Pre-Amble

My beloved Rev3 had to make the tough decision to sell its signature long distance races – Quassy, Williamsburg, and Maine – this year to Ironman. Our team had recieved this news only a few weeks before Maine and it wasn’t yet public yet during that race, so it was an emotional and bittersweet weekend for us. There were lots of tears, and not just thanks to the heightened emotional impacts of buckets of rum. We support our Rev3 leadership and the hard call they had to make and as a team – nee family – we’ve vowed to do everything we can to stay and race together for seasons to come. 

Where to even begin? My weekend at Ironman (Rev3) Maine was hands down one of my favorite weekends of all time. Not just race weekends, weekend-weekends. Sitting down to write this less than a week later (I mean I’m starting it less than a week later but let’s not play odds on when I’ll actually finish and publish*) I have such withdrawal it’s almost hard to put pen to paper. (That is an idiom and despite all my known technological challenges I am obviously typing this on a computer.)

*I’m now proofreading and adding pictures six weeks post-race, which for me is still ahead of blogging schedule. 

I’m not entirely sure what finally convinced me to pull the IM Maine trigger and register some months ago but I’m so glad that I did before it sold out. It’s technically a Rev3 race that we license to Ironman (or it was) so I was fortunate to be comped to do it as part of the Rev3 team, and Maine has been on the domestic travel list for some time so it should have been an obvious choice. Still originally I hadn’t planned to do it as I was going to try and make Rev3 Punta Cana in the Domincan Republic work in October. By spring though I knew that wasn’t going to happen so I put the call out to some of the Speed Sherpettes to join me in the northeast and went ahead and registered.

Ultimately the only Sherpette who decided to do it was Melissa of Santa Shuffle onesie podium fame. I love a big crew but quality over quantity, right? By the time we registered there were few accommodations left in Old Orchard Beach but I found a tiny house (yes an actuall 100sq ft tiny house) that looked to be near transition on Airbnb and booked it. I also found shockingly cheap airfare/miles on my preferred (only acceptable) airline, Delta (I’m from Atlanta, we’re not legally allowed to fly anyone else) from DCA to Portland and booked that too.

In  the process of booking her own flights Melissa figured out that shipping our bikes was going to cost $750 each so she decided to drive and make a longer road trip through Maine of it. Race day was Sunday Aug. 26th, and on Thursday Aug. 23rd she swung by my house and kindly loaded up Koopa Troop and most of my race gear to drive north. I was up early the next morning for an 8am takeoff and after two 40 minute flights and an hour layover at Laguardia I was picked up by Melissa in Portland around noon.

We got some lunch in Old Port (cute part of downtown) and then went in search of our tiny house which turned out to be two miles due east of transition and Ironman Village. This is a lesson learned: Airbnb doesn’t give exact addresses until a reservation is made and near, so the little house had appeared to be much closer (walking distance!) to the race than it was. The house itself was charming and a lot of fun but my only real complaint about the weekend was being farther away than we would have liked.

Ok the other complaint would be that, let’s all be honest, Old Orchard Beach, Maine is TRAA-SHEEE. It’s a pit of fried things, lower back tattoos, and public intoxication. Melissa and I drove the couple miles there a little before 5pm to get packet pickup done on Friday and we were both taken aback by the scene. I had definitely pictured some sort of little Kennebunkport historical fishing hamlet in my Ironman Maine fantasies and what we got was little Panama City FL during spring break.

We parked amid the Friday evening chaos and made it to Ironman Village in time for the 5pm information and safety session, during which I looked around and noticed Rev3 teammates and staff all over. I’d already been having a great day but I started getting an excited inkling of just how epicly fun the weekend would be with so many friends there.

After picking up our packets (and collecting hugs from many Rev3 friends) Melissa and I made a stop in the merch tent where I attempted to totally negate my free race entry by buying every cute thing I saw. Mission pretty much accomplished we returned to our car and drove back to our tiny house. There was a market a five minute walk from our little abode where we stocked up on essentials like milk and breakfast foods and cans of wine. (Ya know? Just the basics!) We relaxed with our haul in our little screened in porch, did sessions in our Normatec sleeves, and then tucked into the double bed we’d be sharing that weekend.

Luckily we’re both quiet, motionless sleepers (ahem, Madi) so the small shared mattress wasn’t an issue. We also both have to pee more often than a Myrbetriq commericial in the middle of the night but being well-hydrated athletes that came as no surprise or concern. (We just kept the same schedule: if one got up to pee the other would follow suit.)

We also shared a hate for unnecessarily early wake-ups so rather than setting alarms we let ourselves sleep until we woke up. (Josh always says two nights before a race is the sleep that really matters!) Being triathletes as well as employed attorneys this sleep-till-you-wake thing really meant sleep till 7am, then scroll through your phones for 30 minutes before finally admitting you’re up for the day. (This was a long way of saying Melissa and I travel well together and I hope she’ll accept this tri-bestie proposal to continue to race the globe with me!)

Saturday

The Saturday plan was to drive the bike course, do a practice swim with the Rev3 crew, get in a bike-run shake out, rack the bikes at transition, and 5pm Rev3 team pizza dinner at Ironman Village. We coffeed, breakfasted, and got on the road to check out the bike course at 9am. With Melissa at the wheel I directed us to the bike start with the turn-by-turn map pulled up on my iPad.

I continued announcing each impending turn and thought I was helpfully navigating until mile 40-something when I realized there were bright pink arrows marking the whole course. Melissa had been following those and thought I was just I dunno, being an absolute helpful-to-the-point-of-not-being-so weirdo still calling out directions. My only real contribution to the effort was comparing the drive with the elevation chart so we knew when we were on the course’s toughest ascents and could mentally mark them. We were happy to discover none of the hills looked too daunting and the 8 mile-long climb the chart suggested comprised miles 18-28 was in fact not so bad.

We managed to time the drive pretty perfectly and arrived back in OOB a little before the 11am practice swim. We parked and walked down to the beach where we easily found the quickly growing throng of Rev3’ers. There were hugs all around, lots of moaning about how rough the ocean looked, and much socializing to procrastinate in the face of the scary practice swimming.

We goofed around while Melissa tried valiantly to hold our attention long enough for several group pictures. I felt the first of many bittersweet pangs over how much I love these people, how welcome they’ve made me feel, how they’ve become family in less than a year, how happy I was to be there and how heartbroken I am that this is ending. (It hit me some then but writing this these feelings are real.)

Eventually we all wetsuited up, and organically broke into factions to take on the Atlantic. After some extra dawdling I waded into the water with teammates Caitlin, Krissy, and Ron. The water was chilly but I had to pee pretty bad so I walked right in up to my waist. After a little more jackassery we finally dove in for real and made our way out to the first buoy.

With the experience of Cleveland’s rough waters so fresh in my memory I was pleasantly surprised to find that, while unpleasant, I wasn’t oversly-stressed or intimidated about the chop. It was bad, but I don’t think it was as bad as Lake Erie had been either pre-race or during the race. Regrouping at the first buoy we all acknowledged that conditions were not great, but Caitlin quickly took the reins pointing to a floating platform between the second and third buoys and demanding we swim there to play a game. None of us dared object.

I wish we had pictures of the absurdity that ensued. Caitlin ordered all of us to climb aboard the slippery 5×5 security raft. We did as we were told, scrambling awkwardly aboard and clinging tenuously on all fours awaiting further instructions. The “game” was to try and stand up without falling off. And the “game” was impossible so we just teetered to our feet and fell immediately off the raft. And then we did it again and again. Soon we were gasping for breath laughing at each other and ourselves.

I was so relieved to have the distraction from the ocean’s waves that I let Caitlin convince me to join her in continuing on to the third buoy while Krissy and Ron called it quits and headed in. Right away she started pulling away from me; because I am terrible at swimming and she is not. We met up at that third buoy, at which point we’d swum about 500m from shore which seemed more than sufficient so we called it quits as well.

I was eager to have the waves push me back in but they did not acquiesce. Heading back towards the beach, Caitlin was off ahead of me within 100m and suddenly I felt like I was alone in the middle of the Atlantic. I don’t know how Caitlin and I ended up being the two crazies who opted to swim the furthest out as we were also the two most afraid of sharks on the team. I guess our highjinks jumping off the raft had emboldened me, plus she’s very persuasive and I’m very (sw)impressionable.

As I swam, the shore seeming impossibly far, I had to choke down panic and the thoughts of ‘what else is in this water?!’ that creep in. I could hear Robert Shaw decrying “dolls’ eyes” and had to stop every few strokes to spin in a useless 360 as if I could really assess my surroundings. 200 or so meters from shore I became convinced I’d seen a fin to my starboard side and began windmilling violently toward land. The Old Orchard Beach pier was to my right and ssemed like it went on forever as I swam alongside it desperate for shore. Eventually I got there and immediately felt like a buffoon for my terror, but worse, I also felt a new sense of dread about the next day’s swim.

The one thing I felt good about was the water temperature. I’d been fearing frigid temps that I knew from experience would leave my Raynaud’s fingers and toes numb until the race was over. In the mid-60s in my long sleeve wetsuit the water had felt great – a little brisk the first couple minutes but comfortable after that and no residual numbness or pins and needles. This was a huge weight off.

After the swim Melissa and I headed back to our lil abode, stopping first at a massive seafood cafeteria, the Clambake, for a mountain of shrimp, scallops, clam cakes, and onion rings. (I’m sure the gentleman who took our excessive order realized it was too much food for two small ladies but he gave us no warning. Luckily, leftovers!)

Back at the house we pulled our bikes out to ride down for racking, planning to then run back. We changed and biked back toward transition at 2:30pm, figuring we had plenty of time. Melissa quickly discovered though that her power shifting was dead and I remembered that I’d taken my bento box off the bike when I got my new fit, so we were both in need of unexpected expo help – though Melissa was in more dire straits than I. She dashed to the mechanics and I found help at the Profile Designs tent – albeit from a misogynist arse who, while I tried to pay for my new bento box, had time to talk to every guy who walked up with a question, to take a call, and to mansplain to me why I should pay him to build me a custom bike with 700s talking over me when I explained that at 4’10” I preferred my 650s and research supports that preference thankyouverymuchjustletmepayyoueffingjag.

The onsite mechanics from the Gorham Bike & Ski shop were much easier to work with for Melissa. They had the charger she needed and plugged her bike in with a promise to call in an hour or so once it was done. While her bike juiced I racked Koopa Troop, and then we ran the two miles home which, like the swim, was probably more of a shake-out than we needed.

All the mechanical drama left us shorter on time than we expected before the Rev3 pre-race pizza party at 5pm. We very impressively each showered and changed in 20 minutes and got back to the Expo – and parked – by 4:30. Melissa’s bike was ready to go so she collected it and got it racked while I joined the Rev3 crew in setting up the next day’s athlete food tent – our job to earn our dinner.

After dinner we hit up Rite Aid for gatorade, pretzels, peanut butter, and other assorted race necessities. Then it was back home to prep the morning, hit the Normatecs, and wind (not wine this time) down. Despite both our inclinations toward night owl-y-ness, somehow Melissa and I were in bed by 8:30 – a record for me.

Race Morning

Our alarms went off at 4:15am, but I’d been up since 3:47 – my final of three nocturnal pees. I didn’t love laying awake for a half hour but I was up quickly once the alarm sounded. I made us some PB sammies and we silently zombied through our morning routines, ready to go by 4:45.

We drove the two miles toward transition and had to do a pricy pay lot which was a pain but at least pretty convenient. We were with our bikes setting ourselves up a little after 5am with plenty of time to get what we needed done.

I enjoyed seeing lots of teammates in transition and totally soaked in all the Rev3 love. I also, wisely, pooped early. I walked the long way out of transition and I’m glad I did as I found some shorter porta lines. There were not enough bathrooms and some people got stuck in especially long waits depending on which bank of jons they chose. I did my business, got back to Koop, borrowed a bike pump, and pulled my wetsuit half way on for the walk to the beach with Melissa and Krissy.

Krissy and I both spaced and missed the Rev3 team picture at 5:45 which is sad, but I’m glad I didn’t feel rushed through setup. Once on the beach a little after 6, people were already being pulled out of the practice swim. It was low tide and a total change from the day before in terms of both the water line and the tranquiility. I knew better after Cleveland than to trust the looks of a body of water but I was hopeful that things in the wave department had improved. Adding to that hopefulness, just before lining up I met a Great Dane puppy and her parents graciously allowed me to hug and love on her. She was gorgeous and the giant puppy cuddle gave me a pre-race zen. (If you think I’m kidding or in any way overselling the calming effect of  slobbery Great Dane kisses you don’t know me that well.)

Reluctantly bidding my puppy love adieu Melissa and I lined up for real. It was a self-seeding race based on your predicted finish time. Josh had instructed me to go with a group a few minutes faster than I expected to be. (My swim-clination is always to go the opposite way and hang back with the people slower than me and then use that as an excuse not to try too hard in the water. It’s worked out great for me so far.) I figured I’d be around 40 minutes – my time in Cleveland where the course had actually been 1.2 miles and ocean-level choppy. But I actually heeded Josh’s race plan and squeezed in with the 35-37 minute group, hoping I wouldn’t make anyone mad when I went slower than that pace.

The Swim

As we hesitantly blended in with the 35-37 minute crowd Melissa and I ran right into Rev3 teammates, Caleigh and Steph. Having my crew around me loosened me further while their hysterical company got me hyped for the race. We’d been told we would go in two-by-two so Melissa and I planned to go in together, but as we approached the start they were actually releasing four people every few seconds. Melissa ended up in the group right behind Caleigh, Steph, and I, but we all entered the water at just about the same time.

Rev3 Prez, Eric, was the one releasing athletes so we got even more amped up with high fives and shouts from him as he sent us running toward the water a little after 7am. By then all my ocean-fear had been replaced by laughter and mushy lovey feelings being surrounded by my Speed Sherpa and Rev3 family. We laughed like idiots as we ran toward the low tide water and surrounded by my people I felt totally capable of the next 1.2 miles in the Atlantic that had scared me so much only a few minutes before.

