Preamble

After making the decision to DNS Lake Placid, I reached out to my friend and prodigal Sherpette, Madi to ask whether she was returning to Cleveland for USA Triathlon Age Group National Championships (Nationals) in August. We’d had a big Sherpa crew up in 2018 and while the weekend had been a blast, most of the team was sitting this year out. Some due to injury or the impending arrival of mini Sherpinis, and many were staying home because they did not enjoy this course.

I can’t say it was my favorite course either, but it’s an exciting honor to qualify for and to race Nationals, and as an oly taking place two weeks after Lake Placid it seemed like a good consolation race. Madi informed me that not only was she going, her amazing mom, Deb was coming, and she’d reserved and Airbnb with a second bedroom in case I wanted to join. How dang lucky am I to have these tri people? With that decision made I dug out my invitation from USA Triathlon to register – after a moment of panic trying to remember if I had actually qualified – and asked my mama if she would come too. And thus Madi and my mommy-and-me race weekend was born!

Bike

The bike course started up a hill out to the 191 west until a 180 near the first mile at which point there was a gradual downhill for a bit. I passed a few people climbing to that turnaround and then hung back a bit for the tight turn. Once we were headed back east toward downtown Cleveland I dropped into my aeros and tried to find some speed. I stayed low downhill which is a confidence win for me – I hate riding a descent in aero, far away from the brakes if I need them. (Yes I’m a chicken like that still but even Gwen Jorgensen had to learn how to trust a descent and I’m working on it.) It helped that I knew the course from last year; I knew it wasn’t a long downhill and the road there was smooth and new.

The road on the rest of the course was less smooth – even in spots where it was also new. Last year the overpasses heading out and coming in had been the bane of my (and everyone’s) tri-xistence. We’d had to navigate the under-construction freeway narrowing to a single pothole-riddled lane. I had unabashedly sat up the whole time and hoped I wouldn’t have to do the same this year. Organizers had boasted that the city had repaved a lot of those problem sections so I anticipated a less hellish trip in 2019.

With construction over we got to use both wide lanes which was great – especially great for the people passing me – and there were fewer moonsized craters, but this “new” pavement was not the smooth luxurious ride that had been advertised. Not all pavement is created equal and this stuff was the pits. No we didn’t have to dodge missing chunks of highway this year, but the new pitch was that ribbed stuff that sets your wheels and teeth chattering. The ridged road also wound up a decent hill and I sat my ass up, disappointed in the conditions and myself.

Once off the bridge and back on a better patch of highway I got low again and tried to make up some speed. That first five mile lap was the slowest of the day at 18.9 mph. I felt like I was already noncompliant with my orders to punch the bike so I dug into my big ring for the couple miles of flat road I knew were ahead of me.

Within a mile of exiting the underwhelming “new” overpass we were diverted off the highway onto a parallel access road for a couple miles. I stayed low and fast (for me) and decided to thrash my legs here – some self-flagellation for my lackadaisical riding earlier – keeping the speed around 21mph.

Around mile 7.5 we fully exited the highway and highway adjacency to wind through some Cleveburg neighborhoods – the first of which (Asiatown apparently) was badly in need of even some of that sweet “new” pavement. The pockmarked street had the gatorade in my aerobottle splashing all over the place. I had to let go of those super-20mph speeds.

Around this time I also desperately needed to blow my nose. In the week before the race, in addition to that never-ending period, I’d been dealing with the remnants of a sinus infection. It wasn’t a bad one but I still had a lingering nasal drip and as I rode it was starting to actively drip drip drip out of my nose. I’m totally incapable of snot-rocketing so I was reduced to mouth breathing as I tried to wipe away my mucus mustache with my hand. Gross. I repeatedly wiped my face, then wiped my hand on my kit, and never seemed to even slightly plug the nasal faucet.

I perversely hoped a photog would capture the full extent of my nastiness. The rest of the ride I never succeeded in either emptying my nasal passages or effectively wiping my face. Eventually I got used to the discomfort and just rode with it. Miles five through ten were marginally better than one through five with a 19.4 mph average.

The course also got more pleasant near mile ten. We had a nice long straightaway with minimal ascending or descending. This two-and-a-half mile stretch took us down Chester Ave and past our 2018 Airbnb and here I will remind everyone that a house on the course sounds great until you can’t leave race morning because all of the roads are closed. I had some silly pangs of nostalgia as I spun by our year-ago digs.

I also took this long flat as opportunity to feed myself. I’ve been using GU stroopwafels this season and my tummy so far approves. I broke off a chunk of one from my bento box and let a couple 30-34 women pass me as I fueled, noting their ages on their very fast calves and shrugging them off as not-my-competition. Calories in I got back to work as I was nearing the left off Chester and onto the mile-long descent that led to the turnaround. Again I stayed in aero downhill and was proud of myself for doing so. I think the key for future races is to know the course well enough like I did here to feel confident about the hill grade and if and when I would need my brakes. (Filing that bit of self-realization away for all future races – who wants to ride or drive every bike course with me from here on out?!)

That mile downhill was immediately followed by tight-ish 180 and a mile back up the same hill. Josh’s orders had been to hammer this ascent because I would have those flat Chester Ave miles again to recover. I tried to heed his words but as soon as I had flipped around to get my climb on a woman came riding by shouting, “and now we go back up!” She was laughing and so I started laughing  and had one of those emo oh-my-goddd-I-love triathlon moments. I recovered my senses and got to work using that tri-jester as a rabbit up the hill. (Not drafting of course – she was many lengths ahead of me by then!)

Back on good ol’ Chester Ave I got low and tried to focus hard on finishing strong. I was now more than halfway through the bike and miles ten through 15 had averaged 19.6mph. Decent considering all the climbing but I was determined to bring it home with a lot more. After all, I had a run to blow up on!

Again I used the flat straightaway to chomp down some more stroopwafel and I set a mental goal for myself to average over 20 for the last ten miles. I was able to pick off a number of people though honestly I think they were mostly the last stragglers from the age groups ahead of mine. Either way I was doing my best to wear out my legs and was successfully keeping things around 21mph.

Getting back into pockmarked Asiatown I had to slow up a bit to dodge the warzone street obstacles. At one point I didn’t see a massive crevice in the road until I was right on top of it and the hard thud of my bicycle launched the remainder of my aerebottle contents all over my face. (Which in aero was only inches from the top of said the suddenly-empty bottle.) Now I was covered in gatorade and snot, a potently sticky combination. I was also out of liquid calories.

I wasn’t too worried about the caloric deficit as I had begun to develop a side stitch after mile 15. I’d never had a stitch on the bike and kind of wondered at this new sensation. It didn’t feel too terrible while cycling but I worried about what it meant for my run if I didn’t work it out over the next ten miles.  In the moment I thought maybe I’d had too many sugary calories but in retrospect I blame the snot. Side cramps are usually a result of lack of oxygen and I couldn’t properly breathe. Looking back if I could change one thing about race day I would have thought to properly blow my post-sick post-lake nose in T1, I think it could have saved my run. (Sorry for the spoiler but the run was the blowup disaster of Josh’s dreams.)

After Asiatown came the mostly flat highway-parallel service road. I shifted back into my big ring and pushed my legs intentionally to screaming. It worked and as we were turning back onto the 191 around mile twenty my watch buzzed a 20.8 mph average for the previous five miles. Right on the money and I just needed to do the same back to transition.

Unfortunately I hadn’t factored the “newly paved” overpass into my mid-race goal-making. With just three miles to go suddenly I was vibrating back uphill. I stayed in aero as long as I could but eventually sat up again, though this time it was more in reaction to the grade of the ascent rather than the quality grade of the pavement. I also exchanged more knowing climbing laughs with another woman – this time I was doing the passing – and my love for the sport eclipsed the misery of the road conditions.

Off that damn bridge for the final time there was a mile or so left to hammer. It was a mostly downhill and people were flying down it to finish strong. I was intimidated by the descent but I pushed past the fear, dropped back onto my bars, and pushed with all I could creeping past 30mph for a stretch.

I was proud of myself for that final aero push as I pulled back into transition. The overpass had dropped me back below a 20mph average for the final five miles but I was happy with how I’d finished. Overall I did 1:16:10 on the bike and averaged 19.6mph. In the moment I was mostly pleased with that as I jogged Koop back to my rack.

T2

That final proud push didn’t do anything for my sidestitch though. And what hadn’t been too painful on the bike became a more pronounced problem once I started trying to run the bike in.

As I reached my rack I tried to slow down and breath into my right side where the knot was getting louder. I opted to ignore the caloric options I’d left out for myself. I was hungry – I was wearing rather than digesting a lot of my aero bottle nutrition after all – but hunger seemed preferable to the stabbing bellyache. I felt like maybe the pain was subsiding as I inhaled and exhaled slowly and took it easy pulling my sneakers and race belt on. I mostly walked toward the run course, hoping that little ball of pain receptors had worked itself out over the 2:25 I’d taken in T2.

Run

The run out is directly next to the bike out so it starts up the same hill. This year’s course was a little different than last; in 2018 we’d run two laps, each of which started with a quarter mile, steep grinding ascent. This time around we skipped that grinder swapping it out for a less steep, much longer mile climb right off the bat.

I fell into healthy Liz autopilot and pacing, attacking the run as soon as I crossed the timing mat, which hurt from the jump. I didn’t look at my watch for the first couple minutes just running off perceived exertion. When I did glance down at my watch I saw that it was still tracking me in transition. I tried to click ahead to the next stage but it kept beeping at me and doing nothing. Frustratedly I ended that workout and restarted it under the pure run category.

I’d been running by feel, and I didn’t feel very fast, so imagine my surprise when I finally got my watch working and I saw that I was running uphill in the 7:30s. Of course things hurt. I was in no shape for that kind of pace uphill after the bike. I backed off the speed, confident the cramp that was now screaming in my right side belly would quiet.

First I latched onto some mid-8 pacing for a few minutes. I was being passed by more people than I am comfortable with on a run but I was also still passing other people at that pace so it felt ok on the embattled ego. But quickly I realized even mid-8s were too much for climbing with a tummy full of glass shards and I had to back off further into the low 9s.

Now everyone was passing me and on top of the physical sensation of being appendectomied from the inside I was totally demoralized. We reached the top of that first big climb as my sort of functional watch buzzed the first mile: a disappointing 8:37. I had made it about half a mile before the wheels had come off. If Josh was looking for run explosives he’d gotten them in the first 800 meters.

I was sure that at some point this cramp would abate and I would get to really run. (Flashbacks to Boston 2017 anyone?) The second mile was mostly flat and downhill and I assured myself that all I needed was to get my heartrate under control and the pain would dissipate. We ran through the first aid station and my tummy was hungry-grumbling but I didn’t want to chance any calories yet so I just grabbed a cup of water, took a sip and got rid of it.

When we got to start threading downhill I waited for the relief that must be coming but the stitch just stayed stuck. I said fuck it and tried leaning forward into gravity and picking up the pace but that was a mistake. As I tried to accelerate downhill I felt like I might be about to lose the few calories I’d actually gotten into my stomach. I eased back up opting not to lose my breakfast if I could help it.

Over the next few slow miserable miles – all of which clocked in the 8:40s – I just tried to stay alive and keep my food down. I did think a few times about just pulling over and pulling my trigger – maybe it would help and surely the momentary humiliation was preferable to the lifelong humiliation of race results memorialized on the internet. I couldn’t bring myself to puke in front of all those other athletes and spectators though, and so I just soldiered unhappily on. It was everything I could do to keep myself out of the 9:00s.

The fifth mile was the same as the 2018 course and included a couple punchy climbs followed by a knot of switchbacks and tight turns. It was my slowest mile of the day at 8:47 and I really didn’t want to finish the race with that sort of disappointment so I gritted my teeth through the pain and tried to pick up the pace.

Fortunately the sixth and final mile included a long descent to give us all a boost to the finish line. It’s a steep downhill, around .2 miles long, and as I approached it I remembered the year before when I had run fitness and still trusted my legs and ran down that hill in the low 6s. Now I accelerated but I also held way back, sticking mostly with low 7s, afraid my bones might let me down if I hit it any harder.

When the course flattened back out there was less than half a mile to go and suddenly I felt sort of capable of running. Maybe all I’d needed that whole bloody course was to sprint a couple minutes to dislodge whatever was gumming up my insides. There was no time to think (or be disappointed) about that though. I was somehow now running a sub-7 and I felt like I could just about hold on the rest of the way in.

With a quarter mile to go organizers throw a dog agility course type ninja warrior ramp at you. It’s incredibly steep up and down and last year I’d descended it with trepidation but this year I charged up and down the stupid thing with abandon, suddenly throwing skeletal caution to the wind.

Turning down the finisher chute I was still sub-7 but both fading and feeling my stomach start to rebel again. This time it really felt like the morning’s caloric intake was working its way back up. I tried to keep my foot on the gas and my breakfast in my belly as I ran home. Crossing the finish line I had to swallow back the sick.

My final run time was 52:28, more than six minutes slower than last year, and on an easier course. According to my Garmin that last mile was a 6:54 which I think may be a mistake, but at least some of it was indeed sub-7 so looking back at the run I just don’t even know what to think. I’m mad and disappointed but I was in a lot of pain and I don’t think I could have pushed any harder through it. If only I’d blown my nose back in T1!

Aftermath

My final overall time was 2:32:47. No lie, I was disappointed. 83rd out of 120. Back when I thought I’d be able to properly train for the run I wanted to be top 50% of my age group at Nationals and instead I was barely in the top 70%. When I knew I wouldn’t be able to run well I wanted to go top 50% on the bike and instead I was 35th percentile. I felt like I had ridden well and hard, so this result especially has gnawed at me. How can so many women be so much faster than me on the bike? I feel like I’m going at it with all my might and they’re just turning out such bigger, better paces.

Honestly I’ve felt crappy about it since Cleveland. The bike confidence I’d been building after Escape the Cape was pretty well destroyed. I try to  tell myself that it’s not a fair comparison, that Nationals is by definition the fastest women in the country and it doesn’t mean I’m so far behind the curve. But the seed of self-doubt has successfully supplanted my burgeoning self-confidence.

I didn’t let myself dwell outwardly though. Madi and the moms had been at the finish line so there was post-race celebrating to do. We found a picnic table by the lake and Madi and I procured some 10am brewskis. It was great to just sit in the sun and relax for a bit, and great that this year we were both finished early.

