It’s been a few years, let’s see if I still remember how to write one of these. If I recall correctly, I think I’m supposed to stream of conscious for an inexcusable number of words, offering the reading public (hi mom!) entirely too much information about everything from my pre-race BM(s) to my least charitable thoughts (toward myself and others). Here we go.

Or here we add context, and to the word count, before going.

In November of 2022 I had surgery on my left hip to repair the labrum and correct an impingement. Recovering from that slicing and dicing in the last year of my 30s proved slow and anything but linear. During the summer of 2023 I signed up for the Colonial Beach sprint 24 hours before the race, only to discover it was jellyfish city so I switched to the duathlon given my bad reactions to anything stingy. Seeing volunteers handing out ointments to all the groaning welt-covered swimmers at the awards ceremony that day, I know I made the right choice. But it did turn out to be my only chance to swimbikerun that summer and so, while I did manage to multisport, I didn’t manage to triathlon the season after surgery.

I also didn’t manage to write a race report for my first ever duathlon, though apparently I tried. Logging onto this site for the first time in a long time I discovered a few halfassed paragraphs about Colonial Beach – all about the lead up to the race and nothing about the race itself. Never not giving the people (my mom) what they (she) want(s).

That unnecessarily long wind up is just to say, as we rolled into spring of 2024, I realized I was 18 months post-op and had yet to return to the sport I love so much I’ve devoted millions of thousands of hours and words to its doing and telling. I wanted to fix that.

And then I broke my toe in April and was off running until the end of July and half the season was gone. And then we were in Canada and on the road for most of August and even more of the season had slipped away, un-tri’ed.

So when my dear postpartum friend Ashley suggested Giant Acorn sprint as our grand return to the sport post baby and surgery (her thing is better) I was game. I even convinced the sometimes-star of this blog, Owensies, to join us. And then Ashley got COVID and so it was just Owensies and I. Both of us years older and heavier and out-of-shaper than the last time we’d done this stupid sport together. That really took the pressure off.

Giant Acorn is one of several races that take place at Lake Anna in Spotsylvania, VA. It’s an easy 90ish minute drive (at least at 4am) from DC. The swim is pleasant – though there was admittedly some brain-munching bacteria taking kids out earlier in the summer – and the bike and run are both a bit hilly but pretty and fun. I love a localish lowkey race day.

I managed a responsible 9:30pm bedtime on Saturday night and was up at 3:30 Sunday morning. Ok I may have hit snooze once while Scott actually roused himself from the bed before me. I was decently efficient in dressing, breakfasting, and getting out the door with (almost) all my gear by 4:40am. (And even for a sprint wow is there a lot of gear.)

After years away I definitely questioned whether I was forgetting anything and why I did this sport in the first place, but I managed to bring everything I actually needed. I was nervous but my stomach was disconcertingly quiet, maybe just out of practice. I knew my guts would awaken somewhere out on I-95, with plenty of time to churn and torture me most of the way to Lake Anna State Park.

Sure enough that’s exactly what happened, but we made good time and neither the dogs nor I had an accident in Scott’s new Honda. It was 6:15am and dark as we pulled into the Park, and there was zero race signage or anyone to guide us. It had been almost a decade since we’d been there for a race but luckily I (was pretty sure I) remembered to ignore the turns indicating parking areas. Scott seemed skeptical each time I admonished hi to just keep driving straight, swearing we’d hit water at some point. We made our uncertain way in the pre-dawn gloom down a miles-long hill and discovered I had in fact remembered correctly.

Obviously I enjoy being proven correct – especially when backtracking would have further delayed the bathrooming – but I was now distracted by how excessively lengthy that hill had been. I had not recalled such a drawn out climb to kick off the bike. This realization was less than ideal given my less than existent bike fitness. (I’d ridden outside three times for a cumulative total of 25 miles this summer – and all in the two weeks leading up to race day.)

Scott unloaded the dogs while I unloaded Koopa Troop and my mountain of gear. There was an actual indoor bathroom so I made grateful use of that before grabbing my packet. Packet pickup took about two minutes and then it was a short walk to transition where the racks were unassigned. I was rolling Koop in and picking a clutch spot next to bike in/out shortly after 6:30.

I was on the earlier side arriving but was pretty surprised by the number of people already there and opting for the racks furthest from the bike in/out side. Pro tip* – and this is real even if my sucky transitions don’t lend me much credibility – spend as little time running in bike cleats as you can. In a setup like the one at Giant Acorn where the bike in/out is the same side while the run out is over on the other side of transition, you want to be rack near the bike in/out.

*This is actually kind of the opposite of a pro tip as they leave their cleats clipped into their pedals so they never have to worry about running in cleats.

Owensies arrived not long after me and racked his steed right next to Koop. We were early enough to take our time setting up which I think as rusty husks of our former triathletes we both appreciated.  Scott and our perfect puppers waited patiently just beyond the fence. It was like old (younger) times.

I realized as I laid everything out that I’d left my bike computer charging in the living room. Forgetting my bike computer is also like old times. Older but no wiser. Ah well, I could just rely on my watch for 15.5 miles. Other than that I had everything I really needed and had plenty of time to arrange it under my well-placed rack.

Around 7:30 I grabbed my swim stuff and exited transition. The lake was 77 degrees so wetsuit legal but just barely. I’d hemmed and hawed about whether to wear mine: sure I’d be faster in it but I might be uncomfortably warm which would slow me down. And would any speed gained swimming be worth the added time in T1 peeling it off? Ultimately I learned from my many years ago mistakes and decided to wear it. My swim is my weakest leg by far so if I’m allowed to use the neoprene, I should.

There was no line for the portas next to transition so I made a pitstop there before heading to the swim start. Once on the beach I pulled on the wetsuit and made for the water. And it was indeed warm. But I got in a short practice swim and felt ok, and buoyant, so I stuck to my guns and kept the suit on.

I climbed up the beach and found Scott and the backpack I’d foisted upon him containing a banana and some other snackies. I grabbed the fruit, peeled it, and enjoyed some pre-race calories while Owensies and I found a spot in line. There were no pace signs so we opted for what seemed like smack dab in the middle.

As we stood in a sea of jittery athletes, we chatted and I nonchalantly chomped my snack. A woman next to us who was doing her second ever tri remarked how relaxed we seemed. I realized she was right. I felt pretty chill about the whole thing. First triathlon since getting my left hip put back together which was momentous, but it was also just a sprint on a familiar course with a good friend and zero expectations. I was pretty zen and really happy to be there.

Owensies remarked that he needed to figure out how to work his new watch before we started and I realized that I had never multisported in mine either. I set it to Triathlon mode and a message popped up that if I wanted it could just sense out the transitions for me freeing me up from having to hit buttons to mark each leg. I said sure, let’s do that option, not really trusting that it would get the transition timing mats exactly right. And it didn’t, so for purposes of this report I’m going to go off of the official results from Kinetic rather than my garmin data. (And obviously I won’t be using my bike Garmin data, because that little buddy was back in DC charging. It’s got so much juice now that I’ve hung my outside wheels back up for winter!)

At 8am they released the collegiate athletes into the water. Around 8:15 they started the time trial for the rest of us: two swimmers every five seconds. When Chris and I were on deck I felt a swell of oh-shit! but quickly we were being waved side by side into the water and the quick burst of nerves dissipated.

The Swim

We ran down the beach and into the lake. I felt really clumsy about when to stop running and start swimming. There was nothing smooth about my dive in but after a few awkward strokes I found a rhythm and got to work.

I’d hoped to find some speedier toes to draft off but I think I’d seeded myself too far back for that. As I got going I was pleased to find it not too crowded, and also found myself picking off a decent number of swimmers. Usually one to passively take the outside track in the water, I made a game time decision to find a more aggressive inside line.

As I pushed myself forward I kept expecting my inside track to run me into people or a sighting buoy but I found I had plenty of room the whole way down the first side of the three-sided course. I passed people the whole way, but not too many. The self-seeding had been pretty accurate.

There were a few people moving slowly in white swim caps, meaning they were nervous about the open water swim and wanted the safety crews to keep an extra eye on them. One was hanging on a kayak in my path and I had to adjust my route around them, but otherwise I got to the first turn buoy without incident and feeling strong.

Hanging that right I was momentarily disappointed to find the distance to the next turn buoy – which would be the turn back toward the beach – was at least double what I thought. Having spent so much time the last few years swimming in choppy windy open water with Wave One, the distance wasn’t a concern, I’d just been pushing myself harder than I might have, assuming I was half way home.

I stuck with my inside track and kept it moving. I decided to keep pushing down this length so that I could back off the effort towards the end to bring my heart rate down pre-bike. I felt like I made good time and was again pleasantly surprised to find no real obstacles as I picked out this inside line between the turns. (Have I just been wrong all these years in assuming the faster inside track would be a melee? Have I been self-sabotaging all this time or were people just seeding and swimming with uncharacteristic politeness in Lake Anna?)

Swinging right around the second and final turn buoy, the path became less clear. I don’t know if it was my goggles or the configuration of the sighting buoys, but I couldn’t really make out where the actual exit was. I ditched any attempt to stay inside and pointed myself vaguely in the direction of the beach and the swimmers ahead of me.

Down this final stretch I did have to weave around some meanderers and backstrokers. It slowed me down a little but there was plenty of space and I still didn’t know exactly where I was going. About halfway down this last length I was able to make out what looked like two inflatables that I thought were maybe demarcating the exit lane. I adjusted my heading and hoped I was right.

And I was! The number of swimmer obstacles increased as I neared beach. I did my best to keep my bearing and not get kicked or punched. As the shore rose up beneath me, I struggled again to figure out whether to swim or run. At one point I stood to run as others were doing, but being a mini person the water was a lot deeper and harder to run through for me, so I dove forward again, getting in a few final strokes before standing once more.

I glanced at my watch and saw 15 minutes and something and was pretty thrilled with that. I couldn’t tell if or when it clicked forward to mark me as T1 but I ignored it. At my last sprint back in 2022 (Culpepper Tri if you’re wondering, but for which I wrote no race report) I knew I’d swum an abysmal 18 minutes so whatever else happened here at Lake Anna I was happy wit the swim.  Official results have me at 16 minutes on the dot but even that is a huge improvement to which I credit all my open water time the last few summers.

T1

I felt awkward climbing out of the water, trying to run up the hill but stuck on a single-file narrow path between fences and behind athletes who were not hustling. I used the unplanned lull to peel the wetsuit to my waist. I also heard Scott calling to me and got to see him and the doggos cheering me on, so I couldn’t be too grumpy about the slow trot up to transition.

Once I finally got around everyone and through the swim in chute I ran to Koop. The rest of the wetsuit came off easily and I felt like I was efficient in drying my feet and pulling on socks and cleats. Then came a moment of indecision: whether to wear my bike gloves or not. My need for them over the last few years thanks to worsening Raynauds and appallingly sweaty palms has really gummed up my T1 times, but I’m always happy I have them. It was drizzling out so I took the few seconds to pull them on. I also pulled on my sunglasses but discovered they needed a wipe down so took the time to do that before finally pulling Koop off the rack and making for the blessedly close bike out. Per Kinetic my T1 time was a glacial 3:03. Even with the slow walk up the hill, yikes.

The Bike

I remembered that the bike course at Lake Anna starts on an incline straight out of transition so I had made sure to leave Koop in an appropriately low gear after my last ride. In my memory the preliminary rake after mounting was much steeper, I recall finding it intimidating in years past. I was happily surprised to find the grade less aggressive than I had thought, though the dark drive in had been a reminder that, while not as steep, the climb out to the road was long.

I was nervous that I’d bobble the mount given my lack of outdoor riding the last couple years, but I was relieved to take off smoothly, avoiding a bit of a cluster at the mount line. The one photographer on the bike course (and I don’t mean Scott) was stationed maybe a hundred meters in, not just on a hill but a turn, so no luck looking cool for the cameras. Just take my word that I looked remarkably proficient for someone who’d spent way too much time on her Peloton since last year. (I’m so embarrassed telling everyone we bought a Peloton!)

The hardest things about time away from triathlon is not the loss of fitness but the lack of practice in knowing how hard to push and when. As a stronger cyclist than swimmer I’m used to getting out of the water and having to pick people off straight away on the bike. But here I was faced with several miles of incline and general amnesia about how much effort is too much to expend.

That and yeah, ok, I am out of bike shape. The loss of fitness thing is hard too.

So I erred on the side of caution, at least until we got out onto the main road out of the park. I dropped into my arrows when it wasn’t too steep and passed some folks, but every time I felt myself start to push I pulled back. Right or wrong, by the time I was swinging the left onto Lawyers Road I felt like I had a full tank but my average speed was in the toilet.

I also could barely see anything. It was gloomy grey and the rain was picking up, and I was wearing my fancy (kinda douchey) bike sunnies. I’d poured over whether to wear the gloves or not but thrown these on without a thought, and now I could barely see. I inched them down the bridge of my nose to see if it was better without them and it very much was. But I was afraid with my unpracticed handling that I’d drop them or never get them back on if I pulled them off now and needed them later.

I gave it another couple low visibility minutes before making the call. I sat up and slowed some to pull them off. I tried to stuff them down the front of my kit but found that I had to unzip it first. I fumbled a bit but managed to get them safely tucked into my sports bra and then rezip. It took maybe 30 seconds total and then I was back in action and could see. I dropped back into my aero bars and got to work.

Sorta.

I tried to bear down and make up some time but as soon as that intention hit my pedals a car drove by and then basically stopped in the lane up ahead. I sat back up to be able to brake if I needed. I passed a few people and, as I got closer to the inching along motor vehicle, saw that bikes ahead of him – slow, hybrid bikes – were riding far into the lane and with the rain and narrow winding road, the driver didn’t see a way to safely pass.

I slowed up and hovered behind the car not sure what to do myself. I couldn’t pass him to the right, he’d left no shoulder. I wondered if I could safely pass to the left but it didn’t seem advisable as there had been intermittent car (and bike) traffic in the opposite direction too  and between the rain and curvy road I couldn’t see what was coming.

Fortunately after two or three minutes the driver hung a right and got out of our hair. Who knows if that’s where he’d wanted to go or if he just wanted off the course, but either way I was glad he was gone. I dropped back into the aeros and finally got to work.

Sorta.

Having not raced (or biked) in so long, I still felt really lost about how hard to go. I picked up the pace from the climb out to the main roads but I was afraid to drop the hammer too much. Especially because I really wanted to have a decent run.

After years of constant stops and starts with my running, and multiple months-long stints on the bench, I had been running consistently for two whole months, which doesn’t sound like much typing it out but for me it’s as much as I usually get before things fall back apart. So there in the saddle I made a decision I coulda (shoulda) made before the race had I thought any of this out in any way that I would ride conservatively to save the run pegs. (Ya know, “pegs” there was a typo but it’s fun, I’m gonna leave it.)

Around this point my watch buzzed to mark one 5-mile lap down. Only 2.5 of those laps to go, and this one was slow right around 17 mph. I could hold back for the run but I needed to push a little more than that I decided.

Fortunately the next few miles of course were less exciting in terms of vehicular traffic. There were rollers the whole way to keep it interesting, so I stayed out of my big ring mostly, never sure whether a climb would appear around the next corner. Relying so much on my small ring made me feel like I ran out of gears and topped out on speed too low, but I kept thinking about fresh pegs so I stuck it out over the second 5-mile lap. Still I easily put that one away faster than the first, coming in a little over 18mph.

No women had passed me until somewhere in that second lap when a lady flew by. She was working hard and easily overtook me. And there was a big ol’ “44” on her leg – my age group. Damn. I was disappointed but held steady and stuck with my decision to save it for the run.

I didn’t really know the course well (I was winging it in so many ways) but not long into the third lap, or 10th mile, we turned onto a road and found cyclists riding in the opposite direction. My first thought was, oh we must be near a turnaround, yay, almost halfway! Then I realized this was a sprint course and no, we’d already turned around and were well over halfway.

This news spurred me to (slightly more) action, especially realizing I’d now already ridden the whole course and knew generally what to expect. I found that big ring finally and finally got to work.

Sorta.

Not long into my renewed efforts I rounded a corner and encountered another car creeping at an almost-standstill behind cyclists he couldn’t pass. This time it was actually some sort of small commercial truck. And this time I think he actually could have gotten around. And also this time I was really trying to make up some damn time. Also this time the tailpipe situation was worse; I felt like I was breathing straight exhaust as I tried to plot my next move.

I sat up and slowed, pulling up behind and to the left of the lane so I could make eye contact with him in his sideview mirror. I could tell he saw me. When I had visibility and could see it was safe I called out to him to let me pass. He made eye contact with me again and nodded in the mirror and I rode around.

Once safely away from the truck I dropped down and I swear I finally got to work. At this point of course I was almost to the righthand turn back into Lake Anna Park. I made the right and then made the call to push hard for around five minutes and then backoff before transition to give the legs a pre-run rest.

I stuck to that big ring and picked off a handful more folks on the way back down to the lake. I thought back to our uncertain drive down this same then-dark road a few hours earlier, how much further it had been than I remembered. It felt further here too. When my watch buzzed and showed a bit over 19mph average for lap three I was satisfied and pulled back for the last half-mile.

I played it safe riding the brake around the last tight, downhill, slick corner. There were lots of spectators and I didn’t want to embarrass myself (or hurt anyone) by crashing right at the end.

As I kicked my heels free I heard a woman behind me call out, “dismount after the line, right?” “No! Before!” I yelled over my shoulder. “Oh thank youuu!” I heard her call back. Phew.

I came to a stop and swung my leg over the saddle and then gingerly clomped over the wet pavement and then mud through the bike in. I didn’t bother looking at my watch as I didn’t really have a concept or goal around a solid hilly soggy 15.5-mile bike course. The official results had me at 50:42 averaging 18.4mph which seems like an accurate reflection of my mediocrity.

