Holy hard triathlon, Batman.

I’m not sure where to start on this one, save to say that it kicked my ass.

Six a.m. came early, as it always does in my world…and it felt earlier, considering that I had gotten back from Milwaukee at midnight the night before, where I attended a ridiculously fun/fancy gala with Chief of Stuff at the Calatrava museum there, fueled by sushi, lobster, great wine, a “designer” dessert plate, and sake.

Not exactly the makings of an ideal pre-race meal, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

In any case, finding the race location — Governor Nelson State Park on the shores of Madison’s Lake Mendota — was uneventful (likely because it was CoS and not I who was doing the navigating), as was setting up transition.

And that’s pretty much where the uneventfulness ended.

By the time I had gotten myself stuffed into my wetsuit (how quickly one forgets how strange a feeling it is to be that tightly packed into neoprene) and watched a few sprint wave starts from GNSPs fantastic beach, I was already dripping with sweat. (This, my friends, was a welcome feeling, considering my nightmares of late about this race where I was swimming alongside ice caps.)

It was, for all practical purposes, a beautiful morning. In fact, the sun was shining so brightly, right at the beach, that I couldn’t seem to pick out much of the swim course. But a helpful volunteer/race coordinator patiently helped me eyeball the route.

“I’ve seen you race before,” he said. “You’ll do great.”

I figured he either a) had me completely mixed-up with someone else, or b) was perhaps an Endurance House (the store organizing the race) guy. Because I pretty much lived at EH last year. But he looked familiar to me, too. I just couldn’t place him. Later, I found out he was none other than Simply Stu, whom I had met the morning of Ironman and one of the all-out nicest people.

CoS and I chatted with Jen for a bit, who said she had ridden the bike course and it was mostly flat. I was looking forward to flat. Not because I don’t like hills…in fact, quite the opposite. I’d rather climb all day than push myself on the flats. I think they’re harder because there’s no reprieve. But I’ve been training lately to be able to push a high cadence over a long period of time — something I didn’t to at all last year — and wanted to test things out.

I then excused myself in time to see Robby B emerge from the water on the Sprint course — FIRST! (Which is, as it turns out, exactly the place he’d garner in his age group at the end of the race. Huge kudos for that!)

Finally, it was time to gather to start the swim. Xt4 and I awaited our wave start together on the beach. He warned me about the cool water temps, which didn’t feel so bad on just my feet but were apparently a great deal colder on one’s face. And I lamented the difficulty of pacing the Olympic-distance swim, since it was almost as far as a 1/2 Iron, but it was an Oly, so you were supposed to be going fast. We talked about how we were each planning on approaching it. We were both planning on just taking it easy, letting the race come to us, come what may. It was, after all, the very first open water swim for us both, and for me, the first swim in more than a week.

(Let me just interject how cool it was for me, this weekend — and lately in general — to feel like part of a community…to race alongside friends and others I’d met instead of standing in transition or on the beach, totally alone. Last year was about character-building, and the racing alone, knowing no one and having no support crew present, surely did that. But this year? So far, it’s just plain been FUN. Ok, we now return to our originally-scheduled programming).

Little did I know that “come what may” was going to damn near feel like drowning.

The Swim

The siren went off, and I, near the middle of the back third of my wave start, followed the lead of the first half of the wave and waded out in the shallow water. And waded. And waded. And waded some more. I would try to swim, but people in front of me were still wading. So I would then stand and wade some more. Seriously, buy the time it actually got deep enough to swim, I was thankful to give my then-burning calves and shins a break.

The water, though, was cold enough to suck my breath from my chest, just like Xt4 had said. I couldn’t find a rhythm, and I was gasping.

Just relax, I told myself. This always happens, and then it gets better. Always. Relax, sink into the water. Relax. Long arms. Strong arms. Breathe evenly.

Stroke. GASP. Stroke. GASP. Stroke. GASP.

And then, suddenly, as we swam out past the breakwall, the angry swells of the lake complicated matters.

It was such a beautiful day that I didn’t anticipate the water to behave like it did. But perhaps the crazy wind of the previous day and the sheer size of Lake Mendota should’ve tipped me off. Regardless, I didn’t anticipate it, and for the first time ever in the water, found myself panicking — eying up the kayak floating just ahead in case I needed it.

Around the first turn bouy, my only thought was, “Holy mother of Mary is that a long ways. I don’t know if I can do this.”

