Salted
"There is no course preview for this swim today," announced the Ironman MC during the pre-race briefing a day before Superfrog 70.3 would begin. He continued to go on about how they were testing the water to check for contaminate levels left behind after a stiff rain had caused a significant amount of sewage run off from our southerly neighbors in Tijuana. I was still drying off some water behind my ears from my solitary dip in the surf about 15 minutes prior. The local surfers didn't seem to give much mind to the warning signs, and, well, when in Rome.
By the time the first leg of our half-ironman began, I was very glad to have previewed the course the day before, risk of sickness notwithstanding. The 10 foot swells threatened to turn back any aspiring swimmer lacking enough tenacity back to the shores of Imperial Beach.
We lined up single file before our rolling start into the sea. The miniature cannon sounded promptly at 0700 and as if following a script, the California sun peaked up and over the mountains opposite San Diego at our backs. As if negotiating the breakers wasn't enough, we'd also be sighting a shore that was completely light washed.
I was about 6th in line. The first half of the two loop swim course provided us plenty of space to find our own lines and plot our own courses through the waves and white water. Timing was important. Porpoising too early under the wave would leave you gasping on the other side. Too late, and you'd get swept back the way you came. Fortunately, the waves were breaking close to shore relative to the turning buoys. On the way back in from the first lap, I couldn't see any other swimmers around me. Had they pulled away that much already? Closer and closer to the shore, I could start to feel the waves lifting me up a little higher and higher each time they rolled in. I knew I'd have to keep an eye on the waves coming in behind so I could attempt to body surf them. While this was a fine idea while standing on the beach, it didn't quite pan out in practice. One hundred and fifty yards from shore, my body surfing attempt quickly turned into a frantic search for the top of the water. A huge, foamy wall of sea enveloped me, threw me to the sand, and rolled me around for good measure. My heart was already racing, my muscles filled with CO2, as I tried to paddle around for the surface. I did my best to stay calm and finally the last of the wave's wrath faded and I was able to pop back out, land my feet on the sand, slog my way up to shore to finish my first lap.
Where was everyone else? I crossed the timing mat before starting my jog across the shoreline before heading into round two. I heard something come across the speakers about "here is your second swimmer out of the water." So far so good, I guess. The second loop would not be as kind. Over 700 swimmers clouded the course, so on top of navigating through the waves, sighting the buoys correctly, trying not to swallow too much ocean sewage, maintaining some sort of good swim form, I had to keep an eye on the large number of racers who had taken to back stroking. My second loop would not prove to be as quick as the first. On my way out of the water, I found myself further down the shore than I should have so it made for an extra 30 or so meters of beach running to make it back to the timing mat.
We got our first real taste of soft sand running on our way into T1. At the time, my adrenaline was shutting off a number of other unpleasant sensations, but I'd find that trying to race across soft sand was an onerous task.
The four loop bike course was flat and fast. I was sixth out of the water and got to see my competition ahead of me on the long, straight Silver Strand Boulevard. As we chipped away at our 56 mile course, other competitors steadily spilled onto the roads, making the tight corners through Imperial Beach more challenging to take at high speeds. Back out on the Boulevard, living life in the fast lane, I pretty much stayed on the passing side for the duration.
It started getting warm. From the time I landed in San Diego two days before, I knew right away that I had already acclimatized to Fairbanks' cool, early fall weather. The week leading up to the race, I made it a point spend a good amount of time in saunas to try and combat the inevitable heat that would greet me on race day. I think the only reason I choose this race was because I knew a bunch of USMES teammates would be there. Indeed, it seemed like every 10 minutes, I passed someone else wearing the kit. I certainly didn't choose this race because I thought I was well training for the particular conditions. Maybe one of these days I learn to race more in Canada.
After many hours of race specific practice, I knew I would need to take in a large amount of nutrition on the bike. Before the ride was over, I went through seven energy gels and something like 70 ounces of fluid. I drank until my stomach felt like it was sloshing around, and then took another sip. I knew I would absolutely need it on the run. In conditions like these, it's very difficult to take in too much. My mouth was raw from the sugar and my thighs were coated in Gatorade as I made my way back to my transition area.
The first loop of the run felt hopeful. I'd gained on place on the bike and was sitting in 5th with two runners in my sights. In the first two miles, I knew I was gaining ground on them, while, in the mean time, my quads were reminding me how much work I'd already done that day, threatening to cramp up at any moment. The aid stations were very well manned today with water, nutrition and stuff. I knew I'd have to stop at each one if I wanted to sustain my run. At the start of the second of four laps, I overtook the guy in fourth and was bent on catching up to third.