After a bit we collected our gear and our steeds. While on a somewhat lengthy line to  check Tina and Koopa Troop back into tribiketransport I remembered I’d dropped a chunk of stroopwafel into the hole where the shifting cables enter the top tube during my ride. I could see the misplaced nutrition but I couldn’t reach it. Surrounded by other waiting athletes, and with Madi’s encouragement, I flipped Koopa over and began shaking him up and down over my head until the offending snack found its way back out. I definitely got some stares but at least I didn’t ship my bike home with rotting food bits in him.

Eventually we headed out of the Edgewater Park area and ordered a Lyft back to the Airbnb. Logistically it was so much easier this year and I think tribiketransport was worth the $300. If I decide to go to Milwaukee – 2020’s Nationals venue – I think I’ll pony up for transport again. Of course, maybe my ego needs a break from these fast ladies.

Afterparty

After cleaning and cute-ing up, Madi and I joined Speed Sherpa teammates Kathy, Larren, and Kim at a spot called Townhall which was on 25th St a few blocks away. (Madi seriously hit it out of the park with the Airbnb location.) We snacked and drank and made friends with passing dogs before heading out to dinner with the mamas.

I’d made a reservation a short drive away at a restaurant called Distill Table. It had won best new restaurant in Cleveland and the write ups were glowing. And honestly we should have just stayed on 25th Street. Between the sad wine list (all Ohio wines – just no) and fully mediocre food (and service) I wish we’d just gone back to Bar Cento from Friday night.

So the food scene in Cleveland is still lacking as much as my bike game. But we had a fun weekend in a cute neighborhood with friends and family. Madi raced great and will hopefully get another Team USA spot and I very much succeeded in my goal to blow up on the run. Oh and we watched Coco when we got back to the Airbnb and it’s impossible to be unhappy watching that perfect pelicula. Great weekend overall and a great couple years racing in Cleveland – though I won’t miss swimming in Lake Erie.

It’s Friday, July 26^th, 2019. Actually it’s July 27^th now, 12:21am. I’m in Atlanta next to my sleeping husband and dog-brother (mom’s pup) Colby and the house is quiet.

I’m happy to be right here, in this house with my family, but this wasn’t the plan. I’m supposed to be in Lake Placid, NY getting ready to race my second full Iron on Sunday. (i.e. tomorrow given that midnight has come and gone.) I’m pausing while writing to scope my Rev3 teammie, Steve’s Insta stories to live vicariously through his #IMLP set up and dwelling on what couldashoulda been rather than sleeping like everyone else, including Colby. (Imagine both Colby and Scott wish I would shut the computer and get some shuteye.)

Last summer I spent several weeks vacillating between Ironmans Lake Placid and Mont Tremblant, knowing I wanted to do one of these north-ish, climby, picturesque, iconic summer full distance races. I’m not entirely sure how I alighted on those as the two between which I had to choose, but I think after IM Chattanooga 2016 my first criterion was a race destination that would not top (or even near) 100 degrees. Secondly, I wanted a race venue that Scott would enjoy and I knew he would have fun in either beautiful mountain location. And I think I wanted to climb. I know I wanted to push myself on a course that intimidated me and IMLP and IMMT both offered hills and intimidation in spades – far above the Mason-Dixon.

How I finally landed on Lake Placid I really don’t know. I remember I was leaning toward Tremblant for a couple weeks and had told Josh as much, and then one weekend morning I was sitting on the couch in my undies sipping coffee when something inexplicable came over me and suddenly I was plugging credit card info into the Lake Placid Active.com  page. That’s how it often happens with race registration: impulsively with little-to-no explanation in our underwear.

Ultimately I’m glad I picked Placid. Not for the course or location or anything like that as obviously I didn’t race it. No I’m glad I pulled that trigger rather than Mont Tremblant because Placid happens three weeks earlier and that shorter training timeline helped make the decision to drop out while I could still get my money back on the race and the Airbnb. The July vs. August race date meant I knew Placid wasn’t happening for me by the first weekend of June, and didn’t have to drag the DNS (did not start) decision out.

All winter and most of spring I held out hope that I’d be 140.6-ready the last week in July. My PT was more measured in his optimism but didn’t rule it out. My orthopedist however was pretty sure back when the crutches came off at the end of February that a full wasn’t in my summer 2019 cards. I thought she was being dramatic.

As the arduous truth of this recovery set in little by little through March and April and even May I remained optimistic (obtuse). Even as my attempts to increase my run mileage were thwarted week after week, I kept doing the math and reworking my calculations in desperation: when I was maxed at five consecutive miles ten weeks out from race day I thought, if I can add 1-2 miles a week I can get up to 17 miles “safely” by the week before race day and that’s plenty to carry me through. When I was still maxed at five consecutive miles eight weeks out I began to think, I’ll probably be fine walk-jogging the marathon like I did at IM Virginia even if I only ever get up to 10-13 miles in training.

Then Escape the Cape happened. And it was great! I biked well, I survived a very difficult run, I podiumed unexpectedly, and rather than imbuing me with extra IM Placid confidence, somehow that fantastic perfect day knocked some sense into me. It was the first week of June and I knew if I was really gonna make Lake Placid happen, the next six weekends were going to be nonstop long rides and swims and as much running as I could handle. Every Saturday for the foreseeable future was going to call for 50-100 miles in the saddle, and my 200m intervals in the pool were going to be replaced with 1000 and 2000 meters. Escape had been stellar, but it had also been an olympic distance – or more accurately, an “olyish.” A mile swim – with the current – 22 miles biking, and five miles running. And those distances were right on the money for where I was in my fitness and recovery. The thought of doubling or tripling them over just a few weeks sounded awful.

And so I got home from New Jersey of sound enough mind to finally admit that I was not of sound enough body to take on Lake Placid 2019. I think I’d known for a while that withdrawing was the right decision – the only decision – but somehow it took a weekend of great swimbikerunning to the best of my present ability to make peace with it. Pulling the plug in June left me time at least to register (and kind of train) for USA Triathlon Age Group Nationals in August. If I’d been signed up for Mont Tremblant I fear I would have continued to run the numbers on whether I could finish a full for another few weeks – to still eventually realize, ‘no-I-cannot – and I likely would have missed the window to return to Nationals. (Ask me after a second race weekend in Cleveland if this was indeed a good thing.)

Five years ago I wrestled with the same to-Iron-or-not-to-Iron decision and came to the same not-this-year conclusion after a bike crash six weeks before what would have been my first full. (Louisville back when they still did it in August.) I licked my wounds next to the pool in Atlanta then and opted for the same this no-go round. New year, new disappointment, same response. This time though I have a huge tri-family to lean on, even here in Georgia, so I brought my road bike down and get to ride with Rev3 and Speed Sherpa friends (and my dad) which is a terrific consolation prize. 

I did realize over the weekend that of three full Ironmans I’ve attempted I’ve now had to bail on two. I’m one for three. Oof that really sucks to say/type. I currently am still signed up for Ironman Arizona in November and hope I won’t have to throw in that towel too. Making it to Tempe would at least give me a .500 batting average on getting to the Ironman start line. (Good in baseball, less so I think in triathlon…especially since a baseball batting average doesn’t measure the percentage of times one makes it to the plate…so I think this metaphor has officially fallen apart.)

That orthopedist who knew in February that a July Ironman wasn’t going to happen did say back then that she liked the odds for a November full. The hip fracture happened in October of 2018, and she predicted about a year recovery for this injury. I couldn’t believe her protracted timeline back then; now it would seem she knew what she was talking about, or perhaps was even being optimistic.

I’m not gonna lay down some grand gauntlet like, ‘I’m coming for you Arizona!’ because I don’t know for sure that I am. I hope I am. I really don’t want to be 1 for 4 on startlines. I really don’t want to be suffering more DNS disappointments 13 months into this ordeal. I’ve got Nationals – a proper olympic so the longest race run this season – and Ironman Atlantic City 70.3 to get through first. If I can actually finish IMAC I think I’ll be in a good place to make a November full happen. I know better than to get my hopes up but I don’t want to lose hope either.

And whatever happens I’m sure Scott and Colby will have my back…as long as I stop blogging when they’re trying to sleep.

Following the sale of our 70.3 races to Ironman and the dissolution of our official team, a large group of the Rev3 crew signed up for Escape the Cape, seeking a chance to be together at a locally-owned, non-Iron branded race. Everyone was doing it so I quickly registered too without thinking much on it. (If all your friends jump off a ferry, would you jump too? Yes. Obviously.)

Then a bunch of Speed Sherpa teammates also signed up including Tiff, so suddenly all my tri worlds would be colliding in the best way in New Jersey. As I crutched and sat through this awful winter and worked to get better in physical therapy, as I dropped out of race after race and weathered disappointment after disappointment Escape the Cape became a beacon of hope. I couldn’t finish a half ironman in early May, but surely I could finish an olympic in early June. And I’d get to do so with dozens of my favorite tri people.

Several Rev3’ers proposed getting an airbnb and I am always game for a tri-team group house. Teammie Mike found us a pad on Wayne Ave right next to transition and as we worked out who all was staying with us there the numbers shook out so that I could invite Tiff to shack up. It was going to be a tight squeeze but the more the merrier – even if it turns out to be the more the smellier.

Race Day Eve Eve

Wanting to make the most of a weekend with so many friends at a race I could actually finish all of I took the Friday before race day off to drive up early. I planned to be on the road by 10am so of course I was on the road at 10:57. (I considered the 3 minutes by which I beat 11am to be a major victory.)

The drive up wasn’t awful but every inevitable Friday afternoon backup felt like torture because I wanted to get to Cape May so badly. And eventually because I needed to pee so badly. (The bathroom talk is starting early in this report!)

I waited to pee until I was off the Jersey Turnpike and onto smaller local highways where pulling over wasn’t such a headache. I found a gas station and hurried inside where the guys working the counter informed me, snickering, that the only bathroom presently functioning was a porta potty on the side of the building. They were smirking as they told me, I think expecting this female to flee, aghast at the prospect, but apparently they don’t meet a lot of trichicks. A porta potty was perfect! I’d actually parked right next to it so it meant less time out of view of my bike and compared to a post-race porta this one was a dream!

In my exuberance and sort of punctuality I managed to be first to arrive at the little blue house on Wayne Ave just after 3pm. I found the lockbox and let myself in, and then gleefully unpacked the car and claimed the the bunkbed room for the ladies and the largest bed for myself – all 58 inches of myself! (Russell resented that choice later when he had to fold himself into one of the children-sized bunks but I slept great and it’s his own fault for making a pitstop in Atlantic City on his way down from New York.)

Mike arrived second and we decided to hit the Acme grocery a few blocks away for just a few things, which turned into quite a lot of things because duh, hungry triathletes at the supermarket. When we got back to the house Russell was waiting on the stoop, locked out. Haha! We unpacked all the groceries, fixed dinner, and got to actually enjoy each other’s company with some wine and beer without the limitations and anxiety of race-day-eve.

After eating we walked a mile up the road along the beach to meet up with teammie Robert and his family at Harpoons on the Bay. We stopped on the way and watched an epic sunset over the Atlantic. Dolphins, literally fuckin dolphins, leapt off shore in the pink glow on the waves. It was i-frickin-dyllic. We each had a beer, but I guess Russell, Mike, and I are not the super fun members of team Rev3 because we headed home early and were in bed at a pretty triathlon-friendly hour. (Russ especially just cannot hang!)

Race Day Eve

I had a great night of sleep and woke up around 9 and made breakie for Mike, Russell, and myself. Tiff and Clarice both arrived around 11am and finally we had some more ladies in Chez Wayne. Clarice wasn’t racing Escape but was a week out from her Kona Qualification conquest at Ironman Boulder so while most of us only had short bike-run shake-outs on our plates she had to go ride 40 miles and then run. Tiff, Mike, and I all opted to go get our packets early while Russell accompanied Clarice out on some of her bike workout – only fair as he was the one assigning those 40 miles after all.

Tiff and I ran a circuitous mile to packet pickup getting that bit of workout done. We met up with Mike back at the house and the three of us went out for one lap of the next day’s bike course. We took it really easy and it was great to get a look at what we’d be riding. It was however a little intimidating with a lot of cars on the course. There was a nice wide shoulder through most of it fortunately and the drivers were respectful. Still, my confidence and handling were both challenged by several heavily trafficked intersections but we made it safely through and I felt ready for the next day when the course would be car-free. We then racked our bikes, took some Speed Sherpa group pics, and headed back to the house.

With our workouts done by mid-afternoon and only one (indoor) shower at the airbnb we took turns bathing and we ladies sat around in our sweat and filth for a while, much to Russell’s dismay. We also discovered that the pilot light had gone out on the hot water tank so most of us had freezing showers which I just chalked up to good ocean water preparation.

At 5:30 we met up with a massive crew of Rev3 teamies and family for dinner at the Mad Batter Restaurant in the quaintest charmingest little downtown area – it was a far cry from the trash city that is Old Orchard Beach, Maine.  (Sorry for the OOB shade, but loving on where you’re racing makes the weekend that much sweeter!) Most of our table ordered the same linguini and between the ten of us we must have been served twenty-some pounds of pasta. As if that weren’t enough we gluttons hit Ben & Jerry’s too before returning to the house to get ready for the morning.

Jumping off the ferry meant the start of the race had to be timed with high tide, and this year that meant a nice late start of 8:30am. We had to be out of transition by 7:30 and aboard the boat by 8, but even with those time restrictions this was just about the latest-starting race any of us had ever done and we were STOKED. It made for a more laid back race day eve without having to stress about rushing to bed for pre-dawn wake-up calls.

I for one had a great time getting ready for the next day. The living room was packed with six people laying out clothes and nutrition and burning through nervous energy. We had Law & Order SVU in the background per Tiff and my race eve tradition. I made it to bed around 10pm as usual, but this time, with a 5:50 alarm rather than  4am, 10pm seemed pretty responsible.

To make room for the extra people in the house Saturday night – and to make room for his legs – Russell moved out of the bunkbed room and Clarice, Tiff, and Steve moved in. Clarice shacked up with me in what became a very cozy double bed. (So cozy she clocked me hard in the face at one point but we’re still bffs cause I’m mostly sure she didn’t mean it.) Other than blows to the head, I slept pretty well and resented the race morning alarm clock less than I think I ever have before.