T2

While my tees-one are a mess, tees-two are much swifter. I racked Koop, kicked off the cleats and slipped on the sneaks, swapped my helmet for a hat and grabbed my race belt. I was on the run course in 1:28.

The Run

I’d held back earlier to shine here, but jogging out of transition my legs felt leaden. Almost the entire first mile is uphill and I immediately felt like there was no way I could turn these heavy pegs over quickly, especially while climbing.

The path winds a bit after T2 to bring runners back to that same ascent that we’d just ridden out of T1. Glancing at my watch, (and again having zero clue if it had precisely marked the transition timing mats,) I saw 9:something, and that 9:something felt, not maxed out, but hard. I serpentined around the turns, passing a few people, and feeling already-dejected. Maybe I should have spent my energy on the bike. Why did I think there was any run in these oft-benched legs.

I was feeling bad for myself maybe two minutes in when I saw a spectator with a big handsome Swiss Mountain Dog. I’m such a big dog sucker. I instantly brightened. I smiled and said hello to the pup even though I probably shouldn’t be so haphazard with my oxygen. I didn’t feel any faster or fitter but I was in a happier headspace as I reached the road and swung right up the hill.

And then there in front of me was the 44-year-old woman who had blown by me on the bike. I wasn’t moving fast, but I was moving a little faster than her. I picked up the pace a touch, hoping I’d pass her with enough steam that she wouldn’t call my bluff and try to keep up. I overtook her and kept the slightly elevated effort up for another minute before checking my watch again. At which point I was surprised and delighted to see a pace in the 8:30s and a heartrate not nearly as maxed out as I thought. I knew I was more than halfway up the mile-long hill too so things could (probably) only improve from here.

I settled into maintaining that effort and leaned forward up the hill.  Soon I was turning right and the ground was leveling off beneath my feet. Almost immediately I was at the Mile 1 marker. My watch only said .9 so it had not accurately picked up on the transition timing mats, but mentally it’s always easier to be slightly behind the mile markers than ahead. I could work with this.

Once my watch did buzz the first mile down it said 8:28, which I felt pretty good about considering the considerable elevation gain and the first couple defeatist minutes of the run. Now I kept my effort steady but naturally sped up with the climbing generally over. The second mile is an out and back before the third mile descends back to the lake. There’s a little bit of gentle ascending and descending to keep it interesting, but mile two is a net flat.

I mainly focused on trying to remember what 5K running should feel like. I knew it should be uncomfortable, and it was, but I didn’t want to light every match and blow up with a mile to go. So I tried to feel out 90% effort and hold on. A few times I glanced at my watch and saw numbers in the 7:20s and 30s and I was surprised and thrilled. I was pushing, and hurting, but a productive and sustainable hurt. And most of all, I was enjoying myself.

I was passing people right and left and trying to run the tangents efficiently. I narcissistically enjoy that I’m usually among the fastest people on the run course but really that’s a reflection on how much slower I swim and bike comparatively. But I was feeling good and moving well, and tri people being who they are, many cheered me on as I passed. One older gentleman who was ahead of me on the out and back shouted out my turnover, a form feature of which this shorty is very proud. (At 4’10” it’s really all I have!)

Both right before and right after the turnaround there was an aid station. Each time I took a little water but I was running too hard to do much more than choke on it. The weather was probably mid-60s and a little humid but pretty comfortable. Right after the turnaround I saw Owensies coming the opposite way and looking strong. We high-fived as we passed each other and I felt a jolt of teammie-triggered adrenaline.

I passed the mile two marker as we turned left down a road that would spit us toward the beach. My watch, still a bit behind the markers, buzzed a 7:44. That was better than I’d hoped for at the bottom of the hill 15 minutes ago, but now I knew I could do better. With a mile to go I leaned a little harder into the pace and spinning these short pegs.

The course stays on this generally flat, somewhat windy road for about half a mile before funneling athletes into a wooded downhill path to the finish line next to the beach. Just before squeezing onto that narrow descent I overtook the gentleman who’d praised my turnover and I saw “75” written on his leg. He was cruising so strong and it gave me such a boost of hope that maybe one day I can get the better of my health issues and stay in this sport longterm. As I passed him he again shouted out my rpm and I yelled thank you and that it was all I had before dipping into the trees.

The last half mile, maybe a little less, is almost trail running. It veers off the wide road onto a tight path through the woods. While it’s paved, debris and roots interrupt the blacktop, and it’s only wide enough for one or two pairs of shoulders. The rain had stopped but it was still slick under the canopy and there were treacherous wet piles of leaves the whole way down.

Emphasis on down. The aggressive pitch of the descent felt as dangerous as the slippery footing. Downhill sounds nice in a race but only to a point. I was trying to push the pace, spend whatever was left, but I was very nervous I would fall, and I could feel gravity pulling my form to shit.

I was hitting my left, battered side too hard. I tried to moderate the impact but every fierce step reverberated up my left leg, striking the sciatic nerve that has chronically dogged me like a tuning fork. I thought maybe I should slow down to save the leg, but I didn’t want to back off when I was so close to the end and hadn’t seen a triathlon finish line in two years.

There was a gentleman ahead of me now with a large “M” denoting military division on his calf. With maybe a quarter mile to go I was gaining on him but fading a bit from effort and compressed nerve-borne anxiety. I also wasn’t sure how to pass anyone on this skinny little trail.

He must have heard me coming, and also heard me back off some, because as we exited the woods with .2 miles to go he stayed as far right as he could and started waving me ahead of him. It was so generous of him. I’m sure he was also spent and ready to cross the finish line, but he took that moment to care about my race and he plotted his course accordingly.I couldn’t waste the generosity of spirit and thankfully the road was flattening back out, so I charged ahead with everything left. I passed the mile 3 marker, 7:11 per my still slightly behind watch, and sprinted down the grassy finisher’s chute to run it in for a 23:42, or 7:38/mile average.

The Aftermath

I knew I’d pushed myself because as soon as I stopped running I had to breathe through the urge to puke. I traded my timing chip for a medal and collected a wet towel and water. I wandered away to find Scott who I could see perched with the pups up the hill by the point where the path exits the woods. We cheered athletes in from there until Owensies came through a few minutes later.

Once we’d all reunited, I borrowed Scott’s phone to check the results and at first misread that I was second female overall. Then I realized I was second masters female overall and I felt a little like I’d just been called old, but still I was ecstatically surprised. (Masters is the designation for 40+ in triathlon, which seems at once cruel as 40 isn’t so old to necessitate our own awards and a misnomer because I definitely haven’t mastered a thing.)

Scott helped me schlep my gear to the car and Owensies and I changed into dry clothes before attending the awards ceremony. I was excited not just to podium but also to find that overall masters get called right after everyone overall, so we didn’t have to wait through all of the divisions. (This sounds bratty but we hadn’t hit up athlete food yet and the hunger was starting to hit!)

As I took my spot on the blocks the first place masters woman stepped up behind me and I saw it was the woman who’d passed me on the bike but whom I’d passed back early on the run. She must have started the swim after me. I did feel a pang of disappointment at that revelation but it didn’t overshadow the general thrill of an overall podium spot in this first race back.

After I got some pics and my medal, Owensies and I grabbed some grub. (Which I of course shared with Scott!) The post race food was taco bowls which were delicious and hit the spot. Kudos to Kinetic for such satisfying swimbikerun eats. With happy bellies we all hugged goodbye and got on the road back to our separate corners of DC.

When I had the chance to dig into the results a little more. I discovered that first place had beat me by only 7 seconds and she had swum and ran much slower than me, but biked faster. More distressingly, I realized her transitions were cumulatively 10 seconds faster than mine and all of that time was in her T1. This is not the first race I’ve lost in my first transition. There were a bunch of places I could have made up 7 seconds in the saddle – the whole ordeal with my sunglasses chief among them – but how embarrassing to repeatedly blow it before I even get biking or running.

I’m still so pleased with my race and a good run always makes up for feeling like I let myself down elsewhere. I also learned when I had a look at the women 40-44 age group results that I had the fastest run, 4th fastest swim, and third fastest bike, so nothing to be too glum about.

Starting and ending the tri season on the same day also left me hungry for more in 2025. Then again that slippery downhill sprint did inflame my nerve issues, so I’ve been dealing with that literal pain in the ass (and down my whole leg) in the weeks since Giant Acorn, which hobbles my drive to get back to real racing next year.

After more than three years of chronic, sometimes debilitating nerve pain I still don’t have any answers, just trial and error attempts to manage the pain. But I am at a point where I feel acutely that I will not get any younger and I’m not willing to be sidelined anymore. There are weeks and months-long periods where the pain becomes unbearable and I can’t run (or comfortably sit or sleep) or do much of anything, but at least regarding my new normal day-to-day aching, I’ve decided that my love of sport trumps. So I’m cautiously looking at 70.3 options next year and imagining a multisport future. Days like Giant Acorn are reminders that there’s still something  competitive left in this body and still so much more to learn.

 

The Beforemath

In July I was forced to DNF after just the swim at Lake Placid thanks to a year’s worth of crippling nerve pain and a labral tear in my hip which had made training for a full impossible. Though the DNF had been the plan for months, and the weekend was still a blast, I was disappointed and needed to redirect by somewhat-crippled energies. As a consolation race, my PT and docs all thought a 70.3 would be manageable by the end of the summer. Fortunately, a great group of my OG Speed Sherpette teammies (and Justin!) were mulling Augusta and I both love that race and needed to redeem myself after riding the first ten miles with the brake on in 2021.

Melissa also wanted another crack at the course so we pressured our friends until most of them agreed. Then we found a big house to rent just off the run course in “downtown” Augusta and made various planes trains and automobile plans to get down there.

I flew to Atlanta Thursday night, leaving that extra day early as insurance against air travel fuckery – there’s a lot of that these days. Plus I’m never mad about spending extra time with my folks – especially when my visit coincides with the arrival of their new puppy, Heidi! Spending a few days with my new furry, spotty little sister was a great reminder of how wonderful puppies are, and also, how much work they are.

My trip south was uneventful, and Melissa and Sara’s Friday flights were equally punctual. The fuckery for them however came in the form of hours-long car rental lines and depleted inventories. Sara landed in the afternoon and waited three hours for her chariot. Melissa landed around 7pm and nearly encountered the same, but I was able to convince her to just cab it to my family’s house, 20 minutes from the airport, and ride with me to Augusta in the morning. She eventually acceded and was rewarded with pie and ice cream upon her arrival. (My folks are fun.) She also got some puppy and big dog kisses and we both slept well in our own rooms before getting on the road at 8:30 Saturday morning.

Race Day Eve

My dad kindly lent us his new Bronco which was fun to drive – my beloved Mini Cooper Yoshi is 19 years old and car technology has advanced quite a bit in the last two decades. (I still love and choose Yoshi though!) We arrived in Augusta at 11am. Unloaded the car and then met up with the team at the Expo.

Getting checked in was easy – though I am apparently email-challenged and initially gave volunteers my QR code from last year which caused a tiny panic attack that I wasn’t properly registered. Pro tip: now that IM uses QR codes to check in, have those bad boys ready well-ahead of time! We did a little retail damage, I picked up a print from my local friend Carrie who paints something for the race every year, and Melissa and I collected our bikes from Tribiketransport.

We had lunch outdoors at a cute vegan spot called Bee’s Knees which was very good but the meat, egg, and cheese substitutes turned out to not be as hearty as the real thing and Justin and I were both famished again within a few hours. Then we headed back the house, loaded our bikes and helmets up with the requisite stickers to rack our steeds. Melissa and I did a shake-out/make-sure-our-bikes-work (and that the brakes aren’t rubbing!) ride up and down East Boundary road which had bike lanes, but still wasn’t particularly pleasant.

From East Boundary we headed to transition and met up with Justin and Merle to put up our bikes. Ironman’s new system of assigning bibs on a first-come basis means that if you check in with your friends you get to rack with them too. We’d done packet pickup on the later side so we had some high up numbers and not the most ideal transition placement, and yeesh were the bikes crammed in ridiculously tight with ten to a rack, but at least we were all together. We walked transition, making note of the landmarks we could use to quickly find our spots during the race, and then walked the easy 15 minutes home. Pro and PT Holli was also racing again this year and joined us on our walk home.

It was about 4pm by now and we decided it was too late to drive the course. Melissa and I shared as much intel as we could remember from the previous year, and I went so far as to hastily publish my 2021 race report which I’d been sitting on, composed but unedited, so that people could read it and try to glean actual course insights amongst my rambling and bathroom diatribes.

The race guide was actually helpful in one way: I’d recorded the name of the Italian spot from which we’d done successful race day eve take out. We opted to order from Oliviana’s again this year. Insider trick: we discovered the online ordering didn’t work and the phone was busy the first few times we tried, but eventually we got through, placed the order, and Justin and I went and picked it up. Once again it was the perfect bland, over-sized proportioned pre-race carb-fest.

Much of the house indulged in vino with dinner but I abstained, always afraid of how alcohol can disrupt my sleep and make the early wake up that much more unpleasant. It probably would not have mattered though – maybe it even would have helped – because despite a sensible 9pm bedtime, I logged at most three hours of sleep before the 4:30am alarm.

The lack of REMming came mostly courtesy of a house party across the street that blasted the most deafening bass off and on from 11pm to 1am. Admittedly I hate base, the way it pings your bones like a tuning fork makes me nauseous, but this was truly next-level horrendous. I could literally feel it in my fillings. It was so loud I took it personally – wondering if the locals were trying to torture their early rising, street and river-clogging visitors. I can’t imagine a universe in which someone would have found it pleasant to be around that sound and physical sensation and so I assumed vindictiveness.

By the time the bass finally stopped for the last time I had mostly given up on sleep. The train or trains that rolled by a few blocks away – preludes to the next day– made extra sure I remained conscious. At one point a train whistle went on so long I thought there must have been something or someone on the tracks that it was trying to move. The final audible icing on the no-sleep-for-Liz cake was the let’s say, mind-altered woman who wailed outside the house around 4am. Sara, with whom I was sharing an otherwise comfy queen bed, slept through it all, but I was very much already up when that 4:30 alarm sounded. (At least fellow insomniac Justin commiserated with me over pre-dawn, sleep-deprived oatmeal.)

Race Morning

We all ate and did our prep in the large kitchen. Merle graciously made two pots of French press coffee which everyone appreciated – especially me since flying to Georgia meant I didn’t have my usual pre-race Sbux doubleshots. We managed to get out the door by 5:45 as planned and were walking into transition at 6am. Much like 2021 this meant we were walking in when most people were already walking out to line up for shuttles to the swim start, but this year I didn’t feel stressed about it. We all pumped our tires and prepped as needed, I was able to hit the portas, and we were walking out by 6:25.

The swim is a downstream point-to-point which means it starts 1.2 miles away from transition. As we set up our very tight spots, having to place our things in front of our bikes rather than alongside, the morning announcer repeatedly, emphatically declared that anyone who planned to walk to to the swim needed to leave transition by 6:15.

We ignored this admonishment and also ignored and sidestepped the long shuttle line when we walked out at 6:25, and we all agreed later that we’d timed and executed it right. The walk was a great warm-up and we arrived with sufficient time to pull on our wetsuits – over a lone compression sleeve for me – and drop off morning gear bags. (I skipped this part as all I wanted after the race were my flip flops which Sara gamely took from me.) We were all ready to go and filtering into the queue when the pro women went off at 7:07.

The Swim

One thing we did not time right was our swim seeding. Merle is a Kona-racing front-of-the-packer and argued that we should all start together towards the front; the rest of us slowpokes (in the water anyway) wanted to start further back. Further complicating things is that, while Augusta is a fast swim, just how fast varies year to year  with the current and how much water has been released from the upstream dam. We knew this year was going to be a few minutes slower than 2021, and we also knew that at the athlete briefing race organizers had advised everyone to line up based on the time they would swim an unassisted 70.3, but also also knew most people wouldn’t follow those instructions. We thought we’d split the difference by finding what seemed to be the middle of the horde, next to the 31-33 minute pace signs. In the end we should have listened to Merle.

It took a long time to reach the water, even from what we thought was the middle point of the crowd. The age groupers started at 7:15 and I didn’t hit the river until 7:44 – eight minutes later than I had in 2021. Especially in a hot, crowded race like Augusta, earlier is better and every minute counts.

The four of us inched along, trying to stay together but ultimately getting separated so that Justin and Merle started a few minutes before Melissa and me. I tried to pee over the course of that very slow slog but was unsuccessful. When we finally got to the dock – which was as slippery as it had been in 2021 meaning other people had had better pee luck – we divided into five rows which were let off every three seconds. After the long line build up, this part moved swiftly along and suddenly I was stepping up to the edge of the dock and then into the water to start my race.

The Savannah River was a perfect 73 degrees. The metered entry meant minimal crowding and the wide open space plus my weekly open water swim practice – actually almost the only swimming I did this summer – meant I could comfortably and quickly get down to business. I was feeling confident too because I’d had a drafting breakthrough in this swim the year before and had managed to ride some toes in for a 13^th place AG swim finish – unheard of for me. I’d also successfully gotten a toe-tow all 2.4 water miles at Lake Placid just two months before, and I was looking forward to riding a wake again here. Alas, our timid swim seeding meant that I was faster than everyone I’d started with, so rather than latching onto someone quicker for a ride down the river, I was passing people on my own. And also having to do all my own sighting and pacing, like a total sucker.

The river water was clear and I could easily see the swimmers to my right and left. I kept searching for someone the right amount quicker that I could chase. A few times I tried to hitch a ride off someone only to find they were too much quicker or too far away for me to get to in time. I found my own rhythm and was able to sight decently off the well-placed buoys and many safety kayakers. I could tell that though that I was moving much slower than I would have been with an assist. It’s not just the draft that speeds me along in the water – it’s having something other than my own thoughts to focus on. Ten years in and I still struggle to exert myself aerobically in the swim because as soon as I exert myself a little my brain screams at me that I’m going to have a heart attack and drown.

