Last weekend, I traveled to Florida to take part in St. Anthony's Triathlon. I was there as part of Team in Training--I didn't fund raise, but I helped others with their fundraising and trained along with them. (My father's lymphoma continues, happily, to be in remission). Now it was time for the actual event: the reward for all the hard work!
The challenge for this event would be the swim, which was to take place in Tampa Bay. This would be just the third time I had swum in open water this year. Tampa Bay is salt water, which would be new for all of us, but the bay is not an ocean. A bay does not have waves, but is calm salt water. Or so I thought.
The race was on Sunday, so on Saturday we donned our wetsuits for a practice swim in the bay. My Team in Training teammate, Amy S, and I swam together. Instead of the smooth water we expected, we faced something like I faced when swimming in the ocean as a little girl. Those childhood swims did not really involve swimming, but rather wading out far enough to ride the waves into shore on a raft (or "draft," as my sister famously said). Each morning and afternoon, we'd take to the waves, coming in during the heat of the day to avoid the sunburn that inevitably came anyway, despite the zinc oxide and T-shirts I wore as a precaution. As she saw the waves, Amy S stood still and I saw panic setting in. I told her of my childhood memories and announced, in my best six-year old voice, "this is fun!" Whee!!" And it was fun because we didn't have to go too far and because I was concentrating on making my friend feel better, which calmed me. But far out in the water I saw little specks of orange and yellow. They were the buoys set up for the race, showing how far we'd have to swim on race day. On the outside, I was exhuberant. On the inside, I was trembling.
Race morning, we set up our transition and made our way to the swim start, on a beautiful white beach called "Spa Beach." Spa Beach sounds like the place to sip blue drinks with little umbrellas in them while reading a lazy novel, but there were hundreds there donning black wetsuits, determined to go out in the water. As I awaited my turn, I put my wetsuit on and went in the water to take a few strokes to calm myself. The water was much calmer than it had been the day before. Have you ever heard the expression "calm before the storm"? TNT Coach Steve bucked us up. It is so much smoother than yesterday, he said. And, based on the current it appeared that the the 1st leg (of 3) would be hardest. Once you get past that first turn, the rest of your swim should be smooth sailing.
I went to the edge of the beach for the onshore start to the race. The announcer said something and a horn blasted. We were off! I ran out into the water and when it got deep enough, I began swimming. Several ladies around me were still wading, and I wondered if I'd started too soon. But I was able to swim, so I kept going. I was really pleased because the current wasn't too bad, and this was the hard part! I turned the corner to leg 2 and began surfing. The waves were HUGE and splashed over my head. I tried to lift my eyes out of the water like an alligator (this is how they teach you to look for the buoys). I couldn't see anything but waves! I was moving, but where was I going? I prayed that it was toward a buoy! Then I realized to lift the alligator eyes at the crest of a wave. This caused the entire head and neck of the alligator to rear up, but I could see a buoy! I was off course, out to sea, so I corrected course. The waves buffeted me about like a toy boat in a huge sea. I began to sight at each wave and correct course almost every time, sometimes left, sometimes right. The sea was so rough, and what was falling on my head? Was it raining?!? The drops were really hard. Was it hailing? Or is this just strong spray from the waves? In any event, I was wet and rain wouldn't make me any wetter, so I decided whatever it was could be tolerated. On each side of the swim course there were orange "sight" buoys, designed to help you stay on course, and yellow "turn" buoys, marking places you were to make a turn. I was expecting just one more orange buoy, and I saw yellow! I rounded the yellow buoy to begin the return to shore, and the fun started.
The waves were Waikiki waves! I tried breathing to my right (which feels wrong to me) and lost my rhythm and couldn't sight. But the waves were breaking left to right. I tried sighting and breathing left and realized it was fine, as long as I timed it right to breathe before the crash of the new wave. I was able to see the sight buoys. I recalled the Monty Python scene where the castle never gets closer. Unlike the Tavern race I did last year, where the river current was so strong I had to bear down and swim upstream without stopping for anything, for this swim, I had to lift my eyes enough to sight every cycle or every other cycle, and each time I had to correct course somewhat because of the unevent current and the waves. It required a good bit of thought. Finally, I passed the last sight buoy and spied the exit stairs. Someone had placed a bright pink marker on the stairs, which helped me sight to the exit. As I got closer to the stairs, I realized the pink marker was a pink swim cap, and inside it was a very tired woman, lying on the stairs, as flat as a flounder. There appeared to be very little room to get around the flounder. I swam to her left and a teen aged boy grabbed my arm and pulled me over the flounder. I stood up slowly to avoid dizzyness and began the jog back to transition.
Transition was a mess of sand, so I put on socks, shoes and sand, grabbed my helmet, and off I went with Ariel, my bike. The wind was relentless. Everywhere I turned it was a head wind so I had to stay aero, or strong cross winds blowing so hard I couldn't stay aero for fear of losing control. Just a week before the race, I had been riding with my friend Holly, who had announced at a red light: "Go really slow and the light will turn green and we can go on." I had gone so slow that eventually I stopped and, still clipped into my shoes, I had fallen over. I remembered that sensation as I struggled mightily to ensure some semblance of forward movement in spite of the wind. It was embarrasing enough to fall on a practice ride (and a man in a car was nice enough then to sit on his horn so I would realize that I wasn't supposed to fall over into the street), but I wanted to avoid falling in a race. Was the wind really so hard I would fall over? A couple times I looked at the speed on my garmin and I worried. I pedaled harder. I said, "Ariel, I'm sorry we're going so slow. I know you like to fly." She replied in her "Tickle Me Ariel" voice (think Tickle Me Elmo, only female): "I prefer tail winds myself, Amy! Or at least some big down hills! Florida sucks!" There were no hills, just relentless wind. A training buddy, Kelly, had told me that Ironman Florida, thought to be one of the "faster" Ironman races because of the flat bike course, was difficult, mentally, because of the relentless wind. I was having a hard enough time riding 24 miles in those conditions, so I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't attempting 112 miles! Finally, in the last 6 miles, conditions eased up. I couldn't feel the wind at my back, but my garmin showed I was riding 22 miles and hour, on flat ground, with little effort. Tail wind!
Back at T2, all the bikes in my area were racked except for Ariel. One of the bikes was in Ariel's spot with the wheel down on top of my running shoes, hat and water belt--in short all of the stuff I needed to run. I said to myself, but out loud, "someone's bike is on my stuff!" A voice from the ground on the other side of the rack said "oh, that's mine; don't worry about it." Don't worry about it? I convinced her that she had racked her bike backwards and would receive a penalty for getting this wrong, so she moved it, freeing my bike shoes, visor and running belt, though leaving much sand all over them. I changed as quickly as I could and headed out for the run. The run was hard, especially the first couple miles. The sand in the shoes didn't help, nor did the heat. I sipped the water in my water belt and wondered if anyone had an Earl Grey tea bag. It was SO hot, and I wondered if I should pour water on my head, but Coach Michael had warned recently that doing this could throw off your body's ability to regulate temperatures, causing you to slow down. I was going pretty slow already. Wasn't there a humidity exception, though? This is Florida, humidity capital of the US. I was thinking through this issue when someone I recognized as TNT's New York City coach advised me "Be sure to pour water on your head. It's hot out here!" I said thanks and continued to weigh this option when suddenly a volunteer poured ice cold water over my head and neck. Immediately, I went from boiling hot to shivering. "There you go!" After the initial shock wore off, the water bath appeared to help, so I believe there is a humidity exception.
I continued on and at about mile 2.5 I caught up with a younger woman who was struggling to keep going. I tried to encourage her, and thereby make both of us feel better. "Come on, we've got this!" She replied, "oh, this run is really hard! It is so hot. I am doing the relay; did you do the whole race?" I tried not to laugh. She said, "Also, did you do the whole long swim or did you start after they shortened it up?" HUH?????
As it turned out, just after my wave started to swim, the officials decided it was too dangerous to expect people to finish the whole 1500 meters. The people behind me were older folks, novices and a special wave for Team in Training (who often are doing their first triathlons). So, most of my training buddies doing the race were in the TNT group and ended up swimming 1000 meters.
As for me, I'm glad I did the full 1500 meters. It gives me an excuse for going so darned slow on the bike and run. I was tired!
But the truth is, as things go, I did pretty well. Most of the triathlons I've done were shorter, sprint tris. St. Anthony's actually was only the second time I've done an olympic length triathlon (1500 meter swim, 40K bike and 10K run). The first time was at Nations last fall. I had a great swim and bike there, but had a terrible run because of asthma. Here is a comparison of my times then and now:
Total time: St. Anthony's 3:48:01; Nations 4:05:01--a PR (personal record) by 17 minutes!
Swim time: St. Anthony's 45:35; Nations 46:05 -- a faster swim despite the oceanic conditions!
T1 (swim to bike transition): St. A's 5:45; Nations 5:46 -- one second faster! (Gotta work on transitions).
Bike: St. A's 1:34:23 (avg. speed 15.8 mph); Nations 1:40:07. Speedy Ariel despite the winds
T2: St. A's 3:24; Nations 3:53 (Improved despite sandy girl's crushing my run stuff with her bike).
Run: St. A's 1:18:55 (12:44 avg pace); Nations 1:29:55 (I need to work on a faster run at the end of a triathlon. This was faster only because asthma plagued me at Nations).
So, faster overall and faster on each element, despite the elements! And another step in helping to cure cancer through Team in Training.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Sevens and Eights
I learned to swim as a child, and even joined the swim team for a couple summers, along with my little brother, Ben. Ben is a talented athlete and quickly got awarded "guppy of the week" and later "minnow of the week." I was skilled at blowing bubbles and patiently waited to win "whale of the week." Although that did not occur, I did win many ribbons in races--each a sixth place ribbon (there being six lanes of girls competing).
I took swimming up again over two years ago. Now I swim regularly with a group that is divided into eight swimming lanes, based upon speed. I have labored long in lane one, designated the "beginner" lane. I think the theory is that "beginner" sounds better than "slow," and this is true for a while. But a beginner at three years? Well, the good news is that I recently was upgraded to swimming in lane two. I no longer am a beginner! I am now a "novice." I am at the back of the novice pack, and I am determined to work hard so I am not demoted back to beginner.
I have daydreamed lately about what it must be like to swim in lanes seven or eight. Those in these lanes swim so fast, covering three or four times the distance I do in the same alloted time, but when they are finished, they do not look tired. Will I ever be promoted to lane seven or lane eight? I would be satisfied with seven, where the swimming is slippery, as though the swimmers are fish rather than human. If you are a scholar of the Bible, you know the importance of seven. Seven days of Passover, seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine, seven loaves and fishes. And of course, seven days to create the world, with the seventh day reserved for rest, or perhaps for some slippery swimming. Seven means completeness. Eight is a whole other dimension, another zone. Turn an 8 on its side and you have infinity. Those in lane eight are so fast that I question whether they really are human, or perhaps space aliens sent here with really good disguises. The water is no barrier for them; it is as though they swim through space.
This week, I arrived at swim practice a little early, and another class was still swimming. I noticed they were swimming in lanes seven and eight. Although they appeared human in some respects, they were somehow different. For one thing, they looked very fast. Suddenly, Coach Michael called my name, "Amy, come swim. We need another swimmer for this relay." I grabbed my swim cap and lined up, in lane seven. My daydream was coming true! For fifty yards, I was going to swim with the slippery sevens, trying to best the infinite eights.
I looked around at the space alien swimmers, like me in some ways, different in others, and recalled an episode of the Twighlight Zone called "To Serve Mankind." Do you remember this episode? Short beings with giant heads pilot to earth in a spaceship that looks like the Markel Building out near Willow Lawn. They appear benevolent and say they want to help humans. They even have written a book called "To Serve Mankind." A group of humans agree to visit the alien planet and begin to board the spaceship. As the door closes, a woman runs out and shouts, "Don't go! Don't go! 'To Serve Mankind' is a . . . cookbook!"
But it was too late; I was already in the water, in the boiling cauldron. Coach Michael shouted, "GO!" so I swam was fast as I could in lane seven. Down and back. When I hit the wall, I looked up to see whether I had beaten the female alien in lane eight. She was finished, relaxed. She looked like she'd had time to eat a peanut butter sandwich while she waited for me. Perhaps this was good--nobody appeared to be hungry, so I was allowed to leave gracefully, congratulating the winning team as I exited.
It was a great experience, swimming with the sevens and eights, if only for a brief moment. I got out and asked Coach Michael a bit more about the identity of these space aliens. It turns out there were no sevens there, only eights: Eight-year olds from Endorphin Fitness's youth group. Perhaps one day, if I work really hard, I will be as fast as they are. But I'll settle for seven.
I took swimming up again over two years ago. Now I swim regularly with a group that is divided into eight swimming lanes, based upon speed. I have labored long in lane one, designated the "beginner" lane. I think the theory is that "beginner" sounds better than "slow," and this is true for a while. But a beginner at three years? Well, the good news is that I recently was upgraded to swimming in lane two. I no longer am a beginner! I am now a "novice." I am at the back of the novice pack, and I am determined to work hard so I am not demoted back to beginner.
I have daydreamed lately about what it must be like to swim in lanes seven or eight. Those in these lanes swim so fast, covering three or four times the distance I do in the same alloted time, but when they are finished, they do not look tired. Will I ever be promoted to lane seven or lane eight? I would be satisfied with seven, where the swimming is slippery, as though the swimmers are fish rather than human. If you are a scholar of the Bible, you know the importance of seven. Seven days of Passover, seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine, seven loaves and fishes. And of course, seven days to create the world, with the seventh day reserved for rest, or perhaps for some slippery swimming. Seven means completeness. Eight is a whole other dimension, another zone. Turn an 8 on its side and you have infinity. Those in lane eight are so fast that I question whether they really are human, or perhaps space aliens sent here with really good disguises. The water is no barrier for them; it is as though they swim through space.
This week, I arrived at swim practice a little early, and another class was still swimming. I noticed they were swimming in lanes seven and eight. Although they appeared human in some respects, they were somehow different. For one thing, they looked very fast. Suddenly, Coach Michael called my name, "Amy, come swim. We need another swimmer for this relay." I grabbed my swim cap and lined up, in lane seven. My daydream was coming true! For fifty yards, I was going to swim with the slippery sevens, trying to best the infinite eights.
I looked around at the space alien swimmers, like me in some ways, different in others, and recalled an episode of the Twighlight Zone called "To Serve Mankind." Do you remember this episode? Short beings with giant heads pilot to earth in a spaceship that looks like the Markel Building out near Willow Lawn. They appear benevolent and say they want to help humans. They even have written a book called "To Serve Mankind." A group of humans agree to visit the alien planet and begin to board the spaceship. As the door closes, a woman runs out and shouts, "Don't go! Don't go! 'To Serve Mankind' is a . . . cookbook!"
