cure might be found for Crohn’s in the coming decades.

In November, I plan to run the New York City Marathon in honor of Liam by raising donations for the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation of America.  Please join me in making this race meaningful and contributing to a great cause.

Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation’s Team Challenge is a fundraising program to help find cures for Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis.  CCFA sponsors basic and clinical research of the highest quality. They also offer a wide range of educational programs for patients and health care professionals, while providing support services to help people cope with these chronic intestinal diseases. CCFA has received a 4-star rating from Charity Navigator for three consecutive years and also has the highest rating from the Better Business Bureau.

Here’s the link to the funding page: https://www.crowdrise.com/crohnscolitisnyc2015/fundraiser/markkaufman1

 

Your donation would be deeply appreciated.  Thank you!
-Mark

I was going to skip picking up registration before the race, but from where I dropped off my son to the packet pickup location,the driving distance was an auspicious 26.2 miles away.  This is not a great race for cost, swag or nutrition:   $90-100 for just  a running race, with cotton t-shirts instead of technical shirts before the race and unripe bananas after it.  I mean, come on, some bagels for the athletes?

Anyway, this  was my second time doing this Half Marathon.  Last year, i did it in 1:37, and this year I wanted to do a minute faster from my best HM in the spring – the very hilly Sleepy Hollow, in 1:36, or 7:20 min/mile.  To do 1:35 would require 7:15 minute miles. Ambitious, but plausible.

The challenge is pacing this course, not steeply hilly, but net downhill along the Bronx River Parkway for the first half from White Plains to Scarsdale, and net uphill for the second half.  So, race plan was to run the first half in z2 to low z3 (heart rate of 141-154 bpm), with the first mile at 7:36 and the rest of the race at 7:15 to 7:20 – kicking up and ignoring the heart rate for the second half, keep up the same pace despite the incline. My other, conflicting goal was to “enjoy” the race, to have fun for the first 10 miles, or at least to not be miserable for the entire 13.1 like I was last year (when i started in the third row and took my pace from capital R Runners, rather than choose my own pace). This time, I was going to run MY race, not someone else’s.

So, I started in the 6th row, and HONNNK! Watch the masters tear out ahead.  Despite  my zen attitude, did the first half of mile 1 at 6:45 (!), slowed down to finish it in 7:32, and even if my HR spiked to the high end of z3 now and then as we went up some hills on the first half (i said “net” downhill, right?), it  was surprisingly comfortable when i broke 7:12 on mile 2, 7:22 for miles 3 and 4, but 7:30ish for 5 and 6.  I was at a deficit already, but feeling good. Along that first half,  I ran with Mary Beth, a short older woman I had met last year at the same race and who was wearing the Sleepy Hollow HM shirt (kindred spirit) and we are on the exact same pace, and she says don’t let me slow you down, and I say this is actually a little too fast, I’m going to slow down, I enjoy your company but I am running MY race.

So as we round the turn to go back, I kick it up, and starting counting how many I can pass.  Tall guy in white shirt and yellow cap stays exactly a block ahead for 5 miles, and I am trying hard to go fast, faster, but these long loping hills resist and I can scarcely crack 7:40s. I look at my watch with two miles to go and I’m at 1:22, there’s no way I can do 2.1 miles in 13 or even 14 minutes, and I run as hard as I can but I can’t get the turnover, and at least I pass the tall guy in the white shirt but i cannot catch the TIME I am shooting for and there’s that annoying hairpin turn before doubling back to the finish line and I am DONE with the race, DONE with the 2014 season, Done.  Done. Done.

At 1:38:13.

Oh, well.  Not the time i wanted, a minute SLOWER than my goal, but (here’s the kicker):  i managed my second goal, to enjoy most of the race.  And maybe it was unreasonable to expect I could both run with less than everything I’ve got and still run faster.  And the excuses, it seems to me, make sense: not that the weather was tough, or my shoes were bad, or the sun got in my eyes. More like the reality that this was after a summer of five triathlons, including a 70.3; that I had been tapering for 2 weeks after my last Olympic; that I had missed my final 10-mile run because I was getting over a cold; and that in the spring, when I had trained for Quassy and ignored the oncoming cold, I had become too sick to race. So, I had made choices, not excuses, and even if the magic of adrenaline and other competitors  makes every race outcome a total surprise to me (how did I DO that?!) it’s not magic and not a surprise that I have to work hard to race faster. And I will.

