Suffering – It ain't pretty

Suffering has been something I've spent a lot of time thinking about this summer. It all started with a desperate email to Mindy and Mary, two of the fastest runners I know under the height of 5'3", where I begged for running advice. I was told that to become a more competitive runner, I needed to learn to suffer. I was familiar with this concept, but I'd thought that I was already suffering. When the student is ready, the teacher will present him/herself, and suddenly I started seeing evidence everywhere that faster runners were just willing to suffer more than I was.

Slowly it began to dawn on me that maybe, just maybe, I just wasn't working hard enough on the run. What solidified this was Anne's 15% pace increase overnight, just because Michelle told her to "run like she stole something". I'll be damned if I'd let Anne beat me just because she was willing to suffer more! So starting sometime late in the summer, I made the decision that if that's what it took, I was going to SUFFER on the run. I was going to suffer like the best of them.

Suddenly the meaning of speed work made sense. Suddenly I understood the value of different training paces for different distances. Suddenly it made sense why someone would bother to run a 5 or 10K. I attacked running with a new abandon (and maybe even a bit of enjoyment). And slowly I realized that a willingness to suffer isn't necessarily enough.

See, for me, lacing up my running shoes is already low-grade suffering. Okay, that's not true. I talk a lot about how much I hate running, but it's not like I'm skipping my running workouts. Clearly I get something out of it. What exactly that something is still eludes me, but I'll admit that I don't HATE to run. Still, I don't enjoy running. From the second I start, I can't wait for it to be over. Just the act of running is so much effort that I can suffer to a pretty high degree with very, very little extra effort without actually going much faster. Which is not to say I'm not trying. I've been diligently putting in the hard work (maybe too much of it). See my training log in the sidebar if you don't believe me!

And then there's my bike. I love riding my bike, but we all knew that. Recently I've been riding my bike across the city at rush hour to get to work rather than taking the train. It means dodging car doors, out-sprinting buses, darting between cars, playing chicken with pedestrians, shooting through red lights, and fish-tailing my bike when someone decides to pull over without signaling. Stressful? Maybe for some, but for me it's like a video game trying to get through tight spots and beat lights. (Hmmmm, someone should invent that game, perhaps with a frog trying to cross a busy road...) There are 65 traffic lights in my 11.5-mile commute, 63 of which lie in the 8 miles that go through Cambridge and Boston. This means a lot of clipping in and out, a lot of hairy bike handling, and most of all, a lot of accelerating. The other evening I was waiting at a light when this guy pulls up next to me with an all-carbon bike, matching kit, and a Tour de France ass. I sized him up, and decided he had to stay behind me. I clipped in, stood up, passed him, and then HAMMERED. I pedaled as hard as I could on my shitty commuter bike with my big, fat backpack on my back. I pedaled so hard that my bike was squeaking. I upshifted, but it was one of the gears that wasn't working, so I upshifted some more and pounded even harder on the pedals. My legs burned. I didn't look, but my guess is that I was riding roughly 24 mph. When I finally hit another red light about a mile later I was heaving for air, my heart was going like a jackhammer, sweat was pouring out of my helmet into my eyes and mouth. I hadn't even noticed how hard I was working while I was riding. Mr. Tour de France Ass was gone, which was a shame because I really wanted to race some more.

Hmmm... burning legs, pouring sweat, gasping for air, heart racing... All those things sound like suffering, don't they? But not on my bike. On my bike it's fun.

See? That's the difference. I love suffering on my bike, and love putting the hurt on someone else. I love dropping the hammer and saying, Catch me if you can! I always get to work sweaty and gross, because I can't help but ride my bike as hard as I can. In all the times I've ridden to work, only one person has ever passed me. One. Running? Not so much. When running I'm always looking for a way to make it easier, always hoping that everyone else will slow down so I can slow down too. When I get home on my bike, I'm sad to see my house. When hit the mailbox on the corner at the end of my run, it's like walking out of the office at the end of the day: relief!

BUT, in the race this weekend, I may have been disappointed with my result relative to other runners, but no one, but no one suffered as much as I did. Let's compare my finishing photos to Anne's:

Running like she stole something... and got away with it.

Grimace of pain and suffering

On the verge of tears perhaps?

Running like I stole something... and got shot in the back.

The kind of suffering that stays with you... (Please ignore the cold runner syndrome)

In other news, look at the fucking helmet I had to wear!

Feel free to sing the Super Mario Brothers theme song to yourself as you look at this picture.

I should correct one thing I said in my last post. It turns out I was 7th woman on the bike. I had only counted the women ahead of me because I found it inconceivable that someone could be a stronger cyclist (if only marginally -- less than a minute and a half separated me from the fastest female bike split of the day), and an even WEAKER runner than I am. But it must be so, because there were 3 women who rode better than I did and came in behind me. Maybe they're shitty swimmers. Then again, look at the mushroom sitting on top of my head! That thing must have been worth at least a minuet over 40K!

Just when you think you can't go any further...

This weekend I did an event that I was so excited for, that my enthusiasm might have even eclipsed ironman in my head. In my head is one thing, my mouth didn't tell too many people outside my head about this event, because, well, it was a bit nuts, or at least it sounds that way. Almost at the last minute I signed up to do the Saratoga 12/24, a 12- and 24-hour ultracycling event. If you've never heard of ultraendurace events like this, it's pretty simple: there's a course (in this case a 32-mile loop), and you just go round and round for the allotted time, and whoever goes the farthest wins. I may be crazy, but I'm not suicidal, so I signed up to do the 12-hour division.

Friday I left the office for the very last time and drove directly to Tetas's house where she and her friend Jocelyn (Joco) piled into my tiny little Corolla with their big backpacks and we all drove to Saratoga Springs, NY where Tetas and Joco went to school. We stayed in their friend Nichole's house which was conveniently (for them) only about 1/4 of a mile from the bars, and conveniently (for me) only about 20 minutes from the race site in Schuylerville. How do you pronounce Schuylerville? "Sky-ler-ville" of course.

In the race booklet there was mention of a 6:30 am meeting and bike check, so I was sure to be out of the house at 5:45 to leave plenty of time for me to get coffee, get to Schuylerville, and get ready before the meeting. I woke up, ate a ginormous bowl of Bear Naked granola (bringing breakfast to out-of-town races is a lesson I learned the hard way), and went to find some coffee. I had the bitchy lady in the GPS direct me to the nearest Starbucks, which was, of course, closed. I had to settle for gas station coffee, and as I was trying to get the apathetic 20-something attendant to get up off her seat atop the ice cream cooler and drag her ass the 20 feet to the register to ring me up, an older guy asked me if there was a bike race today. We were out in farm country, and you never can tell if you're talking to a hippie or a redneck in those parts. "Yeah, but it's not here, it's in Sch... Schleck... you know, that town that sounds nothing like how it's spelled," I said.
Now another older gentleman joined the conversation, "Beautiful riding country out here. I just rode here from Boston yesterday." Boston was about 200 miles from here; that's a 3-hour drive away.
"Is it very hilly out here?" I asked. The web site was relatively low-key and didn't offer a course profile. I guess they just figured we'd figure it out after the first loop.
As the world's laziest gas station attendant dragged her feet and rang me up with sloth-like speed the older men discussed the terrain. "This is some of the toughest cycling in the country. In the Rockies you have those long climbs where you're climbing for miles and miles, and you just get into a groove and keep going. Around here it's just relentless and rolling. You're going along and then suddenly there'll be a real short, steep climb. A bunch of those'll take it out of you faster than any longer climb in the Rockies," the Bostonian said. Uh oh. Today's course was described as "rolling".

The bitchy lady in the GPS directed me to the address given on the race web site and I rolled up around 6:15. This couldn't be right. This was just... a HOUSE. A block or two back I'd seen some people setting up some picnic tables on a church lawn, maybe that was them? I got out of the car and asked, but no, they didn't know anything about a bike race, they were setting up for a church yard sale. "I'm guessing by the way you're dressed that you mean a bicycle race," the woman said. "Because I know that a lot of motorcyclists come around here a lot... Are you sure you're in the right town? Are you looking for Skyelerville?"
"Ummmm... is Skyelerville spelled S-C-H-U-Y and then a whole bunch more letters that don't belong in a word that's pronounced like that?" I asked.
"Yep, you're in the right place," she said. Now I was running the risk of not only missing the 6:30 meeting, but what if I never found the race start at all?! I hate that bitch in the GPS machine. Why would she lie to me other than to be malicious?! I got back in the car and started driving around in a circle, waiting for a car with a bike on it to turn up. Schuylerville only ammounted to 2 roads about 4 blocks long each, so I figured that someone would turn up. Luckily, before I even finished my first loop, I saw a car with 3 bikes on the roof and I followed it to a bed and breakfast with a large tent in its side yard. I should have known that I wouldn't have to worry about a big meeting with a lot of hoopla, I was the third person to arrive, and the "meeting" consisted of giving my name and getting my t-shirt.