But it was too late; I was already in the water, in the boiling cauldron. Coach Michael shouted, "GO!" so I swam was fast as I could in lane seven. Down and back. When I hit the wall, I looked up to see whether I had beaten the female alien in lane eight. She was finished, relaxed. She looked like she'd had time to eat a peanut butter sandwich while she waited for me. Perhaps this was good--nobody appeared to be hungry, so I was allowed to leave gracefully, congratulating the winning team as I exited.
It was a great experience, swimming with the sevens and eights, if only for a brief moment. I got out and asked Coach Michael a bit more about the identity of these space aliens. It turns out there were no sevens there, only eights: Eight-year olds from Endorphin Fitness's youth group. Perhaps one day, if I work really hard, I will be as fast as they are. But I'll settle for seven.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I am an Ironman!
After so many months of training for the Ironman Augusta 70.3, the day of reckoning quickly approached. My doctor had adjusted my asthma medicine a couple times, and my breathing seemed to be under control, but exerting myself for up to 8 hours would be a real test.
Allyson and I left Richmond after work on Thursday to drive halfway to Augusta. She and I both had been busy at work during the week, and she had thrown her bags in the car without a thorough check. Every hour, she announced another thing she had forgotten. The good news is that these were things she would like to have during the weekend when not racing, including her favorite hat for sleeping, rather than things like her bike helmet. We got to the Hampton Inn in Fayetteville and did a gear check. Both of us had everything we needed for the race.
I had everything, including my trusty Garmin, which I used to determine how fast I was going and how far I had been on the bike and run. Once we got to Augusta the next day, I plugged in my trusty Garmin to charge it up. Ordinarily the charger makes a sound as it boots up. I heard nothing. I took it off and pressed the power button to turn on the device. Nothing. Nada. I wandered into the hallway and ran into my partner Kim, who saw my sad face and suggested her husband take a look. After Chris examined in thoroughly and consulted the Garmin website (where technical support is available Monday to Friday), he concluded that my charger must have a short circuit somewhere. I emailed everyone I knew doing the race to ask if anyone had the same kind of Garmin and could lend me their charger.
I met Holly and Amanda and headed to the expo and to take our bikes to transition to check them in overnight. I saw Dr. Rob Green, chiropractor and crack triathlete, and he said he had a Garmin charger for me. We arranged to meet later in the day for him to lend it to me.
Before bike check in, Team in Training met for a brief bike ride, mainly to make sure our bikes were working. Good thing we did it--Amanda had put her wheel on backwards, so her bike computer said she was losing ground! I racked Ariel and took a deep breath. The moment of truth--or the eight hours of truth--would soon begin. I met Dr. Green outside my hotel and got his charger. "Mine's all charged up," he said, "so just bring that back to me in Richmond." Back in the hotel, I plugged my Garmin in an waited for the sound. Nothing. Nada. I would be racing without knowing my pace or mileage. I took a deep breath, and decided that was okay.
Overnight, a huge storm blew wind, rain and hail all over the place. I was glad I had covered Ariel with plastic garbage bags and hoped they remained in place. The next morning, with the first wave of swimmers set to start at 7:30, and my swim start at 8:38, we awoke at 3:30 and met in the hotel lobby at 4:15. We carpooled and found good spots near transition. In transition, I was pleased that the garbage bags remained in place on Ariel. I removed them and put my shoes and other gear next to her. I had an inhaler on Ariel and a separate one in my running belt. I took my bag with my goggles, swim cap and wetsuit, along with "second breakfast" and got on the shuttle to the swim start, which was 1.2 miles up the river.
At the swim start, I got my timing chip and put it on my ankle, and found one of the few chairs and sat down. It was 5:45. I had almost three hours till my race would begin. I closed my eyes, said a silent prayer, and breathed deeply. Holly and Amanda soon joined me, and the time flew by. I saw Dr. Green, who asked if the charger worked on my Garmin. "Nope." He commiserated with me and said, "if it makes you feel better, I LOST my Garmin this morning. I had it on my wrist and it is gone." This didn't make me feel better, of course. "We're going on feel alone," I said, "and we're going to do great!" He, of course, was going to do great a lot faster than I would. I was planning to get my money's worth!
As professional athletes began their swim at 7:30, I finished my second breakfast (yogurt, cliff bar, banana) and put my glasses in my gear bag and checked it in a truck that would drive all the bags to the finish. I stood in the porta-potty line and periodically held my prescription goggles up to my face so I could survey the crowd. A few minutes later, I found a large group of my teammates, hanging out waiting for their swim starts. While I had been in line, they had met a good friend of a client of mine, who asked for me by name and lamented the fact that his goggles had broken. Fortunately my friends Dee and Emily have loud voices, and they had cried out to the crowd and found a spare set for him.
We put our wetsuits on an prepared for our start. My friends Pam and Robin were in my age group, so they were starting with me. We made our way toward the start where a large group of women in red swim caps awaited our turn. Down at the dock, we jumped in and hung onto the ropes at the dock. Some women let go and floated away beyond the start. A kayaker motioned them back. And suddenly, the gun went off. Right away, I noticed algea encircling my arms and legs. Within a couple hundred yards, I swam into something that felt like a bramble bush. My legs and arms were tangled and I could not shake the bush off me. It was like a science fiction movie! My strategy had been to stay close to shore, where I figured the water would be less crowded, although the current would not be as strong. I noticed that it was not crowded near me at all, probably due to the combination of being amongst a bunch of fast swimmers and being held up by the Loch Ness Monster. So I swam to my left, toward the center of the river, where the current picked up and the algea thinned out. And it was glorious! With the current helping me along, I lengthened my stroke and pulled hard. Soon, most red caps were ahead of me, and I began to see yellow capped ladies. We passed under two bridges and began the last leg of the swim toward the exit. Now a few fast men in flourescent green caps came upon me, quickly passing me. They would have started 6 minutes after me, so it did not bother me that the quick amongst them would beat me to the exit. I kicked a bit harder at the end of the swim to get the blood flowing. I realized the only danger in swimming amongst all these fast men was a greater chance of getting kicked in the narrowing exit. So I carefully navigated the finish chute. And then suddenly I was out. I pulled my wetsuit off my shoulders and around my waist as I ran up a hill from the water and turned toward the transition area. Coach Steve greeted me and said, "You are doing great!" I felt great. And I knew the next thing I'd see would be the strippers.
Now I know what you're thinking. Several men yelled at me "do you want a stripper?" and I said, "you bet!" "Then pull it below your hips!" they yelled, and I complied, removing my wetsuit just below my hips, making sure my tri shorts remained ABOVE my hips, and I lay on the dirty, muddy ground upon which thousands had laid before me. I stuck my legs up in the air, while two men grapped either side of my wetsuit and pulled it off me. That done, I stood up, grabbed the wetsuit, and made my way to Ariel.
I grabbed my helmet, changed my googles into sunglasses, put my socks and shoes on and walked Ariel to the bike exit. My watch said 9:16, which meant that my swim was much faster than the 45 to 55 minutes I had predicted! If I managed to ride the bike course in under 4 hours, I would be ahead of my goal of 8 hours and could relax a bit on the run.
Ariel and I took off, soon crossing the bridge into South Carolina. The first half hour or so was completely flat, which allowed me to catch my breath and get into a rhythm. Then some rolling hills began. A number of fast cyclists passed me, and I passed some people. All moods were upbeat. "What a great day!" It was overcast at this point, but it did not look like it would rain. Every 10 kilometers there would be a sign showing the distance covered. After about an hour I noticed that I was averaging over 18 miles per hour. To go 56 miles in four hours, which was what I predicted I'd do, I would need to average 14 miles per hour, so I was once again ahead of my time goal. Was I going too fast, I wondered? I was careful to follow my nutrition plan, which consisted of drinking gatorade every 15 minutes and eating some cliff bar every 30 minutes, or every 15 if I felt hungry. I approached the first of three "aid stations" and threw my almost empty bottle of gatorade in a large bin marked for this purpose. Volunteers held out gatorade bottles, and I slowed and pointed to a volunteer and took the bottle as I rode past him, placing it in my bottle cage. This would happen twice more on the course--I would drink four full bottles of gatorade and a bottle of water on the bike, and would eat two Cliff Bars and two energy gels while riding the 56 miles.
Then hills began to appear. Nothing any longer or steeper than I had experienced on training rides in Richmond, though. And then the head winds began, pushing me back and sometimes buffeting me about the road. These challenges slowed my pace, but did not dampen my spirit. I passed a man going up a hill and he said, "oh my, this hill is killing me." I said, "it would be too boring if it were all flat for all this time!" And I meant it, and he laughed and agreed. Ariel and I were having a BLAST!
A man passed me and said, "don't worry, it won't be too much longer till you can get off your bike." I shouted back, "I hope you're wrong because I'm having too much fun to stop!" He laughed and gave me a thumbs up. By now the sun was beaming down and in a way I was happy for the wind blowing in my face. As I climbed a hill, I heard a shot, like a rifle, a few feet away. "Is it hunting season in Georgia?" I asked. It was not a rifle, though, but a tire that blew out. A cyclist pulled over to change his tire.
It was probably about mile 45 when I saw a woman on the side of the road next to her bike. Are you okay? She explained that she was having leg cramps and had to stop every so often to massage her calf. She got back on and passed me and said, "I can't wait to get off this bike." For the first time that day, I agreed with this sentiment.
I was tired and hot, and my rear end hurt like crazy from sitting on a bike seat for over three hours. And then the wind picked up, and I felt like Dorothy and wondered when the house would hit me in the head. I had only about 10 miles left to go, but could I do it? I recalled the inspirational speaker we'd heard the night before. He had been diagnosed with leukemia in 2007 and spent many months in chemo treatment. He told us about having to sign a waiver before getting a barium enema. "Just remember when you're out there tomorrow, and feeling low, these words: 'It's better than a barium enema!'" This survivor was out there doing the race along side of us. He promised to let us know which was worse, cancer or an Ironman. I was pretty sure cancer was much worse. And that kept me going. "Better than a barium enema!" Again, I was doing this for a purpose. To help cure cancer, to find better ways to treat the disease. I was doing it for my Dad, who is still, thankfully, in remission from lymphoma.
And as I approached transition, I got a second wind, and knew I'd done it. I was two-thirds through the day's challenge. Once again, Coach Steve greeted me at transition. "How do you feel? You look GREAT!" "I feel FABULOUS!" I said, and it was true.
Back at transition, I put Ariel back on the rack, changed my helmet to a visor and my bike shoes to running shoes, and donned my running belt, complete with water and the all important inhaler. It's always good to have insurance, and even better if you have it and don't need to use it. I breathed deeply and felt great.
The run course was completely flat, but the road was canted, so I had to run in the middle to avoid hip pain. There were to be 10 water stops, one every 1.2 miles. I got in a rhythm and ran to the first water stop in 15 minutes. I drank gatorade and poured water on my head and back. (Careful not to drink water and pour Gatorade on me). A quick calculation revealed that if I kept up this pace, I'd actually do a half marathon PR during this half ironman. But it was after 1pm, and 87 degrees and drippingly humid. I tried just to keep running to the next stop. I spied Holly ahead by 100 yards, but I could not surge to catch her. Instead, I kept up a steady run, and noticed my pace was a bit faster than hers. Eventually, I would catch up if I didn't walk. So I kept running. Finally, I caught her and we began to run together. The sun was hot, and by this time neither of us had much energy left. Somewhere along the course we contemplated walking before the water stop, and then we saw Holly's husband and along with Amanda's husband, cameras in hand, so we had to keep going. Holly's knee began to hurt, and I began just to fall apart with the heat. We walked some, and began a game of, "let's run till we get to that dappled shady spot over there, then we can walk." We spied Holly's mom and daughter Emma, who held up encouraging signs, and that gave us a boost. A few miles later, we saw Team in Training's Amber and Cate, who blasted horns and shook cow bells. I laughed at the cow bells. Holly had reported earlier that as she stood at the swim start, she felt like a cow in a field of race horses. Such an image! Amber told us a funny story that got us giggling, and we soldiered on.
I always say that I have an iron stomach--nothing bothers it. Apparently an Ironman bothers my iron stomach. With 5 miles left on the run, it began to cramp uncontrollably. It made me want to cry. Everyone said there'd be a low point in the race, and this was a low point. But then I remembered that it still had to be better than a barium enema and kept going. Holly and I limped along, running so it would be over faster, and walking because we could not keep going. Someone told me if it hurts to run and you want to walk, run faster and it will be better. I tried this, and it did ease the muscle cramps in the legs, but it didn't do anything for the formerly iron stomach. But eventually we hit the last water stop, and they said we had only 3/4 miles to go. We ran and walked, and then decided to run it on in. Toward the finish, we saw Coach Steve again, encouraging us, and I remembered again why we were doing this, and I felt a surge. As we came toward the finish line, we both began to sprint. We DID IT! WE WERE IRONMEN!
What a fabulous feeling! It was like nothing I have done before. Here are my results:
overall place: 2423 out of 2525
division place: 71 out of 79
gender place: 664 out of 715
time: 7:30:39
swim: 33:55
t1: 6:40
bike: 3:41:46
t2: 4:19
run: 3:04:02
Thanks, again, to everyone, for your support!
Allyson and I left Richmond after work on Thursday to drive halfway to Augusta. She and I both had been busy at work during the week, and she had thrown her bags in the car without a thorough check. Every hour, she announced another thing she had forgotten. The good news is that these were things she would like to have during the weekend when not racing, including her favorite hat for sleeping, rather than things like her bike helmet. We got to the Hampton Inn in Fayetteville and did a gear check. Both of us had everything we needed for the race.
I had everything, including my trusty Garmin, which I used to determine how fast I was going and how far I had been on the bike and run. Once we got to Augusta the next day, I plugged in my trusty Garmin to charge it up. Ordinarily the charger makes a sound as it boots up. I heard nothing. I took it off and pressed the power button to turn on the device. Nothing. Nada. I wandered into the hallway and ran into my partner Kim, who saw my sad face and suggested her husband take a look. After Chris examined in thoroughly and consulted the Garmin website (where technical support is available Monday to Friday), he concluded that my charger must have a short circuit somewhere. I emailed everyone I knew doing the race to ask if anyone had the same kind of Garmin and could lend me their charger.
I met Holly and Amanda and headed to the expo and to take our bikes to transition to check them in overnight. I saw Dr. Rob Green, chiropractor and crack triathlete, and he said he had a Garmin charger for me. We arranged to meet later in the day for him to lend it to me.