Seriously. How many two-mile pool swims did I do last year? How about feeling great during the 2.4 open water race in what I thought were the most awful conditions I had ever encountered? And oh yeah, there was also that Ironman-swim with about 2,000 other people all crammed into the same space that I didn’t seem to mind one bit either. I’m not terribly fast in the water, but I’m always, always comfortable. Never once in all my life can I ever remember thinking, oh-oh. But Saturday, I did. And it sucked.

I kept getting smacked in the side of the head by huge rollers, or I would attempt to breathe and take in a mouthful of water. Then I’d do a few strokes and repeat. Smack. Inhale water. Smack. Inhale. Siting was nearly impossible. I’d pick out a boat, and then lose it. The buoy, and lose it. In the end, I just tried keeping a majority of orange caps in front of me. Smack. Inhale. Smack. Inhale.

Again, and again.

I would stop then, choke a bit, and look back to make sure that I was not the last person out there. Which, I started to firmly believed I was after the 5th or 6th choking fit. But I’d see an orange cap or two bobbing about, and continue on, repeating the cycle.

I kept telling myself to just get around the next buoy (the course was triangular) and that the rollers would be pushing me toward shore. Imagine my total surprise then, to find that that didn’t happen at all. In fact, I felt like I was swimming in place.

Finally, I was able to relax just a bit, turn the last buoy, and fine somewhat of a rhythm. Finally, I felt like my old self. But by that time, I was spent.

As soon as I saw others near me standing to wade toward shore, I did too. I waded almost as far back in as I had out at the start. But I didn’t care. I felt sick, and beat up, and like I could barely stagger in, much less swim. 1500 meters in just under 40 minutes. Good lord.

Swim: 39:53

T1: 2:35

The Bike

I fretted about this — the wisdom of tackling an oly for my first race of the season — as I set out on the bike. Was I that out of shape to have such a hard time on the swim? Really? I mean, my training hasn’t been what it was last year, but that’s to be expected, as last year the goal was Ironman.

But my fretting was cut short by a cop, who was to be directing traffic, stopping me at the intersection TO LET CARS THROUGH. Still delirious from the swim, I couldn’t quite grasp what the hell he was doing. But as more and more bikers piled up behind me, FOR ALMOST THREE MINUTES, the heckling of the cop intensified.

“We have a big traffic backup up here,” he explained. “I need to get these cars through, and then you all can continue on.”

Seriously. WTF?!

At a certain point, line of cars still not dissipated and the rankling of the cyclists piling up behind me intensifying, I think the cop feared for his life and let us all continue through.

The rest of the bike went well. Except for dropping a chain halfway up the steepest climb on the course. Not having amassed enough speed in the first place, I hopped off just before I tumbled over. And then realized that I would have to walk it the rest of the way up the hill.

I’m not sure what experts tend to do when this happens, but I didn’t feel like I had any other choice. There were no driveways to turn into and get some momentum and clipped back in, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to go down and start over. So there was I, walking it up the first real hill of my first race in the season, not encouraged in the least by the guy who breezed past me telling me that I was “hanging in there” and “was tough enough to do this” and “good for me.”

Dude, thanks, but I just dropped a chain. I could handle this little hill. Promise. Arrrgh.

And then, on the way back to camp, on the other side of the very same hill, same damn thing. Same chain-droppage and same walking and same yelling of encouragement. Shoot me.

But the bike overall, save for the wind gusts that relegated me to my drop bars as opposed to my aerobars for most of the flat out-and-back stretch (two such gusts were so strong that I honestly thought I was going over), went well. I kept my HR in the lower end of zone 4 with a steady, high cadence, save for the several hills (I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with Jen’s assessment of “flat” for this course, although it was a really fun route), and felt good doing it, like I could have easily continued on and doubled the distance — especially seeing CoS and his parents pop up here and there along the way (a definite boost!).

I cruised into T2 feeling good. I likely could’ve pushed a little harder on the bike, but I knew there were hills on the run, and it was hella hot, and I might need my legs a bit later on.

In retrospect, I should’ve pushed it harder. More on that later. But really, fresh-ish legs or no, that run was not to be.

Bike: 1:46

T2: 2:09

The Run

That is because 1) by the time I started the run, it was a gazillion degrees with a heat index of 90 and 90-percent humidity, 2) the killer crosswind from the bike course was nowhere to be found, and 3) the run was 6-miles of trail running up hills that one might otherwise wish for a climbing rope and carabiner for.

