70.3 - Part V

Boz:  After Nick passed me at mile 52, I texted his aunt-in-law Jodi to let her know that he was still doing well.  She replied with, “He is almost there.  Just like the Popeye shirt he was wearing yesterday - strong to the finish!”  I wanted to ask her why Nick has a Popeye shirt, but decided to table the question for another time.

As I leisurely made my way back to my car, I did some quick math in my head.  So, he’s at mile 52 meaning that he has 4 miles to go, and he is biking about 20 miles per hour meaning that he covers a mile in 3 minutes, meaning that…he will be in the transition area only twelve minutes from when I saw him!!!  I quickly drove back but had to park three blocks from the transition area.  I was pretty sure I had made it in less than 12 minutes, so I just waited for him at the spot where he would dismount his bike, instead of waiting for him at the transition area.  I wanted to snap a picture of him coming in from the bike and then run to the transition area with him.

At one point, I snapped a picture of a guy who I thought was Nick, but after running with him for a few strides, I realized that I was following the wrong athlete.  I can only imagine what he felt as a big, random, sweaty guy was chasing him.  Several minutes more passed and I still had not seen him.  I figured that one of two things had happened: he had either made great time and beat me there, or he was dead.

Nick:  As we reached the outer part of the city, people were starting to sit up on their bikes and slow their pace. I kept my pace until about mile 55 where I passed the 1-mile sign. At this point we wound through town a bit so it was good to sit up and take the turns easy. We came back onto the narrow bike path and it felt like the Tour de France with people lining the trail. We all had to ride single file through the swarm of people. I heard “Go daddy!” from what sounded like my 6-year-old and I gave a wave to the crowd hoping he’d see it. Sure enough, just a few feet farther up were my wife, kids, and mother on the right side next to the rope, cheering and taking pictures. I thought about putting my hand out for a high five but didn’t trust that I could do it without crashing magnificently in the middle of the crowd.

I finished back through the now very trampled and muddy grass corner and rode up to the dismount area. The officials had now tripled in number and were screaming at people left and right to get off their bikes sooner.

Boz:  I hustled to the transition area, but a fence kept me from going to his exact spot, where the presence (or not) of his bike would tell me his fate.  From my distance of 20 feet, it looked like his bike was not there, although it was tough to see with so many bikes packed in so closely.  I texted Jodi to say, “Can’t find him.  His is either already running or he is dead.”  I am sure she appreciated that.

A sprint triathlete who had already finished walked by and I asked him to check for Nick’s bike, number 239.  He walked to Nick’s spot and poked around for about ten seconds, seemingly not finding anything.  Oh no, Nick is dead.  Just then, the triathlete peaked up, smiled, and said, “239,” as he pointed toward Nick’s bike.   I let Jodi know that Nick was indeed alive and she said, “Okay, that’s good.”

Nick:  I dismounted and started to jog my bike up to my transition spot, but my legs were like rocks. I walked a few feet with my bike on my left side and then tried to jog again, but I was just dead weight. I walked gently up to my spot, hung my bike on the rack, and took off my helmet calmly, seemingly realizing that I was probably not going to win the race.

I took my time as I bent over to change my socks and shoes. As I’m tying them I realized my toes and the whole outer sides of my feet were numb. Tingling numb. I strapped on my race bib, grabbed my water bottle, and started to jog out of the transition area.

But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t push off my numb feet with more normal stride, so I started to slog through my gait and plop down on my heels with every step.  I wound out of the park and back through the crowd onto the road. My cheering section moved out from the bike trail to the running path and greeting with a roar.  I waved, forced a smile, and gave a “Whoo!” as I passed.

I didn’t see a yellow shirt with them, so perhaps Boz sweat so much that the shirt became a brownish/orange with salt stains.  Either that, or he was one of the cars that was being scolded by the cops for driving on the course, while claiming he was a member of the Associated Press.

Next Up:  The Run
Part VI is at:  http://professorboz.blogspot.com/2012/08/part-vi.html

This is the guy who looked like Nick from a distance - and thus whom I stalked for a bit (that is the correct usage of who vs. whom; I looked it up).

This is actually Nick coming into the transition area (picture courtesy of his wife).

Nick just starting his run and presumably about to blow by another runner (picture courtesy of his wife).