Before bike check in, Team in Training met for a brief bike ride, mainly to make sure our bikes were working. Good thing we did it--Amanda had put her wheel on backwards, so her bike computer said she was losing ground! I racked Ariel and took a deep breath. The moment of truth--or the eight hours of truth--would soon begin. I met Dr. Green outside my hotel and got his charger. "Mine's all charged up," he said, "so just bring that back to me in Richmond." Back in the hotel, I plugged my Garmin in an waited for the sound. Nothing. Nada. I would be racing without knowing my pace or mileage. I took a deep breath, and decided that was okay.
Overnight, a huge storm blew wind, rain and hail all over the place. I was glad I had covered Ariel with plastic garbage bags and hoped they remained in place. The next morning, with the first wave of swimmers set to start at 7:30, and my swim start at 8:38, we awoke at 3:30 and met in the hotel lobby at 4:15. We carpooled and found good spots near transition. In transition, I was pleased that the garbage bags remained in place on Ariel. I removed them and put my shoes and other gear next to her. I had an inhaler on Ariel and a separate one in my running belt. I took my bag with my goggles, swim cap and wetsuit, along with "second breakfast" and got on the shuttle to the swim start, which was 1.2 miles up the river.
At the swim start, I got my timing chip and put it on my ankle, and found one of the few chairs and sat down. It was 5:45. I had almost three hours till my race would begin. I closed my eyes, said a silent prayer, and breathed deeply. Holly and Amanda soon joined me, and the time flew by. I saw Dr. Green, who asked if the charger worked on my Garmin. "Nope." He commiserated with me and said, "if it makes you feel better, I LOST my Garmin this morning. I had it on my wrist and it is gone." This didn't make me feel better, of course. "We're going on feel alone," I said, "and we're going to do great!" He, of course, was going to do great a lot faster than I would. I was planning to get my money's worth!
As professional athletes began their swim at 7:30, I finished my second breakfast (yogurt, cliff bar, banana) and put my glasses in my gear bag and checked it in a truck that would drive all the bags to the finish. I stood in the porta-potty line and periodically held my prescription goggles up to my face so I could survey the crowd. A few minutes later, I found a large group of my teammates, hanging out waiting for their swim starts. While I had been in line, they had met a good friend of a client of mine, who asked for me by name and lamented the fact that his goggles had broken. Fortunately my friends Dee and Emily have loud voices, and they had cried out to the crowd and found a spare set for him.
We put our wetsuits on an prepared for our start. My friends Pam and Robin were in my age group, so they were starting with me. We made our way toward the start where a large group of women in red swim caps awaited our turn. Down at the dock, we jumped in and hung onto the ropes at the dock. Some women let go and floated away beyond the start. A kayaker motioned them back. And suddenly, the gun went off. Right away, I noticed algea encircling my arms and legs. Within a couple hundred yards, I swam into something that felt like a bramble bush. My legs and arms were tangled and I could not shake the bush off me. It was like a science fiction movie! My strategy had been to stay close to shore, where I figured the water would be less crowded, although the current would not be as strong. I noticed that it was not crowded near me at all, probably due to the combination of being amongst a bunch of fast swimmers and being held up by the Loch Ness Monster. So I swam to my left, toward the center of the river, where the current picked up and the algea thinned out. And it was glorious! With the current helping me along, I lengthened my stroke and pulled hard. Soon, most red caps were ahead of me, and I began to see yellow capped ladies. We passed under two bridges and began the last leg of the swim toward the exit. Now a few fast men in flourescent green caps came upon me, quickly passing me. They would have started 6 minutes after me, so it did not bother me that the quick amongst them would beat me to the exit. I kicked a bit harder at the end of the swim to get the blood flowing. I realized the only danger in swimming amongst all these fast men was a greater chance of getting kicked in the narrowing exit. So I carefully navigated the finish chute. And then suddenly I was out. I pulled my wetsuit off my shoulders and around my waist as I ran up a hill from the water and turned toward the transition area. Coach Steve greeted me and said, "You are doing great!" I felt great. And I knew the next thing I'd see would be the strippers.
Now I know what you're thinking. Several men yelled at me "do you want a stripper?" and I said, "you bet!" "Then pull it below your hips!" they yelled, and I complied, removing my wetsuit just below my hips, making sure my tri shorts remained ABOVE my hips, and I lay on the dirty, muddy ground upon which thousands had laid before me. I stuck my legs up in the air, while two men grapped either side of my wetsuit and pulled it off me. That done, I stood up, grabbed the wetsuit, and made my way to Ariel.
I grabbed my helmet, changed my googles into sunglasses, put my socks and shoes on and walked Ariel to the bike exit. My watch said 9:16, which meant that my swim was much faster than the 45 to 55 minutes I had predicted! If I managed to ride the bike course in under 4 hours, I would be ahead of my goal of 8 hours and could relax a bit on the run.
Ariel and I took off, soon crossing the bridge into South Carolina. The first half hour or so was completely flat, which allowed me to catch my breath and get into a rhythm. Then some rolling hills began. A number of fast cyclists passed me, and I passed some people. All moods were upbeat. "What a great day!" It was overcast at this point, but it did not look like it would rain. Every 10 kilometers there would be a sign showing the distance covered. After about an hour I noticed that I was averaging over 18 miles per hour. To go 56 miles in four hours, which was what I predicted I'd do, I would need to average 14 miles per hour, so I was once again ahead of my time goal. Was I going too fast, I wondered? I was careful to follow my nutrition plan, which consisted of drinking gatorade every 15 minutes and eating some cliff bar every 30 minutes, or every 15 if I felt hungry. I approached the first of three "aid stations" and threw my almost empty bottle of gatorade in a large bin marked for this purpose. Volunteers held out gatorade bottles, and I slowed and pointed to a volunteer and took the bottle as I rode past him, placing it in my bottle cage. This would happen twice more on the course--I would drink four full bottles of gatorade and a bottle of water on the bike, and would eat two Cliff Bars and two energy gels while riding the 56 miles.
Then hills began to appear. Nothing any longer or steeper than I had experienced on training rides in Richmond, though. And then the head winds began, pushing me back and sometimes buffeting me about the road. These challenges slowed my pace, but did not dampen my spirit. I passed a man going up a hill and he said, "oh my, this hill is killing me." I said, "it would be too boring if it were all flat for all this time!" And I meant it, and he laughed and agreed. Ariel and I were having a BLAST!
A man passed me and said, "don't worry, it won't be too much longer till you can get off your bike." I shouted back, "I hope you're wrong because I'm having too much fun to stop!" He laughed and gave me a thumbs up. By now the sun was beaming down and in a way I was happy for the wind blowing in my face. As I climbed a hill, I heard a shot, like a rifle, a few feet away. "Is it hunting season in Georgia?" I asked. It was not a rifle, though, but a tire that blew out. A cyclist pulled over to change his tire.
It was probably about mile 45 when I saw a woman on the side of the road next to her bike. Are you okay? She explained that she was having leg cramps and had to stop every so often to massage her calf. She got back on and passed me and said, "I can't wait to get off this bike." For the first time that day, I agreed with this sentiment.
I was tired and hot, and my rear end hurt like crazy from sitting on a bike seat for over three hours. And then the wind picked up, and I felt like Dorothy and wondered when the house would hit me in the head. I had only about 10 miles left to go, but could I do it? I recalled the inspirational speaker we'd heard the night before. He had been diagnosed with leukemia in 2007 and spent many months in chemo treatment. He told us about having to sign a waiver before getting a barium enema. "Just remember when you're out there tomorrow, and feeling low, these words: 'It's better than a barium enema!'" This survivor was out there doing the race along side of us. He promised to let us know which was worse, cancer or an Ironman. I was pretty sure cancer was much worse. And that kept me going. "Better than a barium enema!" Again, I was doing this for a purpose. To help cure cancer, to find better ways to treat the disease. I was doing it for my Dad, who is still, thankfully, in remission from lymphoma.
And as I approached transition, I got a second wind, and knew I'd done it. I was two-thirds through the day's challenge. Once again, Coach Steve greeted me at transition. "How do you feel? You look GREAT!" "I feel FABULOUS!" I said, and it was true.
Back at transition, I put Ariel back on the rack, changed my helmet to a visor and my bike shoes to running shoes, and donned my running belt, complete with water and the all important inhaler. It's always good to have insurance, and even better if you have it and don't need to use it. I breathed deeply and felt great.
The run course was completely flat, but the road was canted, so I had to run in the middle to avoid hip pain. There were to be 10 water stops, one every 1.2 miles. I got in a rhythm and ran to the first water stop in 15 minutes. I drank gatorade and poured water on my head and back. (Careful not to drink water and pour Gatorade on me). A quick calculation revealed that if I kept up this pace, I'd actually do a half marathon PR during this half ironman. But it was after 1pm, and 87 degrees and drippingly humid. I tried just to keep running to the next stop. I spied Holly ahead by 100 yards, but I could not surge to catch her. Instead, I kept up a steady run, and noticed my pace was a bit faster than hers. Eventually, I would catch up if I didn't walk. So I kept running. Finally, I caught her and we began to run together. The sun was hot, and by this time neither of us had much energy left. Somewhere along the course we contemplated walking before the water stop, and then we saw Holly's husband and along with Amanda's husband, cameras in hand, so we had to keep going. Holly's knee began to hurt, and I began just to fall apart with the heat. We walked some, and began a game of, "let's run till we get to that dappled shady spot over there, then we can walk." We spied Holly's mom and daughter Emma, who held up encouraging signs, and that gave us a boost. A few miles later, we saw Team in Training's Amber and Cate, who blasted horns and shook cow bells. I laughed at the cow bells. Holly had reported earlier that as she stood at the swim start, she felt like a cow in a field of race horses. Such an image! Amber told us a funny story that got us giggling, and we soldiered on.
I always say that I have an iron stomach--nothing bothers it. Apparently an Ironman bothers my iron stomach. With 5 miles left on the run, it began to cramp uncontrollably. It made me want to cry. Everyone said there'd be a low point in the race, and this was a low point. But then I remembered that it still had to be better than a barium enema and kept going. Holly and I limped along, running so it would be over faster, and walking because we could not keep going. Someone told me if it hurts to run and you want to walk, run faster and it will be better. I tried this, and it did ease the muscle cramps in the legs, but it didn't do anything for the formerly iron stomach. But eventually we hit the last water stop, and they said we had only 3/4 miles to go. We ran and walked, and then decided to run it on in. Toward the finish, we saw Coach Steve again, encouraging us, and I remembered again why we were doing this, and I felt a surge. As we came toward the finish line, we both began to sprint. We DID IT! WE WERE IRONMEN!
What a fabulous feeling! It was like nothing I have done before. Here are my results:
overall place: 2423 out of 2525
division place: 71 out of 79
gender place: 664 out of 715
time: 7:30:39
swim: 33:55
t1: 6:40
bike: 3:41:46
t2: 4:19
run: 3:04:02
Thanks, again, to everyone, for your support!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
DC Leaves Me Breathless
For six months I have been training hard for the Augusta Ironman 70.3. And this coming Sunday, I'll be swimming, cycling and running, all to help find a cure for cancer.
Ten days ago, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it. As a "tune up" for the big race, I participated in the Nations Triathlon in DC on September 13th. Several of us drove up the day before, and after getting our race packets, we drove down to the Tidal Basin, near the Lincoln Memorial, where the race would start the next morning. To minimize race morning traffic, we had to check our bikes into the transition area the day before. We learned quickly that there was no parking anywhere near the transition area--the closest parking was about a mile away. After racking our bikes, we got lost on the way back to the car. We ended up wandering through various monuments, including the FDR monument. So, the extra walking was inspirational, but perhaps not ideal for the day before a race.
The next morning, we all got up at 4:00 AM to make sure that we got the "close" parking--only a mile from transition. If we waited later, we feared we'd have to circle around forever looking for a spot to park. Amanda and I rode in Holly's car, and our friend Susan Ann followed Holly, who said, "I know how to get there." After two or three wrong turns, it became apparent that Holly did NOT know how to get there. We pulled to the side of the road, and Susan Ann jumped out of her car and came back to consult with us. As we chatted in the pitch dark, a police car pulled up on the other side of the road and the police officer said, "where are you ladies trying to go?" Susan Ann explained what we were doing, and the officer said, "Well, I tell you one thing, you need to get out of this neighborhood NOW!" Susan asked for directions, and the officer said, "Turn right at the next light, but the main thing I am telling you is to look around you. This is not a safe neighborhood. LEAVE NOW!" I looked around, and realized what the police officer meant. We held our breath as we left the neighborhood.
Soon, we found the "close" parking lot and gathered our things for the mile walk to transition. We walked along the shore of the Potomac River, looking at the Jefferson Memorial reflected in the moonlight, and saw the Washington Monument silhouetted against the sky as the sun rose. I breathed deeply as I contemplated swimming, cycling and running with this background.
I have never raced in a triathlon with this many athletes--there were about 5000 bicycles racked in a huge transition area, larger than a football field. We prepared our transition area so that when we finished the swim, all the things we needed for the bike ride and run would be available. As I prepared my space, I realized that I had left my running belt in the car. I carry water on the running belt because I drink a lot on a run. I also carry, just as insurance, my "rescue inhaler" in case I get asthma. I told Holly about leaving the belt behind, and she offered to give me her car key so I could go get it. That would mean walking two extra miles before the race started. Someone mentioned that there would be water stops every mile on the run--more than usual. And it was not terribly hot, so I decided to give my legs the break and rely on the water provided by the race. (I did have water bottles on my bike for the cycling part of the race, as well as water to drink before the race began.)
At 7am, the transition area closed, and they herded all athletes into a "swim pen." We were divided into "waves" based upon our age group. Ladies my age were actually not starting till 8:24, nearly one and a half hours after the first group. We watched as athletes in various brightly colored caps began their swim. It was chilly, so we put our wetsuits on as we awaited our turn. Soon enough, it was time for me to start swimming.
There were 291 ladies in my wave, so we gathered in the water and awaited the gun, and I realized it was crowded! The gun went off, and we began swimming upstream, toward a bridge. It was so crowded that I ran into people's legs, people ran into my legs, and people slapped me in the face with their arms. For the first 500 meters of the 1500 meter swim, the biggest challenge was to find a place to swim. Then the field spread out, and I was able to get into my own zone. At the turn around beyond the bridge, I looked right and saw the Lincoln Memorial and on my left I saw Arlington Cemetery. Breathtaking!
I rounded the turn buoy and headed downstream to the swim exit. By now I felt great. The water was choppy, so I had to lift my head out of the water more than usual to breathe. Ahead of me, the sun was shining in my eyes, so I could not see the buoys marking the exit, but I could see the Washington Monument beyond the exit, and I headed for it. Soon, I climbed out of the water, peeled the top part of my wetsuit off and ran through a special tent that sprayed disinfectant on me as I ran.