I know it’s morbid, especially because it is a far too-frequent triathlon occurrence (it even happened at this race), but my history of heart issues and asthma consume my mind in the open water as soon as my BPM starts to climb above 130. So I swam effortlessly, slowly down the river, searching and wishing for someone to come along to refocus my mind and tow me in. Finally, a bit after the halfway point, a woman swam past me at just the right clip and proximity, and I was able to jump behind her and follow.

She appeared at the perfect time because I’d been trying in vain to get past a man who was alternating between sprinting as quickly and wildly as he could and breast stroking. It must have been some sort of plan because he did about 30 seconds of each, but it was not fun to be around. The breast stroking was slow and wide and I would have to swim at a diagonal to pass him. Then he would kick and flail wildly and pass me back with a wall of splashing, inevitably sending water into my nose when I tried to breathe. After three or four rounds of this I was ecstatic to catch a draft from someone fast enough to get away from him for good.

This woman was also a great tower because she barely kicked. I was able to stay glued to her feet, just a foot or two behind her. At first I wondered if maybe she wasn’t kicking because she was peeing (that’s the only way I can pee in the swim, though it wasn’t working today) but she kept swimming that way for several minutes, so I’m pretty sure that was just her style. The only downside and challenge was that she did not swim very straight. Even zigzagging I knew she was faster than me, so I stuck it out, but her serpentines made her unpredictable and as a result after a few hundred meters I lost the rhythm a bit and brushed her toes a few times in quick succession.

At that point she became aware of me and wanted me gone. She began kicking furiously, much like the strange sprinting/breast stroking gentleman she’d ferried me away from. I got a mouth full of river water and sputtered. Her thrashing was counterproductive though, slowing her pace  allowing me to pass her. (So I guess in that way it was productive, she did get rid of me.) At this point I was close enough to the end of the swim to see the final (only) turn buoy up ahead. With a couple hundred meters to go I was able to override my frantic brain and exert myself towards the swim exit.

Things were crowded around the righthand turn toward shore, and they stayed crowded for the 60 meters to the boat ramp exit. I swerved around people as much as possible, using my short arms to my one water advantage, swimming in past the taller people until I absolutely had to stand. Once upright I trudged up the ramp, looking at my watch as I crossed the timing mats to see a 31:36 – four minutes slower than 2021. I didn’t expect to PR today but I didn’t want to be too far off the mark and here I was starting the race with a four-minute deficit. I had my work cut out for me.

 

T1

T1 is pretty long and up a significant incline. Happily this year there were wetsuit strippers at the top of the hill. I rushed to the end of the stripper line and plopped down in front of the last guy before transition. He quickly yanked my neoprene off, I handed him my volunteer appreciation bracelet, and rushed toward the bike racks.

Garmin says I covered over a quarter mile during this transition, which is a lot, but it’s not enough to explain how bad my T1s are. As I always do, I struggled to towel blister-causing crap off my feet and get my socks on. I was pokey with my gloves, helmet, and glasses too. I also took two Advil, not something I normally do but I was the walking (biking/running) wounded. Coach Leslie had predicted a four or five minute T1, but it was 5:42 by when I finally crossed the mats onto the bike course. I felt like I’d let her down.

The Bike

The first few miles wind through town, sharing some real estate with the run course. There are crowds and a few 90 degree turns in a row, so it’s hard to get cranking until you’re heading up the onramp onto Gordon Highway in mile three. In 2021 we’d had a tailwind heading out but my brake had been rubbing so I couldn’t take advantage. This year we had a slight headwind, plus I was very nervous that if I pushed too hard too early my fragile hip/nerve situation would implode, leaving me in agony for 50+ miles. (Or worse, waiting for the sad wagon.) I had a goal of going under three hours so I didn’t want to be too precious about my injuries, but I’d gone 3:05 the previous year and that included ten miles of brake rubbing and a several-minutes stop to fix it, so I figured I could keep the first fifteen or twenty lowkey and still bring it home sub-3 with room to spare.

Over the first few miles I felt like I struck a decent balance, averaging 18.2mph for the first five mile “lap”. I was going faster than at this point last year (not hard) and the effort felt restrained but not overly easy. A half mile long, pretty steep climb kicks off the next thirty miles of hills at mile nine. It felt challenging and my nerve twanged the way it often does these days when biking or running uphill, which I felt affirmed my choice to hold back.

From there the course winds away from main thoroughfares along less-traveled country roads. There’s a nearly three mile ascent that starts at mile 12. It’s not so steep but it’s long and winding with a few fake outs where the briefly road levels and you think you’re done, only to turn a corner and find yourself climbing again. I made a point of shifting down and down, passing fewer people than I usually do while climbing. My nerve responded kindly in kind, with minimal discomfort. These two early ascents took their toll on my pace, and I averaged only 16.5mph for miles five through fifteen.

Just as that long winding climb finally crests at mile 15 the course hangs a left onto Brown Road, a street with smooth buttery pavement that is a joy to bike. The first aid station sits shortly after this turn. I rolled through grabbing a banana. I’d been eating every time my watch clicked off another five miles and hydrating throughout and I was feeling good. The temperature was so far very comfortable and I knew I’d already made it over two of the day’s biggest hills. Now here was this delightfully smooth pavement and I thought, maybe it’s time to pick up the pace.

Sadly, Brown Road was short lived and within a few minutes the course hung a right onto a less inviting stretch of pavement. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the same joy-inducing substrate that invited speed. I knew I should pick up the pace some, and I did, but up and down several miles of rollers I also maintained some downhill caution and uphill restraint. I naively didn’t stress too much that miles fifteen through 25 averaged 17.3mph; in hindsight I should have realized sooner that I needed to seriously pick up the pace. I just felt so sure that in the absence of 2021’s mechanical mess-up there was no way I’d go sub-3. If I’d stop to think more about it though I would have realized that in the absence of 2022’s dueling injuries, I’d been in better, faster shape in 2021.

In any case, as I passed the halfway mark I did the math and finally realized I was currently on pace to ride this course in 3:08 – three minutes slower than last year and nine slower than my goal. Sure there were only ten more miles of hills and then hopefully a tailwind home, but I was still on pace to miss the mark by a lot and thoroughly disappoint myself. I found my big ring and got to work.

Miles 25-35 averaged a much improved 19.9mph, including a second slow roll through an aid station to grab another banana and water. Holding this pace the rest of the way might have been enough, but at mile 36 we hit the final big hill of the day, 2.5 more winding gradual miles. This time I did push it, using my tiny person advantage to pass as many people as I could. I’d been playing leapfrog with a handful of women, shouting encouragement to each other as we passed and then fell behind and then repassed each other. I yelled them on as I overtook them once more, this time planning to stay in front of them.

Miles 35-forty averaged 18.6mph, but now the climbing was done, the timing was clear, and I knew I had to hammer it home for the next 16 miles. Once again the course didn’t make it easy: at mile forty it swings a hard right into a few miles of truly sketchy pavement. It’s twisty, and slightly downhill, but riddled with wheel-eating craters. I exerted myself but didn’t feel like I could ride too aggressively. To end this section we had to ride gingerly over a set of railroad tracks, hook a hard left onto a crowded, slightly less terrible road for a few miles, and then finally another right back onto the main highway.

Finally home-free now, right? Wrong. Yes the climbing and bad pavement was finally done, but at mile 43 the course swings another hard right for a nearly five-mile out and back next to the Augusta Regional Airport. I remembered this section as mentally tough the previous year – it’s hard to be diverted off the road home for this section that feels like the course designers added upon they realizing they were five miles shy of 56. This year it was physically tough too with a strong cross-wind all the way out and then all the way back in. I wanted so badly to back off the effort. Having to push and stabilize myself against the wind was painful. My hip and nerves mingled discordantly, begging me to slow down. But I was running out of road to get my sub-3 time and the math was still not in my favor. I had to keep pushing.

Everyone around me had backed off, so I passed people the whole way and skipped the aid station located right before the turn back onto the highway. Despite the wind, unpleasant conditions I managed to average just under 20mph for miles forty-fifty. I was chipping away at my deficit but it wasn’t good enough. Running the numbers I realized I needed to hold over 21mph the rest of the way back to go under three hours.

I did a quick mental check in with myself and the race plan. Coach Leslie had advised me to take the last five miles easier, to bring my heart rate down ahead of the run. Here I was contemplating the exact opposite of that, and it still likely wouldn’t be enough. Was it worth it to throw everything I had at this last bit of biking, and jeopardize my already chancy run situation?

Ultimately, and quickly, I decided, yes it was. I wanted the sub-3 more than I wanted a good run. I’d had a good run in 2021 and I’d come back to this race to redeem myself on the bike. Plus, in my condition the run was likely to be agony even if I conserved my legs and effort here. In the end a sub-3 bike was worth a slow, terrible half marathon. And so I got as low as I could, shifted as high as I could, and set fire to a whole book of matches.

For the next five miles I rode hard. There were a few rollers and turns, and the road was narrower than I would have liked for how aggressively I had to ride, but I largely enjoyed pushing myself. I passed men and women, calling my spot constantly and overtaking dozens of people. I managed to average over 22mph for miles fifty-55 and reminded myself that when I push I can actually go as fast as almost anyone out on the course. I have to learn how to harness and maintain that energy.

With one mile to go the course winds back through town. It’d be impossible – and dangerous – not to slow down. I slowed but stayed faster than everyone around me, picking people off and ticking the seconds down until the bike in arch was finally in view. I had to back way off the last few hundred meters and I could see I was at 2:59:something as I braked, unclipped, and swung myself out of the saddle, dashing over the T2 timing mat as quickly as I could. By my Garmin’s count I’d made the sub-3 cutoff, but I didn’t want to celebrate until I saw the official results later. They confirmed it: final bike time of 2:59:38. I didn’t know how this run would go but it was worth it.

T2

My T2 is always much better than T1. I hustled to our not-the-best-placed racks and hung up my steed – easier now with a much emptier rack, though I could see that Merle and Justin were already out on the run. I swallowed down two more advil, scuffling a bit with the child safety cap, swapped out my shoes and grabbed my visor, bib, and nutrition, and scurried toward the run out.

Transition sat in a big shadeless grass field, and for the first time I felt the Georgia heat. It was a relatively mild day by southern standards, but at 11:30am in the direct sunlight it didn’t feel mild. I didn’t regret the bike effort, but I did feel a pang of worry for the 13.1 run miles ahead of me. T2 clocked a 3:11.

The Run

My legs felt cumbersome and slow jogging out of transition onto the equally shade-free quarter-mile stretch that precedes the main course. I forgot to hit my Garmin for at least a minute so I knew I was going to have to bake that time into my mental calculations as I went. I felt slow and clumsy, but I tossed back a cup of water and doused myself with a second at an aid table just past transition and reminded myself that I’d felt equally terrible in 2021 only to have a great run. I didn’t know if the same would be true here but at least I knew there was hope.

I pulled up the heartrate face on my watch and saw 163. Leslie had wanted me to keep it under 160 for the first 5k and right out the gate I was too high. That was to be expected with those last fast bike miles though so I didn’t beat myself up, I just worked on slowing my pace and breathing.

About halfway through the first mile a man in a Tri Miami kit dropped a bunch of ziplocs out of his pockets as he ran past me. I grabbed them and called out to him but he didn’t hear me. I sped up and ran alongside him, handing him his bags. He thanked me and I dropped my pace back down. The effort spiked my heartrate further so I slowed even further, to what felt like a shuffle as I turned onto my favorite part of the run course: Greene Street.

Greene is a wide, patchily-shaded avenue lined with beautiful old Victorian houses. I felt hot and slow, and my heartrate was immovably at 163, but when my watch buzzed one mile I looked down and saw 9:09. Not as exciting as the 8:30s last year, but much faster than I felt I was going. My spirits lifted, feeling like maybe I’d have a (decidedly slightly slower) repeat of 2021’s surprisingly good run.

There’s a well-stocked and well-staffed aid station in the second mile and I walked through it, collecting water, taking one of my salt pills, and filling my sports bra and kit with two cups of ice, saving some to hold in each of my hands and to rub my face. (I learned the ice-holding trick long ago and it’s a great way to fool your body into thinking it’s cooler than it is.) I loped back into my 163bpm jog and was happy to see a 9:16 when my watch announced mile two – I was maintaining low nines even walking the aid stations and holding way back.

At this point the ice was doing its job and I decided to see what would happen if I picked up the pace a teensy bit. My heartrate ticked up a touch and my hip voiced an objection. I did manage to bring mile three in 8:53, but I decided I better not push too early, I didn’t want my leg to rebel with most of the run to go, so I slowed back down.

Miles 3-6 are an out and back on Broad Street, which has great spectator support, but is much hotter than Greene. I kept walking the aid stations and restraining myself pace-wise. My hip and nerve were still twinging a little as I ran reservedly east down Broad. Over the next few miles I averaged right on a 9:30 which would have crushed me in previous years, but this time around I was proud of myself for holding back and felt like the pace wasn’t too bad considering it included 10-20 seconds of aid station walking.

After the Broad Street out-and-back, the course hangs another two rights to take athletes east down Reynolds, the closest street parallel to the river. After a few blocks people on their second lap get to veer right again for the finish line while people on their first have to stay straight along Reynolds for almost an entire mile. This is the loneliest part of the run. Luckily you only have to do it once, and even more luckily, I had warned teammates about this liminal space devoid of spectators or anything encouraging, and Sara heard me and showed up there! As I was slogging in direct sun, hitting the halfway mark and trying to decide if I had it in me to finally speed it up, suddenly there was Sara cheering.

“What was that you said about this being the loneliest part of the course?!” she yelled at me. I laughed and teared up. I was so moved that she had filed away my comments the day before and shown up – even more so because she was originally supposed to be out here racing with us, but after a reckless driver destroyed her bike she still traveled and showed up. To have selfless friends and teammates like that never fails to move me and keeps me coming back to the sport despite all of my own setbacks.

I soaked in Sara’s encouragement, walked through the halfway point aid station (where I also picked up a push pop that was maybe not race-sanctioned but which everyone was taking) and proceeded with a lot more pep in my gimpy step. It was just what I needed to make my mind up: I was gonna make a play for a sub-2-hour half marathon, and, therefore, a significant negative split.

Mile seven clocked another 9:30 and I’d been at 61 minutes at the halfway mark, so with only six miles to go I really needed to pick it up. Mile eight included a bit of an incline to get back to shady-ish Greene Street which slowed me down some. Merging with the runners who were just hitting their first lap after exiting T2 was a boost – not in a schadenfreude way, it just felt like no time had passed since that had been me and here I was feeling better than I had one lap prior.

Mile eight with its incline clocked a 9:11. Faster but not faster enough. I picked up the pace in mile nine, or so I thought, but it also clocked a 9:11 – perhaps my walk through the aid station on Greene was longer than I realized, I did pause to give some salt pills to a gentleman whose legs were cramping. Whatever it was I knew I had to accelerate more aggressively, and with only four miles to go I didn’t have much to lose, so I stepped on it – or I did the 2022-about-to-get-hip-surgery version of stepping on it.

My hip and nerve were feeling much better than they had off the bike. I worried they’d rebel again when I sped up, as they had a lap prior, but as I pushed forward the whole left leg situation seemed to hold. Also, after struggling to keep my heart rate in place over the first half, my bpm had miraculously come down. All the ice and the focus on hydrating had worked – who’s ever heard of someone’s heart rate decreasing 3/4 through a race?!  As I dropped into the mid-8s, my heart rate only crept up a little, finally ending up in the zones Coach Leslie had prescribed for this part of the race. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such definitive proof of the physiological benefits of proper fueling.

Even with another aid station stroll replete with ice down my front and back and more salt intake, mile ten came in at a much-improved 8:46. With just a 5k to go I felt energized and ready and able to push the pace further. I was on track for my negative split but I would still need to hustle for a sub-2.

Early on in that tenth mile, as I passed people and felt myself getting stronger, a woman in an all-black kit charged past me like it was nothing. I yelled encouragement to her and felt inspired to push that much harder. I thought about her as I picked up the turnover and let my heart rate tick higher. I was running east down Broad Street, and as I crossed railroad tracks on 6^th Street I heard some spectators remark with alarm that a train was coming. I had more than a mile to run before I’d be back at this intersection coming the other way down Broad so I shrugged it off. I felt terrible for anyone who might get stuck for a minute or two, but I thought for sure it wouldn’t affect my race.

It was easy to forget about the train because a block later I saw Sara and Lola. I felt so proud that my friends were there to witness my surge. They said later that my energy and mood were so different from where they’d seen me a few miles before. I again walked through the aid station near the Broad Street turnaround, feeling confident that I’d been running in the low 8s and that it was worth the pause to hydrate and cool down.

After throwing more ice down my kit I launched back into the 8:teens, feel happy and capable. I saw a familiar black kit and repassed the fast woman who had overtaken me a mile ago. I said hello and she encouraged me on – it was everything I love about the sport and community. I rounded the switchback to head west and a couple short blocks later my watch announced an 8:34. That was better but with two miles to go I was all in to push even harder toward that sub-2 finish.

I was holding low 8:00s and feeling confident when the lady in black passed me back, which just fueled my fire. We greeted each other as old friends and, knowing she was in better run shape than me, I decided to see how long I could hang onto her wake. (Hopefully I’d be more successful than I was in the swim!)