Next year.
-Mark

 

 

These reports get longer and longer, but I promise, a dramatic ending.

I’ve done this race every year since I started doing tris, a half hour away on the other side of Westchester County. This wasn’t my “A” race — it couldn’t be, realistically, as it was two weeks after doing the Toughman Half, from which I had to recover, then build up, then taper.  3 years ago, my goal had been merely to survive this race, my first Olympic; but now, despite the recovery/taper thing, I wanted to nail it.  So, got there with plenty of time, and bumped into so many friends from my town and prior races – Teresa, Tom Andrews, John McDermott, Alan Golds, Drew Ahkao, Dave Bertan (guess that was after the race; he was the first to tell me, “sign up for a sprint, it’s just a sprint!”), BJ Wilson all the way from “upstate”, Vadim (on the beach before the swim); and Ken Fuirst (photos, photos, fresh from his cross-country bike trip) and Bob Gusick, both from HIGH SCHOOL – a real community event, like the kaleidoscope of a wedding where folks from different parts of your life are all together in a room.

And Drew and Ken are pumped up for me, and asking/telling me that with my season so far, I could podium, and I manage to answer, “my strategy? My strategy is not to think about the podium.  I can’t race like that.” And no blame on them, it’s terrific to get their support, but I have to admit, I’m already fantasizing  about the finish line rather than the present, and I have to get my head together.  The swim beach has a big area to the left of the starting corral for warming up right up until wave 7 is finally called, and that’s great. The water is 71 degrees or so, just on the cusp of justifying use of my full sleeve wetsuit (or “weresuit”, a nice typo; grrrrrrr!) which is faster than my sleeveless.

and there I am, chatting up friends and strangers alike, and when the announcer says for each and every wave “you’ll swim to the right of the buoy” instead of “leave the buoy to your left”, it drives me nuts.  (O! C! D!).  All the old men (50-59) corral together and I boldly go to the third row right next to Alan (who took second for his age group last year) and HONNNK, we’re off!, running into the water.

And all I want to do is get through the first 5 minutes of intensity and get past the panic and then get my groove on and I actually swallow some salt water but manage to cough it out while I swim and sight and then immediately, shamelessly, start drafting. Follow the froth, touch the feet of whoever is ahead of me, he’s too slow, grab the froth of the next guy, I am scarcely sighting for the buoys and delighted as we pass the first one on our left, then out beyond the jetty and I am breathing to the right for every stroke, when I breathe to the left I somehow start to lose Mr. Froth. I really should pass this guy rather than touching his feet EVERY stroke (every other stroke might be a better measure) and draft off someone faster, but the ease of swimming is sooo clear when I momentarily lose my “host”, I’m frankly too scared to switch, until we’re heading back towards the beach (hooray!) and my lead is pulling off to the left (maybe to get rid of me) so I jump ship like a good rat and grab another guy’s froth and I am IN and on the beach!

My watch says 26 minutes, a 1′ PR for .9 miles, but the race mat is outside of transition and clocks me at 27′ –  which is still a 2 minute PR for this course.  So, when I’m out of T1 at 29:00, I am delighted. (It helps that THIS year, I went to the right row and could find my bicycle…). The racks looked pretty full, but it’s hard to know how many guys in my age group are already way ahead of me on the bike.  The bike route winds through the town of Rye, and lots of traffic-area turns (“thank you, Officer!”), and I’m going pretty hard, some slight inclines building to mile 8 and so-called Claire’s Hill at mile 10, but it’s really not much compared to the terrain we ride on the West side of the County, what’s hard is the road itself, which is pretty good for the Connecticut portion but pretty horrendous on the New York side.