My bike was racked toward the end of the football-field sized transition area, so I had to run quite a bit to find Ariel. After a few in-town loops, Ariel and I headed out the Rock Creek Parkway toward Maryland. The first half of the bike course was a gradual uphill climb, so it was tough going. All along the way, thought, I saw dozens of athletes wearing Team in Training tops. The Nations Triathlon is entirely dedicated to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and many of those entered in the race were fundraising for LLS in conjuction with this race. In fact, they had raised $2.4 million toward the cause.
As Ariel and I continued the climb, I yelled, and heard others yell, "GO TEAM!"as we inspired one another to keep going. Finally, we turned around, and began the descent.
"WHEEEE!" said Ariel as we flew down one hill. I noticed that my speedometer showed 32 miles per hour, probably the fastest that my nerves could stand. And there were a few climbs up, and I felt strong.
I finished the bike ride and prepared for the run. As I left the transition area, I began to jog, and suddenly I was breathless. But unfortunately, this time it was not a monument, not a glimpse at our nation's history, that made me breathless. It was asthma, a condition that I have had since childhood, but that is usually well-controlled, that was taking my breath. My "rescue inhaler" was in the car a mile away, and of course I didn't have the key to the car in any event.
I tried to jog fairly slowly, and it felt as though an elephant was sitting on my chest. After 50 yards or so, I walked. I alternated running and walking for a bit, and realized I was becoming dizzy. This was going to be a long 6.2 miles. Should I give up? I slowed to a walk and realized that as long as I walked my chest did not hurt. So I walked. Because I was in a fairly late wave, there were a number of people on the run course at this point who had started far earlier than I did. Many of them were walking or jogging slowly with walk breaks. I met a woman from San Diego who was racing in honor of her nephew, who is 6 years old and in remission from leukemia. Another woman was racing in memory of her mother. As you know, I was racing in support of my Dad, who is gloriously still in remission from lymphoma. As we walked, the crowd cheered us on. At the finish, I decided to jog, and I spied a friend and teammate whom I know has asthma. I pointed at my chest and looked sad, and she ran to me and handed me her inhaler. I took it just before crossing the finish line, and inhaled deeply. Whew!
I don't know exactly what triggered my breathlessness at Nations Tri, but I struggled all week with the asthma. My doctor has adjusted my medicine, though, and I was able to have a great bike ride and run last weekend. I think my struggle was just a reminder of why I am doing this. Just a reminder of what patients suffering from cancer must go through just to survive. I am struggling along with them. And together, we will make it! Just five days to Augusta Ironman 70.3.
Ten days ago, I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it. As a "tune up" for the big race, I participated in the Nations Triathlon in DC on September 13th. Several of us drove up the day before, and after getting our race packets, we drove down to the Tidal Basin, near the Lincoln Memorial, where the race would start the next morning. To minimize race morning traffic, we had to check our bikes into the transition area the day before. We learned quickly that there was no parking anywhere near the transition area--the closest parking was about a mile away. After racking our bikes, we got lost on the way back to the car. We ended up wandering through various monuments, including the FDR monument. So, the extra walking was inspirational, but perhaps not ideal for the day before a race.
The next morning, we all got up at 4:00 AM to make sure that we got the "close" parking--only a mile from transition. If we waited later, we feared we'd have to circle around forever looking for a spot to park. Amanda and I rode in Holly's car, and our friend Susan Ann followed Holly, who said, "I know how to get there." After two or three wrong turns, it became apparent that Holly did NOT know how to get there. We pulled to the side of the road, and Susan Ann jumped out of her car and came back to consult with us. As we chatted in the pitch dark, a police car pulled up on the other side of the road and the police officer said, "where are you ladies trying to go?" Susan Ann explained what we were doing, and the officer said, "Well, I tell you one thing, you need to get out of this neighborhood NOW!" Susan asked for directions, and the officer said, "Turn right at the next light, but the main thing I am telling you is to look around you. This is not a safe neighborhood. LEAVE NOW!" I looked around, and realized what the police officer meant. We held our breath as we left the neighborhood.
Soon, we found the "close" parking lot and gathered our things for the mile walk to transition. We walked along the shore of the Potomac River, looking at the Jefferson Memorial reflected in the moonlight, and saw the Washington Monument silhouetted against the sky as the sun rose. I breathed deeply as I contemplated swimming, cycling and running with this background.
I have never raced in a triathlon with this many athletes--there were about 5000 bicycles racked in a huge transition area, larger than a football field. We prepared our transition area so that when we finished the swim, all the things we needed for the bike ride and run would be available. As I prepared my space, I realized that I had left my running belt in the car. I carry water on the running belt because I drink a lot on a run. I also carry, just as insurance, my "rescue inhaler" in case I get asthma. I told Holly about leaving the belt behind, and she offered to give me her car key so I could go get it. That would mean walking two extra miles before the race started. Someone mentioned that there would be water stops every mile on the run--more than usual. And it was not terribly hot, so I decided to give my legs the break and rely on the water provided by the race. (I did have water bottles on my bike for the cycling part of the race, as well as water to drink before the race began.)
At 7am, the transition area closed, and they herded all athletes into a "swim pen." We were divided into "waves" based upon our age group. Ladies my age were actually not starting till 8:24, nearly one and a half hours after the first group. We watched as athletes in various brightly colored caps began their swim. It was chilly, so we put our wetsuits on as we awaited our turn. Soon enough, it was time for me to start swimming.
There were 291 ladies in my wave, so we gathered in the water and awaited the gun, and I realized it was crowded! The gun went off, and we began swimming upstream, toward a bridge. It was so crowded that I ran into people's legs, people ran into my legs, and people slapped me in the face with their arms. For the first 500 meters of the 1500 meter swim, the biggest challenge was to find a place to swim. Then the field spread out, and I was able to get into my own zone. At the turn around beyond the bridge, I looked right and saw the Lincoln Memorial and on my left I saw Arlington Cemetery. Breathtaking!
I rounded the turn buoy and headed downstream to the swim exit. By now I felt great. The water was choppy, so I had to lift my head out of the water more than usual to breathe. Ahead of me, the sun was shining in my eyes, so I could not see the buoys marking the exit, but I could see the Washington Monument beyond the exit, and I headed for it. Soon, I climbed out of the water, peeled the top part of my wetsuit off and ran through a special tent that sprayed disinfectant on me as I ran.
My bike was racked toward the end of the football-field sized transition area, so I had to run quite a bit to find Ariel. After a few in-town loops, Ariel and I headed out the Rock Creek Parkway toward Maryland. The first half of the bike course was a gradual uphill climb, so it was tough going. All along the way, thought, I saw dozens of athletes wearing Team in Training tops. The Nations Triathlon is entirely dedicated to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, and many of those entered in the race were fundraising for LLS in conjuction with this race. In fact, they had raised $2.4 million toward the cause.
As Ariel and I continued the climb, I yelled, and heard others yell, "GO TEAM!"as we inspired one another to keep going. Finally, we turned around, and began the descent.
"WHEEEE!" said Ariel as we flew down one hill. I noticed that my speedometer showed 32 miles per hour, probably the fastest that my nerves could stand. And there were a few climbs up, and I felt strong.
I finished the bike ride and prepared for the run. As I left the transition area, I began to jog, and suddenly I was breathless. But unfortunately, this time it was not a monument, not a glimpse at our nation's history, that made me breathless. It was asthma, a condition that I have had since childhood, but that is usually well-controlled, that was taking my breath. My "rescue inhaler" was in the car a mile away, and of course I didn't have the key to the car in any event.
I tried to jog fairly slowly, and it felt as though an elephant was sitting on my chest. After 50 yards or so, I walked. I alternated running and walking for a bit, and realized I was becoming dizzy. This was going to be a long 6.2 miles. Should I give up? I slowed to a walk and realized that as long as I walked my chest did not hurt. So I walked. Because I was in a fairly late wave, there were a number of people on the run course at this point who had started far earlier than I did. Many of them were walking or jogging slowly with walk breaks. I met a woman from San Diego who was racing in honor of her nephew, who is 6 years old and in remission from leukemia. Another woman was racing in memory of her mother. As you know, I was racing in support of my Dad, who is gloriously still in remission from lymphoma. As we walked, the crowd cheered us on. At the finish, I decided to jog, and I spied a friend and teammate whom I know has asthma. I pointed at my chest and looked sad, and she ran to me and handed me her inhaler. I took it just before crossing the finish line, and inhaled deeply. Whew!
I don't know exactly what triggered my breathlessness at Nations Tri, but I struggled all week with the asthma. My doctor has adjusted my medicine, though, and I was able to have a great bike ride and run last weekend. I think my struggle was just a reminder of why I am doing this. Just a reminder of what patients suffering from cancer must go through just to survive. I am struggling along with them. And together, we will make it! Just five days to Augusta Ironman 70.3.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Pink Power
Last Sunday, I participated in the Pink Power Triathlon--a triathlon just for women. What a fabulous experience! Over 400 women registered for the race, and about half of them were doing their first triathlon. In this crowd, I was an old-timer.
Another old-timer there was my friend and teammate, Holly. She has a terrible cold and should have been in bed, but there she was, with a wad of tissues in her hand, trying to decide what to do about the undeniable fact that tissues get very wet when you go swimming.
Transition was right next to the outdoor pool where we were to swim. Our mission was to swim up and back each lane, for a total swim of 400 meters--longer than the other pool swims I have completed. We lined up in order of our estimated swim time. I was number 205, so half the women in the race started before I did. I realized at the last minute that I had calculated my swim time incorrectly, so unfortunately ladies 206 through 210 had to swim around me. I let them pass and soldiered on, trying to concentrate on my form. As I took my last lap, I heard a friend shout "GO AMY" and it made me smile. At the end of the lap I realized I would have to get out of the pool in very deep water. The volunteer at the end of the pool, looked at me and said, "You can use the ladder!" And I did. Did it cost me a few seconds? Or did it save me a couple minutes? Who can say. I ran to transition to get my bike. Another volunteer, sensing that I must be a first-timer, reminded me to take off my goggles, which you typically do on the way to your bike to save time. "I can't see without them!" I explained.
On the bike ride, there were so many newbies, and lots of heavy mountain bikes, so Ariel and I passed lots of people, especially in the first few miles when it was very hilly. I have never said "on your left" as many times as I did during this bike ride, particularly charging up hills. And at the top of each hill, I would look down, and Ariel would say in her pixie voice, "Don't slow down, Amy! Let's GO!: And off we would go: "WHEEEEEEE!" As I thought about the hills and the turns along the course, I realized how much stronger I feel on the bike than I did at the start of the summer.
Holly had begun her race ahead of me (because she is a faster swimmer) and I did not expect to see her till I crossed the finish line. The end of the bike course consisted of an out and back of about 2 miles. As I went out this road, I was dismayed to see Holly on the side of the road changing her front tire. "My race may be over!" she shouted. Unfortunately, when I came back by, she shouted, "My race is definitely over!" She told me later that as she changed her tire, a woman got off her bike and came up to her. "I can't change your tire, honey, but I can give you a hug!" Needless to say the woman was not worried about winning her age group! Holly did change her tire in about 15 minutes. Unfortunately it went flat again immediately. She walked it about a mile or so back to transition. Then she got on her running shoes and finished the race. Pure determination!
I have been having problems with my Achilles lately, but I think I have nipped it in the bud. Lately I have done more cycling, and less running, and I consulted Dr. Green, who told me I could run Pink Power, but to "take it easy" and "consider walking some." By the time I started running, it was about 95 degrees and 97 percent humidity. I was glad to have a doctor-ordered excuse to take a walk break from time to time. Halfway through the run I saw my friend Travis, wearing his volunteer shirt, which sported the statement, "Triathlete Chics are Hot!" I slowed to a walk and told Travis, "I'd be running at lightning speed, winning this race, but my doctor won't let me do it!" Travis replied, "I'm sure you would!"
So here's how it shook out, with comparisons to a similar race I did in late May:
Swim time: 10:33. This sounds dreadful compared to 8:19 from May, but this race was 400 meters, and the May race was 300 meters, so my pace was faster this time.
Bike time: 41:27. Better than 44:07 from May, and this bike course was harder--hillier and full of turns that slow you down and challenge your bike handling skills, albeit a little bit shorter than the May course (11.8 miles versus 12 miles).
Run time: 39:23. Okay, that's worse than 36:08 from May, but I can blame Doctor Green!
Total time: 1:35:24. Compared to 1:33:11 in May. So slower, but I am happy with it!
Another old-timer there was my friend and teammate, Holly. She has a terrible cold and should have been in bed, but there she was, with a wad of tissues in her hand, trying to decide what to do about the undeniable fact that tissues get very wet when you go swimming.
Transition was right next to the outdoor pool where we were to swim. Our mission was to swim up and back each lane, for a total swim of 400 meters--longer than the other pool swims I have completed. We lined up in order of our estimated swim time. I was number 205, so half the women in the race started before I did. I realized at the last minute that I had calculated my swim time incorrectly, so unfortunately ladies 206 through 210 had to swim around me. I let them pass and soldiered on, trying to concentrate on my form. As I took my last lap, I heard a friend shout "GO AMY" and it made me smile. At the end of the lap I realized I would have to get out of the pool in very deep water. The volunteer at the end of the pool, looked at me and said, "You can use the ladder!" And I did. Did it cost me a few seconds? Or did it save me a couple minutes? Who can say. I ran to transition to get my bike. Another volunteer, sensing that I must be a first-timer, reminded me to take off my goggles, which you typically do on the way to your bike to save time. "I can't see without them!" I explained.
On the bike ride, there were so many newbies, and lots of heavy mountain bikes, so Ariel and I passed lots of people, especially in the first few miles when it was very hilly. I have never said "on your left" as many times as I did during this bike ride, particularly charging up hills. And at the top of each hill, I would look down, and Ariel would say in her pixie voice, "Don't slow down, Amy! Let's GO!: And off we would go: "WHEEEEEEE!" As I thought about the hills and the turns along the course, I realized how much stronger I feel on the bike than I did at the start of the summer.
Holly had begun her race ahead of me (because she is a faster swimmer) and I did not expect to see her till I crossed the finish line. The end of the bike course consisted of an out and back of about 2 miles. As I went out this road, I was dismayed to see Holly on the side of the road changing her front tire. "My race may be over!" she shouted. Unfortunately, when I came back by, she shouted, "My race is definitely over!" She told me later that as she changed her tire, a woman got off her bike and came up to her. "I can't change your tire, honey, but I can give you a hug!" Needless to say the woman was not worried about winning her age group! Holly did change her tire in about 15 minutes. Unfortunately it went flat again immediately. She walked it about a mile or so back to transition. Then she got on her running shoes and finished the race. Pure determination!
