Swim, Bike, Run…Have Fun!
70.3 — Take 2
Last September I did what would have been inconceivable 2 years earlier. Or even 20 years earlier. I completed a half ironman in Santa Cruz. Not inconceivable because of the endurance required — I think most people can do it with some training. But because of my fragile mess of a body. Terrible knees. Torn muscles in my calves and quads. A severely herniated disk in my back.
Oh, and not knowing how to swim.
How I eventually overcame these injuries and learned to run again is a story yet to be written. Some day. (Update: here it is) But my swim struggles are a story told and retold in every triathlon recap I’ve ever written. It’s a simple 9-step swim process I developed specifically for triathlons:
- Panic
- Flip to backstroke
- Self-hate
- Gulp seawater
- Panic more
- Flail and thrash
- Exit the water way behind
- Kill myself trying to make up time on the bike and run
- Vow to do better next time
True to form, I promised myself that this time would be different.
Ironman 70.3 Santa Rosa — aka “Vineman” — would be in Lake Sonoma. Theoretically, warmer and calmer that the rough ocean swims that have stymied me time and again. Theoretically, the rolling start will group swimmers by ability rather than age. Theoretically, it should be a good swim for me to break the cycle of pain and failure. Theoretically.
I get to Santa Rosa around noon the day before the race. It’s a split-transition event, meaning I have to prepare two transition areas. Which means extra logistics. And planning. Planning stresses me out.
After checking in, I put together my run bag that needs to include everything I want for the bike-to-run transition (T2). It should be simple (shoes, bib, visor), but I’m running through everything in my mind a thousand times. I won’t have access to it again before the race, so if I forget something critical, well, I’m screwed.
T2 is a long straight set of racks. My spot is at the very end, right by the run exit. This will make it easy to find, but means I’ll need to dismount and run my bike for 1/4 mile. In either bare feet or bike shoes. Dodging other athletes. So that’ll be fun.
I spent way too much time figuring out the best way to hang my run bag. I want it to be easy to grab and open, but not so easy that the strong wind could knock my bag open and onto the ground. After several failed experiments, I decide to tie it tight. I’ll just rip it open to get my stuff.
As I bid farewell to my run gear, I jump back in the car and head north to Lake Sonoma to the swim-to-bike transition (T1). I arrive around 2pm and after marveling at the view, head out for a quick ride. There’s a steep descent I want to familiarize myself with. But, of course, what goes down must come up. So my 5 mile “easy” ride includes a mile with 400 feet of climbing. Not optimal 16 hours before the race.
After checking in my bike, I head down to the lake to scope out the swim. I’d planned to maybe do a practice swim, but wimped out. The water was cold. And rough. So rough, in fact, that they altered the swim course to utilize a more protected area of the lake. The “panic” step of my patented 9-step process was kicking in early.
Tail between my legs, I did a quick practice run from the swim exit to T1. 1/3 of a mile with 100 feet of climbing — tons of fun after a 1.2 mile swim. But at least it’ll help me get warm.
As I’m leaving T1 and heading back to my car, I spot this not-at-all encouraging sign:
No pressure.
Rather than take the direct route back to Santa Rosa (about 30 miles, mostly freeway), I decide to drive the bike course (56 miles, obviously not freeway). Driving the course isn’t the same as riding, but at least lets you get a feel. Are there sharp turns? Potholes? False plateaus? Beaver damns? Basically, you’re on the lookout for anything that might trip you up during the race.
I did my best to follow the provided turn-by-turn directions (maybe a gpx file next time, eh Ironman?), but of course kept getting lost, and my phone was too weak to get a GPS signal. Somehow I found my way back to Santa Rosa and another 2 hours in the car (5 hours total so far today).
I dump my gear at the hotel (or maybe motel? Pretty dinky) and head out to meet my friend and fellow racer Rishi for dinner. We’re both famished and we overdue the whole “carb loading” thing. A pizza to split, plus garlic knots to start and giant bowl of spaghetti with meat to finish. And a beer of course. Because, you know, carbs.
I’m nauseous heading back to the hotel, and by the time I’m in bed around 9pm, I’m running a fever. Food poisoning? Flu? Maybe some sleep will do me good. As usual, I lay wide awake in the dark for a couple hours before drifting off to sleep sometime close to midnight.
The alarm was set for 3:45am (and 3:55. And 4:05. Just in case). But I’m awake at 3:30 and out of bed shortly after. Four hours of on-and-off sleep. Which is actually not that uncommon when you have three kids under the age of six. So I’m tired, but not exhausted. No more than usual anyway. And my fever is gone. Let’s do this!
I drive downtown and luck into a parking spot in a nearby lot. The machine won’t take my money (or anyone else’s) and I even try to pay online. Apparently it’s too early to pay for parking:
No time to find another spot, so I’ll just have to risk the ticket.