And damn!  There’s a truck on the course!  When they say not closed to traffic, they mean it! Big green monster, moseying along, and I’m doing 20+ on a flat area, and now I’m not yelling “on your left” to another cyclist but coming behind and then next to the open passenger window and yelling  “i’m passing on your right side!  Your right side!”  passing a lot of people in earlier, younger waves (which, of course, is gratifying), getting passed by some guys here and there, and not seeing anyone 50-54, but out of nowhere comes this guy in navy, with “50” on his calf, and he’s passed me as if I’m standing still, and a few minutes later I realize that was Bruce Cadenhead (who lives just up the road from me in Dobbs Ferry, and once again made the US team at the Nationals this year whereas I had a more humble result in that race) and there’s only two slots left on the podium, baby, cuz Bruce is in the house.

And I hit a bump, and dammit, my left elbow pad bracket slips (I had specifically tightened it yesterday!) and I figure that if the bracket can slip down it can slip up as well so I tug on it and…  The elbow pad bracket snaps off in my hands.  Which I stuff into my back pocket; littering can cost you a penalty, right, Coach?  It’s Mile 18. Seven more to go with compromised, sometimes painful aero position. And damn these bumpy, New York roads!  At one point, big guy with 56 on his calf yells at a guy who’s loping uphill in the left lane and tells the slowpoke to get out of MY way. Thank you, Pedro!  (i guess because we took the time to exchange names, we were both going too slow…)

Got through dismount with no problems (ugh, wait to the end of this report) and transition felt good and no stumble as I put on the racing flats and GO.  The run goes out through Rye Playland’s boardwalk, there’s Ken cheering us on again!, and I’m doing 7:15s and in the bottom of heart rate zone 3 and I don’t know if I can keep it up and aren’t some of those guys running towards me after the first turnaround in my age group?, no other old guys near me but apparently quite a few ahead of me,  Ken reminds me to pump my arms, and it’s only mile 1.

Chugging along, keeping my feet light and I’m standing tall, flat suburban streets, something like 5-7 water stops for 6 miles, grab and go for most of them but paused at mile 4 (where I was starting to feel that familiar “can we stop now, please?” And again wondering, “whom am I asking?”) to pull it together, I am pushing as hard as I can but slowing down to 7:38 and at the turnaround there are those familiar guys again, and it doesn’t matter that I’m passing collegiate athletes and guys in their 30s, the guys I want to pass are too far ahead to catch. I pull through, trying to break 7:30 min/miles, at least, and then burst through onto that last grassy 2/10th of a mile to the FINISH! LINE!

And i’ve done 45:12, or 7:18 min/mile avg, some 40 seconds faster than last year’s 45:55 (7:20).

Ultimately, I did 2:28:10, almost a 5-minute PR for this course (last year I called my 2:32:59 a “2:32”; this year it’s a “2:33″…) consisting of 2 minutes off the swim, the same bike time, almost a minute off the run – and 2 minutes off T1 (because I found my bike right away, this time…). for 8/77 AG, 46/768 OA.

I’d LIKE to sum up with how it’s taken me three days to get over my misdirected disappointment not to have ranked better in my AG, and instead to find the better bottom line: a 5-minute course PR is an achievement worthy of the endeavor, and the only thing I really can “control” or at least own and take some degree of satisfaction. I’d LIKE to finish that way, but I can’t because of the awful denouement:

After the race had finished, i’d had a massage, had some beer, saw high school friend Scott Shaefitz playing bass with band (wow!), turned on my phone to call my wife, I saw and responded to her text: “call me soon, something has happened.”  Turns out, my parents actually DID show up to cheer me on, and saw me come out of the swim, missed me coming out of T1, but at the end of the bike, Dad had crossed  the street so he could photograph me at the end of the bike and Mom stayed by the dismount area and A CYCLIST JUMPED THE CURB AND HIT MY MOTHER!  Must have gotten his cleats stuck in the pedals, or attempted a flying dismount.  And, she tells me (from the ER at the hospital!) this guy just grabbed his bike and continued with his race! Oh, my God, I am so frightened her pelvis or some other bone is shattered, she’s mumble, mumble years old and a broken bone could really change her life, and I say goodbye and shout the bad news to all the Hastings folks gathered post-race (so much for THAT photo opp) and drive too fast to the hospital and… She’s ok.  We wait awhile with Dad to get CAT scan results, and she has a severe and painful bruise on her backside, but ultimately no broken bones and no head injury.  She takes Advil instead of the prescription painkillers and is using a cane – but she proudly chalks up her doing so well to doing her daily exercises.