Race Morning

We got ready quickly, making good use of both the keurig, and, relatedly, the one-and-a-half baths. (Mike and I were very happy with our decision to buy a massive 32 pack of coffee pods instead of a 12 pack.) Around 6:30 Tiff, Steve, and I headed to transition. Mike was meeting up with some of his Pennsylvania teammates, Clarice wasn’t racing, and Russ was playing fast and loose with the clock so the three of us hoofed it together. It was only a ten minute walk so we were there with 45 minutes to leisurely set up.

The racks were really tight but I happened to be squeezed between two incredibly nice guys. One of them very kindly helped me untangle Koopa Troop from the mass of bikes and held my steed while I filled my tires – with his pump! My other rackmate noticed my Rev3 kit and got nostalgic about those races that have been bought by Ironman – he was even at Escape the Cape instead of in Connecticut because he couldn’t bear to do the race-formerly-known-as Quassy under its new ownership. After comparing our fond Rev3 memories he left and I readied the rest of my things. When everything was set up I left my bag by the side of transition along with everyone else’s to try and salvage as much space as we could under our racks.

Tiff and I were out of transition a little before 7:30 to hit the porta potties before boarding the ferry.  Once on line for the johns we were joined by Steve, Clarice, and Rev3 teamie, Billy. Our race began early as we challenged each other to bathroom faster and Clarice stood outside cheering us on. That’s probably weird; I thought it was hysterical and great.

My belly actually felt pretty good so I did this one last bit of business quickly (beating Billy in the next potty! Victory came early!) and Tiff, Steve, and I got on the ferry line which wove all the way around transition and ended only a few yards from the porta bank. It moved quickly and when we were almost to the ferry terminal we happened upon Coach Dave who was just sitting and waiting for people he knew to happen by. He jumped into line with us which ended up being a huge stroke of luck.

In addition to being Speed Sherpa’s head coach, Dave is old hat at Escape the Cape. He was generous with his expertise leading us to the back of the boat where we found space and sat down. He gave us lots of advice for the jump and swim to come and kept everyone entertained and calm as the ferry pulled away from the harbor and out to sea. Being with him kept me from thinking about the jump or really any of race day.

At one point Dave even guided us in a group pee on the sides of boat which, um, was actually really fun. Steve, Tiff, and I each found some space around the railings and wee’ed into our wetsuits, then passed around a bottle of water to rinse our legs. Non-tri-friends may find this appalling but it was great to empty the bladder right before go-time – I didn’t have to go at all during the race – and tri people are well-aware that in a situation where there are over a thousand of us wetsuited up and barefoot on a ferry about to jump into the ocean, we’re just gonna basically be walking through (thoroughly hydrated) pee the whole way.

At 8:30 we heard the crowd toward the front of the boat cheer and knew the race had started. With that we hugged Coach Dave goodbye as he was racing the sprint and we were all doing the olympic, so we had to jump first. Tiff, Steve, and I zipped each other into our pee-suits and joined the jump line. Music was blasting and people were dancing and having a blast. I joined in some of the move-busting figuring nothing better than a little twerk to get the heartrate up a bit. (Actually it’s really hard to twerk in a wetsuit – nothing jiggles in neoprene.)

We inched forward for about 15 minutes until we hit metal barricades that split the group into several single file lines. Tiff was first, then me, then Steve. As we were funneled into queues everything started to  feel real very quickly. Fifteen feet away people were gleefully leaping off the boat into the waiting Atlantic like it was nothing. Suddenly our trio was at the front and then volunteers were calling out to Tiff to move to the edge of the boat.

Swim

Tiff marched confidently ahead. She’s new to this sport and yet seems to have no fear. The volunteers at the boat’s edge gave her some sort of direction and then quickly she was disappeared over the side and they were calling me up.

I hadn’t thought about this jump ever really. Not when signing up or in any of the days leading up to it; I had managed to push it from my mind and not dwell and thus not freak out. But now as I approached the edge of the boat and looked down I was scared.

A volunteer told me to wait until I saw the bubbles from the person ahead of me but looking down I had no idea what he meant. The current pulled everyone who jumped away from the boat almost instantly so there wasn’t really any danger of jumping on top of anyone. Between my confusion and my apprehension I stood there a little long until I finally realized I’d already crossed the timing mat and my race had technically begun. The desire not to waste anymore seconds finally propelled me forward and over the edge.

I didn’t do anything cool or exciting as I jumped. I wouldn’t even call what I did “jumping.” I just stepped off the boat into the air and grabbed my goggles with both hands as Escape veterans had shown me, afraid that if I tried to pose for the cameras I wouldn’t have time to get my hands back on my headgear. A cool picture didn’t seem worth having to swim a mile back to shore blind. In reality I felt suspended in the air a moment and the twelve foot descent into the surf was enough time to ham it up and still grab the gogs. Next year.

Dave had warned us on the boat to not be freaked out by how deep we would sink into the water so I was anxiously expecting some scary and disorienting plunge, but Dave has probably close to a hundred pounds on me so I shouldn’t have been surprised that this was not my experience. I hit the water, clutched my goggles and blew out my nose, and dipped beneath the waves only a few feet. I tilted my head up when I’d stopped descending and could see the surface near and clear. I popped easily back into the air and got to swimming.

The water felt very cold at first. I’d gone back and forth over whether to wear my sleeveless or long-sleeved wetsuit, ultimately opting for the latter hearing the 64 degree reading race morning – it was about the same temperature as Maine and I’d been very happy in my sleeves there. Hitting the chilly chop I was so glad for the decision I’d made. I spent a hundred or so meters swimming with my head above water, dipping my face in  a few times to acclimate. The sudden cold can trigger my asthma really quickly, and having been through heart surgery in my twenties to repair a defect, I play it very conservatively with open water swims*. My ears felt numb from the cold and I wished I’d doubled up on swimcaps. After a few minutes it started to feel better though, and I felt comfortable enough to put my head down and try to work out some sort of rhythm.

*A man did in fact pass away in the cold water that day of a heart attack. He was participating in the three mile swim and was only 36 years old. His death prompted me to visit my cardiologist for a check up which has led to some new tests to explore an abnormal echo I had a few years ago. It’s likely no big deal, but we should take extra care and control the things we can.

I tried to put my recent Swimbox lessons to work with a focus on my catch, on forming a paddle with my arms, and working into my shoulder blades rather than my rotator cuff. This exercise kept my mind occupied and the time rolled by easily. Dave had advised us not to worry too much about sighting for this race. There weren’t regular buoys – just two near the exit. We just had to point ourselves toward the shore, keep the kayaks on our right, and go.

I heeded this advice only looking up every 13 breaths. (My favorite number because why wouldn’t it be?) There was a large group of people on shore next to something red that I assumed was the exit. I pointed myself that way and glanced up periodically to make minor adjustments. I felt like I was doing great until ten or 15 minutes in when I looked around and realized the rest of the race was pretty far away from me. I paused my swimming, peered toward shore, and realized what I’d been sighting was probably a quarter mile before the actual bright red swim exit. I was somehow off course in this straight-line boat-to-shore contest.

I quickly hooked a right and began desperately paddling toward the actual swim exit. I had been feeling like I was doing so well and now the end seemed newly so so far. And I feared my diversion had cost me the best part of the current as I had to swim more parallel to shore.

The swim seemed to take forever after my off-course sojourn. And once I rejoined the other athletes on-course I was surrounded by sprint swimmers and could see that the ferry had moved in closer to let them off which was so disconcerting. I was convinced in that moment that I was just about the last place olympic swimmer.

Lending support to this dismal hypothesis, as I swam on I found myself surrounded by clearly new or very uncomfortable swimmers: people breast-stroking and swimming heads above the water and pausing every few meters to look around. I had to dislodge myself from the self-conscious tangle a few times. At one point an absolutely oblivious guy doing the most bizarre and disruptive “backstroke,” windmilling both arms at the same time, zigged across my path, startling me. I treaded water for a moment and watched him “swim” mindlessly over a few more people including a woman who screamed at him. I wanted nothing more to do with that nonsense so I put my head down and tried to get ahead of him, only to have the fool somehow zag in front of going the other way. This time as he collided with me he seemed to shocked to have found other swimmers on the course. I doubt he caught my eyeroll through my Rokas, but I hope he did. I buckled back down and got ahead of him once and for all.

Finally after what felt like hours I saw the only two buoys of the day. I passed between them and swam until my knuckles brushed sand. As a mini human I swam into shallower waters than most until I finally was forced to my feet. I stood, a little dizzy, and trudged onto the shore. Passing under the bright red arch – the thing I thought I’d been sighting to the whole swim – I saw my swim time was 27:40, which meant nothing to me because I had no idea how far I’d gone but I knew it was more than the prescribed course distance. With the benefit of the ingoing tide though I was in the 1:20s/100 per my garmin and 1:30s/100 per the race results so thank you DelMo Sports for timing this thing that way.

T1

T1 was a long haul uphill through sand. I started to run but within a few steps I thought better of it and walked. I wasn’t as terrified of running as I’d been at Ironman Virginia the month before, but I still didn’t want to mess with the transitions. Again my ego took a hit as everyone around me ran or jogged but I just walked through the dunes.

As the ground leveled out the sand gave way to a parking lot. People were pausing on benches to get their wetsuits off. I saw Rev3 teammate Daniel pulling off his neoprene and I plopped down next to him to do the same, happy for the familiar face. As I yanked the suit over my ankles I looked up and saw Tiff coming up the sand behind me. We always manage to hit T1 together!

Once free of my wetsuit I tried a very measured jog over the pavement – it seemed safer on the joints than the uneven beach. We had to run through a bit of swamp at one point that I’m preeeetty sure was sewagy but it was just a few wet muddy steps so I tried not to think about it.

The trip back to transition was about a third of a mile. Once finally back at our racks I took a little time to rinse and dry my feet before pulling my socks and bike shoes on. I didn’t take T1 aggressively at all and it showed in the seven minutes and 12 seconds I took to get through it. (Not twenty minutes like Virginia but I was trying to actually finish this one so not great.)

Bike

Once I got to the bike mount line I was ready to make up for all the time spent dawdling through T1. We had to get through a tight winding path before hooking a right onto Lincoln Blvd where the road opened up. Navigating around people I decided then and there to fully send the bike. I had no run fitness to speak of and with large sections of the run course being through deep sand even if I were fit fast probably wouldn’t be an option. So I figured I had nothing to hold back for and if I was going to have any shot at the podium I had to take that shot on the bike. As soon as I swung onto Lincoln I felt fired up and ready with this new plan in place. I shifted down, found my aero bars, and hammered.

I passed Tiff who’d been much more efficient than me in transition. She later told me she’d tried to follow and keep up for a bit but that I was clearly gunning for something. I was all adrenaline charging down that straightaway holding around 21 mph average minus some tight turns. The course is mostly flat and fast with a number of tight, technical turns, and four hills, all of which are going up and down the same bridge twice each way. The first time up the bridge is at mile three so my pace was forced lower. Thanks to our pre-ride the day before I also knew not to gather too much speed on the descent as there was a hard almost 180 degree right at the bottom of the hill.

That tight turn pulled us onto New England Road which wound next to the Cape May Canal for what I thought was a very scenic bit of riding. I heard others before and after the race bemoan the bad, bumpy condition of New England but I thought it was fine. It wasn’t as bad as large chunks of Ironman Virginia, or a sprint I had done a few weeks prior, so I just dropped back into my bars to make up some time after the first climbing and all that tight turning.

Oh the turning. I think my only complaint with the course was that it was crowded with novice triathletes (which is great! Welcome!) who seemed to think you needed to come to a full halt before taking anything nearing 90 degrees or tighter. Even on the first loop, probably thanks to all the sprinters, it was hard to navigate around the new cyclists choking every curve in the road. We hit five such turns in the first five miles of the course alone. Despite holding steady over 20 mph on each straightaway I averaged only 18.5 mph over that first five mile lap.

I knew that wasn’t good enough for a podium or, more importantly, for a happy me at the end of the race so I was determined to pick it up. Happily that ended up being my slowest “lap” of the morning. As I tried to kick up the effort I was able to mostly stay low and pick people off. Despite feeling like I need a new bike fit since the hip fracture (seems like my body has changed after three months on crutches – weird, huh?) I was happy to find I was feeling more comfortable out on my aero bars than I had in recent weeks. Miles five through ten back tracked over a lot of the terrain covered in the first five miles, including taking on the bridge in the other direction. I maintained a 19.6 mph average over that second “lap” which felt more on track with what I wanted.

Around mile ten the course passed right by Wayne Ave and wound a few blocks through the residential neighborhood where we were staying. I used this as an opportunity to sit up and get some fuel in, sucking down half a gel and then trying to put the still half full packet gently back into my bento box at just the right angle so it wouldn’t leak all over everything. It was pretty crowded so I was slightly nervous grabbing my gu and then my water but all went smoothly and I was instantly proud of my one-handed handling. Calories in I dropped back onto my bars and got back to work. I was reasonably pleased with my first loop but I wanted a lot more out of the second.

Halfway through mile 11 that second loop started back on Lincoln Blvd and the course became even more congested as athletes beginning their first laps merged with those of us beginning our second. It was challenging to navigate through the throng but I just kept calling “ON YOUR LEFT” and managed to stay low and mostly fast a bit over 20 mph for that long straightaway.

Soon I was back to the tight turns and then again up the bridge for the third of four times. I turned in an average of 19.7 mph for miles ten through 15 – pace still trending up but I decided I had to average over 20 for the next five. I was facing a crowded course and a number of tight turns so I got to work hammer dropping, balancing assertive riding with safety, not trusting (for good reason) the skills of the many new cyclists around me. I kept calling my position and at one point I think I even yelled outloud that you don’t need to come to a halt to take a corner. (Get off my lawn!)

I got it done, riding 22-23 mph where I could to make up for the traffic jams and the fourth and final trip up and down the bridge. Soon I was back on the straight stretch toward the final few miles of the bike leg. My watch buzzed announcing I’d hit my goal for 15-20 with 20.2 mph average. I was feeling good and accomplished as I passed Wayne and hooked the right to wind through our little residential hood again.

I had energy and didn’t feel hungry so I almost forewent the remainder of the gel I’d opened during the first lap. Plus I didn’t want to slow down when I was riding so well so close to the end. But I knew the run course was going to be treacherous and hot, so I pulled back and miraculously fished the rest of that gu out without getting it all over myself and my bike. As I ate and washed it down a couple guys who seemed to be riding together (not cool dudes) passed me aggressively and pulled directly in front of me. I rolled my eyes and thought, ‘you don’t even know who you’re up against bros.’ I replaced my water bottle, dropped back into my aero bars and blew by them. In my periphery I could see one try to draft and keep up and I was not having it. Two tight left turns brought us all back on the last few blocks before the turn off for the finish. I grabbed a pace in the 20s and booked it home, and my hanger on drifted back.