70.3 - Part IV

Boz:  With a belly full of McDonald’s grease and the help of the course map and my I-Phone, I drove to the first bottle exchange, just before mile twenty of the bike course.  It was here that volunteers would hand the cyclists bottles of water and Gatorade, as well a packet of energy gel, a favorite snack among endurance athletes.

I noticed that wise bikers would slow considerably to ensure they would receive a fresh bottle of liquid energy.  On the other hand, some cyclists would pedal though this bottle exchange at full speed and seemingly be stunned when they fumbled the hand off.  I recall one gentleman yelling out in disgust upon leaving the bottle exchange empty handed.  All I could think was that he was so concerned about not costing himself five seconds by slowing down, when he likely cost himself much more time in the end when he became dehydrated.

A bit less than an hour after I had last seen him, Nick came cruising by.  He didn’t stop to refresh his drinks and just gave me a smile as he flew by.  I said goodbye to the volunteers at the bottle exchange and had enjoyed watching the process.

Nick:  Coming out of the transition area on the bike, we had to ride on a short bike trail that went through a tunnel under the town’s main highway. To get on this bike trail, we had to ride on grass for about 30 yards.  It is funny watching people ride $3,000+ skinny triathlon bikes through bumpy, wet and, by this point slightly muddy grass and swearing. A few people even dismounted and walked through it instead.

The first 17 or so miles of the bike course was shared with the sprint triathletes, so there was a good amount of bike traffic on the roads. As expected, there were a many people out there who were not used to riding in groups, and thus there was a lot of highway-like road rage – generally by people with big egos yelling at slow-movers on the left side of the lane. There are quite a few people that put bells on their fancy bikes just for this reason, but they’re usually the people with good senses of humor who really don’t get worked up anyway.

I began my feeding at about mile five when I ate my first gel pack; one with a little caffeine in it that I could actually feel after awhile.  We came to a T-intersection at just under an hour.  At this point, the spring triathletes split off and suddenly the hammer dropped on the half-iron course. The serious guys got into their tight aerodynamic tucks and started to cruise. There was a lot of passing and being passed as the field sorted itself out.

At about mile 19, I came up on two cyclists off their bikes and on the shoulder of the road.  As I got closer, I noticed one was bleeding from his hand and the other was taking off his shoe. I slowed and asked if all was alright. They didn’t give me a verbal response but they both waved me on.

As we approached the first water exchange, I peeked down at my two bottles - one water and one home-mixed Gatorade. They were both still over half full, so I moved to the left and skipped the exchange.  I told the volunteers that some people were down on the course a mile back. One said, “I know” quite hastily, so I think they already knew about the incident.

Shortly after the bottle exchange, I saw Boz snapping photos.  I waved, said something that I’m sure was unintelligible, and kept on cruising. We agreed beforehand that I wouldn’t stop or spend much time interviewing while on the bike, unless of course I needed to stop to barf at that exact point, so no feelings were hurt that I know.

Boz:  I next drove to mile 39, a quiet stretch of a two-lane road.  I parked my car on the shoulder and took pictures of the cyclists to kill the time.  It was also at this time, with my arms somewhat elevated to hold my camera, when I noticed I must not have used enough anti-perspirant deodorant.  I think it is safe to say that I will never be the Old Spice poster boy.

I saw Nick pedaling hard in the distance, still maintaining his admirable pace of over twenty miles per hour.  I called out to ask him how he was doing.  He yelled back, “Awesome” and was gone before I knew it.  Around this time, I crossed “Watch the Tour de France” off my bucket-list, but not because I had accomplished it.  Watching a bike race is about as interesting as sitting in Ben Stein’s economics class in the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Nick:  After the first bottle exchange, everyone seemed to have found their pace and we all settled down. Around mile 22, an ambulance flew by us in the opposite direction, and I assumed they were heading to the downed cyclists I had passed just 10 minutes ago.

We had one or two nice long hills on the back side of the course as we headed toward the second bottle exchange. While I didn’t completely drop the hammer up the hills, I stood and spun a bit to get the blood flowing back into my groin and to stretch my back.

It was fairly uneventful leading into the second bottle exchange at mile 32. I ditched my bottle in the designated dumping area of a ditch and took another bottle from the volunteers. I still had about half of my Gatorade bottle remaining and made a mental note to drink that before getting back into my water.  I also snagged another gel from the volunteers and ate that right away.

