Dear friends,
As I sit in this blessedly soft chair, I wish to recount for you the reason I so enjoy being supine. There is not a muscle fiber in my legs that doesn't ache. A light touch to the belly of my thigh sends me into agony. Walking down stairs is like a descent into hell. And I could not be happier. This is exactly the agony I have been hoping to find. You see, this Sunday, October 3rd, I completed the Duke Liver Center Half-Ironman Triathlon.
This was the culmination of a year of training in the three sports of swimming, biking, and running. As you may know, I've long been a runner, and have only dabbled in other sports. This year I decided to see if I could get competitive in the other endurance sports. I've been swimming at the Y about twice a week, usually covering a mile in some combination of intervals. I've been biking about 3 times a week, gradually improving my speed and distance throughout the summer. Recently I've done a few bike races, from 40-62 miles long, and was surprised to find that I could race pretty close to the leaders. And of course I've been running as well, meeting the track club for speed work on Tuesdays, distance runs on Sundays, and lots of trail runs in between. Unfortunately, about 6 weeks before the triathlon, my running failed me. I began to develop a tendonitis in my hip, and had to avoid running. I ran only 8 times in the 5 weeks prior to the race. Ironically, this gave me extra time to beef up my biking and swimming, so running became my weakest sport.
Going into the race I tried to avoid competitive thoughts. This was going to be a true endurance event - just finishing should be satisfaction enough. But the racer in me kept thinking... The Ironman in Hawaii is won in about 9 hours. So to race half the distance in 4:30 would be considered world class. If I add up all my best times for each event (swim 1.2 miles in 35 minutes; bike 56 miles under 3 hours; and run 13 miles in 1:25) I could theoretically run a 5-hour race. But when you add a few minutes for the transitions, and consider the fatigue of doing them all together, a 5:30 becomes a lot more realistic. To avoid competitive pressure, I resigned myself to be happy with any time under 6 hours.
The triathlon was held at Lake Jordan, a huge recreational lake south of Chapel Hill. The weather started out perfect for racing - overcast and cool. There was a soft fog on the lake whose water, at 72 degrees, was warmer than the air. At sunrise 500 athletes converged on the boat launch where the start, finish, and transition zones were set up.
Among the crowd, I found my place in the rows of bike racks, and set out my gear. Triathlons are very gear intensive. For the swim there's a wet suit, goggles, cap, and speedo. For the bike, a bike with aerobars, water bottles, sunglasses, helmet, gloves, shorts, shoes, socks, jersey, and plenty of Goo. For the run, strip most of it off, but add running shoes. After this ritual, I got number 425 painted on my arms and legs, and did some light stretching. I should have taken a picture at this point. I felt much like a frat boy on initiation night - willingly walking towards a painful rite that thousands before me had survived, but which still had the possibility of annihilating me.
At the boat docks, the race started in 6 waves of 70-90 swimmers each. Watching the other swimmers start was quite intimidating. A line of giant orange buoys stretched out across the lake, seeming to reach the horizon. When each wave of swimmers paddled into the distance, they changed from individual human heads and arms into a collective chop on the water, like a pack of piranhas munching their way out to sea. I was in the fifth wave, with all the other 30-34 year old men. My demographic is apparently at high risk for participating in such events. When our turn came, we entered the water to nervously wait for the whistle. Treading water, we joked to each other. One man bequeathed his wet suit to whomever fished him from the bottom. Another gave us the name of his next of kin. Finally our whistle sounded, and we headed out to sea.
Despite being my newest sport, the swim was fairly comfortable. I wore a thick wet suit to add buoyancy and improve my speed. It did help my speed, but more importantly it gave me the comfort of floating when I paused from swimming. Normally I don't float in freshwater, even with a full breath of air. So if I stop to clean my goggles or sight a line to the next buoy, I struggle just to stay atop the water. The wet suit solved that problem, and took away the fear of being in open water. Unlike my first triathlon, I was able to concentrate on my stroke, keeping it efficient and restful. By the halfway point, I noticed a few green swim caps in the water - the wave that had started in front of me. On the way back to the docks I paused a few times to sight my target. Each time, the motion of treading water caused a sharp cramp in my calf. I was able to break the cramp by quickly stretching the muscle, but it made me worry about the race ahead of me.
I came out of the water after 43 minutes to a cheering crowd around the narrow corridor leading to the transition zone. My time was slower than I'd hoped, but more importantly, I felt good. The swim didn't seem to take much out of me. I ran barefoot to my bike, peeled off the wet suit, and struggled into my biking gear. With everything laid out properly beforehand, this took about 2 minutes.
The bike leg, at 56 miles and about 3 hours, is the longest leg of the triathlon. Most races are won or lost on the bike. But in addition to speed, the bike leg is all about energy management. You've got to eat and drink well on the bike - enough to make up for the swim and prepare for the run. So most racers try to drink several bottles of water and eat energy bars or Goos during the ride. This presents a technical challenge while racing at 20 mph. I saw several men who had pasted pieces of powerbars to their handlebars for easy access. Another had SIX water bottles on him - two on the bike and four in his shirt pockets. I use an aerobar-mounted water bottle, with a straw that sits only inches from my face for easy sipping. As soon as I got on the bike I ate a Nutri-grain to recover from the swim. Later I ate two Goos from my shirt pouch. I tried to eat a Power Bar (my favorite race food) but couldn't open the foil wrapper while biking, so I gave up. I drank a two bottles of water, and one of Gatorade. I never felt thirsty, so I assume this was enough.