At mile 22 the course split, with finishers to the right and second loop straight ahead. I slowed and pulled right onto a very narrow path back to transition. As soon as I did I found myself behind a guy with no helmet on. “Where’s your helmet dude?!” I called out. He explained he’d run out of T1 without it and no one had said anything the whole way. I think he was doing the sprint but that’s still nuts. I stated as much and then shouted, “ok, on your left” and he pulled over as I rode as quickly as I safely could the quarter mile back. I was afraid he was likely about to be DQed when he showed up back in transition with no helmet but I wasn’t waiting around to find out.

I dodged a lot of dawdlers who I presume were coming off the one-loop sprint bike course as I tried to floor it into transition. My final bike time was 109:39 which gave me an average speed of 19.6 mph over the just-under 23 miles. I was really happy with how I rode though I had no idea or expectations about how my  performance would stack up against the rest of 35-39 field. I knew I’d busted my butt though, ridden hard and smart, been strong through the technical aspects of the course, and fueled myself well, hopefully setting myself up for as strong a run as someone with my lack of run-conditioning could hope for.

T2

My second transition was much shorter than the first at 2:43 but still not particularly strong. While I was happy about my cycling I really didn’t harbor any real hopes of making the podium so I wasn’t particularly disciplined as I swapped out my shoes and pulled on my number.

Run

In not too much time I was jogging down the run-out chute and bracing myself for what I knew were going to be five very difficult miles. The temperature that had felt chilly on the ferry and mild on the bike suddenly felt sweltering.

It took a third of a mile to reach the main drag of the run course – W. Beach Drive, the same ocean-parallel road that had ended the bike course. I took that first drag in the low 8s, having no idea what sort of pace I should expect out of myself on these non-beach sections and on these non-run-trained legs. Even hot like it was, in a normal olympic distance I would have expected something in the 7:30/mile range but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. What I didn’t know was whether I could hold onto something sub-9.

For the first few minutes I was indeed holding steady sub-9, uncomfortable of course but managing. Then just .3 miles in we were routed over our first set of dunes and onto the beach for a quarter mile slog through the sand. I’d heard that people usually either tried to run on the harder packed damp sand by the water, or ran farther up on the reeds and beach grass for a little more traction. For this first beach stretch I decided to go with the former strategy.

I headed toward the water, but there were runners coming in the opposite direction to finish their race, and we had to pass right-to-right, which meant the people heading home got most of the benefit of this harder pack. I stayed as close to the water as I could without getting in anyone’s way but with limited shoreline real estate the sand felt just as deep where I was able to run as it did higher up on the beach and my pace dropped into the 11s. When the course finally veered back over the dunes toward the road again I heeded Dave’s earlier suggestions and let myself walk about .05 miles. The sand was so deep and trudging uphill and still against oncoming finisher traffic was too hard.

When my feet mercifully hit the pavement again I tucked back into a run trying to work myself back into the 8s as quickly as possible. When my watch buzzed to announce one mile down I was pleased to see 9:08 as the average even after walk-jogging on the beach. I was not however pleased to discover I was buzzing .1 miles before the first official race marker. I realized that not only had running to the shoreline yielded no pacing benefit, it had also added distance to my run. I would not be going with that approach again.

Through mile two I tried to keep myself in the 8s as much as I could to make up for another quarter mile of sandy walk-jogging. This time when we were routed back to the beach I stayed away from the water and jogged awkwardly over the reeds and beach grass higher up the shore. The grass grew in patches which meant it wasn’t a straight shot to the beach exit, and I had to concentrate to keep my balance over the uneven terrain – I was terrified to overstress my hip – but I did feel like this strategy worked a little better than running by the water; and at least it didn’t add any unnecessary mileage.

Again I walked up the dune to get back to the road and as I hit pavement once more my watch tolled 9:15 as my second mile time. I didn’t love that my time was slipping, but I was really relieved to be averaging in the 9s with all the walking. Maybe my run-walk approach at IM Virginia had prepared me for the mental drudgery presented by these sandy walking interludes.

Mile three was a mixed mental bag with more sand but also the turnaround which meant we were halfway there. I ran into Robert near the turnaround and got to see Tiff a few minutes after heading back for home. Seeing my people was a great pick-me-up before heading back to the beach for the billionth time. I was still maintaing a mid-8 pace on the pavement but with two treks though the sand my average for the third mile dropped to 10:08 which bothered me.

The good thing about this five miler is that there are only five miles where there are usually 6.2; the bad thing is that there are only five miles so you have to show up for each one. With two miles left I wanted to pick it up to make up for that 10 minuter, but I was starting to fade hard. It was really hot out. That 8:30am start that had seemed so great when we set our alarms seemed less great when we were running mid-day with no shade. (Let’s keep this two sides of the same coin thing going:) The good thing about coming home was that I was retracing my steps from the first half and knew exactly what to expect; the bad thing was that what to expect was more tedious terrible beach running off and on the whole way back.

Exiting the beach to start mile four I had to dig deep for my 8s. Where I’d been holding low-8s earlier without too much anguish, now I was struggling for mid-8s. My legs were cooked and the rest of me was cooking under the sun. Luckily this fourth mile had less beach running than the rest. When I did find myself back at the sand though I was dismayed to see the beach grass and reeds section totally clogged and impassable with runners heading out on their runs. I reluctantly headed toward the water to give it another go there. People heading out were not being particularly gracious with the limited space though, and as I tried to stay to their right I was forced into an oncoming wave by an oblivious guy and my right sneaker filled with water. With a difficult mile and a half still to go I now had a soaking wet shoe squelching with every uncomfortable step.

I was admittedly pissed as I run-walked up the dune back to the road, but fortunately Robert’s and Danny’s wives, Marnie and Yvonne, were there spectating and screamed for me as I emerged back onto the blacktop. I couldn’t stay mad. These two had been out on the course the whole day yelling for me every time I passed by on the bike or on foot. They were amazing cheerleaders and with their encouragement I smiled and picked up my feet for the last fifteen minutes home. I got myself back to a 9:14 average for that fourth mile and charged ahead – as much as I still could charge at that point – for the last mile of the now sweltering day.

For the first .25 of that fifth and final mile I struuuuuggled to maintain just a 9 minute average. I felt like hot death and my legs were so over the sand. We had one final .3 to go on the beach though and I found room for myself once more on the reeds and grass when I got there. My heartrate was too high and my feet too low, so I compromised with myself and ran 30 second, walked 15 to get myself back to the road. Once I was past that final sandtrap I fought for 8s once more and mostly maintained them till the end.

I had nothing left for a sprint over the finish line which I say is a win for me. I went as hard as the course and my fitness would allow and I ended the 5 mile run with an official time of 47:51 and an overall of 2:35:07. I’ve put down actual 10k (6.2 mile) oly runs in less time, but even at 5 miles this was so much harder than any full oly distance run I’ve ever done.

Aftermath

As soon as I had grabbed my medal and water and gotten a few feet from the finish line I yanked off my waterlogged shoes. I had a helluva blister along the bottom of my right foot from that final stretch in a sopping wet sneaker. I wandered around the ferry terminal back to the Speed Sherpa tent and found Clarice and those teammates who had already finished. We got to cheer in Tiff a few minutes later and then all hit the food tent.

I also wandered over to the results tent where Russell was up at the front. I shouted my number to him and he pulled it up quickly as I walked up. I glanced at the results with zero expectations after five miles of 9 min averages and swimming off course. I was really happy to see 5th in my age group and headed back to the Speed Sherpa tent to eat and wait for everyone else, feeling content with my efforts and ranking. So close to the podium at such a big race!

As I sat down I told some Sherps that I was really pleased with a 5th place AG finish, and (different, not coach) Dave said, “well the podium here goes five deep so that’s awesome!'” I was stunned; I thought only Ironman went five deep. “Are you sure?” I asked him and he was pretty positive. I asked Sara and anyone else with Escape the Cape experience and everyone who knew the race assure me it indeed went up to 5th place. I seriously couldn’t believe it and I was over the moon.

I was in such terrible run shape but I’d given it all I had, and I had really laid it out on the bike not expecting anything but my own gratification. After the terrible winter and all the letdowns and the depression, the weight gain and anger, and the painfully, infuriatingly slow buildup back to some semblance of fitness and training a podium at a race this big was more than I could have  hoped.

A number of other Rev3 and Speed Sherpa teammates also placed. Housemates Russell and Steve both got age group awards, Mike’s relay team won their category, and Coach Dave won the whole damn sprint. We all decided to wait through the award ceremony before packing up and heading back to the house. The awards started at noon and we felt like we had plenty of time to get our prizes and make it back to Wayne Ave for  before our 2pm checkout.

They started with the sprint awards which seemed odd, and Dave was nowhere in sight so Sara had to go accept his award for him. We heard some of the olympic results were still be formalized hence the sprint race – which started later – going first. It seemed to take forever to work through the sprint awards, probably thanks at least in part to the five-deep podium, so eventually Steve and I decided to go pack up transition and bring our bikes back to the Speed Sherpa tent and award ceremony. We hustled to get back in time only to find after the sprint awards they also did awards for fastest swim, and bike, and run, and then moved on to the three mile swim awards – a race that had started a full hour after ours!

Mike and Russell had seen the writing on the wall and actually collected their bikes, went back to the house, showered, packed their stuff there, and then rejoined us at the awards stage. I was so jealous of their clean clothes and wished I’d done the same. (At least when I’d packed up my transition area I’d been able to put on flip flops so I was no longer barefooting it through the questionable mud around the finish area.)

I was getting very cranky and stressed out by 1pm. I wanted so badly to stay and collect my award and go get my picture taken on the stage. This felt like such a massive milestone in the midst of a terribly hard year and I wanted my moment. But I was also afraid we would never be able to pack and vacate the house by 2pm. Tiff had been keeping me company too and I was feeling really guilty knowing she was getting stressed about the time crunch. We agreed to wait until 1:30 at which point we would have to give up.

At 1:25pm they finally got to the oly 35-39 and 40-44 divisions on which Steve, Russell, and I were all waiting. I was so relieved and excited to get to climb up on that stage and stand next to those fast women. Sara and Dave were still there with us manning the Speed Sherpa tent so we had a solid little group to take pictures and cheer each other on. Once we all had our hardware we quickly collapsed the tent and raced back to the house.

Back on Wayne Ave we learned we had an extension till 3pm before we had to be out. Still we made quick business of showering and packing, divvying up the food and booze in the fridge, and lamenting that we had to say goodbye so soon. I think we were all in agreement that this little collective we’d established was the perfect race-crew. (Even pain in the ass, Russell!) We made plans to racecation together again, maybe at Ironman Atlantic City in September which Tiff, Steve, and I are racing and the others are hopefully spectating!

Around 2:30 we finally hugged goodbye and parted ways, with 2/3 of the crew headed, all in separate cars, for NYC. (We’ll plan that better next time.) The drive home was uneventful except that I was sad. The weekend had been perfection: the company, the house, the beautiful backdrop, the race itself, and my racing. And it had gone by so fast.

When I got back to DC I dug into my age group results a little more and discovered that I’d come in second on the bike by just 13 seconds – and the woman who’d come in first had been 16 minutes slower than me overall. I had a brief moment of, ‘damn where could I have made up 14 seconds’ but really I was ecstatic. The four 35-39 women who beat me overall had all biked slower than me – and by several minutes each! The one woman who had beat me seemed like she must be some sort of cycling ringer based on her much slower swim and run times. Given all that I kind of felt like I’d won the bike – at least in terms of those of us who’d been battling it out for the podium. And shit did that feel amazing.

I’ve known for a long time that if I want to reach Kona one day (which I do!) my bike needs to start looking a lot more like my (healthy) run. (And I’ll just have to do downstream swims.) When I’m not all broken, like I am now, I can usually place in the top few runners in just about any tri; but my bike hasn’t been anywhere near that. To have come in second on the bike felt like a breakthrough. While I’ve known for years what my bike needs to look like to accomplish my goals, I’ve wondered for just as long whether I’m actually capable of ever getting there. Escape the Cape was the first time I’ve ever felt like I can become the cyclist I need to be, that these legs are capable of getting me there.

I really needed that confidence boost and I’ve been riding the surge of cycling inspiration I gained in Cape May on every ride since. Those 23 glorious miles in the saddle have helped keep me energized as I deal with more running injury issues and have had to focus on my bike as I continue to heal my bones. Riding that wave of bike fire and race withdrawal, when registration for Escape the Cape 2020 opened brifely a few days later, I didn’t think twice, promptly registering along with a number of Rev3 and Speed Sherpa teamies. The only thing I’ll do different next year is stay till at least Monday!

Race Day Lead-Up

I registered for the inaugural Ironman Virginia 70.3 (IMVA) or the race formerly known as Rev3 Williamsburg just before it sold out in the fall. Originally I wanted nothing to do with Ironman buying out the race that introduced me to Rev3 and refused to sign up, even as more and more Speed Sherpa friends threw their names in. When Tiff decided to make it her first half iron distance though I had to join. So I registered thinking I would be heading into the race fit as hell after Boston and a heavy winter training block.

Instead I broke my hip, spent the winter on crutches, and blah blah blah. I held out hope for a while that I might be able to finish it but when I was still relearning how to walk in March I knew it was unlikely I’d be running 13.1 miles on May 5th. A Rev3 teammate who was dealing with a shoulder injury and thus unable to swim agreed to be my run legs. Then Ironman, being the faceless soulless corporation they are said no-go to that, and I was left to either DNS or DNF all by myself.

If Tiff hadn’t been running I would have absolutely dropped out and not gone down to Williamsburg at all. Some people suggested I volunteer at the race but I volunteer at a ton of races and didn’t really feel the need to volunteer for an organization that was treating me so poorly in my time of need. In the weeks leading up to race day I just stayed focused on my recovery, working hard at physical therapy twice a week but also taking things slow. I tried not to put any pressure on myself to be some sort of “ready” on race day, figuring I would just see how much of it I could safely finish come May 5th.

When I ran my first mile in over half a year only three weeks before race day it was abundantly clear that finishing was not in the cards. My PT said whatever my run mileage was up to that first week in May would be what I was allowed to do in Virginia. I kept hoping I’d get to 6 miles by then but as of blog publication in mid-June I’m still not there yet. Come race week I was up to four miles running at a time, and I’d done two bike rides outside, the longest being 45 miles – 45 slow and painful miles. I thought my cycling and swimming would have been in a better place but I’d had to come back slowly in both those disciplines as well so going into “race day” I just wanted to finish the swim and the bike in one piece, and then maybe try a few miles of the run if I felt up to it.