I could not have been in a better mood as my new ninja friend and I crossed 4^th Street. My giddiness waned though as I looked up and saw a strange crowd two blocks ahead, and directly in front of them, the aforementioned choo choo rumbling unhurriedly by. I didn’t know what to do. Should I keep running hard and hope the train would pass in the next two blocks? Should I stop now and avoid the crowd to wait? I kept on running, from 4^th to 5^th Street, feeling the joy recede with every step as that damned train just kept coming. At 5^th Street my mentor in black slowed to a walk and I did the same a few paces behind her, happy to have someone else make the call.

We walked dejectedly toward this impassable obstacle less than two miles from the finish line. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Justin standing to the side of the road in the shade. At first I thought he was finished but no, he was also just waiting out the railroad schedule, which, like a combustion-powered honey badger, don’t give a fuck. I waved to him but kept walking, following my new friend to the front of the exasperated throng. There I found Lola and Sara, who tried to cheer me back up and offered to bring me to a race official who was taking down bib numbers of affected athletes. I was in a haze and getting upset and I don’t think I reacted much to my friends’ efforts to help. I just stared at this impossibly long and unbothered train and felt my sub-2 and momentum slip away.

After about a minute of mindless staring the caboose finally came and went, and the mob rushed forward. A great thing about triathlon is that the run is rarely crowded, but once the track cleared it was like the start of a competitive 5K – around a hundred people all hearing the gun at the same time and making a move. To make things trickier, I knew we were yards from the narrowest section of the course, where both the east and west-moving lanes of Broad Street converged winnowing the path to almost single-file for a block. I had no interest in getting stuck behind people I couldn’t pass, so as everyone surged, I surged harder.

I successfully got in front of most of the grumpy horde including the woman in black, sprinting harder than my barely-run-conditioned-self had any business going.  I’d been fueled by joy a few minutes ago, but now it was mostly irritation. I was running close to a 7 minute mile which I knew I couldn’t maintain, but it felt worth it when my watch buzzed an 8:45 for mile 12. Miraculously I could still bring it home in under two hours.

As I made the series of turns off of Broad and onto Reynolds, my run queen passed me one more time. I was hurting from the entire book of matches I’d just razed and slowing down. She overtook me easily but paused to urge me on. Her visage in front of me once more and a few words of encouragement were exactly what I needed to get my head back on. I’d been holding low 7s, and that wasn’t sustainable, but I did manage grab onto something just under 8 and hold on.

It took everything I had in me, but that’s exactly how you want to finish a race: spend it all. It seemed like it took longer than I remembered from the first lap, but I was elated to finally see the course divide for the finish line. I leaned into the last two turns off Reynolds and back onto Broad.

I made sure to drink in the crowd and live in the moment as my feet hit that beautiful finisher’s chute red carpet. I’d be going under the knife in six short weeks and needed to hold onto this feeling to stay motivated during a long immobile winter. The crowd did not disappoint and I finished feeling I’d given it everything I had – and grabbing my sub-two with a final run time of 1:58:29 and a final mile at 7:48.

The Aftermath

Lola and Sara were cheering just beyond the finish line. I collected my medal and my emotions and joined my friends. We found Justin and got to cheer Melissa in. Then we found Merle who had won her age group exactly as I thought she would. After grabbing some athlete food (pizza) Merle and I found the shuttle to get back to transition while Justin and Melissa went in search of their morning gear bags. The shuttle took a wildly meandering route to avoid the bike and run courses – it took a half hour to make it the 1.2 miles back and still dropped us off a ten-minute walk away. We absolutely could have walked in less time.

Merle rode back to the house while I pushed Koop over to TriBikeTransport which was set up conveniently right next to transition. The only downside was that, after dropping off my bike, I had to walk the mile and change back to the house schlepping all of my gear. It was slow going but I stopped and cheered runners on along the way which was nice. And even if it was a bit of a slog the house I was so happy to not have to drive anywhere.

Back at the house I showered and then walked back to a restaurant on Broad Street where Sara, Lola, and Merle were downing a pitcher of the strongest (and worst) margaritas I’ve ever encountered. They were dilly-dallying, probably thanks to all the bottom-shelf tequila, so I had to hurry them out to make it to the award ceremony in time for Lola to claim her slot to 70.3 Worlds in Finland next year.

After awards we were flummoxed to find that almost all of the restaurants downtown were closed. I’m not a business owner, but it sure seems like a missed opportunity to close shop right when a few thousand calorie-depleted athletes with disposable income are wandering around. We found one open spot that would take a to-go order, but we (or really Justin) waited over an hour for some mediocre burgers and sparse veggie sides.

We had all agreed to stay over after the race so we could make a proper team weekend of it but Augusta was not making things easy. Still we had a great time indulging in lots of wine and each other’s company. If I can ever get myself all the way healthy I want to take a fourth crack at this course – one of these days I might get it all the way right…trains willing.

Plus I got to recover working from (my parents’) home in Atlanta for a few days after, sneaking in some pool and puppy pointer time. So admittedly I’m geographically biased in favor of IM Augusta.

Race Day Eve Eve

When I registered for Augusta 2021 back in the spring I immediately went searching for a pet-friendly Airbnb knowing we’d want to make it a whole family trip to GA and spend a few days in Atlanta after. I found just about the cutest three bedroom house imaginable – white picket fence around a large yard and everything – and reserved it, figuring I’d worry about filling the rooms later.

Over the next few months friends signed up and unsigned up for Augusta and roommate plans changed. My teammate Melissa, who had proved to be an excellent race weekend buddy back in Maine in 2018, decided to switch from another half when she heard that Augusta had a downhill swim and a few weeks before the race she decided to shack up with us. (Luckily she loves dogs.)

She flew and we drove down the Friday before the race – I got to return the massive favor she did of driving my bike to Maine three years ago by bringing down her steed so she could fly. She got into the house before us and I was relieved when she texted that it was as cute as the pictures suggested. I feel very fortunate to have had some epically good race weekend Airbnb luck both this season and over the last few years.

Once Scott and I arrived Melissa got to see firsthand how he is the most generous and thoughtful race sherpa that ever did live. He went to the grocery store with lists from both of us while she and I sat outside on the adorable deck and had some vino while we watched the dogs play and caught up after almost two years apart thanks to COVID. We got a teensy bit devoured by mosquitoes but otherwise it was a perfect evening.

For dinner we ordered delivery from Farmhaus Burger in downtown Augusta – the run course goes right by it – which turned out to be some of the largest burgers we’d ever seen. I absolutely recommend it if you’re trying to put away a billion calories! The menu was fun with almost too many options including veggie burgers, and the delivery was quick and easy. I wouldn’t order from Farmhaus the night before the race but otherwise I give it a thumbs up.

Race Day Eve

We let ourselves sleep as late as we wanted on Saturday before Melissa and I drove down to the expo around 10am leaving Scott with the dogs and vowing to be back by early afternoon to relieve him. Oh how we were wrong! Once again, thank goodness Scott is the world’s best, most understanding race sherpa.

The expo was inside the Convention Center downtown – a descriptor which I use loosely for Augusta. Packet pickup was quick and mostly painless, though not one, not two, but three dudes cut in front of us in line as we were next to show our QR codes – a new procedure – and grab our things. They weren’t maliciously cutting, just that some men really never learn to take any stock of their surroundings or other people. It’s remarkable really. What a way to move through the world.

Eventually, once the menfolk had been served, it was my turn and then the process was easy. The volunteer handing out packets and swim caps asked me if I wanted a pink or a green cap. Given the choice I opted for green and was pumped not to have yet another girls-wear-pink swim cap.

Because of COVID the expo was pretty small with limited shopping options. Ironman had its usual setup of branded and race-branded gear, and as usual they were out of women’s sizes in most of it. Apparently they’d run out of things by mid-day Friday but they had plenty of large men’s gear. (See? Those guys didn’t need to cut us – the expo was ready and waiting to cater to them whenever they arrived!)

We stocked up on a few things, I picked up race tats from the Augusta Tri team as there was to be no body marking thanks to COVID, and I also picked up a poster from a local athlete who I’d met when I did this race in 2013. She and I had ended up doing the run together that year and we kept in touch. She’s a teacher and an artist and does a print for Ironman Augusta every year. Back in 2013 she sent me one after the race and Scott had it framed – it’s hanging in our pain cave and I often look at it during long rides to psych myself up.

Once we had our packets and other fun things, Melissa and I returned to the car which we’d parked just across the street from the Convention Center. Given the pandemic and lax enforcement of the mask mandate inside the Expo I was happy to get out quickly. Transition was a mile and a half away and we planned to do our bike/run shake-outs by riding there and running back.

We saddled up and set off from the parking lot around 11am, having scheduled to rack our bikes between 11 and noon – another COVID protocol to limit crowds. We rode most of the way there which only took a couple minutes, so we then backtracked through town and happened upon a pace line which we joined to add some mileage to our shakeout rides. I felt like I was moving kind of slow, but I figured it was because we were maneuvering around traffic and I wasn’t clipped in since we’d have to run back. I wondered briefly if I should have a mechanic check out the bike but it didn’t feel that off. I put it out of my mind as we got into transition and racked.

We were in and out quickly (and no one checked our 11am-12pm racking tickets) and got to jogging back to the car. It went smoothly and I was optimistic about how loose the legs were feeling and low the heart rate was staying. We finished our ten minute assignment a couple blocks from the Convention Center when it hit me: I’d left my car keys on my bike – safely tucked away in my bento box but, ya know, over a mile away from where we were standing, sweating, and supposed to be done working out for the day.

We stood around flummoxed by my stupidity and trying to figure out what to do next for a few minutes. I didn’t have a mask on me so ordering a car was out. I considered calling Scott to get his keys but we had the car and I wasn’t about to ask him to uber to us. I thought of calling my friend Holli who was in town but she’s a pro and I didn’t want to do anything to interfere with her pre-race plan. I told Melissa she could hang out and I’d walk back to the bike but she, being the awesome racecation trooper she is, said she’d walk back with me, but first we needed water. It was a surprisingly mild weekend but it was still 80-something degrees and we’d just biked and ran.

By a stroke of luck there was a farmer’s market going on across the street. We wandered over hoping to find water without having to venture indoors maskless somewhere. I was nervous we’d strike out when the scent of patchouli hit me upon entering the market, but fortunately one of the food vendors came through.

Waters in hand we decide to take the riverwalk path back to transition. It took us a few minutes to find a staircase up to the elevated walkway but soon we were on our way, back from whence we came.

Within a couple minutes we passed a little food truck advertising ice cream and other noms. It was past noon at this point and here was a place to get food without going inside anywhere so we decided to make a pitstop. We each ordered hot dogs and then we waited. For, I kid you not, 25 minutes. For hotdogs. And they were tasty but they were not half hour hotdogs tasty.

We ate and then resumed our odyssey back to transition. After another 25-ish minutes we made it, I located my keys exactly where I’d stupidly stashed them, and we turned around for the long trek back. We ran into Holli on the way which was nice, but otherwise it was over an hour on our feet and three-plus extra miles in the sun that were far from ideal 18 hours before a race.

When we got back to the car it was around 2pm and we had wanted to drive the bike course, albeit much earlier in the day than it now was. I texted Scott and he said he was fine with the doggos (actually he was having a great day) and we should go drive it if it’d be helpful, so we headed out for 56 miles through north Georgia. (The bike used to be mostly through South Carolina [Gamecocks suck!] but the state got tired of all the road closure irritation of an Ironman with very little of the economic boost so the course had to migrate.)

We headed out of “downtown” Augusta for the peachy countryside to the south of the “city” and were quickly sure we’d already gone off-course. Ironman’s turn-by-turn bike directions are very irritating in that they don’t include distances, so you have to compare against google maps and try to figure out how long each direction will last – is the next turn in half a mile or ten miles? Who knows! Yes there are turn arrows painted on the road but they’re easy to miss while driving, especially if you have no idea when to look out for them. Melissa and I struggled with this very obvious and fixable deficiency for the first 15 or so miles until we finally got the hang of the course. Around five miles in I noted we seemed to be on a false flat for a while and that we should remember that tomorrow. This observation would bite me in the ass, kinda literally, the next day.

As we drove we noticed another athlete following us – either that or he was trying to murder us? (North Georgia…who knows. [Insert Ned Beatty gif here…]) Ultimately we didn’t get murdered and we were very happy to have taken the time to drive the course. It’s much hillier than the old SC ride, with all of the elevation coming between miles ten and forty, and a couple long grinding ascents. Race day was going to throw some no-bs climbs at us, but we now felt we knew what to expect and where.

It was past 4pm when we made it back to Scott who, true to saintly form, was in great spirits despite being left on his own all day. (He’d found a dog park a few minutes away and met other Great Danes, several puppies, and now was making use of the great yard, deck, and weather.)

Melissa and I showered – I’m sure we were pretty stinky from our unnecessary pilgrimage back and forth (and back and forth again). She set about race prepping while I set about dinner planning. We ordered take out from a place called Oliviana’s and Scott kindly went to pick it up. Not that Augusta has a whole lot to offer on the fine dining or Italian front, but it was absolutely mediocre and perfect for pre-race carbing.

I must be really rusty at transition packing because it took me ages to get my morning bag ready while Melissa was done long before bedtime. Having paid for them I was painstaking about applying my race tats as well. Eventually I was finally as prepared as I was gonna be, and after a few Schitt’s Creek episodes – a streaming tonic that may replace my pre-race SVU tradition – we all were tucking in around 9pm. I credit Melissa with this uncharacteristically responsible bedtime.

Race Morning

I set my alarm to 4:13 am with plans to leave the house at 5:20 (meaning 5:30) but I was up pretty well awake by 4am. Despite those extra few minutes, I dawdled so slowly through my oatmeal and coffee that we weren’t in the car until 5:35. (It’s possible that part of the delay was a result of me trying to climb back into bed in my kit for extra snuggles with Daenerys.) Finally though, I crawled into the back of the Subaru with the dogs while Melissa rode up front and Scott drove.

I nursed a bottle of Scratch and tried to find a comfortable, safe, and not totally conspicuous way to sit with the pups. We were already running late when what should have been a 10 minute drive to transition was extended by early road closures. Despite assurances to the contrary, our exit off the highway was already closed at 5:45am. We were forced to drive over the river and into South Carolina (boo fake USC!). We could see transition and the swim start as we crossed the Savannah River and my stomach did oh-shit-oh-shit flips as we drove in the wrong direction and into another state.

I felt awful that I’d been so pokey getting ready and that now, after making her walk miles in the hot sun due to my stupidity the day before, I was making Melissa so stressfully tardy for transition. As the swim start got smaller and farther away through the wayback window of the Subaru, I was afraid we might even miss the race we were cutting it so close. Scott was able to quickly turn around and  and fortunately the exit was open as we now approached it from the north. The diversion into the Palmetto state probably only added three or four minutes to the trip but given how late we already were those few minutes felt interminable. (Also the proximity to yucky Gamecocks probably made it seem longer.)

Scott let us out a few blocks from transition and we rushed to our bikes fighting upstream against crowds that were already leaving for the swim start. We passed Holli who was in line for one of the shuttles to the swim. She teased us for showing up so late but then had to contend with her own odyssey involving a shuttle driver who didn’t actually know where the swim start was so it seems we were in good company with our pre-race near-disasters!

It was just about 6am when we finally got to our racks. We didn’t need to pump our tires as it hadn’t been cool enough to let air out – though later on I would come to really regret that I hadn’t more thoroughly check my bike set up. (This is called foreshadowing. I’m building tension. Is it working?) It took about 10 minutes to fill bottles and prep our spots and then we hustled over to the porta potty lines.

There were a few banks of portas scattered through transition and I had obviously been sussing the line situation at each. We opted for the bathrooms toward the back corner that I think most people hadn’t noticed in the pre-dawn dark. The line moved quickly and Melissa and I were done and grabbing what we needed to exit transition with time – not a lot but some – to spare before it closed at 6:30.

Pre-Swim

Melissa and I were both pretty COVID cautious and felt safer walking to the swim start rather than cramming into a shuttle of southerners knowing many wouldn’t mask and many weren’t vaccinated. By now we were very familiar with the 1.2 mile walk, and other than being a little chilly we made it there with no issues.

People were already lined up according to swim times so we quickly found some space and shimmied into our wetsuits. The fact that the only available space was on a steep incline was a challenge but I chalked it up as an extra warm-up. Perfect since I never really do a warm up! (Should I be doing a warm up?)

Melissa had brought the morning gear bag Ironman had given everyone so that she could check her warm clothes and shoes and have dry things waiting at the finish line. I hadn’t brought mine as that’s what husbands are for but I did take her up on her offer to check my otherwise-throw-away flip flops – they’d live to see another race morning!

As she was tying up the bag she realized her timing chip was no longer strapped around her ankle, but she was positive it had been before she had put on her wetsuit. We tore the gearbag open and pulled everything back out, flipping clothes inside and out, checking pockets, and growing panicked that after our tardy morning she now had no chip. Eventually she found it wadded up in her wetsuit sleeve but it was an unnecessarily tense few minutes and yet another delay.

She ran to find the bag drop-off and I squeezed into the mass of people in front of a sign for projected 30 minute swims. It was hard to predict my swim time as the current was an unknown quantity. I live in mortal fear of seeding myself too aggressively and having to swim with faster athletes, or, worse, having to try too hard in the water. I’ve swam around 37 minutes in several 70.3s and felt like seven or eight minutes was a reasonable expectation for the downstream boost.

Melissa made it back from gear check just as the line started moving and I was so relieved we’d get to start together. We both wore masks as we were surrounded my a couple thousand people in very up close and personal proximity. A few other people also masked but most didn’t. (Actually a decent chunk of spectators did, but very few athletes.) We were in the middle of the Delta surge and Georgia was being hit very hard, Augusta ICUs were overflowing with COVID patients, and I found it really disappointing, predictable but disappointing, that Ironman hadn’t made even the teensiest bit of effort by requiring masks at this mass start.