And it’s a shame she didn’t finish (DNF) the race, because she’d be the youngest in her age group, and had a real chance at the podium.

Timed my wake up and out of the house prep perfectly:  3:30 alarm, stretch my back and that damned right heel, “breakfast” and out the door by 4:30; arrive at 5 a.m, as transition area opens.  Time to rack bike, walk from “Swim In” to my bike ( British woman left a Union Jack shirt hanging from the end of the rack before mine) and from “Bike In” to my running shoes. Chatted with my age groupers, and I am relaxed for a change, I’ve actually done almost all the training I planned, and I feel ready for my second “A” race of the year.

The swimmers wait for wave 2 (with two other, younger age groups!) and we line up on the beach on the Hudson in a bay formed by the Croton peninsula.  With more confidence in my swimming this year, lined up in 2nd row at the end near the line of buoys stretching out towards a small sailboat (we had expected something more impressive, like a full schooner, perhaps).  30 second warning and then GO!

Starts very shallow, run a few yards in soft mud, and the mosh pit begins, but I am managing to get a groove early on and at cousin Rob’s suggestion I latch onto the draft of a guy who seems to be my pace, and I know it must be annoying, but I stay close to the froth from his kick and touch his feet practically every other stroke, and he speeds up a little, and I hang onto his pace for dear life because it IS easier, and I don’t know what he looks like  but I know that the ball of his right foot has a rough callous.  And everything is GREAT, i am humming along and achieving my first goal of the race (getting into my groove and not worrying that my arms are aching and actually enjoying the swim) and we’re at the first and virtually only turn in the course when i suddenly realize that…

My chip has fallen off. And this is the Hudson. And I am not going to find it.

So I stop and shout to a kayaker that I’ve lost my chip (bring duct tape next time!) and he says to tell someone when I get to shore (read: not his problem). Well, the guy I was  drafting has turned the buoy and is gone, baby, gone, probably quite happy to be rid of me, and I am suddenly faced with a Big Realization: this really is My Race, and I will simply do the best I can, because without that tracking chip I may not get any credit for completing it! “I am racing, it makes me stronger.”  So I dive on, see that even though we were supposed to leave the buoys to the left, NO ONE is going all the way over there, they’re just heading for the finish line in a rough corridor  between two sets of buoys and eventually my straight line crosses over the line of buoys leaving them to my left and (as advertised) I suddenly have a CURRENT carrying me forward, and even though other people complain post-race that the current was against them, I feel with every stroke as if I’m borne up by a phalanx of dolphins nudging me along.  And I get to shore!  39 minutes for 1.25 miles (others report it’s 1.45 miles), so i can’t compare it to last year’s 24 minutes for 0.9 miles. (Measuring this course seems to be a perennial problem…)

I get out and shout that I’ve lost my chip, I’ve lost my chip (so much for the placid, Zen approach to triathlons…) and a volunteer says, take this new chip!, they had planned for this problem,  and I tell her my old number and she takes note of it and I cross over the transition mat and it gives a reassuring BEEP and I  am back in the race!  (I later realize they HAD to account for me, or they’d have to search for the body of no. 217 who never came out of the water…)

I am so wacked out by this turn of events that I forget to count the racks to my bike but, God bless the Queen, there’s the Union Jack shirt, and I see my black and red Cervelo and my blue inside-out Vortex wetsuit and start to change and realize, wait, I’m still wearing a wetsuit.

That’s not my bike.

So i run a few feet more, find my bike, swap goggles for glasses, strip the wetsuit (so easy with the sleeveless) put on socks and bike shoes (standing up, no more of this dizzy and sit down stuff) and where’s the chip!  That strip of foam they gave me?!! OMG, they can scarcely give me a second one and then…  duh, I dropped it by the other guy’s bike, and there it is, I am golden again. T1 in “only” 3:41.