I have been having problems with my Achilles lately, but I think I have nipped it in the bud. Lately I have done more cycling, and less running, and I consulted Dr. Green, who told me I could run Pink Power, but to "take it easy" and "consider walking some." By the time I started running, it was about 95 degrees and 97 percent humidity. I was glad to have a doctor-ordered excuse to take a walk break from time to time. Halfway through the run I saw my friend Travis, wearing his volunteer shirt, which sported the statement, "Triathlete Chics are Hot!" I slowed to a walk and told Travis, "I'd be running at lightning speed, winning this race, but my doctor won't let me do it!" Travis replied, "I'm sure you would!"
So here's how it shook out, with comparisons to a similar race I did in late May:
Swim time: 10:33. This sounds dreadful compared to 8:19 from May, but this race was 400 meters, and the May race was 300 meters, so my pace was faster this time.
Bike time: 41:27. Better than 44:07 from May, and this bike course was harder--hillier and full of turns that slow you down and challenge your bike handling skills, albeit a little bit shorter than the May course (11.8 miles versus 12 miles).
Run time: 39:23. Okay, that's worse than 36:08 from May, but I can blame Doctor Green!
Total time: 1:35:24. Compared to 1:33:11 in May. So slower, but I am happy with it!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Cable Swim
One thing that petrifies me about the Ironman 70.3 is the 1.2 mile swim in the Savannah River. To finish the overall race within the time limit, I need to complete the swim in less than an hour. After all this hard work training in my quest to help cure cancer, it would be humiliating to have my official Ironman 70.3 race result be "DNF," which stands for Did Not Finish. That sounds like shorthand for "After all this Work, She Quit," but it also can mean "She Did Not Finish in Time Because She's as Slow as Christmas!" I can swim 1.2 miles in a pool within the time limit, but this swim is in the river, where I might panic.
My TNT teammates Holly and Amanda were also worried about panic in the river, so we decided to sign up for a swimming race called a "cable swim." There were two options for the cable swim--one mile or two miles. I had never swum 2 miles all at once in my life. Neither had Holly or Amanda. So we signed up for the two-mile race.
We arrived at the lake the morning of the race and realized that we were triathletes--dabblers in swimming, cycling and running. Jacks of all trades, masters of none. And the others on that beach were Expert Swimmers. They swim for miles and miles every day and had spent years working as lifeguards. Everyone's legs were shaved, though half the crowd were men. Some wore what appeared to me to be wetsuits, but I was told they were fancy "speed swimsuits." You know, like they were in the Olympics.
We found my friend Elizabeth, who loves to swim, and I mentioned that I was nervous because I had never actually swum two miles. Holly and Amanda said they hadn't either.
"You mean in open water," she said. "You all certainly have swum two miles in a pool. That is just 144 laps."
"Last week I swam a mile continuously in a pool, and that is the longest swim I have done in my life," I replied.
"Oh," she said, quietly. And then, recovering her enthusiasm, brightly, "You will do fine! Good luck!"
About 96 people signed up for the two mile swim. The race director lined us up in accordance with our predicted swim times in groups of 10. The 10 speediest were in wave one. The next ten in wave two, and so on. Elizabeth was in the third or fourth wave, and somewhere in the middle was my friend Virginia, who had just finished the one-mile swim and was back for more fun. Holly, Amanda and I were in wave 10, along with a wrinkly man who appeared to be 95 years old and two women who remarked that they had failed to predict any time at all on their registration forms and thus were being punished by being placed at the end of the pack.
The swimmers started the race in the waves of ten, with ten seconds in between each wave. Someone had buried a 1/4 mile cable at the bottom of the lake, and a rope with floats on it was affixed. The race consisted of swimming down one side of the cable, back on the other side, to complete 1/2 mile, and then repeating that circle three more times, for two miles. After all the other waves were off, we started our race. I put my head down and concentrated on getting into a rhythm. The faster swimmers had already rounded the far end of the lake and were coming back on the other side of the cable. As I passed them, it felt like someone was going by on a jet ski--the once still lake kicked up a mighty wake. I made sure not to drink the spray created by the fast swimmers' kick. Before I rounded the end of the cable, those same speedy swimmers passed me! And then I felt like I was in Grand Central Station, and all of Manhattan was late for a train. Little groups of two and three swimmers would pass me, all in a knot, apparently vying amongst themselves for a coveted place in the race. After each knot passed, the waters would calm, and I could get back in my rhythm.
As I rounded the cable the second time, to complete the first mile, there was a loud cheer. Was this support for my effort so far? Then I realized that the winners were zooming past me to the finish! I had to chuckle as I started the second half of my race. Amanda had passed me somewhere along the way, and I could see her 100 yards or so ahead of me at each turn. Her cap had slipped up on her head and poofed above it, like a chef's cap. Holly was somewhere very close behind me. The other gals in our wave were long gone, and I couldn't spy Wrinkly Man anywhere.
As I began the last part of my third lap, I realized that my shoulders were very tired and were getting stiff. I decided I should slow my pace a little to shake out my shoulders. As I did so, my right calf cramped up. It was excruciating! I grabbed the rope atop the cable, and thankfully it held up. I hung onto it with my left hand as I used my right hand to massage my leg. The cramp subsided some, but not completely. Would I be able to finish the swim? I looked around and noticed a rescue boat. I was not in danger of drowning--if I wanted to do so I could flag down the boat and be dragged back to shore.
But I did not want a "DNF," especially one that meant "After all this Work, She Quit." So I began to swim again. I experimented with not kicking with my right leg versus kicking normally and kicking like an unbroken horse. Finally I found that if I kicked normally, but flexed my foot up toward my shin from time to time, I did fine. Not the most efficient kick, mind you, but at least I didn't have to stop. So I concentrated on pulling with my arms. And soon, I was finished with the third lap, and I decided to go for the final lap.
After rounding the far end of the cable for the final time, I noticed Holly, catching up to me. We swam side by side as we finished the last lap. At some point, I thought she was trying to draft off me and we collided. Finally, we came within 150 yards of the finish shoot, and simultaneously we began to sprint. I heard friends cheering as we crossed the finish line almost in tandem.
I did it. I finished in 1 hour and 35 minutes, as did Holly. Amanda finished in 1:29, and would have gone faster, but during her final sprint her chef's hat/swim cap fell off. Virginia beat all three of us, despite having swum three miles in total that day. And speedy Elizabeth finished in 55:41. I looked up Wrinkly Man and it turns out he's only 87 years old. He finished the swim in 1 hour and 19 minutes. Maybe if I keep swimming for another fourty years, I can beat his record! And at the end of September, swimming 1.2 miles in the Savannah River should be a piece of cake!
My TNT teammates Holly and Amanda were also worried about panic in the river, so we decided to sign up for a swimming race called a "cable swim." There were two options for the cable swim--one mile or two miles. I had never swum 2 miles all at once in my life. Neither had Holly or Amanda. So we signed up for the two-mile race.
We arrived at the lake the morning of the race and realized that we were triathletes--dabblers in swimming, cycling and running. Jacks of all trades, masters of none. And the others on that beach were Expert Swimmers. They swim for miles and miles every day and had spent years working as lifeguards. Everyone's legs were shaved, though half the crowd were men. Some wore what appeared to me to be wetsuits, but I was told they were fancy "speed swimsuits." You know, like they were in the Olympics.
We found my friend Elizabeth, who loves to swim, and I mentioned that I was nervous because I had never actually swum two miles. Holly and Amanda said they hadn't either.
"You mean in open water," she said. "You all certainly have swum two miles in a pool. That is just 144 laps."
"Last week I swam a mile continuously in a pool, and that is the longest swim I have done in my life," I replied.
"Oh," she said, quietly. And then, recovering her enthusiasm, brightly, "You will do fine! Good luck!"
About 96 people signed up for the two mile swim. The race director lined us up in accordance with our predicted swim times in groups of 10. The 10 speediest were in wave one. The next ten in wave two, and so on. Elizabeth was in the third or fourth wave, and somewhere in the middle was my friend Virginia, who had just finished the one-mile swim and was back for more fun. Holly, Amanda and I were in wave 10, along with a wrinkly man who appeared to be 95 years old and two women who remarked that they had failed to predict any time at all on their registration forms and thus were being punished by being placed at the end of the pack.
The swimmers started the race in the waves of ten, with ten seconds in between each wave. Someone had buried a 1/4 mile cable at the bottom of the lake, and a rope with floats on it was affixed. The race consisted of swimming down one side of the cable, back on the other side, to complete 1/2 mile, and then repeating that circle three more times, for two miles. After all the other waves were off, we started our race. I put my head down and concentrated on getting into a rhythm. The faster swimmers had already rounded the far end of the lake and were coming back on the other side of the cable. As I passed them, it felt like someone was going by on a jet ski--the once still lake kicked up a mighty wake. I made sure not to drink the spray created by the fast swimmers' kick. Before I rounded the end of the cable, those same speedy swimmers passed me! And then I felt like I was in Grand Central Station, and all of Manhattan was late for a train. Little groups of two and three swimmers would pass me, all in a knot, apparently vying amongst themselves for a coveted place in the race. After each knot passed, the waters would calm, and I could get back in my rhythm.
As I rounded the cable the second time, to complete the first mile, there was a loud cheer. Was this support for my effort so far? Then I realized that the winners were zooming past me to the finish! I had to chuckle as I started the second half of my race. Amanda had passed me somewhere along the way, and I could see her 100 yards or so ahead of me at each turn. Her cap had slipped up on her head and poofed above it, like a chef's cap. Holly was somewhere very close behind me. The other gals in our wave were long gone, and I couldn't spy Wrinkly Man anywhere.
As I began the last part of my third lap, I realized that my shoulders were very tired and were getting stiff. I decided I should slow my pace a little to shake out my shoulders. As I did so, my right calf cramped up. It was excruciating! I grabbed the rope atop the cable, and thankfully it held up. I hung onto it with my left hand as I used my right hand to massage my leg. The cramp subsided some, but not completely. Would I be able to finish the swim? I looked around and noticed a rescue boat. I was not in danger of drowning--if I wanted to do so I could flag down the boat and be dragged back to shore.
But I did not want a "DNF," especially one that meant "After all this Work, She Quit." So I began to swim again. I experimented with not kicking with my right leg versus kicking normally and kicking like an unbroken horse. Finally I found that if I kicked normally, but flexed my foot up toward my shin from time to time, I did fine. Not the most efficient kick, mind you, but at least I didn't have to stop. So I concentrated on pulling with my arms. And soon, I was finished with the third lap, and I decided to go for the final lap.
After rounding the far end of the cable for the final time, I noticed Holly, catching up to me. We swam side by side as we finished the last lap. At some point, I thought she was trying to draft off me and we collided. Finally, we came within 150 yards of the finish shoot, and simultaneously we began to sprint. I heard friends cheering as we crossed the finish line almost in tandem.
I did it. I finished in 1 hour and 35 minutes, as did Holly. Amanda finished in 1:29, and would have gone faster, but during her final sprint her chef's hat/swim cap fell off. Virginia beat all three of us, despite having swum three miles in total that day. And speedy Elizabeth finished in 55:41. I looked up Wrinkly Man and it turns out he's only 87 years old. He finished the swim in 1 hour and 19 minutes. Maybe if I keep swimming for another fourty years, I can beat his record! And at the end of September, swimming 1.2 miles in the Savannah River should be a piece of cake!
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Holy Grail
I raced another triathlon involving a river swim this past Sunday. As I mentioned in my "Endless Pool" blog, the James River is swollen this year. The triathlon featured in "Endless Pool" included a swim in the river, but when the first wave of young men largely failed to swim around the buoys, the swim was cancelled.
This past Sunday's race included a planned swim of 750 meters, consisting of 450 meters upstream, followed by about 300 meters downstream to an exit. (The exit dock was further upstream than the entrance dock.)
I wore a white cap, a symbol that I was racing in the fourth wave. The first wave were younger men, the second, older men, the third, younger women, and the fourth, older women and relay participants. We were supposed to start at 7 am, but the start was delayed. Soon, the race director announced that because of the strong current, the race would be shortened. We were to swim just a short distance up from the exit dock and then get out. The whole race would be only about 300 or 350 meters. The race director described this as a "gift." Someone who had done a practice swim remarked, "a gift! It will be really hard just to go that far."
I was afraid, but I was determined. You will recall that early on, I told you I had mastered the Superman float. I am completely comfortable in the pool, but I am as slow as Christmas. I have been working on getting fast. One thing I have done to improve my time is to purchase a Superman costume. You can see it in the photographs included in this blog. Don't I look fast?
Well, I had noticed that wearing the Superman Costume made me feel faster. Or at least it made me float better. But what would make me faster in the raging James River?
At the start of the swim, I had the advantage of seeing three waves go out before me. The young, yellow capped men got in and awaited the gun. Some were treading water, and they were swept swiftly downstream. They began to swim, deparately, even before the gun went off, just to maintain their positions. Bang! The older men got in and began their swim, and yellow and red caps mixed together, with many men unable to make any progress at all. Endless Pool!
My friend Steve (one of my "comfort" buddies from Endorphin Fitness open water swims) came out of the water before the ladies began, and said the current was too strong! My other two comfort buddies were Lenora, who was doing the bike segment of a relay on this day, and Holly, who was nearby. I looked at Holly and my other friends. Everyone seemed to have the same look of fear in her eyes that I felt in my heart.
The race director said, confusingly, "even if you don't finish the swim, you can still ride the bike and do the run." What did this mean? Should we not attempt the swim?
My husband Steve recently remarked that most of my training partners are in their 20s. Although this is not entirely fair, I realized when looking at my purple capped girlfriends that they are mostly in their 20s or 30s. To get a white head in this race, you had to be over 40. Susan Ann said to the group, "I guess I'm the only old lady with a white cap." I pointed to my head and said, "Let's stick together, old lady!"
Susan Ann began to panic as she watched people making no progress. Susan just finished a century ride, so she's been cycling non-stop and doing relatively little swimming of late. I said, "Listen I need this as much as you do. We're going to focus on getting to the first buoy. Just head for the first buoy."
"That's less than halfway through the race. What then?" she said.
I said, "we worry about that later. Just focus on the first buoy."
We watched the purple caps go off, and I said, "Susan, let's not get in till the gun goes off." And let's go off to the left here, near the shore, so we don't get swept down." Just before the gun, Susan Ann jumped in. I waited, and let the gun go off and allowed some space to emerge between me and the last swimmers. Then I jumped in, off the left hand side of the dock, and began swimming. I was starting at the very end of the pack. Every train needs a caboose. And today, in my Superman costume, I was the red caboose.
And the swim was hard. Fortunately, I naturally breath to my left, so every other stroke, I could see the shore. Essentially, I was trying to get farther and farther up the shore. It was a struggle! I began to calculate that I had to stroke about 40 times to get 10 yards. I tried to did deep and pull hard. Every once in a while, I would sight the orange buoy ahead. It took forever, but I got to the orange buoy. Yeah!