Shadows form the intermittent palm trees were cast almost directly beneath them. Rays of heat, unabated by clouds, radiating from the streets, dominated the course. Each aid station, I'd take at least one cup of water to drink and one to spill on my head or chest. I was sweating buckets, electrolytes crusting over my eyebrows. My visor was the only thing keeping the sun's rays off my skin. Running on the wet sand near the shore ended up being a relief, where runners could at least enjoy light ocean spray and a little extra breeze. After playing wave dodge for about half a mile, the course mercilessly made the racers hop back onto the soft sand where all pacing became meaningless. When the sand finally relented to the street again, I felt like a completely different runner.
Last lap. The sidewalks were swollen with other competitors but I could still find that third place guy on the the out 'n back portions. He was matching me, stride for stride up to this point. Each time I completed a lap, I took stalk of how I felt. Each lap was about the same: everything hurt. At least it wasn't getting too much worse and my quads hadn't cramped so far. At one point, I came across an aid station handing out ice and I quickly threw some down the front of my unzipped tri suit. I knew my pace was slipping by now. With as much ease as I pasted the fourth place runner, I was almost sure I had that spot secure. Two miles lift. I kept reminding myself only two miles left. It's time to start my kick. Let's go.
As much as I tried to will myself to go faster, I got caught by the same guy I passed half an hour ago. And then another, and another. It was approaching 90 degrees. I'd taken in over 1300 calories throughout the race and spilled as much water on myself as I could on the run. I did everything I could to prevent total heat collapse but now, running on this wet sand in the final moments of my biggest race of the year, I couldn't respond to the late surges.
Four hours and twenty minutes after I plunged my face into the salty chaos, I drug my California Sun Dried™ body through the black and red IRONMAN banner for a finish time quick enough to land me a slot to next year's 70.3 World Championships in Chattanooga. For the first time in a while, I can finally say I've had a 70.3 performance I can be proud of, execution refined by untold hours in the aero bars, my favorite Patty Pool swim lane, and ridge line trails surrounding the Golden Heart of Alaska. Just like last year, I'll have the privilege of competing at the Army 10 Miler in Washington D.C. in two weeks time. I think it's safe to say I'll be very well rested going into that race.
By the time the first leg of our half-ironman began, I was very glad to have previewed the course the day before, risk of sickness notwithstanding. The 10 foot swells threatened to turn back any aspiring swimmer lacking enough tenacity back to the shores of Imperial Beach.
We lined up single file before our rolling start into the sea. The miniature cannon sounded promptly at 0700 and as if following a script, the California sun peaked up and over the mountains opposite San Diego at our backs. As if negotiating the breakers wasn't enough, we'd also be sighting a shore that was completely light washed.
I was about 6th in line. The first half of the two loop swim course provided us plenty of space to find our own lines and plot our own courses through the waves and white water. Timing was important. Porpoising too early under the wave would leave you gasping on the other side. Too late, and you'd get swept back the way you came. Fortunately, the waves were breaking close to shore relative to the turning buoys. On the way back in from the first lap, I couldn't see any other swimmers around me. Had they pulled away that much already? Closer and closer to the shore, I could start to feel the waves lifting me up a little higher and higher each time they rolled in. I knew I'd have to keep an eye on the waves coming in behind so I could attempt to body surf them. While this was a fine idea while standing on the beach, it didn't quite pan out in practice. One hundred and fifty yards from shore, my body surfing attempt quickly turned into a frantic search for the top of the water. A huge, foamy wall of sea enveloped me, threw me to the sand, and rolled me around for good measure. My heart was already racing, my muscles filled with CO2, as I tried to paddle around for the surface. I did my best to stay calm and finally the last of the wave's wrath faded and I was able to pop back out, land my feet on the sand, slog my way up to shore to finish my first lap.
Where was everyone else? I crossed the timing mat before starting my jog across the shoreline before heading into round two. I heard something come across the speakers about "here is your second swimmer out of the water." So far so good, I guess. The second loop would not be as kind. Over 700 swimmers clouded the course, so on top of navigating through the waves, sighting the buoys correctly, trying not to swallow too much ocean sewage, maintaining some sort of good swim form, I had to keep an eye on the large number of racers who had taken to back stroking. My second loop would not prove to be as quick as the first. On my way out of the water, I found myself further down the shore than I should have so it made for an extra 30 or so meters of beach running to make it back to the timing mat.
