Preparing to go 140.6 miles in under 17 hours gives one many things to worry about. Can I swim 2.4 miles in open water? What if the waves are too high? What if the current's going the wrong way? Will my goggles work? Will I have a flat tire? How high are those hills? Will there be a headwind? How in the world am I going to run a marathon after biking 112 miles? Will I look good while doing it?
So many worries, and so many miles and hours to dwell on them. Paying attention to the details, big and small, is one of the keys to getting through the day. But stressing over details you can't control wastes mental energy, at best, and can sabotage your swim, bike, and run if you let the wrong details take control.
What not to worry about
On the swim. No Ironman takes place in an indoor swimming pool, so there are probably going to be waves. You're going to swim right through those waves, and you'll find they're much less of a problem than you thought. Remember: you float. At Providence 70.3 in 2009, the swim was in a semi-protected bay, but with the trailing end of an overnight thunderstorm still overhead at start time, the waves were around 18 inches. Consider that the pro's still came out of the water in about 21 minutes, and my own swim time is still my fastest 70.3 swim at 41:22.
On the bike. Popular theory is that somewhere around 1492 this guy from Spain proved once and for all that the Earth is not flat. More recently, this other guy from Spain proved that mountains are no obstacle, especially in France. Oh yeah, you're going to find some climbs, even (relatively speaking) at Ironman Florida. They aren't going anywhere, and they are not getting any smaller, so take 'em as they come, get to the top, and keep on going. Nearly every climb has a corresponding descent, so get ready to enjoy that free speed on the way back down. And that headwind thing? Somewhere along the 112 mile course, you're gonna find it. It can be incredibly frustrating cranking along into a good headwind, but what can you do? Keep on cranking, stay in your zone, and remember that every headwind can also become a tailwind at some point.
On the run. Whether you're running a stand-alone marathon or tacking it on at the end of Ironman, it's still 26.2 miles. It's no farther after going 112 on the bike than when you run a marathon by itself. One foot in front of the other. One mile at a time.
What to worry about
Equipment. Check and double check and triple check every piece of equipment in the weeks and days and hours before the race. Make sure all your clothing fits perfectly, is adjusted right, and works like you need it to when you're actually using it. Don't just pull on your wetsuit in the bedroom - take it to your pool or open water swim area and make sure you can get it on & off, the zipper works, no tears, etc. Take your ride to your local bike shop for a good look-over at a minimum. As Chris McCormmack can attest (2008), the worst kind of DNF comes when you're having a great day, everything's gelling, and then a derailleur cable snaps and your day is over.
On the other hand, remember Chrissie Wellington's flat in Kona, in 2008? She kept her head, stayed calm, got back on the bike, and won!
Nutrition/Hydration. Practiced, and hopefully perfected during training, sticking with your nutrition plan can be the make-it or break-it element over which you have the most control. Knowing what you learned about your needs during long rides and runs, take in exactly what you know you need. Take in less, and you may end up slowing down from lack of fuel rather than mere fatigue, or in the med tent. Take in more, and you risk bloating and a really uncomfortable rest of the day.
Attitude. Even if everything goes perfectly on race day, there really is only one thing that will get you to the end: your unwavering commitment that you will keep going until you cross the finish line. If you give in to the voice that keeps whispering, "I can't do this," you're going to fight it all the way, and it just might win. You'll probably hear that voice plenty through the day, and every time you'll remind it about all your training, all your planning, how much you want this, and that you are NOT going to stop until you hear Mike Reilly's booming voice, proclaiming to the world, "You Are An Ironman!"
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Your first Ironman? Here's what you'll do wrong.
Your first Ironman. Congratulations! All your training, all the miles, all the hours, all the sunburns and flat tires and aches and pains and early mornings and early nights and bricks and lap after lap after lap after lap following the mind-numbing black line and the chlorine...they're all about to pay off at the big show: Ironman.
You may not think it now, and you will probably be near panic-mode when you see the water, race morning, but once you get into your rhythm on the swim, you'll get to a point where you know you'll be fine on the swim. You'll move through T1, ready to continue that friendship with your bike that you've forged over many miles and many hours in the saddle. You'll settle into the bike, and by the end (or maybe well before then) you'll be so ready to get off the bike... T2 you may be a little less chatty than T1, but you'll be ready for the run, and you'll pump out of T2 onto the run with the energy of the crowd. You'll take the run as it comes, sometimes feeling like you're in stride and on pace, and sometimes just hoping you make it to the end. But you'll make it. And sometime before midnight, you will hear Mike Reilly shout to the world, "You Are An Ironman!"
That's all true, and you WILL be an Ironman. But here are the mistakes you'll make during the day. Believe me, because many of us have made the same mistakes. Some of us, more than once.
1. You'll do too much when you arrive at the race city/venue. When you get on site, you'll see people riding in full kit, running all over the place, and swimming like there's no tomorrow. You'll think you need to do that, too. Don't be fooled. Some of them live there and are riding, running, and swimming because they know they'll LOOK like they're here for the race. They don't have to go 140.6 on Sunday! You go like them Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and you'll be able to go as far as them, Sunday = not 140.6! Take a couple of short rides to make sure your bike is dialed in. Do a short run or two to keep the capillaries open, but if you do the underwear run, don't think you have to win it.
1.1 You'll do too little when you arrive at the race city/venue. Sure, you've done all the training, you tapered perfectly, and nothing you do in the last few days will make you faster or fitter. But doing too little can dull your edge. You need to keep the capillaries in place, and you need to burn off some of that nervous energy.
1.2 Swim: You won't do any of the training swims on the race course because you're still intimidated by the swim. If you're still feeling intimidated, the best thing you can do is take a couple of short swims on the course. (This is also a great place to run into some Pro's when they're more relaxed and just checking out things like the rest of us.)
2. You'll go to bed too early the night before the race. Yes, you need a good night's sleep before the race. But let's get real. You don't go to bed at 8:00, ever, so don't go to bed at 8:00 the night before Ironman! You won't be able to go to sleep, and you'll just stress yourself out. "I must to go sleep!" "I can't go to sleep!" "I MUST go to sleep!" Instead of trying to force yourself to go to sleep un-naturally early, plan to have a relaxing evening. Eat supper/dinner early. Watch a movie. Relax while chatting with your friend/partner/spouse/family. If making whoopie helps you sleep, just DO it! If a glass of wine helps you relax, drink it. (NOT the whole bottle!) Get a good night's sleep each night of the week before race day, and take some naps the days before, and you'll be OK after not sleeping as much the night before the race.
3. Race morning: you'll wake up many times during the night. Do NOT get out of bed before your planned wake-up time. Even if you're awake at 1:30, 2:17, and 4:03 a.m., stay in bed until your pre-determined "wake-up" time. If you're awake, OK, you're awake. Just relax and enjoy this quiet time before your big day.
4. Your bike: you'll load way too much on your bike, and you'll carry way too much weight on your bike.
4.1 Gels: you can load five-six-seven hours of gels on your bike, with electrical tape on your top tube, or in your Bento box, or in your shorts. If you need your special gel mix to survive, then by all means do it. But if you can do just as well with PowerBar gels (or whatever the race is using this time around), then you'll get one every ten miles, and you won't have to carry ANY with you. Maybe one extra on hand just in case.
4.2 Hydration: considering that a full 20 oz. water bottle weighs roughly 1.6 pounds, how much weight do you really want to haul around? Aid stations come along every 10 miles. That means cold water and a fresh load of PowerBar Perform (at least until WTC inks a deal with some other hydration company) every ten miles. If you really need your special drink mix, then use what you need. But if you can handle whatever they're serving, you really don't need more than two or three (really, two) bottles.
4.3 Food: you could feed a lot of people with all the PBJs and bananas that get dumped along the bike route. If you really need solid food on the bike, take it. It seems like a lot of people at every race never tested the theory during training, and end up wasting energy carrying around food they end up tossing on the road.
5. Run: the noise of the crowd and your adrenaline might have you rocketing out of T2. Just don't let it last too long before finding your pace and settling in for the marathon.
5.1 Hydration: don't drink a full cup of hydro at every aid station! Do you drink that much every mile in training? You want to stay hydrated, but your gut's only going to absorb so much liquid each mile: the extra liquid sloshing around isn't going to feel good.
6. Finish: there are no mistakes at the finish line. You Are An Ironman!
You may not think it now, and you will probably be near panic-mode when you see the water, race morning, but once you get into your rhythm on the swim, you'll get to a point where you know you'll be fine on the swim. You'll move through T1, ready to continue that friendship with your bike that you've forged over many miles and many hours in the saddle. You'll settle into the bike, and by the end (or maybe well before then) you'll be so ready to get off the bike... T2 you may be a little less chatty than T1, but you'll be ready for the run, and you'll pump out of T2 onto the run with the energy of the crowd. You'll take the run as it comes, sometimes feeling like you're in stride and on pace, and sometimes just hoping you make it to the end. But you'll make it. And sometime before midnight, you will hear Mike Reilly shout to the world, "You Are An Ironman!"
That's all true, and you WILL be an Ironman. But here are the mistakes you'll make during the day. Believe me, because many of us have made the same mistakes. Some of us, more than once.
1. You'll do too much when you arrive at the race city/venue. When you get on site, you'll see people riding in full kit, running all over the place, and swimming like there's no tomorrow. You'll think you need to do that, too. Don't be fooled. Some of them live there and are riding, running, and swimming because they know they'll LOOK like they're here for the race. They don't have to go 140.6 on Sunday! You go like them Thursday, Friday and Saturday, and you'll be able to go as far as them, Sunday = not 140.6! Take a couple of short rides to make sure your bike is dialed in. Do a short run or two to keep the capillaries open, but if you do the underwear run, don't think you have to win it.
1.1 You'll do too little when you arrive at the race city/venue. Sure, you've done all the training, you tapered perfectly, and nothing you do in the last few days will make you faster or fitter. But doing too little can dull your edge. You need to keep the capillaries in place, and you need to burn off some of that nervous energy.
1.2 Swim: You won't do any of the training swims on the race course because you're still intimidated by the swim. If you're still feeling intimidated, the best thing you can do is take a couple of short swims on the course. (This is also a great place to run into some Pro's when they're more relaxed and just checking out things like the rest of us.)
2. You'll go to bed too early the night before the race. Yes, you need a good night's sleep before the race. But let's get real. You don't go to bed at 8:00, ever, so don't go to bed at 8:00 the night before Ironman! You won't be able to go to sleep, and you'll just stress yourself out. "I must to go sleep!" "I can't go to sleep!" "I MUST go to sleep!" Instead of trying to force yourself to go to sleep un-naturally early, plan to have a relaxing evening. Eat supper/dinner early. Watch a movie. Relax while chatting with your friend/partner/spouse/family. If making whoopie helps you sleep, just DO it! If a glass of wine helps you relax, drink it. (NOT the whole bottle!) Get a good night's sleep each night of the week before race day, and take some naps the days before, and you'll be OK after not sleeping as much the night before the race.