I kept going. Once I passed the orange buoy, the current seemed to get stronger. It took much more effort, and more strokes, to make any progress. I tried to remember to pull hard on each stroke. Now my target was a yellow buoy, and I would need to swim around it and then go to the shore. To see it, I looked up ahead just a bit, before breathing to my left. I was having trouble seeing the yellow turn buoy because there were so many caps of different colors in front of me, including the yellow caps of the young men. Why do they use caps the same color as the buoys? Was it the buoy, or just a boy in yellow?
I swam what felt like 7 minutes past a dock halfway between the start and exit docks, and then I looked up to see where I was going. I was tired, so I turned and did about 10 backstrokes. I turned back over, took a stroke, breathed, and noticed I was all the way back at the middle dock! Seven minutes of progress, GONE. poof.
I thought of the scene in Monty Python in the Holy Grail in which King Arthur rode his horse toward a castle. Every time he looked up, the castle was further away. After a few rounds of that, he just rides and suddenly is there. Powered by coconuts, if I recall correctly.
So I just hunkered down and swam, swam, swam, figuring at some point my head would hit the castle wall. I took it on faith that I was going more or less straight. It was exhausting. I saw a kayaker on my left as I breathed, and asked him if I could hang on and rest. You are allowed to hold onto a kayak as long as the kayaker does not make forward progress or otherwise help you. I held onto the nose of the kayak for about a minute, and said, breathlessly, to the kayaker, "I can't make any progress." He said, "everyone's having trouble; some people are having success with backstroke." I knew that wouldn't work for me, even though the backstroke was the one event for which I would get 5th place ribbons, instead of 6th place ribbons, when I was on the swim team at age 9. (There being only 6 possible ribbons to be awarded in each heat.)
But the rest on the kayak helped return my energy, and I got a good look at the turn bouy. As I sat there, I thought for a minute that I might not have the energy to bike or run, but then I reflected that I had ridden the bike course twice in the last month, and that I could come out any day and run through the trails. I decided then that maybe I wouldn't have energy to do anything but swim, but I wanted to finish the swim. So I took a deep breath, thanked the kayaker and took off as strongly as I could muster.
I practiced some of the drills that emphasize a strong pull--Superman is one. I was wearing the Superman costume, and I stroked like Superman. It seemed to help. Superman goes fast, it appears, because of hard work. It's not just the trick photography.
When I got to 25 yards of the turn buoy, I noticed a kayaker on the other side of the buoy. I looked up again, and the buoy was further than it had been. I stroked another 10 strokes and looked up and was even farther away from the buoy. Was the kayaker being a jerk, dragging the buoy upstream? Was he some sort of sadist turned loose on the triathlete community? Then I realized the current was just really strong; he and the buoy were staying still, but I was going backwards. So I really hunkered down and pulled like there was no tomorrow, like I was doing a sprint swim. I finally got to the buoy and grabbed it. The rope on it went taut and my arms were dead. I yanked on the buoy and tried to somersault over it. The kayaker, no doubt fearing I would take out the buoy, said. "You did it, you don't need to go around. It's too hard." I looked at him and wondered if he was telling me to pack it in. He said, "no, no, you are good. You did it! Swim to the dock." I muttered a thanks and swam toward the dock, trying to shoot upstream from it to account for the drift. But I did not sight enough, and when I looked up I was downstream from the dock. I swam back upstream toward the dock, but thankfully this was easier to do so much closer to the shore. I got to the ladder and realized the first run was at the surface of the water. I had no strength left to pull up my body. A volunteer gave me his arm and helped hoist me up. When I got out, I breathed deeply. The volunteers shouted, "don't run too fast, it's slippery." "Not an issue," I replied. I walked back to transition, catching my breath--I couldn't run for anything. And as I came through the trees, I heard the announcer on the PA system:
"And here comes number 404, our last swimmer out, Amy Williams." I thought, "what? The last swimmer?" I was sure there were people still out there after me. As I came into transition, they announced, "and here's the leader coming in from the bike!" Sure enough, the race leader came screaming to the chip mat at the same time I did. I stepped aside so I wouldn't break his pace. And then Michael Harlow of Endorphin Fitness came into transition too. I had to laugh--they were 18.8 miles ahead of me! The last swimmer. That was a bit deflating, but I had done it.
I entered transition, wiped off my feet, put on my helmet and shoes and slowly made my way out of transition with Ariel. The race leader and Michael Harlow were gone on their run.
As I mounted the bike and began, I realized that my shoulders were tight as a ball. I was so tired that I think I crawled along the bike course. Ariel sensed that I was in no shape to be bothered with her banter, so she was silent as we dragged along.
The bike course was an out and back, and it featured a humongous hill just before the turnaround. As I approached the big hill, I realized that I did not have the energy to cycle up. I would have fallen, I think. I didn't think I could take the pain and humiliation, so I opted for humiliation alone. I unclipped from my pedals and got off my bike and walked up the hill. At the turnaround, a volunteer said, "Good job, you are halfway done." I said, "I'm a lot further along than that if you count the swim!"
And this notion gave me some energy. I turned around and powered down the big hill.
WHEEE! shouted Ariel. Or maybe I was squealing for joy. Now it was getting fun. WHEEE!!! I noticed some bikes coming up the hill as I went down. The riders were all pushing the bikes up the hill. A couple of the bikes were mountain bikes, heavy, and impossible to get up such a large incline without pushing from the ground.
As I continued back to the transition, I passed an exhausted friend and a couple more mountain bikers. I got back to transition and started on the run. I enjoyed the run, because by then it really didn't matter what my time was, it was just a pretty run through the park. I believe it might have been the slowest I've done on a 5k, but it didn't really matter. I had done it!
At the finish, the volunteer who took my chip from me asked, "did you finish the swim?"
I was confused why she asked me this. "Yes," I replied. Why did she ask?
I found some friends and learned why she asked. Most of my friends did not finish the swim. Some got out almost immediately when they realized they were not making forward progress. One friend got to the exit dock and realized she had to swim a bit further, and just couldn't get there. Those last 25 meters had been the hardest. Holly (my other "comfort" buddy) wanted to finish, but when the time was almost up she was closer to the middle dock than the exit dock, so they told her she had to get out.
Suddenly my "last swimmer to finish" designation was not so lame. I had FINISHED. Nevermind that it took me 45 minutes and 46 seconds to swim 300 or so meters, a distance I can cover in the pool in less than 9 minutes. I am victorious! I am Superman! One further step toward a cure for cancer.
My time was as follows:
Swim 45:46
T1: 3:22
Bike: 1:17:17
T2: 2:23
Run: 37:38
Total Time: 2:46:24
This past Sunday's race included a planned swim of 750 meters, consisting of 450 meters upstream, followed by about 300 meters downstream to an exit. (The exit dock was further upstream than the entrance dock.)
I wore a white cap, a symbol that I was racing in the fourth wave. The first wave were younger men, the second, older men, the third, younger women, and the fourth, older women and relay participants. We were supposed to start at 7 am, but the start was delayed. Soon, the race director announced that because of the strong current, the race would be shortened. We were to swim just a short distance up from the exit dock and then get out. The whole race would be only about 300 or 350 meters. The race director described this as a "gift." Someone who had done a practice swim remarked, "a gift! It will be really hard just to go that far."
I was afraid, but I was determined. You will recall that early on, I told you I had mastered the Superman float. I am completely comfortable in the pool, but I am as slow as Christmas. I have been working on getting fast. One thing I have done to improve my time is to purchase a Superman costume. You can see it in the photographs included in this blog. Don't I look fast?
Well, I had noticed that wearing the Superman Costume made me feel faster. Or at least it made me float better. But what would make me faster in the raging James River?
At the start of the swim, I had the advantage of seeing three waves go out before me. The young, yellow capped men got in and awaited the gun. Some were treading water, and they were swept swiftly downstream. They began to swim, deparately, even before the gun went off, just to maintain their positions. Bang! The older men got in and began their swim, and yellow and red caps mixed together, with many men unable to make any progress at all. Endless Pool!
My friend Steve (one of my "comfort" buddies from Endorphin Fitness open water swims) came out of the water before the ladies began, and said the current was too strong! My other two comfort buddies were Lenora, who was doing the bike segment of a relay on this day, and Holly, who was nearby. I looked at Holly and my other friends. Everyone seemed to have the same look of fear in her eyes that I felt in my heart.
The race director said, confusingly, "even if you don't finish the swim, you can still ride the bike and do the run." What did this mean? Should we not attempt the swim?
My husband Steve recently remarked that most of my training partners are in their 20s. Although this is not entirely fair, I realized when looking at my purple capped girlfriends that they are mostly in their 20s or 30s. To get a white head in this race, you had to be over 40. Susan Ann said to the group, "I guess I'm the only old lady with a white cap." I pointed to my head and said, "Let's stick together, old lady!"
Susan Ann began to panic as she watched people making no progress. Susan just finished a century ride, so she's been cycling non-stop and doing relatively little swimming of late. I said, "Listen I need this as much as you do. We're going to focus on getting to the first buoy. Just head for the first buoy."
"That's less than halfway through the race. What then?" she said.
I said, "we worry about that later. Just focus on the first buoy."
We watched the purple caps go off, and I said, "Susan, let's not get in till the gun goes off." And let's go off to the left here, near the shore, so we don't get swept down." Just before the gun, Susan Ann jumped in. I waited, and let the gun go off and allowed some space to emerge between me and the last swimmers. Then I jumped in, off the left hand side of the dock, and began swimming. I was starting at the very end of the pack. Every train needs a caboose. And today, in my Superman costume, I was the red caboose.
And the swim was hard. Fortunately, I naturally breath to my left, so every other stroke, I could see the shore. Essentially, I was trying to get farther and farther up the shore. It was a struggle! I began to calculate that I had to stroke about 40 times to get 10 yards. I tried to did deep and pull hard. Every once in a while, I would sight the orange buoy ahead. It took forever, but I got to the orange buoy. Yeah!
I kept going. Once I passed the orange buoy, the current seemed to get stronger. It took much more effort, and more strokes, to make any progress. I tried to remember to pull hard on each stroke. Now my target was a yellow buoy, and I would need to swim around it and then go to the shore. To see it, I looked up ahead just a bit, before breathing to my left. I was having trouble seeing the yellow turn buoy because there were so many caps of different colors in front of me, including the yellow caps of the young men. Why do they use caps the same color as the buoys? Was it the buoy, or just a boy in yellow?
I swam what felt like 7 minutes past a dock halfway between the start and exit docks, and then I looked up to see where I was going. I was tired, so I turned and did about 10 backstrokes. I turned back over, took a stroke, breathed, and noticed I was all the way back at the middle dock! Seven minutes of progress, GONE. poof.
I thought of the scene in Monty Python in the Holy Grail in which King Arthur rode his horse toward a castle. Every time he looked up, the castle was further away. After a few rounds of that, he just rides and suddenly is there. Powered by coconuts, if I recall correctly.
So I just hunkered down and swam, swam, swam, figuring at some point my head would hit the castle wall. I took it on faith that I was going more or less straight. It was exhausting. I saw a kayaker on my left as I breathed, and asked him if I could hang on and rest. You are allowed to hold onto a kayak as long as the kayaker does not make forward progress or otherwise help you. I held onto the nose of the kayak for about a minute, and said, breathlessly, to the kayaker, "I can't make any progress." He said, "everyone's having trouble; some people are having success with backstroke." I knew that wouldn't work for me, even though the backstroke was the one event for which I would get 5th place ribbons, instead of 6th place ribbons, when I was on the swim team at age 9. (There being only 6 possible ribbons to be awarded in each heat.)
But the rest on the kayak helped return my energy, and I got a good look at the turn bouy. As I sat there, I thought for a minute that I might not have the energy to bike or run, but then I reflected that I had ridden the bike course twice in the last month, and that I could come out any day and run through the trails. I decided then that maybe I wouldn't have energy to do anything but swim, but I wanted to finish the swim. So I took a deep breath, thanked the kayaker and took off as strongly as I could muster.
I practiced some of the drills that emphasize a strong pull--Superman is one. I was wearing the Superman costume, and I stroked like Superman. It seemed to help. Superman goes fast, it appears, because of hard work. It's not just the trick photography.
When I got to 25 yards of the turn buoy, I noticed a kayaker on the other side of the buoy. I looked up again, and the buoy was further than it had been. I stroked another 10 strokes and looked up and was even farther away from the buoy. Was the kayaker being a jerk, dragging the buoy upstream? Was he some sort of sadist turned loose on the triathlete community? Then I realized the current was just really strong; he and the buoy were staying still, but I was going backwards. So I really hunkered down and pulled like there was no tomorrow, like I was doing a sprint swim. I finally got to the buoy and grabbed it. The rope on it went taut and my arms were dead. I yanked on the buoy and tried to somersault over it. The kayaker, no doubt fearing I would take out the buoy, said. "You did it, you don't need to go around. It's too hard." I looked at him and wondered if he was telling me to pack it in. He said, "no, no, you are good. You did it! Swim to the dock." I muttered a thanks and swam toward the dock, trying to shoot upstream from it to account for the drift. But I did not sight enough, and when I looked up I was downstream from the dock. I swam back upstream toward the dock, but thankfully this was easier to do so much closer to the shore. I got to the ladder and realized the first run was at the surface of the water. I had no strength left to pull up my body. A volunteer gave me his arm and helped hoist me up. When I got out, I breathed deeply. The volunteers shouted, "don't run too fast, it's slippery." "Not an issue," I replied. I walked back to transition, catching my breath--I couldn't run for anything. And as I came through the trees, I heard the announcer on the PA system:
"And here comes number 404, our last swimmer out, Amy Williams." I thought, "what? The last swimmer?" I was sure there were people still out there after me. As I came into transition, they announced, "and here's the leader coming in from the bike!" Sure enough, the race leader came screaming to the chip mat at the same time I did. I stepped aside so I wouldn't break his pace. And then Michael Harlow of Endorphin Fitness came into transition too. I had to laugh--they were 18.8 miles ahead of me! The last swimmer. That was a bit deflating, but I had done it.
I entered transition, wiped off my feet, put on my helmet and shoes and slowly made my way out of transition with Ariel. The race leader and Michael Harlow were gone on their run.
As I mounted the bike and began, I realized that my shoulders were tight as a ball. I was so tired that I think I crawled along the bike course. Ariel sensed that I was in no shape to be bothered with her banter, so she was silent as we dragged along.
The bike course was an out and back, and it featured a humongous hill just before the turnaround. As I approached the big hill, I realized that I did not have the energy to cycle up. I would have fallen, I think. I didn't think I could take the pain and humiliation, so I opted for humiliation alone. I unclipped from my pedals and got off my bike and walked up the hill. At the turnaround, a volunteer said, "Good job, you are halfway done." I said, "I'm a lot further along than that if you count the swim!"
And this notion gave me some energy. I turned around and powered down the big hill.