I was starting to feel a little burn in my legs and clicked through my cycle computer to determine my speed for the first half.  I noted that I was above 21 miles per hour, faster than I had trained for.  But, I decided that since I was still feeling great overall, it would be okay for me to keep churning at a decent pace. After all, it was race day and I couldn’t leave anything on the course and all that. So I continued to drop the hammer.

I flew by Boz around mile 39 and again tried to yell something which I imagine was incomprehensive into his voice recorder. I am sure it was one of the most boring interviews ever, but I would like to think it was 20 times more colorful than anything Minnesota Twins star Joe Mauer has ever said into a microphone.

Boz:  After my stimulating two-second encounter with Nick at mile 39, I decided to try and find him one more time on the course, hopefully at the top of a hill this time so that I could see the cyclists in a bit of pain.  I followed the course map to what I thought was mile 50, at which time my I-phone told me I was in the middle of a large lake.  No wonder I couldn’t see any bikers.

Once I emerged from the lake, I found my way to mile 52, which was on a slight uphill.  I again snapped pictures of random cyclists to kill time until Nick came into view.  Still cruising and looking great, he paid homage to Johnny Cash by yelling out “Burnin’, burnin’ burnin’” as he cruised by.  At this point, I was convinced he would medal in the triathlon.

Watching Nick and the other cyclists keep up such a fast pace for the entire 56 miles caused me to reflect back on the longest cycling venture of my life.  In junior high, I participated in a bike-a-thon to raise money for a Christian camp associated with our church.  We rode 150 miles over 2 days.  I am pretty sure that we stopped for breaks every ten miles or so, had lunch in the middle, and finished in a pace of less then 10 miles per hour.  I don’t believe I wore a helmet and went shirtless on the 2^nd day.  I ended the day so sunburned that my back was blistering.  Times have changed.

Nick:  As I headed back toward the city, I saw some dark clouds to the south. This was great because it actually became overcast for a while, meaning that we didn’t have to battle the heat. I found myself sticking around the same few guys for a few miles and we all pretended like we were drafting off each other for a while.

I passed Boz again at some point; I’m not really sure at which mile, but I was feeling my efforts at this point. I checked my bike computer again and my average pace was still at about 20.8 miles per hour.  For some reason I had this notion in my head to try to keep my pace as close to 21 miles per hour the whole way, completely ignoring the fact that my longest training ride was about 58 miles at a pace of 17 miles per hour.  Undeterred, I ate another gel and guzzled more water to wash it down.

I hadn’t really processed how this best bike ride of my life might impact me in the upcoming half-marathon.  It wouldn’t hurt me that much, would it?

Next Up:  Transition 2

Part V is at:  http://professorboz.blogspot.com/2012/08/703-part-v.html

An exchange about to take place…

…and it’s a success!

This would also be my preferred style of biking for 56 miles.

"Oh water bottle, how I love you so."

Our hero pedals by - looking great, Nick!

Cyclists generally prefer a diversion like seeing a camera

Apparently this is the universal way for cyclists to acknowledge people

Such nice smiles after so long in the saddle!

And then there are some goofballs.  Hey, that’s Nick!

Dig hard up that hill

I have several pictures of this guy.  I am pretty sure he is the one who yelled out in disgust when he dropped the water bottle at the first bottle exchange.  I am also pretty sure he thinks I am stalking him by this point.

Yes, Ben Stein, I compared your economics class to a bike race.  Deal with it.

70.3 - Part III

Boz:  I regained consciousness after my encounter with the porta potty’s and made my way to the water where the lead athletes were emerging.  Many of them would run out of the water and head straight to the strippers - wetsuit strippers, that is.  A wetsuit stripper is a volunteer who will help you pull the top part of your wetsuit down and then yell at you to lie down so they can yank off the bottom half.  It is really a fascinating system to watch, and if you do a You Tube search for “wetsuit strippers,” you can see if you have what it takes to become one.

One improvement I noticed is that many athletes would lie down on their front and the strippers would have to yell at them to roll over onto their backs.  I wanted to call out and have them the strippers yell, “Lie on your backs,” instead of simply “lie down”.  But, I figured they may then tell me to lie on my back and try to strip me, so I kept my mouth shut.  A highlight of this process was watching a gentleman emerge from the water wearing only bicycle shorts and yelling toward the strippers “I think I’ll just leave mine on.”  A collective sigh of relief emerged from the crowd.

