Iron Matron has a shirt that says, "I TRAIN MORE THAN YOU". How cool is that?! (Reminder: My birthday's coming up!!!)
I've been doing a lot of thinking about volume in the past couple of months. If you haven't figured it out yet, I try to do everything in my power to be the baddest assest mofo out there. Since genetics did not grant me the vessel to do this in speed, I try to pull my bragging rights from volume. I try to find the longest, craziest workouts and races possible, so that I'm sure to find myself in the middle of some adventure. That way, once the adventure is finished, I have something to write about, and therefore brag about what about what a badass I am.
And just a quick word on bragging, which has been a theme this week. I am not against ALL kinds of bragging, just the undeserved kind. Unless you are a world class athlete, I believe that you should have to acknowledge that there are better people out there. This can easily be achieved with 2 little words: "for me". Compare these examples:
~"I did a 2 hour ride on Saturday, that's a really long ride." vs. "I did a 2 hour ride on Saturday, that's a really long ride for me." The automatic reaction to the former is, "No it's not, there are people who commute to work on their bikes and log more time than that." The automatic reaction to the second is the desired response, "Wow, that's great!"
~"My last marathon time was really fast. I ran it in 5:00." (Reaction: Even my grandma can run marathons. That's not even fast! What? Did you walk it?) vs. "My last marathon time was really good for me. I finished! It took me 5 hours, but I did it, and that's enough, for me." (Reaction: Congratulations! That's awesome!)
The important thing is that you acknowledge that there are people out there that are faster than you, stronger than you, and who train more than you, but your most important competitor is yourself. You never know if the guy you're bragging to about your 3rd place AG in a local olympic race is actually a Kona age group winner. In my experience, the people who really are good tend to keep mum about it.
Okay, that being said, let's go back to talking about volume. I know that pretty much all of the books out there tell you to take a conservative approach to volume, and believe me, I've read them all. "Avoid overtraining at all costs," they say. "The body only gets stronger when you rest," they say. "Train smart, not long," they say. Run better by not running? I thought. It sounds kooky, but hey, it's a hell of a lot better than running! So for awhile I trained by not running. I would run like 1 speed session a week, 1 long run every four weeks or so and "rest hard". I did the same with biking and swimming, never doing "junk miles/yards". And I was always injured. Every long workout kicked the shit out of me. And I never got any faster. So I ran less and less, because clearly I was training too much and my body needed to recover more. And I still never got any better, and I still hated running. It wasn't till I started ignoring everything they say: running 2 days in a row, doing more than one long run in a week, doing hard sessions EVERY time I ran that I started to actually like running. I said, "Listen, body. This is what we're doing, and you're going to cut the shit and deal with it because I say so, so just get used to it." And I got better. Well, better for me.
Here's the thing: Dave Scott said in his 1985 book that you don't have to do tons of volume to get fast. He says that he trained less at the end of his career than he did at the beginning, and he was faster. But here's the thing: Back in the early days Dave Scott, Scott Molina, Scott Tinley and all those fast Scott guys were practically doing an ironman a day. No wonder they stayed fast when they cut their training in half, they were still training 25-30 hours a week!
The other thing that all the books say is that you should never run more than 20 miles when training for a marathon. You should never run more than 2.5 hours when training for an ironman. Ever. Or else you'll die. "Running tears your body down too much," they say. "It takes you too long to recover," they say. "The rest of your training will suffer, and it's not worth the trade-off," they say. But what I can't reconcile is that ultrarunners run way longer than that all the time! Some Ultrarunners run 50K-50 miles on a weekly basis, and I don't see them languishing in puddles of their own blahs. Ultrarunners blow me away.
The other thing about ultrarunners is that they never quit. I mean, they do sometimes, but it takes a lot for an ultrarunner to throw in the towel. In ultramarathons, people wind up in med tents with IVs in their arms and gangrene in their limbs and then go back out and run some more! I read Donald's race report for the Miwok 50k this morning. Donald had some stomach issues during the race. Now, what happens to a triathlete when they have stomach issues? Let's look at last year's Ironman Championships. Farris Al Saltan had a stomach bug and didn't start the race. Norman Stadtler was puking all over his bike and pulled out after like 30 miles. Natascha Badmann had a crash, fucked up her bike and her shoulder and dropped out (here I guess she had no choice, but we needed a female example). However, Donald, our average age grouper ultrarunner had stomach issues, just gave himself the two-finger stomach treatment and kept right on running. This is not uncommon in ultra events from what I gather. It is quite common to feel awful at mile 60 of a 100 mile race, puke your brains out, maybe pop some blisters the size of hampsters, and feel fine 15 miles later. I'm not sure what "fine" feels like to an ultrarunner at mile 75, is a deeper misery than any of us triathletes will ever feel in our lives, I'm sure.
Which brings me to my next point: suffering. I'm going to assume that if you're reading this, you've run a marathon. If you haven't, summon from your memory everything you've ever heard about a marathon and pretend that you have. Remember when running 26 miles was impossible? How you weren't sure if you'd finish? It's only impossible until you get your mind around it. When you started running 3 miles seemed like a long way, then you gradually built up to 6 and 3 seemed like nothing. A half marathon seemed like a daunting run, until you started training for the marathon and discovered that the pain only BEGINS in a half marathon. In my experience, a 10k still hurts just as much now as it did in high school. A half marathon makes me just as tired at the end now as it did a few years ago. And the marathon, well miles 20-26.2 never seem to hurt any less. For me, anyway. But "long" is so arbitrary. A distance is only "long" until you get your mind around it. What's changed is that your mind (or my mind at any rate) has accepted that 'this is possible and this pain is just something that people deal with'.
Remember the story of the 4-minute mile? How doctors said that it was impossible and that someone would die from the exertion if they tried? And then Roger Banister did it, and suddenly a dozen guys did it in the same year. And the record keeps dropping (the record is now 3:43.13). People just drew a line in the sand at 4:00 and said, "The body can take no more." But your body doesn't know the difference between 4:01 and 3:58. It's the same with distance. Miles and kilometers are human inventions. 20 miles is just the breaking point because they say it is. Well who decided that? Your body doesn't know what 20 miles is, other than that it's the distance that you usually say, "okay, enough is enough. You can rest now, body. I won't make you work any harder." You only think 10 miles is long until you start training to run 26. You only think a marathon is long until you hear that people run 100 mile races, and longer. I guess, suddenly, when you know that someone else has done it you can tell yourself, 'It's not going to kill you, so just get over it.'
So if a marathon hurts THAT MUCH for everyone, what does 50 or 100 miles feel like?! Where do you go in your head in an event like that?
"Never run more than 20 miles in training"? Hogwash! You tell an ultrarunner that and they'll laugh in your face. They say you shouldn't run more than 2 marathons in a year, but then there are people like Dean Karnazes who run 50 consecutive marathons in 50 days. By all accounts he should have finished in splinters. Instead, he walked out of his hotel in New York the day after he finished and ran all the way to Missouri. It's like the old saying, "Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right."
I realize that not everyone WANTS to spend every spare minute of their life training. I know that for many, it really just doesn't sound like the most fun thing in the world to push yourself to new levels of suffering every time you get a free weekend. They just want to finish, be proud of themselves, and brag to their friends. That's cool. Thank goodness there are dozens of books out there that tell you exactly how to achieve those goals. But still, you find me the professional that's winning races on 10-12 hours of training a week, and I'll revise my theories.
Then there are people like me (and tens of thousands of others). I was listening to a podcast the other day from a couple of coaches who really nailed it. They said, "We want to get you in shape so that you can do really cool stuff with your fitness." It was the first time I'd heard my philosophy come out of someone else's mouth. It's on iTunes, you can listen to it yourself (although admittedly, it's pretty boring). It's the e-nation episode on epic weekends I believe.
So what am I talking about? I don't know, I kind of forgot. That happens to me a lot. One conclusion I could come to is to say "fuck you" to all the people who make me feel crazy about distance (or the people who make me feel like I'm being put on a pedistal for it – this is only good for me, there are others out there who are stronger and faster). Maybe I wanted to say that ultramarathoners are the baddest assest motherfuckers out there. They definitely put any ironman to shame with the heights of suffering they go to. But did I really need 2,000 words to say that?
Oh, no, wait, I remember what it was! The pool was closed this morning, and I found myself with nothing to do. I had some coffee, got all jittered up, and couldn't stop writing. THAT's what it was!
If you happen to know my secret (Cranky, Gretchen, Mindy), please don't spill the beans. Thanks.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Busted! For what, I'm not sure...
Those of you who have tried to access this page in the last 24 hours may have seen that it had been "deleted". This was not my doing. In fact, I didn't even know about it. I had to pull a Huck Finn and attend my own funeral on Bob-O's blog to find out about it. Thanks to everyone who wrote me to express their concern.
In the "Give me my fucking blog back" process with blogger, I've learned that I was somehow flagged as spam by someone or something. Blogger suggests that this tends to happen when there are a lot of nonsense words in a blog or repeated links that all go to the same place. I am pretty sure that I am a real person. I know that my spelling is not perfect, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that my words are nonsense. I use links, but I'm pretty confident I vary up the links I use. Since I hadn't posted anything in a few days, I suspected foul play. I suspected that SOMEONE found my blog, didn't like something I had to say, and hit the "flag blog" button at the top of the page. Yesterday, as I waited impatiently for blogger to rule that I was worthy, I got angrier and angrier. I was incensed and devastated, and became more and more convinced that my suspicions were true.
Excerpt from Blogger:
I had no proof, but I did some detective work and discovered that a certain individual about whom I stated some harsh opinions in my last post has a blog. Let's call her Chrissie (names have been changed, but if you're really curious you can scroll down to my last post and do some detective work of your own). I am not one to search for other people's race reports after I complete an event, but I know it happens. It is quite possible that Chrissie did a blog search for the race and found some not-so-nice things said about her, and decided to do something about it. This is what I was convinced happened.
Was I sorry? No. The internet is not censored, and I do not believe that I should have to sensor my own opinions. Was I sorry she might have read it? No, blogs are public, and I do not believe I said anything that was an attack on her character. I merely reproduced what she said along with editorial comments. I was actually a bit satisfied, but that's not a very nice thing to think. Was I sorry her feelings might have been hurt? Yes, but that did not warrant HAVING BLOGGER DELETE MY FUCKING BLOG! Was I sorry I used her real name? Yes, that wasn't fair. It has been changed. Was I fantasizing about revenge? Yes, but I was also fantasizing that I was noble enough not to act on it. My only retaliation would be to put a link to her blog, so that if you want to tell her what a douchebag and a cunt she was, that was your decision.
By the way, if I have any further problems in the future, you can find out what's going on at my old blog: nowetsuitgirl.blogspot.com.
But I had no proof it was her. You know, it probably wasn't her. And I'll probably never know if it was her. Buuuuuuuuut, in all my stalking of her and planning of revenge that I did yesterday I learned a little bit more about Chrissie:
1. She is not a very good writer, thus, she is a lesser human being.
2. Sunday was only her second tri ever. This adds another thing to her list of arrogant and offensive traits: Newbie Entitlement. You've met them, I'm sure: young newbies who do well in Podunkville's Fat Moms Over 50 Sprint Tri and Group Hug-a-thon and decide that they're physically gifted and believe they are entitled to win every single race because they haven't learned to work for it yet. They haven't learned what fast REALLY is yet.
3. Chrissie is going to be at my birthday party.
She's going to be at my birthday party? What? I'll explain. I decided oh.... about a week ago... to sign up for another half ironman this season. The first one I found was the EnduraSport New York Half Triathlon in Harriman Park, NY. From here on out we'll call it the Hairy Man Triathlon to avoid confusion. The Hairy Man course is like WICKED hilly with over 6,000' of elevation gain and drop on the bike and a big, fucking hill x2 on the run (out-and-back)...