That was the tentative plan when Tiff trained down to DC on Friday afternoon. I hoped I’d get to do some or even most of the race and that I wouldn’t hurt myself further (or embarrass myself). Mostly though I hoped it would be a big weekend for Tiff. She’d been working so hard all winter, and especially after the disappointment of Nations 2018 being cancelled, I wanted her to have a great first Iron weekend.

Race-Day Eve

We loaded up my Mini (Yoshi) and were on the road by 9am Saturday morning. We arrived at the race site around 12:30 and immediately were set upon by Rev3-turned-Speed Sherpa bff Clarice. The three of us picked up our packets and did a little retail damage before Tiff and I went out for some 20 min bike-10 min run openers.

The three of us made it to the Historic Powhatan where most of Speed Sherpa was staying for the team picture. It was great to goof around with the team for a bit and meet several new Sherps and while I still had no idea what sort of “race day” I’d be having, I was happy I’d come down.

Afterward we three amigas checked into our own insanely nice suite at the hotel and Tiff and I convinced Clarice that she should just spend the night with us rather than sleep at home in Virginia Beach an hour away. (Our suite was 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and slept 6 comfortably!) I was over the moon getting two of my favorite people in the world together and, not surprisingly, they hit it off.

We opted to dinner at Paul’s Deli, Clarice and I fondly remembering the pizzas from Rev3 Williamsburg last year. What we failed to remember was that they were insanely thick crust and massive, and that we didn’t each need an individual large pizza, plus garlic bread, plus salad, plus chicken parmigiana. (The myriad servers who took our orders also could have warned us as much but we were acting pretty cocky about how much food we could put away and the staff was probably excited to see the wings melt off our gastro-hubris.)

During dinner my hip began talking to me, and I didn’t dig what it was saying. I didn’t like that it was speaking at all. After 20 slow bike minutes and 10 slow run minutes it shouldn’t have had anything to say and if it was protesting after a lowkey half hour of work how was it going to react to (some/most of) a half ironman? I forced down deep dish pizza and stewed in silence, angry at my body – a feeling with which I’ve become well-acquainted.

After a trip to Publix, during which my hip kept up its unwelcome blabbing, we returned to the sweet suite – leftovers in hand – to get down to the real and final business of laying out the next day’s race gear.

Following a brief Youtube tutorial Tiff KT-taped my right shoulder together, because why wouldn’t I be also dealing with painful swimmer’s shoulder? As she patiently and generously tried to put me back together again I felt ridiculous. My hip was still recovering, my fitness was garbage, and even my upper body wasn’t in a good place. I finally said outloud what I had been thinking since dinner: I was strongly considering a DNS – not starting at all. I wasn’t ready for a single part of the race. Plus the forecast was falling apart with thunderstorms predicted all day. I would be unprepared AND miserable.

By the time I put words to my hesitations I had probably 75% already decided not to start. Clarice and Tiff were understanding and supportive either way but encouraged me just see how the morning felt. We put everything in ziploc bags to protect against the next day’s rainy forecast. This included nutrition, multiple pairs of dry socks, bike gloves, a headband, and a phone charger for after the race.

Race Morning

It was as fun as 4:30am can be getting ready with Tiff and Clarice. I was still grappling with whether I would be starting, but I didn’t want to dwell outloud on it and impact their big days. Clarice was chasing a podium and 70.3 Worlds Qualification and Tiff was tackling her first ever half iron distance. I cared a lot more about their days than my own.

We dressed, made coffee, and obsessed over the weather which still called for all-day thunderstorms and even flooding. Tiff was impressively zen about it having trained through the New York winter in all sorts of cold and wet and remarking that it actually took a lot of pressure off the day. The girl has endurance sports in her blood and I’m calling it now: in the next year or two she’s going to utterly dominate her first full iron.

Wanting to go out in the first swim wave, around 5:20 Clarice hit the road. Tiff and I were ten minutes behind her, and despite some traffic getting into the race site and parking, we all arrived with sufficient (if not plenty of) time to ready our racks in transition and hit the swim.

I zombied through set-up still unsure whether I was going to start. Since I wasn’t planning on “racing” even if I did decide to start I didn’t do much transition prep. I pumped my tires and porta pottied and otherwise left everything sealed in my hopefully watertight tri-bag. In addition to all my ziplocs my bag was filled with towels and even my bike and run shoes. It was pretty nice not worrying about laying it all out in the quickest most accessible way; if I decided to follow through with the swimming and biking and running, I would take my time digging out whatever hopefully-dry accoutrements I needed.

After porta-pottying (there were plenty in transition and lines were not bad) I grabbed my wetsuit, swimcap, and goggles, and Tiff and I headed to the swim start a quarter mile or so walk away. We chatted and I tried not to think about what was coming. I was going through the triathlon motions and yet still not committed to starting. Case in point, I realized I’d left my heart rate strap in DC and normally would have had a mini (or maxi) panic attack about it, but just shrugged it off deciding if I went through with some of the race I’d just go off rate of perceived exertion – with the goal of keeping the exertion low.

It was a half mile or so walk to the swim start so I had plenty of time to make a choice one way or the other but I unenthusiastically and indecisively trudged along unsure whether to start the race or not. Even as Tiff zipped me into my neoprene – no easy task with all the lingering crutches weight – I wasn’t convinced I was going to be doing any swimming, biking, or running. But squeezed into my wetsuit I followed Tiff to the self-seeding swim line and pulled my swim cap on. Not that I ever aggressively seed myself in the water, but that morning I was particularly unassertive as Tiff and I slipped into the line in with what I think was the 40 minute or so crowd – a time I would normally be quite disappointed in…if I decided to swim.

Swim

There was no great sign from the universe or moment of clarity to dissuade me from starting the race and so I shuffled forward with Tiff and the crowd around me. Just before the dock we were told to pair off which was great. I got to walk two-by two with Tiff and try to impart any last minute encouragement I could. (My ambivalence did not extend to her race.) The swim entrance was efficient and uneventful, we just stepped off the low-sitting dock into the water and we were off. No time to panic or think too hard – perfect for a first time iron-er (Tiff) and perfect for someone who was still considering bailing even as her feet hit the water (me).

Rather than yield completely to that apathy and sink, I began to swim, if irresolutely, as I stepped off the dock. The water was 74.1 degrees, so squarely wetsuit legal, but warm enough that I was nervous I’d made a mistake in bringing my longsleeve wetsuit. (And starting.) Once we got moving though the temperature and my sleeves were actually quite comfortable. (To be fair, I was not exactly exerting myself so my body temp was not exactly climbing.)

While I wasn’t really exerting myself, I did feel solid and confident the first couple hundred meters. I’ve had some good swim workouts while rehabbing my hip – swimming was the first thing I was greenlit to do after all. I hadn’t done any long swim workouts, which had me a little apprehensive entering the water – as did the taped-together shoulder – but I really felt like I’d made some gains in the last few weeks. My shorter intervals had gotten markedly faster – faster 100s and 200s would totally translate into a faster 1.2 miles, right? Well for 500 or so meters it felt like yes.

I was focusing on rhythm and form and my shoulder was holding. For a few minutes I shrugged off my earlier apprehension and felt confident I’d get this swim done and done decently well.

The swim course is sort of an L-shape following the shoreline 1200m west before hooking a hard left for 800m south to the exit.  Somewhere about halfway down that first stretch a man swam up onto my legs, which, ya know, whatever, that’s how tri swimming goes. He backed off and I continued on, until two strokes later when the same guy was on top of me again. Again he backed off and I felt a little grumbly but still not a big deal. Then suddenly he was there a third time and this time not backing off – he seemed like he was just going to try to swim all the way over me because he apparently couldn’t find his way around a tiny woman in a quarter mile wide river. That or he really doesn’t get that drafting usually doesn’t include assault. This time I kicked hard catching him a few times in the chest and arms before he backed off. At one point he whacked my bad hip and then I really started flapping my legs hoping to do some (light) damage. I would say he was the second most aggressive swim-douche I’ve encountered in my seven seasons of tri-ing, though I may have been particularly sensitive to anyone making even accidental contact with my hip.

After the aqua-pugilism I struggled to get back into any sort of rhythm. I started to feel tired and defeated, and my goggles which had fogged up almost immediately upon entering the water were really starting to make me crazy. I couldn’t sight at all which was hampering my already-discombobulated stroke. I was having to periodically stop completely to squint through the fog for the next buoy and to confirm that I was still swimming on-course.

Around halfway through I pulled them off and tried to defog the useless little lenses but within a few strokes they were totally opaque again. After this I tried every few minutes to defog and readjust, and my will to continue waned with my pace. By the last 500m I was barely moving forward. I considered breast stroking or doggie paddling.

I tried so hard to find my form again, focusing on my kick which has gotten SO much stronger since starting at Swimbox. Around this time my left quad started seizing strangely. I think I’ve taken this left leg for granted while rehabbing my right hip, and I can tell from how sore that left quad was the day after the race that indeed it’s bearing the brunt of the work. It’s a good reminder not to let myself get or stay imbalanced during this ongoing recovery. I’m sorry left leg! I’ll do better by you and I appreciate you!

As I finally, arduously, reached the exit dock I was so miserable and disappointed in myself that I had pretty much decided to DNF before even trying the bike. Hitting my garmin I saw a swim time of 39:55 (official time was even worse – 40:21) and thought, ‘yeah, I’m done with today.’

T1

Longest transition report ever to celebrate the longest transition ever!

Organizers had towed in a long low dock to make swim exit easier, which was good because the bottom of the river there is such soft (naaaasty) mud you can’t actually stand in it to pull yourself out of the water. Volunteers were offering their hands but I eschewed the help probably out of grumpy disappointment in my poor swim performance and awkwardly hauled myself out of the mud, sort of sommersaulting onto the dock. I was immediately embarrassed but perhaps my grumpery was for the best as one of the volunteers grabbed Tiff and yanked her out of the water so hard she banged her right knee hard into the gangplank and it swelled like a sportsball of some kind within a couple hours.

Speaking of Tiff, as I looked up from my embarrassing dock tumbling routine there she was. I called out to her and was thrilled to see she was grinning and totally in the game. She said something I didn’t quite catch as she ran ahead.

It was a long haul to transition, and under normal race circumstances I would have sprinted it to make up time. Most people around me at least jogged in but I just walked. And slowly. I tried a few run steps here and there, my race ego struggling to make sense of all these people passing, but I didn’t want to push it and was pretty sure I was about to DNF anyway. I did gladly accept help from some of the wetsuit strippers lining the chute, and once disrobed I kept walking.

I then spent 18 minutes wandering transition trying to feel out my hip and decide what to do. I leisurely bathroomed and chatted up some rackmates who one by one left me to bike. It was raining steadily at this point, and over the course of those 18 minutes the rain got markedly heavier.

Around minute 14 I decided I couldn’t stomach the idea of 3.5 hours slowly plodding and potentially hurting while the weather continued to disintegrate. I decided to quit and not even try to mentally and physically tackle the ride. A volunteer was leaning on the fence nearby and I told her I wanted to DNF and asked what I do. She didn’t know and said I should go ask some of the volunteers by the run out chute. I had put on my bike shoes before making the decision to call it quits, so I went back to my rack to put on sneakers before finding a more senior race official. (Yes I had been wondering transition aimlessly in bike shoes; no I didn’t porta-potty in them – for that I went barefoot.) When I went to take my shoes off though, something in the back of my head and my heart wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t fathom in my physical and mental shape going 56 waterlogged miles, but I could less fathom quitting. I think I audibly groaned as I gave in, pulled my bike off the rack, fished some gloves  out of my bag (hey raynaud’s friends!) and headed toward the bike out.

Again I walked, and not with purpose but with every hesitation, waiting for any reason to throw in the towel. I second-guessed myself the whole way, trying to find the will to quit. But somehow I suddenly found myself grimly and wetly passed the mount line throwing my leg over the saddle and clipping in for who knew what kind of soggy misadventure. At 17:58 it was by far and away my longest (and most fraught) transition ever.

The Bike

 Somehow in 7 seasons of triathlon-ing I’ve never had a bike in real rain. I always get the 100+ degree days, but I’ve avoided the downpour days. I’ve done some wet practice rides, but I was really intimidated for 56 race day miles in the rain. And the forecast called for a lot of rain. On the uh, bright side, this was the perfect race in which to brave wet conditions for the first time as the only goal was to finish as much as I safely could. I wasn’t trying to PR, or podium or even maintain a certain pace. Quite the opposite really, I was trying to keep myself as slow and relaxed as I could.

Going in I was thinking if I maintain a 16mph average overall I’ll come in right at 3:30 and that isn’t terrible. Then there I was in the saddle, in the rain, and not mentally in the race at all, and I wanted to be done sooner than three and a half hours. With the rain and the early course crowding I sat up most of the first five miles hovering between 16 and 17 mph. I was letting people pass me who I normally would not and hanging back and staying lowkey. I started to feel proud of myself for getting out there and I was happy to see the rain wasn’t an issue. I knew enough to avoid the painted roadlines and any metal like manhole covers or grates, and otherwise it was no big deal. I thought to myself, ‘at some point it’s going to rain at a race that I’ll care about a lot more than this one, and I won’t panic because of today.’ That alone made the day a victory.

The first 15 miles went by really quickly and mostly uneventfully. The outside of my hip felt achey through some of it but knowing how psychological a lot of the recovery pain is I powered through and by mile ten it had mostly shut up. The first aid station was at mile 15 and I was feeling a little hungry and concerned that I didn’t have any sort of nutrition plan and had only brought two gels and some shotbloks. I was already feeling proud of myself for getting out on the bike and I decided to push the bike milestones a little further.

I am embarrassed to say this but I usually fully stop at bike aid stations* rather than stick my hand out to grab things from volunteers – I’m that suspicious of my bike handling. I decided today was the day to change that. (I still stopped at the halfway point station because I can’t open a bottle of gatorade, open my aero bottle, and refill said aero bottle with said gatorade while riding. Also I’m in terrible shape and wanted to stand upright on the solid earth for a few minutes halfway through.) But pulling up to this first station I called out what I needed – a gel – grabbed it, ate it, and rolled on through. It was no big deal but it felt like an accomplishment. (I think I’m really overcoming my lack of confidence rather than lack of handling at this point but the anxiety remains.)