3. Race morning: you'll wake up many times during the night. Do NOT get out of bed before your planned wake-up time. Even if you're awake at 1:30, 2:17, and 4:03 a.m., stay in bed until your pre-determined "wake-up" time. If you're awake, OK, you're awake. Just relax and enjoy this quiet time before your big day.
4. Your bike: you'll load way too much on your bike, and you'll carry way too much weight on your bike.
4.1 Gels: you can load five-six-seven hours of gels on your bike, with electrical tape on your top tube, or in your Bento box, or in your shorts. If you need your special gel mix to survive, then by all means do it. But if you can do just as well with PowerBar gels (or whatever the race is using this time around), then you'll get one every ten miles, and you won't have to carry ANY with you. Maybe one extra on hand just in case.
4.2 Hydration: considering that a full 20 oz. water bottle weighs roughly 1.6 pounds, how much weight do you really want to haul around? Aid stations come along every 10 miles. That means cold water and a fresh load of PowerBar Perform (at least until WTC inks a deal with some other hydration company) every ten miles. If you really need your special drink mix, then use what you need. But if you can handle whatever they're serving, you really don't need more than two or three (really, two) bottles.
4.3 Food: you could feed a lot of people with all the PBJs and bananas that get dumped along the bike route. If you really need solid food on the bike, take it. It seems like a lot of people at every race never tested the theory during training, and end up wasting energy carrying around food they end up tossing on the road.
5. Run: the noise of the crowd and your adrenaline might have you rocketing out of T2. Just don't let it last too long before finding your pace and settling in for the marathon.
5.1 Hydration: don't drink a full cup of hydro at every aid station! Do you drink that much every mile in training? You want to stay hydrated, but your gut's only going to absorb so much liquid each mile: the extra liquid sloshing around isn't going to feel good.
6. Finish: there are no mistakes at the finish line. You Are An Ironman!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
2011: taking care of unfinished business
For 2011, I'm going after some of those unanswered questions from the big disappointments of 2009. Ironman Louisville 2009 was a surprising disappointment: training was good, prep races were good, but race day didn't live up to my abilities. Swim time was off by 20 minutes, bike never found my normal speed, and I faded on the run to the point of walking perhaps 30 minutes overall (maybe more). I developed an overuse injury in my right shoulder during the build for Louisville which took almost until Ironman Lake Placid in 2010 to feel swimable, and it's still not 100%. Later in the season, during the Philly Marathon, I strained a hamstring and waived goodbye to my Boston qualifying time of 3:30, even though I had been right on goal pace at 13.1 miles. That hammy took until early summer 2010 before I felt confident I could run a marathon again. So now that Lake Placid is behind me (which, although it was my slowest Ironman performance, it is the one I am most happy with), I am thinking seriously about the 2011 season.
The big goals...
1. Go sub-12 hours at Ironman Louisville. I have not finished an Ironman under 12 hours, yet. I could-a should-a would-a at Louisville in 2009 but it wasn't happening that day. My bike speed is better now, and my running is way better. Just need to get back to work on my swim to bring that time down a bit. Carving time off the shortest part of the day (swim) is not going to make huge gains in the overall time, but 20 minutes here and there add up over 140.6 miles.
2. Qualify for the Boston Marathon with a 3:30 marathon finish elsewhere. My training times and half-marathon time at the Philadelphia Distance Run in 2009 had me on track for a BQ, until the injury at mile 15-ish. I have the , I can get back to the speed. I'll plan up to three regional marathons in 2011 to give me several chances.
The smaller goals...
1. Go sub-6 hours in a half-Ironman. I came close at Eagleman (6:17) and Providence (6:08 - my best 70.3 result so far). As with Ironman, shaving a few minutes off the swim will help, but the big answer is shaving bike time and run time. I know I can.
2. Go sub-21 minutes in a 5K. My best 5K time is 21:22, for a pace of 6:54/mile. I need to shave eight seconds per mile to hit 20:59. I've come close to placing in my age group in a couple of 5Ks (in 2009, not 2010!), and I think breaking the 21 minute barrier just might do the trick in the right race.
And the crazy goal...
Go off-road. I have a friend who does really crazy mountain bike races, like 24-hour races and five-day stage races in the Rockies. He's inspired me to spend more time on the knobby tires, and I'm finally getting a little better, a little less fearful of the rocky downhills, a little better at making it up a climb in the pedals rather than on foot. So I'm going to pick up a 29er (probably a Niner) and plan to do some one-day, off-road races in 2011. (Maybe a stage race or two in 2012?)
So here's the schedule and goals as they stand now:
March 27: Brandywine Valley Duathlon (just fun & training)
April 17: Hibernia MTB Duathlon (don't crash on the bike)
May 2: Broad Street Run (finish under 1:19:36 for a PR)
May 15: Philadelphia Bar Foundation 5K (finish under 21 minutes for a PR and possibly place in age group)
June 12: Eagleman 70.3 (sub-six hours and PR)
June 26: Philadelphia Triathlon (finish under 2:43:05 for an Olympic-distance PR)
July 10: Amica Ironman 70.3 Providence (sub-six hours)
August 28: Ironman Louisville (sub-12 hours and a PR)
September: Philadelphia Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon or Whatever They Call It Next Year (1:40 for a PR and BQ goal time at 13.1)
November 20: Philadelphia Marathon (sub 3:30 for a PR and BQ)
I need to consult my MTB crazed friend for off road races to fit into the schedule. The goal of any off-roading will simply be to finish without any broken bones (broken bike is negotiable). Looking to 2012, potentially, for some more serious MTB action. I also need to look into other regional marathons that are good for PRs (yes, I know about Lehigh Valley).
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Unspoken thoughts: 24 hours inside the mind of Ironman
12:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. Can’t get back to sleep. Did I set the alarm right? Must get back to sleep.
1:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. How much lost sleep can adrenaline cover? Must get back to sleep.
2:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. Did I set my goggles out with my wetsuit? Must get back to sleep.
3:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. Will my tires hold pressure over night? Must get back to sleep.
4:00 a.m. – (wake-up time) Ugh. Is it really 4:00 already? How many minutes did I sleep?
5:00 a.m. – Liquid breakfast. Get dressed. Is this enough carbs and calories? What am I forgetting?
6:00 a.m. – Bike and run gear and special needs bags ready to go. Bike is good to go. Relax & get heart rate down below 100. Get to the swim start and relax. Hard to relax with a few thousand spectators packed around swim start. Did the Mayor really say “no peeing in Mirror Lake?”
7:00 a.m. – Go! I hope these goggles work today. I didn’t swim enough in training. Can I still swim 2.4 miles? Is my calf cramping? Is that guy so slow he’s drafting on me? Find a rhythm. Focus.
8:00 a.m. – Will this swim ever end? I didn’t swim enough in training. Is it raining? Is Swim Out getting farther away? Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. Can too!
9:00 a.m. – I can’t believe my first hour on the bike broke 20 mph with those hills. Nutrition. Drink. Gel. She’s fast. And she’s got a great, um, bike.
10:00 a.m. – Oh, so this is why they call ‘em the Adirondack MOUNTAINS. Climbing feels good, but I’m pushing too hard. Must back off or the second loop is not going to be fun.
11:00 a.m. – There’s that 72 year-old I met at Ironman Louisville last year. Dang, he beat me out of the water by a lot. And he’s 73 this year. Papa Bear climb is like a TdF climb with this crowd and noise. Bring on the adrenaline!
12:00 p.m. – First half of bike wasn’t bad, but the second loop is gonna be tough. I pushed too hard on these hills. Nutrition. Can too! Relax and stay settled in the aero bars.
1:00 p.m. – This is definitely my new favorite downhill in the world. Glad I don’t have my GPS or I’d probably be afraid of my speed here. I am Spartacus!
2:00 p.m. – What’s my bottle count? Am I drinking enough? Nutrition. Got to keep nutrition going. Is that guy gonna pass me again? I’ll catch him on the next flat stretch.
3:00 p.m. – These hills are definitely harder this loop. What’s my average speed? Doesn’t matter, can’t go faster than I can. I’ll get there when I get there. Still have a marathon to run. A hilly marathon. Wish I had that guy’s arms. Didn’t do enough strength training.
4:00 p.m. – Must run now. Leg turnover. Cadence. Find your pace. Feeling good. Just keep it going! Didn’t run enough in training. Can! Will! Gonna!
5:00 p.m. – Walk the aid stations, but run everything else. It’s all about attrition now. Who’s gonna give in and who’s gonna keep pushing? Me, I’m pushing!
6:00 p.m. – OK, walk the toughest of the hills, too, but run everything else. Attrition. Attrition. How does she still look so comfortable? She’s got some nice, um, compression socks.
7:00 p.m. – Feet aren’t hurting? How can that be? Knees ache but not enough to stop. Attrition. Attrition. Oh, and nutrition. Keep fluids coming. Keep the calories coming in. Where’s that chicken broth for some warm sodium?
8:00 p.m. – Sun’s behind the mountains, now it’s gonna get chilly. Need long sleeve shirt out of special needs bag. Pain is temporary: quitting is forever. I’m doing OK but I have to keep pushing. Clock is ticking.
9:00 p.m. – Only two hours to make it. Must push. Don’t give up. Too close for comfort. Don’t DNF.
10:00 p.m. – Push. Push. Push. Clock is ticking. Don’t DNF. Focus. Don’t DNF. Leg turnover. Don’t DNF!
10:46:56 p.m. – Made it! Too close for comfort. What? It’s only 10:46? I thought it was an hour later! I had a whole hour and change left – glad I didn’t know.
11:00 p.m. – Food station is out of pizza? Ten minutes, yeah I can wait that long. Core temperature dropping. Serious shivering. Hypothermia. Can’t stick around for pizza. Get to morning clothes bag, get warm clothes, get moving to avert hypothermia. Can’t stick around ‘til midnight in this wet race kit. Too chilly. Too chilled.
12:00 a.m. – Solid food good. Clean teeth good. Ice bath? Core temperature to low. How about a nice warm shower instead? To sleep, perchance to dream.
1:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. How much lost sleep can adrenaline cover? Must get back to sleep.
2:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. Did I set my goggles out with my wetsuit? Must get back to sleep.
3:00 a.m. – Must get back to sleep. Will my tires hold pressure over night? Must get back to sleep.
4:00 a.m. – (wake-up time) Ugh. Is it really 4:00 already? How many minutes did I sleep?
5:00 a.m. – Liquid breakfast. Get dressed. Is this enough carbs and calories? What am I forgetting?
6:00 a.m. – Bike and run gear and special needs bags ready to go. Bike is good to go. Relax & get heart rate down below 100. Get to the swim start and relax. Hard to relax with a few thousand spectators packed around swim start. Did the Mayor really say “no peeing in Mirror Lake?”
7:00 a.m. – Go! I hope these goggles work today. I didn’t swim enough in training. Can I still swim 2.4 miles? Is my calf cramping? Is that guy so slow he’s drafting on me? Find a rhythm. Focus.