Bike course profile. You do this 4 times.
Run profile
...And it's the day after my birthday! What a perfect place to have a birthday party!
So I signed up, even though I was already signed up for a century ride the next day. Whatever, it's my birthday, I can do whatever the hell I want! I was only going to use it as a long brick workout, but then I find out that Chrissie (who we need to find a better nickname for, because she is going to become an allegorical symbol from here on out on this blog) is going to be doing the Olympic distance at the same race. Now I HAVE TO beat her Olympic split times 2, no matter how much it hurts. Because if I go faster for twice as long, that would everlastingly prove what a badass I am and she's not.
And, by the way, I am aware that Chrissie IS me 3 years ago. We are of similar athletic abilities, we lead oddly parallel lives, and I am fully aware that the reason that I distained her so much is because she reminded me so much of me in a phase I'm only just growing out of. Still, I did bike and swim faster than she did.
In the "Give me my fucking blog back" process with blogger, I've learned that I was somehow flagged as spam by someone or something. Blogger suggests that this tends to happen when there are a lot of nonsense words in a blog or repeated links that all go to the same place. I am pretty sure that I am a real person. I know that my spelling is not perfect, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that my words are nonsense. I use links, but I'm pretty confident I vary up the links I use. Since I hadn't posted anything in a few days, I suspected foul play. I suspected that SOMEONE found my blog, didn't like something I had to say, and hit the "flag blog" button at the top of the page. Yesterday, as I waited impatiently for blogger to rule that I was worthy, I got angrier and angrier. I was incensed and devastated, and became more and more convinced that my suspicions were true.
Excerpt from Blogger:
The Flag as Objectionable button in the Navbar lets you notify us of problem blogs that you find, so we can review them and take appropriate action.
I had no proof, but I did some detective work and discovered that a certain individual about whom I stated some harsh opinions in my last post has a blog. Let's call her Chrissie (names have been changed, but if you're really curious you can scroll down to my last post and do some detective work of your own). I am not one to search for other people's race reports after I complete an event, but I know it happens. It is quite possible that Chrissie did a blog search for the race and found some not-so-nice things said about her, and decided to do something about it. This is what I was convinced happened.
Was I sorry? No. The internet is not censored, and I do not believe that I should have to sensor my own opinions. Was I sorry she might have read it? No, blogs are public, and I do not believe I said anything that was an attack on her character. I merely reproduced what she said along with editorial comments. I was actually a bit satisfied, but that's not a very nice thing to think. Was I sorry her feelings might have been hurt? Yes, but that did not warrant HAVING BLOGGER DELETE MY FUCKING BLOG! Was I sorry I used her real name? Yes, that wasn't fair. It has been changed. Was I fantasizing about revenge? Yes, but I was also fantasizing that I was noble enough not to act on it. My only retaliation would be to put a link to her blog, so that if you want to tell her what a douchebag and a cunt she was, that was your decision.
By the way, if I have any further problems in the future, you can find out what's going on at my old blog: nowetsuitgirl.blogspot.com.
But I had no proof it was her. You know, it probably wasn't her. And I'll probably never know if it was her. Buuuuuuuuut, in all my stalking of her and planning of revenge that I did yesterday I learned a little bit more about Chrissie:
1. She is not a very good writer, thus, she is a lesser human being.
2. Sunday was only her second tri ever. This adds another thing to her list of arrogant and offensive traits: Newbie Entitlement. You've met them, I'm sure: young newbies who do well in Podunkville's Fat Moms Over 50 Sprint Tri and Group Hug-a-thon and decide that they're physically gifted and believe they are entitled to win every single race because they haven't learned to work for it yet. They haven't learned what fast REALLY is yet.
3. Chrissie is going to be at my birthday party.
She's going to be at my birthday party? What? I'll explain. I decided oh.... about a week ago... to sign up for another half ironman this season. The first one I found was the EnduraSport New York Half Triathlon in Harriman Park, NY. From here on out we'll call it the Hairy Man Triathlon to avoid confusion. The Hairy Man course is like WICKED hilly with over 6,000' of elevation gain and drop on the bike and a big, fucking hill x2 on the run (out-and-back)...
Bike course profile. You do this 4 times.Run profileSo I signed up, even though I was already signed up for a century ride the next day. Whatever, it's my birthday, I can do whatever the hell I want! I was only going to use it as a long brick workout, but then I find out that Chrissie (who we need to find a better nickname for, because she is going to become an allegorical symbol from here on out on this blog) is going to be doing the Olympic distance at the same race. Now I HAVE TO beat her Olympic split times 2, no matter how much it hurts. Because if I go faster for twice as long, that would everlastingly prove what a badass I am and she's not.
And, by the way, I am aware that Chrissie IS me 3 years ago. We are of similar athletic abilities, we lead oddly parallel lives, and I am fully aware that the reason that I distained her so much is because she reminded me so much of me in a phase I'm only just growing out of. Still, I did bike and swim faster than she did.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
BLING!
Fired up from Trihardist's race report last weekend, I decided to sign up for a pool sprint triathlon of my own this weekend. The venue: The Sheriff's Sprint Pool Triathlon in West Bumfuck, MA (aka Ludlow), a 300 yard pool swim, 9 mile bike, and 3.2 mile run. I spent all week at work scouring last year's results and doing wishful arithmetic on top female splits. Finally, after a couple of days of goal inflation and projected pace inflation, I decided that
I'm so fast on paper. This is how it works:
SWIM: take fastest 100 yard time from the past month and subtract 5 seconds. Multiply by 3 for projected swimming time.
BIKE: take the fastest pace you've seen for 1 second or more on something that is not obviously downhill (slight downhills are fair game). Add one mile per hour, because you're going to try hard. Decide that this will be your average speed. Do math and figure out projected split. Decide you will have the fastest bike split of the day. Pat yourself on the back in advance.
RUN: Take the fastest pace that you have used for speedwork in the past 6 years. Subtract 5 seconds. Multiply by 3.1 miles (because the course could never, ever be long, despite what the map says). Convince self that you are about to PR.
TRANSITIONS: There are no transitions in paper triathlons.
I also spent the week checking weather.com every 10 minutes. The forecast called for thunderstorms and temperatures in the mid-50s in West Bumfuck, MA on Sunday morning. I didn't want to believe it. I hoped against all hopes for a sunny day, even when I checked the weather at 6:00 am on race morning and it still said thunderstorms starting simultaneously with the race. Damn. Still, I drove the hour and a half out to West Bumfuck anyway, hoping that the shitty weather would deter the fast people rather than the slow folks.
On the drive over it poured the whole time. At times it was raining so hard that if it weren't for their taillights, I wouldn't be able to see the car in front of me. It was the kind of rain that if you're standing in it, you would swear it was raining up. God, I hope the experienced and fast people decided to stay in bed for this shit, I thought. I was beginning to doubt my generous pre-race math. Against all predictions, however, the rain had petered out by the time I got to the venue, although it was still cold (about 50), clammy, and cloudy. I was quite dismayed to see the transition area filled with people. Those jerks decided to show up!
After checking in and having the most satisfying pee of the week, I got marked. They put my number on my arms and legs, but no age on my calves. What the hell! Now I would have no idea who I was racing against. I went back to transition, set up, and took my bike out for a quick spin. When I got back someone had taken my spot on the rack with a muddy, clunky-lookin' old 10-speed with ultra-thick tires. That bitch! I am DEFINITELY going to make a sign to hang on the rack for next time:
I c o u l d w i n i t .
Well, maybe not the race, but I could win my age group anyway I decided.I'm so fast on paper. This is how it works:
SWIM: take fastest 100 yard time from the past month and subtract 5 seconds. Multiply by 3 for projected swimming time.
BIKE: take the fastest pace you've seen for 1 second or more on something that is not obviously downhill (slight downhills are fair game). Add one mile per hour, because you're going to try hard. Decide that this will be your average speed. Do math and figure out projected split. Decide you will have the fastest bike split of the day. Pat yourself on the back in advance.
RUN: Take the fastest pace that you have used for speedwork in the past 6 years. Subtract 5 seconds. Multiply by 3.1 miles (because the course could never, ever be long, despite what the map says). Convince self that you are about to PR.
TRANSITIONS: There are no transitions in paper triathlons.
I also spent the week checking weather.com every 10 minutes. The forecast called for thunderstorms and temperatures in the mid-50s in West Bumfuck, MA on Sunday morning. I didn't want to believe it. I hoped against all hopes for a sunny day, even when I checked the weather at 6:00 am on race morning and it still said thunderstorms starting simultaneously with the race. Damn. Still, I drove the hour and a half out to West Bumfuck anyway, hoping that the shitty weather would deter the fast people rather than the slow folks.
On the drive over it poured the whole time. At times it was raining so hard that if it weren't for their taillights, I wouldn't be able to see the car in front of me. It was the kind of rain that if you're standing in it, you would swear it was raining up. God, I hope the experienced and fast people decided to stay in bed for this shit, I thought. I was beginning to doubt my generous pre-race math. Against all predictions, however, the rain had petered out by the time I got to the venue, although it was still cold (about 50), clammy, and cloudy. I was quite dismayed to see the transition area filled with people. Those jerks decided to show up!
After checking in and having the most satisfying pee of the week, I got marked. They put my number on my arms and legs, but no age on my calves. What the hell! Now I would have no idea who I was racing against. I went back to transition, set up, and took my bike out for a quick spin. When I got back someone had taken my spot on the rack with a muddy, clunky-lookin' old 10-speed with ultra-thick tires. That bitch! I am DEFINITELY going to make a sign to hang on the rack for next time:
THIS SPOT IS TAKEN. OUT RIDING THE COURSE. BE BACK SOON, SO BACK THE FUCK OFF, BITCH!
I had to kick a backpack out of the way to find space for my bike, and then took off for a quick run to warm up. I was NOT feeling fast. Finally, I went inside and did a short warmup in the pool. Talk about feeling like a fish in a bowl! As the hundred fifty or so participants came in along with their families, friends, and coaches, there was nothing anyone could do but stand around and stare at the twenty or so people warming up. Finally, people looked like they were lining up, and I got out.
Then I realized the first problem with fuzzy prerace math. The swim would be 2 lengths of each of the six lanes of the pool with swimmers set off at 20 second intervals. The swimmers were lined up by number, which was decided by swimming seed time. I was number 23. I am NOT a top tenth percentile swimmer. I do not swim within 20 seconds of a top tenth percentile swimmer. I turned to numbers 22, 24, 25, and 26 around me, "Were you guys a little... optimistic... about your seed times?"
"Oh yeah, everyone is," said 21. Then people started admitting what they actually were going to swim.
"I said I would do a 4:15, but I'll probably come in at more like 4:22," said 22.
"I said I would do a 4:20, but I'll probably do about a 4:25," said 24.
"I said I'd do a 4:20, but I might do a 4:30," said 25.
"Ummmm, I said I would do a 4:15, but I did some 300s on Wednesday and I was holding more like a 4:45..." said dipshit number 23: ME. Just to be safe, I told numbers 24 and 25 just to tap my toes if they needed to pass. They demurred. "No, I mean it, REALLY," I said. Now I was getting nervous and feeling like a real dipshit. Then, just when I thought I couldn't feel like more of a tool, I realized that my goggles were on upside-down.
Then I heard number 1 talking to the race official, "There must be some kind of mistake! I am definitely NOT going to be the fastest swimmer. Can't I move back or something?" I felt better knowing that I wasn't the only one who got busted for inflating my swim split when I registered.