The bike is on two lanes of route 9A’s rolling highway, closed to traffic, south then north for roughly 2 1/2 loops. On the one hand I am much more mentally prepared for how LONG 56 miles is, but I had forgotten how many hills there were, 3000 feet in elevation changes, but coach Debi and I have a plan, and I stick to it: z2 heart rate (keep it to 141 bpm and under) and if I stick to the pace I will survive the run. But there are a LOT of 50-54 year old guys passing me, 4 or 5 of ’em, and putting aside that Zen stuff, I want that podium.  So Mr. Gray Helmet and I leapfrog 3-4 times, and he says, you look familiar as he passes, and I say, we’re keeping each other honest as I pass, and… That’s the last I see him.  And no. 221 leapfrogs with me, and I get out of the saddle to stretch my hips and incidentally go faster (though I’m in conservative gears, shooting for 90 rpm and averaging 80) and no. 221 is dropped. And no. 197 Glenn (he’s wearing his running tag) leap frogs with me over longer sets of miles, maybe he’s pacing off me, well, this is MY race, I will not go faster than planned, and Mr. Green is coming in from a port a potty!, he must have KILLED the swim to have gotten such a lead on the bike, and I tell him so as he passes me. but he squandered it taking a leak, and even though he shoots WAY ahead i somehow eventually catch him.

It’s like this:  by the time I turn at mile 40 (worrying that I should have taken that bottle swap earlier cuz I am running dry after my two bottles) I am sometimes in heart rate zone 1 and when I really tuck down in my aero helmet with my face next to the straw on my sippy cup I don’t feel the wind (that everyone complained about after the race) and I am a bullet and my legs are soooo strong and it hurts and I pass everyone, 197 Glenn and Mr. Green and who else is there ahead of me? and I slow down at the narrow winding bike path entrance back into the park (where I almost fell last year) and i am in transition, 2:52

(19.5 mph), WELL under last year’s 3:02, and I am the FIRST bike back on our rack!

OMG, I am in first place. There was no one else who stole a long swim lead. It was only those 4-5 guys. And I waste some energy yelping, “Whoooooo!”

Twice.

But I am not going to survive a half marathon by thinking about the podium, and Mr. Green is getting off his bike as I run out so HE’s on my tail, and his wife says “you’re almost done” and y’know I don’t think she understands and I don’t think he believes her and I never see him again.  But I am racing, and it makes my stronger, and my feet are light, my neck is tall, my elbows are going and I am keeping that heart rate to zone 2 (141-151) for 4 miles, 7:40 for the first mile, slowing down to 8:10 then 8:40 at the slight ascent on miles 3-4 and then… I realize that my HR is good, going  up miles 6-7 in the shade and some dirt and gravel is fine, and the high school cheerleaders are sweet and the focus is on MY race and I manage to smile or at least give a thumbs up for the big photo in front of Croton Dam. But frankly I don’t have the turnover, whether it’s uphill or flat or downhill I cannot get my legs to go faster the bike was too punishing on my quads. And at Mile 8 I ask whether I can stop now, please. And at mile 9-10 it’s another hill and around then comes 197 Glenn, and he is TALL and flows by easy and all I can do is hope Mr. Green doesn’t catch up because I. Can. Not.  Go faster.  Tom Andrews from our Hastings team says looking good just before Glenn calmly goes so far ahead that he either has a 5-10 minute lead or maybe, maybe, he stopped at the port a potty? And yes it’s downhill and I am just trying to stay in it without caving into the temptation to walk. To rest. And the last mile is soooooooooo lonnnnnnng and bright sun on the concrete road, too bright, everything hurts, the finish line seems impossibly far away and I get there and cross it and the run is 1:53:05 (2 minute PR for this race), an 8:38 per mile pace, and it’s 5:29:29 total.

And.  I. Am. Finished.

And…. SECOND PLACE for my age group!  In a race where last year, I just wanted to close the gap between 5th and 3rd place (20 minutes away!). 51/406 OA. Scratching the swim, a 12 minute PR.  And with 2/21 AG (top 10%), I am qualified to go to the 70.3 Nationals.

And the best part: up until Mile 8, I actually enjoyed most of it. It’s the first Tri that i’ve actually stayed present and focussed and digging into MY race for all three legs.  The podium is icing on the cake (even if Coach Debi wants us to avoid sugar!).  I raced. It made my stronger.  That’s all I wanted.

And I’ve never been faster.