8:00 a.m. – Will this swim ever end? I didn’t swim enough in training. Is it raining? Is Swim Out getting farther away? Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. Can too!
9:00 a.m. – I can’t believe my first hour on the bike broke 20 mph with those hills. Nutrition. Drink. Gel. She’s fast. And she’s got a great, um, bike.
10:00 a.m. – Oh, so this is why they call ‘em the Adirondack MOUNTAINS. Climbing feels good, but I’m pushing too hard. Must back off or the second loop is not going to be fun.
11:00 a.m. – There’s that 72 year-old I met at Ironman Louisville last year. Dang, he beat me out of the water by a lot. And he’s 73 this year. Papa Bear climb is like a TdF climb with this crowd and noise. Bring on the adrenaline!
12:00 p.m. – First half of bike wasn’t bad, but the second loop is gonna be tough. I pushed too hard on these hills. Nutrition. Can too! Relax and stay settled in the aero bars.
1:00 p.m. – This is definitely my new favorite downhill in the world. Glad I don’t have my GPS or I’d probably be afraid of my speed here. I am Spartacus!
2:00 p.m. – What’s my bottle count? Am I drinking enough? Nutrition. Got to keep nutrition going. Is that guy gonna pass me again? I’ll catch him on the next flat stretch.
3:00 p.m. – These hills are definitely harder this loop. What’s my average speed? Doesn’t matter, can’t go faster than I can. I’ll get there when I get there. Still have a marathon to run. A hilly marathon. Wish I had that guy’s arms. Didn’t do enough strength training.
4:00 p.m. – Must run now. Leg turnover. Cadence. Find your pace. Feeling good. Just keep it going! Didn’t run enough in training. Can! Will! Gonna!
5:00 p.m. – Walk the aid stations, but run everything else. It’s all about attrition now. Who’s gonna give in and who’s gonna keep pushing? Me, I’m pushing!
6:00 p.m. – OK, walk the toughest of the hills, too, but run everything else. Attrition. Attrition. How does she still look so comfortable? She’s got some nice, um, compression socks.
7:00 p.m. – Feet aren’t hurting? How can that be? Knees ache but not enough to stop. Attrition. Attrition. Oh, and nutrition. Keep fluids coming. Keep the calories coming in. Where’s that chicken broth for some warm sodium?
8:00 p.m. – Sun’s behind the mountains, now it’s gonna get chilly. Need long sleeve shirt out of special needs bag. Pain is temporary: quitting is forever. I’m doing OK but I have to keep pushing. Clock is ticking.
9:00 p.m. – Only two hours to make it. Must push. Don’t give up. Too close for comfort. Don’t DNF.
10:00 p.m. – Push. Push. Push. Clock is ticking. Don’t DNF. Focus. Don’t DNF. Leg turnover. Don’t DNF!
10:46:56 p.m. – Made it! Too close for comfort. What? It’s only 10:46? I thought it was an hour later! I had a whole hour and change left – glad I didn’t know.
11:00 p.m. – Food station is out of pizza? Ten minutes, yeah I can wait that long. Core temperature dropping. Serious shivering. Hypothermia. Can’t stick around for pizza. Get to morning clothes bag, get warm clothes, get moving to avert hypothermia. Can’t stick around ‘til midnight in this wet race kit. Too chilly. Too chilled.
12:00 a.m. – Solid food good. Clean teeth good. Ice bath? Core temperature to low. How about a nice warm shower instead? To sleep, perchance to dream.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The Long Run
You can go the distance
We'll find out in the long run
The long run: a staple of marathon training. You can't go 26.2 on marathon day if you haven't gone long before marathon day. It's just that simple. You have to build the aerobic endurance, the muscular endurance, and the mental endurance to cover the distance. You have to build bone density. You have to strengthen the soft tissues - cartiledge and tendons. You have to know how your shoes, socks, shorts and everything else are going to feel after 12, 18, 20 miles. If you want to run a marathon, you have to do your long runs.
When it all comes down
We will still come through in the long run
Going long means building miles for progressively longer runs, generally by adding a mile or two to your longer run each week. And that's the tricky part. Add too much mileage, too quickly, and you risk injury, like stress fractures in the feet and legs, or tendonitis. Most people max out at a 20-mile training run. But the longer you stay long - the more long runs you do beyond your normal distances, the more you risk injury. With that in mind, most normal people don't go much beyond 20 miles before marathon day.
Who is gonna make it?
We'll find out in the long run
The long run is as much about mental endurance as physical. Just about everything that's going to happen in the marathon, happens on the long runs. Tired feet, hip pain, knee pain, ankle pain, lower ab pain, lower back pain. Rocks in your shoe. Cold, rainy days. Scorching hot days. Dehydration. Fuel that doesn't. Do your long runs, and you're going to deal with plenty of pain, inconvenience, lousy conditions. And you learn how to deal with them, how to survive and keep going. You learn what it takes to push yourself to go farther than you have in a while, or maybe ever.
Kinda bent, but we ain't breakin'
in the long run
The long run prepares you to manage the marathon miles. Even though most people max at 20, once you make it to that point in a marathon, you're counting down a mere 10k. And a 10k is such an easy distance. You know you can cover that. Ten-k is so short compared to your long runs. Of course, it's 10k longer than your longest run. And you're tired, sore, and probably hurting. But it's only 10k.
Ooh, I want to tell you, it's a long run
(Long Run lyrics by the Eagles)
We'll find out in the long run
The long run: a staple of marathon training. You can't go 26.2 on marathon day if you haven't gone long before marathon day. It's just that simple. You have to build the aerobic endurance, the muscular endurance, and the mental endurance to cover the distance. You have to build bone density. You have to strengthen the soft tissues - cartiledge and tendons. You have to know how your shoes, socks, shorts and everything else are going to feel after 12, 18, 20 miles. If you want to run a marathon, you have to do your long runs.
When it all comes down
We will still come through in the long run
Going long means building miles for progressively longer runs, generally by adding a mile or two to your longer run each week. And that's the tricky part. Add too much mileage, too quickly, and you risk injury, like stress fractures in the feet and legs, or tendonitis. Most people max out at a 20-mile training run. But the longer you stay long - the more long runs you do beyond your normal distances, the more you risk injury. With that in mind, most normal people don't go much beyond 20 miles before marathon day.
Who is gonna make it?
We'll find out in the long run
The long run is as much about mental endurance as physical. Just about everything that's going to happen in the marathon, happens on the long runs. Tired feet, hip pain, knee pain, ankle pain, lower ab pain, lower back pain. Rocks in your shoe. Cold, rainy days. Scorching hot days. Dehydration. Fuel that doesn't. Do your long runs, and you're going to deal with plenty of pain, inconvenience, lousy conditions. And you learn how to deal with them, how to survive and keep going. You learn what it takes to push yourself to go farther than you have in a while, or maybe ever.
Kinda bent, but we ain't breakin'
in the long run
The long run prepares you to manage the marathon miles. Even though most people max at 20, once you make it to that point in a marathon, you're counting down a mere 10k. And a 10k is such an easy distance. You know you can cover that. Ten-k is so short compared to your long runs. Of course, it's 10k longer than your longest run. And you're tired, sore, and probably hurting. But it's only 10k.
Ooh, I want to tell you, it's a long run
(Long Run lyrics by the Eagles)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The hardest part of Ironman
People often ask:
What's the hardest part of an Ironman?
A. The swim?
B. The bike?
C. The run? (Must be the run. How can anyone run a marathon after going 112 miles on the bike?)
The truth is:
D. None of the above.
An Ironman race, or any other triathlon, is hard. You're either pushing yourself to go really fast, or really far, and sometimes both. And you are totally at the mercy of the weather and terrain, which can make it even harder. But pushing yourself in the race is not the hardest part.
Covering the swim distance, whether 500 yards or 2.4 miles, is just swimming. As long as you've put in the training. Covering the bike distance, whether 15 miles or 112, is about pacing yourself and sticking to the hydration and nutrition plan. And the run, well, the run gets tough, especially after 56 or 112 miles on a bike. And running a marathon after 112 miles on the bike, that's just really tough. But it's not the hardest part.
Toeing the line at the swim start can be tough. Knowing you're about to go into the water with as many as 2,000 other people, all following the same line, all making the same turns, all at the same time. Knowing some of them are faster than you, and some are going to swim right over the top of you. Literally. Knowing there are sharks and jellyfish in some of the courses. In others, there are things you can't see because the water is so murky you can't see your fingers at the end of your stroke. Not seeing some of those things is good. But still... Knowing that if this were a public swimming beach, the lifeguards wouldn't let you in past your knees because the waves are too high. That can get tough. But it's not the hardest part.
The hardest part of Ironman isn't in the race at all. It's the time, effort, logistics, trade-offs, dark morning runs, rainy afternoon bike rides, swims in the dead of winter (even when the pool's heated, it still seems cold), indoor bike workouts in the basement, paying attention to nutrition so you don't gain too much weight in the winter. It's 100-mile rides in the heat of July and August. It's the 20-mile runs when there's no breeze to cut the 99% humidity. It's the first three minutes of an ice bath after a long run. Deep tissue massages that loosen muscles and tendons and help prevent injury but hurt so bad. Waking up at 5:00 a.m. to meet friends to run up a hill, again and again. Going to bed at 9:00 to get enough sleep to wake up at 5:00. Figuring out how to balance Ironman, family, work, and community in a schedule that already seemed full before the Ironman virus came along.
The hardest part of Ironman is sticking with the commitment, day after day, week after week, month after month, to do the workouts and keep the goal in sight. It's knowing that no single workout is going to make a difference in your ability to finish, or in your finish time, but also knowing that every workout gets you ready for the next. It's mediating the frequent internal argument: am I tired because I'm too tired to get out of bed for this workout and should skip it to avoid injury...or am I tired because it's still dark outside, and raining, and 42 degrees?
The hardest part of Ironman is consistently honoring the commitment you made to become an Ironman. It's being true to the reason you accepted the Ironman challenge. When everything else stacks up against training - work, family, chores, weather, loss of motivation, injury, illness - and sometimes they all stack up at the same time - that's when the hardest part of Ironman comes a'knocking. And when it does, and you answer by shoving a blackened toenail from last week's long tempo run in it's face, the hardest part of Ironman acquiesces: "Right, you are an Ironman."
What's the hardest part of an Ironman?
A. The swim?
B. The bike?
C. The run? (Must be the run. How can anyone run a marathon after going 112 miles on the bike?)
The truth is:
D. None of the above.
An Ironman race, or any other triathlon, is hard. You're either pushing yourself to go really fast, or really far, and sometimes both. And you are totally at the mercy of the weather and terrain, which can make it even harder. But pushing yourself in the race is not the hardest part.
Covering the swim distance, whether 500 yards or 2.4 miles, is just swimming. As long as you've put in the training. Covering the bike distance, whether 15 miles or 112, is about pacing yourself and sticking to the hydration and nutrition plan. And the run, well, the run gets tough, especially after 56 or 112 miles on a bike. And running a marathon after 112 miles on the bike, that's just really tough. But it's not the hardest part.