Then I realized the first problem with fuzzy prerace math. The swim would be 2 lengths of each of the six lanes of the pool with swimmers set off at 20 second intervals. The swimmers were lined up by number, which was decided by swimming seed time. I was number 23. I am NOT a top tenth percentile swimmer. I do not swim within 20 seconds of a top tenth percentile swimmer. I turned to numbers 22, 24, 25, and 26 around me, "Were you guys a little... optimistic... about your seed times?"
"Oh yeah, everyone is," said 21. Then people started admitting what they actually were going to swim.
"I said I would do a 4:15, but I'll probably come in at more like 4:22," said 22.
"I said I would do a 4:20, but I'll probably do about a 4:25," said 24.
"I said I'd do a 4:20, but I might do a 4:30," said 25.
"Ummmm, I said I would do a 4:15, but I did some 300s on Wednesday and I was holding more like a 4:45..." said dipshit number 23: ME. Just to be safe, I told numbers 24 and 25 just to tap my toes if they needed to pass. They demurred. "No, I mean it, REALLY," I said. Now I was getting nervous and feeling like a real dipshit. Then, just when I thought I couldn't feel like more of a tool, I realized that my goggles were on upside-down.
Then I heard number 1 talking to the race official, "There must be some kind of mistake! I am definitely NOT going to be the fastest swimmer. Can't I move back or something?" I felt better knowing that I wasn't the only one who got busted for inflating my swim split when I registered.
The Swim
Goals: Don't get caught by 24. Don't get stuck in the lane lines.
Strategy: Go balls out.
"5... 4... 3... 2... 1..." Splash. I started swimming as fast as I could. Don't get caught in the first 100, Claire! I thought. I hit the other side, and turned around. I passed 24 just past the half way point. When I got to the wall I tried to duck under the lane and then flip. I got stuck in the lane line. Fuck. I started breathing every stroke, something I never, ever, ever do. It made it feel like I was getting nowhere, but at least this way I could keep an eye on 24. I managed to stay a length ahead of him. Next time I had to switch lanes, I forgot which way hadn't worked the last time and tried to duck under it again. I got caught again. I managed to keep 24 about a length behind me again. Next time I had to switch lanes, I flipped first, and came up right under the line, getting caught in it again. In this 50 number 24 made up about 3 yards on me. I went even harder. This time, when I had to go under the lane line, it worked. Twenty-four was still about 10 yards behind me when I came in to the final lane change and almost lost my cap on the lane line. The final 50 I really went balls out, and managed to get out of the pool without 24 catching me! I did it!
I looked at my watch as I ran out the door and saw a number that might have been 4:42. I don't know how long it took me to get out of the pool and run to the door, but let's say... 4 seconds. So I swam a 4:38, 1:33 per 100. That's good for me, but a far cry from the 4:15 I'd predicted. But 24 was behind me, so who cared!
Official stats: Time: 4:48, 2/6 AG (33%), 25/141 Overall (18% -like I said, not top tenth percentile).
Strategy: Go balls out.
"5... 4... 3... 2... 1..." Splash. I started swimming as fast as I could. Don't get caught in the first 100, Claire! I thought. I hit the other side, and turned around. I passed 24 just past the half way point. When I got to the wall I tried to duck under the lane and then flip. I got stuck in the lane line. Fuck. I started breathing every stroke, something I never, ever, ever do. It made it feel like I was getting nowhere, but at least this way I could keep an eye on 24. I managed to stay a length ahead of him. Next time I had to switch lanes, I forgot which way hadn't worked the last time and tried to duck under it again. I got caught again. I managed to keep 24 about a length behind me again. Next time I had to switch lanes, I flipped first, and came up right under the line, getting caught in it again. In this 50 number 24 made up about 3 yards on me. I went even harder. This time, when I had to go under the lane line, it worked. Twenty-four was still about 10 yards behind me when I came in to the final lane change and almost lost my cap on the lane line. The final 50 I really went balls out, and managed to get out of the pool without 24 catching me! I did it!
I looked at my watch as I ran out the door and saw a number that might have been 4:42. I don't know how long it took me to get out of the pool and run to the door, but let's say... 4 seconds. So I swam a 4:38, 1:33 per 100. That's good for me, but a far cry from the 4:15 I'd predicted. But 24 was behind me, so who cared!
Official stats: Time: 4:48, 2/6 AG (33%), 25/141 Overall (18% -like I said, not top tenth percentile).
T1
I forgot to take off my cap and goggles till I got to my spot. Oops. No socks, cycling shoes on. Take what feels like forever finding the sleeves of my long-sleeved zip-up jersey. Take even longer getting the zipper to work. Garmin on. Helmet on. GO, GO, GOGOGO!
My time: No clue. It's figured into bike time.
Strategy: Go balls out.
I did my usual un-cool full stop to mount my bike, then it felt like forever to get clipped in. Then I started my garmin, thought it didn't start and hit start again. A mile later, I realized that I'd stopped it, but the first 10 seconds of the bike I was going 19.5 mph, I can tell you that. I have data for everything after that.
I kept up a pace that had me heaving for the first 3 miles of the bike before I settled into a rhythm. I lost sight of number 24 and was in no-man's land forever. Well 24 was a dude anyway, I could let him go.
Bike splits per mile... for the miles that it was on.
I only got passed by 2 people during the bike. The first guy in an aero helmet and disk wheels passed me in the first couple of miles. Yeah, you go disk wheels guy, I thought. It's obviously WAY more important to you that you look cool at this race than me. The second guy passed me in a full club kit near the end. He probably thought he was pretty cool too. That's okay. I passed about 5 people myself, including 2 chicks, so it was all good. Plus, with individual starts like this, you never know what slowpokes you never catch up to.
The day before I had practiced the shoeless dismount on my trainer in my house, so I wasted several seconds undoing the velcrow, then several more pulling my feet out of the shoes. However, when I approached the dismount line, I remembered that I STILL can't swing my leg over the wheel behind me, and still had to do a very unsexy full-stop dismount. Damn.
My Garmin average speed (for the 8 miles it was on) was 19.1 mph, but before that stupid last mile with the shoes, I was holding an average speed of 20.3. Stupid shoes.
The elevation profile is misleading. There was no more than 140' of difference between the highest and lowest points.
Official stats: Total time: 27:24 (including transition), 19.7 mph (actually, faster, but who's counting), 1st AG, 2/69 all women (3%), 18th overall (13%).
If I do some CSI work here comparing the results page to my Garmin, I think that it was 1:18.
My time: No clue. It's figured into bike time.
The Bike
Goals: Keep up with 24. Keep average pace above 19.5 mph (preferrably more like 23 mph).Strategy: Go balls out.
I did my usual un-cool full stop to mount my bike, then it felt like forever to get clipped in. Then I started my garmin, thought it didn't start and hit start again. A mile later, I realized that I'd stopped it, but the first 10 seconds of the bike I was going 19.5 mph, I can tell you that. I have data for everything after that.
I kept up a pace that had me heaving for the first 3 miles of the bike before I settled into a rhythm. I lost sight of number 24 and was in no-man's land forever. Well 24 was a dude anyway, I could let him go.
Bike splits per mile... for the miles that it was on.The day before I had practiced the shoeless dismount on my trainer in my house, so I wasted several seconds undoing the velcrow, then several more pulling my feet out of the shoes. However, when I approached the dismount line, I remembered that I STILL can't swing my leg over the wheel behind me, and still had to do a very unsexy full-stop dismount. Damn.
My Garmin average speed (for the 8 miles it was on) was 19.1 mph, but before that stupid last mile with the shoes, I was holding an average speed of 20.3. Stupid shoes.
The elevation profile is misleading. There was no more than 140' of difference between the highest and lowest points.Official stats: Total time: 27:24 (including transition), 19.7 mph (actually, faster, but who's counting), 1st AG, 2/69 all women (3%), 18th overall (13%).
T2
I got denied the bliss of empty bike racks due to the staggered start, but there was no time to worry about that now. I racked the bike, chucked the helmet, took FOREVER getting my shoes tied (I have lace locks, but didn't have any laces short enough to use 'em), and ran off. Then I realized I forgot my water and ran back. Ok, this time for REAL, off I go.If I do some CSI work here comparing the results page to my Garmin, I think that it was 1:18.
The Run
Goals: Run fast.
Strategy: Go balls out.
Misleading again. There's only about 60' of elevation change from the highest to lowest points.
The legs felt stiff, but I just ran as fast as I could anyway. I didn't know how realistic it was, but I set my watch to beep every time I went over an 8:30 mile. It felt like I was running on 2 peg legs for about half a mile, but I managed to keep my watch quiet. Bikers were coming in and leaving as I set out for the run, and the volunteers seemed more concerned with them than with runners. Luckily there was a dude in front of me who got instructions, because neither of the cops or the volunteer at the first intersection deigned to tell me which way to go.
At .7 miles I caught up with the guy in front of me. "You're looking great," he said.
"You too," I gasped over my shoulder.
"This is my first one, I don't know if I'm going to make it," he said.
"You'll do great, just have fun," I called as I ran away. Just as long as you say behind me, I thought. Then I was all by myself. For a few seconds I caught sight of the runners coming the other way before I had to turn. I ran for 2 miles all by myself, passing bored-looking volunteers holding flags limply at their hips at every intersection. A couple of times I had to call out, "IS IT THIS WAY?!"
I couldn't believe how fast I was running. I only ever run my speed workouts at an 8:30 mile, but every time I looked at my Garmin I was holding under 8 minute miles... or most of the times anyway. This was fabulous! With half a mile to go I saw the only runner that passed me as we made the final turn back up towards transition. "This is the final stretch!" he said to me as he passed. "We're almost there!" We are NOT almost there! I've been up and down this road already 8 times already today (driving in, twice during bike warmup, twice during run warmup, then twice during the bike and once already on the run). We still have a fucking WAYS to go! Still, I tried to pick it up. I hit the 5k mark in 24:24, only 21 seconds short of a decade-old PR.
As I came in to the finishing area I couldn't tell where to go. Bikers were still coming in and out, as well as runners leaving transition. The more attentive cops and volunteers were watching the cyclists, the others were wrapped up in conversations or their own thoughts. "HEY! WHERE DO I GO?!" I asked. No one answered. I kept running past transition and past the finish line, which was roped off from this angle. I ran towards the guy with the megaphone, but there were a couple of cops with their backs to me in my way. "HEY, WATCH OUT!" I yelled.
They didn't even turn, so I had to run around them. Finally, when I was mere inches from the megaphone guy he stuck his horn in my ear and told me to take a sharp turn. I pulled a U-turn around a cone, up a curb, and into the finishing chute. I could see how U-turn, cone, and final sprint could make for a very embarrassing stumble. Luckily, I avoided disaster and stayed upright, and crossed the line in (what I would later find out was) 58:38. My run time (minus transition, according to Garmin) was 3.2 miles in 25:07.
There's actually only about 2 seconds' difference between the fastest and slowest miles.
Official stats: Total time: 26:25 (including transition), 7:50 min/mi (NOT including transitions), 1st AG (I know, I don't believe it either), 27th overall (19%).
Strategy: Go balls out.
Misleading again. There's only about 60' of elevation change from the highest to lowest points.The legs felt stiff, but I just ran as fast as I could anyway. I didn't know how realistic it was, but I set my watch to beep every time I went over an 8:30 mile. It felt like I was running on 2 peg legs for about half a mile, but I managed to keep my watch quiet. Bikers were coming in and leaving as I set out for the run, and the volunteers seemed more concerned with them than with runners. Luckily there was a dude in front of me who got instructions, because neither of the cops or the volunteer at the first intersection deigned to tell me which way to go.
