Race Reports

Race Report: The Mountain Man

I had started to write this race report before the results had been posted. I was feeling pretty good about my performance in my second race of the season and although I was no threat to the podium, I felt I was moving up.

I had also lost some weight and was feeling lighter and stronger. My swim was in a good place and my cycling and running had dramatically improved in training. I was confident that I was going to placing squarely in the middle of the pack.

The Universe, however, had other plans for me.

It turned out that the Mountain Man was like going out on a second date with a hot girl and thinking that I was going to get some “action.” I might not make it to home base, but I was definitely going to be heading to second and perhaps even taking a shot at third. I was suave, looking fine, and ready for the date.

Then, when the mood was right and I made my move, I not only didn’t get a kiss, but got a swift kick in the nuts.

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it.”
 - James M. Barrie

Race Morning
Driving through the Coconino Forest toward Lake Mary, I couldn’t help but be amazed at the beauty of this place. The sun was peaking above the horizon on my left and had started to cast a warm glow upon the tall ponderosa pines and was adding sprinkles of glitter to the pockets of alpine water on my right. Grazing in those lush green meadows were large groups of cattle.

Wait.

Those cattle had pretty long legs and a few had some big things over their heads. Holy smokes! Those weren’t cows, they were elk! Hundreds of elk. The Mighty Wapiti.  I wanted to stop and take some photos, but the transition area was calling and I wanted to make sure I got there early enough to get a decent spot.

Within a few minutes, I was at the core of the little triathlon universe called the Mountain Man. More than 400 athletes from across the country had come here to compete at the hypoxia-inducing altitude of 7,000 feet.

A volunteer directed me to a spot alongside the road where I’d be running in a few hours. I grabbed my transition bags and lead the noble aging, pony Chuley down to his stable for what might have been his last race.

Not knowing any better yet on the intricacies of getting the hot transition spot, I picked one that was across from the end of the Port-O-Johns. If nothing else, it’d be easy to find. Just look for the last crapper on the left and Chuley should be there.

At 5:30, I got in line to have my date with a man and a black Sharpie. Once I was numbered and double-checked that everything was set up back at the stable, I got back in the truck and made the 20-minute drive to Flagstaff to pick up the family. After all, there was no sense in dragging the wife and kids out of their peaceful slumber at 3:30 in the morning just so I could get a good spot for my bike.

With the sun now fully above the horizon, the elk had completed their breakfast and had moved into the safety of the pines.

Back at the flea-bag motel, the girls (the collective name for the Head Coach and the two Assistant Coaches) were ready to go.

Before we load up in the truck, I said “Hold up. I have one last pit stop to make.”

Anyone who’s performed in any athletic endeavor knows what this stop is all about. You can’t avoid it or dance around it. That precious time spent with the porcelain bowl appears to be the price of admission we must all pay. I know now from experience that nothing’s going to happen until that ticket is punched.

My work done in the bathroom, we loaded up the truck zipped back to the race venue.

The Swim: Has anyone seen my oxygen tank?
By the time we get parked, get the girls and their chairs situated, I have about 15 minutes before the sprint swim starts. The Half –Iron competitors have already been in the water for nearly 45 minutes and some of the water rats are hitting the transition area as I get shoved into my wetsuit.

I tell the Head Coach that I’m going to walk over to the swim start and get ready while she gets the girls and the dog set up for good viewing.

The sprint started in male and female waves with the males going first. We all stand around making nervous chatter and dipping our toes in the water which was a fantastic 71 degrees or so. The air temp was about 63.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

Going into this swim, I felt confident that I wasn’t going to experience any of my pre-race breakfast (an Ilg Supreme) try to come back up during the first few hundred meters and the flubber I lost around my midsection would make the wetsuit fit better and avoid that strangling sensation. More important, I was better prepared to swim this mother.

My first triathlon in April was simply surviving the event. That’s the beauty of the common bond that draws multisport athletes together. Most of us compete to survive the race. If we get the honor of stepping on the podium when it’s over, well, that’s just icing on the cake.

Off to my right was a mountain man in full buckskin garb. His job, other than to enforce the rules he joked as he patted his pistol, was to fire off the starting gun with his muzzleloader. That thing was loud. When I heard the Olympic swim wave start, it sounded like a cannon.