The low tide situation was bonkers and added to our frenzy. We ran the entire length of the Old Orchard Beach pier (which I’d swum so frantically 18 hours earlier) and then another 50m almost all the way to the first buoy before it was deep enough to swim. We absolutely exhausted ourselves trying to run/skip through the deep sand and thigh-high water – still laughing the whole way – but for someone who usually backs off the swim, afraid to spike my heartrate early in the water I think this was the perfect way to start. By the time we were finally deep enough to swim my BPM were spiked and I just dove right into it and embraced the higher exertion than I usually feel comfortable with swimming.

The water had looked calm from shore but Cleveland had taught me such looks can be very deceiving. Going in with that kind of skepticism I was ecstatic to discover the Atlantic was in fact calm and comfortable that early in the morning. (So really, LAKE Erie, what gives?!) I had no problem buckling down into a good rhythm and I actually enjoyed focusing on my Swimbox lessons, keeping my catch straight, working my kick, and pulling all the way through. With my mind on those form tweaks, and aided by the longsleeve wetsuit I hadn’t worn in almost a year, (and the salt,) the buoys seemed to fly by.

At 65 degrees the water felt perfect in that wetsuit. No icy toes or fingers to worry about or work through on the bike. The first turn came around 600m in and all I was thinking was, ‘holy s*** I’m actually enjoying a swim!’ Heading north/northeast parallel with the beach there eight sighting buoys, the first four of which were yellow, while the second four were red. This you’re-halfway-there color swap was a huge mental assist and again I was shocked by how quickly it seemed to happen.

There wasn’t too much crowding or jostling either for the most part, except that somewhere in the middle of that 800m straightaway I did get clocked in the face the hardest I ever have in a swim. A guy who had apparent issues with sighting and swimming in a straight line cut a diagonal line in front of and over me, catching me under my chin with a bizare upper cut. A hundred meters later the same bozo swam across me diagonally again but going the other way. As soon as I realized it was the same jabby nitwit I backed off and let him pass. (Later that night in a bar bathroom I discovered he’d actually drawn blood and left a good little scab and bruise under my chin – glad I didn’t attract any sharks!!)

Soon enough I was turning back toward shore and with only a few hundred meters left it was time to try and pee. I have to slow down and stop kicking to swim-pee, and I wondered if the person who’d been chasing my toes at that point realized why I’d stopped fluttering my legs. I giggled thinking of how gross we triathletes are and tried to pee (potentially on someone’s head.) And tried and tried. This pee-struggle is becoming as common a blog appearance as the pre-race porta potties! Especially when I’m in a wetsuit. I tried and gave up a few times before finding a little success halfway back to the beach. It wasn’t much but eventually I gave up opting for a faster swim.

Like the swim start, the low tide turned the exit into a bizarre modern dance through the deep sand and shallow water. With my little t-rex arms I was able to swim it in further than most people before I was forced to get upright. When my feet were forced to ground I glanced at my watch and was thrilled to see 36:30something. I ran up the beach towards the T1 sensors eager to keep my time in the actual 35-37 minute range for which I’d reluctantly queued. Ultimately I ended up with a 37:13 swim and my first non-downstream swim under 2:00/100m. Heading toward my bike I felt like the day was already a win with that performance in my first ocean swim. I got emotional and teary and smiled ear-to-ear heading up the beach.

T1

Wetsuit strippers lined the walk way from the beach toward transition. I dove to my back in front of the first available one, throwing my legs up in the air. She deftly yanked my neoprene over my ankles and I jumped back up and started running toward my Koop, still on cloud nine.

It was a quarter mile barefoot down the road to get back to transition. We had to traverse some train tracks where organizers had laid carpet, but otherwise it was just feet on blacktop, and cognizant the trashy,  boozy proclivities of the normal Old Orchard Beach population, I tried to be careful about where I placed my feet.

Josh had given me a direction to be very deliberate about every action in transition, and this made total sense to me. I slowed down a little bit as I pulled my bike shoes and helmet on and took in some calories which ultimately I think made me faster, and ensured that I had everything I needed as I pulled Koop off the rack and started running toward the Bike Out.

On the way I ran past a lone porta potty; I glanced at the door and saw that it was green – unoccupied. I made a game time decision to bathroom. I propped Koop up on the jon and ducked inside where I peed and even pooed again – not something I would have wanted to do in my wetsuit! – and I felt great as I emerged and grabbed Koop again to head toward the Bike Out.

The pitstop added a minute or so to my T1 but it was the absolute right call and I felt great as I mounted and got on my way. It was a lengthy transition at 7:20 but I wasn’t unhappy about it because I was still too damn thrilled from a fast (for me!) and (more important!) fun swim.

The Bike

The bike course started up a slight incline with some tight turns around a few back roads heading toward a main road that was shared with the run course, and then onto a 50 mile loop. My good mood (and empty bladder) carried me easily up the small rise and toward that main loop.

A Finisherpix photographer was stationed early on in those first few windy backroad blocks and I grinned and waved as I rode by him. This doesn’t sound like a big deal but it was to me. I’m not very confident in my handling and I don’t take my hands off the handles more than I have to to eat and shift. But I was in such a good mood and I’ve been working on handling this summer, so I didn’t even think about it – when I saw that camera man I just sat up and waved like a maniac. Once we’d merged onto the larger Portland Ave. I dropped down into my aero bars, feeling proud of myself and eager to put some of the recent upgrades I’d made to Koopa Troop to use.

After miles of terrible hip pain at Cleveland thanks to a new, higher seat fit I had swapped my old 165 crank arms for a more comfortable ride at 155. They say never do anything new on race day but there was no way I could have ridden 56 miles with the same set-up that was agony over just 25 in Cleveland. I’d done a short ride a few days before and then ridden the few miles to transition, but I had no real way of knowing how I would fare in a longer competition like this. Coming out of transition I felt good and I could feel the difference in my ride with the shorter crank arms giving my hips a break.

Immediately I was happy we’d driven the course as well. I felt like I knew what to expect and was pleasantly surprised by how detailed my memory of the previous day’s excursion was. It allowed me to stay in my aeros without worrying what was coming next. I’m too clumsy to climb and too afraid to descend in aero, so when I don’t know what’s coming I err on the side of chickenshit and sit up just in case. With nothing to surprise me out there I had no excuses to deter me from riding more aggressively.

At one point, about 12 miles in, there was a bit of a traffic jam turning onto River Road. There were cars and trucks backed up for half a mile and we were forced to slow and ride single file on a barely-existent shoulder. I was nervous and didn’t want to embarass myself or hurt anyone with my inept handling. Approaching the lefthand turn that was causing the logjam I slowed more than I needed to, taking excessive care to protect other riders (and my own ego) from my clutziness. As I blundered nervously around the cars hanging an awkward left I heard someone call from behind me, “don’t worry, Liz! You’re ok!” I didn’t know who it was at first, I just knew it was a Rev3 family member, and I felt instantly lifted up and supported. In the warm (cheesy?) glow of kinship (oui. tres frommage.) I looked up as teammate Eric Oberg (gotta specify cause we have beaucoup Erics) rode by, in all (and I mean all) his glory: he was wearing nothing but a tiny Rev3 shimmer speedo as he flew past. My warm mushy feelings melted into laughter, which was equally useful to keep myself calm as I found my way past the vehicles and onto River Road.

And what a road was River!  It was like blacktop butter. One of those newly paved stretches of asphalt that feels like you’re riding on nothing. It was a little congested with athletes after having to manuever around all the car traffic, but once the field spaced itself out some I dropped back down and tried to find a little speed. I also took some time to eat and drink, again feeling proud of how much more natural my handling had become.

I was happy to have my new bento box for easy caloric-access and made use of the gus and shotbloks I’d stashed there. I had also done something pretty foul and shoved a handful of pretzels into the back pocket of my jersey hoping to head off my tummy’s tendency to turn on gels and high-density sports nutrition during longer efforts. Pretzels are my belly’s happy food when I’m on the digestive strugglebus(bike). Several times throughout my ride I reached back and fished out an increasingly soggy handful of carbs. (I liked to think the sweat just made them saltier and even better for me. Plus, so efficient reusing my own excreted sodium![Oh god I’m sorry, “excreted” is a terrible word.])  A few miles in they had basically dissolved to mush so I had to quickly wash them down with water each time but they hit the spot and I suffered no GI distress, nor shame because I own my tri-grossness.

Miles 12 through 28 are the prettiest of the course, snaking through farms and small New England villages replete with old churches and cemeteries. I enjoyed the scenery and felt good. I never pushed too hard and found the rolling hills that comprised those miles really manageable. The bike course elevation map depicts a long climb from mile 18 to 25, but after driving the course I knew it wasn’t too drastic, really more like a lot of false flat and a few punchy-but-short up-and-downs. After maintaining an average just under 19 mph over the first 15 miles I dropped back some over 15 to 25, but I never felt over-exerted.

Maybe I should have pushed harder here and throughout the whole bike. I really wanted to have a strong run – something I’ve never managed in a 70.3 – so I stayed conservative. Plus my new crank was amazing so I felt like I didn’t have to push it. The mechanics at Conte’s Bike Shop who had installed it had warned me that I would be faster and I may not realize it. True enough, at several points I felt like my effort was low and merited something around 17mph, only to look down and find I was actually holding strong at 18 or 19mph. This was especially true after that protracted climb leveled out and we turned onto US-202 a little before mile 28.

This was the longest and flattest part of the ride – 12 miles on the 202 with very little turning or climbing – and like everywhere else I felt like I was just in a very maintainable rhythm, but every time I glanced at my speed I was doing better than I expected holding steady around 20mph. I started doing the math to figure out what I’d need to do over the next 15 miles to go sub-3 hours on the bike. It was within reach but I would have to hammer it back to transition to come in under three. That’s when I started to think that maybe I’d played it too safe, but I didn’t want to blow my run by overcompensating on the last third of the ride so I stayed the course.

Close to mile 40 we turned back onto Portland Ave and I was excited knowing we’d made our way through most of the big loop and we were back on roads with names I recognized. I also knew the two punchiest hills of the day were coming so I sat up a little more, vigilant for these two spikes.

As I’d expected, the two punchy climbs between miles 40 and 45 slowed me down some and knocked me off my sub-3 trajectory. Around the same time my hips started talking again. Not nearly the pain that had derailed the second half of my ride at Nationals, but uncomfortable enough that it was hard to drop the hammer over the last ten miles, pushing that sub-3 even further out of reach. I could have been upset by this but I was still so proud of my swim, of my handling, so happy with the perfect day Maine was serving up, and I’d made it 40-some miles comfortably – a massive improvement over the 15 miles I’d managed in Cleveland.

The last five miles back to town were the same as the first five miles and included a few minutes alongside the run course. I saw Caleigh and a few other Rev3 teamates already out running and couldn’t wait to join them. I tried to lay down a little speed while staying safe around the twists and turns back to transition. The chute back in was lined with people cheering and as I unclipped and ran back to my rack I totally teared up again from the crowd support and from pride at my swim-bike efforts thus far.

I hit T2 on my Garmin and it flashed 3:00:35 – so close! (Official time said 3:00:52 so still close but slightly less so.) In hindsight I do wish I’d pushed a little harder earlier on in the bike; I definitely could have shaved off a minute somewhere over those 56 miles, but I also enjoyed the entire bike and I felt proud of how I’d ridden it. It was one of those race experiences where I could feel the work I’ve put in – not just to increase my fitness but my technical riding, so I can’t really say I have any regrets.

T2

I made it back to my rack and tried to replicate the deliberateness of T1 switching shoes, (and socks!) grabbing some salt tabs and pretzels – this time in a ziploc bag to be slightly less disgusting.

Speaking of disgusting, I had to pee and recalling the success of my T1 porta pitstop I thought I’d go in transition again. The run out was on the opposite side of transition from where the bike out had been, and there were 4 jons there. I ran towards them and pulled the first door open, only to find someone had had a truly vile BM all over the seat. I joke about how nasty triathletes can be, how comfortable we are with gastrointestinal honesty, and how we wear our ability to relieve ourselves anywhere like a badge of honor, but this was next level horrifying. I hope whoever did that had a terrible race because that shit (yeah) was unacceptable.

The other three stalls were occupied and I was gagging as I gave up on that plan and turned for the exit figuring there’d be places to go on the run – or I could always try peeing on the move (badge of honor, right?) – if things got more dire. Hitting the exit sensors my watch flashed a 4:41 (official time said 4:40) for a quicker but still slow T2. If I could go back and change just one thing about how I raced IM Maine I would have cut out that attempted porta stop and tried to tighten up my second transition – both for time and because I can never unsee  that porta potty horror show.

The Run

Much like Cleveland, my lack of hammer dropping on the bike had me ready to run. The half marathon course was two six mile loops plus the lolly pop stem from transition and then back to the finish line. I was under strict orders from Josh to take the first loop very conservatively – his race plan called for mile times in the high 8s or even low 9s to start out, but that sounded way too slow and I knew I could do better than that and sustain it. I decided to focus on heartrate and break the race into 3 mile chunks where I would allow my BPM to climb a little on each consecutive one.

The first couple miles traversed a decent hill under direct sunlight. I was happy to see heading up it that my heartrate stayed in the high 150s/low 160s. Cresting the top and heading back down I didn’t sprint, but I did let the descent pull me forward and faster. In that first pitch downward I coined the mental mantra that would carry me through the rest of the day’s descending: Let go and let gravity.

In the past I’ve pulled back on hills to preserve my joints, to milk the heartrate recovery, but feeling happy, enjoying good conditions, I decided to just go for it anytime geography gave me the opportunity. My heartrate still came back to the 150s and leveled out once the ground did and I averaged 8:23/mile for the first three.

Heading into miles four through six I allowed that BPM to creep up to 160 and was happy to find cover as the course took us onto a shaded out-and-back for miles four and five. This stretch was also trail, which some people had been nervous about, but it was hard-pack and didn’t feel much different under foot than pavement.

That is, it didn’t feel much different than pavement on the trail itself, which was very narrow – only wide enough for one runner across in each direction – and surrounded on each side by tall grass and uneven footing. This caused me miles of headache – or leg-ache more accurately.