At .7 miles I caught up with the guy in front of me. "You're looking great," he said.
"You too," I gasped over my shoulder.
"This is my first one, I don't know if I'm going to make it," he said.
"You'll do great, just have fun," I called as I ran away. Just as long as you say behind me, I thought. Then I was all by myself. For a few seconds I caught sight of the runners coming the other way before I had to turn. I ran for 2 miles all by myself, passing bored-looking volunteers holding flags limply at their hips at every intersection. A couple of times I had to call out, "IS IT THIS WAY?!"
I couldn't believe how fast I was running. I only ever run my speed workouts at an 8:30 mile, but every time I looked at my Garmin I was holding under 8 minute miles... or most of the times anyway. This was fabulous! With half a mile to go I saw the only runner that passed me as we made the final turn back up towards transition. "This is the final stretch!" he said to me as he passed. "We're almost there!" We are NOT almost there! I've been up and down this road already 8 times already today (driving in, twice during bike warmup, twice during run warmup, then twice during the bike and once already on the run). We still have a fucking WAYS to go! Still, I tried to pick it up. I hit the 5k mark in 24:24, only 21 seconds short of a decade-old PR.
As I came in to the finishing area I couldn't tell where to go. Bikers were still coming in and out, as well as runners leaving transition. The more attentive cops and volunteers were watching the cyclists, the others were wrapped up in conversations or their own thoughts. "HEY! WHERE DO I GO?!" I asked. No one answered. I kept running past transition and past the finish line, which was roped off from this angle. I ran towards the guy with the megaphone, but there were a couple of cops with their backs to me in my way. "HEY, WATCH OUT!" I yelled.
They didn't even turn, so I had to run around them. Finally, when I was mere inches from the megaphone guy he stuck his horn in my ear and told me to take a sharp turn. I pulled a U-turn around a cone, up a curb, and into the finishing chute. I could see how U-turn, cone, and final sprint could make for a very embarrassing stumble. Luckily, I avoided disaster and stayed upright, and crossed the line in (what I would later find out was) 58:38. My run time (minus transition, according to Garmin) was 3.2 miles in 25:07.There's actually only about 2 seconds' difference between the fastest and slowest miles.Official stats: Total time: 26:25 (including transition), 7:50 min/mi (NOT including transitions), 1st AG (I know, I don't believe it either), 27th overall (19%).
Chrissie: Everything I hate about triathletes (and college students)
When I crossed the line I had no idea what my time was. I'd forgotten to stop my regular watch, Garmin had missed a few minutes on the bike, and I didn't know how far behind the race clock I was. Whatever, I was happy with my race, and there was nothing I could do now to change the results, so I might as well chill out. I resigned myself to cleaning up and waiting for the results to be posted. I packed up my stuff, shoved it in the car, and then went in to take a shower. When I got into the locker room I realized that I'd forgotten my towel in the car. "Fuck it," I said and got ready to shower without one, but another girl in the locker room lent me a spare towel in exchange for some conditioner. Meet Chrissie (names have been changed to protect my own ass).
When I got out of the shower (I shower like a dude – in 2 minutes or less) I asked Chrissie how her race went. She said that she'd had an off week and went into way too much information about having a stomach ache all week, having her bike seat malfunction in the middle of a ride yesterday, then getting picked up by a good Samaritan in a truck... The story went on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on... and on... and on... She dropped detail after detail about a coach and about 2 hour rides that I think were supposed to impress me, but the rest was the most whiny, cynical rant about the most benign inconveniences. Finally I got a word in edgewise, trying to change the subject back to the race so I could congratulate her and get out of there. "So, what was your time today?"
"57 something," she said.
"Uh oh, how old are you?" I asked.
"Twenty-two and..."
I interrupted her, "Well, I'm not quite sure what my time was, but I hope it was one second faster than yours," I said, smiling. "Congratulations and good luck!" I said, scuttling out of there. She followed me, complaining about one thing or another. I tried to find something to pleasant to talk about, something that we could both agree on. "Were you at the marathon last weekend?" I asked.
"No, I was at the track and field champs." She paused to let her another point of astounding athletic accomplishment sink in.
I didn't bite. "Oh man, running through Wellesley was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me in my life!" I said. This was about her, this was about me, this was a happy subject. Hopefully we could talk about this.
"Yeah, I ran the marathon last year," she said. Oh, is that what this was? A competition? She had to one-up me in any event I'd ever participated in? I resolved not to play. I had decided NOT to wear my supersexxxy jacket to this race and scorned those who had for wearing merchandise from a race that far outranked this one (biiiiig faux pas). Once we got outside I made some excuse about being hungry and escaped to the food table before going to check the results.
I found my name and was pissed to see that I was in the 25-29 category. I'm 24 for another week and a half, goddammit! I thought that in the US your age group was decided by age on race day. Then I looked at the name right before mine, Chrissie SomethingSomething. Damn, the bitch had beat me, but since we weren't in the same age group it didn't matter. I went over and found her and congratulated her on winning. "Yeah, it turns out they put me in the 25-29 age group, so we both won!" I said.
Did she congratulate me? No. Did she even act like she hadn't expected to win? Nope. Matter-of-factly she said, "Age group is decided by your age on December 31 of that year. That's the USAT rule and since this is a USAT sanctioned race..." and on, and on, and on with WAY too much information that I already knew anyway. "It really sucks for me. I really get shafted because my birthday is December 10th and..."
"It sucks for 364 other people too," I cut her off. "Whatever, it's all arbitrary anyway." I was the one who had just aged up, not her, goddammit!
We went up to get a better look at the results together. I was most interested in my bike split, since that was the one I hadn't seen myself, but no one's bike splits were posted. Oh well.
To kill time I went off to wake up Angry and tell him the good news. Mid-conversation, as I was talking, Chrissie came up and said, "The bike splits are up, I got 27:00". Yeah, whatever, the grown-ups are talking now, I thought, and pretended like I hadn't heard her. When I'd hung up, she turned up again and I had to apologize for ignoring her. I hate apologizing when I'm not sorry. "Well, there's no way I'm going up to that results table now!" I said, looking at the swarm of a couple of dozen triathletes crowded around the card table with two 8 1.2 x 11 sheets on it. "I'll just wait and check when I get home." I busted out my cell phone and calculated for her based on her time that she was going about 19mph.
"Well, I think I was going above 20 mph," she said. "Because I looked down a bunch of times and I was going like 20 and even over that for awhile."
"Ah," I said. I wanted to point out that it's easy to see a big number when you never look on the uphills and always look down when the road is going slightly downhill and you're pedaling at top speed. Hell, that's how I'd calculated my generous goal speed, but I wasn't out there telling anyone about it or trying to pass it off as fact. I didn't bother to tell her that I'd looked down and seen the same numbers.
"Maybe you did about the same time. But I was going really fast," she said. "So I don't know, maybe your time was slower."
"Ah," I said. I wanted to point out that I'd only come in 20 seconds behind her, and so my bike split, if slower was negligibly so. I hate boasting, but nothing bugs me more than people who are bragging about times that I've beat. She clearly wanted me to be impressed with her amazing cycling abilities, and her gaping 20 second lead on me. All I could think about was all the time I wasted unstrapping the stupid shoes, or running back to get my water bottle. If only I'd known...
... I beat her bike split by a minute and 12 seconds! I swam 19 seconds faster than her too.
Now I was severely annoyed by Chrissie, but stuck in conversation with her. Thankfully, the conversation turned away from how fast she was and on to her life in general. She talked at me for a quarter of an hour about how she hates Boston (she's from Marin, CA – again, this was supposed to impress me; I didn't mention that I'd lived in California too), she wished she'd gone to Berkley where there are boys instead of Wellesley (an all girls' school), how she wanted to be an EMT rather than a history major but her parents forced her, how global warming was a crock, how much she hated all her liberal classmates who would grow up to be conservatives like her one day when they saw the light, and how mature she was so it's a good thing her boyfriend was 30. I felt like I was being lectured. I felt like I was being implicitly included in some young Republican group against my will. I wished we could go back to talking about how fast she was. I wanted to scream, "I BELIEVE WE SHOULD GIVE AMNESTY TO ALL ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS, I'M PRO-CHOICE, I'M A LESBIAN, I THINK YOU'RE AN IDIOT, AND I BIKE FASTER THAN YOU!"
Instead, the awards ceremony started and we had to be quiet. Thank god. First they announced that the same group would be putting on a new half ironman this June. "So if any of you want to attempt your first half ironman..." the announcer woman was saying.
"I'll attempt my first half ironman in Napa Valley in July, when the weather's sure to be beautiful," grumbled Chrissie. The message was clear: I was supposed to be impressed that she was training for a half ironman. I wanted to point out that I was doing the same race, but DOUBLE the distance, and I'd already done half ironmans, but I held my tongue.
As they called out the different age group winners in the order that they'd finished, it was clear that Chrissie was waiting to find out she'd come in first overall... then second... then third... after fourth, she stopped counting. Turns out she was fifth overall. I was sixth. I shouldn't have gone back for that water bottle, 20 fucking seconds! When they called up the winner of the 0-19 age group in a slower time than hers she said, "I wish I were in the 0-19 category, they never have ANYONE." What? Winning her own age group wasn't enough?
"Yeah, well you had your chance, but you missed it," I said.
"But I wasn't a triathlete back then," she said.
"My point exactly," I said and turned back to the awards.
Finally they called up Christine to accept her medal. The woman who I'd asked to take my picture asked, "Do you want a picture of her too?"
"Her? I don't even KNOW her," I said. Then it was my turn. Unfortunately the picture didn't come out.
Sexy medal, huh?
And finally Chrissie was gone. No race has nearly as many Chrissies as a triathlon. Runners are not this boastful, cyclists do not brag this much, swimmers are not so conceited. Everyone who owns a pair of tri shorts and has completed one race thinks they're a fucking guru. Everyone who's finished 2 sprints and an olympic thinks they're a fucking coach. All anyone ever talks about in transition before AND after the race is how fast they are, even if results have already been posted and the evidence says otherwise. Is doing 8 or more training sessions a week automatically supposed to give you a carte blanche for boasting? I mean, yeah, we're all winners for finishing and blah, blah, blah. But to brag about how fast you are, that's quite another category, and if you have to tell people that you're in that club, then you're probably not. And everyone gets so pissed about each other's boasting about each mediocre time, that THEY feel that THEY have to work their PRs and impressive race credentials into the conversation, even if they're less than stellar.
Just for the record you are not fast until you can do one or more of the following:
Swim 100 yards in under 1:10 and/or an ironman in under 55 minutes
Bike 40km on rolling terrain in 23 mph or more and/or bike 100 miles in 5 hours or less
Run 5k in 21 minutes or less and/or qualify for Boston
NO ONE WHO GOES MY SPEED OR SLOWER IS EVER ALLOWED TO CALL THEMSELVES FAST UNLESS THEY DON'T HAVE USE OF ALL THEIR LIMBS!
Rant over. But you can bet on one thing, if I ever see Chrissie again at a race, you can bet I won't be conceding 20 seconds next time around.
When I crossed the line I had no idea what my time was. I'd forgotten to stop my regular watch, Garmin had missed a few minutes on the bike, and I didn't know how far behind the race clock I was. Whatever, I was happy with my race, and there was nothing I could do now to change the results, so I might as well chill out. I resigned myself to cleaning up and waiting for the results to be posted. I packed up my stuff, shoved it in the car, and then went in to take a shower. When I got into the locker room I realized that I'd forgotten my towel in the car. "Fuck it," I said and got ready to shower without one, but another girl in the locker room lent me a spare towel in exchange for some conditioner. Meet Chrissie (names have been changed to protect my own ass).
