South Carroll Sprint Triathlon
2012 Race Recap:
My first naked race!
Caution: Full, complete, boring details and speculation ahead. Proceed at your own risk.
The Morning:
The alarm went off at O’dark thirty. I hadn’t slept at all;
had simply lain there for five hours with my eyes closed. Thankfully I’d had a
good night’s sleep the day before.
Put down some oatmeal and indulged in a little “Peanut
Butter Jelly Time,” which is on its way to becoming a new pre-race ritual.
At 5:30 AM, large cuppa joe in hand, we hit the road for the
short drive to the race venue, Hot Sauce Committee part two serving as the
audio backdrop to our journey.
It was a tad chilly in the AM, but shaping up to be a
beautiful day.
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| Me, my husband and my father-in-law in the transition area pre-race, as the sun rises on the venue |
With my transition area set and ready to go, it was off to body
marking, chip pick up and potty check. The small, local race of 278 competitors
lends itself to an easy, stress-free morning.
And then, I tried
something new on race day!
Though I’ve competed in twenty-some triathlons over the past
five years, I’ve never warmed up before a
race. Never. I’ve hopped around, busted out a few knee raises, heel kicks and
arm swings, and even indulged in the occasional sun salutation, but I’ve never
been one of those athletes you see on race morning sprinting or cycling around
the venue. But, on this day, I decided to give it a try. So, after I finished
all my pre-race preparations, I slipped on my running shoes and ran a lap. No
biggie. It did get the blood flowing but I don’t think it really made much difference.
I also decided to swim a few laps before the race in hopes
of avoiding the dreaded “lead arms” that typically kick in around the 50-100 meter mark.
My husband, a former college swimmer, swears by this, as do most swimmers. The
difference is, fast as he is in the water, he’s
almost always one of the first people to start. So he can warm up in the
water moments before his race begins while the rest of us peons are left to
sit, soaking wet, for up to an hour while we wait for our turn. I’ve always
assumed that any benefit I’d gain by swimming before a race would be gone by
the time I got in the water, not to mention that I’d spend the intervening time
trying to keep warm and keep my goggles from fogging up.
But this year I came prepared. Armed with a towel and
jacket, I shivered as I stripped down to my bathing suit at 6:50 AM. The
race was scheduled to start at 7 AM and I was in the 7:12 wave, so my drippy
wet wait would be less than 30 minutes.
Nah. At the last minute I decided against it.
I looked at the other
swimmers already in the water (the few, the proud) and was certain that the
minute I jumped in they would clear the pool. What good would 50 meters do? I
put my warm layers back on and settled for a few push ups.
After the playing of the national anthem, my husband was the
first in the water and the first out. He posted the second fastest swim time of
the day and had the lead escort throughout the entire bike leg. He was eventually passed in the first mile of the run. Ultimately, he
finished 1st in his division and 5th overall.
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| Husband accepting his 2nd place divisional award |
As my 7:12 start time approached, I paid one last visit to
the rest room, sucked down a gel, and took my place in line. I was happy to get
a middle lane in the pool this year as opposed to swimming alongside the wall
as I’d done the year before. This was to be my 6th consecutive start
at the South Carroll Sprint Triathlon.
The Swim:
The water was warmer than I’d anticipated and the dreadful “lead
arms” never fully materialized, but I was never able to find my rhythm. I felt
like a boat that’s been pushed to full throttle and is initially unable to
plane out. In a sprint triathlon there isn’t enough time or distance to “plane
out” in the swim, so I’m usually left thrashing around and gasping for air. I
actually choked a little on the swim and went 10 seconds slower than the
year before, which was both unexpected and disappointing given the times I’d
logged in training.
T1:
If you’ve read Chrissie Wellington’s book, A Life Without
Limits, she refers to herself as “Muppet” when she makes stupid mistakes. I
need to find a similar word for myself as I definitely have my fair share of
Muppet Moments. This race was no exception. Though I’d spent time focusing on
and visualizing my transitions, especially after giving up a first place finish
in my last race for running the wrong way out of transition, I still managed to
run past my bike rack on the way to T1. Total. Duh. I got to the end of the row
and realized “That’s not my bike!” Yep. I’d run right past it. That was
probably another 10 seconds I gave up in this race.
Once I located my bike, I moved on to the next new thing I
was trying on race day:
A naked race!
Well, not literally, but it felt like it. In an effort to
trim the fat from my transitions and eliminate distractions, I raced sans socks,
gloves, visor, nutrition and timing devices. The lack of a watch made me the
most nervous as I’d have no idea what my time or pace was on the course. I
worried this would be a distinct disadvantage on the run.
So, in T1, all I had to do was put on my bike shoes,
sunglasses and helmet. I haven’t yet mastered the art of getting into and out
of my bike shoes while on the bike. Doing so is a Muppet Moment just waiting to
happen.
But, despite all the paring down, T1 was 7 seconds slower for me this year than last. Probably due to my inability to locate my bike!
The Bike:
I worked hard. Huffed and puffed the whole way and rarely found
moments in which I could suck down water instead of air. The result was that I
only drank about half of the water in my front-loader, or about 10 oz, during
the bike. Luckily, it wasn’t very hot or humid so excess fluids weren’t a
necessity. I passed several people and only got passed twice, by guys on super
tricked-out bikes. I never got to a point on the course where I could catch my
breath.