When the female leader emerged to a rousing cheer, she said that at 78 degrees, it was “hot” in the water.  Wow, when my swimming pool is at 78, my kids refer to it as “cold” and refuse to enter.  And when my swimming pool is at 78, my wife takes our winter clothes out of storage and turns on the furnace in our house.

Nick thought he’d be coming out of the water at the 40 minute mark, and he was right on time.  I snapped a quick picture and then sprinted up the hill to join Jodi at her perch.  “You just missed him!” she yelled, and I felt a bit deflated knowing that someone who had just swum 1.2 miles was able to run up a hill faster than me – it must have been my drag in my cargo shorts that was slowing me down.

Nick:  As I drew closer to the shore, I started to see seaweed at the bottom of the lake, and it appeared as if it were reaching up toward my face. Soon, I was swimming through the seaweed, and removing it from my face had become a regular occurrence. Finally, I saw the bottom, and it wasn’t more than a few feet deep, but I continued to swim until I was sure it was about waist deep.  Finally, 1.2 miles after I began, my feet touched the ground again and I started walking/shuffling up to the beach.

I pushed my goggles up on my forehead and saw people cheering everywhere. There was music playing, and I began to jog up the beach.  I skipped the wetsuit pullers as there was a line forming and I did not want to wait.  I started to unzip my wetsuit when I spotted Boz and shortly thereafter saw Jodi.  I was feeling great and smiled and waved at them, or at least I tried to.

I ran through the kiddie pools of water to rinse the sand off my feet and then began jogging through the grass. As I chugged up the grassy hill back to the transition area, I got out of breath and slowed my pace.

Boz:  Jodi and I dashed (figuratively speaking) to the transition area, where Nick was already removing his wetsuit.  From a distance of about 20 feet, we watched the process.  I have heard that certain triathletes go commando under their wetsuit, but I was relieved (especially for Jodi’s sake), that Nick exposed nothing other than his cycling shorts. 

How did the swim feel, I inquired?  “Good, better than expected!” he called back.  There was unfortunately no discussion on whether he went number one in his wetsuit. 

Jodi called out, “We love you Nick” and for a moment, I wondered who she was including in “we.”  Sure, he’s my buddy and all, but I don’t know him that well.  I mentally changed the subject by noticing that the 100 yard run from the beach to the transition area had caused me to start sweating fairly heavily - more on that later.

Nick obeyed course etiquette by walking his bike to the “mounting” line, e.g., the place where you are allowed to get on your bike.  Athletes who did not obey this rule were met with the wrath of the course official.  Within seconds, Nick was off and disappeared around the corner.

Jodi needed to leave at this point, as coincidentally enough, she was driving her son up to a camp at Saint John’s.  She lamented that she could not follow Nick around all day with me, but was relieved when I promised to text her regularly with updates.  Nick has a cool aunt-in-law. 

I left the transition area and made my way to my car, preparing to chase Nick around the cycling course for the next few hours.  But watching all the athletes had made me hungry, and it just so happened that there was a McDonald’s two blocks from the park.  I ordered a #2 breakfast, but perhaps due to being inspired by the fitness of the competitors I had been observing, I skipped the coffee and had an orange juice instead.  And it tasted great with my Sausage McMuffin and hash browns.

Nick:  When I reached my bike, I tried to take off my wetsuit while standing, but immediately realized that was not going to happen, so I sat down.  The difficulty I had getting my wetsuit on over the ankle bracelet was ten times worse while getting it off. A wet wetsuit sticks to everything and it was suctioned onto my leg. I couldn’t stretch it over the bracelet and by this point I had the wetsuit on inside out, meaning that I was trying to stretch TWO layers over the bracelet.   I panicked more while trying to get out of the stupid thing than I did during the entire swim.

I got frustrated, lay on my back, and just pulled as hard as I could.  Finally, my wetsuit came off, but not without the bracelet scraping-up my ankle up in the process. It didn’t seem that bad, but as I pulled my sock on I could feel it rub against the scrape. I quickly put on my helmet and glasses, strapped-up my bike shoes, and briskly walked out of the transition area.
 