WHEEE! shouted Ariel. Or maybe I was squealing for joy. Now it was getting fun. WHEEE!!! I noticed some bikes coming up the hill as I went down. The riders were all pushing the bikes up the hill. A couple of the bikes were mountain bikes, heavy, and impossible to get up such a large incline without pushing from the ground.
As I continued back to the transition, I passed an exhausted friend and a couple more mountain bikers. I got back to transition and started on the run. I enjoyed the run, because by then it really didn't matter what my time was, it was just a pretty run through the park. I believe it might have been the slowest I've done on a 5k, but it didn't really matter. I had done it!
At the finish, the volunteer who took my chip from me asked, "did you finish the swim?"
I was confused why she asked me this. "Yes," I replied. Why did she ask?
I found some friends and learned why she asked. Most of my friends did not finish the swim. Some got out almost immediately when they realized they were not making forward progress. One friend got to the exit dock and realized she had to swim a bit further, and just couldn't get there. Those last 25 meters had been the hardest. Holly (my other "comfort" buddy) wanted to finish, but when the time was almost up she was closer to the middle dock than the exit dock, so they told her she had to get out.
Suddenly my "last swimmer to finish" designation was not so lame. I had FINISHED. Nevermind that it took me 45 minutes and 46 seconds to swim 300 or so meters, a distance I can cover in the pool in less than 9 minutes. I am victorious! I am Superman! One further step toward a cure for cancer.
My time was as follows:
Swim 45:46
T1: 3:22
Bike: 1:17:17
T2: 2:23
Run: 37:38
Total Time: 2:46:24
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Why Do I Rely on Equipment Anyway?
I recently confessed that I am a Luddite, so you may wonder why I wear a Garmin Forerunner 305 when I bike and run. Well, I was singing its praises to my TNT teammate, Amanda, on Sunday as we prepared for the Powersprint Triathlon.
"Look," I said, "I set it up for 'multisport' and put it on the bike, and then I turn it on as I get on the bike and leave transition. It tells me mileage and cadence and other things."
"What about when you run?" Amanda asked.
"I have this velcro strap on my arm, which I wear from the beginning of the race. After the bike ride, I snap the Garmin off the bike and stick it on the velcro strap for the run. One push of the button and 'voila' the cycling Garmin becomes the running Garmin."
Triathlon is the only sport I know of that calls something that takes over an hour a "sprint." And, really, it was going to take me hours and hours to do this triathlon because it involved a "pool swim" instead of an "open water swim." In an open water swim, the race director might divide the participants into a few waves, but basically dozens of people begin swimming at the same time. It is absolute chaos.
A pool is more organized, with each swimmer starting at a different time. You predict the time it will take you to swim 300 meters, and then they line you up in order of your predicted time. I predicted that I would swim 300 meters in 8 minutes. If you are slow swimmer, as I am, you don't start for more than an hour after the race begins. Unfortunately, this does not entitle you to sleep late.
I woke up at 4:30 AM and arrived at the Shady Grove Y at 5:30. We had been told that we'd have to have our bike, helmet, shoes, and everything else we needed, set up properly in transition by 6:30. The race would start at 7 am, though I would not start till around 8:30 am.
At transition, I learned that Amanda had predicted 8 minutes for her swim too, so she set her bike up right next to mine. This was Amanda's first triathlon, but she was not new to endurance events. She and another Team-in-Training teammate, Holly, have completed not only marathons, but a 50 mile trail run called the JFK. Holly soon finished setting up her bike in a faster swim zone and joined Amanda and me to inspect our transition areas.
And then it began to rain. And rain and rain. Holly had some extra plastic bags, which Amanda and I used to cover our shoes. Another teammate, Kim, came by with more plastic bags, and she put her shoes inside her bag. I couldn't believe the rain! I had not originally planned to do the Powersprint Tri, but I had been disappointed not to be able to swim at Rocketts. The weather for Powersprint was expected to be sunny, but the sky was black and the rain began to fall in buckets. I heard a huge "crack" of thunder. Would the swim, in the indoor pool, be cancelled? An announcement was circulated through the crowd: the start of the race would be delayed till the storm cleared.
We ducked inside the Y and waited. In the end, the storm blew over, and the race began. Competitive swimmers zipped up and down the lanes, exiting the pool only a few minutes after entering it. Time went on, and Kim and Holly, who predicted the same time for their swims, took their turns. And then Amanda started her swim, and finally it was my turn. I jumped in the pool and waited for the countdown.
"Go" the starter shouted, and off I went.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong. The velcro strip for my Garmin was coming loose. Only a few yards from my start, the velcro came undone and the strip fell off. I caught it between my fingers.
What to do? Should I put the velcro strap in my back pocket? I reached, but the pocket seemed to have been sewn shut. Should I put the velcro strap on the side of the pool and come get it later? When? Would the pool deck be slippery and so might I fall and break my leg? Maybe I could come get the velcro strip after the race? What if it was gone? Should I stop at the wall and put the strap back on my wrist? But then slower swimmers might pass me, and to get around them I'd have to use more energy than I might have. As I thought about the options, I swam with the velcro strap between my thumb and forefingers.
There's a swimming drill that you do where you swim with your fingers in a fist. It's called "fist drill," and it teaches you how important your fingers are when you swim. One armed-Amy couldn't do as well as predicted, and I realized that 8 minutes, which I had thought a really conservative estimate, might be a pipe dream. Really, I can't blame that all on swimming with one hand. It was only my thumb that was useless, pressed against the Garmin strap and my palm.
"I have nine good fingers" I reflected. And a flapping Garmin strap for a bonus!
I noticed the man behind me was making pretty good time, and at the wall I shouted, "GO!" and he passed me. Then I noticed he was DOING THE BACKSTROKE! Everybody knows that a backstroke is not as fast as a forward crawl. However, some people are really good at backstroke. For my part, when I was on the swim team at age 9, my best stroke was the backstroke: six girls to a heat, I would get a sixth place ribbon every time, or, if the contest was backstroke, I would get a fifth place ribbon!
And, at age 46, my one-armed front crawl did not rival Mr. Backstroker's determination. He moved ahead, creating no impediment to my progress. The lane behind me was empty, with nobody trying to pass me, so I began strategizing again what to do with the Garmin strap. Leave it, Toss it, Put it in my Pocket? uggg.
Finally I resolved to keep it with me and try to catch up to Mr. Backstroker. That was not in the cards, but soon I finished the 300 meters and emerged from the pool, Garmin strap in my hand, and ran toward transition.
At transition, I found Ariel. She looked sad and wet, having spent the last three hours in the soaking rain with no cover.
"You could have put the plastic bag over me, Amy, but nooooo."
Under her sat the plastic bag, covering my shoes and other articles to wear on the bike and run. Sadly, the rain had been accompanied by a strong wind, which pushed the bag aside, allowing rain to penetrate everything. I put on my helmet and picked up my socks. Soaked. I put them on anyway, added my bike shoes and then looked at the Garmin snapped on Ariel's handlebar. Yikes! I should have covered Ariel and the Garmin with the bag! Garmin's face was steamy, and I could see specks of water under the glass. I pressed start, and heard a beep, a good sign. But I couldn't see what effect the beep had on any numbers. Oh well. Off I went.
By this time, the rain had stopped and it felt steamy and hot. Later in the day, I'd be sorry I hadn't slathered sunscreen on my shoulders during the thunderstorm. But the bike ride was gorgeous. I passed a few mountain bikers during the first few miles, but had most of the road to myself. Ariel enjoys a ride in the country, and she began to sing. Everything was looking up. My Garmin's face began to clear up during the ride, too, and I saw that I was halfway home. I pushed harder.
Then, I heard "on your left!" and a cyclist passed me. Ariel wanted to go faster, but once a cyclist passes you in a triathlon, the rules require you to let them get 3 bike lengths ahead of you. If you ride too close behind another bike, you can get a penalty for "drafting." So I slowed my pace and hung back, and dad gum if another cyclist didn't pass me. When the passing cyclists emerged ahead of me, though, they slowed down.
I soon saw why. We were now all in a line of 10 bikes, each only 3 bike lengths apart. And cars were passing us. I settled in for a bit and breathed deep, but soon I realized that I was simply going too slow. Ariel sensed an opening.
"Get around them, Amy!" Ariel said, "What are you waiting for? Are you trying to get a Nice Lady Award or complete a triathlon."
So I dug deep and began passing, shouting "Oh your left!" to a few of the bikes ahead of me. I thought I'd have to pass many bikes, but then I realized that two slow bikes had made everyone bunch up. I cleared these folks and was on my way.
"Whee!" exclaimed Ariel. "That is more like it. Let's finish STRONG!"
I spied a woman wearing pink ahead, and Ariel shrieked, "LET'S GO GET HER AMY! YOU CAN BEAT HER!"
I noticed her age written in indelible ink on the back of her thigh. 36. A much younger woman. A few people vie for the "overall win," but the vast majority of triathletes really compete only against other people within their age group. So it did not matter, really, whether I passed this woman or not. But in another sense, it did. I wanted to try hard, to dig deep, to do my best, for myself and for everyone supporting me in this mission. I wanted to do it for Dad and for everyone else struggling with blood cancer.
I passed Miss Pink and Ariel squealed, "GOT YOU GIRLIE!" as we passed.
Thank heavens I am the only one capable of hearing Ariel. She needs to go to charm school, but so far I have found nothing suitable.
Back at the transition area, I removed the Garmin from Ariel and strapped it on my wrist. I must have pushed some strange button because the Garmin began to beep, beep, beep, beep, uncontrollably. The face indicated that I had run 32 miles in 6 seconds. Yet, I actually had not moved an inch. Finally, it shut down, so I had to run the old fashioned way. No equipment, just me and my legs!
Of course, you don't really need to know how far you have run when your mission is to run 1.5 miles out and turn around and retrace your steps, particularly if you've been told in advance that volunteers will hand you water at mile 1. And you don't need to know how fast you are going if, really, you could not go any faster even if you knew. So I tried to keep a steady pace and after a bit asked a volunteer why they had eliminated the water stop at the 1 mile point. "It's on up ahead!" she shouted, and I despaired. I thought I was near the turn around, but clearly not. I needed to walk, but I was determined not to walk before I completed the first mile.
I remembered why I was doing all these crazy things, how I was helping to cure cancer. This helped me to keep going, and suddenly the water stop appeared in front of me. I felt better after drinking some gatorade, but nonetheless, I had to walk a little before mile 2 and again during the final mile because my heart rate was racing. It is not easy to run after riding a bide, but I am resolved to get better. After all, this was merely 3.1 miles running after 12 miles biking; in September, I'll have to run a half marathon after riding 56 miles!
I approached the finish line, and heard friends cheer me through the finish line. I got a second wind and sprinted through the finish chute with a smile on my face. I can do this!
My overall time was 1:33:11, and my overall rank was 12th out of 21 ladies in my age group (45-49). Not bad!
My swim time was 8:19, so I think if I use all 10 fingers next time I can get under 8 minutes. This was 14th out 21.
The time it took me to transition from swimming to biking was 2:23, pretty good considering it was 6th out of the 21 ladies in my age group.
My bike time was 44:16, which ranked me 11th out of 21.
The second transition was 2:07, rather slow, and representing the fact that I got dizzy and had to sit down to put on my running shoes. Rank was 18th out of 21.
My run time was 36:08, too slow, and the rank was 15th out of 21.
Do you think I would have run any faster if my Garmin were working? Maybe. I'm still not interested in an IPod, though!
"Look," I said, "I set it up for 'multisport' and put it on the bike, and then I turn it on as I get on the bike and leave transition. It tells me mileage and cadence and other things."
"What about when you run?" Amanda asked.
"I have this velcro strap on my arm, which I wear from the beginning of the race. After the bike ride, I snap the Garmin off the bike and stick it on the velcro strap for the run. One push of the button and 'voila' the cycling Garmin becomes the running Garmin."
Triathlon is the only sport I know of that calls something that takes over an hour a "sprint." And, really, it was going to take me hours and hours to do this triathlon because it involved a "pool swim" instead of an "open water swim." In an open water swim, the race director might divide the participants into a few waves, but basically dozens of people begin swimming at the same time. It is absolute chaos.
A pool is more organized, with each swimmer starting at a different time. You predict the time it will take you to swim 300 meters, and then they line you up in order of your predicted time. I predicted that I would swim 300 meters in 8 minutes. If you are slow swimmer, as I am, you don't start for more than an hour after the race begins. Unfortunately, this does not entitle you to sleep late.
I woke up at 4:30 AM and arrived at the Shady Grove Y at 5:30. We had been told that we'd have to have our bike, helmet, shoes, and everything else we needed, set up properly in transition by 6:30. The race would start at 7 am, though I would not start till around 8:30 am.
At transition, I learned that Amanda had predicted 8 minutes for her swim too, so she set her bike up right next to mine. This was Amanda's first triathlon, but she was not new to endurance events. She and another Team-in-Training teammate, Holly, have completed not only marathons, but a 50 mile trail run called the JFK. Holly soon finished setting up her bike in a faster swim zone and joined Amanda and me to inspect our transition areas.
And then it began to rain. And rain and rain. Holly had some extra plastic bags, which Amanda and I used to cover our shoes. Another teammate, Kim, came by with more plastic bags, and she put her shoes inside her bag. I couldn't believe the rain! I had not originally planned to do the Powersprint Tri, but I had been disappointed not to be able to swim at Rocketts. The weather for Powersprint was expected to be sunny, but the sky was black and the rain began to fall in buckets. I heard a huge "crack" of thunder. Would the swim, in the indoor pool, be cancelled? An announcement was circulated through the crowd: the start of the race would be delayed till the storm cleared.
We ducked inside the Y and waited. In the end, the storm blew over, and the race began. Competitive swimmers zipped up and down the lanes, exiting the pool only a few minutes after entering it. Time went on, and Kim and Holly, who predicted the same time for their swims, took their turns. And then Amanda started her swim, and finally it was my turn. I jumped in the pool and waited for the countdown.
"Go" the starter shouted, and off I went.
Immediately, I knew something was wrong. The velcro strip for my Garmin was coming loose. Only a few yards from my start, the velcro came undone and the strip fell off. I caught it between my fingers.
What to do? Should I put the velcro strap in my back pocket? I reached, but the pocket seemed to have been sewn shut. Should I put the velcro strap on the side of the pool and come get it later? When? Would the pool deck be slippery and so might I fall and break my leg? Maybe I could come get the velcro strip after the race? What if it was gone? Should I stop at the wall and put the strap back on my wrist? But then slower swimmers might pass me, and to get around them I'd have to use more energy than I might have. As I thought about the options, I swam with the velcro strap between my thumb and forefingers.