The guy with 3 bikes on top of his car, and a whole crew inside of it seemed like a real jerk and didn't seem very interested in talking, but I chatted to my heart's content with Jeff, a skinny little bike geek from DC who travels all around the country to events like this, and John, race director, volunteer, and ultracycling nerd extraordinaire as I nervously twiddled my thumbs before the start. Jeff was signed up for the 24-hour race and showed me the bedroll that he had set up in the back of his SUV. When I first heard of timed events like this, I thought that you had to just keep going and going until the time cutoff or until your legs fall off. I thought that if you stopped at any point, you got a DNF. I was surprised to hear the story of an ultrarunner who did a 24-hour event during which he stopped, took a shower, went to the movies with his sister, came back, ran some more, went home, took a nap, and came back in the morning to run in the 24-hours. There's no such thing as DNFing a timed event, just as long as you show up.

Much like ultrarunners, Jeff explained to me how much nicer ultracyclists are than regular century-and-shorter riders. He told me stories of how race leaders would slow and offer encouragement, food, and even the help of their support vehicles to mere mortals like him. And this whole time, there was John, race director extraordinare, who remembered everyone's name, remembered things I mentioned in my email about work, and comprised the one and only race volunteer for that first hour or so. In fact, the only person who was acting like a sourpuss was the guy with the 3 bikes on his car who turned up again after about half an hour wearing... (I couldn't make this up) ... an Mdot jersey!

I had spent all Thursday evening trekking all over creation tracking down my favorite flavors of Clif Shot blocks, Lära bars, and Mojo bars (Clif really should sponsor me, they're pretty much all I ever eat!), and some pretzels, then cutting them into bite-sized chunks, mixing them up, and putting them into zip lock bags. Once I got my bike put back together I went to put my drop bag together when I noticed that... MY FOOD WAS GONE!!! Jeff pointed out that there were tons of Hammer gels on the table, but I do not do gels. Gels make me retch. I couldn't imagine riding 12 hours on gels alone. I showered poor Jeff with about a million obscenities before I thought to check my front seat. There was my grocery bag full of snacks. "Sorry," I said sheepishly to Jeff.

Finally it was getting close to 8:00, and John, Race Director Extraordinaire told us to huddle up. He explained the rout and the course markings. There would be two checkpoints: the B&B, and a school at the 15-mile point that would be manned by his wife. There would also be a mobile home at the far checkpoint (provided by one of the racers) where we could use the bathroom. No drafting after the first 5 miles (no penalties were mentioned though, guess it's the honors system). We had to obey all New York traffic laws including coming to a full stop before making a right on red, yielding to cars, etc. Then he gave us all his personal cell phone number so we could call him and tell him our mileage at the end (again, the honors system), or in case we had any problems, or just wanted to chat. "Okay, well it's almost 8:00, so let's just start... how about here?" So we took our bikes out to the street and John told us "1, 2, 3 go!" or "ready, set, go" or something, and then some people rode away. Then a truck passed us and the rest of us rode away.

Photo from the actual course.

Lap 1 (0:00:00 saddle hours)

Aside from one steep and short climb at mile 2, the course was relatively flat. There were some rollers at the very beginning and end, leaving and entering Schuylerville, but for the most part, the course was flat. On the way out we rode through farmland (mostly corn fields with one farm around mile 6 that smelled like the poop of cows that were fed nothing but berries). I rode through the first checkpoint and called out my number and rolled on through the second half of the course which went alongside the Hudson River. It was crowded at first, but pretty soon I had no problem avoiding drafting.

There was an MS ride going on at the same time, and it was easy to spot who was an MS rider and who was a 12/24 rider. The MS riders were heavier individuals on hybrids and mountain bikes wearing regular t-shirts instead of jerseys and camelbaks in lieu of bottles, and the main challenge in passing them was not getting hit when they swerved to stare at you as you whooshed by. Still, they cheered us on, and we cheered them on. Well, except for the Mdot guy. He was on a mission.

Lap 1: 31.7 mi, 1:36:35 saddle time, 19.7 mph

Lap 2 (1:36:35 saddle hours)

My plan was to stop every lap and a half to refill water bottles, go to the bathroom, get food, etc., so I rolled through the B&B in Schuylerville, pulled a U-turn, and hit the lap button as I headed back out. I had my aero bottle as well as 2 bottles in the cages on my bike, so I had about a 60 oz of liquid on my bike as well as a snack bag in my bento box, and one more in my jersey pocket. I had my watch set to beep every 10 minutes, and I would eat 2 items every time it went off. This might have been excessive if I planned to stop for a meal at any point in the day, but I knew that my legs would stiffen up if I were off the bike for too long. And anyway, I had high expectations for myself in this race. The women's course record for this race was only 186.5 miles. I'd only ever ridden 115 miles in one day, but I thought that if I paced myself right that I could maybe break that. Maybe.

I knew that I couldn't take it out too hard or else I'd blow up and wouldn't be able to ride well after about 100 miles, but I couldn't ride like I was just out to see the sights or I wouldn't be able to keep up the average 17.25 mph that I would need to break the course record in roughly 11 hours' saddle time. I rolled over the 56-mile mark in roughly 2 hours and 51 minutes.

I stopped at the far checkpoint to refill my bottles and use the bathroom in the mobile home. Inside the mobile home looked so comfortable! If I had all the money in the world I would just travel around the country in a mobile home hopping out every day to explore a new place on my bike or run on new trails. But right now, I just had time to pee and rung back out to my bike. Kathy, wife of John, Race Director Extraordinaire was manning the checkpoint with their two children. All looked very bored and slightly sweltering in the sun. Off in the background a man was yelling at his "crew" (wife) for not being ready with a bottle of water when he rolled up. "Rule number 1 of ultracycling," muttered Long-Suffering Kathy, "NEVER abuse your crew. My god, it's only the second loop!" I thanked her and rode away. Rule number 2: ALWAYS be polite to volunteers.

Lap 2: 63.48 miles, 1:39:50, 19.1 mph

Lap 3 (3:16:25 saddle hours)

Man, it was getting pretty hot. There was no shade at all on the course, and the sun was getting really strong. Also, my feet had been killing me pretty much all day. This was a new pain, it felt like growing pains, or after your feet fall asleep and when they ache as the blood flows back into them. It radiated up to my butt, that was weird. When I checked in with another rider in a green Clif jersey, he was having the same problem. Maybe it was from the heat. I made an unscheduled stop at the far checkpoint to pour water on my head and exchange my warm Accelerade for some cold water that I put a Nuun tab into. I wasn't too worried about calories, but this kind of weather could be bad for electrolytes.

Some time in this loop I pulled my second bag of snacks out of my back pocket and found that the dipped Mojo bars I'd packed had melted all over the bag. Every time I stuck my fingers in to get a tasty morsel, they came out covered in that yogurt/white chocolate stuff. Gross. That was when eating started getting difficult.

When I rolled in to the B&B after the 3rd loop it was about 1:30 in the afternoon and it was boiling. I sat on the ground and put my feet up for a couple of minutes, groaning and trying to choke down an almond butter sandwich. The guy in the green Clif jersey was spraying his head with the hose to cool off, and Mdot guy was lying on the ground moaning while his crew stuck a camera in his face and offered him a cigarette. It was hot and all, but he was really hamming it up for the cameras. We hadn't even quite hit 100 miles yet, for goodness' sake! One rider said that his thermometer was measuring 92* in the sun (the whole course was in the sun), and we postulated that the heat and humidity was what was making our feet swollen, and thus sore. I knocked back as much water as I could, but figured that if it was going to be like this all day long, then I'd better cut my rest times short because I wasn't going to be riding like lightning.