I’ve documented repeatedly that my lopsided swim-bike-run abilities mean I spend the run passing the MANY people who swim better than me. With hundreds of people running single file in front of me I spent most of miles four and five (and later miles ten and 11) running in the grass alongside the trail  unable to see where my feet were landing and exerting too much effort to maintain a pace while I worried I’d roll an ankle. It was a frustrating wrench in what would have otherwise been the most fun part of the run.

What was still fun was how many people I got to see on each out-and-back; and because it was two laps I got to see teammates from every part of the pack. There were high-fives all around, cheers, encouragement, and more cheesy warm-and-fuzzies having so many people I love out there. Josh always tells me to make sure I smile while I race, that the very act of forcing a smile releases endorphins, but even tripping over god knows what on the grassy shoulder I didn’t have to force it at all: I was happy as anyone can be 60-some miles into a race.

Leaving the trail lap one concluded with a long climb in direct sunlight. Mercifully we also got to descend the same hill before merging with people just exiting T2 to start their first laps. Despite the shade and permission I’d given my heartrate to surge, miles four through six were slower than my first three, averaging 8:34 min/mile, partly thanks to that hill but I think mostly as a result of all the effort and serpentining required to pass people on the trail.

I started doing the endurance athlete math immediately upon starting lap two. Heading back up the first big climb again I compulsively checked my Garmin to take stock of my time at the halfway point. Leaving T2 I’d realized that if I could go under 1:50 for the half marathon I would finish the whole race under 5:40. I tried not to obsess about this too much during lap one, not wanting to burn out under the pressure. But I’d felt good and had gas left to burn and I wanted to give myself a goal for the next 6.55 miles.

The first half clocked in right at 55 minutes meaning I just needed a slightly negative split to go under 1:50 and deliver a 70.3 in the 5:30s. I felt nowhere near maxed out so that seemed absolutely doable. Hitting miles seven, eight, and nine I was going to let my heartrate creep into the mid-160s and I expected my pace to follow suit. I was really ready to see some faster, sub-8, numbers.

Reaching the top of that largest hill for the second and final time I again let go and let gravity and was looking forward to a little break on the exertion. The sun was coming out and there was no tree cover the first two miles of each lap – the second time up that hill took a lot more out of me than the first. I let the descent pull me faster but my heartrate barely budged down at all. Once I was on flatter road again I pushed my heartrate into the mid-160s, but didn’t get the increased speed I’d been hoping for. The previous 65 miles of the day were catching up to me I realized, and couldn’t really be mad about that. Miles seven through nine ended up averaging 8:22 min/mile – barely faster than my first three miles. I was going to have to do better miles ten – 13.1.

I was heading back onto the trail and was looking forward to the shade, but not the passing game which would only get more complicated now that more slower runners had joined the run course. I stepped it up urging my heartrate a little higher and began weaving aggressively around people. The work required to pass people through the tall grass and blind footing was again a hang up, and mile ten was barely faster than mile four had been.

Taking the turn-around I knew it was time to get uncomfortable and push the last three miles home. I’d been so close to sub-3 hours on the bike, I didn’t want a sub-5:40 to slip away because I failed push myself into the pain. Swerving around other runners on and off the trail I let my irritation at having to pass so many people like this fuel me. My heartrate crept up as planned with my increased efforts and determination, and yet my pace was barely budging from the 8:20s.

Towards the end of the trail and mile 11 I saw a woman up ahead running just slightly slower than me but still moving at a good clip with a 36 on her calf – my age group. I was gaining on her but slowly and I was afraid if I passed her at the pace I was moving she would realize I was her competition and try to race me home; I feared that if she put up a fight I wouldn’t be able to stay in front of her once I overtook her. I needed to pass her at an aggressive enough speed that she wouldn’t try to keep up. When I was a few steps behind her I dug deep and picked up my feet. As I ran by her she yelled, “killer pace!” cheering me on despite being my direct competition. All I could think was, ‘damn. I love triathletes.’

Well that and, ‘eff this hurts.’ I yelled as much support as I could muster back at her through my huffing and puffing. I felt like I had to hold this faster pace until I was out of her range. Fortunately there was an aid station fast approaching followed by the hard left off the trail and back onto road and towards the end of the second loop. I slowed a bit to grab some water and flat coke before heading up the fourth and final real climb of the day.

I’d managed to force myself into the low 8s, but the  climb dropped me back and I finished mile 11 still in the 8:20s – but at least it was 20 seconds faster than mile five – it’s first lap twin – had been. By the top of this last hill I realized I’d let myself back off too much and needed to get in and stay in the pain cave the last 2.1 miles to the finish. With gravity’s aid once more I forced my legs to turn over faster and dropped into the 7s for the first time that day.

The 12th mile of the day was an acceptable 7:49. I was satisfied with the pace but it had been mostly downhill. The final mile flattened out and I needed to maintain and even accelerate. Checking my Garmin again I saw I had very little room to work with to go under 1:50 for the run – if I wanted it I could not back down one bit. I held on to the 7:40s for dear life and by the end of my 13th mile – a 7:46 – I was deep underground in that cave of agony.

With a quarter mile to go I ran by Rev3 teammate Thea who yelled me on, giving me a much-need boost. Heading past transition and through town toward the finisher chute the crowd support swelled and I fed off it. For the final .1 miles I dipped further down into the 7:20s and prayed it would be over soon.

Finally my feet were falling on the iconic red Ironman carpet lining the way to the finish line. Running up the chute I felt like absolute death and knew I had less than a minute to spare for my sub-5:40/1:50 goal. I clenched my teeth and tried to smile – very much forced at this point. (There were photographers after all!) I heard my name to my right and saw long-finished Speed Sherpa teammate, Ryan holding out his hand. I smacked it along with the hands of cheering strangers and kept sprinting forward.

A few steps later  I heard someone shout my name from the left. Deliriously I glanced toward the voice and saw (also long-finished) Rev3 teammate, Russ with his phone out. (Cameras everywhere!) I “smiled” as much as I could manage and finally a few seconds later, my feet were over the sensors and it was done. I got my sub 1:50/5:40 with a 1:49:25 run (6th fastest in my AG!) and an overall time of 5:39:27.

The Aftermath

I hit end on my watch and promptly doubled over and heaved.

I felt bile hit the back of my throat and quickly gulped it back down – ever-desperate to avoid the medical tent. I can’t explain this acute aversion to medical attention, (see Boston 2017 aftermath) but I avoid it with all my will – which in this case meant swallowing (reswallowing I guess) the yuck I’d just retched up.

I righted myself, took a moment, and continued on, collecting my medal and a couple bottles of water to wash the throw-up taste out of my mouth. In keeping with my foul triathlete embrace of normally-unwelcome bodily functions I felt proud to have come that close to puking – it meant I’d left it all out on the course and had held nothing back. I was very happy that I didn’t actually spew, but coming thisclose felt like an accomplishment.

A few feet from the finish I encountered Rev3 teammate Billy and we got some pictures together and hugged it out. Then Ryan again appeared over the barricades and there were more hugs. I wandered out of the chute and was immediately barraged by five or six more Rev3 family members; there were more hugs and pictures and comparing of race notes.

I was still in tenuous control of my stomach and its contents but within a few seconds of finishing the race I had nothing but warm mushy feelings for the past 70.3 miles. As people asked how the day had gone for me I gushed that it had been the perfect day. And it really had! The 65 degree calm water, the best open water swim of my life, the leaps (technical and velocital) made on the bike, the sunny but mild and low-humidity weather, a strong and measured run, the many friendly faces from the start of the swim to finish line and everywhere in between, and a 4 minute 70.3 PR! It was hands down one of the best races of my life.

Ryan and I reunited and found some space near the finish line to wait for and cheer in my roomie-for-the-weekend, Sherpette Melissa. She finished after not too long and we all hugged and photo-documented the team-love. Shortly after she and I said ciao to Ryan who had to go do dad-duties and hello to chow, seeking out the athlete food tent and a patch of sun to sit in and soak up. We then slowly meandered back to transition where we were able to collect our bikes. Along the way we ran into a dozen more Rev3’ers and Melissa was patient but probably tiring of my social butterflying. I however was lapping up all the teammate cameraderie.

Eventually we made it back to her car and headed home to our casita – stopping on the way for ice cream for Melissa, jalapeno chips for me, and beer for the both of us. Back at the house we just sat and ate and drank and chatted. Eventually we bathed and I started getting texts from the Rev3 crew about that afternoon/evening’s revelrie. There was talk of “buckets” at a hotel/bar called the Brunswick…

The Afterparty

Melissa was down for the count and wanted no part of the carousing. Rev3 teamies Caleigh, Robert, and Caleigh’s dad, Pip, kindly offered to pick me up since I wasn’t within walking distance to “downtown” Old Orchard Beach. A number of teammates apparently arrived to begin consuming said “buckets” around 3:30 or 4pm, but our unassuming group didn’t get there till 5:30 or 6. I think this was for the best because lawd I just can’t hang the way I used to! (And I’ll never understand how my incredibly fast and athletic friends still can! [Only a couple of them are in their 20s so it’s not that!])

Turns out these infamous “buckets” were noxious concoctions of four types of rum, (apparently there are at least four types of rum!) and some sort of juice concentrate for “flavor.” Oh and if you wanted to get real aggro on a Sunday (which I did not) you could add 151. (So actually there are at least five types of rum! Who knew?!) Upon arriving and learning all of the above Caleigh and I (wisely) took ourselves to the bar to buy our own beer, heading off any offers of buckets from our generous teammates (several of whom were already on their second bucket.)

We stuck around a few hours and the Rev3 party grew larger and rowdier. (Luckily OOB is the kind of place that welcomes loud and rowdy party crews.) And the buckets kept coming. At some point the group decided that anyone who got a PR had to get a bucket. Much chanting ensued – “PR buckets! PR buckets!” – and Caleigh and I nursed our lowkey beers tried to avoid attracting attention to our own mutual personal records that day.

Caleigh and I (with the help of Robert and Pip) extracated ourselves around 9:30pm while the party raged on. We apparenly missed a trip to the local carnival and after that to an ice cream parlour. I had a touch of FOMO but I also didn’t feel like garbage in the morning so I think it was a win.

The next day Melissa dropped me off at a Rev3 brunch and she and the bikes continued north for their Maine wilderness adventure. I didn’t fly out till 5pm so I spent the day with a number of teammates who’d stuck around, wandering Portland, which was experiencing some kind of late August hot flash that we were happy to have avoided on race day. Eventually I headed to the airport with teammate, Ron where I had my first lobster roll of the weekend – sad I know but it was still pretty good. He walked me to my gate and finally, at 4:30pm the Monday after the race I had to hug Ron and the weekend goodbye. From my curbside service courtesy of Melissa on the way in to this final embrace I’d been surrounded by the family I choose all weekend. It was hard to let go. (But I’d bought a first class ticket home and they were boarding so I had to claim my pre-flight cocktail.)

Ever since my first triathlon six years ago I’ve wanted this kind of tri family. For several seasons I went to races knowing only one or two other people. I was happy as my circle grew to be maybe four or five familiar faces per race but that weekend I had literally dozens of friends in Maine. Everywhere I went, every corner of the course, all over Old Orchard Beach, I knew people. And Cleveland had been much the same a few weekends before.

I only want to race like this from now on. Really it’s the way I’ve always wanted to race, and now that I have it I refuse to let it go. I want other things too. Next year I want to break 5:30 in the 70.3, go top ten AG at IM Lake Placid, and one day I want to go to Worlds and to Kona. But I want those things on these familial terms. A PR feels good no matter what, but to PR or to podium or to just exist in the company of 40 of your best friends is something different. Now that I’ve had a taste I’m not going back. #Rev3forever #bleedblue

Just five days after returning to DC from the New York City Triathlon I was loading up my little green dinosaur (Mini Cooper) Yoshi again, this time bound for a weekend of team-sponsored insanity at Rev3 Williamsburg. It was a full weekend of events with a sprint and kids race Saturday and an olympic and half distance race on Sunday. I would be racing the second day but I hit the road Friday afternoon so that I could volunteer with the sprinters and the young’ns before it was my turn.

Excited for the racing and team hijinks to come I got on the road around 3pm, thinking I would beat rush hour traffic on my way out of DC. But it is rush hour from dawn to dusk on Fridays in DC and so within blocks of my house I found myself mired in a vehicular slog for the second Friday in a row. A slog that crept the whole way to Williamsburg – despite Waze’s creativity I don’t think I ever broke 45 mph the entire trip down.

No no it is tooooootally reasonable for the 115 miles from DC to Williamsburg to take four hours, that is not infuriating in any way. I finally rolled into the La Quinta where I would be staying around 7pm – already 30 minutes late for our team dinner reservation. I checked in and unloaded Yoshi as fast as I could and made it to Paul’s Deli New Town where I was happy to find the dinnering still in full swing. I got to meet a few teammates I hadn’t yet met in person and followed one of their leads in ordering the french dip sandwich. This was a mistake – not because it was bad but because the pizzas that others got were surprisingly excellent. Forgive the Calabresi in me for not expecting a restauraunt called Paul’s in a tourist trap town to be serving up legit ‘za. I was wrong and if and when I am back I will eat that humble (pizza) pie, and I recommend it to all Wburg carb-loaders.

I was back in the hotel by 9 and after a Normatec-HGTV(-pinot grigio) sesh (and an epic 711 run where I think I shocked the cashier with my haul of goodies) I tucked myself in pretty early. I was the bike lead for both the sprint and the kids races the next morning which meant I had to be at transition – 20 minutes away – by 6:30am. I’ll be honest, setting my alarm I had a few unsportswoman like thoughts of, ‘why the hell did I volunteer for a thing that meant I had to be up almost as early as the athletes.’ But I got over it and got some surprisingly good zzzzzs in.

That alarm went off at 5:30 and I made myself some mid-market chain hotel coffee and packed up my massive haul from 711 – fruit platters, croissants, lunchables (oh yes, you read that right), and plenty of gatorade – and was out the door by 6am. My why-did-I-volunteer-for-dawn-duties sentiments only hung around through my first sip of coffee. By the time I parked at the race 20 minutes later I was fully onboard with with the early hour.