Toeing the line at the swim start can be tough. Knowing you're about to go into the water with as many as 2,000 other people, all following the same line, all making the same turns, all at the same time. Knowing some of them are faster than you, and some are going to swim right over the top of you. Literally. Knowing there are sharks and jellyfish in some of the courses. In others, there are things you can't see because the water is so murky you can't see your fingers at the end of your stroke. Not seeing some of those things is good. But still... Knowing that if this were a public swimming beach, the lifeguards wouldn't let you in past your knees because the waves are too high. That can get tough. But it's not the hardest part.
The hardest part of Ironman isn't in the race at all. It's the time, effort, logistics, trade-offs, dark morning runs, rainy afternoon bike rides, swims in the dead of winter (even when the pool's heated, it still seems cold), indoor bike workouts in the basement, paying attention to nutrition so you don't gain too much weight in the winter. It's 100-mile rides in the heat of July and August. It's the 20-mile runs when there's no breeze to cut the 99% humidity. It's the first three minutes of an ice bath after a long run. Deep tissue massages that loosen muscles and tendons and help prevent injury but hurt so bad. Waking up at 5:00 a.m. to meet friends to run up a hill, again and again. Going to bed at 9:00 to get enough sleep to wake up at 5:00. Figuring out how to balance Ironman, family, work, and community in a schedule that already seemed full before the Ironman virus came along.
The hardest part of Ironman is sticking with the commitment, day after day, week after week, month after month, to do the workouts and keep the goal in sight. It's knowing that no single workout is going to make a difference in your ability to finish, or in your finish time, but also knowing that every workout gets you ready for the next. It's mediating the frequent internal argument: am I tired because I'm too tired to get out of bed for this workout and should skip it to avoid injury...or am I tired because it's still dark outside, and raining, and 42 degrees?
The hardest part of Ironman is consistently honoring the commitment you made to become an Ironman. It's being true to the reason you accepted the Ironman challenge. When everything else stacks up against training - work, family, chores, weather, loss of motivation, injury, illness - and sometimes they all stack up at the same time - that's when the hardest part of Ironman comes a'knocking. And when it does, and you answer by shoving a blackened toenail from last week's long tempo run in it's face, the hardest part of Ironman acquiesces: "Right, you are an Ironman."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Race Report: Philadelphia Distance Run
Philadelphia Distance Run
Half-marathon: 13.1 miles
September 20, 2009
Chip time: 1:43:46.
Pace: 7:55/mile
Placed: 2,204 out of 12,447
I've always wanted to run this popular local race, but it never fit into my schedule. PDR was exactly three weeks after Ironman Louisville, so how I would do in the event was up in the air. Would I be ready to push hard and actually race? Or would I still need to watch my recovery from Ironman and treat it like a low-intensity long run for marathon training?
Recovery was going well, so I did a couple of short runs with marathon-pace intervals earlier in the week. Everything seemed fine. I had no problem hitting the goal pace, holding it for a mile, and had no problems afterwards. So I decided to race it.
Goal pace was eight minutes per mile, for a total time of 1:44:52. That's the pace I'll have to hold at the Philadelphia Marathon, November 22, to qualify in my age group for the Boston Marathon. This has been my big goal all season: to get withing striking distance of qualifying for Boston. I hit the mark in the 10-mile Broad Street Run in May, but that was the only stand-alone road (running) race of any distance I did this season. So PDR was a good test, especially after a season of triathlon and the big build for Ironman.
Race morning was perfect: temps in the upper 50's at the start, sunny, light breeze. I'm really a cold-weather wimp so I had a long sleeve under armor, but decided to toss it before the start and go with shorts & singlet only. Good choice. Sleeves would have been to warm.
I started at just below 8:00/mile from the start. Down the Ben Franklin Parkway, around City Hall and down Market Street, past Independence Mall, and then up Walnut. I held my pace, although I had to pay attention to my GPS to make sure I was staying between 7:45/ and 8:00/mile. Heart rate was up in the lactate threshold zone, so well above aerobic, but based on my half-marathon at Rhode Island 70.3 in July, I knew I could sustain that level of effort.
After passing back through Eakins Oval the course headed out on MLK Drive, the site of several 5Ks earlier in the season, and a nice open view of the Schuylkill River. At mile 6, nature came a-calling, and I dodged into a porta-potty for about a minute. Back to business, I picked up the pace a bit and still managed eight minutes for that mile. Across the Falls Bridge and the work got a little harder. Had to push a bit more to keep the pace.
Mile 9 was the toughest, as it was too far to be a cake walk back to the finish, and long enough into the race to start feeling it. Pushed through mile 9 and came to the 10-mile marker, showing only a 5K left to go. That made the countdown easy. Coming up to Boat House Row, I picked up the pace to give myself a bit of a cushion - I knew I had my goal time in hand, but I also had some room to dig for more speed, so did. I pushed mile 13 the hardest, and then got into a sprint after the final turn with about 100 yards to go before the finish. I lost that sprint but it was a great burst at the end to cap off a great run.
Nailing my goal pace and finish time, I am now even more convinced that my disappointing result at Ironman Louisville was due to an off day. I felt fine but just didn't hit any of my paces or goal times for the splits. After results in Eagleman and Rhode Island 70.3s earlier in the season, and again at PDR, I know my times and what I can do. Louisville just wasn't in the cards, and that's OK.
Now, on to the final push for the Philadelphia Marathon. Long runs, Yasso 800's, hill repeats. Stay tuned.
Watch a cool PDR video here.
Half-marathon: 13.1 miles
September 20, 2009
Chip time: 1:43:46.
Pace: 7:55/mile
Placed: 2,204 out of 12,447
I've always wanted to run this popular local race, but it never fit into my schedule. PDR was exactly three weeks after Ironman Louisville, so how I would do in the event was up in the air. Would I be ready to push hard and actually race? Or would I still need to watch my recovery from Ironman and treat it like a low-intensity long run for marathon training?
Recovery was going well, so I did a couple of short runs with marathon-pace intervals earlier in the week. Everything seemed fine. I had no problem hitting the goal pace, holding it for a mile, and had no problems afterwards. So I decided to race it.
Goal pace was eight minutes per mile, for a total time of 1:44:52. That's the pace I'll have to hold at the Philadelphia Marathon, November 22, to qualify in my age group for the Boston Marathon. This has been my big goal all season: to get withing striking distance of qualifying for Boston. I hit the mark in the 10-mile Broad Street Run in May, but that was the only stand-alone road (running) race of any distance I did this season. So PDR was a good test, especially after a season of triathlon and the big build for Ironman.
Race morning was perfect: temps in the upper 50's at the start, sunny, light breeze. I'm really a cold-weather wimp so I had a long sleeve under armor, but decided to toss it before the start and go with shorts & singlet only. Good choice. Sleeves would have been to warm.
I started at just below 8:00/mile from the start. Down the Ben Franklin Parkway, around City Hall and down Market Street, past Independence Mall, and then up Walnut. I held my pace, although I had to pay attention to my GPS to make sure I was staying between 7:45/ and 8:00/mile. Heart rate was up in the lactate threshold zone, so well above aerobic, but based on my half-marathon at Rhode Island 70.3 in July, I knew I could sustain that level of effort.
After passing back through Eakins Oval the course headed out on MLK Drive, the site of several 5Ks earlier in the season, and a nice open view of the Schuylkill River. At mile 6, nature came a-calling, and I dodged into a porta-potty for about a minute. Back to business, I picked up the pace a bit and still managed eight minutes for that mile. Across the Falls Bridge and the work got a little harder. Had to push a bit more to keep the pace.
Mile 9 was the toughest, as it was too far to be a cake walk back to the finish, and long enough into the race to start feeling it. Pushed through mile 9 and came to the 10-mile marker, showing only a 5K left to go. That made the countdown easy. Coming up to Boat House Row, I picked up the pace to give myself a bit of a cushion - I knew I had my goal time in hand, but I also had some room to dig for more speed, so did. I pushed mile 13 the hardest, and then got into a sprint after the final turn with about 100 yards to go before the finish. I lost that sprint but it was a great burst at the end to cap off a great run.
Nailing my goal pace and finish time, I am now even more convinced that my disappointing result at Ironman Louisville was due to an off day. I felt fine but just didn't hit any of my paces or goal times for the splits. After results in Eagleman and Rhode Island 70.3s earlier in the season, and again at PDR, I know my times and what I can do. Louisville just wasn't in the cards, and that's OK.
Now, on to the final push for the Philadelphia Marathon. Long runs, Yasso 800's, hill repeats. Stay tuned.
Watch a cool PDR video here.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ironman is not pretty
Ironman is not pretty. Ironman is responsible for building some pretty bodies, for sure, but Ironman itself is not pretty.
The swim is not pretty:
For in-water swim starts, you know that half the people around you aren't quiet because they're focusing on the swim. After a cup or two of coffee, plus a water bottle or two of hydration formula, and those long lines at the porta-potties, and you can understand those looks of relief on those faces beside you.
Take a good open water swim, with a hefty wind and some serious chop in the water, and you can't help but swallow more water than some people drink in a day. Give that a few minutes to churn around in a few hundred stomachs, and something's coming back up.
The changing tent is not pretty:
With a 2.4 mile swim, then a 112 mile bike, and then a marathon, many people like to change into discipline-specific clothes between each segment. I mean a total change. Each gender has its own changing tent, so I can't say what it's like in the women's tent, but in the mens...trust me, it ain't pretty!
The bike is not pretty:
The people who are fast on the bike don't like to stop. For anything. Not event to unload excess liquid after several water bottles. Instead, they just let it go while they're on the roll. That's not pretty enough, but imagine someone doing that while flying down a hill in front of you at 40 mph. Definitely. Not. Pretty.
The run? You guessed it:
There's really not much new on the run, other than toward the back of the pack, where you see a lot of people after 13, 14, 15, 16 hours, utterly spent and running on nothing but pure determination.
Here are some samples (sorry, no changing tents):
2007, Normann Stadler vomits on the bike
1982, Julie Moss famously crawls to the finish line
Although Ironman is not pretty, it is pretty freakin' awesome.
John Blazeman, Warrior Poet, Ironman
Team Hoyt, might just be the most awesome act of a father's dedication you'll ever see
The swim is not pretty:
For in-water swim starts, you know that half the people around you aren't quiet because they're focusing on the swim. After a cup or two of coffee, plus a water bottle or two of hydration formula, and those long lines at the porta-potties, and you can understand those looks of relief on those faces beside you.
Take a good open water swim, with a hefty wind and some serious chop in the water, and you can't help but swallow more water than some people drink in a day. Give that a few minutes to churn around in a few hundred stomachs, and something's coming back up.
The changing tent is not pretty:
With a 2.4 mile swim, then a 112 mile bike, and then a marathon, many people like to change into discipline-specific clothes between each segment. I mean a total change. Each gender has its own changing tent, so I can't say what it's like in the women's tent, but in the mens...trust me, it ain't pretty!