When I got out of the shower (I shower like a dude – in 2 minutes or less) I asked Chrissie how her race went. She said that she'd had an off week and went into way too much information about having a stomach ache all week, having her bike seat malfunction in the middle of a ride yesterday, then getting picked up by a good Samaritan in a truck... The story went on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on... and on... and on... She dropped detail after detail about a coach and about 2 hour rides that I think were supposed to impress me, but the rest was the most whiny, cynical rant about the most benign inconveniences. Finally I got a word in edgewise, trying to change the subject back to the race so I could congratulate her and get out of there. "So, what was your time today?"
"57 something," she said.
"Uh oh, how old are you?" I asked.
"Twenty-two and..."
I interrupted her, "Well, I'm not quite sure what my time was, but I hope it was one second faster than yours," I said, smiling. "Congratulations and good luck!" I said, scuttling out of there. She followed me, complaining about one thing or another. I tried to find something to pleasant to talk about, something that we could both agree on. "Were you at the marathon last weekend?" I asked.
"No, I was at the track and field champs." She paused to let her another point of astounding athletic accomplishment sink in.
I didn't bite. "Oh man, running through Wellesley was the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me in my life!" I said. This was about her, this was about me, this was a happy subject. Hopefully we could talk about this.
"Yeah, I ran the marathon last year," she said. Oh, is that what this was? A competition? She had to one-up me in any event I'd ever participated in? I resolved not to play. I had decided NOT to wear my supersexxxy jacket to this race and scorned those who had for wearing merchandise from a race that far outranked this one (biiiiig faux pas). Once we got outside I made some excuse about being hungry and escaped to the food table before going to check the results.
I found my name and was pissed to see that I was in the 25-29 category. I'm 24 for another week and a half, goddammit! I thought that in the US your age group was decided by age on race day. Then I looked at the name right before mine, Chrissie SomethingSomething. Damn, the bitch had beat me, but since we weren't in the same age group it didn't matter. I went over and found her and congratulated her on winning. "Yeah, it turns out they put me in the 25-29 age group, so we both won!" I said.
Did she congratulate me? No. Did she even act like she hadn't expected to win? Nope. Matter-of-factly she said, "Age group is decided by your age on December 31 of that year. That's the USAT rule and since this is a USAT sanctioned race..." and on, and on, and on with WAY too much information that I already knew anyway. "It really sucks for me. I really get shafted because my birthday is December 10th and..."
"It sucks for 364 other people too," I cut her off. "Whatever, it's all arbitrary anyway." I was the one who had just aged up, not her, goddammit!
We went up to get a better look at the results together. I was most interested in my bike split, since that was the one I hadn't seen myself, but no one's bike splits were posted. Oh well.
To kill time I went off to wake up Angry and tell him the good news. Mid-conversation, as I was talking, Chrissie came up and said, "The bike splits are up, I got 27:00". Yeah, whatever, the grown-ups are talking now, I thought, and pretended like I hadn't heard her. When I'd hung up, she turned up again and I had to apologize for ignoring her. I hate apologizing when I'm not sorry. "Well, there's no way I'm going up to that results table now!" I said, looking at the swarm of a couple of dozen triathletes crowded around the card table with two 8 1.2 x 11 sheets on it. "I'll just wait and check when I get home." I busted out my cell phone and calculated for her based on her time that she was going about 19mph.
"Well, I think I was going above 20 mph," she said. "Because I looked down a bunch of times and I was going like 20 and even over that for awhile."
"Ah," I said. I wanted to point out that it's easy to see a big number when you never look on the uphills and always look down when the road is going slightly downhill and you're pedaling at top speed. Hell, that's how I'd calculated my generous goal speed, but I wasn't out there telling anyone about it or trying to pass it off as fact. I didn't bother to tell her that I'd looked down and seen the same numbers.
"Maybe you did about the same time. But I was going really fast," she said. "So I don't know, maybe your time was slower."
"Ah," I said. I wanted to point out that I'd only come in 20 seconds behind her, and so my bike split, if slower was negligibly so. I hate boasting, but nothing bugs me more than people who are bragging about times that I've beat. She clearly wanted me to be impressed with her amazing cycling abilities, and her gaping 20 second lead on me. All I could think about was all the time I wasted unstrapping the stupid shoes, or running back to get my water bottle. If only I'd known...
... I beat her bike split by a minute and 12 seconds! I swam 19 seconds faster than her too.
Now I was severely annoyed by Chrissie, but stuck in conversation with her. Thankfully, the conversation turned away from how fast she was and on to her life in general. She talked at me for a quarter of an hour about how she hates Boston (she's from Marin, CA – again, this was supposed to impress me; I didn't mention that I'd lived in California too), she wished she'd gone to Berkley where there are boys instead of Wellesley (an all girls' school), how she wanted to be an EMT rather than a history major but her parents forced her, how global warming was a crock, how much she hated all her liberal classmates who would grow up to be conservatives like her one day when they saw the light, and how mature she was so it's a good thing her boyfriend was 30. I felt like I was being lectured. I felt like I was being implicitly included in some young Republican group against my will. I wished we could go back to talking about how fast she was. I wanted to scream, "I BELIEVE WE SHOULD GIVE AMNESTY TO ALL ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS, I'M PRO-CHOICE, I'M A LESBIAN, I THINK YOU'RE AN IDIOT, AND I BIKE FASTER THAN YOU!"
Instead, the awards ceremony started and we had to be quiet. Thank god. First they announced that the same group would be putting on a new half ironman this June. "So if any of you want to attempt your first half ironman..." the announcer woman was saying.
"I'll attempt my first half ironman in Napa Valley in July, when the weather's sure to be beautiful," grumbled Chrissie. The message was clear: I was supposed to be impressed that she was training for a half ironman. I wanted to point out that I was doing the same race, but DOUBLE the distance, and I'd already done half ironmans, but I held my tongue.
As they called out the different age group winners in the order that they'd finished, it was clear that Chrissie was waiting to find out she'd come in first overall... then second... then third... after fourth, she stopped counting. Turns out she was fifth overall. I was sixth. I shouldn't have gone back for that water bottle, 20 fucking seconds! When they called up the winner of the 0-19 age group in a slower time than hers she said, "I wish I were in the 0-19 category, they never have ANYONE." What? Winning her own age group wasn't enough?
"Yeah, well you had your chance, but you missed it," I said.
"But I wasn't a triathlete back then," she said.
"My point exactly," I said and turned back to the awards.
Finally they called up Christine to accept her medal. The woman who I'd asked to take my picture asked, "Do you want a picture of her too?"
"Her? I don't even KNOW her," I said. Then it was my turn. Unfortunately the picture didn't come out.
Sexy medal, huh?Just for the record you are not fast until you can do one or more of the following:Swim 100 yards in under 1:10 and/or an ironman in under 55 minutes
Bike 40km on rolling terrain in 23 mph or more and/or bike 100 miles in 5 hours or less
Run 5k in 21 minutes or less and/or qualify for Boston
NO ONE WHO GOES MY SPEED OR SLOWER IS EVER ALLOWED TO CALL THEMSELVES FAST UNLESS THEY DON'T HAVE USE OF ALL THEIR LIMBS!
Rant over. But you can bet on one thing, if I ever see Chrissie again at a race, you can bet I won't be conceding 20 seconds next time around.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Training like Angry makes for fat rats
I've been listening to a Nutrition 101 class from UC Berkley that's up as a podcast on iTunes, and I just heard THE most interesting thing (or I think so anyway).
They did a study on rats where, in half the cages they just put a wheel and let the rats run all they wanted. The itty bitty little rats ran 7-14 kilometers a day (4.35-8.7 miles)! But when rats are doing their own thing they don’t run it straight, they “scurry”: they’ll run like 50 meters and stop, sniff around, then they’ll run another 50 meters and stop again, etc. The other half of the rats they put on tiny little treadmills and made them run the same distances continuously. The rats that ran their little rat marathons all in one go were fitter than the little sprinter rats. The scientists concluded that the pattern is as important as speed and volume for building fitness.
So much for the government’s recommendation that your 30-60 minutes of aerobic exercise most days of the week can be met by parking at the other end of the parking lot and taking the stairs...
10 points for anyone who can find more information on this study.
They did a study on rats where, in half the cages they just put a wheel and let the rats run all they wanted. The itty bitty little rats ran 7-14 kilometers a day (4.35-8.7 miles)! But when rats are doing their own thing they don’t run it straight, they “scurry”: they’ll run like 50 meters and stop, sniff around, then they’ll run another 50 meters and stop again, etc. The other half of the rats they put on tiny little treadmills and made them run the same distances continuously. The rats that ran their little rat marathons all in one go were fitter than the little sprinter rats. The scientists concluded that the pattern is as important as speed and volume for building fitness.
So much for the government’s recommendation that your 30-60 minutes of aerobic exercise most days of the week can be met by parking at the other end of the parking lot and taking the stairs...
10 points for anyone who can find more information on this study.
Monday, April 28, 2008
In the mountains no one can hear you scream
Do any of you remember how during my taper for Boston I got a little bit overly ambitious on mapmyride.com? On all the Google maps there was this big, green chunk in upstate New York calling out to me, Claaaaaaire, come ride in me! Not one to ignore spooky voices in my head, when I saw that it was going to rain Sunday all over New England I looked at the weather report for upstate New York: Cloudy, but dry. Well that settled it.I mapped out a loop through the Adirondacks starting in Lake George and winding up along Lake Champlain to Lake Placid. It worked out to be about 160 miles, but whatever, I was sure I could handle it. I would have no choice if I had to get back to my car, right? I mean, there were 3 lakes on my rout, and everyone knows that water settles to the lowest point in any given place. Therefore it would be flat, of course. I ignored the elevation profile, figuring that it would be fiiiiiiiiiiine. And if I got tired before I hit the required distance, too bad. I would still have to get back to my car no matter what. The idea was to go really, really long to make a quick jump to the next level in my cycling fitness anyway, so the more I wore myself down, the better.
Still, I thought it would be wise to keep the total distance of my rout to myself when I told people what my plans were. Diane, at work, reminded me that I would be in the middle of the woods with no one around. "And you know who hangs out in the woods...?" she said. Hikers? Tree huggers? Lumberjacks? Cute, fuzzy animals? I don't know... "Creeps!" she announced. "I don't think you should go."
When I told my parents where I was planning on going my mom asked if I would stay with her aunt who lives somewhere in upstate New York (and must be about a thousand years old). "It's just a 4-hour drive," I said. Driving back from CT at night doesn't bother her, but for some reason driving home from nature seemed like a really long way. My mom has really twisted logic sometimes.
"What if you get lost?" Dad said.
"I'm not going to get lost. There are only like 5 turns on the rout and they're like the ONLY roads there are out there. I can't get lost!" Still, I studied the map for days to make sure I knew where everything was.
"I just think it's a dumb idea," said Dad in his condescending, know-it-all voice that is tailor-made to make you feel stupid. Well that was it. Now I HAD to do it, just to prove that this was NOT a stupid idea, although doubts were creeping in... Not about whether I should do the driving all in one day. Not about creeps hiding in the woods dressed up as tree huggers or cute, fuzzy animals. I was beginning to wonder if 160 miles was really a good idea. And what if I had some mechanical problem? What if I got lost? What if I really got too tired to get back to my car? How's the cell phone reception out there?