I rolled Koopa Troop into transition to await our bike-lead duties with plenty of time to spare. As bike lead, I would be riding out a little ahead of the first place runner in the sprint so I got to hang out a bit as the race got underway and the sprint athletes went swimming and biking.

While waiting I got to see Speed Sherpette Erica and cheer for our fellow Sherpette, Peyton, who was one of the first out of the water. Once Peyton was on her way pedaling up the hill out of transition I returned to Koop and got ready for my own ride. I knew whoever the first place athlete was they wouldn’t take too long to complete the 13.1 mile bike course and I didn’t want to get caught unprepared.

When I’d volunteered as bike lead at the Williamsburg 70.3 in 2016 I had waited for the first athlete just outside the “run out” from transition as I’d been directed. Transition – and the whole race ground really – is a large field, and upon exiting the “run out” the run course traverses 100 or so meters through high grass and uneven ground (more on that later) up a steep hill before your feet (or in my case tires) find pavement. In 2016 I’d struggled to get up that hill with the rough ground, aggressive pitch, and hard right turn you have to make onto a bridge that leads runners out onto the main stretch of course. I remember feeling panicked as I struggled to stay in front of the crazy fast runner while trying not to crash my skinny tribike wheels in the grass or smash into the side of the bridge.

I’m a better cyclist now than I was then but I didn’t want to chance it or feel that panicky again, so I walked Koop up to the bridge to wait for the runner on pavement. There I met one of the many fantastic volunteers who’d come out to make the race a success. We had about 15 minutes to chat while she kept a lookout for a runner heading out of transition. I learned that she and her husband volunteered every year and had convinced their son to come out too. We compared notes on our obsessive affection for our pets and discovered a mutual love of lizards (it’s not weird, it’s cool) and she told me about her weightloss journey and how volunteering at the race inspired her to keep it up. I was happy to hear she got something so beneficial out of being there because I am always floored by how generous race volunteers are with their time.

Soon enough she saw the first place athlete speeding out of transition toward the bridge. I swung my leg over and waved goodbye to my new friend, getting myself the good head start that I would need to stay in front of the speed demon charging my way. I took care this time to stay further ahead of the runner than I had in 2016. It was easier this time around because we were the only ones on the course whereas leading for the 70.3 winner we’d been on the course when there were already hundreds of olympic athletes running their 10ks.

It had proven challenging then, given the narrow run path and out and back nature of the course – there had been runners going every which way to weave around while I stayed ahead of a guy running sub-7 minute miles. This time  with the sidewalk all to ourselves I easily maintained my distance, even as the maniac behind me pounded out sub-6 minute miles!

We rode/ran the out-and-back and with half a mile to go it was time to face the grass and wobbly ground again. I accelerated down the back of the bridge to bank some space ahead of the runner, but I had to slow way down to navigate the tight turn and rough terrain and sprinting for home  the guy was able to overtake me running past transition. There was a stretch of gravel road coming up that I was anxious about, not wanting to pop a tire before racing the next morning, but I thought if I can get there safely I can get in front of him again. Happily though, as I approached the gravel I saw Rev3 teammate Davey waiting on his mountain bike to lead the runner in. He took over and led the final quarter mile to the finish line. It was a huge relief and Koopa and I got to avoid some grass and gravel for which his little tires and frame were not designed!

Having (mostly?) discharged my sprint duties I wheeled Koop back to transition to wait for the kids race which we would also be bike leading. I joined Rev3’er Clarice at the “bike in/bike out” where she was directing athletes to the mount/dismount lines and cheering people on. As I yelled and cheered with her – yelling the loudest at our own teammates – someone ran up to me and saying my help was needed by the “run out” – that a runner had fallen and hurt himself.

I sprinted over and found teammates Josh and Ed tending to a gentleman who was lying to the side of the course. He had stepped in a hole and twisted his ankle and Josh and Ed, who were racing, had stopped to help. Ed is an EMT so he knelt with the guy trying to assess the ankle, as Josh stood in said hole – clad only in a very small shimmery Rev3 speedo – directing people around the obstacle.

Josh asked if I could find some way to mark the hole so no one else would take a  dive. Not sure exactly what I was looking for I took off again back around transition. I thought maybe I’d alert an actual staff member when I happened to glance at the parking lot, and all the orange cones delineating rows of cars. I hurried over, grabbed one and sprinted back. (It was much heavier than I expected!) We replaced mostly-nude Josh with the bright orange hazard warning, and eventually he and Ed were able to get back on their heroic (ridiculous) ways.

Having been up at that point for many hours I took some time to dig into my stash of lunchables and 711 fruit (which everyone knows is the freshest fruit [it’s not but it was better than expected]) to keep my energy up to deal with the childrens. I also found Davey and his mountain bike and we worked out a plan to colead the kids’ race so I could continue to keep Koop’s tires clean (and unpunctured.) Their race was a 2.6 mile bike 1 mile run duathlon and we would be with them for the whole thing. The bike would follow the same route as the adult races out of transition on the road, but then would hang right onto the sidewalk over the bridge on  what was the adults’ run path. They would then cycle that narrow path out and back for 2.6 miles. The run was the path out of transition along the bumpy grass and gravel that comprised the last half mile of the adults’ races.

We decided that Davey would do the bike lead for both legs and I would patrol the bridge to keep an eye on the kiddos. Having consulted with teammate Robert who had ridden with the kids the previous year it sounded like best practice would be to have someone (me) there with the kids the whole time – not just clearing the way for the winning youngster.

When the race kicked off at 9am Davey rode out with the fastest kiddos and I hung back with the middle of the pack. True to the plan he biked in the winner while I rode back and forth over the bridge (Yeah that’s up and down a sizable hill repeatedly – optimal activity for the day before a race??)

Being a narrow path my main role was to keep the kids riding to the right as they shared the little path coming and going out-and-back. Robert and one of the many Erics (DePoto in this case) were also on the bridge cheering the kids on. During one pass over the bridge I found DePoto with a little girl Continue reading Race Volunteer Report: Rev3 Williamsburg 2018 Sprint/Kids Race →

It’s an honor just to be nominated. No seriously, it’s awesome to have qualified for USA Triathlon (USAT) Age Group Nationals the last few years; it’s an accomplishment I’m proud of and a tangible mark of how far I’ve come in this sport; and competing in Cleveland this year was also a humbling reminder of how far I still, legs and cardiovascular system-willing, have to go.

To be invited to compete in Nationals you have to place in the top 10% of your Age Group at a USAT compliant race. I’ve been able to do that several times over during each of the last few seasons, but with the race taking place in Omaha in 2016 and 17, I never really considered going. This year (and next) it moved up to the Mistake on the Lake and this author’s home from grades K through 7, Cleveland. I’d been back only once and very briefly in the 20 years since we moved from the Cleve to ATL, and the homegoing plus the opportunity to race in the lake (Erie) that my mother forbade us to swim in as children was too much to pass up.

I already wanted to go, so when my first Speed Sherpa friend, Madi, who years ago left me for California said she was going, I was sold and the two of us made plans to shack up together. Then Coach Josh and his wife, Erica, said they were also in and were bringing their adorable kiddos so we decided to find a bigger rental and get the whole crew under one roof.

Finding a suitable rental in Cleveland proved a challenge. It is not after all a real tourist destination. After wading through a sea of Airbnb listings touting the 2016 Republican National Convention (listings that made me concerned that the homes’ owners probably didn’t know their houses were still on the site and either way I didn’t want to stay with people who had actively courted Donald Trump delegates) I found a five bedroom, ten person house close to downtown and booked it. We then convinced one more teammate, Justin, and his wife, Colleen, to stay with us and take the last bedroom.

The olympic distance in which we were all competing was Saturday, Aug. 11th, so everyone drove up (or in Madi’s case flew) Thursday the 9th. Justin was the first to arrive and was able to get into the house with the host’s instructions no problem. I was relieved having made the reservation that it was working out. (Anyone else always a little nervous with Airbnbs that the house you book won’t actually exist or something?) By 7pm that evening we had all made it to the house and we headed out for a nice Italian dinner nearby, followed by a quick stop at a grocery store that was trying to close.

On Friday everyone slept as late as they felt like, knowing the following morning would mean an ungodly early wake-up. By 9am everyone was up, breakfasted, and ready to hit the Expo. Caravaning down in two cars we arrived at the Expo and race location, Edgewater Park, a few minutes before packet pickup opened. There was a long line snaking through the Park, but once packet pickup was underway it moved reasonably quickly.

Numbers etc. in hand it was time for a practice swim in beautiful, closed-due-to-sewage-only-days-before Lake Erie. Walking down to the beach we were all a little disconcerted to see waves with actual whitecaps rolling through the whole swim course and actually crashing onto shore. Race officials had announced the water temp to be 78.9 that morning so we were all anticipating a non-wetsuit-legal swim the next day, and going neoprene-free in that water didn’t sound very appealing. (Plus the course just looked really long – I think that of every swim course including the 300m pool courses at Rev3’s sprints but still.)

Scott and Colleen kindly watched Josh and Erica’s girls while the rest of us waded into the absolutely-colder-than-79-degrees-I-call-bullshit-race-officials water, angry little lake waves lapping around our shins. Once we got out a little deeper – after pausing to pee of course –  Madi took off like the aquatic freak she is, leaving Justin, Erica, Josh, and me to fend for ourselves. The four of us huddled and agreed to swim out to a buoy maybe 100 meters away. 100 really sucky meters. The waves were substantial and relentless; they made me seasick and washed buckets of probably-still-sewage-y lake down my throat every few strokes. We were all out of breath and unhappy when we reconvened.

Erica and Justin decided to swim back from there while Josh and I opted to continue on to the first sighting buoy another (according to my Garmin) 200m away. I managed to ride his toes about half way there, and then a big swell tried to drown me and I lost him. Finally I caught up with Josh at the buoy, feeling dispirited that the next day was going to be slowgoing and unpleasant. We decided we’d gone far enough and swam back to find everyone else, at least with the aid of the tide as we headed back to shore.

After the swim everyone was wallowing in a harrowing mix of anxiety and despair. These were the worst swim conditions I think any of us had ever encountered. (Ehhhh I dunno about Josh, he’s a nutter so he’s probably been through worse. That’s why he’s my coach!) Josh tried to console the crew that we’d all be entering the water hours earlier the next morning, when the wind wouldn’t be as strong and the lake would be calmer. Nonetheless Madi joined throngs of other petrified practice swimmers at the Roka tent to buy a race legal swim skin – hopeful that a little extra compression and buoyancy would take some of the place of the wetsuits we might not be allowed to wear.

After our harder-than-anticipated swims we were hungry so we caravaned back towards the house and hit up a Panera, and then once more to the little grocery store to get what we’d need to cook a massive family style dinner later. Back at Chez Airbnb we all changed into chamois and rounded our bikes up to head back to Edgewater Park for a short ride before racking. Scott once again played the role of saint and watched the girls. I hadn’t told him he’d be babysitting all weekend but he took to the role with (at least outward!) good humor. (Really any time you looked at him over the weekend he was just draped in chidren.)

Back at the Park we ran into Speed Sherpa King and Queen Dave and Sara. Dave was only racing the sprint on Sunday (spoiler: he crushed it and qualified for Worlds) and Sara was sadly injured and sitting it out, so they’d come in a day late and opted for a hotel over our big familial rental. We chatted a bit and then Erica, Justin, Madi, and I headed out for a few miles on the bikes. (If you’re wondering where Josh went, I am too.)

Following Madi’s lead we rode past the beach and headed up a decent incline. I tried to shift down to accommodate the climb but Koopa Troop refused. It was a legit hill – not so legit it should have posed a real problem – but here I was huffing and puffing and standing and afraid I might tip humiliatingly over before we made it to the top. Once we finally crested I kept trying to shift and still no dice. I knew I only had a little time before the on-site mechanics  closed up shop, so, a little panicked, I rode the brake back down the hill and handed Koop off to a nice grease-covered man.

After only a few minutes he brought my steed back to me, having tweaked something with the derailleur. I climbed back aboard and thankfully was back in shifting business. We did a quick lap around the Park and then made our way into transition, where we discovered the tallest racks of all time – worse than the ones I complained about in NYC this year. My bike is always dangling off the ground so that’s no biggie, but here, everyone’s was hanging precariously. I didn’t like how insecure that made the whole set up seem, but I did kinda like that other people had to experience the heartburn of leaving your most favorite toy in so perilous a position over night.

After racking we clomped back to the car in our bike cleats – hadn’t thought that all the way through – and then back to the house to make dinner. Erica and I had planned the menu of breaded chicken, pasta, and aspargus over lunch and we took the reins in the kitchen. The boys all hung out in the living room while we ladies, including a few extra Sherpettes who weren’t staying with us, cooked more than enough for the 12 mouths that needed feeding. This gender-normative division of domestic duties would normally distress me but I had too much fun with my girls to get on a feminist soapbox. (I spend so much of my days on that soapbox anyway! [Plus I’m pretty sure Scott was still babysitting.])

Dinner went over well and once sated most of took turns in the several pairs of Normatecs we’d brought, and then we parted ways to attend to our own race-eve rituals. We had to be up extra early because our Airbnb was basically on the bike course and so the roads around the house were going to be closed early – 5am according to signage on our block.

After much back-and-forth we’d worked out the schedule for the morning, which would have Scott watching the girls while Colleen would drop off all of us who were racing as close as possible to transition. Madi’s mom, Deb, was in town but staying with another friend (Madi snores, I’m pretty sure she’d be ok with me telling you that) and would make her way over to the house to join Scott in the babysitting; then Deb would drive Josh’s car and Scott would drive ours to the race or to the race shuttles downtown so they could cheer us on.

Race Day

The first part of that plan happened: despite a last-minute panic that I’d lost my chip, and some dawdling on the parts of I think everyone but Justin, Colleen commandeered a truckful of antsy triathletes away from the house before the bike course roads were shut down. She dropped us close as she could to transition at about 5:15 and we hoofed it ten minutes to our bikes. Once there Erica and Rev3 teammate Julie had an unwelcome adventure when they discovered their entire rack had toppled. Their bikes were ok, but color me not surprised that these giant racks were less than stable.