We got our first real taste of soft sand running on our way into T1. At the time, my adrenaline was shutting off a number of other unpleasant sensations, but I'd find that trying to race across soft sand was an onerous task.
The four loop bike course was flat and fast. I was sixth out of the water and got to see my competition ahead of me on the long, straight Silver Strand Boulevard. As we chipped away at our 56 mile course, other competitors steadily spilled onto the roads, making the tight corners through Imperial Beach more challenging to take at high speeds. Back out on the Boulevard, living life in the fast lane, I pretty much stayed on the passing side for the duration.
It started getting warm. From the time I landed in San Diego two days before, I knew right away that I had already acclimatized to Fairbanks' cool, early fall weather. The week leading up to the race, I made it a point spend a good amount of time in saunas to try and combat the inevitable heat that would greet me on race day. I think the only reason I choose this race was because I knew a bunch of USMES teammates would be there. Indeed, it seemed like every 10 minutes, I passed someone else wearing the kit. I certainly didn't choose this race because I thought I was well training for the particular conditions. Maybe one of these days I learn to race more in Canada.
After many hours of race specific practice, I knew I would need to take in a large amount of nutrition on the bike. Before the ride was over, I went through seven energy gels and something like 70 ounces of fluid. I drank until my stomach felt like it was sloshing around, and then took another sip. I knew I would absolutely need it on the run. In conditions like these, it's very difficult to take in too much. My mouth was raw from the sugar and my thighs were coated in Gatorade as I made my way back to my transition area.
The first loop of the run felt hopeful. I'd gained on place on the bike and was sitting in 5th with two runners in my sights. In the first two miles, I knew I was gaining ground on them, while, in the mean time, my quads were reminding me how much work I'd already done that day, threatening to cramp up at any moment. The aid stations were very well manned today with water, nutrition and stuff. I knew I'd have to stop at each one if I wanted to sustain my run. At the start of the second of four laps, I overtook the guy in fourth and was bent on catching up to third.
Shadows form the intermittent palm trees were cast almost directly beneath them. Rays of heat, unabated by clouds, radiating from the streets, dominated the course. Each aid station, I'd take at least one cup of water to drink and one to spill on my head or chest. I was sweating buckets, electrolytes crusting over my eyebrows. My visor was the only thing keeping the sun's rays off my skin. Running on the wet sand near the shore ended up being a relief, where runners could at least enjoy light ocean spray and a little extra breeze. After playing wave dodge for about half a mile, the course mercilessly made the racers hop back onto the soft sand where all pacing became meaningless. When the sand finally relented to the street again, I felt like a completely different runner.
Last lap. The sidewalks were swollen with other competitors but I could still find that third place guy on the the out 'n back portions. He was matching me, stride for stride up to this point. Each time I completed a lap, I took stalk of how I felt. Each lap was about the same: everything hurt. At least it wasn't getting too much worse and my quads hadn't cramped so far. At one point, I came across an aid station handing out ice and I quickly threw some down the front of my unzipped tri suit. I knew my pace was slipping by now. With as much ease as I pasted the fourth place runner, I was almost sure I had that spot secure. Two miles lift. I kept reminding myself only two miles left. It's time to start my kick. Let's go.
As much as I tried to will myself to go faster, I got caught by the same guy I passed half an hour ago. And then another, and another. It was approaching 90 degrees. I'd taken in over 1300 calories throughout the race and spilled as much water on myself as I could on the run. I did everything I could to prevent total heat collapse but now, running on this wet sand in the final moments of my biggest race of the year, I couldn't respond to the late surges.
Four hours and twenty minutes after I plunged my face into the salty chaos, I drug my California Sun Dried™ body through the black and red IRONMAN banner for a finish time quick enough to land me a slot to next year's 70.3 World Championships in Chattanooga. For the first time in a while, I can finally say I've had a 70.3 performance I can be proud of, execution refined by untold hours in the aero bars, my favorite Patty Pool swim lane, and ridge line trails surrounding the Golden Heart of Alaska. Just like last year, I'll have the privilege of competing at the Army 10 Miler in Washington D.C. in two weeks time. I think it's safe to say I'll be very well rested going into that race.
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