Swim

The pro men and women got started at 7:00 and 7:07am respectively. (And Holli made it just in time, no thanks to the itinerant morning shuttle!) Age groupers were sent off at 7:15 and we were inching forward shortly thereafter. It took us 20 minutes to make it to the dock. Melissa and I ditched our masks in a trash can just before we stepped on to the slippery floating mass of metal.

Aside from donning neoprene on a hillside, the first athletic challenge of the day was to safely descend a steep and incredibly slick ramp down to the water. There were inch-wide steel rods creating a quasi-staircase, but you had to tightly grip the railing and gently step down. The whole contraption was wet, which, being so high above the water, I can only assume was largely from pee. It was a good reminder to see if I could go once before entering the river, knowing how I struggle to pee while swimming – especially in a wetsuit.

Once we reached the flat dock we had about two minutes before we were sent off and I successfully squeezed out a pee just before being summoned to the edge of the dock and into the river. It felt like a victory before my time even started, and I stepped into the water feeling ready to work.

Because of COVID (and non-pandemic general bureaucratic incompetence) the public pools in DC had been an absolute mess, and with Delta I didn’t care to swim indoors anyway, so over the summer I had joined the Wave One Swim Club that holds three weekly open water swim practices at National Harbor in Maryland. I’d gone to their practices a few times over the years, but never with any regularity because lap swimming was more convenient and my job used to involve a lot of evening events. Working from home and without evening obligations I was able to make it out at least once a week and as a result, stepping into the Savannah River I felt more comfortable in open water than I ever had before.

For the first time I didn’t have to fight off the panicky mean voice that usually plagues me with thoughts of you-can’t-do-this for the first few hundred meters of every race. In the weeks before race day I’d even been swimming outside in my wetsuit so I felt fully comfortable from the jump. (Step, we’re not allowed to jump in.) The Savannah River was also much cleaner and more pleasant than the Potomac. I’m used to not being able to see more than a few inches in front of me. This water was clear and I could see everything around me easily which made the swimming that much more enjoyable.

The clean clear water also meant I didn’t need to really sight off the buoys, and, better than that, it meant I could try to draft off someone. I seemed to have seeded myself appropriately, so for the first few hundred meters there wasn’t anyone to try and follow. After a few minutes though a man swam up on my right at just the right amount faster than me and I decided to go for it. I’ve only ever successfully drafted off my bff Clarice during a practice swim in Kona, so I wasn’t sure I’d be successful, but I knew when it did work it was a huge boost.

As this faster gentleman got past me I pulled behind him and picked up the pace a bit to follow his toes, and oh my god it worked. With the see-through water (which is absolutely how water is supposed to be, right? I shouldn’t need an adjective?) I could simply watch the bubbles he was kicking up and swim through those. Eventually I managed to pull up alongside his calves which is the swim draft sweet spot. I was able to relax my effort but keep pace with him.

This joyride lasted probably 500 meters before another, less kind gentleman swam over both of us and my ride swam on without me while I was sputtering to recover from the cruel dunking. I was disappointed to lose my tow but at this point we were more than halfway through the swim and I was really proud of myself for hanging on as long as I did – it felt like a breakthrough and a success I can replicate and improve on in future races. (If the water is clear [like water’s meant to be] anyway.)

I put my head down and tried to get into a rhythm for the last few hundred meters. The second half of the swim was very seaweedy which made it more difficult to get in the zone and go. Every so often I had to wrestle free of the slimy aquatic foliage, or worse, spit it out. And my brain that had been so mercifully quiet until now started conjuring thoughts of the gators known to stalk this river. (There are actually divers who, in the days before the race, cut down as much of the seaweed on the course as they can and they are stationed under the swimmers the whole time. Both thank you to them and yikes!)

I didn’t have to swim through the kelp for too long before the swim exit came into view. Things got more crowded once we were pointed right toward shore and I had to content with some folks who were swimming and wading defensively, but I was able to utilize my one tiny person strength and swim further than most people before the shallow water forced me upright and up the boat ramp. As I ran up the incline I clicked to T1 on my watch and was thrilled to look down and see 27:20 for swim time – the current and the drafting had given me a 10 minute boost off my usual 70.3 pace.

My official swim time was actually 27:09, and better than that, 13th in my age group – the highest I’ve ever placed in an Iron swim. I usually come in middle-of-the-pack and have to bike and run my way out of that hole, so to finish in the top 15% of the swim was a huge win leaving me in much better shape to cycle-run my way towards the front…at least it should have if I’d checked my bike properly…

T1

It was a steep run up to transition. I jogged it up trying to move deliberately but not spike the heart rate unnecessarily. I swear I tried to hurry through transition but I just can’t get my T1s right. It’s mostly the getting my feet dry enough to pull socks on that I struggle with. I also had to wipe down my glasses repeatedly before I could get going. A very lame six minutes and 39 seconds I was finally in the saddle and on my way.

Bike

And right away something felt off. The wheels felt slow and everything felt like it was dragging. I tapped the brakes a few times and they squeaked with dew and I told myself the lethargy was water weight. I rode through town feeling frustrated with my speed but chalked it up to legs that hadn’t warmed up yet and the in-town section of the course just not being conducive to speed. I was (pretty) sure I’d be able to pick up the pace once I got out to the more open road.

Over the first five miles I averaged around 18mph and I had to work for it. There were a few short climbs up highway onramps but otherwise these were some of the flattest miles of the day and I should have been in the low 20s and expending much less effort. Maybe three miles in, while heading up one of those onramps, the tire of a guy a few bike lengths ahead of me popped loudly. It looked to be a tubeless tire and I heard him curse loudly as he pulled over. I felt awful for him and thought, comparatively, this weirdly slow heavy ride wasn’t so bad, and I continued to push aside thoughts that something was wrong with my set up.

A few more miles in Melissa rode up next to me. As she passed I asked her if I looked like I had a flat. I’d started to notice a friction-y noise and was wondering if I had a slow leak. I’ve actually never had a flat while out riding and worried I wouldn’t even know how to identify one. She paused and gave my ride a once over and reported that everything looked ok before riding on ahead. We were traversing an overpass with some dirt and gunk on the shoulder so I told myself the friction-y sound effect was just rolling through that debris. I was a little disturbed by easily Melissa had overtaken me, but I’ve always considered her a more naturally talented cyclist so I wasn’t too bothered by it. On I rode dumbly ignoring the shit’s-not-right inklings.

Not long after Melissa effortlessly overtook me I reminded myself of the false flat I’d noted the day before. I thought as soon as I get past this bit my speed is sure to come back to me. By now, 7ish miles in, I was very worried about my sky-high heart rate. Dave had wanted me 135-145 BPM, but I was in the mid-150s fighting for 17/18 mph. I knew this was not sustainable for 50 more miles – especially because I hadn’t hit any real hills yet – but I kept coming up  with excuses for why this was temporary and would soon be ok.

Around mile 8 though we started down a clear descent and my pace still didn’t pick up – I was still working for 18 mph, downhill now. I felt like I didn’t have time to stop though, I needed whatever momentum I could grind out because at mile nine the course headed up the first serious climb of the day and I didn’t want to pull over and then take it from a standstill. Very soon into the nearly mile-long uphill effort I knew 110% that something was wrong, and I began to suspect that the front wheel was rubbing against the brake.

I dug into my pedals and fought my way up, still managing to pass some of the many people around me as my mind spun – faster than my encumbered wheels – on what to do. I knew I needed to pull over but I didn’t want to stop mid-mountain, and with the course packed with athletes there was nowhere to safely stop anyway. Finally, 95% to the top there was a driveway and I pulled off and carefully unclipped – always a dodgy endeavor on a slow incline.

Sure enough my front wheel was rubbing against the right caliper. As I tried to spin it I was shocked I’d managed even 18mph or any climbing at all. I’d basically ridden 10 miles with the brake on. I’d expended who knows how much needless extra energy and lost at least ten minutes before pulling over. Now I desperately pulled the front wheel off and reaffixed it but could not get the brake to stop rubbing. The wheel seemed like it was on true, so maybe the whole brake component was off. Whatever it was I didn’t have the tools or skills to fix it there on the side of that climby highway.

After a few unsuccessful reskewerings I said ‘fuck it’ and opened the brake calipers. Given the hilly course – all that ascending comes with a bunch of descending – this was a dicey move, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’m a wimpy descender so I’d just have to be extra cautious riding with minimal front brakes – at least I’d have the more important rear brake, right?

Decision made and mechanics adjusted I turned back toward the packed course and had to wait another 90 seconds for a sufficient break in traffic to safely remount and take the last few degrees of this first hill. About 30 seconds after I’d swung back into the saddle my watch and bike computer both buzzed to alert me that I was ten miles very slowly down – and averaging 16mph for miles 6-10. In addition to those 10 very slow miles my pitstop had taken three or four minutes and a sub-3 hour ride was slipping away.

The good news is that as soon as I was back on my dearest Koopa Troop felt like himself again. A hundred or so slower athletes had passed me while I played inept mechanic and I had so much work to do now. I got to work repassing them, finally feeling in control of my ride – well minus the front brakes.

My heart rate immediately fell in line too, dropping from the 150s and 160s into Dave’s prescribed 130s and 140s. It climbed as I climbed up a miles-long grinder from miles 13-15, but my pacing and biometrics fell into place as soon as I was no longer riding with a drag suit on.

My back did start to ache with each hill, an issue I’ve had in races but never in training. I’m sure a lot of the pain was due to ten miles of over-exertion plus sciatic issues I’ve had all summer. Approaching the first aid station once we leveled off at mile 15 I slowed and looked to see if there was a medical tent that might have Advil or something to alleviate some of the pain but saw nothing but gels and bananas. I was doing fine on nutrition so on I rode vowing to check out the next station at mile 30.

The cooler than expected day was at least assisting with nutrition. I had scratch in my aero bottle, a bottle of water in my cage, a couple gus, and a couple stroopwaffels. I was hydrating regularly and taking in gu or waffle every time my watch announced another five mile lap. I felt good fuel-wise the whole ride. At mile 20 I did drop one of the gus as I tried to bite it open, but I was able to grab another at an aid station and it was ok. I also forgot my salt pills, which I keep doing on the bike so I have to figure that out, but the mild weather saved me there.

Miles 15 through 30 were climby and achey on my back, but they were mostly enjoyable. I tried to mind my heart rate on the uphills and ride delicately on the downhills knowing the course from the day before and minding my lack of stopping ability. I have a tendency not to shift enough uphill so I tried to appropriately gear and keep my cadence steady and not burn too many matches the way I’ve mistakenly done on climbs past. The course stayed pretty crowded the whole way which I didn’t love, but also there were always people to pass (good mental boost) and talk to (good distraction).

I was averaging around 19mph now even with the climbing, and I was running the numbers trying to determine whether I still had any chance at a sub-3 ride. At first it seemed doable but as I went and ran the the numbers every mile I realized it was pretty unlikely. I started getting very unhappy with myself. Why hadn’t I pulled over the second I thought something was off? Why hadn’t I triple-checked things this morning or yesterday – I’d made multiple trips to transition after all.

By mile 30 I knew we had less than ten miles of climbing left and I was absolutely pissed with myself. Once again there was no medical tent at the aid station so I knew I was on my own with the achey over-climbed back. With only a few more hills I figured there was no reason to hold back on the ascending effort. I burned through a few matches and some rage as I dispensed with the last climbs of the day.

By mile 40 the climbing was done, but the ride back to transition included a total mindfuck five-mile out and back followed by a lot of ugly, headwindy, trafficky highway. I stayed low and tried to hammer.  I put up my fastest bike numbers of the day but it didn’t really matter. I made up some good time and ignored Dave’s directives to back off the last few miles, but with the headwinds and then a couple slow, winding miles back through town, it wasn’t nearly enough. I finished the bike with a disappointing 3:05:40.

T2

I was so mad at myself as I dismounted. After setting myself up well with my best swim ever I’d totally blown it. And I’d been most excited to see what I could do on the bike today. I felt like completely let myself and Dave and anyone who’d cared down. And after eight years of this sport and all this time and energy I’d spent pivoting to the bike when I’d had to pull back from running, I just felt like I’d never get it right.

I usually have a strong T2 but my disappointment dragged at me and it took three minutes and 55 seconds before I was finally out on the run course. And I was out there with a bad attitude.

Run

As I got going my legs felt as shitty and slow as my brain, which was screaming at me that I was a worthless idiot who had no business dragging Scott and my body (and pocketbook) through this sport any more.

My run has never been the same since the hip fracture so I was going to do this half marathon strictly off heartrate and absent any sort of time goals or even expectations. I didn’t look at pace at all but tried to settle into the 150s where Dave wanted the first 5K. Within seconds of leaving transition time I was at 160bpm  and having to hold way back to stay there. A hundred meters in and the run already had already combusted. I felt like I was barely moving and yet my heart was pounding. I was sure I was bombing this harder than I’d bombed the bike.

A few minutes in I saw Scott and the dogs and announced as I passed them that this was my last triathlon. As I turned down Greene St, a beautiful, wide thoroughfare lined with the kind of old Southern architecture I usually love to gape at, I just felt miserable with myself and completely dejected. I had no idea what my pace was but I felt sure it was around 10 min/mile and still my heartrate was barely contained. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through 13 miles this way – physically and mentally.

I lumbered past the first mile marker and waited for my watch to buzz – at least the course seemed a little short, maybe it’d only be 12.9 miles of this misery. Ten seconds past that first marker my watch dinged and I looked down at my wrist expecting to see a double-digit mile time. Instead I saw “8:17” glowing up at me. What the eff? I was moving much faster than I thought – much faster than I felt like I was moving. I was actively holding myself back to stay at least close to my heartrate parameters and I was running that fast? My mood immediately rebounded. (For some folks it doesn’t take much.)

I feel like I must be the most shallow triathlete in the world (and that’s saying something) for how instantaneously my attitude 180’ed. There’s so much more to this sport than speed, but I’ve had more than my share of disappointment and am still grappling with the fact that I’ll likely never fully recover my run, so I shamelessly reveled in the unexpected first mile split.

While my heartrate was still a few beats a minute higher than Dave had wanted it, the effort felt manageable as long as I fueled well. So I stayed locked into that 160 bpm and grabbed plenty of water, ice, and calories at the first aid station, walking through it to eat and drink and shove ice into my bra and the back of my kit. I thanked the volunteers and tried to savor the experience of getting to race generally and getting to run down this wide, shady(ish) boulevard.

Actually only half of the multi-lane street was shaded, and a police woman was trying to force athletes to run to the right of cones down the center line, forcing us onto the sunny  side of the street. I heeded her but most runners ignored her and she was clearly exasperated by it. I know she was trying to keep a lane open for spectators and race or emergency vehicles in case they came by, but it’s pretty cruel to ask athletes 60 and 70 miles into a race in the South to run in the direct sun when there is shade a few feet to the left. (On the second lap I didn’t even pretend to try to obey her pleas – and she’d mostly given up trying.

A few minutes past the first aid station, and a few seconds past the second mile marker – course was still running short! – my watch buzzed announcing an 8:32 split. A little slower than the first mile but only because I’d walked to hydrate and eat, and even if I ran 8:30s or 40s the rest of the half marathon I would be thrilled with the performance.

Keeping my heartrate steady at 160 I rounded a few quick right hand turns and soon was heading west on another wide road parallel to that beautiful shady boulevard I’d so enjoyed. This time though there was no shady side – police orders or no. There was however increased crowd support and I felt myself quicken with the cheers. Quickly I pulled myself back though, realizing that, despite the crowd-generated adrenaline boost, it was going to be even more important to moderate the effort now that the course was all sun all the time, at least until the second lap.

Mile three came in at a perfect 8:16 – my pace was consistent and still felt sustainable – shallow me was still thrilled. I walked through the second aid station, grabbing plenty of water and taking time to swallow a few of the salt pills I’d grabbed in T2 as well as half a stroopwafel. With the walking mile four clocked an 8:28 and now I was in the single digits!

In the middle of the 4th mile I saw Scott and the pups and had my already buoyant spirits lifted by Daenerys as she excitedly galloped next to me. Scott told me Melissa was a few minutes ahead of me.  The course is a series of out-and-backs down parallel streets so I started scanning the runners running west on the other side of the median for my friend.

I didn’t spot her but I felt good as I got to turn around and head west myself for mile five. Thanks to the course layout I saw Scott and the dogs and got some more exuberant running alongside Daenerys in this fifth mile too. He told me I was gaining on Melissa. I was excited to hopefully catch up to her and maybe run together for a bit. The day was starting to feel hotter with these shadeless stretches down Broad Street so I was happy to have a reason to keep pushing.

My pace did slow a bit without any tree cover: mile five was 8:38 and mile six was my slowest of the day at 8:54. That was thanks in part to the continued merciless sun-running as we turned off Broad Street to run back east on river-adjacent Reynolds, and in part because I realized I’d dropped my salt tabs and took extra time walking through an aid station searching my kit pocket and then grabbing extra salty treats from the tables once I realized they were definitely gone.

I was unhappy with that almost-9-minute mile so I tried to pick it up a bit as I hit the halfway mark. The mile-and-a-half on Reynolds is the toughest part of the course though. The buildings are more blighted as you run east and the crowd support dwindles. There was a an aid station towards the end of it though populated by a family that was playing music and dancing and trying as hard as the could for us. I paused there and grabbed a coke – when my body says it needs something in a race I try to listen and that coke sounded exactly right. They were also handing out ice pops – this was definitely the MVP of aid stations and it all added up to a much-improved 8:26 for that seventh mile.

As I turned off Reynolds to start the second lap I considered how remarkably improved my spirits were – just an hour before I’d run past this very spot and told Scott I was done with triathlon. Now I was enjoying myself and back to loving the sport. There was a small incline and soon I was back on partially-shaded Greene Street. The policewoman had given up keeping runner in the sunny, righthand lane, we all just took advantage of the short reprieve and ran under the trees.