The bike is not pretty:
The people who are fast on the bike don't like to stop. For anything. Not event to unload excess liquid after several water bottles. Instead, they just let it go while they're on the roll. That's not pretty enough, but imagine someone doing that while flying down a hill in front of you at 40 mph. Definitely. Not. Pretty.
The run? You guessed it:
There's really not much new on the run, other than toward the back of the pack, where you see a lot of people after 13, 14, 15, 16 hours, utterly spent and running on nothing but pure determination.
Here are some samples (sorry, no changing tents):
2007, Normann Stadler vomits on the bike
1982, Julie Moss famously crawls to the finish line
Although Ironman is not pretty, it is pretty freakin' awesome.
John Blazeman, Warrior Poet, Ironman
Team Hoyt, might just be the most awesome act of a father's dedication you'll ever see
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Race Report: Ironman Louisville
August 30, 2009. Louisville, Kentucky. Ohio River. Rural Kentucky Counties. University of Louisville. Churchill Downs. Fourth Street Live. 2,352 people with a dream.
Overview, 140.6 miles: 14:58:07
Race day was an unexpected beauty. After two years when Ironman Louisville saw temperatures in the 90's with high humidity, the third running of IML caught a break with highs in the mid-70's, low humidity, light winds and clear skies. All those weeks of waiting until mid-day to head out for long training rides and runs, to catch the hottest part of the day to prepare for the inevitable heat, turned out to be good heat training that was not needed. Big crowds in Louisville and La Grange (which the bike route passed through, twice), and smaller concentrations along the course, were great boosters for everyone who passed through. Volunteers were fantastic all the way, with the occasional exception of some on the marathon route toward the end of the evening. They were understandably weary after a long day, themselves.
Swim, 2.4 miles: 1:49:33
IML has a unique swim. Rather than a mass start, where everyone is either in the water or on the beach, and all start at once, IML uses a time trial format, with athletes jumping off a dock one at a time to enter the backwaters of the Ohio River behind Towhead Island. But back up: to stage the swim start, athletes line up, first-come, first-in, with the line stretching for what must have been a mile along a parking lot and road. Once the cannon fired, the line moved fast, like jogging fast, onto the dock and into the water. After swimming upstream (although there was no discernible current) past Towhead, the course turns out into the main body of the Ohio and then downstream for the main part of the swim.
Although it's a major river, the Ohio does in fact taste better than the Hudson in NYC, even though you can't see your fingers at the start of your swim stroke.
Based on swim splits at Eagleman and Rhode Island 70.3, in June and July, I had expected a swim time of 1:20 to 1:30. So I was disappointed when I glanced at my watch a bit before the half-way point in the swim and saw that I was significantly off my expected pace. But knowing that pushing harder than my aerobic pace in the swim would mean losing time to fatigue later in the day, I stuck with the plan and crawled on.
T1: 0:05:29
I came out of the water for the transition from swim to bike, glad to be out of the water and ready to make up time on the bike. Nancy and Ben were there for encouragement. Ran into transition, a volunteer handed over my bike equipment bag, and I ran into the men's changing tent. Ironman has separate changing tents for good reason - maybe because some folks do a total costume change, maybe because what people look like in the tent is just not pretty.
Pulled on my bike shorts over my tri shorts - I like the extra cushion over 112 miles on the bike. Also socks for comfort, bike shoes, helmet, race belt with bib, sunscreen, sunglasses, and ran out the tent. I had to get my bike from the rack - often volunteers have the bike off the rack and ready, but when a hundred people are emerging each minute, they can't serve everyone. This is why, even in a well-supported event, it always pays to know exactly where your bike is, and to practice getting to it before the race.
Bike, 112 miles: 7:19:12
Oy. I felt fine on the bike, but my time does not show it. Coming out of T1, the bike starts with a few flat miles before leaving the Ohio River bed and into the rolling hills of Kentucky. This is a great opportunity to get settled into the aero bars, start taking on nutrition and hydration, and get ready for a nice, long ride.
The goal on the bike was to stay in my aerobic heart rate zone as much as possible, and to not let my heart rate climb too high going up the hills. The first hill was a good test - steep enough to force the heart rate higher, and long enough to keep it there. The bike course has one long descent into a creek bed in an out-and-back section, which was great for a sustained "yee-haw" 40-plus mph down to the bridge, and then a good climb back out - twice. The downhills gave me a great chance to see the advantage of the aerodynamic wheels and helmet: coasting downhill I was screaming past heavier people (think about the effects of gravity on bodies with more mass), and loving it. That image helped me as I churned along the flats and rollers, realizing that my aero-gear was making me faster than if I had standard wheels and helmet. Even so, the first two hours were frustratingly slow at exactly 15 mph. I got a bit faster after that, but still well below my expected speed of 17 - 18 mph. That's where the training and plan again probably saved me from an even worse finish: had I panicked and pushed harder, beyond my aerobic heart rate zone, I may well have had a melt down during the bike.
Passing through La Grange at mile 31 on the bike, I saw the sign our friend's son had made for me, and was able to pull over for 30 seconds to give Nancy a smooch. Definitely worth it. Wife & son, along with good friends from a former life and their boys, were in La Grange for both bike loops, and it was great to see them there, even though it was just for a few seconds each time.
The last 40 miles on the bike were much faster, capped off by returning to the flat road along the river to start getting ready for the run.
T2: 0:06:29
Although I wasn't sure if I could pull it off, I did a nice rolling dismount from the bike into the transition from bike to run. A volunteer took my bike to replace it on the rack, and I ran to the volunteer who handed over my run bag, and then back into the men's changing tent. In T1, there's a lot of chatter about the water, how people did on the swim, what the bike's going to be like. In T2, not. Bike shorts, helmet, socks off. Compression socks, hat, running shoes on. Gels in tri shorts pockets, race belt rotated so bib is in front. More sunscreen. Ready to roll.
Run, 26.2 miles: 5:37:24
In the most disappointing segment of the race, my run was 30 minutes slower than my Ironman Florida run, even after posting my best half-iron run in July at Rhode Island 70.3. I felt fine coming out of T2, pumped by the adrenaline, the change of movement, and the great crowd. Out of the chute and into the streets of downtown Louisville before turning onto a bridge over the Ohio. The bridge was just a bit of a climb, and the only real rise on the run course. I ran the first three miles in a comfortable pace of 9:43/mile in my aerobic zone, which I felt like I could carry forever. But after mile three I started slowing, despite my push to keep the pace. I ran through mile 14 and the turn around for loop two, just yards from the finish line with a huge crowd. After that, took several walking breaks. Although I felt well fueled and hydrated, my right knee and hip were complaining and I gave in to the urge to give them a rest. Or several rests.
Sundown hit at about mile 21. Take a few hundred tired runners in the last few miles of an Ironman, when there's not much in the way of sustained conversation, and add a bit of darkness, and you find out how to get solitude in the middle of a city. As I was counting down the miles, I knew I had enough time to walk the rest of the marathon and still finish under the 17 hour end at midnight. But I kept running most of the way, with walking breaks as needed, along with just about everyone else still on the course.
At mile 25, I forced myself to put it in gear and keep it there until the end. I could hear the announcer calling each finisher's name as she or he crossed the line, and I could begin to hear the finish line crowd. "Finish strong," is an endurance sport mantra, and it can be a powerful drug after struggling to finish an Ironman.
Turning the last corner, just a few blocks before Fourth Street Live
and the finish line, all the pain left, all the fatigue faded, and all the frustration washed away in the bright lights of the finish chute and line. "Run toward the light!" Cheering crowds, hands outstretched to high-five runners in the last yards of their day, music blasting, and then a lone voice booming through the din: "Kevin Peter from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!"
Total Time, 140.6 miles: 14:58:07
Overview, 140.6 miles: 14:58:07
Race day was an unexpected beauty. After two years when Ironman Louisville saw temperatures in the 90's with high humidity, the third running of IML caught a break with highs in the mid-70's, low humidity, light winds and clear skies. All those weeks of waiting until mid-day to head out for long training rides and runs, to catch the hottest part of the day to prepare for the inevitable heat, turned out to be good heat training that was not needed. Big crowds in Louisville and La Grange (which the bike route passed through, twice), and smaller concentrations along the course, were great boosters for everyone who passed through. Volunteers were fantastic all the way, with the occasional exception of some on the marathon route toward the end of the evening. They were understandably weary after a long day, themselves.
Swim, 2.4 miles: 1:49:33
IML has a unique swim. Rather than a mass start, where everyone is either in the water or on the beach, and all start at once, IML uses a time trial format, with athletes jumping off a dock one at a time to enter the backwaters of the Ohio River behind Towhead Island. But back up: to stage the swim start, athletes line up, first-come, first-in, with the line stretching for what must have been a mile along a parking lot and road. Once the cannon fired, the line moved fast, like jogging fast, onto the dock and into the water. After swimming upstream (although there was no discernible current) past Towhead, the course turns out into the main body of the Ohio and then downstream for the main part of the swim.
Although it's a major river, the Ohio does in fact taste better than the Hudson in NYC, even though you can't see your fingers at the start of your swim stroke.
Based on swim splits at Eagleman and Rhode Island 70.3, in June and July, I had expected a swim time of 1:20 to 1:30. So I was disappointed when I glanced at my watch a bit before the half-way point in the swim and saw that I was significantly off my expected pace. But knowing that pushing harder than my aerobic pace in the swim would mean losing time to fatigue later in the day, I stuck with the plan and crawled on.
T1: 0:05:29
I came out of the water for the transition from swim to bike, glad to be out of the water and ready to make up time on the bike. Nancy and Ben were there for encouragement. Ran into transition, a volunteer handed over my bike equipment bag, and I ran into the men's changing tent. Ironman has separate changing tents for good reason - maybe because some folks do a total costume change, maybe because what people look like in the tent is just not pretty.
Pulled on my bike shorts over my tri shorts - I like the extra cushion over 112 miles on the bike. Also socks for comfort, bike shoes, helmet, race belt with bib, sunscreen, sunglasses, and ran out the tent. I had to get my bike from the rack - often volunteers have the bike off the rack and ready, but when a hundred people are emerging each minute, they can't serve everyone. This is why, even in a well-supported event, it always pays to know exactly where your bike is, and to practice getting to it before the race.
Bike, 112 miles: 7:19:12
Oy. I felt fine on the bike, but my time does not show it. Coming out of T1, the bike starts with a few flat miles before leaving the Ohio River bed and into the rolling hills of Kentucky. This is a great opportunity to get settled into the aero bars, start taking on nutrition and hydration, and get ready for a nice, long ride.