The Prologue
So did I take it easy the day before? Don't be silly. I did a ride with the crew from the bike shop. I was the only girl, like I always am, but I held my own alright. We started out easy, and I was getting a little annoyed. What the fuck, I wasn't even pedaling. This wasn't even a workout. Then, as roadies will, they started surging. I still suck at drafting as much as I ever have, especially with a group of guys I don't know. I kept zoning out for a minute, finding myself a few lengths behind, and having to push to catch up. By mile 30 I was out of water, very hungry, and falling behind on the climbs.
The course was by no means hilly, but there were a lot of short rollers that my legs are still not used to after a whole winter on the trainer. They would pull ahead, I would drop back a bit, and then the King of the Bike Geeks (the one who sold me my bike) would put his hand on my back and start pushing. I hate it when people touch me. I really hate it when men touch me, but we're not going to get into that... Then he starts going on and on about how he hasn't trained all winter and he's really into the "death march" now. "Well, maybe you would have more energy if you didn't have to push my fat ass around," I said.
"You're not fat," he said. That wasn't the point. Quit touching me! THAT was the point.
Then we got to a longer, slower climb. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he hooked his fingertips on my spine and dragged me closer to him. There was nothing inappropriate about it, except that our handlebars were touching which made me nervous, but I couldn't get away because I couldn't surge forward (I didn't have the power), I couldn't go left (he was there), I couldn't go right (he had his fingers half way around my spine), and I couldn't drop back (his hand was there). He hung on and stayed there for what felt like an eternity. After the 55-ish mile ride and a stop in the shop to stock up on supplies for tomorrow I got home thoroughly drained and vowing to ride more hills so that no one would ever touch me again!
Like I said, faster in the middle.
The course was by no means hilly, but there were a lot of short rollers that my legs are still not used to after a whole winter on the trainer. They would pull ahead, I would drop back a bit, and then the King of the Bike Geeks (the one who sold me my bike) would put his hand on my back and start pushing. I hate it when people touch me. I really hate it when men touch me, but we're not going to get into that... Then he starts going on and on about how he hasn't trained all winter and he's really into the "death march" now. "Well, maybe you would have more energy if you didn't have to push my fat ass around," I said.
"You're not fat," he said. That wasn't the point. Quit touching me! THAT was the point.
Then we got to a longer, slower climb. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he hooked his fingertips on my spine and dragged me closer to him. There was nothing inappropriate about it, except that our handlebars were touching which made me nervous, but I couldn't get away because I couldn't surge forward (I didn't have the power), I couldn't go left (he was there), I couldn't go right (he had his fingers half way around my spine), and I couldn't drop back (his hand was there). He hung on and stayed there for what felt like an eternity. After the 55-ish mile ride and a stop in the shop to stock up on supplies for tomorrow I got home thoroughly drained and vowing to ride more hills so that no one would ever touch me again!
Like I said, faster in the middle.The Adirondacks
The drive to Lake George is over 4 hours long, so I got up at 3:45 in order to hit the road early. To avoid toll roads my directions took me a weird rout through northern New Hampshire and Vermont, then through some backwater highways into the park. Driving on one of these rinky-dink 2-lane 55 mph scenic routs I came to Woodstock, VT. I drove by a police cruiser with its lights on. Then I saw that the speed limit had gone down to 25. Good thing I saw that, I thought as I dropped down to 25. The cop car pulled out. What the fuck? Was I getting pulled over?! I hadn’t even been speeding! I pulled into a parking lot and the cop came up behind me. I wasn’t mad or anything, because I KNEW that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was just a speed trap f’chrissake. They all get us some time, it was just my turn. It wasn’t worth getting mad over, but I was still glad that it was raining and she was the one that had to get out of the car, not me. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” she asked. She had puffy hair like only country people have. If you don’t get out of Woodstock, VT much, you might not know that puffy hair hasn’t been in fashion since the 80’s.
“Well, after I saw you I saw a sign that said 25 mph and slowed down,” I said. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with the area.” Stupid country towns, they have nowhere to pull in municipal dollars than to snag a city slicker every weekend. What other explanation was there for her being out here at 7am on a Sunday?
“Well it was the second sign,” she said. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but it still wouldn’t surprise me if she was waiting there at the first sign. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“Like 50 or 55,” I said, honestly.
“52.” So I WASN’T SPEEDING! She wrote me a ticket saying I’d only been going 35, which was nice, because awful things happen if you’re going twice the speed limit, and I was on my way. I just shoved the ticket in my glove compartment and forgot about it. I was NOT going to let this ruin my day.
My directions were going fine until I came to a T-stop that was not on my directions. North or south? I chose north. If I was right, then great; if I was wrong, then it would cut distance off my ride. It turns out that I was wrong, and wound up cutting Lake George completely off my rout, but that’s okay. I have bad memories of a vacation there when I was in middle school. That vacation is a family joke to this day. It included fish in the toilet and bugs in the beds. I did not need to see Lake George again.
I parked at a Park and Ride, got my shit together, and got ready to go. The only thing I had left to do was find a bathroom. Across the street was this sign:
(my birthday's coming up, anyone want to buy me a new camera?) and a flag that said “OPEN”. I had no idea what the sign might mean, but surely they had a bathroom. I went up the walk and found only two trailers and a truck sitting in the mud. The larger of the two trailers had wooden pallets lying in the mud to serve as a walkway. I went up the “walk” gingerly trying not to get my cleats stuck between the wood slats and opened the door. Inside it was set up just like a bakery, only it was a TRAILER. This guy had a whole bakery capable of making bread and pastries set up in a SOLAR POWERED TRAILER. Cool huh? But I had a feeling that his home wasn’t much more than the bakery itself and felt bad asking for a bathroom. “Umm, is that parking lot across the way for all day parking?” I asked instead. Country folk sure do live differently than I do...
It was cloudy and cool as I set out. Where I parked was in a low marshland just south of Lake Champlain, but the rollers didn’t waste one single second. What had looked like flat land on the elevation profile was actually a bunch of tiny, steep hills one after the other. The thought occurred to me, This is going to suck on the way back. But that didn’t register, not really.
After about an hour and a half I found myself climbing a long, steady hill the likes of which I hadn’t seen since Europe, not even in stupid Connecticut. I climbed and climbed and climbed for miles and miles. Sweat started to drip down my face. I was breathing hard and pedaling to the rhythm of my breathing. I sniffed and got sweat up my nose. It felt like I had sea water up my nose and I couldn't make it go away. It sure was beautiful up here, and I couldn’t remember the last time I climbed a real mountain. Next time, I swore, I was going to bring someone up here with me. This was too beautiful to be doing all by myself. The clouds were just overhead,
caught on the tops of the mountains around me. I crested the hill and rode down in a tuck: pedals at 3 and 6, hands in the drops, nose practically resting on my handlebars. The wind howled in my ears and my naked eyes watered. I hit 45mph. I got to the bottom and realized I was grinning. Then, just as I pulled up to the T-stop at the bottom of the hill, the sun came out. I stopped to take a couple of pictures, and when a cop stopped and looked at me I smiled and gave him the thumbs up to show that I was holding my phone up to take pictures, not to get reception. Then I rode off. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy.
I stopped and bought batteries for my real camera (I’d checked them last night, but when I took it out this morning they were dead, go figure) and pedaled down the road through tiny little towns with signs that said “Have a safe trip!” as you left, then miles upon miles of nothing. I followed signs for Lake Placid, and was surprised to see that it would only be 50 miles exactly from where I parked.
Then I hit another hill. This one was longer with a few long, steep grades broken up with mellower uphill stretches. The highway followed the river, so the scenery was spectacular with the swollen river roaring away below and the towering mountains to either side of me. I was in such a good mood, that the tone in my head really was as cheezy as the tone in which I’m writing.
Grade vs. Distance for the major uphill chunks on the
way out. I have trouble making sense of these graphs, but
basically anything above the line is uphill. The higher
above the midline it is, the steeper the grade.
Any big colored-in chunk is a long climb.
I turned a corner and sticking out waaay above the trees were the Olympic ski jumping slopes. Hoool-ly SHIT, you guys! Have I mentioned that I’m afraid of heights? Those things were SO tall, and the slopes were so steep and narrow. Ski jumpers must be the most fearless and stupid motherfuckers on this earth!
I knew I was getting close to Lake Placid because kitted-out cyclists were zooming down the road in the other direction huddled low on their aero bars. No one dresses that geeky for a training ride except ironmen. Folks, remind me NEVER TO SIGN UP FOR IRONMAN LAKE PLACID! I know the thought’s going to cross my mind someday, so I’m counting on you all to talk me out of it. That bike course goes up the hill I just described TWICE. FUCK THAT!
I got into the town of Lake Placid around 1 o’clock. What a change from the hick towns I’d been riding through! Everything, but everything had Olympic rings on the side of it and a half dozen flags in front of it, and every store was a bike shop, ski shop, running shop, or clothing shop that would only appeal to athletes (i.e. Life is Good TM). I sat on a bench overlooking the lake sat on a bench to eat a Lära bar. I wasn’t really hungry or tired, so I just bought 2 liters of Gatorade and hit the road again.
Like I said, anyone wanna buy me a new camera?
Coming out of town there was this enormous grade that had me redlining to the top. Once I crested it the most horrible heartburn set in. It felt like I was either having a heart attack or being stabbed in the chest. What happened?! I’d been eating out of the bag of shot blocks, papaya chunks, and candy orange slices in my bento box all day without a problem. I’d had Accelerade in my camelbak all day. But now, every time I put food in my mouth, my chest would ache and burn every time my heartrate went up. I swear, I will never, ever drink Gatorade again for as long as I live. Gatorade makes you have a heart attack.
There was one long-ish grade back to the top of the mountain, and when I rode over it my chest felt AWFUL. I remember thinking, I will never do IMLP because it gives you a miochartial infarction! Some of you who have been with me for awhile might remember that when I’m riding alone, I make noise. I’ll scream and yell and swear and talk to the wind or terrain or cars or whatever, because no one’s around to think I’m nuts. So as my chest ached and burned I screamed and moaned and groaned and yelled and swore out loud, at the top of my lungs when it got bad.
After the shorter, steep climbs out of Lake Placid, I got to ride back down the monster mountain. I practiced my tucking again as I flew down the mountain at a million, billion miles per hour. I experimented with holding my hands on the centers of the handlebars like the pros do instead of the drops. It didn’t feel any faster to me, and it made it harder to steer and took my hands away from the brakes. Still, I looked cool, so now that my confidence was up, I rode like this more and more... when folding up like that didn’t make me feel like I was taking a hot knife to the chest, that is. What the hell, I NEVER get heartburn!
When I got to the bottom of the hill my directions had me turning left, while I had come from the right before. Remember, I was not parked where I’d expected to park when I wrote out the rout, so I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I decided to follow the rout and set off into the unknown to my right. Oh my god, I was going S L O W. I was on my little chain ring and still couldn’t squeeze the power out of my legs. I knew I had to keep eating, but that gave me more heart attacks, which made me yell and scream more. What’s more, I wasn’t 100% sure of my directions. I was supposed to be following Rte 9, rather than 9N, which I’d taken to get up here, but you know how these country roads are: sometimes they take one name, and you don’t see the other name until they split apart miles later. And I had no idea what direction the road I was on went in. For all I knew it went all the way up to Canada. I’d tried to print up a map, but for some reason Google maps doesn’t like to print. After about 5 miles of doubt, I stopped, ate another bar, and turned back. Oh my God, all this time I’d thought I’d been on a flat, when I was really going up! I coasted easily back up the road from whence I had come into... a gnarley headwind! I swear, this headwind was not here when I came up this way! I don’t know how fast it was blowing, but there are headwinds you can deal with, and then there are what-the-fuck headwinds. This was a what-the-fuck headwind. I was around 80 miles now, getting VERY tired, having heart attacks every few minutes, and this was NOT what I needed right now. Certainly not with the hill I had in front of me. I remembered myself grinning as I’d blown down it this morning, and wished I could have gone back in time and slapped that stupid grin off my own face and screamed, “You DO realize you have to go UP that thing again, you fucking idiot!”