My watch buzzed an 8:44 for mile eight as I walked through an aid station, again favoring chips and things to make up for my lost salt tabs. Shortly after I started running again I saw a familiar pony tail. I ran up next to Melissa and jogged with her for a bit. She was feeling the heat but looked steady. She was definitely ready to be done and we were only a few miles from the finish. She told me to run on ahead which I did, happy to have had a moment with my teammate.

I was happy to see mile nine back in the 8:30s with an 8:34 buzzing just as I turned off Greene and back onto sun-drenched Broad. At least the crowds here were almost as enthusiastic as the early afternoon Georgia sun. I was able to keep mile ten consistent with an 8:31, and now I was starting to think about something that had seemed impossible during the bike and beginning of the run: a 70.3 PR.

With a 5k to go I had done the math and if I could bring this half marathon in under 1:53 I was pretty sure it would be a personal best for the distance. The day was feeling hotter and hotter, Broad Street was sucking my will to run, but that thought fueled me forward.

Ok Broad Street did beat me up a bit with an 8:51 for Mile 11, but as I cornered the turnaround I resolved to turn it up the rest of the way home. I wanted that PR.

I still felt out of race practice – I was afraid if I went too hard in this penultimate mile I’d crash and burn in the final. Instead of going all out too soon I dropped into the 8:30s again. I was chasing a 1:52 run time, nothing more. Mile 12 was right on the money at 8:34. I just needed to stay steady the last 1.1 miles.

I opted to skip the last aid station. As I made the turn from Broad onto Reynolds with just over half a mile to go I decided I was safe to push a little harder, pretty sure I could stay in the pain for the last few minutes. I dropped into the 7:50s down desolate Reynolds, this time knowing I got to turn for the finish before running the whole lonely stretch.

I passed people right and left until two glorious right turns took me toward the finisher’s chute. Mile 13 came in at 8:08 – the fastest of the day, and with .1 to go and the red carpet in sight I stepped on the gas some more, dropping into the 7:20s for that final minute. The effort was rewarded with a 1:51:30 half marathon, and an overall time of 5:34:51 – a 1:15 PR.

The Aftermath

I was so happy with my legs. They’d shown up after I beat them up with that wheel-rubbing stunt on the bike. And after months of achilles struggles and sciatica, somehow this run had been pain-free. I joyfully reunited with Scott and the dogs, and we only had to wait a few minutes for Melissa to finish as well.

We grabbed some athlete food and Melissa picked up her morning gear bag, and then we vegged for a bit before making the long mile walk one final time back to transition. We once more opted to walk along the river, shuffling slowly. We ran into Holli and all compared notes on the day.

Once we’d collected our things from transition we were thrilled to find that Scott had parked very close and we could finally get off our feet. I wedged myself in the back with the dogs and we headed home to our adorable Airbnb.

Scott and I then decided to drive the couple hours to my parents’ place in Atlanta that evening rather than wait for the morning. The proximity to family and opportunity to spend a few days recovering poolside post-race is one of the many pluses of Augusta.

Coach Dave pointed out later that if I hadn’t ridden with the brake on for ten miles I probably would have turned out an even faster run, and looking at my age group I probably would have cracked the top ten which has been a goal for a couple years. It all added up to a great race but unfinished business, so heading back down to Georgia in 2022! And happily Melissa, ever the excellent race-cation teamie, feels the same.

 

Race Day Eve Eve

I planned to ferry up Friday afternoon but the dang work calendar kept changing, so by the time I knew my schedule it was too late to buy boat tickets. (This was doubly annoying as I knew I would be putting in notice at this time-consuming workjob as soon as I got back from Cape May.) I didn’t get on the road till about 4pm – not ideal for leaving downtown DC on a summer Friday. Once I made it out of the city though it was pretty smooth sailing. (Or not sailing, or ferrying, just driving. I still wished I were on a boat.)

Speed Sherpa teammates Colin and Jessica were kindly putting me up in their adorable beach house for the weekend. I got to their house around 8pm, unpacked the car quickly, and we immediately headed out to dinner at Harpoons on the Bay, an outdoor bar/restaurant that is the nexus of night (and day) life in North Cape May. (It’s even on both the bike and run courses.)

At Harpoons we saw other tri friends we know from Rev3 and general swimbikerunning, including Ed and Robert of Williamsburg fame and their beauteous wives respectively Dorothy and Marnie. We had a delicious dinner and a few glasses of wine and then walked the short two blocks home. We were in bed by 11pm and I enjoyed a surprisingly decent night of sleep.

Race Day Eve

We all had a leisurely morning, enjoying walks on the beach and good coffee. (And in my case deciding to finally finish and publish the previous summer’s Tri AC Race Report.) At 11am the three of us met local teammate (not Coach) Dave at check-in. As part of Delmo’s efforts to reduce its administrative burden race numbers were not assigned ahead of time – they were first-come-first-bibbed. By showing up shortly after check-in opened, the four of us ended up in primo position on the first row near bike out/bike in.

We collected our packets and did some quick Expo shopping as the sky was ominous and spitting. (I bought a sweatshirt because the weekend was already proving strangely cold for June in the time of climate change and I had not packed accordingly.)

We then checked out our excellent transition placement but did not rack our bikes. Another new(ish) and welcome feature of this race is morning-of bike check-in. Rather than have to leave our whips overnight and then hoof it or look for parking in the morning we were able to ride down race day and rack then. It’s a great move logistically and spares the surrounding neighborhood of parking wars.

After check-in, Colin, Jess and I got lunch at a great outdoor spot called Exit Zero – highly recommend. Then we hit the Acme grocery store to buy what we’d need for the race as well as for dinner as we had decided to cook. I had flashbacks of shopping there with Mike back in 2019 – one of my favorite race weekends ever before the world shut down.

Once home we saddled up and met Coach Dave at his rental a few blocks away for a shakeout ride.

Dave and Colin are both win-the-whole-race-outright fast. I tried to hang with them for a few minutes but as they were casually pushing 25mph on this supposed warmup I quickly remembered we were in different leagues and hung back.

I called it quits after 20 minutes, not wanting to overstress my hip and damaged nerves. The others carried on and then Jess did a ten-minute run for good measure but I headed back to the house, knowing my pain-free activity is a limited resource nowadays.

Again I thought of 2019, how cautious I’d had to be then when I’d just started running again after six months off and three months on crutches. It was weird and distressing to think that in a lot of ways I was healthier then than I am now – at least then I was on the mend with a clear course of action. Now I’m dealing with the other hip, needing surgery but trying to put it off till winter, and nerve issues that no one can figure out. I tried to put those thoughts out of my head over the weekend, focusing on the things I am still capable of, but I’ve been struggling mentally with the constant physical incapacitation, and flashbacks to 2019 didn’t help and were hard to avoid.

One of my 2019 roomies, teammate Steve, came over for dinner and hopefully I didn’t freak him out with a big emotional bearhug – he’s one of my favorite race buddies (and regular friends) and we hadn’t seen each other in 2.5 years – iI felt a little emotional when he appeared. He mentioned that he was planning to sleep in his car at a campground that night, but Jess and Colin were not having that and insisted he stay with us. My room had a bunk bed so we got to relive 2019 Escape the Cape Wayne Street shenanigans – I just wished Tiff, Clarice, Mike, and Russ had all been there too. (It was nice to not be sharing a single bathroom with six people though.)

After dinner we all kind of did our own thing race prepping. Jess and I spent some quality times in our Normatecs watching old Schitt’s Creek episodes, the dudes did whatever dudes do. I also spent time in the shower trying to stretch my long sleeve wetsuit which I hadn’t worn since Ironman Arizona in 2019 enough to sort of fit.

While getting ready we fretted nonstop about the forecast which I’d been refreshing obsessively. All week it had gotten worse and by Saturday night it called for unrelenting thunderstorms from 3am on. I was convinced the race was going to get cancelled – no way they let people jump off a boat in a thunderstorm. Any other race I would have been crossing my fingers for a cancelled swim but the whole draw of Escape the Cape is the ferry leap. Plus if the weather really turned out as bad as predicted they probably wouldn’t let us bike or run either. Colin and Jess were confident that the “Cape May bubble” would save us. Jess, a literal climate scientist, even gave us the meteorological run-down over dinner explaining the science behind the high pressure rain-deterring bubble phenomenon that tends to shield the area from storms.

A little after 9pm we parted ways for bed, but my internal clock didn’t get the memo. I tried reading, doing a crossword, mentally walking through the race, but nothing made me tired. Steve was on the top bunk and every time he moved around the bed creaked loudly, so for a while I knew he was awake too. But eventually his fidgeting stopped and I was alone in my insomnia. I tried for hours to will myself into a REM cycle. At 12:48am I got up to use the bathroom and I hadn’t yet slept. Once back in bed I finally drifted off for a couple hours but I woke again at 2:30, and then again at 3:30, at which point I stayed mostly conscious until the alarm blared at 4:25. I didn’t feel as ragged as I feared I would, but I didn’t feel great either as I got myself dressed and choked down my oatmeal and banana.

Race Morning

At 5:35am we biked our stuff down to transition. We arrived at 5:45, ostensibly with plenty of time to prep our spots and be out of transition before it closed at 6:30. As we rolled up and dismounted though, we were directed to the back of a very long line  to have our bags canine-searched before we could enter. This took about 15 minutes and would have taken longer but the police eventually just asked dozens of people at a time to put their bags down and step away while the dogs came through, snoots ablazin’. We were wheeling to our racks by 6am – more than enough time, but there were still a lot of people showing up and the line was long and getting longer.

At least the race was actually happening! The Cape May bubble had come through and broken up the impending storms. The forecast still called for rain starting between 9 and 10am – potentially while we were on the bike or even still swimming – and the three-mile swim had been shortened to a one-mile swim in case, but we were getting on, and then promptly jumping off, that dang boat.

With 15 minutes to spare I darted out of transition to hit the porta potties. There was a bank of 15 or so with a long line, but as I went to join it I noticed a lone potty off to the side of the mechanics tent, with only five people in line. I slid into the very short queue while the main porta line grew. Colin and Jess came out of transition and I discretely waved them over to the secret potty. When someone a few people ahead of me announced there was no toilet paper, Colin dashed back to transition and returned with a roll he kept in his bag – hero. After my turn I went back to transition and collected my wetsuit and goggles, and then rejoined our secret potty team party. We intercepted other friends, Steve, Sara, Coach Dave, Julie (Rev3 swimming superstar) as they were about to join the long line and inducted them into our glorious team bathroom. It was the height of triathlon glamour.

Once everyone had done their business we headed as a group to the ferry. Coach Dave was elated saying we’d timed things perfectly: he always wants to be the last ones on the boat and we indeed were, but we weren’t late or rushed. We boarded and headed to the stern where we were able to spread out, watch the water, and leisurely pull our wetsuits on.

As the ferry approached our jumping off point and slowed, people around the back of the ship were watching something. I joined the group and saw dolphins jumping maybe a hundred meters away, leaping in the runway of light where the sunrise lit up the wake. The sight brought such joy and helped me get in a good head space to start the race.

After wetsuiting – mine felt tight despite the previous evening’s neoprene stretching – the group broke into factions, with sprinters Sara and Dave hanging back as they’d be jumping later. Steve and I wandered slowly to the front of the boat where the oly was about to get underway.

We clearly shoulda wandered up earlier because we found ourselves at the end of the hoard of our competitors. Getting antsy stuck too far back in the hoard we were happy to run into Rev3 teammate Eric, who’d driven down from Canada to compete. (And win his age group.) We caught up for a while which was excellent, until we all got fidgety that the hoard wasn’t really moving. And there was really no way to weave ahead toward the front. There was no attempt to seed by swim times so we should have just lined up earlier.

Finally the mass started demonstrably surging forward. We gave each other final hugs and high fives and then filed into a few short demarcated lanes to await our call to jump. Steve was right in front of me and when the volunteers summoned him forward he marched confidently toward the bow, turned, and did a back flip into the waiting bay. I was feeling a lot more confident than I had in 2019, but still, when I was waved over and given the all clear (volunteers watch the water below to make sure no one lands on anyone else) I opted to gingerly step forward rather than try any acrobatics or extra propulsion beyond gravity, which I feel does good work on its own.

Swim

The race started at 7:30, but I didn’t step off the boat to start my day until 7:52am. I was very nervous about the swim and my lack of conditioning. I’d only been in the pool two times, and open water four times, since March, thanks to travel, Scott getting COVID, and the general deteriorating swimfrastructure in DC. But I remembered the very accommodating current from 2019 and told myself I’d have a great ocean assist.

As I stepped off the boat I tried to do a cool pose in the air, but the distance to water wasn’t far enough – I managed to briefly starfish before slamming my hands around my goggles. I also forgot to blow out my nose while entering the water, so I came back up to the surface sputtering. It didn’t matter, I didn’t get an aerial photo this year sadly.

The water was cold, 68 they’d announced but probably colder out where we jumped, but it didn’t feel too frigid. I was however immediately – and literally – struck by the condition of the water. The ocean was roiling, with swells several feet high. Somehow it hadn’t looked this rough from the boat. I didn’t stop to think about it though, just lurched forward into an awkward head-mostly-above-the-water stroke while I tried to acclimate to the cold and the chop.

I was surprised in the moment (and still surprised looking back) that I didn’t have one of my frequent mental swim spinouts, I just got to work. It did take about 100 meters before I could comfortably put my face in the water and try to work out a normal stroke, but even that went smoother than it usually does in chilly water. I can’t say enough for how helpful it has been to get in weekly open water swims – just a few days before the race in fact had been Wave One’s first weeknight swim of the season and it had been wildly windy and choppy. I have to imagine that helped keep me calm in Cape May.

The Escape swim runs mostly parallel to the shore for a mile and is timed to run with the current. There were no buoys to sight, and the exit arch was too far away – especially with such angry water – to be visible. For the first third I just sighted off the neon green swimcaps of my fellow athletes, and kept myself between the wall of safety personnel on kayaks and paddleboards. I couldn’t see the shore or where we were going, but I was among plenty of company so I didn’t worry about it.

Once acclimated to the water temperature I tried to find my stroke-stroke-breathe rhythm, but the waves made it difficult. Early on I swallowed enough saltwater that I worried it would turn my stomach for the next couple hours. I managed a few times to fall into a rhythm, breathing in the troughs and quickly pulling my face around to charge through the swells, but it was always short lived.

By the middle of the swim the tide of athletes and safety personnel had thinned and I realized I was pretty alone out there. I may not have been as alone as I felt, but the unrelenting waves still obscured my ability to see beyond a few feet. At this point I started breathing mostly to the left so that I could at least keep the shore in my limited sights and stay parallel-ish to it. This went on for five-to-ten minutes (I realize that’s a wide range but time means nothing while swimming) before I finally found a few other swimmers and was able to make out a bit of where we were headed again.

Around 2/3 of the way in things actually got a little congested for the first time. I started to overtake a lot of slower (stranger) swimmers (backstrokers) at the same time the fastest three-turned-one-mile-racers started to overtake me. I was hoping one of these lightning fast people was Julie, but I had to stay focused on charting my own course around several backstrokers who were zigging and zagging and windmilling their arms like an old-timey riverboat wheel. I’d encountered the same odd paddling at this race in 2019 but don’t believe I’ve ever seen it anywhere else – is this a local tri club thing?

I was more than ready to be done swimming when the course’s only two orange buoys and the black and white exit arch finally became visible. I had somehow blindly positioned myself well to swim right between the two large inflatables but heard from friends after the race that they’d gotten off course and had to backtrack through them. This was exacerbated by the fact that pre-communications had said you didn’t actually have to swim through the buoys but then on-course support said you did.

For the first time all morning I finally found a decent rhythm and swam hard toward the exit. As usual, my shorty arms allowed me to swim further ashore than most before I had to stand. Also as usual, but with more of an excuse this time, the only time I really worked for any speed in my swim was the last hundred meters, once I could actually see where I was going, I think some of the visibility challenges could have been ameliorated were the arch on the beach a color other than black and white. Also at least one or two buoys along the way would be welcome.

I swam until I had to stand, then trudged up the beach and through the understated camouflaged arch. I knew in 2019 I had swum a 27:40, and while I was prepared for today to be slower, I was not pleased with my four+ added minutes for a time of 31:44.

T1

But much like 2019, 2022 was going to be all about the bike, the only discipline for which I was in any sort of shape. I tried to run up the beach to get through T1 quickly, but we were in deep sand, which foreshadowed things to come. After a few attempted run steps I slowed to a briskish walk until I was out of the sandtrap and could jog the rest of the way into transition. It was easy to find my bike thanks to our primo first-rack placement.

I tried in vain to towel some of the sand off my damp feet but it was slow work so after a few seconds I just pulled on my socks and  bike shoes. I’ve tried biking without socks and my sweaty feet will not allow it. My sweaty hands also require bike gloves, so I fear my T1 will always drag because I then had to wiggle soggy fingers into my tight hand spandex. (SpHandex?) I swear I hustled as much as I could. Before pulling Koop off the rack I took a big bite of stroopwafel and swig of water, then made my way to bike out. T1 time was 6:52, which isn’t great but sounds worse than it was given the long beachy haul from the water.

Bike

Like always, I ran around the people who were clogging the mount line by boarding right on top of it. I got on quickly and weaved around a few newbie knots, knowing there was an almost-mile-long no-passing stretch to get out to the main course and I hoped to avoid getting stuck behind too many people. I was able to pick off a couple more before the single-file section started, but I still ended up behind a woman was literally coasting and eating for half a mile. I was so frustrated. This was my only real chance to go fast in the race and I was off to a pokey start. Honest question: is it wrong to ask someone ahead of you in a no-passing zone to at least actually pedal? I don’t want to be a race douche, but coasting when there’s an irritated peloton growing behind you seems remarkably obtuse.