Lap 3: 95.14 mi, 1:43:51, 18.3 mph

Lap 4 (5:00:16 saddle hours)

I had 3 bottles of Accelerade, but after about 30 minutes, they were so warm, it was revolting to try to swallow them. The heat was bearable on most of the course because there was a bit of a breeze, but whenever I got to a hill and slow down, the wind in my face would stop, and I would be stuck climbing in this still, hot, stagnant, saturated air. Every time I hit a hill I would get woozy. I started dreading my watch beeping every 10 minutes, because that meant I was going to have to eat. Eating sounded like a truly disgusting proposition. In the last 5 miles before the far checkpoint I started taking mouthfulls of Accelerade from my aero bottle and spitting them out the side of the bike to try to empty it out for some fresh, cool liquids rather than waste time undoing the velcro strap that I would need to undo to dump it out. Swallowing this gunk was not an option. So much for stopping every loop and a half. Now I was stopping at each aid station just to pour water on my head and put cool water into my bottles.

I hit 100 miles in roughly 5:17 of saddle time, and later hit 112 miles in about 5:56:30. Now that I'd broken the magical 6-hour mark, I didn't much care about speed anymore. I started sitting up high to try to relieve the pressure on my neck and shoulders. The headwind was picking up on the back half of the course, but I didn't give a flying fuck. It felt nice to sit up into the wind with my hands on my elbow pads and have it blow some of the sweat off my face. The idea of riding another 75 miles right now sounded pretty awful, but what sounded even worse was the idea of running a marathon. I thought about maybe just DNSing my ironman. I was hot and nauseous, but I was having a blast. I LOVE riding my bike, ESPECIALLY when I don't have to run afterwards.

Coming back towards Schuylerville there is a stretch of a few miles where you can see the riders ahead of you coming back out from the aid station. I saw 1 woman, then another, then a pack of about 4 of them. I didn't remember seeing so many women at the starting line. Where did they come from? How did they get ahead of me? Could I catch them? They were several miles ahead of me... Right now I just needed to relieve my feet for a few minutes and drink all the water I possibly could. My accelerade had gotten warm again, and I let myself get good and dehydrated, while still drinking enough to make my stomach mad at me. Those protein/carbohydrate drinks curdle in the sun, you know.

When I got back into the B&B checkpoint I lay on the ground in the shade for a little while before I went back to the business of drenching myself and trying to coax my stomach into taking more food. John, Race Director Extraordinaire encouraged all of us to take the Enduralyte pills on the food table, and I took his advice. Anything to get my foot to stop cramping and offset all this sweating. I'm a pretty lousy pill taker, though, and the pills got caught in my tonsils and made me gag. Now I REALLY felt like I was going to vomit.

"Hey John," I said. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but how many other women are doing the 12-hour?"
"I believe there's one more young lady, and I think she might be about half an hour ahead of you," he said. Those other ladies must have been on the MS ride.
That skinny bitch?! I thought. I'd been seeing her coming in as I was leaving the checkpoint for the past couple of loops. "Well, when she comes in next time, encourage her to take a nap for me!" I said.
John went and checked the standings. "No, she's about half an hour behind you," he corrected himself.
That was enough to get me off the grass and back on my bike for the next loop. As I left Schuylerville, I saw her coming back in. If she didn't stop for as long as I did, she could start to close the gap.

Lap 4: 126.85 mi, 1:49:51, 17.3 mph

Lap 5 (6:50:08 saddle hours)

Okay, now I was really starting to feel ill. I complained out loud every time I had to eat and did my best to dump as much liquid down my throat as I could before it got warm. The air temperature just seemed to be warming up as the afternoon wore down. I knew that if I could just keep riding at a half-decent speed the course record was mine, but I wasn't sure if I was going to have to go off and puke into a corn field before I got there. This loop was the hardest physically that I did all day. I just kept checking my watch and dividing the distance into smaller and smaller chunks. I only had to do 1 more lap after this one to break the record. I could stop at each check point for liquids, which meant that I could stop at least 4 more times, and then I could let myself quit if I wanted to. Then I started dividing each leg of the loop into half-legs, and then dividing those legs into the flat parts and the hilly parts.

Coming back into town I saw Mdot guy's pace car yet again. I came up behind him on a hill and passed him on the way up. I didn't expect him to stay back for long, but Mdot guy never passed me again for the rest of the day. I hope his camera crew got him being passed by a girl on their little video. Too bad Mdot guy did the 24 hour division, so I don't have the official win on him.

Lap 5: 158.57 mi, 1:46:42, 17.8 mph

Lap 6 (8:36:51 saddle hours)

I tried to keep my break in the tent short, but I still sat around for a good 10 minutes trying to cool off and rally for another loop. I still had over 2 hours left, and I knew I had the record in the bag, so it was getting harder and harder to convince myself to push. I loosened my shoes, despite the chance of losing power from looser shoes. The focus was mostly on just keeping moving. I'd been bouncing bugs off my face all day long, but when a gnat flew right down my throat, I seriously thought it was going to make me puke. I chugged half a bottle of water and dug some crystalized ginger out of my bento box, and still had to do several minutes of deep breathing before I felt like I got my gag reflex under control.

At the far checkpoint there was a cyclist writhing around on the ground trying to stretch out his lower back, and a new volunteer had replaced Kathy at the table. The sun had finally gotten to Kathy too, and she'd had to go someplace cool for awhile, so her father was manning the aid station. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Terrible!" I said. "I'm nauseous, I'm sleepy, my head hurts, and my feet have been aching all day! Luckily I'll be done in an hour and a half, and I'll never have to get on my bike again for as long as I live."

Riding back, I was still about 10 miles short of the record when suddenly I felt like I was going to cry. I don't know why, it just got hard to breathe around the lump in my throat and my eyes started to well up. Chill the fuck out, Claire. I told myself. Just cowboy the fuck up! So I did. I rolled past 186.5 miles and shifted my mindset to getting as much distance between me and that record as possible. I set my sights on 200 miles.

I got into the B&B at a little past 7:15 and hopped off my bike to run to the bathroom and refill my bottles for the last time. I'd thought of popping a squat in a corn field, but the corn stalks looked pretty dense, and I kept picturing some awful children attacking me Children of the Corn style. I went into the bathroom, and just as I was walking up to the door an elderly B&B customer came at the bathroom from the other direction. We had a stare down. He looked me up and down and decided he'd rather go in ahead of me than behind me, and scooted in front of me. I lost about two and a half minutes waiting for him to come back out. I needed those 2.5 minutes on my bike!

Lap 6: 190.31 mi, 1:52:37, 16.9 mph

Lap 7 (10:29:28 saddle hours)

There was a new volunteer checking us in (girlfriend of another rider) and out and she asked me if I wanted to just wait here for the last half hour, or if I wanted to go back out. I said I'd go back out, although I might not make it more than 5 or 6 miles at this point. "Look at you!" she said. "You look so young, and healthy. You look so strong! You don't look tired at all."
"So nice of you to lie!" I said as I slowly coaxed my leg back over my bike.
"You should see yourself right now!" she said. "You look great!"
"I just saw myself in a mirror," I said. "I looked frightening!" But her enthusiasm was just enough to get me pushing again, and I rolled out of there pushing the pace as hard as I could.
"You could get the course record!" she called after me.
"I thought I already had it?!" I yelled over my shoulder. Shit, now I really had to push it. On the way out I passed Mdot guy coming in. I waved and gave him a half-smile. He actually smiled back (or maybe it was a grimace).

As I rode the first mile a wave of nausea hit me that was stronger than when the bug had flown down my throat. I took a couple of deep breaths, grabbed some ginger out of my bento box, and chomped it down. I was prepared to puke all over myself if need be. I tried to think about something else, until it finally passed.

I had just crested the hill when John, Race Director Extraordinaire pulled up beside me in his van. "I'm just going to ride behind you until it's time," he said. "I'll beep when it's time to stop."
"Okay," I breathed, and started booking it. I passed the 6 mile mark, and shortly thereafter he beeped. I stopped where I was, just went from about 23 mph to nothing and got off my bike. I walked my bike back to the car, and handed it to John.
"You broke the course record!" he said, and hugged me.
"I know!" I said. I thought for sure I'd cry at this point, but now I didn't feel like it.
"What was that last mile marker?" he asked. "6? I actually stopped you a minute early because there was no way you were going to get to the next mile. We round up to the next mile anyway. That means you got... 199 miles!" My garmin only registered 196.5, but I wasn't going to argue. Then we went back and picked up Emily, the skinny bitch, who was not a bitch at all, and was only a few miles behind me.