*This is only an issue in half and full iron distances, otherwise I can carry what I need and feed myself, I promise.

I had averaged 17 mph over the first 15 miles and had felt really easy-breezy the whole way. (Wet too, but ya know, breezy.) Miles 15-25 I did closer to 18mph and with the influx of calories and riding high off my impressive (remedial) bike handling it felt like nothing. The rain was coming down harder now, my feet were feeling a little chilled, but I just tried to see it as more learning that would pay off in later races.

At mile 21ish we crossed active railroad track followed immediately by a tight righthand turn onto Route 60 where we would spend almost 15 miles. I’d been really apprehensive about the tracks – how slick they would be or how bumpy. I didn’t want to spin out or lose my water bottles or get stuck there waiting for a train which organizers warned could happen. This very technical obstacle was heavily manned by volunteers and I made sure to slow down and put my tires perpendicular to the tracks. It was definitely stressful but as soon as it was done I was thrilled to have overcome a strange new bike challenge. Yet another thing to feel proud of.

That pride gave way to frustration as Route 60 was in terrible shape; I found those 15 miles to be the least enjoyable part of the bike. I was handling the weather, but this stretch  of “pavement” pushed the limits of what a tri bike could or should handle. Ironman had changed the old Rev3 Williamsburg course I think to deal with permitting and accommodating three times the participants that we saw with Rev. I’d been really concerned about how crowded the roads would be and how the area’s drivers would react as they had been aggressive in places the past two years. Ironman was able to block off lanes here on Route 60 and I didn’t find cars to be as big an issue this year, but the roads themselves were rough. I found it hard to ride in aero at all with wheel-rattling seams in the road every ten feet or so.

I started to get hungry and fade hard around mile 25. A wave of exhaustion hit me really suddenly and I had the strongest urge to pull over and take a nap. I was almost to the halfway mark and started thinking, maybe now is the time to DNF. There was a halfway point aid station coming up and I couldn’t believe how suddenly this fatigue had set in. It wasn’t muscle fatigue, it really just felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open and needed to get in a REM or 10. I’ve never experienced it in a race and the the thought, ‘I probably have Lyme Disease’ definitely crossed (and lingered on) my mind. It was that bizarre.

The halfway point aid station sat atop a little climb and I decided to stop there, swap out my gatorade (as explained above) and give myself a few minutes to feel out my ability to continue. As I refilled my aero bottle I chatted with a volunteer who was so kind and encouraging. I told her that ten weeks before I was relearning how to walk and now I just needed a few minutes rest. She cheered me on and her enthusiasm, plus a little break and a banana revived me, and I decided to give the second half of the bike a go.

I think I spent maybe four minutes at the aid station before pulling back into traffic. It brought my average for miles 25-30 down to 14.8mph but I was really unbothered by it. I was feeling good from a little break and some extra fuel, and continuing past the halfway point newly determined to finish the bike I felt pride wash over me.

Pride and rain and a chill. I had been remarkably comfortable riding in the rain, even as it picked up throughout the first half of the ride. I didn’t feel cold, I definitely didn’t feel hot, and minus a brief burst during which it did pour pretty hard, I didn’t think about the weather much at all. Stopping for a few minutes brought my heartrate down and as I got going again, the air moving across my wet arms and legs and toes especially felt newly chilled. I worried for a few miles that the stop had been a mistake and that I wouldn’t get comfortable again, but by the time I was ticking away miles 30-35 I felt better. (Self-manufactured) crisis averted.

Miles 30-40 were generally pleasant and uneventful. There were some tight technical turns which I enjoyed, some more crappy roads which I did not, and mercifully we got off Route 60. My lack of fitness was definitely wearing on me even as I continued to try and ride lowkey, only averaging a little over 16mph. I felt like I’d already overcome so much to be 30 and then 40 miles into a bike ride – the rain, the road conditions, my physical and mental lack of preparedness – so I very deliberately shook any negative thoughts away. I wasn’t out there to ride fast, I was out there just to be out there and to celebrate that after a really terrible injury I was getting to use my body again.

I knew miles 40 through 50 included the trickiest, most technical riding of the day as well as more craptastic roads but I was feeling up for the challenge.  Right after mile 40 we emerged from the woods and a particularly bumpy bit of riding to traverse the Little Creek Reservoir. It was idyllic entering this clearing next to the water and I felt a sentimental and emotional until I noticed a dead otter on the shoulder of the road. I could have done without that, but I’ve also read the Vox article from a few years ago about how otters are “necrophiliac, serial killing fur monsters” so I wasn’t too bothered. (And if you clicked on that link you’re welcome for ruining otters for you too.)

Once past the water-weasel cemetery we were back in the woods and faced the biggest climbs of a mostly flat or rolling course. At mile 42 we hit a downhill that wound itself around a large curve so that no one could see what was coming, and between that, the rough road, and the rain, everyone rode their brakes a little too hard. Rounding this long curve all of a sudden the descent gave way to a sizable ascent. People around me made the abrupt decision to abandon whip. Every last athlete I could see unclipped and dismounted to walk the climb rather than get halfway up, lose steam, and tip. I wasn’t having it though. The day had become all about improving my handling and tackling challenges so I gathered as much speed as I could, quickly shifted down, and began to climb. It was arduous and I felt my lack of fitness acutely as I labored to breathe and to work my leaden legs, but slowly I passed all the walkers and found myself at the top of the hill, still in my saddle  and thrilled with myself. The people on foot cheered me on and I carried their good will with me as I crested the little peak and the road leveled off.

At mile 48 we repeated the whole episode with riders around me again mostly bailing on a climb while I muscled through. Once again I was ecstatic with myself and my body. After each successful summit I cried a little bit, grateful to be outside moving my legs. After months of resenting my bones, battling depression and self-hatred, I finally felt proud of this body and happy to be living in it.

Hell I welled up with gratitude at numerous points throughout the whole bike ride. The rain kept my sappy secret every time I teared up but truth is I was in my feelings the whole 56 miles. A few times I realized it was from Ellen’s old adage that if you have feelings on the bike it means you need to eat something, but really it was one of the most emotional races I’ve ever done, rivaling the New York City Marathon and full Ironman for sheer sentimentality.

I got through the bad roads and zigging and zagging of miles 40-50, actually enjoying that section the most for its technical challenges. I only averaged a bit over 16mph but I was feeling positive about my performance. At the final aid station around mile 44 I again tested my handling calling out for more gels as I rolled through. At this final station they hadn’t pre-cut them though so then I had to open it and eat it which may not sound like a big deal but I didn’t wear my post-braces retainer as a kid and as a result my front teeth don’t touch and opening things with my still-crooked chompers requires some unbecoming side-mouth-gnawing. It was ok though – just one more bike handling obstacle to conquer!

Over the last six miles we turned back toward transition and I was feeling exhausted but elated. The rain had mostly trickled off and I dropped a mini hammer averaging 18mph coming home. I have rarely felt more proud of myself or accomplished as I did turning right back down the hill into transition.

Ultimately I turned in a 3:19 which was just under 17mph and included a 3 or 4 minute pitstop at that halfway point aid station. With the exception of a few minutes of low blood sugar thanks to riding with basically no nutrition plan I felt good and aerobically untaxed the whole way, so if that’s my untrained, recovery, laid back baseline time I will absolutely take it.

T2

At 12-and-a-half minutes T2 wasn’t quite as leisurely as T1, but all told I spent over 30 minutes in transition during the race. That is something! Is it something to be proud of? I dunno. I half expect organizers to see those results and reach out to check on me at some point. When Ironman is putting together their points for their All World Athletes next year maybe they could consider some unorthodox categories like, most apathetic, or most time spent wandering the racks mid-race.

T1 was shorter than T2 but otherwise pretty similar. I felt out my hip, I porta pottied – in shoes this time – met some people who all left me for the run, and ultimately if not decisively I opted to try run-walking one 10k lap of the 2 lap course. The biggest deciding factor was that I would get to see Tiff in action and cheer her toward her imminent first 70.3 finish line. Despite my apparent cycling success I was terrified that the run would be too much and thwart my recovery. But I also had my PT’s blessing for the one lap, run-a-mile-walk-half plan I’d come up with and so I headed out.

The Run

I walked to the run out chute and reluctantly picked up my feet into a jog. I was PETRIFIED that any step might be my last EVER, but my hip felt ok even as I traversed the overgrown grassy quarter mile leading to the out and back paved run path. People lined the run chute and their cheers were a welcome distraction from my hip-obsession. I couldn’t help smiling through my terror as I picked my slow way up to the main course.

The run was almost identical to the old Rev3 course – two 10K laps up and down over the big bridge and then out and back on a mostly-flat, mostly-shaded bike path. The setup allows for maximal interaction with other competitors and I couldn’t wait to see teammates out on the trail. (Though Clarice had already long-since finished absolutely destroying the day with a 2nd place AG and 4th OA finish – sorry to miss her but not sorry that she blew the race away!)

I checked and rechecked my watch as I ran up to and over the bridge waiting to hit the one mile mark and obediently drop to a walk per my PT agreement. My legs felt clumsy but the rain had had stopped and left the day cooler than I’ve ever experienced in Williamsburg, and I was holding a mid-9 pace while climbing, dipping into the low 9s and upper 8s as I ran down the bridge. My effort felt really measured and easy as was the plan.

One mile in my watch buzzed and I saw I’d done a 9:11 which felt right on target. I was supposed to start walking, but as I slowed I really just wanted to keep the jog going. I decided then and there to amend the run-walk equation I’d agreed to with my PT and do 1.25 miles running, .25 miles walking. I was feeling too good and decided to push the envelope a little bit.

At 1.25 miles I did walk per my new agreement with myself. It was mentally hard to make myself walk, as I didn’t feel like I needed to. Nothing was hurting and I found walking while others ran around me to be more of a mindfuck than I’d expected. Still I forced my feet down until I hit a mile-and-a-half, then eagerly picked them back up. Running down the rest of mile two I clocked that second mile at 10:24.

Though I didn’t like taking those walk breaks I stuck to the revised plan. It made for interesting socializing as when I was running I was fast enough to pass a lot of people, but many of them passed me right back when I slowed for my quarter mile walk interludes. As we leapfrogged I made friends with people. One wonderful woman in her 50s or 60s wearing a fascinator hat like she was casually enroute to a royal wedding, started shouting, “see you soon!” every time one of us passed the other. (I wish I’d thought to memorize her bib number!)

I got to see Tiff and Erica and Peyton and others out on the run course just like I’d hoped. Most of them were a lap ahead of me and all were working a lot harder than I was. Each time I passed a teammate was a jolt of joy that made me think about how I’d almost quit before I even started. I was so happy I had followed through with the swim and the bike and this version of the run.

While I ran I I tried to keep my pace right around 9 mins/mile. It was tough because I was having a great time and felt so good and untaxed. Almost every time I looked at my Garmin I found that I’d dropped down into the mid-8s and had to pull the pace back. I was happy that even with the quarter mile walk breaks I was still maintaining averages in the mid-10s. My ego was smarting from having to walk at all and from the impending DNF and I don’t think I could have stuck to my walk-run guns if my mile pace averages had crept over 11 mins.

Somewhere around the turnaround I started thinking, ‘I could easily handle another lap of this…’ I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to have to find an official and DNF. I wanted the finish line. I was doing the math and at that walk-run rate I could finish the half marathon in 2:10 which seemed really reasonable. My hip hadn’t made a peep since mile 10 or 15 of the bike and I just wanted to stay out and see the whole day through.

But I also really didn’t want to finish this race at the expense of the rest of my summer and my recovery. I could not decide what to do as miles four and five clicked easily by. Around mile five I heard a woman say, “great! Only 8 to go!” And that shook something loose for me. I was feeling good but I wasn’t even halfway thru the walk-run and my bones could turn on me. I remembered my orthopedist’s warning that at some point I’d start to feel good in training and that was the danger zone – when I could go too far and set myself back months. It wasn’t worth it.

Approaching the bridge and closing out my sixth mile I decided to stick with my DNF. I had already pushed myself by running more and walking less than planned, and that seemed sufficiently edgy. I was sad my day was about to be over, but so proud of myself and I wanted to be there when Tiff ran down that chute toward her first 70.3 finish line. I gave myself permission to run the rest of the way to the halfway point – and to enjoy it – where I would hand in my timing chip and end my day.

But first I had to get up and down the bridge once more. When I’m in good shape hills are a run-strength and lack-of-fitness be damned, I decided I wouldn’t back down from this one. My heartrate climbed as I did but I charged ahead and started picking people off. While I’d enjoyed myself through the whole walk-run, I had felt uncoordinated. Now, for the first time in months and months of recovery, I started to feel like a runner again. Hills just get my legs working right, and for a few amazing minutes my cadence and stride all fell into place. I had this existential moment where I literally thought, ‘I’m me again.’ I’m so glad I went through with the day for that fleeting feeling moment alone.

All too soon I was over the top of the bridge and running back down and toward the turnaround where I would have to throw in the towel. I wanted to keep going but I knew I was making the right choice. There was an aid station at the halfway mark – 6.6 miles – and I alerted one of the volunteers that I was dropping out. She radioed it in to organizers and while we waited for them to radio back and confirm me, I got to talk to some of the young high school women running the aid station.

Turned out they were all on a cheerleading squad. A few of them told me they wanted to cheer in college and I got to tell them my husband had done that. A couple said they wished they could do something like this half iron but didn’t think they ever could. Then I got to tell them how just ten weeks prior I was relearning how to walk and that while I didn’t get to finish I did get to be out there and they absolutely could do it too. I hated having to stop, but I loved getting to talk these girls – it is no surprise that the kind of teenagers that make the time to volunteer for a bunch of strangers on a Sunday were wonderful to spend a few minutes with.

Post-Race (DNF)

Eventually my DNF was worked out and I relinquished my chip and walked away from the course. My final time (per my Garmin) over those 6.6 miles was 1:05:48 which I felt pretty good about all-told. I made my way to the finish line, still awash in a mix of happy pride and DNF disappointment. I found a spot 100 feet or so from the end to cheer on Tiff and other teammates as they ran in. After a few minutes Josh and his daughters – two of my most favorite littles in the world – found me and we got to cheer our people in together.