As soon as we were off the narrow path and turning right onto Lincoln Blvd I called “on your left” loudly to the snacker and tried to fly ahead. I had visions of grandeur and 2019 when I’d been able to use this section to bank some 23mph time. This time though there was a headwind to put me in my place, my place being 20mph max and not without (probably too much) effort. I was chastened but didn’t back off, even as I felt my rate of perceived effort (RPE) surge too high too early.

We only had a couple miles on Lincoln before turning off this main artery and heading over a bridge into the southern Cape. We would hit this bridge four times over 22 miles, and these four crossings were also the only four climbs of the bike course. I overrode my instincts to hammer the first climb and instead shifted and slowed way down to save my legs. On the backside of the hill I rode the brake in anticipation of a very tight right turn at the bottom of the descent. There were increasingly frantic signs along the bridge warning riders of the impending u-turn and everyone I saw rode it responsibly. I heard Coach Dave’s booming exuberant voice cheering for me as he passed me going over the bridge. It was both awesome to see him and humbling to think how long after me he’d started and yet how early in the bike he was overtaking me.

The roads on this side of the Cape are pretty bad. Organizers had done a good job of marking the many craters in the pavement, but even the asphalt itself is rough, and the course includes a number of technical turns over three miles. I dropped into my big ring and aeros as soon as I was through the tight switchback and tried to pass people safely while avoiding the potholes that threatened to consume my little bicycle. It was already crowded, but I knew lap two would be even more congested so now was the time to work.

Halfway through this section my Garmin announced that my first five-mile “lap” had averaged 18.5mph – not nearly where I wanted to be. The quarter mile before crossing the bridge back onto the North Cape was straight and smooth so I took that opportunity to let rip and bank some speed, cruising around 24mph.

I forced myself to chill out while climbing the 2nd of four bridge crossings, then took the couple crowded turns right after the bridge conservatively. Once we were back on Sandman/Lincoln with its wide smooth lanes, I burned another match, holding 22+mph and easily overtaking swaths of people with a bit of a wind assist.

Around mile nine things got crowded again as the course narrowed to a single lane before a two-mile jaunt through some residential streets. I realized I had been so focused on speed I hadn’t sufficiently fueled, so I used the forced slowdown to make a dent in my Skratch-filled aero bottle, and then snacked on half a stroopwafel while we meandered through the neighborhood – passing right by Jess and Colin’s place. My watch declared a much improved 21.1mph “lap two.”

The last mile of the first loop is oceanside and shares Beach Drive with the run course. The crowd support was awesome including Ed, Dorothy, and Marnie. Their cheers gave me an adrenaline boost – and they got some great bike pics which the race photogs did not – as I neared the halfway point.

I knew to be vigilant as lap one ended with a fork – right for the finish and left for the second loop – as well as a merge with the people who were just getting their rides started. I called my place on repeat as I stayed left to move through the interchange.

Back on Lincoln I was again met with a headwind that hadn’t been there in 2019. The wind was also stronger for this second time through the course. Again I held my pace around 20mph, working harder than I would have liked and for less speed, but figuring that I should squeeze all of the juice out of my legs for the next ten miles as this was my only time to shine that day.

I used this same judgment to hammer the third bridge crossing a little harder than the first two, but still rode down the other side slowly to make that tight right turn. I tried to ride the couple rough and technical south Cape miles similarly but just a touch faster than I had ridden them the first go-round, but because of the growing congestion I ended up a touch slower. Lap three came in at 19.4mph, not really where I wanted it.

Navigating the crowds and the potholes and the turns was made more complicated over the second loop thanks to an older gentleman who kept waiting for me to slow to take a corner, and then passing me on the right, and obviously without calling his place ever, putting me and others in danger every time. Then he would get out in front of me and ride slower than I had been leading me to repass him. By the third time he pulled this dangerous bs I was furious, and we happened to be back on the smooth quarter mile straightaway leading to the final bridge crossing. I lit a whole matchbook up, screamed out ON YOUR LEFT, and flew by him.

I angrily charged up the hill, working harder than was prudent, and dropped into my heaviest gear as I crested this final ascent, ready to use all the gravity I could to hammer the downside. I was passing people on the descent – rare for itty bitty chickeny me – and calling on your left repeatedly the whole way. This apparently wasn’t enough for another gentleman, who suddenly veered left into my path even as I shouted my place. I had to quickly swerve around him and bounce uncomfortably at 30mph over a patch of rumble strips which rattled my brains and made me brake hard.

There were strips the whole way down the bridge aside from the shoulder where everyone was riding. I was forced to slow way down and slot in behind my almost-assassin. As I fell in a few feet behind him to avoid the next rumblers, a motorbike zipped by, the race official on the back scribbling in her notebook. I was afraid I’d just gotten a drafting penalty depending on how much of the action she’d seen or missed.

I backed even further off my attempted murderer’s back wheel until we were fully off the bridge and through the next turn and it was more than safe to pass. My stomach was flipping over whether I’d just scored a time penalty on my only potentially fast leg of the day. Either way I knew I needed to make up some speed and burn out the legs once we got back to Lincoln.

I was ready to get low and shift into my biggest gears as I approached the turn onto Sandman/Lincoln. As I started to make the left, calling “on your left” and leaving plenty of room for another women to safely turn, out of nowhere my earlier aging antagonist appeared, once again passed me on my right through the turn, not calling his spot, and nearly clipping the tire of the woman I had called left to. My blood was fully boilt but it was that woman who laid down the law screaming at him not to pass right and what was wrong with him. I was thrilled to not to have to be the person for once with the eggs to stand up to some jerky dude. Once through the turn I shifted and dropped the hammer hard as I could to get away.

I enjoyed a few fast minutes riding back toward the neighborhood. At one point I passed Robert who called out his encouragement, cheering me out of some grumpiness. It was a little dicier with so many people approaching the righthand swing into the residential area so I had to take it slower and keep calling out as I rode to the left of dozens of people. (All this spot-calling must add to the bike RPE – I know from years of teaching spin how much extra work it is to yell while you ride!)

With just a couple miles left to bike I used the neighborhood time to finish my waffle and hydrate. I also had the wild idea that maybe I shouldn’t actually burn every match left in my legs – beach-running Liz might really resent that. So I decided to conserve a little bit rather than pounding it home. The 4th lap buzzed a 20.7mph average around that time which felt decent.

As I got ready to make the turn onto the ocean-hugging Beach Dr – the last chance to go fast on the bike, who should reappear but old man douchebag (OMD) to cut me off from the right again. All my conservative plans left the building as I rode back past him down Beach toward the finish. I passed Ed, Dorothy, and Marnie again so I couldn’t stay mad. In fact I was feeling pretty good as I forked right toward the bike finish and back onto the single file stretch toward transition.

As I approached the dismount line I pulled to the right so that people could pass me if they needed and swung off my steed. As I did so, OMD appeared one final time, again to my right, somehow squeezing in inches from me as I was trying to dismount. At that point I was beyond done. “You just had to get in one more righthand pass did you?” I growled. He mumbled, “oh sorry” disingenuously. I took that moment to look at his bike and made a mental note that he was bib #458. So you can look him up and see his name and curse it if you’d like.

I grabbed Koop and wheeled away from the old ass. My final bike was 1:08:17, which was a minute faster than 2019, but slightly slower than the 20+mph I’d hoped to average.

T2

Running into transition my sweet first row rack placement felt almost vindictively excellent. I was quick about ditching my helmet and gloves, swapping out shoes and grabbing my visor, bib, and handheld water bottle. T2 came in at a much more respectable 1:34.

Run

I had done all of one brick leading up to the race and my legs felt heavy as I tried to coax them into a jog. I had no idea what to expect with the hip labral tear and sciatic neuropathy that won’t abate. Some runs feel remarkably ok despite the maladies, some feel remarkably horrible, and I never really know what I’m going to get.

Almost immediately I had a cramp in the left side of my stomach. Was it from the saltwater? The bike fury? No idea, but it persisted over the whole first mile and I feared it would stay through the whole run. Still that first mile I managed an 8:34 and my hip and nerve felt ok. Maybe the tummy ache was a good distraction.

I was relieved when it began to dissipate in the second mile. I was also relieved that we seemed to be getting quite a bit of street running, making it almost two miles before our first sand diversion. That happiness, and asphalt, was soon replaced though. At mile 1.8 we were diverted onto the beach and into deep, loose, unforgiving sand. Everyone was attempting to run next to the water, seeking compacter stuff. I remembered in 2019 how that plan hadn’t really panned out, especially on the way out when  passing right to right meant runners coming back in would get the best ocean-adjacent beach real estate.

I tried to pick my way through some vegetation farther upstage but it was still a struggle. The depth of the sand was difficult but worse was the steep rake of the beach which had me running with my right (healthier) leg uphill while my damaged left leg and hip had to do more work downhill. Every minute or so I would slip and have to catch myself with that left leg which was agony on the hip.

I limped along for half a mile like this, willing the turnaround to appear, sure that it wouldn’t be so bad once my right leg could do more of the downstage stabilizing. Mile two clocked an ok for being 1/5 on the sand time of 9:01. Finally at 2.3 miles we got to reverse course. Now I did take advantage of the (slightly) more solid ground next to the water.

At first things did seem to improve, with my good leg able to cover the harsher impact, and the tide-wetted ground offering better purchase. About halfway back to the road (so 3/4 of a mile on the sand in) I ran into Robert who was having a sit-down on a big sort of pipe that we had to either climb over or run around. When he saw me he smiled and waved and got back on his way, while I slowed to a walk to give the hip a break and tread more carefully over this weird obstacle. Everyone out there was struggling.

After the short walk and climb break I tried to find a job again until I was finally at the steep chute that led back up to the street. In 2019 Coach Dave had advised me to just walk the paths back onto the road from the beach and I heeded that wisdom again. Once my sneaker hit solid ground I got back into a jog and was relieved that my hip felt mostly ok.

I settled into an easy feeling pace for about 30 seconds when suddenly I remembered I was in a race and why the heck was I taking it so easy. I stepped on the gas and was surprised and excited to find that the speed felt good and I actually had some gas in my engine for it. We had a half mile till the next sand trap; I dropped into a sub-8 pace for that stretch and felt fitter than I expected. My watch did let me know that mile three had been a disappointing 11:14, but it had been almost entirely sand so I didn’t dwell on it.

The second stretch of sand was a much shorter jaunt, a little over a tenth of a mile. Again just about everyone beelined it for the shore, but I saw right away there were tamped down reeds (and dead horseshoe crabs) lining the way farther upstage. I dashed over the vegetation, in a few places having to leap a bit between the patches of reeds (and over the deceased crustaceans). It was still hard work but much better than the previous terrible beach mile, and I also cut out at least a couple hundred meters by not running all the way down to, and then back from, the water.

We were back on the road quickly and this time I wasted no time in dropping into as fast a pace as I could. I was able to pull an 8:29 out for the fourth mile, and considering 10% of that had been on sand I felt pretty good about it. There was just one mile to go, and remembering 2019 I thought we would get to run the road most of the way home. I was so wrong.

At mile 4.1 we were once again diverted onto the beach and given where and how we’d been rerouted I realized it was going to be beach almost the whole way home. And somehow the sand was deeper and looser and more aggressively pitched here than it had been elsewhere.

I tried running next to the water first, but it was barely more compact there and the waves kept threatening my sneakers, successfully wetting them a few times. I tried running up the beach a little further but the steep pitch was awful and I kept sliding down the hill. My hip was aggravated quickly and I had to walk a few times, wondering if maybe I should walk the rest of it – what if I was doing more damage?

After trial and error I ended up running further up the beach than most people, in the tread of some sort of four wheel vehicle. I had to walk numerous times in that last mile to rest my hip, and all the sliding around in now-damp shoes chafed my foot into a sizable blister. At various points I cursed Delmo Sports and swore to myself that I would never do this race again, it was miserable and stupid and I hated it and wasn’t ever coming back.

Three fourths of the way through the final mile we passed the inconspicuous swim-out arch and had to turn and run uphill in the deepest stuff of the day. (Second deepest? Since we’d already run through this same terrible stretch just an hour and change earlier.)

Finally, with .15 miles left we got to leave the sand for good. It was a few quick turns, including through the same marshy slippery stuff we’d traversed during T1. When my foot hit the boardwalk and real solid ground with about 150 meters to the finish I gave it all I had, vetoing my hip’s protestations. I was able to find the 7s one more time to run it home for a final mile time of 10:39 and and overall run of 47:54.

The Aftermath

Most of my teammates had already finished. I hobbled to them and when we realized that almost all of us had podiumed* in our various races and age groups (or overall for those mega fast dudes Dave and Colin)  we found a bit of field and camped out to wait for awards. Jess got 3rd and I got 4th in ladies 35-39, and she beat my by 16 seconds on the bike – maybe it’s because she wisely didn’t event try to hang with those speedsters the day before.

*Once again I made the stage thanks to the 5-deep age group podium at DelMo races, but at 4th place instead of 5th I’ll take the win and the improvement over the last one. 

We had a good time enjoying the beer tent and athlete food, and dodging raindrops at times, though the threatened storm never materialized – thank you Cape May bubble! Awards dragged on for a long time and we tried to win for team spirit by rushing the stage to holler and take pics for each Speed Sherperino as they collected their hardware.

After the literal hours of waiting and awarding we gathered our bikes and gear. Colin had brilliantly parked his car a block from transition the night before, so we didn’t have to walk or ride the mile home.

The rest of the day was spent celebrating and putting solid and liquid calories back in. It had been so long since I’d gotten to just hang out with Sara and Dave and we made up for lost time. I was very happy to have decided to stay over Sunday to participate in the revelry.

We ended the night around the fire in Colin and Jess’ backyard, and after hours of carousing still managed to be in bed at a somewhat reasonable hour making the Monday drive home pretty easy. That’s a real upside to day-drinking after a triathlon: after a 4am wakeup you can get plenty of celebrating in before a 10 or 11pm bedtime!

By Tuesday I had forgotten the misery and abject pain of all the sand running and gamely signed up for 2023 when all my friends did. Can’t wait to jump off the boat and then curse Delmo’s name as I limp across the beach again next year! Will 2023 finally be the year I have two working hips? (Nah.)

 

A complaint up front about the lack of pictures from the course. Race organizer Delmo made a big deal about everyone getting free pictures for this race, but the race photographers apparently packed up shop once the sprint athletes were done so those of us racing the olympic distance (unless you were one of the very first or very final finishers) didn’t get any on-course pics. I’m not ungrumpy about it. I did go ahead use a bunch of those free course pics here but after a big race hiatus it’s disappointing to get no pics with me actually in them – free isn’t a great deal in exchange for nothing.

Race Day Eve

Scott and I loaded up the Subaru (Scooby [Scubaru]) mid-day Friday and headed toward New Jersey for the Saturday race. On the way we dropped the dogs off with friends in Maryland, thinking it would be an easy, on-the-way detour. Our roadtrip woes started early when what should have been a 30 minute drive to their house took closer to an hour. Things didn’t get better from there.

We thought we’d left early enough to avoid some of the Friday afternoon turnpike drama, but we couldn’t outpace the construction on the way. I had hoped to make it to a 4pm athlete briefing. Instead we arrived at Bader Field, the site of check in and transition, around 5:15. Fortunately check-in was a breeze (though I was the only person masked in the tent which struck me as crazy) and I was wheeling Koopa Troop to transition not too long after we arrived.

My bike rack placement could not have been better, in one of the first racks next to the bike in/bike out, meaning minimal cleat running. I let a little air out of the tires and then we got the heck outta there to go find our Airbnb and some dinner. The meticulous timeline I’d planned for myself in terms of athlete briefings, call with the coach, and early dinner had gone out the window hours ago and I was feeling pretty stressed about it.

I had learned during Ironman Atlantic City in 2019 that the place to stay in the area was the town south of AC, Ventnor. There hadn’t been many rentals available under $1000/night but I was able to find one in the perfect location for a very reasonable price. It had a few recent very negative reviews (mixed in with mostly positive,) so I was a little bit nervous as we pulled up and let ourselves in. I was thrilled to discover the place was adorable and had a huge front porch from which you could see the beach or the bay. In emailing with the owner I learned that the negative reviews had come when he had been in the hospital with COVID and unable to monitor the upkeep and cleaning of the home! I felt terrible for him and so happy we hadn’t been dissuaded by some mean people on the internet.

It was after 6 by the time we unloaded Scooby. I had ordered dinner while in the car so fortunately that arrived shortly after we did. Then Scott and I hoofed it to a Wawa a few blocks away for bananas and pretzels and other goodies – both needed and desired.

Coach Dave called at 7 to talk through the race – he gave me solid heart rate targets to shoot for: 155 max on the bike and about 10 more bpm for first few miles of the run with permission to build from there. Mostly the call was about Dave trying to get me out of my head – to stop seeing the next day’s performance through the lens of my previous, 46/47-minute 10K self. Learning to stop comparing myself to pre-hip fracture me was a big theme of 2021. (And sadly 2022 and for the foreseeable future because I still haven’t figure out how to stop.)

Dave was excited and optimistic about the next day, he said he thought I’d surprise myself. While we talked he mentioned that the race looked like it would be wetsuit legal – how did he know more than me? I’d hoped to glean that info at the athlete briefing that I’d missed and I’d just assumed it wouldn’t be legal – very few races I’ve done in the past 4 or 5 years have been. (I swear I can observe climate change in how little action my wetsuits see.)

After hanging up, and about 10 hours before the race, I decided I should probably check to see whether my wetsuit still fit – I hadn’t worn in since the last time I was in Atlantic City racing in 2019. I got it on over my shorts and sports bra but it felt tight so I decided to get in the shower and try to loosen it up a bit. I spent about 20 minutes in the shower (still with shorts and sports bra under the wetsuit) soaking it and pulling on it, urging the neoprene to give a little more to accommodate my COVID-adjusted waist-line.