I was really looking forward to this run. I love the 5-6 mile distance, and I hadn’t run a lick (except to do a brick workout here or there) since the Madison half-mary. I was re-energized. I was jazzed. I was ready.

But it turned out to not be a trail run so much as a cross-country run through fields of grass. And hills. With no wind. And more hills. (CoS would later tell me that there were two “scenic lookouts” on the map, and that that’s never a good thing to see on your run course. Hiking, yes. Running, not so much.)

This, as it were, might have been fun had it not been a race. As it was, I couldn’t find a rhythm. I’d start running, face a hill, plod up, and then eventually have to walk.

And that was before my HR started to do some crazy stuff. Like continue to climb even though I was barely exerting myself. I felt like I could’ve been knocking out 9-minute miles (sans hills), but I knew I was on the verge of overheating — goosebumps on arms, feeling woozy — even though I was taking in water or Heed at every stop, and taking an extra cup of water to pour over myself.

The second part of the race went better though. There was a bit of shade and not as many steep inclines. But toward the end — the last 1.5 miles or so — I found myself walking at even the slightest bit of discomfort. Almost before I even realized it, suddenly I would be walking.

I’m still trying to figure out why this happened. Was it because everyone — and I mean everyone — around me was walking (I honestly have never seen so many people run-walk a triathlon)? Was it because I had somewhere along the way, unintentionally, chalked this race up to a really good training day? Because I was scared to push it, even a little? Because I felt, yet again, like the last person out on the course? All of these things combined?

I ran past the finish chute, where I saw CoS, Xt4, Jen, and her husband, Shane. They all said there was only a mile left. A mile out into the prairie and back in. Ugh. I ran most of it, but at the first thought of, “This seems a hell of a lot longer than a mile,” I slowed to a walk. I hate to say it, but I was bored out there and whatever competitive spark I had earlier had up and left. I was having trouble with motivation — everyone I knew had already finished, there was no one on my heels, I was walking fast enough to catch the two people just in front of me, and this “mile” seemed never ending.

But, I wanted to be done already, and repeating the ‘ol mantra (told to me by CoS’s wise father), “You can do anything for a mile,” I started running again.

I saw Thomps leaving with his family, waved to him, and congratulated him on his race, and just continued to jog it in.

Run: 1:13:43. (Sheesh. A full 16 minutes slower than I ran the 6 miles of the Oshkosh Oly last summer — the day after the Dairyland Dare. *hangs head in shame*)

Random Thoughts…

  • Not until I was gathering my things in transition, talking with Xt4 and others around me, did I realize that the conditions were actually tough out there — it wasn’t just me, and it didn’t necessarily mean that I was undertrained for this race.
  • That said, the conditions were tough for everyone. I need to work on some mental toughness, some sticktuitiveness. Plainly put, I need to suck it up.
  • And I need to spend some time thinking about my motivation and goals in this whole game. The thing is, despite the long workouts and races of last year, they were easier in a sense, because the goal was to just get them in. Do the mileage. Put in the hours. Deposit money in the bank. Survive. This year, it’s different. It’s about racing, or at least, it should be. But I haven’t been able to make the mental jump from getting the time in to pushing yourself past where it hurts, and then some. I intend to — the Madison half-mary, this weekend — and then things go slightly awry, and I fizzle. I revert back to, “Just get to the other side.” I let myself slow up. I let people pass me. I let myself not care. And I don’t like it. But I’m still really unsure as to how to fix it.
  • And one last note to all you guys out there who have been wearing the same, worn-out bike shorts for years on end because they’re your favorites — please STOP. Right now, step away from your computers and run to the nearest bike store and please-for-the-love-of-all-things-holy, buy a new pair…ones that don’t reveal to every person you pass precisely what your ass looks like under there because there is only a thin, gauzy, worn-out, totally-transparent bit of lycra between your back end and everyone behind you. (And I say guys only because that is the gender that happened to be repeatedly violating this little bit of decorum…and mine eyes…during the course of the bike.) Thanks in advance.
  • Oh, and despite the tone of this race report, I actually did have fun out there. The bike course was great, and the run course, although not what I expected or really was in the mood for that day, was nothing if not a challenge. In fact, I think I found the perfect training grounds for some tempo and hill runs between now and the Marine Corps Marathon in October…