When Tiff approached my goal was to scream so loud I’d almost embarrass her. She looked so proud of herself and getting to witness (and scream at) her triumph I was finally fully onboard with my DNF – if I’d continued on I would have missed her big moment. One she finished, she, Clarice, and I found each other and got to raid the athlete food tent together. The biggest victory of the weekend is definitely that two of my favorite people are now friends, and as long as they never cut me out as the embarrassing DNF-ing third wheel I hope we can all continue to race together. (Maybe when Clarice gets her pro card she’ll let Tiff and I tag along as her pit crew!)

Eventually we had to call it a wrap on the weekend. We returned to transition – where I had spent oh so much time that day – and collected our bikes and belongings. We had to hug Clarice goodbye but with plans to all be back together at Escape the Cape in New Jersey. Tiff and I got on the road and the ride back went as not-terribly as can be hoped on I-95. We closed out the weekend with Thai food and Game of Thrones and all was well with the world. (Although all was not well with Westeros. #BrienneDeservedBetter)

This one is very late in coming. I wrote and published a number of reports for races that were later in the 2018 season than Williamsburg for reasons explained below. I actually finished writing this about seven months ago, but then I got my hip fracture diagnosis and that ordeal took over my life, attention, and this blog for a few months. Now we’re a week out from Ironman Virginia 70.3, the race formerly known as Rev3 Williamsburg, and it seems like the time to finally hit ‘publish.’

Initially I held off writing this one because it turned into a really difficult and upsetting day when a friend and teammate had a terrible crash, and I was hesitant to revisit it. Seeing him in such distress stirred up a lot of feelings and fears about my own crash four (now almost five) years ago – feelings and fears I’ve worked hard to move on from. I didn’t know if I wanted to reexamine them in this way, since, as my readers (hiii mommy) know, I have a tendency to wax too nostalgic here, drilling into every detail of my races. Was that kind of deep excavation going to be too painful with this one?

Ultimately I decided I needed to write it out to be honest about the experience and to write through my resurrected anxieties. This is why I started the blog after all: to work through the trauma of my accident in 2014 and to honestly chart this journey. I’m honest about everything else – from bowel movements to insecurities, to my less charitable thoughts, and everything in between. Why hold back now? So buckle up for this one, or find some other unreasonably long ramblings to peruse over your lunch break. (Not you though, Mom, you’re biologically required to read to the very end.)

So now without further emotional exposition…

Race Day Eve

After volunteering with the adults’ sprint and kid’s races that morning, over the course of Saturday afternoon my focus started to shift to my own olympic distance competition on Sunday. I had originally signed up to race the 70.3 but lingering quad issues and a pinched nerve in my left shoulder had other ideas so I’d scaled my ambitions back to the oly.

Having raced the NYC Tri (also an oly and one held annually on the surface of the sun) the weekend before putting fewer miles on my legs was definitely the wiser choice. I’d resisted going all out in New York hoping to have gas in the tank, but approaching a second scorching hot race weekend in a row I was feeling the wear and tear more than I’d expected or hoped. Nonetheless I was optimistic to throw down a strong race and build on the previous weekend’s performance – at least in the bike and run since NYC boasts the fastest oly swim course out there. (The strong current support makes swimming in the Hudson more palatable [less certifiable.])

Knowing I’d be going sans-NYC current the next morning I wanted to get in a practice swim. Rev3 teammate, Clarice accompanied me down to the river where we discovered the scorching conditions extended to the water. We goofed around a bit with other teammates including race director, Eric, and eventually got in some work with a few laps around the first sighting buoy.

After swimming I hung around a few more hours helping with packet pick-up and introducing myself to all the dogs I could before heading back to the hotel. Scott and my own dogs met me there – the La Quinta is big-dog friendly and just like 2017 I fully recommend pet-people visiting Williamsburg stay there.

Once we got the pups situated we joined the Rev3 crew for a large team dinner at Anna’s Brick Oven. I was happy to introduce Scott to more of these crazy people who I’d fallen so quickly head over heels for. Clarice had managed to reserve most of a huge back room and we took over four or five long tables. It was probably overwhelming but Scott seemed to handle all the whacky tri people in stride – he must be getting used to our special breed of batty. Anna’s was perfect for the pre-race meal: it was generic kinda bland (which is what I wanted!) pasta with lots of carby options. Plus it was maybe a three minute drive from the hotel.

After dinner we got quickly back to the La Quinta with all our hounds and I did my pre-race prep, laying out clothes and nutrition, braiding my hair, and spending some QT with Benson and Stabler. I was in bed around 10pm and up at 4:30am – typical.

Race Morning 

It worked well that I had driven separately from Scott so that he and the dogs didn’t have to get up too early and check out of the hotel at 5am. I tried to get ready quickly and quietly without turning on too many lights. Having to creep around helped get me out of the hotel quickly and I was on the road to the race site by 5:20am and had parked by 5:45, leaving me an hour to set up and vacate transition.

I felt much more lowkey doing the olympic distance than I would have doing the 70.3. I was set up quickly and with little anxiety, bathroomed – also with little anxiety! I spent the remainder of my pre-race time social butterflying, flitting from Rev3 teammates to Speed Sherpa teammates to DC Tri Club friends and generally not stressing about the day ahead.

Coach Josh was doing the half distance and once we were all kicked  out of transition it was so nice to have him there for pre-race distraction and directions. (I don’t know if the feeling was mutual, hopefully I didn’t interfere too much with his efforts to take his impending 70.3 miles seriously!) He was rid of me soon enough as his race started at 6:45 while the oly didn’t get going until 7:20…or at least that’s when it was supposed to get going.

The half started on time and once those athletes were all in the water we oly racers self-seeded into a line down to the dock. I wormed my way into a clump of similarly-paced Rev3 teammates, happy to have even more pre-race distractions. I can’t speak for the athletes around us but we at least were having a grand old time goofing around and waiting for our race day to begin.

And waiting.

And waiting.

7:20 came and went and still we waited and waited. And the day heated up. And people grew antsy and murmured that they must be canceling the swim for some reason. By 7:45 word made it back to us that the water was a little rough and there were still 70.3 swimmers on the course. After standing for over an hour outside transition, and on line for nearly that long, our pre-race dopamine had been spent, and we were less and less excited at the prospect of having to swim.

By 8am, whether rationally or aspirationally I became convinced that the swim would be cancelled, and I let myself off the mental aquatic hook. Still we stood on line hearing rumors of how bad the current was out in the river, and I floated further and further from my mental swim prep. Then suddenly at 8:15 we were given the go-ahead to hit the water. By this time I had completely convinced myself that organizers were just figuring out how to have us run fairly from the “swim” exit to transition, so this swim-is-happening-and-happening-now information hit my like a bag of wet bricks. (What is that? Clay? Would that just be a bag of clay?)

Swim 

I didn’t have much time to soak in my surprise as the line quickly began marching down onto the dock and into the water. I tried to get my mind right while I adjusted my goggles and was swept quickly toward the choppy Chickahominy.

Choppy and near-scalding. I don’t think anyone was harboring any delusions that this race would be wetsuit-legal but at 83 degrees it rivaled the hottest water I’d ever raced in. I’d had the chance to swim in the febrile river the previous afternoon but as my feet hit the dock – which was partially-submerged for some reason – it was a boiling shock to my lil piggies.

Like irreverent hostages down a gangplank my teammates and I marched the length of the dock, which sunk deeper and deeper into the river as we went. By the time we were being positioned two-by-two to jump off the bathtub water was up to our calves. We were still cracking jokes when Rev3 (pirate) king and race director, Eric, ordered us into the water. We toppled forward in pairs and got on our way.

Within a minute the whole group of us was in choppy surf swimming parallel to the shore. The Chickahominy water is brackish and dark, which contributed to some early disorientation as I tried to find a rhythm. Under other circumstances the confluence of the late start and the rough and dark water might have given me terrible swim anxiety, but as it was, every time I looked up to sight I saw at least one of my teammates a few strokes away. It was so comforting, feeling like if I got into trouble I could yell to any number of friends (family) for help. That confidence allowed me to put my head down and start working my way consistently (if not quickly) through the muddy water.

We headed north along the shore until we reached a point where we turned right and east toward the swim exit. It was here where things had apparently gone wrong for the 70.3 swimmers: their course had headed further north after the shore dropped away before turning right for the exit. But at the appointed turn buoy the river’s currents had converged and created a sort of rip tide pulling a large number of athletes downstream. Many had been rescued by the safety kayaks and this collecting of wayward 70.3 swimmers had caused the olympic course delay.

To avoid a repeat, race officials had shortened the olympic course a bit allowing us to turn toward the exit before the currents converged. Swinging right I felt good and could see the exit ramp a few hundred meters ahead. The swim was flying by faster than I expected and I realized it was now or never to pee. I put my head down and stopped kicking and squeezed. I had an easier time going than I do when I have a wetsuit on, but I still had to slow way down and concentrate to eek a pee out.

Finally I successfully peed 100 meters or so before the exit, but then I became afraid that in my bowel exertion I’d also pooped. My mind began racing through possible swim exit scenarios: ‘If I did poop, will people be able to tell when I get out of the water, or will my chamois disguise this mortification until I can get to a porta potty? It is a long run to transition, what if I smell or poo runs out of my bike shorts down my legs?’ I wasn’t sure what would happen as I emerged up the exit ramp – I still had no idea if I’d actually accidentally soiled myself trying so hard to pee. Luckily I hadn’t; my chamois were just stuck in my butt cheeks hence the sensation of having number two’ed.

As I ran away from the brackish river relieved to have maintained what dignity I still have in the bathroom department (a low bar if ever there was one), I hit my Garmin and saw 22:33. I was tentatively happy with it though in the moment I had no idea what distance we’d covered. After the race I could see from GPS that I’d done 1200m rather than the 1500m expected in an olympic distance. We’d had the current on our side for a lot of the swim so not a total sub-2:00/100m victory but I was relatively content with it. 22:33 wasn’t so slow that I couldn’t make it up on the bike and especially the run.

T1

As I said it was a long run from the swim exit to transition. I ran as quickly as I felt I safely could, trying to be light on my feet, wary of rocks or anything sharp in the road. I pulled my helmet and shoes on quickly, and given that it was just 25 miles and not 56 I didn’t dawdle over nutrition. I shoved a couple gus in my tri top and ran for the bike out. Given the long run from the swim exit, I was pretty happy with a 4:39 T1.

Bike

The bike leg starts up a hill out of the Chickahominy campgrounds, then swings a hard right onto Route 5 and immediately more climbing over a sizable bridge. That’s really the hardest climbing of the course until you have to traverse the same bridge coming home – which of course always feels worse after putting 25 or 56 miles on your legs.

I was excited riding out and over the bridge. After the discombobulation of the late will-they-or-won’t-they swim start my head was back in the game and ready to throw up some big numbers. Coming off the backside of the bridge I dropped into my aeros, shifted into my big rings and started to pick people off. (If I learned to swim faster I wouldn’t get such a confident boost in the first few miles of the bike!)

One of those people was Rev3 teammate Robert, who shouted encouragement as I rode past. I was feeling strong and the boost of teammate support was an added pep to my pedaling. Coach Josh had instructed me that morning not to go out too hot and to leave plenty in the tank for the back half of the bike and of course the run.  I knew the bike course well enough from the previous two years and the prospect of 25 instead of 56 miles had me feeling relaxed. I heeded Josh’s words and rode relaxed not pushing too hard.

Over the first five mile straightaway I averaged a little under 20mph which felt right on the money. I wasn’t taking it easy, but I was nowhere near maxing out and felt confident if I maintained that pace and effort I’d have plenty of gas to burn on the back half of the course. Knowing the rolling terrain well and given my RPE (rate of perceived exertion [reverse grammatical parenthetical for the non-tri-peeps!]) averaging over 20mph for the whole course felt very doable.

Miles five through ten included a couple short climbs and I backed off a little too much dropping to an average 19mph exactly. At some point in there Robert passed me back – with more shouts of encouragement of course – and I thought, ‘get your head (legs) in the game, Liz!’ Miles ten through fifteen brought with them a greater elevation gain than five through ten but I buckled down and brought my speed back up to a 19.5mph average.

I passed Robert again exchanging more Rev3 teammate love. Our leap-frogging was keeping me happy and motivated. It is so much fun to have your race family out on the course, and there are no hard feelings in passing one another – not like we’re in the same Age Group! Robert is one of the most genuinely kind and supportive people I’ve met in this sport and being out there with him was a blast. We each wanted the other to have the best, strongest ride we were capable of, and over those first fifteen miles I think those Robert sightings helped me turn in a performance I was proud of.

I was feeling fit and ready to kick it up a notch for the final ten miles. Just after mile 15 there was a hard left turn onto a windy and somewhat rough road. Robert passed me again just after the turn and I yelled him on while trying to stay fast and still navigate this more challenging terrain. I was however feeling a little discouraged that my 20+ mph average might be slipping away as I sat up to round a tight turn around mile 17.

As I came around the corner maybe 50 yards ahead of me I saw someone was down in the road. Immediately I thought, ‘please don’t let it be Robert.’ Then I saw his bright green helmet attached to the person on the ground and my heart stopped dead in my chest. 150-0bpm in no seconds flat.

I didn’t break until I was almost on top of the scene, flying toward the scary tableau fast as I could. At the last possible second I slammed my breaks, kicked my feet free, and threw Koopa Troop to the dirt next to the road. (Honestly and perversely leaping off like that without falling and becoming part of the accident was the best bike handling of my life – maybe my under-pressure version of an adrenaline rush isn’t lifting a car off a baby but successfully unclipping and dismounting my bicycle.)

Ok, if you don’t want to hear the graphic details now is the time to skip ahead. (That includes you, Robert and Marnie if you don’t want to relive [or live for the first time] that unsettling experience.)

Robert was lying face down on the right side of road, face pressed against the back of his arm. He was unconscious and there was blood – it seemed like a lot of blood including globs of it in the road a whole foot away from him – coming from somewhere on his face or head. Scariest to me was that he was gasping for breath in fraught pants and blood-clogged gurgles. I’d never seen or heard anything like it and became immediately convinced I was watching my teammate and friend die. Not just my friend and teammate, but truthfully one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, who less than five minutes before had been cheering me on. And now I thought for sure he was slipping out of this world in front of me.

There was another man (guardian angel?) crouching over Robert who I now barely believe existed. In my panic I didn’t think to get his name or bib number, but miraculously he said he was a doctor and that Robert’s pulse was good and we just needed to let him come to. Robert wasn’t dying, he was going to be ok per this Clarence Oddbody AS2 MD. (If you got that reference you’re my new best friend.[Or you’re my mom or my husband.])