I made it to the bike mounting area while passing several people who stopped early to mount their bikes, only to get yelled at by the official telling them to wait until the designated area. Noobs.

With that, I was off on a 56 mile trek, hoping to return in a bit less than three hours.

Up Next:  The Bike

Part IV is at:  http://professorboz.blogspot.com/2012/08/703-part-iv.html

Waiting for the first finishers to arrive.

The leader




The female leader

"At 78 degrees in the water, it was way too hot!" she snarled, "We should be doing this race in mid-January!"

Early finishers exiting the water...

Stippers in action.

There is Nick!!!

Battling to get his wetsuit over his ankle bracelet.

If you look closely (or zoom in), you can see just how bulky that ankle bracelet is and how much of a pain that must have been to deal with while taking the wetsuit off.

"I got my wetsuit off.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is a victory in itself."

Now I may not be a triathlete, but even I know this is not the way to wear your helmet.  Nick appears to be going for a Friday the 13th look here.

Ahhhh, much better.  Let's bike!

70.3 - Part II

Boz:  I arrived at the park around 6:30 am.  Telling someone that you will “meet them at the start” always sounds like a good idea at the time, but never seems to work out so well.  Roaming the grounds were nearly 1,400 participants and hundreds of spectators and volunteers.  I did a quick check of the port-a-potty lines and came up empty.  As mentioned above, Nick and I once missed each other at the start of a race we intended to run together, so I guess you could say we did not learn our lesson.

Well, I knew he eventually would have to get in the water, so I just walked to the beach and figured he would show up there.  Sure enough, about ten minutes before race time, I spotted him coming out of the water after a pre-race swim.

I excitedly greeted him and asked him how he was doing.  “Nervous,” was all he said.  When I asked him what had him the most nervous he said, “The swim.  It isn’t so much that I am trying to meet a certain time goal, but rather just being around all those people and trying to follow a straight line.”  Nick then gestured to the lake and sighed, “Plus, look at how far it looks.” 

I told him that it didn’t look that far to me, but then caught myself and confessed that was easy for me to say as I didn’t have to swim the distance.  “Yeah, and it looks a lot further once you are eye level with it in the water.”  I reflected on the length of the swim a bit more, as I occasionally swim laps in my backyard pool.  A “there-and-back” from a corner in the deep end to the opposite corner in the shallow end is about 25 yards.  So, Nick basically had to do 85 there-and-backs, in the open water, without a wall to hang on to when he is tired, and surrounded by hundreds of other swimmers.  No thanks.

Shortly thereafter, we ran into Nick’s aunt-in-law, Jodi, who would become my best friend for the next several hours.  Before the two of us left Nick to focus on the task ahead, I asked him one final and critically important question.  Can you go to the bathroom in your wetsuit?  “You can go number one,” he laughed, “and I just might need to tread water for a bit and do that.”

Jodi and I said goodbye to Nick, listened to the announcer’s ten second countdown, and watched him disappear into the water.  Within seconds, he was lost among 99 other green-capped half-triathlon hopefuls who departed in the third wave.

Nick:  At 6:32 am, I walked toward the beach with my transition-area neighbor and we exchanged some nervous small talk. He’d done this race twice before and assured me that it was a ton of fun. I turned to reply but he had already gone the other direction. He waved at me while saying he had a “last call” at the porta potty, and I was solo again.

I stopped on a hillside overlooking the beach to put on my wetsuit. People were everywhere. The water was filled with swimmers warming up, lifeguards paddling around in canoes, and boaters waiting to spectate the swim with front row seats.

The timing chip for this race was held on by an ankle bracelet.  This was the cheap plastic type of bracelet that one would wear at a water slide, amusement park, or all-inclusive resort. Hmmmm…plastic with sharp edges that will be moving around repeatedly on vulnerable and sensitive body parts over several hours.  I had trouble getting my wetsuit over it, but eventually I prevailed – although another encounter with the bracelet was yet to come.

The start time was 7:00 am sharp. As I was suited up by 6:45, I decided to do a warm-up swim out to the first buoy. I squeaked on my pretty neon green swim cap and goggles, and waded into the water. People were all over with no rhyme or reason, so most of the five minute swim was spent looking up with each breath to watch where I was going.  But, I was able to get the heart rate up a bit and got comfortable in the water again.