I thought that at least when I turned the corner and went into the mountains the headwind might go away. I was wrong, it was a dead-on what-the-fuck gale and I was riding right into it. Actually, I wound up going so slow that I was kind of thankful that it cooled my face, but still I did despair for a minute or two. Before I started climbing I took a second to regroup. There was no sense in feeling sorry for myself. I just had to suck it up and climb it and that was that. As I started climbing in my easiest gear and heaving for air I just repeated over and over to myself. “Just - get – o – ver – it.” The mantra helped. I switched back and forth between thinking it meant, “Quit complaining and harden the fuck up,” or “Don’t think, just climb.” Every once in awhile I would remind myself, “The-hill-DOES-end. Just-get-o-ver-it.” And I got over it without cracking... for now. As a reward I got another flying descent for several miles.
For some reason I felt like I had something to prove in this workout. It wasn't just all the people who told me I shouldn't do it that I had to prove something to, I was also competing against people who probably have no idea that I've been doing my homework on them. I've admitted that I chase Bob-O's times, but I had other people in my that I wanted to prove something to. Not that I wanted to get in these individuals' faces, I just wanted to post some speedy fast times, and maybe even lie and say "it felt easy." I looked down at my wrist. I'd only gone about 95 miles and 6 hours had come and gone, I think I'd actually passed the 6 1/2 hour mark at that point. What had held me together for miles were thoughts like, If I can just push a little harder I might be able to hit 112 miles in under 6:30. When that one went it was, Push a little harder and you can get a century in in under 6:30. When 6:30 came and went I briefly fixated on getting 112 miles in in under 7 hours. When I saw that that was not going to happen, I cracked.
The other thing spinning around in my mind was that one of the ideas behind this ride was to go over 112 miles, so mentally the distance would seem smaller. I wanted to teach both my mind to push past 112 miles, so that when staring down the barrel of a marathon, I wouldn't feel like I'd already put one max effort into my legs so far today. When I first turned back from Lake Placid I had planned to ride past my car the remaining 10 miles down to Lake George. Then, forever and ever for the rest of my life I could tell myself, "This is nothing, I've ridden 130 miles over mountains before." When the headwinds began, I told myself that I could choose between riding extra and a run-off. When seven hours came and went, like I said, I cracked, lost it, gave up. I spun in whatever gear offered the least resistance, sat up into the headwind, and gave up on the idea of running when I got back to the car.
My legs still actually felt okay. I wasn't sore and the thought never crossed my mind to walk my bike. I wasn't even really hungry. Mentally, though, I was cooked. The last 30 miles had been such a fight, and if I'd felt this bad going 112 miles, then how was I ever going to run after this, let alone run a marathon?! And still fresh in my mind was what a marathon felt like on FRESH legs, and despite doing all the training how it still hurt like hell. It really hit me then: What the fuck have I gotten myself into?! I was scared, but most of all I was disappointed in myself. I've never been fast or talented, but the one thing that I've always prided myself on was endurance, stubbornly barging on where every good reason said that I should quit. If I ever felt again the way that I felt at that very second, I knew I'd quit. It wasn't even that my body was that tired, I just... CRACKED.
I hadn't been quiet all afternoon, but my grunts and moans and screams had just been visceral reactions to how I was feeling. Now I started using words. "Just lighten the fuck up, would you!" I yelled at the wind. I came over a ridge and saw another hill ahead and moaned, "Nooooooooooo." In Spain I could yell "FUCK" when I dropped something, was startled, or hit my head, and even though people would look at me funny and everyone knew what it meant, it didn't really matter because it wasn't their language. I came to the bottom of an incline that was among the steepest of the day (around 15%) and yelled, "FUUUUUCK!" at the top of my lungs. I think some of the townspeople heard me. I think that in an English-speaking country, that might matter. A few minutes later I pushed up another hill and caught myself thinking, Maybe that was the last one. Don't you ever fucking think that, I said out loud. Because it's NEVER the last one. When the next hill rolled around, because there was no one around to see me, I started crying. There were no tears, it was the kind of crying spoiled kids do to get attention when they want out of wherever they are. I just wanted someone to swoop in and get me out of here. This is as close to a religeous experience as I get: Wishing I believed in God so I had someone to beg to get me out of here. And when I finally reached my car, I wasn't relieved, but angry. I felt like when someone's really late picking you up from the airport after a long flight, all you want to do is bitch somebody out.
Final stats:
Distance: 114.71 miles
Time: 7:17:40
Average speed: 15.7 mph
Total elevation gain: 9,335 ft
I packed my stuff into the car, took a short walk to clean out my legs, and started driving. I stopped at the first gas station I saw and bought some pretzels and peanuts even though I was still having chest pains. Maybe it was my heart breaking, maybe that's what it was. I peed for the first time since I left in the morning, and surprisingly it was mostly clear. God knows how that happened. Then I got in the car and made my way back to the highway. I doubled back over the road I had just ridden. I wasn't really thinking about much of anything. I was exhausted and numb. I felt like I'd gone somewhere emotionally that I'd only been once or twice before. Suddenly, out of nowhere I started sobbing. I don't know why, I wasn't sad in the least. I've heard of people who have cried after massages or after doing a max lift. I didn't feel much of anything, it just felt good to release it. It was like watching a good tear-jerker when you're in the right mood. So I drove and cried as I pulled onto the interstate back home.
I'd been driving for about an hour when I passed a sign that said something like, "Pittsburgh 42 miles, Montreal 135 miles." That's funny, I thought, those two cities aren't in the same direction. Then, at the next exit I passed, it didn't just say "EXIT 35", it said "EXIT/SORTIE". Oh shit! That's French! I'm headed towards Canada, and getting close by the looks of it! I snapped out of my self-indulgent funk and pulled off at the next exit. I swear I was paying attention when I got on the highway. It's just, they have the little "North" and "South" signs in such little type, and they both end in TH, have the same number of letters, and have an O in the middle. EaST and weST have similar problems. It's just my opinion, but they should either fix the signs, or fix the English language. Now I had to drive another hour just to get back to where I started, and with gas prices the way they are... Well it doesn't pay to cry and drive.
On the way back they had the big marquis flashing, PREPARE TO STOP AHEAD. I wonder why? I thought. Road work? An accident? When the cars started to slow down I was stupefied to see US border control agents. I had gone through border patrol checkpoints in California, Arizona, and Texas where they asked you questions and peered suspiciously through your car, but in New York? Were there really people sneaking Canadians through the border hidden under tarps in the back seat?
The best part of the day? Stinky Business Septic Pumping and Diner at mile 30. No kidding: diner and pooper services in the same building. The trucks simply said "Stinky" on the front.
I don't really have a conclusion to my tale. I'm not sore in the least. I wasn't ravenously hungry afterwards. I have been very sleepy, but that is probably because I got home way past my bedtime. I'm just a little, well, disappointed. So does anyone want to come with me next time? I promise, I'll do my best not to get too cranky when I get tired.
“Well, after I saw you I saw a sign that said 25 mph and slowed down,” I said. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with the area.” Stupid country towns, they have nowhere to pull in municipal dollars than to snag a city slicker every weekend. What other explanation was there for her being out here at 7am on a Sunday?
“Well it was the second sign,” she said. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but it still wouldn’t surprise me if she was waiting there at the first sign. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“Like 50 or 55,” I said, honestly.
“52.” So I WASN’T SPEEDING! She wrote me a ticket saying I’d only been going 35, which was nice, because awful things happen if you’re going twice the speed limit, and I was on my way. I just shoved the ticket in my glove compartment and forgot about it. I was NOT going to let this ruin my day.
My directions were going fine until I came to a T-stop that was not on my directions. North or south? I chose north. If I was right, then great; if I was wrong, then it would cut distance off my ride. It turns out that I was wrong, and wound up cutting Lake George completely off my rout, but that’s okay. I have bad memories of a vacation there when I was in middle school. That vacation is a family joke to this day. It included fish in the toilet and bugs in the beds. I did not need to see Lake George again.
I parked at a Park and Ride, got my shit together, and got ready to go. The only thing I had left to do was find a bathroom. Across the street was this sign:
(my birthday's coming up, anyone want to buy me a new camera?) and a flag that said “OPEN”. I had no idea what the sign might mean, but surely they had a bathroom. I went up the walk and found only two trailers and a truck sitting in the mud. The larger of the two trailers had wooden pallets lying in the mud to serve as a walkway. I went up the “walk” gingerly trying not to get my cleats stuck between the wood slats and opened the door. Inside it was set up just like a bakery, only it was a TRAILER. This guy had a whole bakery capable of making bread and pastries set up in a SOLAR POWERED TRAILER. Cool huh? But I had a feeling that his home wasn’t much more than the bakery itself and felt bad asking for a bathroom. “Umm, is that parking lot across the way for all day parking?” I asked instead. Country folk sure do live differently than I do...It was cloudy and cool as I set out. Where I parked was in a low marshland just south of Lake Champlain, but the rollers didn’t waste one single second. What had looked like flat land on the elevation profile was actually a bunch of tiny, steep hills one after the other. The thought occurred to me, This is going to suck on the way back. But that didn’t register, not really.
After about an hour and a half I found myself climbing a long, steady hill the likes of which I hadn’t seen since Europe, not even in stupid Connecticut. I climbed and climbed and climbed for miles and miles. Sweat started to drip down my face. I was breathing hard and pedaling to the rhythm of my breathing. I sniffed and got sweat up my nose. It felt like I had sea water up my nose and I couldn't make it go away. It sure was beautiful up here, and I couldn’t remember the last time I climbed a real mountain. Next time, I swore, I was going to bring someone up here with me. This was too beautiful to be doing all by myself. The clouds were just overhead,
caught on the tops of the mountains around me. I crested the hill and rode down in a tuck: pedals at 3 and 6, hands in the drops, nose practically resting on my handlebars. The wind howled in my ears and my naked eyes watered. I hit 45mph. I got to the bottom and realized I was grinning. Then, just as I pulled up to the T-stop at the bottom of the hill, the sun came out. I stopped to take a couple of pictures, and when a cop stopped and looked at me I smiled and gave him the thumbs up to show that I was holding my phone up to take pictures, not to get reception. Then I rode off. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy. I stopped and bought batteries for my real camera (I’d checked them last night, but when I took it out this morning they were dead, go figure) and pedaled down the road through tiny little towns with signs that said “Have a safe trip!” as you left, then miles upon miles of nothing. I followed signs for Lake Placid, and was surprised to see that it would only be 50 miles exactly from where I parked. Then I hit another hill. This one was longer with a few long, steep grades broken up with mellower uphill stretches. The highway followed the river, so the scenery was spectacular with the swollen river roaring away below and the towering mountains to either side of me. I was in such a good mood, that the tone in my head really was as cheezy as the tone in which I’m writing. Grade vs. Distance for the major uphill chunks on thebasically anything above the line is uphill. The higher
above the midline it is, the steeper the grade.
Any big colored-in chunk is a long climb.