Lap 7: 196.57, 21:12, 17.7 mph

Total: 196.57 miles (or 199), 10:50:40 saddle hours (12 hours total), average speed 18.1 mph, roughly 3,000' elevation gain/drop.

Afterwards, John, Race Director Extraordianaire took Emily and me back to the B&B where we dropped off our bikes, and then (this is where he was REALLY amazing), he took us back to his house to shower and change. The whole affair was just so casual, and at the same time, John's dedication to the riders was really amazing. He handed me a trophy so big that I could bludgeon someone with it and invited me back to his house in the morning for a pancake breakfast and Long Suffering Kathy's world-famous quiche.

It doesn't show up that well, but at the bottom I put a quarter for scale.

As I drove back to Saratoga Springs I passed a cyclist going out for another loop. It was totally dark now, still humid as hell, and there were no streetlights. After dark all the cyclists were required to wear reflective vests, tail lights, and headlights that could be seen from 500' away. I felt like such a scrap only riding the 12 hours. I felt like I could have at least hit 350 if I could keep going. I wanted to honk and yell something encouraging as I passed, but I figured that would probably scare the shit out of him, so I just drove on.

Back in Saratoga Springs I ate all the pizza I could fit in my mouth and then went back to the house bone tired. "Oh, man, we were just about to play some music," said one of the housemates. I thought he meant on a CD player, not that the band was going to be practicing.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm exhausted, and I have ear plugs."
So the band started practicing at 1:00 and played till 3:00. I did not sleep. I got an hour or two of sleep before people started yelling outside my door. It was the kind of yelling of drunk people trying to work their way through a problem. I covered my head with a pillow, but still didn't get back to sleep until after 5:00. It turned out to be one of those epic nights full of fights and tears and emergency rooms, and more fights, and more drama, and the end of friendships, but I didn't know that yet, and you don't care about all that. Anyway, I was glad that I didn't drink anymore and didn't have days like THAT anymore. The point is, when I got back to Schuylerville, there might have been riders that had gotten more sleep than I did.

As we ate breakfast I listened to the 24-hour riders recount their experiences from the night: like the redneck kids that hid in the dark with a hose, blasting riders every time they went by, the cold spot at the bottom of the hill, and how the headwind next to the river just got stronger and stronger overnight. All our lungs were bothering us, and someone looked up the ozone levels for the day before and found out that they'd been at a dangerous level (between orange and red, not quite to purple). The winner (a guy who'd done RAAM this year) had crammed in 450 miles in the 24 hours, with another rider right on his heels! In the 12-hour division I came in second overall, with Emily in third overall. We both broke the women's course record (both masters and regular), and I felt bad that Emily didn't get the recognition that she deserved. I had only edged her out by 12 miles.

I couldn't stop thinking all weekend about how great this ultracycling thing was. I've always wanted to do RAAM someday, and Shane has gotten me looking into it more seriously for a nearer "someday" than I might do on my own, but I really didn't expect to like it THIS much! It's a sport made for a Claire: lots and lots of cycling for as long as you can, with no packs and no running afterwards. I wasn't even that sore by the 12th hour, and I could have kept going for much longer. The things that gave out first were my feet, my stomach, my back, and my mind. My legs could have kept going forever. I've got some non-cycling plans for this winter, but you can DEFINITELY expect to see me doing more of this ultracycling stuff in the future.

The Legend of the Gadfly

If you're looking for a post to leave a curtosy comment, please scroll down to my previous post. It's all pictures, and won't take up much of your time. For those of you who can't get enough of my suffering, read on my friends!

Alternate title for this post: Loon: as in, "You'd have to be a..."

Right when I got out of my car I saw Gadfly Thom chatting it up with some other running characters in the parking lot. I walked right up to him and said, "Peer pressure's a bitch, Thom!"
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Flat out, no hesitation. "No."
"Aw, you'll be fine."
"Thom, I did a half ironman yesterday." The way it came out it was like even I was surprised by it. Like, "My goodness, it's 6:00! How the time flies!" Saying it out loud did really bring home what a stupid idea this was.
"Oh, well then I guess you're not ready," Thom said, and laughed. "Well I'm glad I'll be ahead of you, because you're sure going to be mad at me!"

People have asked me why I call Thom "Gadfly Thom". It is because he emails me about once a week trying to convince me to do races that appeal to my I can't do that! Sign me up! nature, and routinely wind up kicking my ass. For evidence, read the race reports for Stu's 30K, Martha's Vineyard 20 miler, and the Cranmore Hill Climb, among others: all Thom's doing. So what the hell is a gadfly? Excuse the lesson in Greek Mythology. In traditional Greek style, I'll tell you the story in the form of a play:
Zeus: Man, that Io is one hot piece of ass.
Hera: What'choo looking at that slut for?! You are a pig! I hate that Io bitch.
Zeus: (to himself) I'll turn Io into a cow, so that way my old lady won't get all up in her grill and I can continue to hit that shit. Because I'm Greek, and I'm a god, and I'm a baller, so therefore bestiality is cool.
Hera: Where's that Io bitch that be all macking on my man?! There she is! In the cow.
Io: La de da de da... I'm a cow. Oh my god! What's that fly. God that's annoying. OW! Did it just sting me?! I'll walk over here to get away from it.
Hera: Haha! My horsefly plan is working!
Io: Ow... I'll walk over here... Ow! I'll walk over here... Ow!... (and on and on, until Io finds herself in China, in Africa, in wherever. For the rest of her bovine life Io wanders all around the world, forced to never stop moving because of this annoying fly.)

River next to the starting area

So that's what a gadfly is. It's something that's always buzzing around, and that makes you keep moving to try to get away from it, making you wander into stuff you never would have done on purpose. Do you get why I call him Gadfly Thom now? Thom isn't annoying (although his writing skills could use some work), but the rest of it fits. Like I said, peer pressure's a bitch.

The starting area

So here I am standing outside a ski lodge in northern New Hampshire in July, the day after a half ironman, about to run 5 miles up a mountain. What the hell was I thinking? While last week we started in a thunderstorm, it was already almost 80º today and sunny at 8:30 in the morning. It was going to be a hot one. Normally I don't warm up for running races because I'm too lazy, but since the starting line was about a quarter mile away and downhill, I figured I might as well run down there at least. Oh. My. God! It was like running on two peg legs. I was running at an 11:00 mile pace, down hill and still felt like I was going to die. This was going to be messy. I took solace in the idea that we were just running UP this mountain and not back down. If it was anything like last week, 90% of the uphills would be un-runable anyway. I knew I could walk. Run? Forget it. But I could walk.

Thom and I chatted about people who had died at races as the runners sauntered in to the starting area. When someone started yelling something off near the front I started pushing my way to the back of the pack. There was about a mile of flat running at the beginning, and I did not need to be crushed by a stampede, thank you very much!

For someone who would have rather shot herself in the face than run uphill another inch yesterday, the uphill didn't feel so bad. We ran uphill out of the start, through the flat parking lot, and then up a grade that I was able to run (or most of it anyway). Then we came around a bend and started running DOWN! Well this was stupid! I did not want to give up a single foot of elevation that I had gained by running back downhill. I had signed up for this race to run UP, and up I would run (or walk, or crawl), but not down! Mile 1: 67' ascent, 49' descent.

Cross-cutting the mountain somewhere in the second mile

The second and third miles were equally disappointing in their ease. I would run up the trail until I was hyperventilating and my legs were burning, then I'd walk for a little while, then repeat. I wanted the steep uphills to come along already so I could relax and just walk to my heart's content without feeling bad. Then every once in awhile we would come around a bend and walk the flat way across the mountain, zig-zagging up the trails. Why wouldn't they just let me walk, dammit! I passed a few people on my run breaks, and talked to a guy who was here on vacation from Colorado. New Hampshire is pretty and everything, but who would think to come here if it weren't nearby?! I wasn't in a hurry, so I started taking pictures any time I found a nice view, or whenever I thought I would be able to get an impressive picture of the inclines. Just as I feared, most of the hills wound up looking flat on camera. As we got farther up the mountain the trails got increasingly steep, but none of the ass-blasting, hamstring-tearing ascents from last week. Mile 2: 394' ascent, 94' descent.
The sun was really strong, and there were several unshaded portions of the course. I was soaked through with sweat right from the beginning, and as I ran I could feel the sweat dripping off my elbows. I was able to run less and less of the course, and even when I ran I wasn't moving very quickly. And that's when the horseflies showed up. The damned things were the size of hummingbirds! There was one that I think started following me around mile 1.5, buzzing in my ear, smacking on my face, and trying to land in my hair. I must have looked like I had turrets swatting with my hand, flicking my ponytail around, and twitching my shoulder towards whatever ear they were buzzing in, swearing like a sailor and grunting at this damned gadfly. At one point I put my hand on my head and my finger landed squarely on a fly. It was almost the size of my whole fingertip, I thought I could feel its fly fuzz. Another time I felt a sting on my shoulder and put my hand there only to land on another fly. The slower I went, the more they seemed to hover around me. I started running more and more just to try to get rid of them. This, I thought, THIS is what Io felt like. No wonder that stupid cow just kept walking, I would run up ANYTHING to get away from these goddamned gadflies! Mile 3: 446' ascent, 44' descent.