The countdown started.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Poof. Fizzle.

No crack.

No bang.

The mountain man had a misfire.

“Go!!!” he shouted.

We went.

I let the front of my wave get a five-second head start before I found my open “lane” and jumped in.

My plan for the swim this time was to relax and not fight the wetsuit choking me or allow the adrenaline rush of the start to kill me during the first 200 meters. A few days before this race, I had pulled off 750 meters in the pool in 15:00 so I had no qualms about doing OK on the swim. The key was to breath and relax.

After taking a couple hundred meters to get dialed in and oriented toward the first orange buoy, I tried to get into my rhythm of bi-lateral breathing on every third stroke. I tried. No luck. I just couldn’t catch my breath.

I tried again.

No luck.

Screw that. Swimming at 7,000 feet leaves one a bit short on oxygen so I just started breathing on every stroke. I started passing folks and chugged along at a fairly relaxed pace. I was slowing down a bit by the time I hit the last buoy that signaled it was time to turn toward the shore.

The last couple hundred meters felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. My arms were fine. It was my lungs that were screaming, “Give me air!!!” I lost precious seconds breast-stroking while I tried to suck in enough oxygen to calm my brain down.

Finally, my feet hit the gravel bottom and I hustled out of the water and ran up to the timing chip floor mat that would signal the end of my swim.

Time: 17:47
Age Group: 7/15
Overall: 60/166

T1: Mr. Murphy pimps my ride
No toe socks this time and no sense of “la dee da dee da” in the transition area. I jogged the whole way in and found Chuley. The wet suit came off quick and I armed myself with my shades, helmet, socks, headband, and mighty mala beads and took off.

Challenge #1: However, I forgot to unclip my shoes from the bike. I had decided earlier to put them on and run with them out of the transition area. During the Rage, I left the shoes clipped in (after all, that’s what the pros advise, right?) and ended up sending one shoe flying behind me when I mounted the bike.

I torqued the shoes off the clips and lost a few seconds getting that scenario resolved.

OK. Ready to go now.

Challenge #2: I started trotting out of the bike racks and noticed my front tire was flatter than a beer-bellied man’s ass.

Shit!

I had checked it before racking the bike and it was fine. This could only mean I had a leak. I yanked the pump off the frame and started to fill the tire. If nothing else, I could get out of the transition area and see how long it held pressure. I figured I lost about 3:30 here.

Time: 7:09
Age Group: 15/15
Overall: 160/166

Bike: Too much fun?
Fortunately, the front tire held air throughout the ride.

This was a dream course. The distance was only 18K and contoured the shoreline of the lake. It was fairly flat with a few small hills whose only real challenges were from lack of available oxygen.

I focused on my cadence and once I hit the turn-around point, my plan was to up the pace a bit and push harder. I didn’t notice any shortness of breath here so I felt like I was having a good ride with an average speed of 18-20 m.p.h. I also made sure to take a drink of my Fortune Delight race cocktail every 10 minutes, whether I was thirsty or not. I wanted to make sure I was well hydrated for the run.

This dude in the 30-34 age group and I kept playing the passing game throughout the course until I finally got fed up and dropped him for good shortly after the turn-around.

That left me feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

A few miles from the finish, two riders came zipping along from the opposite direction. It was Coach Ilg and Joy. They had ridden 20-plus miles from Flagstaff and were shouting encouragement to each rider they passed with Coach barking tips to each befuddled rider.

“Spine straight! Tuck those elbows in!”

They passed me and yelled something which I can’t remember now. It was good to see them on the course. He would tell me later that I was smiling too much. I couldn’t have been working that hard if I was smiling.

Turns out he was spot on.

Time: 38:35
Age Group: 13/15
Overall: 115/166

T2: Smooth
Coming in off the bike went smoothly. Racked the bike. Put the shoes on. Start running and “Ooofff.” Legs aren’t working yet.

Time: 1:59
Age Group: 9/15
Overall: 103/166

Run: The final nail goes in the coffin
With the calf injury gone and the toe finally healed up, I was able to make some serious improvements in running in the weeks leading up to this race. However, this is where kick in the nuts came.

As usual, the first minutes of the bike just felt goofy. I couldn’t get my stride to lengthen out to anything more than a shuffle.

I was running like I had a load in my shorts. And it never got better.