My Koopa Troop was ok still just dangling. (He’s just so used to hanging high!) I pumped his tires quickly and used one of the in-transition portas before the line got too long. There were a decent number of jons, but I was glad I prioritized an early poop because the lines did get bad. (I say this like I had a choice: there was no way my about-to-race-coffee-filled belly was gonna let me get through set-up without a bathroom visit.)

We did get some good news while setting up though. A little before 6am the pre-race hype playlist was interrupted to let everyone know the water temp had measured 75 degrees rendering the day wetsuit legal. The whole transition errupted into cheers. Most people prefer wetsuite legal swims – they add buoyancy which adds speed – but I’d never heard people applaud and whoop like this for a water temp announcement. People had been really on edge about the swim and getting their neoprene safety blankets assuaged at least some  of that angst. (Are you also suspicious about how the water dropped four degrees in 24 hours? You’re not alone – ask Justin about that some time.)

Also allaying swim fears was the lake itself that morning. I met up with Justin, Madi, and another teammate, Chris, to poop once more a little before 7am.  After a productive visit to a bank of portas outside the expo we walked down to the beach and heading toward the lake everyone remarked with relief at how much calmer it looked. No more whitecaps, just an unruffled slate of water. The buoys still looked like they marked way too much distance to me but at least we’d have our personal compressive floaties and we wouldn’t be facing Saturday’s swells.

Madi’s young whippersnapper wave didn’t start until 9:30 so she ditched us as we got closer to the swim start. Chris, Justin, and I tried to get into the lake for a warmup but we were too late. Instead we zipped each other up and I started to head to my wave’s line up. On my way to join the other ladies 35 through 39 (I’m really 34 but I’m not bitter) I ran into shockingly fast Rev3 teammate Sarah whose wetsuit zipper had popped off its tracks. The guys and I tried to rethread it to no avail. Being the inspiration she is she calmly thanked us for trying and ditched the suit, seeming at peace with having to face the lake sans safety neoprene. (She still beat me by like 15 minutes. And I don’t mean overall – I mean in the swim alone she was that much faster, even handicapped.)

The Swim

Having admitted defeat to Sarah’s wetsuit zipper I raced to join our wave which was entering the water to wait for our  7:40 start. I was relieved it was an in-water start. I’ve said it before and I’ll just keep saying it until it stops being true: that’s my preferred way to kick off a swim. I waded in and of course had a pee while the race announcer lavished praise on the athletes in my Age Group. He called several women out by name lauding them for things like winning Worlds titles and having stunningly fast bike splits in other National Championships. I looked around wondering which of these purple-capped women he was gushing about. I felt in awe of my company, wholly unworthy, and a little comical knowing I was about to be at the back of one helluva pack.

I musta really been feeling that pep talk because when the start went off I did something I don’t often do and tried to take the first couple hundred meters a little aggressively. I found some toes to follow most of the way to the first buoy and I was excited to find I wasn’t being left the way I’d fear/expected/accepted. Obviously the ringers were way out front but I was in the middle of the main pack for the first straightaway, and I was even able to stay focused on the form homework I’d been given by my coach at Swimbox.

I was so elated to be keeping pace with most of my sort-of contemporaries (I mean I’m only 34 sooo…no really, it’s fine) that I wasn’t overly upset to discover that the Lake’s calm appearance had been deceptive and in fact the waves were as bad as the previous day. They only got worse the further from shore we got too, and by the first turn – which was at about 700m according to my GPS – the swells were too unpleasant to ignore.

As I swung right around the turn buoy I paused and tried to find a sightline to the next one but it was difficult with the wall of water around me. I got a glimpse of some neon and pointed myself in that direction, now swimming east and across the waves. Maybe a minute into this new tenuous path I looked up to see a safety kayak speeding in from the north. Another volunteer was paddling toward him from the south. I paused to avoid their path and heard the first kayaker yell to the second, “Do you see ____?” I thought I heard him say “her” but it might have been “him” or “them.” Either way it was clear they were trying to find someone they’d seen in distress, and I instantly feared someone had gone under.

I was about ten feet from the frantic kayaks and spun around and put my head in to see if I could see anything or anyone. I could not and in the bad lake conditions I was afraid if I hung around I would just be another obstacle or get into trouble myself so I manueverd around the vessels, resighted as best as I could and kept moving.

Every few strokes I choked on lake water, unable to acclimate to the waves’ rhythm. I tried breathing bilaterally like I usually do but it wasn’t helpful; I tried breathing to the right thinking toward the beach made sense but still I got mouthfuls. Eventually I tried holding my breath as long as I could and basically pausing to breathe and sight.

I had to fully stop anyway every time I wanted to check my position in relation to the next buoy. While actively swimming each time I tried to look up I found I was in a trough and could only see 360 degrees of water, so I had to pause and get myself on top of a wave to have any real view. After an eternity that was really only around 400m I finally found the next buoy and hooked a right toward shore, thinking the worst was behind us, literally, and we should be swept quickly in by the current now.

The breathing did become easier on the way back in but with the tide actually running diagonal to the beach it wasn’t entirely helpful. I had to point myself to the left of the swim exit as the lake kept trying to wash me to the right. At least this time there was a large smoke stack in the perfect position behind the exit so I no longer had to stop and crest a wave to have something to sight off.

I did have to pee though so I slowed down, stopped kicking and squeezed. I really struggle to pee in the restrictive wetsuit though and hard as I tried I never got anything out. Eventually I gave up and swam in, hoping I’d bathroomed sufficiently earlier and that I would be fast enough on the bike and run to make it without having to find a porta. (I’m still working on being able to pee while on the bike and I fear peeing while running is seasons away.)

T1

Exiting the water I actually felt really good. I just about never enjoy or ace a swim, so I felt pretty ambivalent about this one. I figured it was hard because I’m just not a great swimmer so oh well and onto the next thing. Later in the post-race note-sharing I learned how wildly unhappy everyone had been. In this case I think my swim-bivalence was an actual benefit as I didn’t feel upset or stressed leaving the water. I hit the transition button on my Garmin and was unmoved by my dismal 40:49.

(Later my data – and everyone else’s – would show that the buoys that had looked so far to me were indeed way long, with the course measuring over 1800m rather than the olympic-distance prescribed 1500. My time still was not great but less embarassing at least!)

Running up the long sandy chute to transition I heard my name and saw my friend, Charleen cheering and taking pictures. Seeing a familiar face as soon as I was on dry land was an instant boost. A few steps later I heard Coach Dave yelling and Sara and I think Madi. I hussled toward my bike feeling loved and supported by my tri family which left me ready to ride. T1 was a pretty slow 5:13 but some of that was due to the long journey from lake to transition. Yes I dawdled a little but not too much.

The Bike

Approaching the mount line I heard volunteers yelling that the first runner was on his way out. I whipped around and saw a guy sprinting out of transition and into the run chute. Even though he’d started 40 minutes before my wave that’s pretty damn epic and I loved seeing this lead elite athlete out killing it. It made me want to get on my bike and go fast. (Granted my version of fast and his are two different things.)

Turning back to my task at hand which was 25 miles of cycling before I got to go running I found some space in the congested mount area and took extra care throwing my leg over my newly-raised seat.

This is embarrassing but after my crash I lowered the seat on Koopa Troop and never touched it again. (Wasn’t that four years ago now? It sure was!) It was I think forgivable for the first season after busting my head and my confidence but I’ve know my fit was a problem I should deal with for some time. A few weeks before Nationals I finally went to see DC bike fit staple, Smiley, to fix it – or start to at least. It’s a work in progress and I have homework from him to get my hips and hamstrings in order, but to start he lifted to the saddle back up and dropped the handlebars. It’s a more aero ride than it was but my own inelastic, all-torso-no-limb body has to adjust so we can get it more aggressive.

I’d ridden the new fit a few times but Nationals was my first chance to test it in a race. Heading out I felt strong and I was starting to enjoy the more aggressive position. The first few miles were along a nice stretch of mostly fast and flat road so I got to drop into position and feel out my legs. I passed plenty of people – thank my shitty swimming and not my great cycling for that – and was optimistic for the next couple dozen miles.

Not far out from transition there was a (literally) stinky stretch that reeked of sewage and I couldn’t help thinking of how Edgewater Beach where we just swam had been closed a few days before because of raw sewage runoff. At that point though it was too late to worry about it and I was mostly enjoying myself.

Mostly.

I knew from driving most of the bike course over the previous few days and from videos posted by local Sherpette, Kim, that there was some rough “pavement” coming up. That knowledge stewed in a corner of my brain keeping me from fully enjoying the moment.

Six through eight were the problem miles as they took us onto a pockmarked highway overpass which was winnowed down to a single lane thanks to construction. In particular I was hungup on the impending inescapable chasm where the overpass would spit us back onto the regular thoroughfare – traversing it in our Subaru and even Justin’s giant truck had been jarring, and I was afraid it would eat me up and spit me out – or at least loose my water bottles from their cages.

I sat up, slowed down, and let people I’d just passed, including Rev3 teammate Jen, retake me as we began climbing the single lane bridge. The hill slowed us all down some, and the ride was uncomfortable even as I weaved through and avoided the worst potholes. As we descended I unabashedly rode the brake but tried to stay loose as Josh had instructed when I saw the dreaded crater. Koopa handled it like a champ and I immediately felt a little silly for how bent out of shape (and slow) I’d become. With the road opening back up in front of me I dropped back into my aero bars and tried to repick off the people I’d let get ahead.

Miles 10 through 20 were a mostly pleasant out-and-back with little elevation lost or gained apart from a descent into the turnaround which was of course, immediately followed by an ascent up the same hill. This seemed a little mean of course designers, having to brake downhill for a u-turn, thereby losing momentum right before flipping around to climb back up the same hill. It wasn’t as tough as the down hill turnaround in NYC though and I didn’t lose too much steam on it.

Miles 10 through 20 were also very familiar as our Airbnb was at 14/16 and we’d been driving through this neighborhood for a couple days. It was weirdly comforting since we’d only been there since Thursday, but I perked up each time I rode by our little street.

Around the second pass, with about ten miles left to ride I was starting to get very uncomfortable in my shiny new fit. My neck and shoulders were excusably achy, but my hips were starting to seriously rebel. Josh had talked about a shorter crank but I hadn’t yet looked into it and now I understood why he’d recommended it. With the seat higher my already-chronically locked up thigh joints were absorbing so much more work and at a different angle than they were accustomed. I began alternating a few minutes in areo and a few minutes sitting up for relief. My time started to slip but by mile 20 I didn’t care. All I could think was, ‘how am I going to be able to run if I feel like this?’

We had to ride the same barely-paved overpass around mile 22 to get back to transition, at which point I just sat up and took my foot off the gas, opting to save my hips enough to still have a good run. Once again hordes of people passed me – including Jen again – and I just let it happen. Back on the better road I tried to hammer it a little bit the last two miles in but I couldn’t ride in aero anymore so my efforts fell pretty flat.

I felt a little deflated as I rolled into transition, but I was also very happy to have survived that hole-y mess of a highway. And thankfully once I’d unclipped my legs started to feel better quickly. After a promising start my bike was a kind of disappointing 1:18:08.

T2

Without the long run from the Lake T2 was a much shorter 2:08. I still had to hoof it through the massive transition, but I got Koop quickly racked, grabbed my number and got on my way, ready to make up some time.

The Run

The run course was two crowded 5k loops through Edgewater Park. Course designers had taken pains to wring as much distance as they could out of the Park so there were a lot of tight turns, and there was probably more elevation gained in those 6.2 miles than on the entire 25 mile bike course. I don’t know if the (very cute) surrounding neighborhood objected to our presence but it would have been a lot more pleasant to have run out onto the street there more to have a chance to find some speed – it was really difficult to maintain any sort of pace around so many tight corners.

Pulling back over the last third of the bike allowed me to hit the run hard from the first step. Usually it takes at least a few minutes to get my legs under me, but they were ready to go as soon as I crossed the run out sensors. I didn’t question it, I just  grabbed hold of something in the 7:20s and cruised until the hitting a sizable climb a half mile in.

I knew it was coming and I wasn’t intimidated, plus I saw and got an exuberant high-five from Coach Dave right as I arrived at the wall so I was feeling mentally and physically good. I let the ascent back me off my pace some but still took the opportunity to pass at least a dozen people. I was happy to find that at the top of the hill my heartrate came down to earth quickly and I was able to step back into the 7:20s. With that quarter mile of hill gumming things up a bit Mile 1 came in right at 7:40.

Mile two is where things started getting twisty and turny and also included another decent climb. I was feeling strong but I think all of the tight turns, and the bobbing and weaving I was doing to pass people slowed me down more than I realized and so I clocked a disappointing 7:51 heading into the last mile of lap one.

Aside from the convoluted course-contortions (runtortions) I was generally enjoying myself.  The two-lap design and the staggered start to the age group waves meant the course was populated by atheletes of all ages, men and women. I overtook a lot of them as I usually do on the run but I was also getting passed more than normal by all the younger guys and elite athletes out there. In most races I hate getting passed by anyone during the run but on that day with zero expectations about placing well and surrounded by the best of the best in the sport I actually got a kick out of it.

Around the end of the second mile a young man came sprinting up on my heels. While he was passing me his coach approached from I don’t know where and yelled at him that in the last lap he’d gone from 9th to 6th and he was 2:23 behind the leader in his age group. I was close enough to the speedy 20something to see him set his jaw and mentally commit to his last push (he was on his second lap). As he visibly stepped it up in front of me I yelled him on, inspired by his talent and his determination.

After that athletic soap opera played out right next to me I was ready to drop the hammer, but mile three continued to snake absurdly through the park hampering my efforts to get and stay fast. Fortunately it also included a serious descent – the sister of that first mile ascent. Through the serpentines I struggled to drop below 7:50s and 40s, but this downhill was mercifully straight and I let rip as much as I felt safe to finding my way into the low 6s for a bit and turning in a 7:30 overall.