After just a couple minutes, or an eternity, I don’t know, Robert moaned and began to pull himself back to consciousness. He was still straddling his bike and he struggled against the pile of carbon between his legs as Dr. Gabriel and I tried to calm him. Robert wanted none of our calming though and persisted in trying to pull himself up, flummoxed by the bike around which he was wrapped. I called his name and let him know I was there as I worked to disentangle his legs. With considerable effort he pulled himself free and turned himself around so that he was sitting up. He blinked at the Best Samaritan and I, clearly not comprehending where he was or maybe who he was or who I was.

I knelt in the road in front of him, trying to calm him as a two-man motorcycle pulled up. At first I thought these were just two guys who were happening by but I quickly realized they were with the race when one pulled out a walkie and radioed in the situation. I explained to them where we were and that we were on the Olympic course while trying to keep Robert calm and seated. With the patient awake and situation under control, our guardian angel doctor friend asked me if it’d be ok for him to continue on and finish the bike. I said yes and I think I thanked him but really I don’t know.

Sir, if you somehow happen to read this, please reach out. I am eternally grateful to you for stopping to help my friend, for being in the right place at a terrible time, and for probably keeping me from spinning out in that awful moment.

As the motorcycle pulled up I realized my Garmin was still running and awkwardly hit pause, not wanting anyone to notice and think I was the worst most selfish person ever. At some point Rev3 teammate Josh* – not Coach Josh, I have multiple tri-Joshes! – came around the curve and saw Robert and I on the side of the road. It must have been a terrible shock to see that familiar Rev3 Castelli kit in duplicate down on the shoulder, bikes askance. He quickly dumped his own wheels and raced over to us.

*This is in fact the same Josh who had, just the day before, abandoned his own sprint – in a speedo – to come to the aid of a runner who’d fallen. His race weekend definitely had a theme. And that theme is that Josh is a great human and triathlon is lucky to have him!

I caught Josh up to speed on the situation as well as I could. I told him I didn’t see the crash and didn’t know what had caused it and he immediately set up the road to try and figure out what had brought our friend down so that we could spare any other athletes a similar fate.

While Josh paced up and down the road I stayed with Robert. He was speaking now, but he was asking me the same two questions on repeat: “Liz, did you see the accident?” “No, I’m sorry, Robert, I didn’t.” Then he would touch the tip of his tongue to the jagged edge of what was left of his front left tooth. “I think I may have chipped my tooth, did I?” “Yes, it looks like you’re going to have to see a dentist.” He’d take it in, sit with that information for a minute or two, and then like clockwork he seemed to notice me anew and would start back in on, “Liz, did you see the crash?”

We continued that pattern for ten or so minutes, and I tried to get creative with my answers. When he asked if he was missing part of his tooth I told him it gave his face a lot of character, that he’d get a new better tooth, and so on. (Fortunately this was also the source of all the blood rather than a more serious cranial gash.) I thought back to my own crash and wondered how I’d behaved and interacted with people in the hours-long gaps in my memory that I’ll never recover from that day. It’s probably for the best that most of that day is lost to amnesia.

Finally an ambulance arrived and I spoke with the EMTs letting them know about his memory loss and circular questioning. One of them asked me his full name and I started to respond but Robert overheard and filled them in on his name and other PII I won’t share here. Hearing him so coherent was a massive relief and I thought his mental fog must have cleared. The EMTs took down his information and then went to the back of the bus for their gurney. Robert looked up at me and asked, “Liz, did you see the crash?” The fog lingered on.

Robert was loaded into the back of the bus and I joined Josh who had found what he believed to be the offending divots in the road that had brought down our teammate. He was standing in them directing cyclists to the right as they rode through. Two days in a row he found himself literally standing in holes on the course.

A race support van had arrived around the same time as the ambulance. I asked if they had any tape to mark the road and they did not so they radioed for someone to bring someone. While we waited, Josh continued to shoo athletes away from the obstacle, even as some rudely yelled at him to get out of the road and others refused to slow appropriately for the scene. I walked up the road some to try and catch cyclists further upstream to warn them of the hole and to implore them to slow down.

Before the ambulance pulled out to take Robert to the ER, one of the EMTs approached and asked if I was Liz because Robert was asking for me. I followed them to the back of the bus and peered in at Robert who was strapped in and ready to rock to the hospital. “You asked for me?” I inquired. He looked up, “Oh! Liz, yes! Did you see the crash?” Still foggy. I ran through his questions one more time before they shut the doors and got on their way. It was encouraging that he’d retained enough short term memory to know I was at the scene, and later on Robert told me seeing me in the back of the ambulance is where his memory of the day picks back up.

Not long after the ambulance pulled out – much to the relief of a lengthy and increasingly agitated line of cars that had formed – more race support rolled through with the requested tape. Josh marked the divots in the road as clearly as he could, and finally the episode seemed to have concluded for us. Robert was safely on his way and we’d done what we could to make the course safe. We retrieved our bikes from the side of the road, waited for a break in athlete traffic, and got on our tentative ways, agreeing to ride back to transition together.

I was so happy to have Josh’s (non-drafting!) company as we made our way back. For the next few miles I obsessed over every crack and blemish in the pavement and stressed over the dappled shadows cast by the trees, hindering my depth perception. Josh in front, we picked our way conservatively until making a turn back onto the main road back to transition around mile 20.

Something shifted in my mind and I decided to try to salvage the last five miles. I couldn’t keep letting fear win the day and hold me back and athletically I didn’t have anything to save up for – I was off the podium so why not just hammer it home and spend whatever I had? I found my way back into aero and picked up steam.

I rode past Josh and began picking off other cyclists much like the first few miles. I found that over-20mph average I had hoped for over the last 7.2 miles – minus the slog back up the bridge which was also accompanied by a beast of a headwind. I don’t remember that climb ever being quite so unpleasant before but it was tough this time around.

I cruised into T2 with a total bike time of 1:57:09. I’m not 100% on how long the entire episode took to play but my Garmin was paused for 32 minutes, so I’d guess around 35. I didn’t spend any energy thinking about it and just focused on having a good run and finishing strong. Robert was being taken care and would be ok and there was nothing more I could do for him. I decided to just go have some fun and see if I could run the 10k well.

T2

I had a strong T2 at 1:36. I didn’t dawdle but I also wasn’t stressed since I wasn’t in any sort of podium contention. I just ditched Koopa back in the ground racks, traded my helmet for a visor, and pulled my race number on as I made for the run out and headed back to that blasted bridge.

Run

I felt inexplicably happy as ran up the steep grassy hill – minding Josh’s Saturday hole – and swinging a hard right onto the bridge. During the entire bike ordeal I hadn’t really thought much about the race, but in the back of my mind I think I must have given up on finishing it, so suddenly getting the opportunity to do so was a welcome development.

My legs felt pretty good – they had gotten an unplanned thirty minute recovery in the middle of the bike after all! I could feel the last ten miles of effort, including that final windy climb, so it absolutely felt like an OTB (off the bike) run, but I probably got my form and rhythm down faster than I otherwise would have. I charged up the bridge, happy to be out on my legs, and down the other side and turned in a strong 7:32 for my first mile.

After the bridge the course has a few small rollers but is a mostly flat three miles out and then back the same way. The 70.3 athletes have to do this six-mile lap twice, and their turnaround is a bit further than the 10k turnaround. This setup means athletes of varying speeds and running different distances share the run course, which also means despite being quite late to the run party I still had lots of Rev3/Speed Sherpa/DC Tri Club company out there.

The late start meant the sun was higher in the sky than I would have expected. A July race in Virginia is always a scorcher and this year was no exception. I grabbed cups of ice at every aid station – and the out-and-back setup affords many aid stations. I was hot but not as hot as I’d been in NYC or on this very course in previous years.

Despite the heat and the variably-relieving patchwork of shade I held my rhythm steady out to the turnaround with a 7:34 and 7:33 for miles two and three respectively. I felt like my exertion was right on the money. I was working my butt off but had just enough on reserve for the final push home. I passed dozens of people and no one begrudged me my pace. In true triathlete form, friends and strangers alike shouted encouragement as I overtook them.

At some point a pair of feet came running fast up behind me and I became briefly incensed that someone was going to pass me. The human attached to the flying feet called out to me as he ran by and I realized it was my friend and DC Tri Elite team member Adam. I yelled him on and thought, ‘ok that’s fine. I can handle an elite athlete in the 70.3 race passing me. BUT NO ONE ELSE!’

I thought it and I meant it and I stuck to it. Adam was the only person to pass me over those 6.2 miles. After the turnaround my pace did drop a touch into the high 7:30s with mile four at 7:37 and five at 7:39. I wasn’t mad about it because my frequent tendency to negative split is a result of holding back too much early on. I still felt like I would have enough for my final kick to the finish but I definitely wasn’t holding back.

I kept grabbing ice and water every chance I got and soon I found myself back at the bridge for the final time. Five miles had flown by and I had to climb up and down this beast once more. At least on foot it didn’t feel as windy as it had on the bike. My pace dropped back into the mid-8s for that quarter mile schlep upwards, but I recovered on the downhill dropping into the low 7s before hooking a hard left back into the grass. I had to slow up some as I rounded the transition area, mindful of the lumpy terrain masked by thick grass. Mile six was my slowest of the day at 7:46. I wasn’t thrilled with that but I had no time to dwell on it. I was soon back on the road for the final .2 miles to the finish line. I had indeed left just enough in the tank to kick it up a notch for the last minute of my race. I dropped into 6:40s and welcomed the pain that accompanied that final sprint home.

Scott and the dogs were waiting strategically just before the finish to run the chute with me. I was working too hard to take one of the dogs so the three just fell in behind me and gave chase to the finish line. This is one of the Rev3 traditions I will miss the most. Even as we sneer a bit at the race orgs that co-opt our trademarks like individual notes in race packets, this is one I hope other races will adopt where possible. Finishing a race with your family is amazing. And it acknowledges how much the people who love triathletes sacrifice to make our dreams happen. I wouldn’t be here without Scott and even without those pups, it feels so right whenever they get to run in with me. (And the pictures are epic.)

All in all Garmin says I turned in a 46:37 10k. Actually it says the course was a touch short – or maybe I was a touch off setting my watch – and hence that my average mile time was 7:37. Twenty seconds a mile faster than the previous weekend in NYC, though that course was harder, hotter, and I’d done the whole bike in one go so not really a fair comparison.

I suppose I was happy with that but I wasn’t thinking too much on how well I’d run; after a scary, emotional morning, what mattered the most to me was that was able to do the run at all. I had unequivocally enjoyed that whole 46 minutes and 37 seconds on the course. I think I ran the whole thing with a big goofy smile on my face.

Race Afternoon

Being part of team Rev3 means lots of friends, and also lots of food after the race. Oh and shade much to Scott and the pups’ relief. We all found some space in the Rev3 tent and I got to introduce my dude and my dogs to some more of the teammates I’d been gushing about since meeting them in January. Birkin and Daenerys are pretty race (and insta) famous so the introduction excitement was mutual in a lot of cases.

The drive between Williamsburg and DC is never not terrible so Scott got on his way after not too long. I wanted to stick it out to usher in the final finisher – another tradition that makes Rev3 races so special. I sat through the podium ceremony for the 70.3 – the oly prizes having long since been awarded – and indulged in some of the champagne Josh had stashed in his trunk.

We got updated in mid-afternoon that the final finisher wasn’t yet on the second lap of the run course and was still at least two hours away. Knowing how long the schlep home was liable to take I decided I had to call it and head back. I was disappointed to miss the inspirational final finisher tradition but given that it took over four hours to make the 150 mile drive back it was for the best.

When I finally made it home I looked at my phone and was thrilled to have a notification from Robert: he had made it back to reality and was posting on Facebook. How else would we measure recovery in this day and age but by social media check-ins? Seeing that little red notification flag next to Robert’s name was almost as welcome a sight as when he’d opened his eyes that morning. I went to bed with the relief that he was on the road to recovery.

Aftermath

In the days following the race Robert continued to update the team on his prognosis and recovery. He and I talked some about what I’d seen, I filled in some of his memory gaps, and shared my own accident. This had been Robert’s first crash – I joked that he’d gone pretty big for his first fall.

I also replayed that moment coming around the corner and seeing him down and bloody in the road over and over in my head. When I tucked myself in at night that scene kept me up and I had to force my thoughts elsewhere, afraid the memory would bleed into my dreams. Worst of all, every time I took Koopa Troop out for a ride I dwelled on Robert’s crash, and then on my crash, and then my mind would spin out. I let fears I’d long overcome return with a vengeance and started to mentally backslide.

This season had felt like a turning point, where I was starting to look forward to getting on the bike even more than running in some ways. (And always more than swimming.) Some of that was injury-based: irony of ironies, it’s my beloved run that causes the most physical issues (that one giant bike accident notwithstanding,) and yet it’s my Koopa Troop who intimidates me. But as my speed and my confidence have grown so has my enjoyment. (And I’ve also learned how nice it is to worry less about what to eat before a ride unlike how cautious one has to be with their pre-run tummy!) So to feel the same fears creeping back – and this time with visual aids – was panic-inducing.

Here’s where the tri community stepped in and saved my mind and season like it always does.

I didn’t want to tell anyone how distressed I felt after Robert’s incident. I didn’t want to sew trauma for him or his family by airing the ugly, graphic details. I didn’t want to make his experience and recovery about me. And I was embarrassed that I was still having bike fear issues. But without me asking for help or sharing my mental struggles with anyone, several people reached out. Ellen was one of course. And a number of Speed Sherpa and Rev3 friends called and texted and they didn’t make me feel silly or weak or selfish. They just said, I bet that was hard given your history. And offered their time and attention. More than anything they normalized my feelings, and somehow that lessened the sting of those feelings.

After a few weeks I stopped reliving that moment, stopped turning that corner to see Robert in the road every time I closed my eyes or pulled my bike shoes on. By Ironman Maine I’d rediscovered that bike love from the beginning of the season. And it didn’t hurt that by Ironman Maine Robert was back in the saddle and on the race course. He took it easy – doctor’s and body’s (and wife’s) orders – but he did the whole 70.3 and topped it off with evening Rev3 “PR buckets” shenanigans.

Now we’re ten months past Rev3 Williamsburg and I’m happy to report that Robert is happy and healthy. He’s been  cheering me on through my own recovery and even came and rode with me my first day back on my bike. It felt profound and full circle to be out there with him. I hope we have years and many more rides together ahead of us.