I hoped this picture would show the steepness, but it's so hard to tell in a photo. If you have a really good imagination, maybe you could see that the camera is being held straight, so the slope is climbing up. Oh, never mind, just take my word for it!
Cross-cutting the mountain again... or maybe we ran up that. I'm not sure. Excuse my finger getting in the shot.

The third mile got steeper finally, and I could feel like I was really working when I was walking. The loose sand and rocks on the ground sometimes were so slippery that I would step up, only to have my foot slide back down to where I'd started. It was like being on an elliptical machine.

There had been this irritating old woman... (not old, let's just call her a "Masters Runner") just ahead of me for miles with a ponytail bobbing smack on top of her head like a blow hole, and a running stride that rather than moving her legs was more about elbows at 90º angles away from her body swinging out to nail anyone who got close to her. She insisted on "running" the whole thing. "Running" in the loosest sense of the word, because she was moving no faster than me, just swinging her elbows out higher as the terrain got steeper. Finally, in this mile, the trail go so steep that her arms could move her uphill no faster, and I finally got to WALK around her (wide, of course, to avoid getting a bony elbow to the nose).

One of the downhills. Again, please use your imagination and the trees along the trail to start to imagine the steepness. Or just take my word for it.

I remember hearing a woman behind me say, "We've still got about 2 miles left!" right before I came over a ridge... and there was the top of the Gondola! What the hell?! All the spectators and families were there along with the race officials. Was this the finish?! That was disappointing. But no, they were waving us through to the back side of the mountain. I took a cup of Heed, and gulped it down. When the taste registered, I spit what was left in my mouth right back out. GROSS! Does Heed make a flavor called "Cake Batter"?! It was absolutely disgusting. After some nasty Heed experiences the day before, the Cake Batter, or Vanilla Pudding, or Vomit after Ice Cream or whatever it was, turned me off Heed for good. Mile 4: 735' ascent; 50' descent.

Note the ascent far to the right that stays around 40+% grade for half a mile, or the long, slow 20-25% nearly constantly from miles 2-4... And the downhills weren't a cakewalk either, half miles or more at a constant 20-25% grade at times.

After throwing out my Heed cup the volunteers flung me off a short and neck-breaking descent. Right next to me two runners were coming in to the finish line in the other direction. They were neck-in-neck scrambling up this hill, elbows flying, and noses just inches from the ground in front of them. It was incredible to see them running up this mess, busting a gut at a 20-minute mile. If they leaned any farther forward I swear they would have been climbing on all fours and/or get dirt up their noses.

I followed the trail down, down, down, and then turned a corner and ran down some more. It was nice to be moving fast enough that the gadflies didn't bother me, but I did not like the way this downhill was going. Every foot that I ran down, I was going to have to climb again!

Note the guy in the white (in front of the guy in the blue) with his hands on his knees catching his breath.

Then I turned a corner and... Nuh-uh! You have GOT to be kidding me! There was the longest, steepest monster I have ever stared down, or, in this case: up. It looked pretty bad, but I knew it was even worse than all that when I saw some people crab walking (side-stepping) up the trail, and others stopped, bent over with their heads down and their hands on their knees trying to catch their breath. I started walking up it, and it was so steep that my calves (which admittedly are not that flexible) were not able to stretch enough to have my toe and heel on the ground at the same time. It was THAT steep. For AWHILE, roughly half a mile! I would love to see what the elites look like on this hill. Lore has it that last year only ONE man was able to run it without walking.

I never stopped moving, but when my Garmin stopped because it thought that I was standing still (I was going at about 45 min/mi) and wouldn't recognize this as "movement" I turned the autopause feature off. So while I was moving so slowly that my GPS didn't even register me as moving, I was still passing people. I passed people who were trudging up the hill at an impossibly slow pace, taking a micropause to collect themselves between steps. I passed people who were crab walking sideways up the hill, switching sides every couple of steps. And I passed people that just quit walking altogether and stared down the hill with a dazed expression on their sweaty faces until they caught their breath. I certainly did not stop moving, because the gadflies were back. I could not outrun them, but I could at least keep twitching and moving so they wouldn't land on me. I think I heard in summer camp one year that a fly throws up seven times every time it lands. That's why they're always rubbing their front legs together. I know it's probably not true, but I didn't want to take my chances. These flies looked like they could hold a lot of vomit.

The view from halfway up. Note the women to the far right crab walking. Please tell me you don't need to use your imagination to see how steep this one is!

Towards the top the trail started making S-curves, which did remarkably little to cut the steepness of the trail. Finally, FINALLY I got to the top and started running... down?! We had actually climbed past the summit, to the OTHER summit. Whatever that means. I ran down the hill, got to the bottom of the last steep scramble to the finish line, and started walking. I could deal with another 30 seconds on my race time if it meant not going into cardiac arrest in the last yard of this race. All the spectators and other runners were standing along the trail cheering me on and telling me to run. "GOD you people are impatient!" I yelled as I kept walking up the trail. Maybe I could have run, MAYBE, but it would have looked ugly anyway. As I crested the hill and ran the last couple of yards to the finish line the race officials beckoned me across in 1:25:38 for 5.15 miles. "Way to finish strong!" said the race official as he tore the tab off my number. Don't you condescend to me! I thought. I knew that walking the last 100 yards of a race was pretty low on the "strong" scale, but whatever. I knew that I was a badass, and that's all that mattered. Last section: 770' ascent, 484' descent (the race web site has the race listed as a 10K. It wasn't, so the mile/elevation breakdown isn't quite right).

At the top I saw one of Thom's millions of buddies. This one was a gregarious redneck-looking type with a handlebar mustache and no shirt. In the parking lot this morning he'd smelled like cigarettes. He asked me if I'd had a good time. "That was just silly!" I said. "I hate running."
"This is what I live for: mountain running. If I didn't trail run, then I wouldn't have a reason to get up in the morning. I'd probably die." This was the second time today he'd said he would kill himself if it weren't for some kind of running. "You know, that's why I think that religion was so much more popular back before running got big." The conversation was more tongue-in-cheek than all that, but we were joking about something deeper that we both understood. (When I ran into him again at the lodge I said, "What? You haven't killed yourself yet?!" That tells you A) how factitious the conversation was, and B) that you can never trust me to say the right thing.)
"You know, I feel like I could have gone my whole life without ever climbing this mountain and been okay," I said. "I just get my rocks off in other ways." I think how he feels running up a mountain is probably how I feel climbing up (and then back down) a mountain on my bike. "Still, I'm glad I did it."
At the same time as our race was going on, somewhere nearby there was an outdoor church service going on on the mountain. The churchgoers had paid $14 a head to take the gondola up to the summit. I still would have rather get up there closer to God our way, even though I hate running, I hate sitting still and listening to someone else more. Plus, I bet the churchfolk were getting eaten alive by gadflies.

I took the gondola back down with a family of 3. The daughter was only 14 and had run about 50 miles this week. I wish I were into this kind of thing when I was 14, then I might not hate running so much. I wish my family were into this stuff. I didn't have anyone to share the experience with other than the crazy, suicidal mountain runner, Gadfly Thom, and all the other gadflies. If you haven't figured it out yet, I guess I did have fun after all.

Oh, and the shirt was WICKED cool.