I turned a corner and sticking out waaay above the trees were the Olympic ski jumping slopes. Hoool-ly SHIT, you guys! Have I mentioned that I’m afraid of heights? Those things were SO tall, and the slopes were so steep and narrow. Ski jumpers must be the most fearless and stupid motherfuckers on this earth!I knew I was getting close to Lake Placid because kitted-out cyclists were zooming down the road in the other direction huddled low on their aero bars. No one dresses that geeky for a training ride except ironmen. Folks, remind me NEVER TO SIGN UP FOR IRONMAN LAKE PLACID! I know the thought’s going to cross my mind someday, so I’m counting on you all to talk me out of it. That bike course goes up the hill I just described TWICE. FUCK THAT!
I got into the town of Lake Placid around 1 o’clock. What a change from the hick towns I’d been riding through! Everything, but everything had Olympic rings on the side of it and a half dozen flags in front of it, and every store was a bike shop, ski shop, running shop, or clothing shop that would only appeal to athletes (i.e. Life is Good TM). I sat on a bench overlooking the lake sat on a bench to eat a Lära bar. I wasn’t really hungry or tired, so I just bought 2 liters of Gatorade and hit the road again. Like I said, anyone wanna buy me a new camera?Coming out of town there was this enormous grade that had me redlining to the top. Once I crested it the most horrible heartburn set in. It felt like I was either having a heart attack or being stabbed in the chest. What happened?! I’d been eating out of the bag of shot blocks, papaya chunks, and candy orange slices in my bento box all day without a problem. I’d had Accelerade in my camelbak all day. But now, every time I put food in my mouth, my chest would ache and burn every time my heartrate went up. I swear, I will never, ever drink Gatorade again for as long as I live. Gatorade makes you have a heart attack. There was one long-ish grade back to the top of the mountain, and when I rode over it my chest felt AWFUL. I remember thinking, I will never do IMLP because it gives you a miochartial infarction! Some of you who have been with me for awhile might remember that when I’m riding alone, I make noise. I’ll scream and yell and swear and talk to the wind or terrain or cars or whatever, because no one’s around to think I’m nuts. So as my chest ached and burned I screamed and moaned and groaned and yelled and swore out loud, at the top of my lungs when it got bad.
After the shorter, steep climbs out of Lake Placid, I got to ride back down the monster mountain. I practiced my tucking again as I flew down the mountain at a million, billion miles per hour. I experimented with holding my hands on the centers of the handlebars like the pros do instead of the drops. It didn’t feel any faster to me, and it made it harder to steer and took my hands away from the brakes. Still, I looked cool, so now that my confidence was up, I rode like this more and more... when folding up like that didn’t make me feel like I was taking a hot knife to the chest, that is. What the hell, I NEVER get heartburn!When I got to the bottom of the hill my directions had me turning left, while I had come from the right before. Remember, I was not parked where I’d expected to park when I wrote out the rout, so I wasn’t quite sure what to do. I decided to follow the rout and set off into the unknown to my right. Oh my god, I was going S L O W. I was on my little chain ring and still couldn’t squeeze the power out of my legs. I knew I had to keep eating, but that gave me more heart attacks, which made me yell and scream more. What’s more, I wasn’t 100% sure of my directions. I was supposed to be following Rte 9, rather than 9N, which I’d taken to get up here, but you know how these country roads are: sometimes they take one name, and you don’t see the other name until they split apart miles later. And I had no idea what direction the road I was on went in. For all I knew it went all the way up to Canada. I’d tried to print up a map, but for some reason Google maps doesn’t like to print. After about 5 miles of doubt, I stopped, ate another bar, and turned back. Oh my God, all this time I’d thought I’d been on a flat, when I was really going up! I coasted easily back up the road from whence I had come into... a gnarley headwind! I swear, this headwind was not here when I came up this way! I don’t know how fast it was blowing, but there are headwinds you can deal with, and then there are what-the-fuck headwinds. This was a what-the-fuck headwind. I was around 80 miles now, getting VERY tired, having heart attacks every few minutes, and this was NOT what I needed right now. Certainly not with the hill I had in front of me. I remembered myself grinning as I’d blown down it this morning, and wished I could have gone back in time and slapped that stupid grin off my own face and screamed, “You DO realize you have to go UP that thing again, you fucking idiot!”
I thought that at least when I turned the corner and went into the mountains the headwind might go away. I was wrong, it was a dead-on what-the-fuck gale and I was riding right into it. Actually, I wound up going so slow that I was kind of thankful that it cooled my face, but still I did despair for a minute or two. Before I started climbing I took a second to regroup. There was no sense in feeling sorry for myself. I just had to suck it up and climb it and that was that. As I started climbing in my easiest gear and heaving for air I just repeated over and over to myself. “Just - get – o – ver – it.” The mantra helped. I switched back and forth between thinking it meant, “Quit complaining and harden the fuck up,” or “Don’t think, just climb.” Every once in awhile I would remind myself, “The-hill-DOES-end. Just-get-o-ver-it.” And I got over it without cracking... for now. As a reward I got another flying descent for several miles.Just use it for background music for the following section.
But I’d used up everything I had mentally on that hill. I’d told myself I had to “Just get over it,” the “just” meaning “and then that’s it.” But that wasn’t it. I still had some 30 miles to go over rolling terrain. I hadn’t eaten in awhile, so my heart attacks had calmed down, but the what-the-fuck headwinds were just as bad here as they had been in the valley. The trees still didn't have any leaves and there wasn't so much as a plastic bag skittering across the street to give me an indication of how hard the wind was blowing. That really bothered me for some reason. If the wind is really blowing and I can SEE something flapping away, then it seems to validate me. But if there are no weeds, leaves, flags, or papers lying around to be blown in the wind it feels like it's all in my head. If it was all in my head, then that meant that I really was riding only about 10 mph on my little chainring on flat ground. No matter how you sliced it, I felt weak. I kept telling myself that it was good to get the slow rides out in training when you're all by yourself. Telling myself that worked for a few minutes, but I knew I was full of shit.For some reason I felt like I had something to prove in this workout. It wasn't just all the people who told me I shouldn't do it that I had to prove something to, I was also competing against people who probably have no idea that I've been doing my homework on them. I've admitted that I chase Bob-O's times, but I had other people in my that I wanted to prove something to. Not that I wanted to get in these individuals' faces, I just wanted to post some speedy fast times, and maybe even lie and say "it felt easy." I looked down at my wrist. I'd only gone about 95 miles and 6 hours had come and gone, I think I'd actually passed the 6 1/2 hour mark at that point. What had held me together for miles were thoughts like, If I can just push a little harder I might be able to hit 112 miles in under 6:30. When that one went it was, Push a little harder and you can get a century in in under 6:30. When 6:30 came and went I briefly fixated on getting 112 miles in in under 7 hours. When I saw that that was not going to happen, I cracked.The other thing spinning around in my mind was that one of the ideas behind this ride was to go over 112 miles, so mentally the distance would seem smaller. I wanted to teach both my mind to push past 112 miles, so that when staring down the barrel of a marathon, I wouldn't feel like I'd already put one max effort into my legs so far today. When I first turned back from Lake Placid I had planned to ride past my car the remaining 10 miles down to Lake George. Then, forever and ever for the rest of my life I could tell myself, "This is nothing, I've ridden 130 miles over mountains before." When the headwinds began, I told myself that I could choose between riding extra and a run-off. When seven hours came and went, like I said, I cracked, lost it, gave up. I spun in whatever gear offered the least resistance, sat up into the headwind, and gave up on the idea of running when I got back to the car.
My legs still actually felt okay. I wasn't sore and the thought never crossed my mind to walk my bike. I wasn't even really hungry. Mentally, though, I was cooked. The last 30 miles had been such a fight, and if I'd felt this bad going 112 miles, then how was I ever going to run after this, let alone run a marathon?! And still fresh in my mind was what a marathon felt like on FRESH legs, and despite doing all the training how it still hurt like hell. It really hit me then: What the fuck have I gotten myself into?! I was scared, but most of all I was disappointed in myself. I've never been fast or talented, but the one thing that I've always prided myself on was endurance, stubbornly barging on where every good reason said that I should quit. If I ever felt again the way that I felt at that very second, I knew I'd quit. It wasn't even that my body was that tired, I just... CRACKED.
I hadn't been quiet all afternoon, but my grunts and moans and screams had just been visceral reactions to how I was feeling. Now I started using words. "Just lighten the fuck up, would you!" I yelled at the wind. I came over a ridge and saw another hill ahead and moaned, "Nooooooooooo." In Spain I could yell "FUCK" when I dropped something, was startled, or hit my head, and even though people would look at me funny and everyone knew what it meant, it didn't really matter because it wasn't their language. I came to the bottom of an incline that was among the steepest of the day (around 15%) and yelled, "FUUUUUCK!" at the top of my lungs. I think some of the townspeople heard me. I think that in an English-speaking country, that might matter. A few minutes later I pushed up another hill and caught myself thinking, Maybe that was the last one. Don't you ever fucking think that, I said out loud. Because it's NEVER the last one. When the next hill rolled around, because there was no one around to see me, I started crying. There were no tears, it was the kind of crying spoiled kids do to get attention when they want out of wherever they are. I just wanted someone to swoop in and get me out of here. This is as close to a religeous experience as I get: Wishing I believed in God so I had someone to beg to get me out of here. And when I finally reached my car, I wasn't relieved, but angry. I felt like when someone's really late picking you up from the airport after a long flight, all you want to do is bitch somebody out.
Final stats:
Distance: 114.71 miles
Time: 7:17:40
Average speed: 15.7 mph
Total elevation gain: 9,335 ft
I packed my stuff into the car, took a short walk to clean out my legs, and started driving. I stopped at the first gas station I saw and bought some pretzels and peanuts even though I was still having chest pains. Maybe it was my heart breaking, maybe that's what it was. I peed for the first time since I left in the morning, and surprisingly it was mostly clear. God knows how that happened. Then I got in the car and made my way back to the highway. I doubled back over the road I had just ridden. I wasn't really thinking about much of anything. I was exhausted and numb. I felt like I'd gone somewhere emotionally that I'd only been once or twice before. Suddenly, out of nowhere I started sobbing. I don't know why, I wasn't sad in the least. I've heard of people who have cried after massages or after doing a max lift. I didn't feel much of anything, it just felt good to release it. It was like watching a good tear-jerker when you're in the right mood. So I drove and cried as I pulled onto the interstate back home.
I'd been driving for about an hour when I passed a sign that said something like, "Pittsburgh 42 miles, Montreal 135 miles." That's funny, I thought, those two cities aren't in the same direction. Then, at the next exit I passed, it didn't just say "EXIT 35", it said "EXIT/SORTIE". Oh shit! That's French! I'm headed towards Canada, and getting close by the looks of it! I snapped out of my self-indulgent funk and pulled off at the next exit. I swear I was paying attention when I got on the highway. It's just, they have the little "North" and "South" signs in such little type, and they both end in TH, have the same number of letters, and have an O in the middle. EaST and weST have similar problems. It's just my opinion, but they should either fix the signs, or fix the English language. Now I had to drive another hour just to get back to where I started, and with gas prices the way they are... Well it doesn't pay to cry and drive.
On the way back they had the big marquis flashing, PREPARE TO STOP AHEAD. I wonder why? I thought. Road work? An accident? When the cars started to slow down I was stupefied to see US border control agents. I had gone through border patrol checkpoints in California, Arizona, and Texas where they asked you questions and peered suspiciously through your car, but in New York? Were there really people sneaking Canadians through the border hidden under tarps in the back seat?
The best part of the day? Stinky Business Septic Pumping and Diner at mile 30. No kidding: diner and pooper services in the same building. The trucks simply said "Stinky" on the front.
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