The goal on the bike was to stay in my aerobic heart rate zone as much as possible, and to not let my heart rate climb too high going up the hills. The first hill was a good test - steep enough to force the heart rate higher, and long enough to keep it there. The bike course has one long descent into a creek bed in an out-and-back section, which was great for a sustained "yee-haw" 40-plus mph down to the bridge, and then a good climb back out - twice. The downhills gave me a great chance to see the advantage of the aerodynamic wheels and helmet: coasting downhill I was screaming past heavier people (think about the effects of gravity on bodies with more mass), and loving it. That image helped me as I churned along the flats and rollers, realizing that my aero-gear was making me faster than if I had standard wheels and helmet. Even so, the first two hours were frustratingly slow at exactly 15 mph. I got a bit faster after that, but still well below my expected speed of 17 - 18 mph. That's where the training and plan again probably saved me from an even worse finish: had I panicked and pushed harder, beyond my aerobic heart rate zone, I may well have had a melt down during the bike.
Passing through La Grange at mile 31 on the bike, I saw the sign our friend's son had made for me, and was able to pull over for 30 seconds to give Nancy a smooch. Definitely worth it. Wife & son, along with good friends from a former life and their boys, were in La Grange for both bike loops, and it was great to see them there, even though it was just for a few seconds each time.
The last 40 miles on the bike were much faster, capped off by returning to the flat road along the river to start getting ready for the run.
T2: 0:06:29
Although I wasn't sure if I could pull it off, I did a nice rolling dismount from the bike into the transition from bike to run. A volunteer took my bike to replace it on the rack, and I ran to the volunteer who handed over my run bag, and then back into the men's changing tent. In T1, there's a lot of chatter about the water, how people did on the swim, what the bike's going to be like. In T2, not. Bike shorts, helmet, socks off. Compression socks, hat, running shoes on. Gels in tri shorts pockets, race belt rotated so bib is in front. More sunscreen. Ready to roll.
Run, 26.2 miles: 5:37:24
In the most disappointing segment of the race, my run was 30 minutes slower than my Ironman Florida run, even after posting my best half-iron run in July at Rhode Island 70.3. I felt fine coming out of T2, pumped by the adrenaline, the change of movement, and the great crowd. Out of the chute and into the streets of downtown Louisville before turning onto a bridge over the Ohio. The bridge was just a bit of a climb, and the only real rise on the run course. I ran the first three miles in a comfortable pace of 9:43/mile in my aerobic zone, which I felt like I could carry forever. But after mile three I started slowing, despite my push to keep the pace. I ran through mile 14 and the turn around for loop two, just yards from the finish line with a huge crowd. After that, took several walking breaks. Although I felt well fueled and hydrated, my right knee and hip were complaining and I gave in to the urge to give them a rest. Or several rests.
Sundown hit at about mile 21. Take a few hundred tired runners in the last few miles of an Ironman, when there's not much in the way of sustained conversation, and add a bit of darkness, and you find out how to get solitude in the middle of a city. As I was counting down the miles, I knew I had enough time to walk the rest of the marathon and still finish under the 17 hour end at midnight. But I kept running most of the way, with walking breaks as needed, along with just about everyone else still on the course.
At mile 25, I forced myself to put it in gear and keep it there until the end. I could hear the announcer calling each finisher's name as she or he crossed the line, and I could begin to hear the finish line crowd. "Finish strong," is an endurance sport mantra, and it can be a powerful drug after struggling to finish an Ironman.
Turning the last corner, just a few blocks before Fourth Street Live
and the finish line, all the pain left, all the fatigue faded, and all the frustration washed away in the bright lights of the finish chute and line. "Run toward the light!" Cheering crowds, hands outstretched to high-five runners in the last yards of their day, music blasting, and then a lone voice booming through the din: "Kevin Peter from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!"
Total Time, 140.6 miles: 14:58:07
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Baby, it's cold outside!
So, you're an Ironman, knowing you have an Ironman event in only 33 weeks and a whole lotta base fitness to build before intense training begins the spring. Not to mention a marathon in ten weeks. But it's cold, and icy, and you have a swim, a long run and a long ride scheduled for the weekend. What to do?
Yes, winter swimming is inside, and the pool is heated. But the pool always seems colder when dark comes early that the windows are coated with condensation. Just like at the beginning of a race, I just jump in and go. The water's not going anywhere, and the fitness won't come on its own.
I did my long run yesterday. I was really hoping to run in a nice snowfall, which the forecast had been calling for, for days. I don't mind running in the cold. Just put on enough layers of cold weather running gear, and maybe a rainproof vest, and I'm ready to go. I'd much rather run in really cold weather than in hot, humid weather.
Today's two-hour bike ride was a different matter. Last night's freezing rain made even riding down to the Wissahickon for a trail ride too slippery. So I did the next best thing - grabbed a DVD and headed to the basement to spin on my road bike on the trainer. Riding inside is not as interesting as riding outside, even with a good movie to watch, but sometimes it's the only option.
Yes, winter swimming is inside, and the pool is heated. But the pool always seems colder when dark comes early that the windows are coated with condensation. Just like at the beginning of a race, I just jump in and go. The water's not going anywhere, and the fitness won't come on its own.
I did my long run yesterday. I was really hoping to run in a nice snowfall, which the forecast had been calling for, for days. I don't mind running in the cold. Just put on enough layers of cold weather running gear, and maybe a rainproof vest, and I'm ready to go. I'd much rather run in really cold weather than in hot, humid weather.
Today's two-hour bike ride was a different matter. Last night's freezing rain made even riding down to the Wissahickon for a trail ride too slippery. So I did the next best thing - grabbed a DVD and headed to the basement to spin on my road bike on the trainer. Riding inside is not as interesting as riding outside, even with a good movie to watch, but sometimes it's the only option.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Ironman resolutions
What can an Ironman resolve for the New Year?
Get in shape? Done that.
Lose weight? Done that.
Swim, bike, and run 140.6 miles in less than 17 hours? Done that, baby!
Do something that no one else you know thinks they can do? Yes, I've even done that. (and by the way, most of those people are wrong - if I can do it, most of them can, too)
So here's what I'm thinking for 2009. Not resolutions, really, but goals.
1. Get religious about my training schedule. In 2008, knowing I had to work very hard to build the endurance to complete the Ironman distance, I signed up with Cadence Multisport Centers for individual coaching. I knew I needed some external accountability - someone keeping track of my training - to keep me on the plan. And it worked, mostly. But there's often a reason to cut a workout short, or to skip it. Family schedules, work, other activities - everything conspires to ask whether Ironman is more important. And for the age grouper (amateur) Ironman, training and racing are all about balance, as in, how to balance Ironman with the rest of your life. For me, when training loses the contest, it's usually not about balance, but about planning. So I'm going to do a better a job planning, this year, so I get the benefits of training and everything else, too.
2. Push harder in training. In 2008, I learned how to push myself in races - to keep a pace of eight minutes-per-mile in the 10K run of an Olympic distance race, for example. I learned how to push myself in training, also, and my coach's workout plans helped focus that. But with a major goal for 2009 to increase my speed in all three disciplines, I need to make sure I'm pushing hard in training, throughout the year, so I have more to push during races.
3. Bring more people into triathlon. In the four years I've been doing triathlon, I've enjoyed nearly all of it. Long, aerobic-paced runs with a friend. Early morning indoor cycling workouts at Cadence. Six-hour rides through Chester and Berks counties. Sharing brief conversations with other participants during races. Seeing my fitness and times improve in tangible return on my work.
Get in shape? Done that.
Lose weight? Done that.
Swim, bike, and run 140.6 miles in less than 17 hours? Done that, baby!
Do something that no one else you know thinks they can do? Yes, I've even done that. (and by the way, most of those people are wrong - if I can do it, most of them can, too)
So here's what I'm thinking for 2009. Not resolutions, really, but goals.
1. Get religious about my training schedule. In 2008, knowing I had to work very hard to build the endurance to complete the Ironman distance, I signed up with Cadence Multisport Centers for individual coaching. I knew I needed some external accountability - someone keeping track of my training - to keep me on the plan. And it worked, mostly. But there's often a reason to cut a workout short, or to skip it. Family schedules, work, other activities - everything conspires to ask whether Ironman is more important. And for the age grouper (amateur) Ironman, training and racing are all about balance, as in, how to balance Ironman with the rest of your life. For me, when training loses the contest, it's usually not about balance, but about planning. So I'm going to do a better a job planning, this year, so I get the benefits of training and everything else, too.
2. Push harder in training. In 2008, I learned how to push myself in races - to keep a pace of eight minutes-per-mile in the 10K run of an Olympic distance race, for example. I learned how to push myself in training, also, and my coach's workout plans helped focus that. But with a major goal for 2009 to increase my speed in all three disciplines, I need to make sure I'm pushing hard in training, throughout the year, so I have more to push during races.
3. Bring more people into triathlon. In the four years I've been doing triathlon, I've enjoyed nearly all of it. Long, aerobic-paced runs with a friend. Early morning indoor cycling workouts at Cadence. Six-hour rides through Chester and Berks counties. Sharing brief conversations with other participants during races. Seeing my fitness and times improve in tangible return on my work.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
I did an Ironman?
Seven weeks after Ironman Florida, it's getting hard to imagine how one does Ironman. Can I really swim 2.4 miles in open water, bike 112 miles, and run the 26.2 miles of a marathon, all in one day. And survive?
Thinking about 2009, right around the corner, and Ironman Louisville on August 30, it's hard to imagine what it will take to do another Ironman. With the past seven weeks of shorter, less intense swimming, biking, and running, my body has recovered from the long, hard work of the summer and early fall. Aches and pains are gone, and my body's ready to get back to work.
I've run two 5K races since Ironman. For those of us who discovered that the metric system died when we finished sixth grade, it lives on in race distances. And since it's been so long since most of us have had to do a conversion: 5 kilometers equals 3.1 miles.
Thanksgiving morning, Ben and I ran his first 5K, the "Gobble Wobble," at a local Y. Ben has owned most of the 1-mile "fun runs" in which he's participated in conjuction with at marathons and other events. He had yet to run longer than a mile, and he'd been wanting to go farther. He was pretty sure he could cover the distance, but had an unusual (for him) respect for the longer distance. He decided to take it easier than normal, and I ran with him. Ben finished in 26:58, at a pace of 8:42 per mile. Only three and a half weeks after Ironman, my goal was simply to run with Ben and have fun.
December 14, Ben and I ran the "Reindeer Romp 5K," in a nearby burb. This time, Ben thought he could run faster, now knowing that he could cover the distance. I also wanted to see how fast I could make the distance. So we each ran our own pace. I finished in an amazing-for-me 22:41, a pace of 7:17 per mile. That's 39 seconds per mile faster than I've ever run in an event. I came in only 1:38 behind the third place winner in the Male 40-44 age group, and 11th overall in that group. I also came in one second ahead of the second and third place women in the 40-44 group. Literally - they were running together and I finally cought and passed them about 20 yards before the finish line. And I have no problem being the second place woman!
We'll do a couple more 5Ks over the winter as I continue to work on my run speed. My new crazy goal for 2009 is to qualify, in fall 2009, for the 2010 Boston Marathon. For my mid-life crisis age group, that means running 3:30 or less in a qualifying marathon.