Five minutes in, I had to stop and walk due to stomach cramps. Damn! Did I drink too much? I waited one minute then started running again. Fifteen seconds in, the cramps hit again.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I told myself that I was not going to walk this course. I should be able to run this no problem. I settled on a one-minute power-walk followed by a two-minute run until I could get this resolved. I was finally able to work through it just before the 1.5-mile turnaround.

By then, however, the damage was done.

I can’t describe how much it sucks to be shuffling along and to see someone else who appears to be shuffling slower than you, pass you…oh so slowly.

Time: 39:16
Age Group: 15/15
Overall: 148/166

As I wrote earlier, I felt pretty good about my effort in this race. The swim was OK, the bike was good and the run sucked. I figured I was in the top half of the swim (pretty accurate), the top ¾ for the bike (somewhat close) and near the end of the run (not dead last). 

When we got home later that night, I had a chance to look at the photos my wife took of the race. The Starbucks Belly that I thought I had taken a sizable chunk off of was still there…in every single photo. It drooped over the bike and was highlighted nicely as my form-fitting Craft race singlet was hiked up during the run.

That depressed the shit out of me.

By the time the race results were posted, I had just arrived in Ohio for our week-long family visit. I got on the Internet and printed the results with the Head Coach looking over my shoulder.

“Hey! Look! You made the top 15!” she said.

“Honey, there were only 15 in my age group,” I mumbled.

“Oh.”

Total time: 1:44:44
Age group: 15/15
Overall: 134/166

Post-Race Analysis
Needless to say, I was in a bit of a funk for a while. How could I have worked so hard and still come in dead friggin’ last in my age group?

After the “woe is me” ended, I came to the conclusion that I was obviously not working hard enough in those training sessions.

I’m comfortable with my swimming ability for now, even though having a continual free-style instead of gasping for air with the breaststroke would have shaved a minute from my time. That alone would have moved me from 7th to 6th in the swim.

Avoiding the flat tire in T1 would have moved me from 15th to 11th and overall, moved me up one spot to finish in 14th.

As Coach Ilg would later chastise me in a post-race e-mail, I was having too much fun in the bike to be working. How true.

The run. Gawd. The run. A shitload more work and suffering to do here. Running at the pace that I’m able to run a 5K now (excluding the pre-fatiguing swim and bike) would have put me in 9th place for the run.

I’ve been staring at my age group results for the past two days and analyzing things over and over again. The simple act of not having a flat and pushing myself just a tad bit harder on the run would have put me in a solid 11th place.

OK. So enough of that looking back shit. Where do I go from here?

Obviously, I need to get my ass pushed harder than I, or a coach who lives 300 miles away, can do. It’s time to bypass those solo runs and rides and hook up with the local running group on Thursday nights, and get in a couple 5Ks between now and the next triathlon in September. I also need to put aside my distaste for the local roadie cycling club and get out there on their Saturday morning group rides.

Top 10 Lessons Learned

1. The camera does not lie. No matter how much weight I lost (over six pounds) since the Rage in the Sage in April, it is not flattering to see my Starbucks Belly protruding from my oh-so-form fitting race shirt. More nutritional discipline ahead!
2. Overhydration can happen. I perhaps added to much of the carbohydrate-rich Vitafruit to the race cocktail. I also heard of others complaining of similar issues on the course and some were attributing the abdominal pain to the altitude.
3. Check, double-check and triple check all gear before the race starts. Then check it again. That simple act would have caught the flat tire and the clip-on bike shoes, saving me about four minutes in T1.
4. Little mistakes add up to big mistakes when the clock is ticking.
5. Transitions are not the places to relax and catch your breath.
6. I was too focused on relaxing on this course. My first race this year was all about surviving the event. I have too much invested now to kick back anymore. The gloves are coming off and stop fucking around.
7. Thank God for the Head Coach, Assistant Coaches, Coach Ilg and Joy for their support, guidance and cheering during the race.
8. Crossing the finish line, no matter what place I come in, is still one helluva a thrill.
9. The next best feeling was the Huevos Mexicana from MartAnnes in Flagstaff as recommended by Coach Ilg…followed by the post-race siesta.
10. Every race is a lesson and an opportunity to celebrate the positives and the screw-ups.

© 2006 The Outdoor Journey.