I head to the transition area to catch a “shuttle” to the swim start. Nothing like an hour packed into a rented school bus at 4:15am to wake you up.
We arrive at T1 around 5:15am — plenty of time to set up and get ready before transition closes at 6am. Except…there are roughly 2,750 athletes here (plus volunteers) and only about 30 port-a-potties near T1. Normally I have to, uh, vacate my bowels at least 3 times the morning of (read more about that here, if you into that sort of thing). So far today — zero. I tried earlier, but nothing. I still don’t “have to” go, but I definitely need to go. Carrying the excess around would be, lets just say, suboptimal.
After a semi-successful port-a-potty trip (you didn’t really want more detail, right?), I rush back to get wetsuited up. I’m in such a rush that I completely forget to eat the gel I’d set aside. I guess my 3:45am bowl of cheerios will have to suffice.
The swim entrance is bustling. Usually, folks are spread out all across the beach waiting for their wave to enter the water. Here, we’re wedged into a narrow path (maybe 20 feet wide?) so I’m at least 100 feet back from the water. This is actually calming. Since I’m near the back I won’t have people swimming over me and causing general chaos.
They blow the horn at 6:25am, and the first age-groupers are off (the pro men and pro women started at 6:10 and 6:15 respectively). At first I’m content to wait. But as the minutes tick by, I get anxious. The pros start to exit shortly after 6:30. The first age groupers are out by 6:50. And still I wait. Inching closer to the water, but slowly. It’s not until just after 7am that I’m finally in the water. And so 35 minutes after the race begins…I’m off!
The swim starts typically enough. I freestyle for a bit, start getting hemmed in and struggle to find space/serenity/breath/courage. I start to panic (step 1) and flip to my back (ugh, step 2) and the self-hate begins (step 3). Water crashes over my face (step 4) and I panic more (step 5). Oh wait, this is lake water. aka not salt water. So it doesn’t burn. I decide that I’m going to enjoy this swim. However it goes, I’m determined to relax and enjoy it.
I backstroke a few hundred yards until I reach the first turn. A few more waves to the face (hydration!), but no panic. At the turn, I flip to frontcrawl and see that the water isn’t too crowded. I settle into a nice rhythm and, low and behold, I’m swimming!
I get into a great groove. My breathing is even and relaxed. Comfortable. It feels like laps in a pool (but less boring). I encounter other swimmers, and even get pinned in a few times. But it doesn’t phase me. I actually start seeking out tight areas, to test my resiliency. I swallowed some water and got kicked a few times, but wasn’t rattled. I’m swimming!
I wanted the swim to end, because it’s a race. But I didn’t want the swim to end, because I couldn’t believe I was actually swimming. I’ve escaped Alcatraz, looped all the way around the pier at Santa Cruz, and done thousands of laps in the pool. But never really felt like a swimmer. Until now.
I exited the water in 40 minutes and 47 seconds, which was actually a letdown. My Santa Cruz time was ~44 minutes, and this felt so much faster. But this was apparently a tougher swim. My time at Santa Cruz put me in the bottom 25% of my age group. In Santa Rosa? 116 out of 246 finishers. Top half! Top half! I’m an above average swimmer! And it only took me 7 races and 100,000+ yards of pool swimming practice to get there!
I start running up the hill towards T1, stopping briefly to slip on some old running shoes I’d left near the exit (worth it). 4 minutes to get into T1, plus another couple minutes to strip off my wetsuit, get bike stuff together, and shove everything into my T1 bag. (Anything that doesn’t make it into this T1 bag won’t make it back to Ironman village).
I tie the bag closed and realize I forgot to put in my extra bike bottle. It took far too long to shove it into the bag without ripping it or untying. The lesson — make sure everything is in your bag before you close it.
Before exiting, I make a quick trip to the port-a-potties. At Santa Cruz, I peed while riding, which is harder than it sounds (and kinda gross). Better to just go quickly(ish) before I start. Probably a 2 minute detour. Total T1 time was just under 10 minutes, which is about average. But it’s 3–6 minutes slower than the leaders — no small amount.
I’m cold as I head out on the bike, but feel great. I’m energized from my swim (top half! top half!) and enjoying the view of the lake (still with swimmers) below. After a short climb, I barrel down the 400 foot decent. I’m not particularly fast or skilled going downhill, but was a fun way to start.
The next 50+ miles wind through wineries and small towns. The views are great, but the roads are not. Lots of potholes and rough pavement, so you have to stay focused. On the plus side, the wind was strong and mostly at our backs. There was a few hundred feet of climbing to slow me down from mile 5–7, but otherwise I was consistently riding well above 20mph. And without too much effort. As usual I’m passing tons of people because, as usual, I was very late getting out of the water (remember — I started 35 minutes after the initial horn).