There's a swimming drill that you do where you swim with your fingers in a fist. It's called "fist drill," and it teaches you how important your fingers are when you swim. One armed-Amy couldn't do as well as predicted, and I realized that 8 minutes, which I had thought a really conservative estimate, might be a pipe dream. Really, I can't blame that all on swimming with one hand. It was only my thumb that was useless, pressed against the Garmin strap and my palm.
"I have nine good fingers" I reflected. And a flapping Garmin strap for a bonus!
I noticed the man behind me was making pretty good time, and at the wall I shouted, "GO!" and he passed me. Then I noticed he was DOING THE BACKSTROKE! Everybody knows that a backstroke is not as fast as a forward crawl. However, some people are really good at backstroke. For my part, when I was on the swim team at age 9, my best stroke was the backstroke: six girls to a heat, I would get a sixth place ribbon every time, or, if the contest was backstroke, I would get a fifth place ribbon!
And, at age 46, my one-armed front crawl did not rival Mr. Backstroker's determination. He moved ahead, creating no impediment to my progress. The lane behind me was empty, with nobody trying to pass me, so I began strategizing again what to do with the Garmin strap. Leave it, Toss it, Put it in my Pocket? uggg.
Finally I resolved to keep it with me and try to catch up to Mr. Backstroker. That was not in the cards, but soon I finished the 300 meters and emerged from the pool, Garmin strap in my hand, and ran toward transition.
At transition, I found Ariel. She looked sad and wet, having spent the last three hours in the soaking rain with no cover.
"You could have put the plastic bag over me, Amy, but nooooo."
Under her sat the plastic bag, covering my shoes and other articles to wear on the bike and run. Sadly, the rain had been accompanied by a strong wind, which pushed the bag aside, allowing rain to penetrate everything. I put on my helmet and picked up my socks. Soaked. I put them on anyway, added my bike shoes and then looked at the Garmin snapped on Ariel's handlebar. Yikes! I should have covered Ariel and the Garmin with the bag! Garmin's face was steamy, and I could see specks of water under the glass. I pressed start, and heard a beep, a good sign. But I couldn't see what effect the beep had on any numbers. Oh well. Off I went.
By this time, the rain had stopped and it felt steamy and hot. Later in the day, I'd be sorry I hadn't slathered sunscreen on my shoulders during the thunderstorm. But the bike ride was gorgeous. I passed a few mountain bikers during the first few miles, but had most of the road to myself. Ariel enjoys a ride in the country, and she began to sing. Everything was looking up. My Garmin's face began to clear up during the ride, too, and I saw that I was halfway home. I pushed harder.
Then, I heard "on your left!" and a cyclist passed me. Ariel wanted to go faster, but once a cyclist passes you in a triathlon, the rules require you to let them get 3 bike lengths ahead of you. If you ride too close behind another bike, you can get a penalty for "drafting." So I slowed my pace and hung back, and dad gum if another cyclist didn't pass me. When the passing cyclists emerged ahead of me, though, they slowed down.
I soon saw why. We were now all in a line of 10 bikes, each only 3 bike lengths apart. And cars were passing us. I settled in for a bit and breathed deep, but soon I realized that I was simply going too slow. Ariel sensed an opening.
"Get around them, Amy!" Ariel said, "What are you waiting for? Are you trying to get a Nice Lady Award or complete a triathlon."
So I dug deep and began passing, shouting "Oh your left!" to a few of the bikes ahead of me. I thought I'd have to pass many bikes, but then I realized that two slow bikes had made everyone bunch up. I cleared these folks and was on my way.
"Whee!" exclaimed Ariel. "That is more like it. Let's finish STRONG!"
I spied a woman wearing pink ahead, and Ariel shrieked, "LET'S GO GET HER AMY! YOU CAN BEAT HER!"
I noticed her age written in indelible ink on the back of her thigh. 36. A much younger woman. A few people vie for the "overall win," but the vast majority of triathletes really compete only against other people within their age group. So it did not matter, really, whether I passed this woman or not. But in another sense, it did. I wanted to try hard, to dig deep, to do my best, for myself and for everyone supporting me in this mission. I wanted to do it for Dad and for everyone else struggling with blood cancer.
I passed Miss Pink and Ariel squealed, "GOT YOU GIRLIE!" as we passed.
Thank heavens I am the only one capable of hearing Ariel. She needs to go to charm school, but so far I have found nothing suitable.
Back at the transition area, I removed the Garmin from Ariel and strapped it on my wrist. I must have pushed some strange button because the Garmin began to beep, beep, beep, beep, uncontrollably. The face indicated that I had run 32 miles in 6 seconds. Yet, I actually had not moved an inch. Finally, it shut down, so I had to run the old fashioned way. No equipment, just me and my legs!
Of course, you don't really need to know how far you have run when your mission is to run 1.5 miles out and turn around and retrace your steps, particularly if you've been told in advance that volunteers will hand you water at mile 1. And you don't need to know how fast you are going if, really, you could not go any faster even if you knew. So I tried to keep a steady pace and after a bit asked a volunteer why they had eliminated the water stop at the 1 mile point. "It's on up ahead!" she shouted, and I despaired. I thought I was near the turn around, but clearly not. I needed to walk, but I was determined not to walk before I completed the first mile.
I remembered why I was doing all these crazy things, how I was helping to cure cancer. This helped me to keep going, and suddenly the water stop appeared in front of me. I felt better after drinking some gatorade, but nonetheless, I had to walk a little before mile 2 and again during the final mile because my heart rate was racing. It is not easy to run after riding a bide, but I am resolved to get better. After all, this was merely 3.1 miles running after 12 miles biking; in September, I'll have to run a half marathon after riding 56 miles!
I approached the finish line, and heard friends cheer me through the finish line. I got a second wind and sprinted through the finish chute with a smile on my face. I can do this!
My overall time was 1:33:11, and my overall rank was 12th out of 21 ladies in my age group (45-49). Not bad!
My swim time was 8:19, so I think if I use all 10 fingers next time I can get under 8 minutes. This was 14th out 21.
The time it took me to transition from swimming to biking was 2:23, pretty good considering it was 6th out of the 21 ladies in my age group.
My bike time was 44:16, which ranked me 11th out of 21.
The second transition was 2:07, rather slow, and representing the fact that I got dizzy and had to sit down to put on my running shoes. Rank was 18th out of 21.
My run time was 36:08, too slow, and the rank was 15th out of 21.
Do you think I would have run any faster if my Garmin were working? Maybe. I'm still not interested in an IPod, though!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Endless Pool
You can buy something called an "Endless Pool" and put it in your backyard, or even your basement. It is essentially a treadmill for swimming: You crank it up, and stroke, stroke, stroke, but never get anywhere. If you get tired, you just stand up, grab your towel and go grab a beer. I've never tried swimming in one, but I've always been intrigued.
I wasn't thinking about Endless Pools when I planned my race season. One of the races that caught my eye was Rocketts Landing, a new race in downtown Richmond. It is an "Olympic Distance" triathlon, which means that the first part, the swim, is 1500 meters. This particular swim, according to the race website, would consist of swimming upstream 800 meters, rounding a small island, and swimming across and down current to an exit further upstream than the exit.
That all sounded fine in January, when I figured I'd have plenty of time in the lazy ole river before race day. Also, I figured it would be really good practice for my half ironman, which will include a swim of 1.2 miles, which equates to 1931 meters. If I can swim 1500 meters in Open Water in May, then surely I can swim 1931 meters in Open Water in September. This race would give me confidence, I figured. So I signed up.
And then it started raining. And raining. And raining, and raining. All this rain is great for the grass and flowers, but it has made the James River, which passes through Richmond and Rocketts Landing, fast and furious. I had signed up for a series of "practice swims" in the James River. I received one after another cancellation notices about these swims:
"We're sorry, the swim is cancelled because we fear for the safety of the swimmers, who might be swept away in the strong current."
"We're sorry, but we can't do the swim practice because there is a lot of floating debris and we fear one of the swimmers may be bonked on the head with a floating tree."
"We're sorry, we'd like to take you out on the river, but the law will not permit us to do so because the water level is so high."
Then someone got smart and read the law more carefully and discovered a loophole. Turns out, the law will permit you to swim when the river is high if you are wearing a "personal floatation device." We were offered the opportunity to buy such a device, and invited to come out for a swim last Wednesday, less than a week before Rocketts Landing. I was expecting water wings, and figured they might keep me afloat, so I ventured to the river. But when I arrived at the river's edge I was given a belt from which hung a rip cord. Apparently, the personal flotation device was to be deployed only if needed.
Twenty five brave soles donned our PFDs, now legally permitted to swim in the raging river. Permitted, perhaps, to be swept away or bonked on the head by floating debris. Coach Michael spoke to the group, announcing that we'd be divided into four groups. The first will swim very fast, VO2 max, the second will swim at threshhold speed, the third will simulate race speed around the buoys. Group assignments were given. I held my breath. "The fourth group," Michael said, "is what I call the 'Comfort Group.'" I raised my hand wildly, "Pick me!" "There are only three spots for this group," said Coach Michael, with a devious gleam in his eye. "If you want to join the Comfort Group, please meet by the tree." Four of us sprinted to the tree. Thankfully, he relented on the three-person cap, and we got ready to be "comfortable" with open water swimming. We got in and attempted to tread water for a moment. This was when the "sweeping away" occurred. We started upriver from the dock, and quickly found ourselves downriver. For the next half hour, though, Coach Michael patiently got us more comfortable with the raging river.
Then he suggested as a finale that we all swim around the buoy placed 50 meters from the shore. So, it was a swim of 100 meters, 1/15th of what I would attempt later that week. I remembered why I was doing all of this, and the struggles cancer patients go through, and I knew I had to do it. I went for it, and got caught in the current. I began to panic, and to hyperventilate. I turned over on my back to catch my breath, and was swept even further downstream. So then I began to swim back, quickly, and more panic and dizzyness set in. I could not see where I was going.
And then an angel appeared, in the form of Emily, on a kayak. I held on, and she talked to me soothingly, and rowed me to the shore, where I stood up and felt the cold mud ooze through my toes. Terra Firma. Well, sorta firma. And no head bonking.
I called it a day, and over the next few days stewed about the Sunday swim. And it rained. And rained. On Saturday, the clouds lifted, and I attended a seminar called "Tackling Your Fear of Open Water." It had to do with taking deep breaths, and envisioning victory. I saw Coach Steve and Coach Dave, both of whom coach me in swimming. They assured me that I could do the swim, though it would be hard. Coach Steve, who has been encouraging me to strengthen my "pull," said it would be important for me to focus on that strong pull throughout the swim, and said if I did that, I would be fine. My friend Lee White suggested that the entire Triathlon was really about getting through the first 800 meters of the swim. After that, it would be easy swimming to the shore, followed by a fabulous bike ride and run. The bike ride was the same length as the Duathlon Nationals, which I had completed three weeks before, but the Du Nationals bike course was much tougher, with more hills and turns. I began to relax and to believe in myself. "I can do this!"
The next morning, at 2:00 AM, thunder struck, and I looked out of the window to see a huge storm. By the time the alarm went off at 4:00 AM, though, it was merely sprinkling. I made my way to the race site, where I set up my transition area. I placed Ariel on the rack and put a towel down next to her. On the towel, I put my bike shoes, running shoes, socks, helmet, sunglasses and race belt, all of which I would need after the swim. I made my way to "body marking," where a woman wrote my race number on my arms and thighs and my age on my calf. I found Holly and we ventured down to the river to plan our swim strategy.
I looked at the river, and it hit me. This was an Endless Pool, except there was no opportunity to stand up and grab a beer! I shared this thought with Holly, who reminded me that after the swim, bike and run, we could have a beer. I took some deep breaths. After consulting with various swimming experts, including Coach Dave, we decided we'd have to swim toward the opposite shore and make our way up the edge of the river, where the current might be bearable.
The swimmers were divided into three waves. In the first wave, men under 40 would swim. Three minutes later, older men would start the swim. Finally, all ladies would start. The younger men were preparing to race, when an announcement was made. The swim was being changed because of the strong current. Instead of 1500 meters, including 800 meters upstream, the swim would consist of only 300 meters, basically going a little upstream, and then across the river, and back. People discussed new strategies. As the young men prepared to enter the water, the sky opened up and a deluge began. The men jumped in and began to swim. The river was an Endless Pool! A few strong swimmers rounded the buoys as required, but the vast majority were not strong enough to fight the river's current. Some grabbed onto kayaks, as I had done just a few days earlier. Others floated downstream, where they were rescued by a speedboat. The race director announced an end of the swim.
The swimmers were divided into three waves. In the first wave, men under 40 would swim. Three minutes later, older men would start the swim. Finally, all ladies would start. The younger men were preparing to race, when an announcement was made. The swim was being changed because of the strong current. Instead of 1500 meters, including 800 meters upstream, the swim would consist of only 300 meters, basically going a little upstream, and then across the river, and back. People discussed new strategies. As the young men prepared to enter the water, the sky opened up and a deluge began. The men jumped in and began to swim. The river was an Endless Pool! A few strong swimmers rounded the buoys as required, but the vast majority were not strong enough to fight the river's current. Some grabbed onto kayaks, as I had done just a few days earlier. Others floated downstream, where they were rescued by a speedboat. The race director announced an end of the swim.
And just like that, the competition was a Duathlon. Instead of the swim, we would start with a two-mile run, and then do the 25 mile bike and 10K run as planned. Back at transition, everything was soaked. Fortunately, I had some extra socks, so I prepared for the race. Some people began to panic about the rain and how it would make the bike ride difficult. I had not thought of that. My friend Beth, who had planned to do the Duathlon at this race all along, told me she was leaving because she didn't want to ride in the rain. I sprayed my glasses with swim goggle de-fogger and resolved to go on.
As it turns out, it isn't easy riding a bike in a storm. And, ironically, Ariel does not like a Tempest. This particular tempest brought not only rain, but also howling winds, which buffeted Ariel back and forth on the road. I had to try mightily sometimes to keep from crossing the double yellow line (a two minute penalty) and to keep control of Ariel. I gripped her tightly. She greeted this treatment with stony silence. And there were no complaints when I took the downhills cautiously. The course included one huge downhill, followed immediately by a right hand turn. Normally you would want to fly down the hill to gain speed, but I feared a wipe out, so I proceeded at a granny's pace. Still, the volunteer at the corner urged me to slow down more. "Slick corner!" she shouted. I learned later than many of the faster cyclists wiped out at this corner. But I cautiously proceeded. All in all it was a great ride, but it was rather lonely because I was by myself with the exception of Ariel, who was quiet as a mouse.
After the bike was a 10K run, which included parts of the canal walk and flood wall-really a beautiful run, with some challenging steps and a big hill in the midst. My run time was a little slower than my recent 10Ks, as would be expected following the long bike. In the end, my total time for the race was 3 hours 18 minutes, and some seconds. Another step toward my ultimate goal of the Half Ironman, and toward the goal of helping to cure cancer!
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