I finished the bike 39 seconds slower than last year. Of
course, I had no idea until after the race. This was another surprising and
disappointing discovery, especially given the effort, or at least my own PRE.
T2:
Finally, an improvement! 11 seconds faster here. After
re-racking my bike and ditching the helmet, all I had to do was swap bike shoes
for running shoes and grab my race belt with my number, which I planned to hook while I was running.
As I shoved my feet into my shoes, the shoe liner bunched. Ditto
for the other foot and no time to waste fixing it. It felt awful. I have to run like
this for 3 miles?? Maybe, I hoped, it would distract me
from the things that were sure to feel worse, like burning lungs and aching
legs.
The Run:
The course starts out on grass, the uneven clumps
threatening to turn ankles and make rubbery knees and legs buckle. It was a
minor relief to get to the gravel road that finally angled slightly downhill.
Except, I kicked a rock the size of a billiard ball and the harder surface
made me more aware of the crumpled liners in my shoes. When I finally hit
pavement, the course turned uphill. Utter agony. Last year I ran surprisingly
well; one of my fastest 5K times to date. To better my run this time seemed
unlikely. Nearly impossible. I’d pondered this during the bike as my hamstrings
tightened and my quads began to scream. As I ran, I lost my race belt. I didn’t
stop. I tried to go into a zone. I aimed for little bursts of speed. When I hit
the turnaround point, two things happened:
First, I realized there were no
women gunning for me and I was relieved. The run felt a little better after
that. Who knows if I ran slower or faster afterward? All I know is that it
didn’t hurt as much, at least not until the final uphill stretch to the finish.
Second, a guy behind me had picked up
the belt I’d dropped and handed it to me when I passed. I tried to put it on,
but the clip was broken so I had to hold it in my hands.
I saw several familiar
faces heading out for the bike and run; cheering each other on lifted my
spirits. I was only passed two or three times on the run, by gazelles. I mean,
men. This was an unusual experience for me because the run is often my weakest
link and I’m used to being passed by entire herds.
With the final push into the finish chute I resisted the
urge to vomit. My chest and legs burned. There was no race clock at the finish
line (technical difficulties?) and I didn’t wear a watch. I also didn’t know
exactly what time I entered the water. Bottom line: I had absolutely no clue
how I’d done. I only knew that I'd given it everything I had that day and, with the exception of the snafu in T1, ran a pretty clean race.
In the end, my run was 8 seconds faster than last year; a PR for
me at the 5K distance!
The Result:
There were two women in the race with the chops to be
amateur elites. I knew the two would be battling to the finish. I was hoping
the one in my age group would be the overall winner, thereby taking her out of
the age group awards and removing my biggest competitor in the division.
(I use the word “competitor” loosely. I was no threat to her whatsoever.)
Anyway, she lost to the other woman by 45 seconds. So, here’s where I landed
in the end:
2nd place
in my division (out of 19)
6th woman overall
(out of 134)
41st
overall (out of 278)
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| Accepting my award for 2nd place in my division |
The aftermath:
While I was very happy with the outcome, I later learned
that, overall, I was 30 seconds slower this year than last, though the effort
seemed so much harder this time. I literally went “all out” for the entire
race, as is required in the sprint distance, and it hurt like hell. I worked up
enough lactic acid, from the anaerobic effort, to give me "heartburn" for the
rest of the day. Tums, my go-to during my pregnancies, couldn’t quell the fire. And, the lack of socks, paired with the scrunched up liners, left two
of my toes rubbed raw. But that was the worst of it, physically.
My husband insists that we’d trained harder last year than
this year (his overall time was 10 seconds slower) since our first race last
season was an Olympic-distance instead of a sprint. This may be true,
but all I can say is that I’ve felt exhausted these past few months. Maybe the
quantity wasn’t there in training, but it still felt like the quality was.
I once pondered in a column how much more I can reasonably expect
to improve. At some point, I realize, I’m just not going to get any faster.
That could happen next week, or not for another decade. Who knows? But one
thing is certain: if I plotted my age on a line graph along with my race
performance, the two lines would eventually intersect as the age line continues
to rise and the performance line plateaus or declines.
Have I reached that point? I don’t think so, but the day
will come. If my father-in-law is any indication, that day is still decades away. (My FIL, at age 66, placed 1st in his division of 8
men age 60 & up.)
So, until then, I will continue to train hard and train
smart but, most of all, I will have fun challenging myself, pushing my limits
and pursuing this sport that I love.
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| Husband and I post-race |
Next up:
A week off. And I don’t mean a “recovery week,” I mean, completely OFF! I don’t think I’m going to do anything except maybe take a few
walks, do some yoga and stretch. Some major re-charging is in order, and I
started the week by logging nine hours of sleep and getting a massage. So far, so good.
Training resumes next week and a new countdown begins: 7
weeks until the next race, an Olympic that we’ve never done and are looking
forward to trying.
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| Me & my husband with our 2nd and 1st place awards |
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