The water temperature was announced as 78 degrees - two degrees higher and they would have required no wetsuits due to the risk of overheating. I’m not sure how I would have reacted if that was announced. I’d like to think I’d feel okay given that I trained with a couple open water swims sans wetsuit, but in hindsight I’m glad I didn’t have to find out. The water felt great; typical lap pool temperatures, but with the early sun on our shoulders, it was perfect.

I was back on the beach by 6:52, and I walked toward the starting funnel gates to mix in with my wave. Right away, either I found Boz or he found me and we quickly caught up a bit. Talking helped calm the nerves a lot, even if it was just small talk.  I stepped over the barriers to mix in with my wave.  Just then, Jodi walked up and I greeted her with a big, wet hug.  We talked a bit and she snapped a few pics.  More calmness.

At 6:58 am, the announcer gave the two-minute warning to wave 1 – the elite group. I was mixed in about 20 yards back from the water with my feet in the sand. I synced up my watch, bid farewell to Jodi and Boz, and began the nervous shoulder-to-shoulder shuffle forward with everyone else.

At 7:00 am, we sent off wave 1 with a loud cheer. The starting gates immediately turned into a scene from the airport where everyone who just heard their row called by the gate agent shuffled forward. We moved inches at a time until all 100 members of wave 2 were knee-deep in the water waiting for their 7:04 start time.

Before I knew it, wave 2 was off and we were moving further into the water. I got a sudden sensation of warmth and tunnel vision set in. I was consciously focusing on each breath as I defogged my goggles and sealed them to my eye sockets. As I watched the mass of wave 2 swimmers rhythmically splashing along out to the buoy, it looked like they were crawling slowly just a few feet behind wave 1. My depth perception realized that I was now nearly eye level with the water and everything was skewed.

The ten second countdown began and everyone crowded together and inched even deeper into the water. Bang – we were off! Those at the front immediately started swimming. We in the middle kept wading deeper and deeper. Slowly people in front of me started nosing down into the water. I kept wading since there were kicking feet directly in front of my crotch. That person was swimming with their head up and I could keep walking at their pace, so I did so until I reached the seaweed.

Into the water I went. Arms and legs were everywhere. I swam with my elbows out a bit to claim my space and protect my face, while doing everything I could not to panic. I followed my breathing plan with one-breathe-one-breathe and kept my pace. As tempting as it was to swim fast to get out of the mess, I focused on not going too fast. Given that I was surrounded by people, there wasn’t much need to focus on going straight; I had no choice on which direction to swim. One-breathe-one-breath-one-look-one-breathe.

We reached the first buoy of the triangle swim; the point to which I swam during my pre-race warm up, and things started spreading out. There was no turn yet, so we continued straight out into the lake. While still a bit crowded, it became increasingly comfortable to plane out and swim my pace. I switched to one-two-breathe-one-two-breathe, and the sun was in my eyes when I breathed to the left. I lifted my head to look every 4^th or 5^th breath and I was holding a very straight line. The second buoy was visible but looked so far away. No panicking…just count.

Boz:  Back on shore, the excitement level stayed high as every four minutes, the announcer would send off another wave of 100 triathletes.  In between waves, the announcer would provide such colorful commentary as “If you have ever done acid, don’t look at this guy’s shorts.”  It begged the question of how he knew that, but I declined to ask.

Jodi and I killed time while Nick was swimming by plotting where to stand so that we could catch him both coming out of the water but also run up to see him at the transition area.  Jodi strategically decided that she would stay on top of the hill and allow me to catch the first shot of Nick exiting the water (meaning that I would be the one who would have to run up the hill).  Once our plan was in place, we had a few minutes to spare, so I paid my own visit to the port-a-potty’s.  Wow.  If you take nothing else from this article, remember this one thing: don’t use the port-a-potty’s after 1,400 athletes.

Nick:  We must have passed over a shallow point because suddenly we were in a floating seaweed patch. One strand of coontail got caught on my goggles and wrapped around my shoulder. I kept going but had to break my count to pull it off. I feel it slide down my body and catch on my timing chip, so I had to stop and tread water for a second to get rid of it. This gave me a moment to gain my bearings and take in the sight; I was in the middle of the lake surrounded by hundreds of neon green caps. Everyone had their own rhythm. A few people were swimming on their backs, a few were doing the breaststroke, and a few more were treading water. After this brief moment of serenity, I put my head down and continued onward.