I hit the 1/4 mark (14 miles) in 39 minutes and the halfway point at 1 hour 16 minutes. I originally figured on a bike time between 2:45 and 3 hours. But now, 2:30 might be in play. Especially with no big climbs left, my accelerating pace, and my legs feeling great.
I hit 42 miles just after 1:54. I’d have to do the last 14 miles at over 23mph to finish under 2:30. Unless I get some serious, serious wind aid, it’s probably not going to happen.
It didn’t happen. The wind was mixed, and my legs were wearing down. I backed off a bit to preserve my legs for the run and finished with a bike split of 2:36:39, good for 43rd out of 246 in my AG— top 20%. By comparison, I was right at 50th percentile at Santa Cruz. So no complaints at all!
Approaching T2, I decided to leave my shoes clipped to the pedals and run transition in my socks. Great decision. The 1/4 run to my rack would have been brutal in bike shoes. I rip my bag open, grab my shoes, visor and race belt and was out the exit in 2:40, faster than about 1/2 the top 10 in my age group. Again, nothing to complain about here.
The run starts great. I’m trying to go easy, remembering how I bonked at Santa Cruz.
Mile 1: 6:41
Slow down!
Mile 2: 6:42
Seriously! Slow down!
Mile 3: 7:01
Hmm…maybe I can keep this up. If I run 7 minute miles, I can finish the run close to 1:30. If I did that, I might be able to finish this whole race in less than 5 hours! That would be 30 minutes faster than Santa Cruz!! And might put me in the top 10% for my age group!!! Let’s do it!!!!
Mile 4: 7:00
OK, I’m still not really tired. But…my stomach hurts. Not cramps, but just feels full. Sloshy. I didn’t drink a ton on the bike (maybe 25 ounces) and have no desire to eat or drink anything. Maybe too much lake water? Maybe last night’s dinner? Regardless, a bad sign.
Mile 5: 7:11
I’m working harder but going slower. I’m forcing myself to drink a bit of water, but it’s a struggle. And my stomach is getting antsy. Pretty sure I’m going to have to stop.
Yup, definitely have to stop. I jump into a port-a-potty, and as I’m stripping off my suit I hear “Joe! Joe!” I don’t think much of it, because people are always yelling names and there are lots of Joes. Then “Joe Godfrey!”
Me: “Rishi?”
Rishi (in the port-a-potty next to me): “Yeah!”
Me: “Are you taking a shit?”
Rishi: “Nope, just have to piss”
Me: “I guess I’ll see you in a while then”
Yadda yadda yadda, I’m out the door a couple minutes later and back on the trail.
Mile 6 (including poop stop): 8:53
My stomach feels better, but I’m still weak and struggling to take fluids. My body just doesn’t feel right. Sub-5 hours is officially out of play.
I see Rishi lumbering along and give him a pat on the back. I feign enthusiasm:
Me: “How’re you holding up?”
Rishi: “Terrible.”
Me: “Well, we’re almost halfway there!”
Mile 7: 7:06
Atta boy! way to recover! Stay strong!
Until…not. I start to falter again and realize that I definitely cannot keep up this pace. I’ve tried my fake flat coke trick, except on this course the fake coke isn’t flat. The carbonation is messing with my already delicate stomach, and I’m not sure if it’s a net positive or negative. But it’s definitely better than trying to stomach a gel. I walk up to the aid station, stop to grab some coke and banana, and then trundle on.
Mile 8: 8:01
The trend is not encouraging. Cruelly, the 8 mile mark is right near the finish, but then you loop back out into the course. Running away from your end goal when your exhausted is a special kind of torture.
Mile 9: 7:43
Mile 10: 7:29
Two pretty solid miles, all things considered. But I’m really struggling now. I’m allowing myself brief (~10 second) walks through each aid station. That’s my salvation. I’m cheery with the volunteers, noting that “I’m doing great!”, hoping I can talk myself into believing it.
Mile 11: 7:40
Mile 12: 7:41
With about 1/2 mile to go, normally I’d be reaching down deep, finding that extra gear to finish strong. Instead, every fiber of my being desperately wants to stop and walk. It was a constant fight to run one more step. I’ve never in my life wanted to stop running and rest so badly. Ever.
I somehow power through and accelerate a bit down the homestretch, crossing the line with a run split of 1:36:31 (7:22 pace), 17th place in my age group. Pretty good for being severely dehydrated.
My overall time was 5:06:20 seconds, placing me 33rd out of 246 in my age group. And a really solid 24 minute improvement over Santa Cruz.
As usual, my relative strength was the run and my weakness the swim. But it was nice to flip the script a bit. Without question the highlight for me was swimming freestyle (top half! top half!) and the lowlight was struggling through the run (stopping to poop = not a fun run). So of course, my next event is a full marathon. Doubling down — literally — to 26.2 miles. I have almost 4 weeks to train, so what could go wrong?
You can see a find a full list of race recaps here (if you’re into that sort of thing): Joe’s race recaps