I'll run the SunTrust National Marathon, in Washington, March 21. That will give me a stand-alone marathon result to tell me how much time I'm going to have to shave off my pace between then and the fall. If I don't qualify for Boston, I'll still be a lot faster than now, which of course will help my Ironman Louisville marathon time.
Thinking about 2009, right around the corner, and Ironman Louisville on August 30, it's hard to imagine what it will take to do another Ironman. With the past seven weeks of shorter, less intense swimming, biking, and running, my body has recovered from the long, hard work of the summer and early fall. Aches and pains are gone, and my body's ready to get back to work.
I've run two 5K races since Ironman. For those of us who discovered that the metric system died when we finished sixth grade, it lives on in race distances. And since it's been so long since most of us have had to do a conversion: 5 kilometers equals 3.1 miles.
Thanksgiving morning, Ben and I ran his first 5K, the "Gobble Wobble," at a local Y. Ben has owned most of the 1-mile "fun runs" in which he's participated in conjuction with at marathons and other events. He had yet to run longer than a mile, and he'd been wanting to go farther. He was pretty sure he could cover the distance, but had an unusual (for him) respect for the longer distance. He decided to take it easier than normal, and I ran with him. Ben finished in 26:58, at a pace of 8:42 per mile. Only three and a half weeks after Ironman, my goal was simply to run with Ben and have fun.
December 14, Ben and I ran the "Reindeer Romp 5K," in a nearby burb. This time, Ben thought he could run faster, now knowing that he could cover the distance. I also wanted to see how fast I could make the distance. So we each ran our own pace. I finished in an amazing-for-me 22:41, a pace of 7:17 per mile. That's 39 seconds per mile faster than I've ever run in an event. I came in only 1:38 behind the third place winner in the Male 40-44 age group, and 11th overall in that group. I also came in one second ahead of the second and third place women in the 40-44 group. Literally - they were running together and I finally cought and passed them about 20 yards before the finish line. And I have no problem being the second place woman!
We'll do a couple more 5Ks over the winter as I continue to work on my run speed. My new crazy goal for 2009 is to qualify, in fall 2009, for the 2010 Boston Marathon. For my mid-life crisis age group, that means running 3:30 or less in a qualifying marathon.
I'll run the SunTrust National Marathon, in Washington, March 21. That will give me a stand-alone marathon result to tell me how much time I'm going to have to shave off my pace between then and the fall. If I don't qualify for Boston, I'll still be a lot faster than now, which of course will help my Ironman Louisville marathon time.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
What do you call the last person across the finish line?
In Ironman, what do you call the last person to cross the finish line before midnight? Ironman!
The folks at North America Sports, the organization that produces Ironman branded events throughout the continent, know one important fact: the athletes who push through the pain, exhaustion, and in some cases overwhelming feelings of defeat, still complete the 140.6 miles under their own power, in less than 17 hours. Each one is, by definition, an Ironman.
Everyone else at the race knows it, too. Although the crowd is big, and loud, when the pro winners come through after eight and nine hours (I know this because I started my run as Bella Comeford, came in for yet another first place at Ironman Florida), they get louder and more excited in the waning hours of the race. Many people who finish the race earlier in the evening come back to the finish line to cheer on the people who finish in the literal, physical, and emotional dark as the clock races toward midnight. They know what it takes to get wary bodies through those last few miles and yards, and they give it with gusto.
Eighty-seven people did not finish Ironman Florida. Some pro's abandon the race for various reasons, but most of the the DNFs (did not finish) are age groupers, amatures, who get injured, suffer exhaustion or dehydration, or just don't have the speed on race day to make it to the finish before midnight. I've been out there with those people - I was on the run course with many of them, although at least three hours ahead of them. I can tell you that many of those people, knowing it was physically and mathematically impossible to finish before midnight, kept pushing as long as they could.
An Ironman event is about completing the 140.6 miles in under 17 hours and claiming the title, Ironman. But it's also about not giving up when every part of your body is telling you to roll into the gutter for a nice, ten-hour nap. So although Mike Reilly won't give you a title after midnight, everyone who finishes the course has something amazing inside themselves.
The folks at North America Sports, the organization that produces Ironman branded events throughout the continent, know one important fact: the athletes who push through the pain, exhaustion, and in some cases overwhelming feelings of defeat, still complete the 140.6 miles under their own power, in less than 17 hours. Each one is, by definition, an Ironman.
Everyone else at the race knows it, too. Although the crowd is big, and loud, when the pro winners come through after eight and nine hours (I know this because I started my run as Bella Comeford, came in for yet another first place at Ironman Florida), they get louder and more excited in the waning hours of the race. Many people who finish the race earlier in the evening come back to the finish line to cheer on the people who finish in the literal, physical, and emotional dark as the clock races toward midnight. They know what it takes to get wary bodies through those last few miles and yards, and they give it with gusto.
Eighty-seven people did not finish Ironman Florida. Some pro's abandon the race for various reasons, but most of the the DNFs (did not finish) are age groupers, amatures, who get injured, suffer exhaustion or dehydration, or just don't have the speed on race day to make it to the finish before midnight. I've been out there with those people - I was on the run course with many of them, although at least three hours ahead of them. I can tell you that many of those people, knowing it was physically and mathematically impossible to finish before midnight, kept pushing as long as they could.
An Ironman event is about completing the 140.6 miles in under 17 hours and claiming the title, Ironman. But it's also about not giving up when every part of your body is telling you to roll into the gutter for a nice, ten-hour nap. So although Mike Reilly won't give you a title after midnight, everyone who finishes the course has something amazing inside themselves.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Race report: Ironman Florida
I arrived in Panama City Beach two days before Ironman Florida. It was cool there. A little too cool. Like “I hope I brought warm enough clothes for the race.” The warm sun helped, but low 70’s and a stiff breeze made it seem like November.
I went down to the beach to look at the Gulf of Mexico. The swim was my only real concern about the race. I’m not a fast swimmer, and although the cut-off time at IMFL is a generous 2 hours, 20 minutes, I kept reminding myself that there’s a reason they allow an extra 20 minutes for this open water swim. (All other Ironman events in North America have a 2 hour cut-off, after which an athlete is not allowed to continue the race.)
The water was calm, even with the wind: only mild swells of a foot or so. Suddenly, the tape in my mind switched from “I hope I can” to “I can do this!”
Swim: 2.4 miles, 1:36
The cannon fired at 7:00 a.m., as the sun was still trying to force itself into the chilly morning. Then the mob of 2,200 triathletes, looking like penguins in our wetsuits, waded into the water. If you’ve never stuck your head under water to study the agitator in your washing machine, it might be hard to understand what a mass swim start is like. But try to picture roughly 4,400 legs and 4,400 arms churning the water into a roiling pot, and they’re all aiming right at your face!
The swim is the only portion of an Ironman where drafting (taking advantage of the person in front of you creating a slipstream so you use less energy to go the same speed) is legal. Ideally, you find someone else who’s just slightly faster than you, tuck in behind them, and swim in their wake. In a mass start, this is tough for all but the most aggressive swimmers. Everyone else gets caught in a start-stop, speed up/slow down traffic jam where it’s hard to get into a consistent stroke rhythm. That lasted through the first two turns, and then people spread out a bit in the stretch to complete the first loop of the swim.
IMFL is unique in having a two loop swim where the athletes exit the water, run on the beach for a couple hundred yards, and then go back into the water for the second loop. I checked my watch on the beach and was pleasantly surprised to see that I had completed the first 1.2 mile loop in 43 minutes – a bit behind my best time for that distance during a half-Ironman event. I knew it was going to be a good day. During the second loop, swimmers were more spread out, and I could occasionally catch someone’s wake a draft a bit. Proof that drafting helps: my second 1.2 mile loop took eight minutes longer than the first, even with the start-stop traffic jam in the first loop.
Later, I heard someone say they saw schools of fish during the swim. Either they were fast enough to be ahead of the masses, or they were swimming way out to the side away from everyone else, or they were hallucinating. I saw one fish, and I tend to notice critters during my swims, bikes, and runs.
T1: 8 minutes
Triathlon has two transitions: T1 is the change from the swim to the bike, and T2 is from bike to run.
I emerged from the Gulf into a chute lined with hundreds of spectators, cheering on the athletes. On the beach, a group of strippers was there to greet me. No, not that kind of stripper – these volunteers quickly remove athletes’ wet suits so the athlete can move on to the changing tent. Running under a fresh water shower and onto the boardwalk, I came to another group of volunteers who handed me my bike gear bag. I ran into the changing tent, pulled my bike shorts on over my tri-shorts, grabbed my helmet and bike shoes, put on my race number, and moved on to get my bike. Seems like one could do that in less than eight minutes.
Bike: 112 miles, 6:59
Once out of the changing tent, a volunteer had my bike off the rack and ready to roll. I took the bike, ran to the “mount” line, and got on my way. I was still wet, and the air temperature was in the 50’s, but the adrenaline and exertion kept me warm.
The bike segment of Ironman Florida is flat. Not quite Kansas flat, but only a few gentle hills along the route. The good news here is that there are no major climbs to push you into the red zone and pump lactic acid into your legs. The bad news is that there are no descents, no coasting – you have to earn every bit of the distance. The first 1,000 miles or so was into a steady head wind – not a strong wind, but aggravatingly steady. After that (maybe it was really about 50 miles before turning out of the wind), the tail wind and side winds gave me a bike speed I had been planning for the entire ride. So my bike segment was slower than I had expected, but I’ll take it.
T2: 5 minutes
I felt fine coming off the bike. That’s not always the case, as I have a habit of pushing myself on the bike and finding my legs tired when the run starts. After handing my bike to a volunteer, and taking my run gear bag from another, I went into the changing tent for a quick change. Bike shorts off, leaving my tri-shorts for the run. Bike shoes switched for running shoes. Helmet became cap. Race number rotated from back to front. Ready to go.
Run: 26.2 miles, 5:03
I was able to run out of transition – plenty of “brick” workouts during training, going from a long ride straight to a run, had my legs ready to go. The first few minutes I ran a pace of about 9 minutes, 30 seconds per mile, but my heart rate was higher than my target, so I slowed down.
The IMFL marathon is two loops on an out-and-back course: 6.55 miles out, then back, twice. The course takes you along part of Panama City Beach’s hotel and shopping corridor, through neighborhoods, and out to a wooded state park. Several parties along the course keep runners entertained, although it’s not clear who’s more entertaining to whom: the runners or the partiers.
They talk about marathoners hitting “the wall” around the twentieth mile of the run. The wall is a mental and physical hurdle when the glycogen is gone, the pounding pavement is taking its toll on feet and legs, and the mind is ready to be done, leaving little but determination and fear of failure to keep you going. I hit that wall at mile two. From there on, I kept telling myself, “I’ll walk when I have to, but I’m not there yet.” I did walk through the aid stations so I could drink a full cup of Gatorade. The aid stations were positioned every mile, so I walked about a minute each mile. Otherwise, I ran.