Eventually I succeeded in coaxing a little forgiveness from my wetsuit. Before bed Scott and I watched the end of the  women’s Olympic marathon – Molly Seidel! – which proved incredibly inspirational, even though it did make me mope a bit further on my late run speed.

I tucked myself in at 10:15 but felt wide awake. I tried reading for a bit to make myself sleepy, then stared at the ceiling, trying to will myself to sleep for at least an hour. I’m a natural night owl and my circadian rhythms will not march to any other drum.

Race morning

I woke up at 4:15; the alarm went off at 4:25. I really could have used those extra 10 minutes of sleep – Garmin said I only slept just over 4 hours and I felt it. I also felt as unhungry as I’d felt unsleepy the night before – cruelly this was probably due to my lack of sleep. I staggered around our cute Airbnb, a mid-REM zombie, trying to remember what one brings to a triathlon and nibbling on a banana and pretzels.

We left house at 5:45 and arrived by 6am. Not only is Ventnor City the place to be to avoid the trashy chaos of Atlantic City “proper” (ain’t nothin’ proper about it), the neighborhood also sets you up well to approach Bader Field from the west rather than east which means no waiting to park.

There was no line at the transition-adjacent portas so I hit them right away. It doesn’t seem fair to have tummy tantrums when you haven’t successfully eaten anything but I I apparently don’t get a vote. I then fumbled through setting up my transition area and was happy to learn I was racked a few down from teammate, Margie and that another, Leslie, was spectating. We got some cute teammie pics and I was happy to know someone else on the course…even if she would probably be finished with the whole thing by the time I hit the run.

I was already out of transition when it closed at 6:45, hitting the large bank of portas next to the Back Bay where the swim takes place. The sprinters headed out first, for the oly we had a 45 minute wait till 7:30.  The water was indeed wetsuit legal at 75 degrees, and I was indeed able to zip it over my kit and not suffocate.

Scott and I hung back from the crowd until it was time to line up. I once again was the only one who wore a mask in the dense crowd – outside doesn’t matter when you’re sardined with a couple hundred other anxious, hard-breathing people. I wore it until I was almost to the front and then tossed it to Scott, pulled down my swim cap and goggles and marched down the ramp.

The Swim

Self-seeding. Ugh. Without any pace signs for reference it just doesn’t work. I slotted myself in somewhere about ¾ of the way back in the swim crowd. My swim-ambivalence is well-documented but I didn’t actually mean to be this unambitious, it was just hard to find space in the crowd. And in the absence of pace signs I’d rather go out in a too-slow group than too-fast – especially after a year-plus out of the water.

We were sent down the boat ramp into the water in groups of 5 every 10 seconds. The water temp felt good and I’d forgotten how much buoyancy a wetsuit adds. Some of that may also have been the Back Bay’s higher-than-recollected salt content. With the added weightlessness, for a moment I thought this swim might actually go well.

Then the four other people with whom I’d entered the Bay all swam quickly by me and the wetsuit I hadn’t worn in years started to feel stiflingly tight, and my brain started its familiar swim refrain of, you-can’t-do-this, you’re-having-an-asthma-attack, get-out-get-out-get-out-just-quit-get-out-now! At least I’m used to this song by now. It’s such an earworm. (That’s another thing you have to be wary of in open bodies of water!) I tried to calm my breathing, focus on a stroke-stroke-breath rhythm, and took a few pauses to tread water and collect myself. Within a hundred meters I had found my groove. (It was a slow jam though.)

For the first straightaway – about 700m swimming east away from the boat ramp – I could get in a few minutes of head-down swimming in that groove. Then I would hit a clump of unhurried athletes (dudes) breast-stroking or generally wafting along far too slowly for where they’d apparently seeded themselves. I got tangled up with these sluggish Icari (that was the plural of Icarus, did anyone get that?) at least three times before making the right around the first turn buoy – at which there was also a traffic jam.

After 100 more meters we hooked right again to swim the 800 for home. Have I mentioned this was a mile swim course rather than the standard Olympic 1500m? (And my Garmin had me a touch long at that! [Ok now I’m just being defensive about my pitiful swim pace.]) As had happened at the (almost identically-swim-distanced) IMAC 70.3, I got comfortable on this back half and tried to start picking up the pace. I hit a few more slowpoke-snags but the course was much clearer in the second half and I was feeling optimistic that I was making up some time.

Halfwayish down this half-mile stretch home a gentleman I had just passed tried to swim overtop of me. He ended up punching my goggles off and, disgustingly, cutting my right foot knuckle bone with his toenail. Effing gorilla. So gross. I coughed up water and could feel a little flap of skin hanging off my foot which of course inspired thoughts of blood in the water, sharks, bacterial infections, (ear worms?) and murdering that ape man. I couldn’t exact revenge though because I had to tend to my goggles which, even after multiple pauses to reaffix them, were now leaking into the left lens.

I tried to get back into my groove, letting rage and disgust fire me forward. I was very happy to see (out of my right eye) the final turn buoy and swing right for the swim exit. In the last 50m toward shore I tried in vain to get past one last dude-clump. I tried to figure out if my attacker was one of the dawdlers but wasn’t sure. In attempting to maneuver around a few people to reach the boat ramp I committed my own accidental swim violence colliding with one person who then physically pushed me away. (Fairly I’ll admit.) I gave up trying to get out of the water quickly after that and just paddled easily toward the volunteers helping athletes out of the water.

I stepped gingerly up the ramp, unable to see the bottom through the brackish water. I looked at my watch as I hit the sensors marking T1 and saw a very disappointing 38 minutes. (38:33 per official results.) I tried not to let my spirits to fall too much but I was immediately saddened by such a glacial swim.

T1

It was a bit of a trek to transition, and particularly to my bike-out-adjacent rack. (It’s great to have a short run with the bike but this does generally mean you’ve got a longer slog from the water.) I tried to move deliberately but felt like I bumbled my way through getting out of the wetsuit and into my bike accoutrements.

I have got to figure my T1 out, it’s a mess. I’ve tried the whole biking without socks thing and I just can’t do it. And my hands have been getting so sweaty that I’ve been putting bike gloves on recently too. The sock and glove application is taking so long, adding at least a minute to my T1.

Once changed I wheeled out of the grassy transition and up an asphalt shoot for the bike mount. Four minutes and 17 seconds after exiting the Bar I was in the saddle and pedaling out of Bader Field.

The Bike

The mount line was pretty messy. There were people (duuuudes) mounting before the line and volunteers just watching. I ran ahead, past the (apparently just-a-suggestion) line by a few meters to get my own space to mount. My T1 bobbling continued as I fumbled to move my watch to the bike portion of the race and to get my bike computer going as rode away from the melee.

My bike directive from Coach Dave had been to keep the heart rate at a max of 155 – he’d predicted it would live in the upper 140s to low 150s – and we agreed not to spend everything on the bike to see if my run legs would start coming back to me on the run. (Again, this plan was borne of his attempts to balance my nostalgia for faster days.)

I scrolled my watch to the heartrate screen as soon as I mounted and saw that my heartrate was already way up at 153 and I had barely clipped in. I felt a jolt of panic that 30 seconds into my ride the plan was already out the window. I reminded myself that I’d just engaged in swim fisticuffs and then run about a half mile from the swim exit to the should-be-penalty-laden mount line, so of course my heart was pounding a bit. I tried to slow my breathing and focus on getting my butt out onto the actual bike course – it was absolutely too early to freak out. (Though admittedly after that sluggish and slugging swim I already felt disappointed in the day.)

The first half mile of the bike serpentines through the Bader Field parking lot out to the Atlantic City Expressway (ACE). It took about three minutes and as I swung right pulling onto the course proper, I glanced at my watch and saw that my heart rate had dropped into the 140s. At least one crisis (momentarily?) averted.

Most of the Tri AC (and Ironman AC) bike takes place on the ACE, a busy highway that stays open and busy during the race. Athletes get the shoulder and the right lane out and back. It sounds scary describing it, but it feels like a closed bike course as long as no one does anything stupid*.

*Somebody** always does something stupid – meaning trying to pass people outside the cones and into the highway vehicular traffic. I saw this more at Ironman AC but also saw it here.

**(DUDES.)

It was windier than I expected based on both experience and the forecast. During Ironman AC it had been pouring rain during the bike and had I had still averaged around 23mph on the ACE sections, even in the deluge. That day had been all about the bike so, planning to ride a little easier, I didn’t expect to lay down that kind of speed, but I was hoping to hold a 20+mph average for the 22 miles. As I rode into the wind on the ACE I found myself working harder than I remembered working in the rain two years ago – and I was only holding around 21mph, expending a not insignificant effort.

Given the surprising wind I made an executive decision to give myself a max of 160bpm rather than 155. With that call made I settled into my aero bars – and my recently-adjusted fit – and tried to pick off some of the many people who’d gotten out of the water before me.

Glancing at my heartrate from time to time I focused more on RPE and tried to walk (ride) a line where I was working but definitely holding something back. I stepped on the gas a handful of times to pass people in the few spots that got a little congested – mostly the course was a good balance of not lonely but not crowded.

The ACE section heading north exits and then quickly reenters the southbound highway at exit 5. Heading south there was a big truck at one point taking up most of the right lane and diverting cyclists onto the shoulder. To get there we had to traverse unpleasant rumble strips that rattled my brains and made me worry for dear Koopa. Once on the shoulder I was very unhappy – it was covered in little rocks and in some places glass and other scary debris. After a few minutes stressing for my tires I decided to brave the rumble strips again and get out of the shoulder and back into the right lane. This assuaged my flat tire fears and allowed me to more easily keep picking off slower-cyclists-but-faster-swimmers.

The Olympic course included two runs through this section of the ACE. My second time through I wasn’t playing that game again. As I approached the truck I slowed enough to ride the narrow sliver between its side and those dreaded rumble strips to stay in the right lane. I’m not sure why that truck was parked on the course, it seemed to be there intentionally but I couldn’t tell you why. (It certainly wasn’t housing photographers since I didn’t get any on-course photos.)

I went into the ride planning to try to get calories in at least every five miles, wanting to set myself up for run success. The wind threw me though. I knew eating on the highway would stress me out a little bit, but I thought halfway in, when we exited the ACE for a jaunt through Atlantic City, that I would have some time to eat a full stroopwaffle. Instead that jaunt was much shorter than I thought and demanded attentive bike-handling the whole time, so 12 miles into 22 I realized that, while I wasn’t hungry and had been hydrating consistently, I wasn’t setting myself up for a good run. As we headed back north on the ACE I slowed up and tore into a waffle, but only had time to get part of it down.

Over the second lap I tried to finish the liquids I had on board while minding the wind and the active highway to my left. I was still working a little harder than I had expected for a little less speed, but I’d been averaging over 20mph so I felt ok about it. When I saw the sign to veer right off the ACE for the bike finish I was feeling a lot happier than I had at the end of the swim.

Then the course meandered back to Bader Field and I was forced to slow my roll a bit. I lost my 20+mph average and played annoying games of leap frog with the other athletes who were finishing up their rides.

Eventually I was riding back through the parking lot toward the awkward asphalt chute to transition. As I dismounted and ran the bike in I hit my Garmin and saw a 1:07:41. Official results put me at 1:08:07 – either way, just under that 20mph mark. I did later learn I had the third fastest bike in my age group though, which made me feel a little better.

T2

As usual, T2 went a little better than T1 at 2:36. I still felt pretty out-of-practice bumbly. I also struggled a bit with what to carry nutrition-wise on the run. Delmo races have moved to more eco-friendly cupless aid stations, so for the first time ever I was running with a handheld water bottle. It was filled with a Skratch electrolyte drink, but I wasn’t sure what else I would need for a mostly unsupported 10K. I had salt tabs packed into a pocket on the water bottle and stuffed another stroopwafel in my kit and hoped I’d be ok.

The Run

The run back out onto the Bader Field asphalt, followed by most of a mile to reach the Atlantic City Boardwalk was hot. But then the  Boardwalk was hotter. My legs felt pretty heavy as I tried to hold something in the 8:30s. I was very unhappy with how difficult that pace felt and hoped I’d warm up into easier, faster running as I usually did. This did not feel sustainable.

Mile one came in at a meh 8:37. I had every intention to try to get faster from there but my legs had other plans. I was struggling to bring my heart rate back down a bit and drinking regularly from my handheld bottle. The pattern of the boards in the sun made me a little dizzy, I had to keep my focus up and away from the ground. Then we were diverted out onto the beach and the sand for a spell I found myself missing those hypnotic Boardwalk planks. Mile two was a messy, vertigo-y 9:18.

There had been one aid station as we first entered the Boardwalk, about .75 miles into the run, and I had topped off my water there briefly but otherwise I’d been relying on the fuel I had on me. The second aid station didn’t appear until we were almost through our third mile, and it comprised two water coolers – one of plain water and one with electrolytes. And also a line. I waited about 10 seconds to top my handheld off which was very frustrating when I was struggling to get back into sub-9 territory. Thanks to that inefficient water pause, mile three came it at a 9:08, and I was barely more hydrated for it.

In mile four I started to feel like I was really bonking. I’d eaten half of the stroopwafel and by then had realized I could not rely on any course support for more calories. The sun felt much hotter than the low-80s forecast, and the singing “We buy any care” billboards along the Boardwalk were turning Liz into a dull girl.

At this point there was a lot of lane confusion too. DelMonte, the race organizer, had admonished athletes, in person and online, to run right-to-right at this point in the course. It was counterintuitive and a lot of people clearly hadn’t watched any briefings or had forgotten. I tried to heed his words but it was pretty impossible and led to a lot of swerving and chicken playing with oncoming foot traffic.

The next aid station appeared just before the turnaround, most of the way through mile four. The line was even longer and I discovered one of the two coolers was actually empty at this one. I still had some beverage – now a much-diluted electrolyte situation – so nursed that and threw back the rest of my stroopwafel as I gratefully ran around the cone and back for the final two miles to the finish. Mile four was another 9:08.

I was very happy to be in the penultimate mile and the waffle added a little pep to my step. As did, maybe cruelly, being able to now run toward the finish and past many athletes still trudging toward the turnaround. I also now knew that the aid stations were unhelpful and so I didn’t even stop at the second one as I passed it again. Mile five was a slight improvement at 8:45.

In the sixth and final mile I tried to dig deep and remember what it was like to suffer on a run course. I didn’t have much left in the tank but mustered a bit more – as much pace as I thought I could manage without fully falling apart before the finish. The sixth and final full mile of the day was my fastest at 8:32.

For the final .2 miles to the finish Delmo had sadistically routed us back out into the sand for a beach finish. (The kind of finish that would have been really picturesque had there been photographers.) I picked my feet up high and wobbled across the line as fast as I could for a final 10k time of 55:30. Disappointing but good enough for 4th in my AG probably in large part thanks to the sand and lack of aid stations. This run was bonk city.

The Aftermath

Scott met me at the finish line, but sadly not in time to take a picture.   I collected my medal and walked straight down the sand into the ocean to cool myself. The water was chilly and felt so good. I used the opportunity to take a pee, though I’m not sure how I was hydrated enough to need to after that dry run. After a few minutes I collected myself and we made our slow way up to the boardwalk to find some grub.

The after race nosh was actually great, with hot dogs and fries from a food truck, and big soft pretzels along with the other standard post-race goodies. The awards ceremony was going on near the food trucks but I didn’t think to pay it any mind given my terrible swim and crawl of death run. I did run into Margie who had been second female over all. We exchanged some sweaty hugs, and then Scott and I proceeded to the shuttles back to Bader Field to collect Koopa and Scooby. (We masked, no one else did. You all saw that coming though.)

While on the shuttle I pulled up the race results and saw that I’d somehow come in 5th in my AG which was better than I thought. I reveled in this news over the short bus ride back to transition. Then, while emptying sticky water bottles and gathering my things a thought occurred to me: this is a Delmo race, and at Delmo races, like Ironman, the podium goes five deep.

My pride deflated. I pulled up the race schedule and saw that the awards ceremony was now over and, while I could have picked up my award, it seemed like a long way to go back – especially to ask sherpa from heaven Scott. I decided to just finish packing up transition and head back to the Airbnb. There was wine and jalapeño  chips waiting for me there. I was really disappointed and annoyed with myself though. After so long without racing it would have felt really special to stand up with my AG winners. (And it would have afforded me at least one frickin picture from the day.) And I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve missed a podium ceremony I was part of because I was too down about my own performance to think I could have earned such a thing…but it’s not.

Scott and I returned to our rental and got cleaned up. That evening  we had a colleague of mine and his wife who live nearby over for drinks on the porch. He had started with my firm during COVID so it was our first time meeting in person. (Even with remote work he had quickly become one of my favorites – let’s just say on a team on which I’d been the political outlier for years it was great to finally have someone who shared my ideology.) He brought over some very delicious Japanese whiskey and then the four of us stayed up way too late enjoying a summer night a few blocks from the ocean, and the ability to be with people again – even if we decided to keep it outdoors.

Because it was a Saturday race Scott I didn’t have to rush back to DC, we got to have a nice night with new friends and then hit the beach for a few hours on Sunday. On our way home we collected the pups and went straight to our favorite ice cream spot once we were home.

I know I aired myriad complaints, but it was a mostly positive weekend even if the lack of aid stations and photogs (and athleticism on my part) detracted a bit. I think the issues were mostly growing pains from so much time away from racing and trying to adopt new green policies – policies which I support, but there’s got to be a way to cut down on plastic cups while still offering athletes enough aid to keep us safe. Grumbling and dehydration aside, I still love Delmo races and will absolutely continue to prioritize them on my schedule.