By this point, it felt like we were swimming single file. We turned right and I spotted the next buoy in the distance. One-two-breathe-one-two-breathe. I made it a mental goal to not stop at all on this stretch. Everyone had their own pace at this point. I overtook a person here and there, and I was passed at times. There was an occasional swimmer that turned sideways, and I endured elbow to the back and knee to the shoulder collisions, but nothing interrupted the mantra.

After a bit, I peeked up and found that I was approaching the second buoy. It’s funny, but the quote from Finding Nemo’s Dori “Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming!” popped into my head. I became extremely comfortable and felt myself glide through the water without any urge to panic. So, I decided to pick up the pace for a few strokes, switching to one-breathe-one-breathe all through the next right turn.

I went around the buoy the pace slowed as a few people had stopped to tread water or breaststroke through the turn. I peeked up every breath until I straightened out, and then I was back to the mantra again. The final stretch had small buoys strung out regularly to help guide us back towards the beach. Turning my head to the right I could see that the sprint triathletes had started on the shorter swim course in the middle of the triangle and were headed back to shore already.  And with each stroke, that shore grew larger.

Next Up:  Transition One

Part III is at:  http://professorboz.blogspot.com/2012/08/703-part-iii.html

Nick and Jodi

The last smile of his life?

Where's my acid?  (joke)

Nick is the one in the green cap

Nick claims he swam in more of a straight line and that the zig-zag effect is a result of his watch only working sporadically in the water.  It is your call whether to believe him or not.

70.3 – Part I

Boz:  I met Nick about four years ago.  When we quickly discovered that we both attended St. John’s University and shared a passion for running, we became instant friends.  We talk about running incessantly and have always wanted to run a race together.  On two occasions, we even signed up together for the strangely popular Frozen Half-Marathon, a race run in Minnesota in January.  But once, we failed to find each other at the starting line, and the other time, Nick succumbed to a flu passed along by one of his kids.  

As time has moved on, our conditioning has moved in opposite directions.  Thus, any current effort to race together would result in the gun going off and me watching his backside get smaller and smaller.  Although the dream of racing together has not yet come to fruition, it did not stop us from sharing the racing experience.  

Nick recently entered a 70.3 mile triathlon, his first attempt at the distance that is frequently referred to as a Half-Ironman (although this particular race was not part of the Ironman series).  The 70.3 mile experience includes a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, and 13.1 mile run.  Let me put in perspective of how long the race is.  While the winner of many smaller marathons finishes around 2 hours and 40 minutes, the winner of this triathlon finished in over 4 hours.  In other words, a 70.3 mile triathlon takes about 50% longer to complete than a marathon.  Is it tougher?  We will ask Nick if he makes it to the end.

Probably even more than actually running races (I have run 5 marathons and dozens of shorter races), I enjoy spectating.  I have long wanted to do a personal interest story on an endurance athlete, and when Nick told me he signed up for this event, I knew I had my subject. 

So, early one Sunday morning in July, I ventured up to Chisago City, a small town about 30 minutes north of Minneapolis, Minnesota.  I followed Nick around the course and below is what transpired - from the perspectives of both the spectator and the athlete.  I will post an installment every day for the next week, so come along for the ride…and swim…and run.

Nick:  Having my mother at my house for her annual summer visit and my wife working nights led to me doing zero race prep or packing until the day before. My mother paid for my race registration as a birthday present this year so she really wanted to spectate my attempt. It would actually be the very first time she’d watched me do a distance race, but I hold no qualms against her knowing that she never missed a single youth sporting event in my childhood.

We drove up to Chisago City the day before the race to check-in and practice the driving route, so I could put a mental time on how long it actually takes to get there.  The excursion also kept the house quiet for my wife to sleep during the day. This summer has brought the craziest road construction season I can remember, and it seemed like every major highway had some sort of closure.  A planned one hour drive turned into a two hours, so I mentally set my alarm clock even earlier for the following morning.