When I made the final turn and saw the twenty mile marker, I started counting down the miles. “I can run six more miles…five more miles…four more miles.” By the time I got to “three more miles,” I could hear the finish line. The voice of Mike Reilly announcing each name as the triathlete crossed the line and became an Ironman. The roar of the crowd, cheering wary runners to a strong finish. From that point on, my legs did not hurt as they kept turning over, one stride at a time. When I hit the last mile, I met the first concentration of the finish line crowd. Hands stretched out for high-fives. Banners. Smiles. Everyone yelling, whooping, singing. Not for me, but for everyone, for the achievement, the commitment, the will to do it. For the idea of Ironman.
And then I hit the finish chute, with 100 yards to go. I crossed the timing mat and heard the words, “Kevin Peter from Philadelphia, for the first time in your life, You Are An IRONMAN!”
I went down to the beach to look at the Gulf of Mexico. The swim was my only real concern about the race. I’m not a fast swimmer, and although the cut-off time at IMFL is a generous 2 hours, 20 minutes, I kept reminding myself that there’s a reason they allow an extra 20 minutes for this open water swim. (All other Ironman events in North America have a 2 hour cut-off, after which an athlete is not allowed to continue the race.)
The water was calm, even with the wind: only mild swells of a foot or so. Suddenly, the tape in my mind switched from “I hope I can” to “I can do this!”
Swim: 2.4 miles, 1:36
The cannon fired at 7:00 a.m., as the sun was still trying to force itself into the chilly morning. Then the mob of 2,200 triathletes, looking like penguins in our wetsuits, waded into the water. If you’ve never stuck your head under water to study the agitator in your washing machine, it might be hard to understand what a mass swim start is like. But try to picture roughly 4,400 legs and 4,400 arms churning the water into a roiling pot, and they’re all aiming right at your face!
The swim is the only portion of an Ironman where drafting (taking advantage of the person in front of you creating a slipstream so you use less energy to go the same speed) is legal. Ideally, you find someone else who’s just slightly faster than you, tuck in behind them, and swim in their wake. In a mass start, this is tough for all but the most aggressive swimmers. Everyone else gets caught in a start-stop, speed up/slow down traffic jam where it’s hard to get into a consistent stroke rhythm. That lasted through the first two turns, and then people spread out a bit in the stretch to complete the first loop of the swim.
IMFL is unique in having a two loop swim where the athletes exit the water, run on the beach for a couple hundred yards, and then go back into the water for the second loop. I checked my watch on the beach and was pleasantly surprised to see that I had completed the first 1.2 mile loop in 43 minutes – a bit behind my best time for that distance during a half-Ironman event. I knew it was going to be a good day. During the second loop, swimmers were more spread out, and I could occasionally catch someone’s wake a draft a bit. Proof that drafting helps: my second 1.2 mile loop took eight minutes longer than the first, even with the start-stop traffic jam in the first loop.
Later, I heard someone say they saw schools of fish during the swim. Either they were fast enough to be ahead of the masses, or they were swimming way out to the side away from everyone else, or they were hallucinating. I saw one fish, and I tend to notice critters during my swims, bikes, and runs.
T1: 8 minutes
Triathlon has two transitions: T1 is the change from the swim to the bike, and T2 is from bike to run.
I emerged from the Gulf into a chute lined with hundreds of spectators, cheering on the athletes. On the beach, a group of strippers was there to greet me. No, not that kind of stripper – these volunteers quickly remove athletes’ wet suits so the athlete can move on to the changing tent. Running under a fresh water shower and onto the boardwalk, I came to another group of volunteers who handed me my bike gear bag. I ran into the changing tent, pulled my bike shorts on over my tri-shorts, grabbed my helmet and bike shoes, put on my race number, and moved on to get my bike. Seems like one could do that in less than eight minutes.
Bike: 112 miles, 6:59
Once out of the changing tent, a volunteer had my bike off the rack and ready to roll. I took the bike, ran to the “mount” line, and got on my way. I was still wet, and the air temperature was in the 50’s, but the adrenaline and exertion kept me warm.
The bike segment of Ironman Florida is flat. Not quite Kansas flat, but only a few gentle hills along the route. The good news here is that there are no major climbs to push you into the red zone and pump lactic acid into your legs. The bad news is that there are no descents, no coasting – you have to earn every bit of the distance. The first 1,000 miles or so was into a steady head wind – not a strong wind, but aggravatingly steady. After that (maybe it was really about 50 miles before turning out of the wind), the tail wind and side winds gave me a bike speed I had been planning for the entire ride. So my bike segment was slower than I had expected, but I’ll take it.
T2: 5 minutes
I felt fine coming off the bike. That’s not always the case, as I have a habit of pushing myself on the bike and finding my legs tired when the run starts. After handing my bike to a volunteer, and taking my run gear bag from another, I went into the changing tent for a quick change. Bike shorts off, leaving my tri-shorts for the run. Bike shoes switched for running shoes. Helmet became cap. Race number rotated from back to front. Ready to go.
Run: 26.2 miles, 5:03
I was able to run out of transition – plenty of “brick” workouts during training, going from a long ride straight to a run, had my legs ready to go. The first few minutes I ran a pace of about 9 minutes, 30 seconds per mile, but my heart rate was higher than my target, so I slowed down.
The IMFL marathon is two loops on an out-and-back course: 6.55 miles out, then back, twice. The course takes you along part of Panama City Beach’s hotel and shopping corridor, through neighborhoods, and out to a wooded state park. Several parties along the course keep runners entertained, although it’s not clear who’s more entertaining to whom: the runners or the partiers.
They talk about marathoners hitting “the wall” around the twentieth mile of the run. The wall is a mental and physical hurdle when the glycogen is gone, the pounding pavement is taking its toll on feet and legs, and the mind is ready to be done, leaving little but determination and fear of failure to keep you going. I hit that wall at mile two. From there on, I kept telling myself, “I’ll walk when I have to, but I’m not there yet.” I did walk through the aid stations so I could drink a full cup of Gatorade. The aid stations were positioned every mile, so I walked about a minute each mile. Otherwise, I ran.
When I made the final turn and saw the twenty mile marker, I started counting down the miles. “I can run six more miles…five more miles…four more miles.” By the time I got to “three more miles,” I could hear the finish line. The voice of Mike Reilly announcing each name as the triathlete crossed the line and became an Ironman. The roar of the crowd, cheering wary runners to a strong finish. From that point on, my legs did not hurt as they kept turning over, one stride at a time. When I hit the last mile, I met the first concentration of the finish line crowd. Hands stretched out for high-fives. Banners. Smiles. Everyone yelling, whooping, singing. Not for me, but for everyone, for the achievement, the commitment, the will to do it. For the idea of Ironman.
And then I hit the finish chute, with 100 yards to go. I crossed the timing mat and heard the words, “Kevin Peter from Philadelphia, for the first time in your life, You Are An IRONMAN!”
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
How far is 140.6 miles?
From Philadelphia...
Cape May, NJ: 92.7 miles
New York, NY: 98.6 miles
Harrisburg, PA: 104.3 miles
Baltimore, MD: 109.7 miles
Stamford, CT: 136.8 miles
Gettysburg, PA: 137.4 miles
Washington, DC: 141.9 miles
Frederick, MD: 146.6 miles
Cape May, NJ: 92.7 miles
New York, NY: 98.6 miles
Harrisburg, PA: 104.3 miles
Baltimore, MD: 109.7 miles
Stamford, CT: 136.8 miles
Gettysburg, PA: 137.4 miles
Washington, DC: 141.9 miles
Frederick, MD: 146.6 miles
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
You are an IRONMAN!
With those words, Mike Reilly punctuated the end of my first Ironman. November 1, 2008: 13 hours, 52 minutes, 40 seconds after the cannon's fire sent me into the Gulf of Mexico at the 10th annual Ironman Florida.
Why Ironman? Because four days before, the voice in my head still asked, "can you?" Because a year ago, I committed to shoot for a goal that seemed incredibly high, and that voice started asking, "you think you can?" Because three years ago, after my first season of triathlon, Ironman seemed out of reach. Because five years ago, after biking myself into shape and losing 25 pounds, I couldn't imagine running, let alone attempting a marathon, and that voice gave a convincing, "no way." Because eight years ago, as an overweight, out of shape couch potato, I couldn't spend 20 minutes playing with my toddler before needing a break, and that voice didn't even have to say, "don't even think about it." Because 35 years ago, the kids who were good at sports convinced me that not only did I suck, I would never be any good at any sports. And because most of those kids who were so athletic 35 years ago are overweight, out of shape, and begging for heart attacks - and I refuse to go to that party.
What is Ironman? It's way more than swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, and running 26.2 miles. That's just one day: the show. Ironman is a commitment. No one get's there without the commitment to put in the time, the miles, and the mental and emotional work to move their body 140.6 miles. Ironman is months and years of early morning runs, long weekend rides, swimming through the winter when even the indoor pool seems better suited to narwhals.
Ironman is more than commitment. It's a journey. It's a journey to that place in yourself where you could just stop, but you don't. It's a journey to find your physical and emotional limits, and finding them much farther away than you imagined. It's a journey to find out what you're really made of. And just when you think you're there, you learn there is no there. What you're really made of is just the drive to get to the next bouy, the next turn, the next mile.
That's Ironman: just pushing to the buoy, the next turn, the next mile, until you reach the end. Some people make it to the end in eight or nine hours, and some in 17. They all push right to the end, and they're all Ironmen.
Why Ironman? Because four days before, the voice in my head still asked, "can you?" Because a year ago, I committed to shoot for a goal that seemed incredibly high, and that voice started asking, "you think you can?" Because three years ago, after my first season of triathlon, Ironman seemed out of reach. Because five years ago, after biking myself into shape and losing 25 pounds, I couldn't imagine running, let alone attempting a marathon, and that voice gave a convincing, "no way." Because eight years ago, as an overweight, out of shape couch potato, I couldn't spend 20 minutes playing with my toddler before needing a break, and that voice didn't even have to say, "don't even think about it." Because 35 years ago, the kids who were good at sports convinced me that not only did I suck, I would never be any good at any sports. And because most of those kids who were so athletic 35 years ago are overweight, out of shape, and begging for heart attacks - and I refuse to go to that party.
What is Ironman? It's way more than swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, and running 26.2 miles. That's just one day: the show. Ironman is a commitment. No one get's there without the commitment to put in the time, the miles, and the mental and emotional work to move their body 140.6 miles. Ironman is months and years of early morning runs, long weekend rides, swimming through the winter when even the indoor pool seems better suited to narwhals.
Ironman is more than commitment. It's a journey. It's a journey to that place in yourself where you could just stop, but you don't. It's a journey to find your physical and emotional limits, and finding them much farther away than you imagined. It's a journey to find out what you're really made of. And just when you think you're there, you learn there is no there. What you're really made of is just the drive to get to the next bouy, the next turn, the next mile.
That's Ironman: just pushing to the buoy, the next turn, the next mile, until you reach the end. Some people make it to the end in eight or nine hours, and some in 17. They all push right to the end, and they're all Ironmen.
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