If you consumed that last paragraph thinking lap two would probably start up that same big quarter mile climb you have, I dunno, not terrible reading comprehension? Not only that but we had to flip a very tight u-turn to get back onto the uphill.

I was 5k into the 10k run and apparently the day was starting to catch up to me. Where I’d felt so strong bounding up this same ascent just a few minutes before now I felt like the climb was having its way with me. My pace dropped off considerably more than it had the first time around and my heart did not recover as quickly. But I was more than halfway through and I forced myself back into the 7:20s once the road flattened back out, ultimately holding for a 7:42 on that fourth mile.

Maybe I shouldn’t have forced it so much though, because mile five was a struggle. The sharp corners, hitting that second (fourth) hill, and understaffed aid stations where I kept missing my attempts to get water or gatorade all came together to whoop my ass into the 8s. I was aghast when my Garmin buzzed and flashed an 8:04 for the penultimate mile of the day.

I was determined to redeem myself with mile six but the damn course refused to give me a straightaway to pick up the pace. Winding around the crazy hairpin turns and so many bodies clogging the narrow path I kept glancing at my wrist to see that I was still stuck in the low 8s and 7:50s. Finally with half a mile to go the road unfurled itself and I stepped on the gas toward that blessed descent. It was still distressingly hard to drop below 7:40 until I was headed back downhill, and even then I only dropped into the 6:40s.

I charged ahead and heard people calling my name but the crowd was huge and boisterous and I couldn’t tell who it was so I just put my head down and ran. As the way flattened back out toward the finish line it took everything to keep myself in the 7:20s and 30s, and then course designers threw an absurd dog agility course-looking up and down ramp at us 100m from the end.

I really wish I had a picture of this stupid thing. It was practically a stair case up, 10m across, and a stairase down. I felt like some sort of food-motivated spaniel navigating it. I stomped up the dang thing but couldn’t floor it on the way down as the pitch was too steep. As soon as I stepped off the cursed obstacle I sprinted with all I had left for an average of 7:21 over the last mile and change and a 46:10 7:41/mile average on the run overall.

Post-Race

I collected my medal and a mercifully cold wet towel – not as good as the giant Rev3 ones but still welcome – and wandered away from the finish chute. Perhaps I hadn’t given the course my all because my legs felt fine and I wasn’t my usual summer-race drenched self thanks to missing all those aid stations. Nevertheless I made gear check my first priority so I could find my phone and my friends.

Gearcheck had been a breeze before the race, and once I got myself on the correct line (after standing obliviously in the food queue for an embarrassingly long time) reclaiming my things after the race was easy too. I had a number of messages from people who had seen me finish – in person or on the tracker – including Erica who was long done having started in the second wave. She and I figured out where to meet and were also able to collect Josh as he finished.

Erica and I then made our way back to the food queue (I knew right where it was!) and got on a line that had grown from irritatingly to unacceptably long. It moved along ok but it still took at least 15 minutes to get to the calories. Once acquired the athlete food was great: tacos with plenty of omnivorous toppings and lots of fresh fruit.

Dishes adequately-laden we met up with Sara and Kim and Kim’s fabulous husband Larren who made sure each Sherpette had her own Linenkugel brew at some picnic tables near the lake. That became our spot for the next several hours as we hashed out what had become quite the ordeal for Scott, Deb, and the youngins.

While we athletes had thankfully made it out of the house before the roads around the Airbnb closed, Scott and Deb got stranded with the girls and a course-locked location. They tried every side street in the neighborhood to get out but kept running into roadblocks. Ultimately they all missed the whole race and it took them hours to get to the downtown parking area where USAT was running a shuttle to the race. Once they joined finally us we had to wait until all athletes were off the bike course for Scott and Josh to then return via shuttle to the cars, come back to the race, load the bikes, before we could head back to the house.

In better news, Madi had the race of her life coming in 23rd and earning a spot to represent the US in Switzerland at Worlds in 2019. And this was despite her youngster wave not starting until 9:30am when most of us had started between 7:15 and 7:45! We were all done long before she was so we got to track her impressive progress and celebrate her incredible day once she was done.

Eventually we all made it back to our big house where we decompressed and bathed. Scott and I took a field trip out to the school that raised 6th and 7th grade moi, which left me all sorts of nostalgic. Most of the Speed Sherpa convened at a brewery for dinner but Scott and I opted for a grownup fancier dinner; he’d been such a patient saint with the kids all weekend so I figured he might need some adult time. And some wine. (I needed wine anyway.)

After dinner we reconvened at the house for some more wine, dessert, Normatec, and Jurassic Park (the original, duh) which Madi had never seen! (And she still hasn’t because we talked through the whole thing.)

The next day we all parted ways for our drives and flights home. Scott and I stopped in the little town of Chagrin Falls where I’d grown up, had lunch at the same Chinese restaurant I loved as a kid, and even drove by my childhood house. It was very emotional for me and if I decided to race Nationals which will be in Cleveland again next year it will probably be because of this draw to my one-time home.

At some point in all of the post-race reverie I did look up my results, which were as laughable and humbling as I’d expected. I finished with a 2:52:27, 96th out of the 162 women age 35-39. (But maybe 1st out of those women who aren’t actually 35 yet? Ok fine, I’m a tad bitter.) I hadn’t had any misconceptions about my chances against the best triathletes in the country, but I guess I’d had a vague, unspoken goal to be in the top half which I was not. I’d also hoped my run would be in the top 25 to know that I was at least Worlds-qualifying material in one of the three disciplines. Instead my run was a disappointing 37th. I knew I had a lot of work to do to ever qualify, but I hadn’t realized just how much. For the next few years I think I’ll have to satisfy myself with just making it to Nationals. And if we keep going back as a group and staying in a big team house than I don’t think I’ll have too many complaints. (Maybe just next time we won’t stay on the bike course.)

We also learned in the days after the race that a 75 year old gentleman passed away during the swim. I don’t know if it was a heart attack as swim deaths usually are or if he drowned, but based on the timing of his wave and the scene I witnessed after the first turn on the lake, I think he must have been the one who went under right in front of me. Not that I need any reminders of how dangerous this sport can be, but I walk away from that weekend doubly grateful for my health and friends and family. Nothing – not even T1 – is promised.

I competed in the New York City Triathlon in 2015 and 2016 with childhood bestie (and camp) bunkie Diana but changed in up last year when instead I bridge-and-tunneled out to the New Jersey State Tri. That was a fun experiment but I’m a city girl and had to come back to swimbikerunning in NYC this summer.

And before you ask, yes we swim in the Hudson.

I made my glorious 2018 return to the best city in the world with my friend Tiff who completed her first tri in the Garden State last year. It was easy to convince Tiff to do NY instead of NJ since she lives (and now swimbikerun trains) there. In previous years registration has been by lottery but for the 2018 race, 2XU changed it to a first-come-first-served sign up. Fearing it could sell out Tiff and I threw our names and money down as soon as registration opened in the fall making NYC the first tri I committed to racing this season. (Bunkie Diana ditched us though with the absurd excuse of parenting a new baby. Priorities. Sheesh.)

Race day was July 1st, with the 4th falling awkwardly on the following Wednesday. As most Washingtonians – including Congress and my husband – planned their extended holuday recesses I decided to drive up to New York the Friday before the Sunday race. Figuring we could get packet pickup over with Friday night – before all the itty bitty sized race-branded cute clothes sell out! – I left a little before noon planning a four hour drive. Multiple pile-ups including a holiday traffic shitshow getting onto the New Jersey Turnpike later I pulled up in front of Tiff’s building at 6:15pm – too late to make the ending-at-7 Friday Expo. Grumpily I unloaded Yoshi and the parking gods smiled after the highway gods had been such dicks, gifting me a primo West Village  parking spot just a block from Tiff’s place. My spirits were revived with food and wine, ice cream and a walk along the highline, and most importantly, a good night’s sleep.

We got up early-ish on Saturday to bike up to the Expo in Midtown – a mostly uneventful few miles except for the three blocks in the theatre district where 8th Avenue’s bike lane disappears and you are left battling taxis and tourists for a little slice of road – seriously WTF city planners???

We arrived at the Midtown Hilton that serves as the race HQ and Expo and checked our bikes in time for the 10:30am safety session. The NYC Tri Expo bike-check is a stroke of genius I’ve appreciated every time I’ve done this race, and I’m happy to see it has survived as the race has changed hands from Panasonic to 2XU. It’s a massive weight off your shoulders as you try to navigate the city with bikes that are too nice to lock up just anywhere and as you attend a somewhat complicated packet pickup.

A lot of triathlons hold “mandatory” safety briefings but NYC is the only race I’ve been to where it really is required. You can’t pick up your numbers until you have a stamp that you’ve sat through their safety presentation. As I’ve said in previous race reports, I can’t blame them for the abudance of caution. Fairly or unfairly the Hudson River doesn’t have the best reputation for (voluntary) swimming, and putting on a massive race in New York City is a Herculean feat of planning. The safety sesh was about 15 minutes long, from which Tiff and I filed straight out to packet pickup. We then hit the Expo where, sure enough, all the cutest gear had already been picked clean of the XS sizes. (We each bought a pair of very adorable neon yellow NYC Tri-branded shorts only to discover their scandalous shearness later in the safety of Tiff’s apartment.)

We had planned to drop our bikes at transition on the Upper Westside – 72nd and Riverside –  immediately after packet pickup but we discovered bike drop off didn’t start until 2pm so we found some food a few blocks away at the Plaza Food Hall.  At around 1:15 with full and happy bellies we picked up our two-weeled steeds, affixed race numbers to their frames and our helmets, and then rode from the Hilton to transition where race organizers let us in a little before 2pm. All told we rode about five miles getting to the Expo and then to transition, which felt like a more-than-sufficient shake out for the next day.

We were advised to rack our bikes by our seats UNLESS that left the front wheel dangling off the ground – a frustratingly common occurence with my dear Koopa Troop. In the past I’ve left him racked by his seat despite the dangle but these were the tallest racks I’d ever experienced – here or elsewhere. (This is why Rev3’s ground racks are the best!!) Distressed by the ten-to-twelve inches of air between Koop’s front tire and the ground, I heeded organizers’ explicit instrcutions and turned him around to hang from his handlebars. (The next morning when I arrived I was further distressed to find that someone had turned him around to dangle insecurely from the unnecessarily high rack. I was displeased with the clear failure to communicate between all 2XU organizers and that they’d left my bike hanging so precariously for who know how long.)

Once racked, Tiff and I subwayed back to her West Village apartment where we cleaned ourselves up, and then took turns K-Taping each other’s various injuries. My chiropractor had taped my back earlier in the week to take pressure off the still-slooooooowly-healing pinched nerve in my shoulder blade/neck. I’d then taken pictures – or rather asked strangers at the pool to take pictures – so Tiff could replicate it. Then I returned the favor laying a grid over Tiff’s bottom-right rib where she’d fallen off her bike the week before.

Once we’d humpty-dumpty’ed each other back together again we each took a turn in my Normatec boots – obviously I will be bringing my squeeze squeeze sleeves to all race weekends going forward! – and then met her parents and sister for an early bird pasta-fest at her favorite pre-race restaurant, Gradisca.

After dinner we went home, turned on some SVU – Benson and Stabler have a calming race-eve effect for both of us – and laid out everything we would need so that we could just get up and go at the ungodly hour at which our alarms would sound. The NYC Tri is the earliest race I think I’ve ever done with a 5:50am start time. The bike course is a closed 13 mile stretch of the West Side Highway and shutting that heavily trafficked bad boy to cars must be a giant headache for race organizers. Plus the early start mitigates the inevitable surface of the sun race day conditions.

It won’t be a surprise that a race that takes place in the first couple weeks of July always manages to fall on one of the hottest days of the year. In 2015 the run course was cut short for heat after I’d already finished the whole thing, and in 2016 organizers cut the run before anyone was even in the water. This year in the days leading up to race day Tiff and I watched with horror as the predictions crept up to the triple digits. By the night before the Sunday forecast had officially passed 100 degrees.

As we tucked ourselves in a little after 9pm, trying to get in at least six hours of shuteye, race organizers posted a cryptic Instagram post to stay tuned for a “Race Alert” regarding the course. Naturally we, and everyone on social media, assumed they were about to announce that they were shortening the run due to the heat. I obsessively refreshed the app until 9:45 waiting for official word on what this unhelpful Alert actually meant before I finally gave up and put my phone away to sleep.

I fell asleep easily which was a relief, but I woke up repeatedly througout the night. At 10:30, the first of such unwelcome arrousals I checked Instagram again only to find race organziers had “updated” their previous “Alert” with a follow-up call  to just stay tuned in case they released more info. We’d gotten worked up for no reason and heading into race morning the course was unchanged.

Our alarms went off at 3:30 and we each got up with surprising ease – I’d been mostly up since my final wake-up at 2:47am. The temperature was already 81-feels-84 at 3:30 but still no word on course changes.

Race Morning

Tiff and I were ready to go pretty quickly. At 4:15am we headed downstairs with our bags and breakfasts – bagels her mom had been kind enough to bring us the night before! We easily hailed a cab outside her building – HUGE props to Tiffany for living on the West Side and making our lives so much easier in terms of logistics! – and asked the driver to get us as close to 72nd and Riverside as he could minding road closures.

As we rode uptown we watched people stream out of just-now-closing bars and clubs, still up – and in heels – from the night before. Moments like that I think back on how much I and my life, routine, and priorities have changed over the last 15 years. I used to be those still-up revelers, and I had some fun – fun that I would not take back for anything. (Except for my near miss with Panamanian prison – that I might take back.) But in that pre-dawn moment, speeding uptown with my transition bag at my feet and peanut butter bagel in my hand, all to exercise for (hopefully less-than) three hours I wouldn’t have traded places with the club kids for anything. (I imagine if asked the feeling would have been mutual.)