A Race Report all about PEE

(Hopefully more pictures and edits coming soon)

It's enough to make you sick: The Patriot Half Ironman, the day after the 4th of July in Freetown, MA. I was really excited for this race about this time last week. Then, on Friday (the day before the race) I went out with a couple of the folks from Masters to do a swim/bike brick-ish. We kept pushing our ride back later and later to try to wait out the rain. Finally we rode to Walden pond in the wet, but not the rain. Our luck didn't hold out though, and it started pouring while we were swimming and continued to pour the whole way home. It's not like it's the first time I'd ever been caught in the rain, nor did we have any disasters or mishaps, but it was a taste of the weather that was supposed to last throughout the weekend. It was enough to put me over the edge into a nasty funk about how it's rained every day for like 3 weeks, and how people are not supposed to live in such inhospitable climates. That night the famous Iron Bob Almighty rolled up from Connecticut, and he was so excited about his first race as an elite (the race offered an "open" division, where anyone could race for the prize purse, even without a pro card), that I got all wrapped up in his race and almost forgot that I was racing too.

We woke up with plenty of time to drive the hour down to the race, but first there was the matter of finding coffee at 5:00 in the morning. Then we missed the exit twice because we were too busy talking to pay attention to the road. By the time we finally rolled up to the race site, it was about 6:15, and the race was slated to start at 7:00. And, predictably, I had to pee. Bad. Like REAL bad. Since we'd taken Bobb-O's car down, my hands had been free to pour coffee down my throat to my heart's content, with the predictable result of half a liter of diuretics. By the way, this will be a theme in this post, so be prepared. I left Bobby spewing some hateful gangster rap along with his nano by himself in the parking lot and scooted towards where the nearest rest room was likely to be.

I sure had to pee, but I figured it would make more sense to check in and dump my stuff in transition before getting on the porta-potty line. But there was a line about 30 yards long for registration, and it was not moving very quickly. I was doing the peepee dance in line so badly, that one guy took pity on me and offered to watch my bike while I ran into the john. (Bobby had checked in the day before on his way up to my house, so I couldn't ask him to hold my stuff). I ran and got in the line that was about 5 people deep and started waiting, and waiting, and waiting. There were only 2 stalls, and I'm telling you, each person was in there for several MINUTES. Finally, when I'd been there for around 10 minutes, was about 4th back in line and no one had come out for 4 or 5 minutes I had to give up and go back to the registration line. Registration was not the most efficient process in the world. Then, I guess I was wearing my invisible cap because I couldn't get the attention of any of the body markers, then when I finally got to transition some girl's shit was in my spot. I couldn't wait around to ask her to move it, so I just plunked my front wheel right in the middle of her setup and ran off to stand in ANOTHER long line and wait for 500 people to poop before finally getting some relief. I've said it before and I'll say it again, taking a shit when there is a line behind you is extremely rude. Learn to think ahead and do it at home, or eat more fiber!

When I got back from the porta-potties the girl across the rack from me was back. "You need to put your bike facing the other way," she said.
"You're going to have to move your stuff," I told her.
"The bikes are supposed to alternate directions," she insisted.
"Right, I understand that, but your stuff is right under my slot, you can't take up all the space you want," I came back. The bitchiness was escalating without either of us actually acting on moving our stuff.
She went back into an explanation of how to hang my saddle from the rack going in the other direction, and I started moving it just to make my point that I wasn't stupid, I understand how to rack a bike, but she doesn't understand about sharing space with others. Of course she was totally, right, there WAS more space when I flipped my bike around. And she did move her stuff over a little bit just to prove that I was the bitch here, not her. Once the problem was solved, it really wasn't that big a deal at all.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm just a little bit frazzled. We got here late, and I really had to go to the bathroom when I dropped my stuff off."
"Don't worry, just keep breathing," she reminded me. Incredible as it may seem, I never actually really got a look at her face either during our altercation or afterwards as I was frantically scrambling to set up my stuff before they closed transition. As I made my way down towards the swim I felt more and more awful about being such a bitch, and tried to find her to apologize. But she looked like any generic triathlete girl, and now that everyone was in wetsuits and swim caps and goggles, there was no telling one girl from the next. Hell, Bobby was down there in the water somewhere getting ready to start, and I couldn't even tell HIM from any of the other 15 or so people around him.

I looked around me and didn't see Anne, a swimming buddy who was doing the Aquabike, but there was a strikingly beautiful girl standing next to me. She was tall, dark and slender with thick, wavy dark hair and striking features (well, I was stricken anyway). She was holding a cap in her hands that was the same color as mine. "Do you know when our wave starts?" I asked. I didn't give a rat's ass about when our wave started, I was too busy being jealous of that glossy wetsuit of hers that got to snuggle up into places I could only dream about. She had long, professionally manicured nails painted red, white, and blue (matching toes and fingers), the kind of fashion that doesn't bode well for the likes of me getting into her wetsuit, but it was still nice to talk to her. So I got to spend several minutes talking to the most beautiful girl at the race and her man friend (who I think really was a friend) before I started getting uncomfortable being around such a pretty girl and went to wish Anne luck.

The Swim: 1.2 miles

Minutes later they called us down to the water, and it occurred to me to get nervous about something other than talking to a pretty girl. We started in knee-deep water and I decided maybe I should pee again, but I couldn't bring myself to do it if I wasn't submerged. All the women under 40 were in my wave, which was a substantial number, and the start was pretty chaotic. I got one kick to the face and tangled in a bunch of arms and legs before I finally got some breathing room around the first buoy. It was a rectangular course with 3 buoys to a side (the corner ones being shared, of course), at it was nice having the intermediate buoys to sight off of.

I'm better than most about swimming in a straight line, but I was still surprised to see that I continued to pass people long after people of different speeds tend to sort themselves out. Either people were swimming way off course, or they were pooping out quickly. Either way, I couldn't find any good toes, and settled for watching another girl off to the inside who seemed to be swimming pretty straight and at my speed. I took the turn buoy wide and she cut in and I lost her for a minute. Aw hell no! I thought, and sped up to catch her. We were now getting into the butt end of the pack in front of us, and I wanted to keep a decent swimmer in my sights. When I found her again I hopped on her toes, but I kept hitting her feet. I didn't want to annoy her into doing something to make me lose my pace bunny, so I moved along next to her again. When we rounded the second turn buoy, this time I took it to the inside and she took it wide and started to drop back behind me.

I had been trying to relax enough to pee since the second buoy, and I decided that since my pace bunny was dropping back, this would be a good chance to hold back a bit myself and concentrate on more urgent needs. I really wanted to pee before I got on the bike and it would be much harder and grosser to do. When relaxing and thinking wet thoughts didn't work, I tried forcing it. No dice. I pee in my wetsuit all the time, what gives?!

All this was going through my head when we passed the last buoy. My pace bunny and I were just passing one of the stragglers from 2 waves in front of ours when suddenly she disappeared. I don't know if she took a second to look for a better way around this guy, if I picked up the pace, or what, but she was suddenly all gone. I think that probably The Monster that lives in open water ate her. As I swam in to the beach I could only see 2 or 3 yellow caps in front of me. I reasoned that they probably weren't both in my age group. I guess I'll never know what place I came in on the swim, because a lot of girls' swim times are missing (including mine), but as for the times that WERE registered on the swim, I was roughly third out of the water in my wave, putting me somewhere at 35th out of 343 overall (but who knows).

Swim time: 32:43 (1:31/100)
Swim rank: 1/12 AG (35th-ish OA, 10%)

T1

I wasn't feeling dizzy, which I was kind of surprised about and kind of sorry about. I would have liked the excuse to stagger into transition as slowly as I damned well pleased, but as it was I had to run (plodding is more like it) to my spot at the far side of transition. I remember having trouble finding my zipper string and then almost forgetting to take off my cap and goggles. When I got in there were tons of bikes still there, but I took particular satisfaction in the fact that the girl across the rack from me wasn't in yet.

I put on a sock and then realized that I hadn't taken my wetsuit off yet. That being done I put on my shoes and socks, plunked on my helmet and sunglasses (which I needed to protect my eyes from the rain that had started falling when we were in the water), and ran back across transition towards the "Bike Out" exit. Shortly before the mount line I decided that it would be better to put my Garmin (which was hanging from my handlebars) on my wrist now rather than try to manage it on the bike, so I took a second right there in the chute to do that, then got on my bike and went.