The race course was out-and-back over rolling hills. The weather was still overcast and 75 degrees, which made for comfortable racing. In hilly Asheville, I seldom get to use the aerobars, but this was much easier terrain. I settled into a comfortable tuck on the aerobars, and began passing people. With 500 people racing, and most of them in the 4 waves ahead of me, there was a constant stream of bikers on the route. This gave me something to chase at every moment of the race. I felt strong, and my pace showed it. I passed people for the entire 56 miles, perhaps 200 people total. Nearing the end, I forced myself to relax a bit to conserve energy. I didn't ever feel fatigued, but I could tell my legs were getting a little stiff. When I reached the transition zone again, my time was 2:43 - almost 20 minutes faster than I expected. I'd averaged 21.4 mph, which is faster than I've ever raced in Asheville. Needless to say, I was feeling very good about the ride.
The second transition went much quicker than the first, taking only 1 minute. I slipped into my running shoes and exited the zone. As I started the run, I checked my watch: 3:29 total racing time so far. A 1:30 half marathon would bring me in under 5 hours. This gave me hope for a time I hadn't even dreamed of. A 5-hour race would be like a fantasy for me. And all I had to do was run 7-minute miles, which is my normal training pace. I hadn't been able to run much lately, but I felt sure that I could run a 1:30 half marathon, even in poor condition.
For the first three miles of the race I continued to feel strong. I ran a 6:30 pace, and passed people like they were standing still. (Come to think of it, some of them were standing still.) I was on my way to crushing this race. Mile three was entirely downhill, and ended by the lake. As I reached flat ground, the sun came out in full force, and I realized the temperature was above 80 degrees. For the first time, I felt the need for water. I grabbed a cup, took a sip, and poured most of the cup over my head. The cold water felt extremely refreshing, but reinforced the fact that I was starting to feel tired. Over the next few miles I gradually and inexorably slowed down. I tried to stick to the side of the road where there was more shade. Water stops were located every mile, and I made a pact with myself to drink at every one. That cold burst of water over my head became my only enjoyment. None of this, however, could mask the fact that the race was becoming harder and harder.
The race course was out-and-back, which was psychologically helpful. I set an intermediate goal of just reaching the 6.5 mile mark. By the time I did, my legs were so heavy that every step seemed a major effort. My time at the turnaround was 45 minutes - exactly half of the 1:30 I was hoping to run. But I knew nothing could make me run at that pace any more. I was slowing down, and I was running out of energy. I didn't feel winded, as I do when I run too fast. Rather, this was just the weight of all the miles behind me, piled on top of me and urging me to stop.
After the turnaround, my only goal was to keep running. I felt that if I stopped to walk, I'd never run again. Occasionally I'd look down at my legs to see the source of my pain, and a wave of dizziness would pass over me. This tactic seemed unwise, so instead I stayed focused on the back of whomever was in front of me. I felt myself plodding, not running. With every step, I wanted to quit. I continued to drink and splash myself with water. I ate a Goo. These things helped enough to keep me going, but my pace did not improve. At the ten mile mark, I passed the lake again, and began the mile-long uphill. It was only a gradual slope, but I could feel the added resistance to my efforts. The only people I passed were walking or standing still. Toward the end, I passed a tall young man in a jester's hat. His mood did not match his attire. Only the water-stop volunteers were enjoying this race. But I did not stop, and I did not walk.
As I finally neared the finish line, the cheering crowd reappeared. They yelled "good job" and I believed them. At the very finish, the announcer called out my number and name, making my accomplishment seem very personal. I have never been happier just to finish a race, so I raised my arms up and crossed the finish line like I was the winner. The euphoria of finishing eased my fatigue. I saw Lisa there, a friend from the Triathlon Club. She had finished 20 minutes earlier, and looked refreshed. She guided me to the nutrition tent where I loaded up with fruit, bagels and juice. I'd finished in 5:08:41. I was thrilled with my time, but also disappointed with my final run. I came close to achieving a dream time, but I also realized what an endurance event really is. I guess you could say I got what I was looking for.
Eventually, I headed down to the lake for a cold soak, where several racers were doing the same. I asked one man, who'd run this distance before, how long I'd be sore. He said I'd be just a little sore for two days. He lied. I could hardly walk for two days, and four days later I'm still sore. I went for a massage on Monday, which was probably a waste of money. He could hardly touch me without pain. Originally I thought this would be a good precursor to racing a marathon in two months. Now, however, I see this was foolish. I'm going to take off about two weeks from running. Diana and I will do the Hilly Hundred bike ride in Indiana on October 16th and 17th. After that, I'm definitely not doing any marathons soon. In fact, I'm looking forward to having some of the free time that training has taken up. But perhaps next spring ....
Love and Ben Gay,
Gary