72nd St was already closed to cars so we ditched the cab at 71st and Riverside a little after 4:30am. From there we only had a five minute walk leaving us plenty of time to set up before the mostly-women’s yellow transition closed at 5:15. (The majority of male athletes were in the red transition area, slightly to the north of ours. Since the race was over 70% men though the transition areas weren’t quite split and ours was mostly women plus the pro men and some other divisions,)

Given the heat we had let air out of our tires the day before so refilling them was the first order of business. Race organizers and the on-site mechanics had provided pumps but the ladies in the yellow transition were also generous – duh, triathletes – so we were able to quickly borrow pumps and get our wheels back to working order. I visited the small bank of portas inside the transition area which meant a long line but it moved quickly enough and I had bathroomed just in time to for officials to kick us all out at 5:15. Then it was time for our long walk north.

The swim – again, yes, in the Hudson – is a point-too-point 1500m.  (For the uninitiated Americans out there, 1600m is a mile.) Plus you have to get past the men’s transition before even reaching the swim course, so all told, after setting up transition ladies have a long walk, just shy of a mile and a half to get to the start.

In the crowd the journey took Tiff and I about 25 minutes. As we walked I continued to nibble my peanut butter bagel and some pretzels, and I sipped at a gatorade trying to force down some calories despite the nerves and the heat suppressing my appetite. We moved slowly but it was hard not to notice how hot and humid the day already was, even as the sun had just come up. I tried to ignore the waves of anxiety about the temperature and heat index that passed over me like hot flashes; nothing I could do about the weather so I just had to go with it.

Once we reached the start area we went straight to the porta jons behind the gear check trucks. The potties were plentiful my tummy was very happy to be able to go twice before the race started. From there we dropped gear check bags with clean clothes and our flip flops – items we knew we’d crave if and when we finished this scorcher of a race.

By the time we’d used the portas and checked our gear it was time to wetsuit up and wish each other luck. The river was a decidedly-wetsuit legal 72.8 degrees – about 6 degrees cooler than it had been in my previous gos at this course. In 2015 I’d worn my long sleeve wetsuit in the 77 degree water and hated every second; in 2016 I’d gone wetsuit-free in the 76.5 degree water and been comfortable but of course I’d missed the speed and buoyancy of a wetsuit. This year I got to put my new sleeveless Zone3 suit to its first test and it was perfect in teh slightly-cooler river.

The Swim

The pro field went off at 5:50am and around 6:15 Tiff and I zipped each other into our wetsuits and hugged goodbye. She was in the first wave of women 30-34 which was the 13th wave of the morning. I was in the second round of women 35-39 – even though I am 34!! – or the 16th wave of the day.

The swim is conducted as a time trial start, with 15 athletes entering the water every 20 seconds. It’s an efficient way to get a huge field of competitors going safely and race organizers did a great job keeping everything moving along. I’m wasn’t paying attention to the exact time I entered the Hudson, but working backwards from the finish line it must have been around 6:35am. It seemed even earlier than that as I never felt like I was waiting around bored; the whole pre-race process and corral situation flowed well and it felt like I was in the river within a few minutes of zipping into my wetsuit.

The time trial start worked great and I as soon as I was in the water I felt like I had plenty of space to find my rhythm without any fisticuffs. I tried to take a path to the right towards the center of the river to get as much benefit from the current as I could. Between the fast and helpful tide and the wetsuit I felt buoyant and comfortable. I was afraid to work too hard, not wanting to set back my recovery from the pinched nerve in my back/shoulder that had hampered the preceding 6 weeks or training and racing. I just took it easy, went literally with the flow, and 21:54 I was reaching for the hands of volunteers who were helping athletes up a ramp onto a dock out of the river.

In any other olympic distance race 21:54 would have been unthinkably fast and exciting but for this course it was nothing special and I knew I had a lot of time to make up. Despite the hustle I knew was called for, I took a moment under the showers that line the swim exit; I’d learned in years past to give my face a good scrub to discpatch the socalled “Hudson Mustache.” I rubbed my face and brought my hands down to see the river grime I’d picked up in the swim. Objectively gross I guess but it really doesn’t bother me. Satisfied that I’d cleaned myself at least somewhat I got to running the half mile back to the yellow transition.

Along the way I assessed my bladder situation. Despite concerted efforts during the swim – including slowing down the last 500m to really focus – I’d failed to get myself to pee. In both my previous NYC Tri outings I had spent precious time peeing in T1 and I didn’t want to do it again this year. I felt like I had to go a little but not to bad, and figured that feeling would pass once I wasn’t focusing so hard on it. I made it back to T1, again took special care to wash the Hudson off my feet before putting my bike shoes on, and was in the saddle after 7:51 – inverse to the swim, an almost 8 minute T1 would be terrible in just about any other oly but here it was fine.

The Bike

The bike course starts heading back on the almost the same flat half mile we’d just run to T1 before hanging a hard right up a short steep hill onto the West Side Highway. Organizers remind athletes in the safety briefing and while racking the day before to leave bikes in a low gear to be ready to climb. Really you have a couple minutes of flat pavement to shift down so it’s not too imperative, and you don’t want a gear so low that you’re not moving on the flat section. It’s a crowded stretch so you can’t pick up much speed, but I set myself up to start in a medium gear and pick a few people off before hitting the hill to the main bike course.

My slow swimming means I do a lot of passing in the first few miles of the bike course, so I cut a path to the left and got ahead of as many people as I could even as we climbed. Once up the mean little ascent onto the Highway there’s a narrow stretch where the passing becomes difficult and things always get a little backed up. Ultimately it takes a mile or two to find enough space to buckle down and really ride.

And really on this course there’s never much room to just go. I don’t know that it was a USA Triathlon sanctioned race this year as they never asked for my USAT ID, but whether it was or not, there is basiclaly no way to avoid breaking drafting rules. You can’t sustain sufficient bike lengths between athletes even in good faith. You just have to ride as safely and respectfully as you can and despite the crowding I felt happy and given that tri-people are the best there were lots of shouts of encouragement as I passed people and vice versa.

Maybe this is because one great benefit of having our transition comprised of mostly women is that you end up surrounded by women on the bike.  It was so collegial and people called when they were passing and while there were some seriously strong athletes out there no one was unpleasantly aggressive. Except for the guy who cut me off around mile 22 to get a good shot from the photographer stationed there, and the guy who very dangerously passed a woman a few lengths in front of me to her right during a sharp u-turn at mile 23.

That’s something this course has several of – no not noxious oblivious men aged 50 to 55 – sharp technical turns. There’s some technical turning getting on and off the West Side Highway. Then the course is an out an back which includes tight u-turns at each end- the second of which is around mile 23 immediately following which you have to get back up a hill you just descended; this means you don’t get to milk gravity on the descent because you have to slow considerably to take the turn safely, immediately after which you have to power up the same hill you just rode the break down, practically from a stand still. The crowding makes the bike handling that much more challenging.

In addition to the technical handling challenges, it’s a decently climby course: 1060 ft of elevation gain over 25-and-change miles. (25.4 per my garmin.) The big climbs aren’t too steep – they’re more long grinders at miles 5, 7, 13, and 17. The middle two are half a mile and a full mile long respectively, so they can be a slog. The out and back also means you can’t fully enjoy any downhills on the first half of the ride since you know you’ll have to get back up the damn things after the turnaround in the Bronx.

Hills and u-turns aside, it is a beautiful ride – and if you’re from NY it can be kind of surreal riding the West Side Highway free of cars. There are a few moments especially heading south back through upper Manhattan where the view across the Hudson is stunning. Every time I’ve done this race I’ve had moments where I just sit up and take it all in, and no matter the shape you’re in or how you’re race is going, you can’t help but feel immense gratitude for the experience. Despite the usual heat this year was no different.

This year wasn’t particularly different in terms of performance either, but that was a mostl conscious decision I made just a few minutes into the ride. I had made the brilliant decision to do NYC and Rev3 Williamsburg back-to-back weekends. Williamsburg was originally going to be a 70.3 but I downgraded to the olympic thanks to the pinched nerve that had thwarted so much training through May and June. Still two historically scorching race Sundays in a row had me a little worried and I wasn’t sure which to prioritize. I didn’t want to lay it all on the line in NYC on a 100 degree day and have nothing left in Virginia the next week. So after spending the first ten minutes in the saddle fighting the crowds for a enough space to pick up some speed I decided it was already not my day. I still worked my ass off but I made a concerted effort not to go all out – to hold back a little bit on the bike and run and hope it would pay off the following Sunday.

Opting for restraint made for a pretty pleasant bike ride! I never felt too put-out from exertion, but I still passed enough people to feel productive. Just before the halfway point turnaround I passed Tiff who was cruising along on her new road bike looking strong. I called out to as I rode by and remember just feeling happy and good. That feeling stuck around the whole bike course. I made sure to drain the gatorade in my aero bottle and it was early enough that the impending heat wasn’t too noticeable yet.

The final mile is similar to the first in its tight turns and crowding – it also winds a narrow path off the highway making passing basically impossible. I would venture that until the last mile I was putting up an average over 18mph, but after being forced down into several minutes around 15mph I couldn’t maintain it. I finished with an official bike time of 1:24:46. My garmin says the same but read the course as a little long so gave me an even 18mph average whereas official results are a little stingier with an average of 17.59mph. Either way I finished feeling ready to run after playing it cool in the saddle.

The Run

What a difference not having to run a half mile into transition makes! At 2:13 – not even a very good transition – T2 was more than five minutes faster than T1. Having held back on the bike I felt good going into the run. The day was starting to heat upominously and I still wanted to take it a little easy to leave some reserves for the following weekend, but I didn’t want to be too conservative. When I last raced NYC in 2016 I came in 29th in my division and this year I wanted to be top 20 so I still had to do some work to bring it home.

Immediately out of transition the run course winds up a short steep hill, similar to the on-ramp to the bike course. I was ready to go but didn’t want my heartrate to spike too hard on this climb. I took it easy jogging by a number of people walking it and once at the top and onto 72nd street heading east toward Central Park I started to step on the gas. This half mile or so along 72nd is one of my favorite parts of the NYC Triathlon: after swimming and biking mostly sans audience, suddenly there’s a swell of crowd support. And the entire street is shut down to traffic which means a many lanes-wide stretch of street all to ourselves.

Given the transition exit ascent and always needing a few minutes to find and evaluate my legs, mile 1 was a restrained 8:10 according to my Garmin, but the course was a touch short so my official time tracked me a little quicker. Being my strongest discipline and the uncompetitive placement I’m always in when I get out of the water, I have grown very accustomed to passing lots of people on the run, and I almost never get passed myself. (To be clear, this is due in much greater part to my abyssmal swimming than to my run prowess.) So I was not having it when I heard a woman gaining on me down 72nd. It took all of my will power to stay and let her overtake me, prioritizing my overall 10k performance and stamina above my ego. I side-eyed her as she passed, my stomach seizing when I saw that she looked to be my age, but still I maintained my sustainable pace. Once she was in front of me I glanced down at her calf and was relieved to see “R” for relay, in place of her age group; she wasn’t my competition after all. I congratulated myself for staying the course while also regretting a bit my compulsive competitiveness.

In the Park we hooked a right-turn to head south. This was a change for 2018. Previously the course hooked left and north and included the sadistic and wonderful Harlem Hill. Organizers changed things up this year for the stated purpose of allowing athletes a more scenic skyline view towards Central Park South. I think it was really for safety given the historically sweltering conditions. Harlem Hill is a beast on a cool day when you haven’t already swam and biked 26 miles. Even without that bit of mountain climbing the course remained hilly because you just can’t avoid it in Central Park, and despite the heat I was happy to have some climbing – a run strength – to pick off a few more athletes on my way to the finish line.

In mile two I started to pick up the pace, feeling strong and still chasing a top twenty a finish. The second mile was also going to be the flattest fastest opportunity for speed so I wanted to take advantage. I dropped into the 7:30s and felt out a rhythm. I felt like I could have pushed into the 7:20s or 10s but thoughts of Williamsburg seven days away stopped me. Even in my restrained acceleration about halfway to mile three I approached someone familiar: my non-nemesis relay-runner from mile one (aka from like six minutes ago.) I was elated to be passing her back, despite not being in the same division – I just get that hung up on being passed in the run. It’s a sickness, I know. (And one I wish I could catch in the water.) She was running with a guy and as I passed them I heard him telling her to just maintain her breath and stay steady. Again I felt a surge of guilt over my competitive streak collide with my glee to have regained the physical – if not moral – highground.

Mile two clocked in at 7:37, which I was happy with and tried to maintain through mile three. Halfway to mile four though the course charts a quarter mile climb that forced my feet back into the 8s. Mile three’s final time slowed to 7:57 – barely clinging to a sub-8. While I recovered from that hill mile four flattened out and even trended downhill. I regained some speed but the day was really getting hot and this middle section of the run didn’t offer the shade protection of the first few miles. Not wanting to burn out with 2.2 miles (and Williamsburg) to go I contented myself with a 7:45 – holding back and trying to get control of my heartrate before mile five which would be almost entirely climbing – including the biggest hill of the run.

I felt satisfied that I’d already turned in a strong enough performance to ensure my 10k average would be sub-8 min miles so I let my pace slow as I hoofed it uphill. My fifth mile mirrored my first with an 8:10 average. I wasn’t too bothered by it as I felt like despite the rising mercury I’d set myself up for a strong final 1.2 miles. Around me people were fading fast in the sun but I had gas left in the tank. I had to keep climbing in those 8s the first quarter of this final mile but once I’d crested the top of the last big hill of the day I opened the speed back up. I enjoyed a half mile descent dipping back into the 7:30s and 40s, holding reserves to sprint the final .2.

Once the course flattened back out at the bottom the hill I had to fight to maintain a sub-8 average – the heat was definitely starting to take me down a peg or ten. It was 9am but already pushing 90, and that was without considering the heat index. In the last few minutes of the run I went from mostly-comfortable to mostly-agony and I was relieved when I passed the mile six marker and knew I was almost done. That last mile had dropped back into the 7s but barely and it was time to sprint home. I dug out what I had left ignoring my prior concerns for Williamsburg. I dropped lower into the 7s and then 6s and crossed the finish line all the way down at 5:44/mile – a pace I can sustain for maybe ten seconds.