T1 time: (roughly) 2:55

The Bike, 58 miles

I love riding my bike. They should invent a sport where you just have to ride your bike and nothing else. And in groups so you don't have to worry about drafting penalties. I could ride my bike all day long. I knew that there weren't going to be a lot of women in front of me, and if there were that they would be the good ones, so I just settled down and rode however felt good. There was this one woman that I kept passing and who kept passing me back for the first 20 miles or so. The first few times we passed each other we didn't so much as grunt at each other. I was just as happy to sit in front of her or behind her, since we seemed to be of similar abilities, and powering past her in 15 seconds or less was way more energy than I was willing to expend. But every once in awhile I would gain enough momentum to get into the draft zone and have to either pass her or brake. The fourth or fifth time we met I rolled past her, and she had her game face on. I guess I was wearing my invisible cap again. I will not be ignored! "See you in a few," I said as I went by, meaning that I knew it wouldn't be long before she came back around. Her game face cracked into a smile and we congratulated each other on how well we were doing. Actually, looking at the results, it looks like she was probably my pace bunny on the swim as well. I guess The Monster had spit her back out after all. Now we were BFFs and ready to take on the rest of the field. We hopped back and forth for awhile longer before a stocky girl with flowers on her ass powered by and my buddy went off after her and I held back. It was too early to go chasing after people.

It looks more rolling than it is. The total elevation range is about 150 feet.

The course was rolling with relatively few turns and mostly over nice pavement. There was one stretch of about a mile that looked like it had been bombed out thrice over, but for the most part it wasn't bad. The roads were slick in the first half hour or so, but they started to dry out as time wore on. Some of the volunteers were pretty apathetic, but since there were 2 for every intersection (one to warn you a few hundred feet out, and one at the intersection itself to wave you through), all went pretty well. The only time I had to brake before the end was when a cop was waving me through an intersection and a big assed truck went in front of me instead. The only other time I was risking life and limb was on the bombed-out stretch of road.

There were 2 aid stations on the 28-mile loop, so I got to practice a bottle pick-up 4 times throughout the day. I'd never done one before! I'm not sure how much you're supposed to slow down at the aid stations, so I skipped that part. I seemed to do okay going through at about 18 mph. I would scream out what I wanted as I was coming close, aim like I was going to hit the volunteer that I wanted to give me liquids, and hold out my hand. And then, THWACK! I would have the bottle in my hand and just have to hold on tight to make sure I didn't drop it. I didn't. Not even once. I don't know how the volunteers' wrists felt at the end of the day, but I was pretty proud of myself. It was a good thing they were out there, too, because not only did I run out of blocks and gels (for the first time ever), but I also lost a bottle. I had just swallowed a Gu, and was trying to wash the disgusting mess down with some water. I held the bottle away from my mouth while I swallowed a mouthful, and that's when my knee hit the bottle, the bottle hit the handlebar and then hit the pavement. Immediately I thought of Iron Matron and her penalty for littering at Mooseman. I looked around and no one was around, so I just left the evidence in the road and kept pedaling.

Around the beginning of the first loop a guy in a black jersey starts hovering around. He was too fast to drop, but not fast enough to drop me. I got the distinct impression that he just wouldn't let me by because I was a chick. He rolled by me on the war zone road and said, "Zis is a deeficult rrroad, eezn't it?" in a French accent. Since he couldn't get rid of me, now he wanted someone to talk to.

I made a little bit of conversation, but he was slowing down, so I pulled ahead of him. Each time we passed we would exchange a little snippit of information before I would have to take the initiative to either power ahead or drop back. Finally I said to him, in the nicest and clearest way I possibly could, "I'm not strong enough to pass you, but I have to slow down to stay behind you. I really don't want a drafting penalty, so why don't you just go on ahead without me." He didn't get the hint, but eventually he did figure out that I wasn't really in the mood to talk. I think he finally wound up pulling ahead of me.

For the entire second bike loop and most of the first I had been trying to pee on my bike, but there simply weren't any descents long enough to relax on. I came close a couple of times, but just couldn't seem to get it out. I tried drinking all the liquids I could (another down side to losing that water bottle). I even tried pushing again, but it wasn't working. Six months ago I couldn't help but pee in my pants, and now that I wanted to, I couldn't make myself do it. Finally, about 5 miles from the end, I gave up.

On the first loop I didn't see too many women, and was only passed by my BFF and the stocky girl with flowers on her ass, but by the end of the first loop I started to pass some women. Two stand out for different reasons. First I came up behind a chick dressed all in pink. As I rode up behind her I saw that something was wrong with her pink outfit: not only was it pink, it was a DRESS! She was not only wearing one of those obnoxious skort bike short things, but had a matching top that ALSO came down low and flared out like a skirt. Words cannot express how obnoxious this outfit was. When I came up beside her I got a load of her bike: a nice time trial design, but the whole thing down to the handlebar tape was a powdery pink. I wanted to push her over as I went by, just because she looked so stupid. The second chick of note was wearing nothing but a high-cut bathing suit. She had a really nice ass and looked like a serious triathlete, so I was proud to have passed her. About 10 miles from the end I finally caught up with my BFF again. I sat about 10 bike lengths behind her for a good long time, not wanting to waste any extra energy. Finally gravity favored me for a few minutes and rolled up along beside her on a hill.
"I don't..." gasp "...have enough..." gasp "...to pass you..." gasp "but I just wanted..." gasp "to say hi!" I said.
"Oh THERE you are!" she said. She looked happy to see me. We chatted for a bit longer than we probably should have, and when it became clear that she wasn't going to pull back ahead, I pushed ahead of her. I fully expected to see her at any second, but she never came around again. In fact, that happened a lot at the end of the ride. I would sprint past a girl expecting her to be right on my tail and pass me back in a minute or two, but then I would never see her again. I would look over my shoulder for them, but they were gone. The only girl who was unaccounted for was the fat girl with the flowers on her ass, and perhaps people who started ahead of me or in different waves. But if they didn't physically pass me, I didn't much care about where they were.

At the bike turn-off there were about 50 people standing around cheering. I looked closely at all of them, but no one was doing anything but clapping. I didn't see an obvious break in the crowd either where I should pull off, so I just kept riding past a chick in orange with a whistle staring off at the road behind me. I realized too late that that was the turnoff. I must have been wearing my invisible cap again. "THANKS A LOT, GUYS!" I yelled as I pulled the wrong way around an island and a spectator held up the string of flags marking the bike turn-off so I could ride under it rather than turning around completely.
"Yeah, she's not paying any attention," the kindly observer said as I rode under the flags. For reasons that will be important later, let's estimate that I lost 31 seconds for this stupid-assed volunteer's mistake.

Bike time: 2:45:57 (21 mph)
Bike rank: 1/12 AG, 3rd of all women, (52nd OA, 15%)

T2

Thankfully, I didn't lose any places from my little detour, and executed a graceless but successful shoeless dismount and traipsed the long way across transition again to get my stuff. I was sad the bike was over. I just wanted to keep riding and riding forever. I'd probably ridden a little harder than I should have and I knew I would pay for it on the run. I hate running. I should have done the aquabike. All this was going through my head as I put on my running shoes, grabbed my visor and bottle, and plodded back over the mats. I couldn't remember which way my bike was SUPPOSED to be facing, because the girl across the rack was still out there, so I just hung it up by my brakes and figured that she could deal with it. My friend Frenchie gave me an energetic salutation as he passed me on the way out. Now, of all times, he was going to leave me?! I would need a friend so badly now!

T2 time: 1:28
T2 rank: 3/12

The Run, 13.1 miles

My legs felt wrecked, but I seemed to be running pretty well. My first three mile splits were in 8:25, 8:27, and 8:41. Contrary to popular belief, I DO do speed work, and nearly every running session I've done over the past 2 months has been some kind of speed work. It seemed to be paying off. I knew I was taking it out too fast, but I couldn't feel my legs, so how could I possibly be hurting myself? I never did feel like I got my running legs back at any point in the race. I felt like they went from being cement off the bike, to stone tired without having a single good step in between. I felt like I'd gained 40 lb since this morning.

I was conscious right from the very beginning that 13.1 miles was about 13 miles farther than I wanted to be running right now. Usually half marathons don't really register as "far", although I know they are, but in my head this one was enormous. It wasn't that my body quit working so much as my mind was finished. That's what happens when they put the most unpleasant part at the end. Running is stupid. As was to be expected people started passing me on the run at an alarming rate. There was nothing I could do about it, since I was running better than I ever had in my life, but it still sucked. Running is stupid. One chick passed me, and once I saw the number on her calf, I didn't care. My BFF bike buddy passed me and I cheered her on. They came on slow at first, only about 2 people passed me per minute for the first couple of miles (and barely any women), and then more and more of them started coming. I was not in the mood for this. Running is the stupidest sport in the whole, wide world.