But ten seconds was all I needed and I finished the run with an official time of 48:56 and an overall time of 2:45:39. In those last few miles I’d been doing the math and set myself a game-time goal to come in under 2:45 overall, but I just couldn’t (/wouldn’t) maintain enough speed uphill so I missed that mark by 40 seconds. I entertained a fleeting thought that I should have pushed just a tiny but harder but I shook that idea away feeling good that instead I’d race smart and left myself something to work with the following Sunday.

As I crossed the finish line feeling spent and close-to-overheated I looked up and saw a familiar face – my Rev3 teammate Joe! I hadn’t expected to see someone I knew in that exhausted moment and I was ecstatic to see him. I gave him a big sweaty hug and thanked him for being there. The surprise of a friend at the finish line added to my post-race high as I collected my medal and water and made my way out of the finish area. On my way out a volunteer was pouring ice water over athletes and I took him up on the offer – it felt great and I was drenched but on cloud 9 as I headed to gear check and to wait for Tiff.

Finishing toward the front of the pack means it’s fast and easy to collect your gear, which was good given how drenched I was. I got my bag, found space on a bench and quickly swapped out my waterlogged sneakers for flip flops. Then I just sat and took it all in, feeling great to be done and happy with my performance. I was in my Rev3 kit and two people sharing the bench with me commented on how much they love Rev3 races. Gushing about my favorite race org added to my post-race happies as I waited for Tiff.

She finished about 20 minutes later having performed fantastically on a hard course in difficult conditions for her second tri. She even beat me by literally one second in the swim – she’ll be beating me by many more seconds than that in no time. (Maybe as she quickly surpasses me she can impart some swim-wisdom…but I’m probably a lost cause.)

We met up with Tiff’s fam, perused the finishline festivities, watched the pros collect their prizes in awe of how fast they are, and happily changed into dry clothes. We stopped by the results truck where I discovered not only had I cracked the top 20 as I’d hoped, I’d in fact rounded out the top ten in my F35-39 age group and I was in the top five for the run. I was and am pretty ecstatic with tha result and feel like I’m closing in on the podium in these bigger races.

It’s a long schlep back to transition but there are shuttles from the Park back so we caught one of those – it was easy and quick. We loaded all our gear into backpacks and remounted our bikes for the 3ish mile ride back to her apartment. (Seriously, Tiff, please never leave the West side because it makes life so much easier for at least this one day of the year.)

We were home by 11:30 and then showered as fast as we could so we could brunch before going to see an absolutely insane one-woman play at 2pm. (I may have become a jock but I’m still a theatre nerd at heart.) It was an epically productive day and by the time we finally went to sleep – after sating ourselves on dumplings and bao and scallion pancakes (and wine) a mere 20 hours after our 3:30am wak-up – we felt we had really earned the rest. And Tiff and I agreed we will be back for NYC Tri 2019…who’s with us?! (Bunkie Diana??)

 

The last few years have felt like a blur of chasing down big goals. Big in terms of lofty and in terms of mileage. Ironman and Boston have sucked all the oxygen (and sleep and happy hours and healthy relationships – with humans and food) out of my schedule. On the heels of a second BQ at the Philly Marathon end of 2017, and with my new spot on the Rev3 Triathlon team – meaning easy access to all the great Rev3  races – I decided to make 2018 a year of shorter, faster goals.

It’d been a few years since I’d run 13.1 miles without first swimming 1.2 and biking 56, and I’d never had a half marathon goal race, so this was all new and exciting. I felt like I couldn’t help but PR as my personal best 13.1 time – 1:41:24, set at Rock n Roll DC in 2015 – didn’t feel representative at all of my abilities. I wanted to run a sub-1:40 and was excited to set my record straight on this distance. I was also excited to improve upon my swimbikerun half marathon abilities as I’ve never turned in a strong run leg in a 70.3 despite the run being unequivocally my strongest discipline. With all those Rev3 races scheduled for this summer I really wanted to fix this, so I had high hopes for Rock n Roll DC – my first of several half marathons planned for the spring.

Half marathon training was a lot of fun. Marathon training means two and three hour long runs focused on slower sustaining efforts. (Or Josh’s sick favorite: 90 minutes in the morning and 90 in the afternoon!) Ironman training means the same thing plus hours upon hours in the saddle. Compared with all the multi-hour long runs, 80 to 90 minutes per “long run” felt so much more approachable. Marathon/Ironman training eats up your whole weekend; half marathon training leaves you plenty of free time to reaquaint yourself with the people you neglected while pursuing longer distances.  Marathon/Ironman training is lots of slow, baseline fitness-building runs; half marathon training lets you open up the speed a little more. And half marathon training doesn’t turn you into the bottomless-bellied voracious eat-all-the things hangry monster that marathon/Ironman training does. All  told, it was a nice change of (literal and figurative) pace for the winter months.

Race day was Saturday March 10th – I love a Saturday race – so I carved out some time mid-day on Friday the 9th to metro out to the Expo at the Stadium Armory on the east side of DC. It’s an easy ride from my office and my schedule was flexible that day so I was able to go early and beat the crowds. I also thought I would beat the mad rush to buy all the cute things but no, evey adorable piece of race merch was sold out of my itty bitty human size by the time I got there. I was bummed because there was some seriously cool DC-centric swag and I love to rep my city.

I ran into tri-bestie Chris and one of his colleagues while there and we got to catch up a bit which was nice. I don’t get to see him as much when I’m not weighing him down on long Ironman-prep rides along the W&OD trail every summer Saturday.  After we bid adieu I sated my race-swag size disappointment with a haul of shotbloks and beans and got back to work.

Scott was out of town for his brother’s birthday, so it was just me and the pups Friday night. I took it easy and ordered pasta – and extra charcuterie for my spoiled hounds – from my recent race go-to Italian eatery, Alta Strada. (Highly recommend DC friends! Delicious and my tummy always feels full and happy to race the next morning!) Since I was alone dog-momming I was going to have to get up extra early the next morning, so I made every effort to get to bed at a reasonable hour. I still failed, but I did better than I usually do.

I woke up at 6 on Saturday to have plenty of time to take the dogs out and feed them before the start gun went off at 8:30am. It was a cold morning and I struggled over the options I’d lain out the night before. I had teammates who’d declared their intention to wear shorts but I run so cold in the winter that I was stuck between regular tights and fleece-lined for the mid-30s to low-40s morning. If it had been forecaset to stay in the 30s I may have opted for the fleece but ultimately I went with a regular full-length pair and my legs were happy with the choice all 13 miles. I layered a long sleeve over a tank for on-course options and topped it all off with a headband – I’ve got the coldest ears in the game – and an Mdot cap to keep the head-heat in.

Most crucially I stuffed my gear-check bag with tons of warm and dry options having learned the hard way at RockNRolls past that getting home from the finish area – also at the Stadium Armory – can be brutal. It’s a long walk to the train and a long train home. I packed leg warmers, a heavy long sleeve, a puffy Nike run jacket, and dry socks and gloves. I stretched the resolve of my plastic gear bag knowing I’d be glad later even if it seemed excessive now.

I called a Lyft a little before 7:30 which got me within a few blocks of the start area. I hoofed it the last few blocks there – stopping at a porta on the way – and was at gear check with my laden bag before 8. I made sure it was closed as tightly as a bag that full could be closed and dropped it off at the very last and farthest truck. (Alphabetical-by-last-name has been my nemesis since Kindergarten lunch lines.) I then hit the Mall for a five minute slow-run-warmup.

Feeling warmed and ready I made my way down to the start line. I was in the first corral which I appreciated mostly for the reprieve from the cold this placement offered. RnR is a crowded race – over 10,000 runners – so being further back can mean a long cold wait. Making my way into the corral I ran first into Rev3 teammate Caleigh and her pops – she and I are both new to the Rev3 team and she has quickly become one of my race besties. She was in a wave behind me so we hugged it out and parted. I then ran into tri-crush Ellen which has to be good luck – she’s one of the fastest and most supportive people I know so a pre-race pep talk from her is always a welcome addition to race morning.

Within five minutes of entering the corral our wave was realeased out into the streets of DC. As usual I didn’t have an exact number in my head (thanks, Josh) so I headed onto the course focused on RPE. I wanted to conserve through the first couple miles and figure out what I was working with that morning. Plus I hadn’t worked out the exact math of what sub-1:40 actually necessitated per mile so I had some mental long division to do.

The first few miles are always a willpower challenge as I am lucky to usually seed in the first or second wave based on overall time, but I almost always plod the first few miles more slowly than my corral counterparts. I focused on staying steady and checking in with my legs and heart while people rushed by me on all sides. Ellen was lost to me somewhere ahead within a few minutes but I held back and found a comfortable rhythm. The first mile clocked in at 7:26 which seemed a little fast for my first-half sensibilities.

For the next few miles I forced myself to slow a touch into  the 7:30s; having worked out the math I knew my sub-1:40 just required averages under 7:40 per mile and I didn’t want to combust early. Once I’d mentally run the numbers and sussed out my legs, I wasn’t worried about hitting that goal at all, and so miles two through five felt lowkey, each coming in between 7:31 and 7:36 per mile.

And then we hit mile six and began to wind uphill through Rock Creek Park. I can’t say that I’ve come to enjoy hills exactly, but I see them as an opportunity and I think I’m pretty good at them. The key is to not shy away from discomfort and to remind yourself that it is temporary, and most critically, to have faith in your fitness. So I wasn’t feeling intimidated by the 200 feet of quickly-accrued elevation gain. I’d run this course before and I knew I’d be uncomfortable but then I’d recover and it would be fine.

In years past I’ve seen people walk up this incline, but now that I’ve made my way to the first corral, that wasn’t happening. As everyone around me demostrated the same climb-confidence I was just humble-bragging about I found I was losing steam – too much steam. I expected a slowdown of course but not this much. Usually it’s a confidence boost to run by people here, but instead I found I was the one being passed. I shrugged it off thinking I’d recover quickly once I crested onto Calvert St and tried to reframe the experience as, ‘I get to learn and be pushed by these faster runners.’

I finally made it to the top after slowing to a distressing pace in the mid-9s and peaking an equally-distressing heartrate in the 180s. As the road flattened back out I waited for that big BPM to drop back down a bit so I could find those mid-7s again. But it just hovered high, and I held off accelerating for fear I’d burn out here at the halfway point if I pushed too hard. After a quarter mile or so my heart finally started slowing back to a manageable tempo but I stayed uncomfortable, and felt a little betrayed by my fitness and my climbing ethos to just trust that the pain would be temporary.

As I grumped my way through this 7th mile a man in very short and flouncy American flag shorts sped past me. It took my still hill-encumbered mind a second to realize I knew those little shorts and called after my Rev3 teammate Dave just before he sprinted out of earshot. He turned back and saw me slowed a bit so I could catch up for a moment. He asked how I was doing and I answered honestly that I wasn’t doing great. He shouted something cheerful and encouraging and I told him to hurry on. I watched him run ahead in his tiny shorts and continued to will my heartrate down so I could also pick up the pace.

Mile 7 clicked by in an upsetting 8:13 and suddenly that sub-1:40 didn’t seem like such a sure thing. Just after the 7 mile marker we hit an aid station and I saw another Rev3 teammate passing out water. I yelled to Jolene and she yelled and cheered me on and between her and Dave at least my morale began to pick up. I threw back some water and gatorade and felt a renewed determination to get my first half speed back. Fortunately that renewal coincided with a little downhill and I started to refind my cadence and pace.

I found my way back to 7:36 for mile 8 but I knew that wouldn’t cut it anymore if I wanted my goal. Which I did dammit. I knew mile 9 was mostly descent and I leaned into it. I probably shirked my commitment to high turnover a little too much as I sprinted downhill but I started to see the numbers I needed: 7:16 followed by a 7:08 for mile 10. I was uncomfortable for sure, but I also started to feel perversely great – maybe it was because I started passing the people who’d fared better through the Rock Creek climb.

The last few miles trend slightly uphill – in places the course charts a mean false flat that has you questioning your legs and your speed. People were starting to fade, but my conservative first half was paying off. I took perverse glee in running down anyone I could, but I also took pains to hold back just enough that I knew I could maintain pace the whole way home.

I averaged a 7:15 for that final 5k despite the climbing – including the uphill sprint to the finish line – and was pretty ecstatic to turn in a final time of 1:38:57.

Almost immediately I found Ellen who had finished 30 seconds before me but still had another few miles to run as she was Boston Marathon training. We hugged and then took pics with basically every finish line photog we saw. Making our way through the finish area she ran into friends and I found my short-shorts-clad teammate again. Ellen headed off to finish her morning of marathon training and Dave and I made our way to the gear trucks as thelingering winter thermostat was starting to set back in.

One of the many benefits to the first wave is shirt lines at the gear trucks as most of the competitors are still out on the course. Dave quickly got his warm gear from the “S” truck while I took my place on a strangely long line for “T-Z.”

As I waited, even wrapped in a space blanket my body temp dropped quickly and precipitously. I don’t know what happened with our truck, every other truck at this point had NO WAIT TIME and ours was a twenty minute line. My teeth were chattering painfully by the time I finally got my hands on that bag that I’d taken so much care to stuff with warm layers. Maybe the whole first wave was end-of-the-alphabet (Ellen and I are anecodotal proof of that, right?) but it was my only complaint about the race’s organization.

After re-robing in the many layers I’d pre-packed other Rev3 teammates appeared. It was my first race with this group of built-in support and camraderie and I thoroughly enjoyed their company as we made our roundabout ways through the finish festivities to the Metro. We stopped for pictures and porta-potties and boarded a train back toward downtown DC together.

I’d never had so many friends for the trip back from this or any race I don’t think. Many were stopping off at home or at hotels to bathe and get brunch together, while I needed to get home and take the pups out since Scott was out of town. I skipped the team bruch as anotehr friend and I were going to see Tiffany Haddish that night – awesome show, highly recommend! – and I opted to head into (if not out of) the show with sobriety.

As I walked home from the TH show I texted with Dave and considered trying to join the Rev3’ers revelry, and then I remembered that I’ve become a terrible lightweight and needed to put myself to bed since I was alone on dog-mom duty that weekend. But it felt great to have the option – I could tell I was beig welcomed in by a group of the absolute best race-houligans and between that feeling and the PR, RocknRoll DC left me pretty excited for race season 2018.