Meanwhile, I still had to pee. It wasn't an emergency, but still. At one point I coughed, and then remembered that the coughing was what lead to all the problems when I was trying to run with the flu: every time I coughed, I would pee my pants a bit. I figured it was going to rain any minute, so I was going to get soaking wet anyway. So I coughed again, and I peed my pants. Yes, I wet myself and I'm admitting to it. I did it on purpose. And I'm not ashamed of it. And now I'm telling you about it. It stayed in my shorts for an uncomfortable half second or so before it didn't seep, but gushed down my leg. Then I coughed again and let a little more go. And a third time, until I felt like I'd dealt with the situation to my satisfaction. Now my shoes were soaked, but they say that wet feet leads to athlete's foot, but the ammonia in urine helps prevent it. And anyway, they were forecasting rain, so I was all set, right? It never rained.

A very, very short time after I wet myself ON PURPOSE like a badass (read: kindergartener), I heard footsteps over my shoulder and a chick came up behind me. Had she been checking out my calf this whole time as I had urine running down my leg?! She passed me without putting forth any effort whatsoever and I got a chance to check out her calf. It said "29". "Oh man!" I whined as she went by.
"I know, I'm sorry," she said over her shoulder. "No one's happy to see me!" What did that mean?! Are there other women in the 25-29 age group right behind us?!

Around mile 4, I started noticing that there were a LOT of uphills on this course. In fact, it seemed like we were ALWAYS going uphill. (I would show you a profile, but I messed up the buttons on my garmin and it won't come out.) I was slowing down. My watch was set to beep when I was going slower than 9:05 per mile, and it was yelling at me almost constantly. More and more people were passing me (although more slowly), and more and more of them were women. I wanted to scream, "I'm SICK and fucking TIRED of being passed! Why don't you all slow the fuck down and run WITH me! I'm a nice person!" I didn't pass a single person on that run. Not one. There was one guy who I got close to who looked like hell, but even he got away. Running is stupid.

Around mile 5 I started walking all the aid stations, drinking something at each one and eating either a banana or a pretzel. I knew I was pretty near the edge, but I was NOT going to eat a gel. That would certainly make me puke. I tried to eat the pretzels while running, but I kept inhaling crumbs. One photographer got a shot of me right when I was choking on a pretzel. "Aw, come on! Not while I'm eating!" I yelled, out loud. Compared to the bike volunteers, the run volunteers were great. There was an aid station at every mile, and there were 3 volunteers at each one handing out food and drinks. They were all over 60, and as it turns out, they were raising money for a food pantry. For each volunteer their organization got, the race would donate $25 to their soup kitchen. They managed to raise over $1,000! Bobby and I wound up sitting with a bunch of them at lunch after the race, and they were all extremely nice and very supportive and appreciative of what WE were doing. They made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Don't get me wrong. I was miserable and hurting, but I didn't want to walk. My body wasn't tired enough to do that, I just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. That's why all the hills and getting passed were waring me down so much: because the hills meant that it would take longer before I could quit running, and the passing was reminding me that those lucky shits are going to be finished sooner than I am! What I needed now was a nice, gradual 10-mile downhill. Actually, the miles were ticking away quickly, and before I knew it I was half way there. Pretty soon I was at 10 miles, but still, the last 3 miles was almost too much to bear in my mind. With each woman that passed me I thought, At least I have the swim and the bike. I hate this. I should have done the aquabike. Running is stupid. It's so frustrating to do well on the first 2 disciplines just to give up dozens of places at the end. I was actually in SECOND PLACE OVERALL of the women before we started running. Now look at me! Then, in the 12th mile we came around a bend and there in front of us was the meanest looking hill of the day. It was only about 6% grade and only lasted about .15 miles, but I almost cried when I saw it.

Finally I was at the turn-off and in the long stretch back to transition. I don't know how, but somehow it looked like I was going to break 2 hours! I don't know where I got it from, but somehow I managed to run that last quarter mile in under an 8:00 mile. As I was running down the path I yelled out to some spectators, "IS THERE ANYONE BEHIND ME?!"
"NO!"
"YESSSSSSSSSSS!" I said, and relaxed. I was going to do the best I could to enjoy the end of this motherfucking race! I just barely slid in under the 2:00 mark finishing in 1:59:41 for a total time of 5:22:44.

Run time: 1:59:41 (9:08/mi)
Run rank: 7/12 AG, (146th OA, 42%) That's right, I was first in my AG for the swim and the bike, and didn't even make it into the top HALF on the run!

Post Race

For the time being I didn't know what my finishing time was and I didn't care. They gave me a water bottle wrapped in a cool, wet towel (what a great idea!) and I started squirreling away all the food I could find in the finish. I let a volunteer take off my chip without telling her it was covered in pee, got my finisher's medal, and made my way back to transition. On the way I saw the results that had been posted so far, and saw that Bobby had finished in a blazing 5:03:36. He wouldn't be taking home a check, but he DID PR. I would have to wait till later to find out whether my time was good enough to finally realize my dream of beating ONE of Bobby's past times from ever in his life, or to see who had had a faster bike split (the only discipline we're comparable at). Lucky for you, I now know the answers and you don't have to wait like I did. My bike split was a heartbraking 41 seconds slower than his (see references to a truck nearly running me over, and a volunteer sending me off course above). A quick check of last year's results for the same race reveal that I was only 30 seconds short of his time last year. Given, last year the bike course was 2 miles longer and the run had an extra .5 miles, but still... 30 seconds!!! I'm so close I can taste it!

The fabulous chafing on my neck from the zipper on my new 2xU tri top.

I dumped whatever was not absolutely essential in transition and made my way back to the lake to "cool off my legs" (rinse off the pee). As I was walking up I saw the hot girl and her friend taking off their shoes to go in the lake as well. She was so stiff it took her almost a full minute to get her shoes off. "Wow, watching you do that makes me feel SO much better about how horrible I feel!" I said. Plus I got a great view of her butt. We talked about the race and they agreed that it was harder than it looked. "I did a much better time at Timberman last year, and that course is HILLY!" the man friend said. So there you go, the course was hard.

I ran into my BFF bike lady who was eating lunch at a picnic table. "Hey, congratulations!" I said. "How'd you do?!"
She looked at me perplexed. "Thanks... do I know you??"
I put on the biggest 'I'm not crazy' smile I could muster and said, "I'm the bike girl!" Luckily I DID have the right person, and she was happy to see me again having put me back in context. No restraining orders were filed.

I suspected I might have gotten second in my age group, and Bob wanted to hear how he would have stacked up against his own age group, so we heaped our plates high with the free lunch provided by the race and sat down to listen. I was only sort of listening. When he got to my age group, I tuned in. I wanted to get another look at this 29-year-old chick and find out how much time she had put into me on the run. "And first place in the women's 25-29 category: Claire Badass Mofo!" He even pronounced my last name right (which is not really Badass Mofo).
"WHAT?!" I think Bobby had to push me to remind me to get up.
"You look surprised," the race director said as I went up to accept my plaque.
"I AM!" I said. Then I said something incoherent about thinking another chick had passed me.
"GO CLAIRE!!!!!!!" Screamed BFF bike lady as I walked back to my seat. She won her age group too, and I screamed back for her.
Bobby also would have won his age group. In fact I would have won his age group, which was disappointing for him, because somehow he hasn't managed to pull a podium all season. Goodness knows how with the times he's posting, but he took a gamble on competing elite, and that was ballsy.
The chick from the bike rack finished 20 minutes behind me, in case you were wondering. The chick that won came in 23 minutes ahead of me (after having less than a 1-minute lead on the bike), and the next chick in my age group was only 2.5 minutes behind me.

Overall time: 5:22:44
Overall rank: 1/12 AG, 13th woman out of ??? (82nd OA, 24%)

I could go on and on about how happy I was, how sore I was, how I swore I was going to quit triathlon for good, but that doesn't really matter. I really was regretting signing up for that second mountain running race the next day though. Man, all I wanted to do was sleep! Coming up next: how THAT one turned out.