Once there, we met my wife’s aunt, Jodi, who lives in Chisago City. She surprised us with a nice picnic lunch at the beach right next to the starting line.  I picked-up my race packet and spent some time wading in the water with my kids while hunting for snail shells.  I also watched the race volunteers anchor the swim buoys for the race course. The beach was actually a bit rocky and there was a lot of washed up seaweed, but it’s a shallow lake which is pretty typical for Minnesota so it really isn’t that surprising. Feeling the water and spending time on the actual course significantly calmed my nerves. I’ll definitely plan to prepare similarly in future races.

After an hour or so in the park with the kids, we headed toward home. My mom gently reminded me that I still needed to get fitted for a tux for my sister’s autumn wedding, so we stopped to do that. I am not sure my sizing will be exactly the same in two months considering how I dropped a few pounds while training, but maybe the wedding will keep me motivated to continue training into the fall.

After a spaghetti dinner at home, I got the kids wrangled into bed.  I went to the garage to put some finishing touches on my bike and to clean it up a bit. I had a glass of ice water at my side everywhere I went for the last few days to ensure maximum hydration, so I was in the bathroom about every hour as well. I kept telling myself that I wasn’t nervous but I knew I was lying. I can’t even play mental games with myself and any calmness I felt after sitting on the beach had evaporated at this point. Packing my race bag didn’t take very long, but unpacking and repacking it twice to triple-check everything did take longer than expected.  I then set things out for the morning and did a walk-through of my morning routine - twice.  I set both my cell phone alarm and bedside alarm for 3:30 am, and had my mother do the same with her own alarm. I wanted to make some coffee, eat a light breakfast, and be out the door by 4:00 to arrive at the race marking area in the park by 5:30.

I popped two Aleve and hit the hay by 11:00 pm.  I actually fell asleep rather quickly…until my wife got home at 1:30 in the morning. She had been rearranging her work schedule lately, and it had become difficult for her to switch shifts so she could make it to race day. She ended up going in at her regular time that evening, but things worked out and she was able to come home early.  This really made me happy knowing that she’d be there along with my kids, mom, and personal journalist, of course. Team Nick would be in full force and knowing that she’d be there to support really made me feel better... at least as better as I could feel knowing that my alarm would be buzzing in two hours.

Boz:  Given that it is tough for me to get up before 8 o’clock on weekdays during the summer months, imagine my initial horror when my alarm clock began blaring at five-thirty on a Sunday morning.  But I had a purpose, one I had been planning for quite awhile, and I quickly awoke from my slumber.  I slapped on some anti-perspirant deodorant and a bright yellow shirt so that Nick could spot me on the course.  Further, it was more or less a requirement to wear cargo shorts, as I would need a place to store my keys, wallet, voice recorder, and I-phone, while my wife's camera would dangle around my neck. 

I didn’t leave myself time to brew a fresh pot of coffee, and as I was uncertain whether gas stations would be open at such a dastardly hour on a weekend, I reheated a cup of yesterday’s java, grabbed a granola bar, and hit the road.  It was pretty cool to be heading to a race knowing I wouldn’t have to participate in it.

Nick:  4:42 am. I woke up with the massive inhale shock of horror that accompanied the realization that I overslept. My cell phone was in my hand still plugged into the charger. I had managed to shut off both alarms in my sleep. My mother had just walked upstairs to make sure I was awake as I was running into the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. I don’t know why I felt the need to still make coffee, but it made sense at the time. I didn’t plan to drink the whole cup with the fear that I’d dehydrate myself, but I hoped a few sips on the drive would help me warm up.  I made a few slices of wheat toast with peanut butter and was out the door by 5:05.

I employed any relaxation technique I could remember while driving to the start. The sky was purple and orange as the sun came up, and with the windows and sunroof open, I tried to soak it in with some deep breaths to help relax. 

I crossed my fingers hoping that the commute I practiced yesterday wouldn’t be busy and chance was on my side. Knowing that the highway was fairly tore up and down to just one lane, I stepped on it knowing that the 5-0 would have trouble catching me even if they clocked me speeding. I won’t elaborate aside from saying that I drove 55 miles, found a parking spot, grabbed my gear, and rode my bike five blocks to the transition area, and then walked to the marking area, all in just over an hour.

It was then time to get my body marked, which consisted of standing in a short line to get my race number and wave number written with big permanent marker on my arm, calf and hand.  Luckily, it took no more than a few minutes, giving me plenty of porta potty time. All was evacuated uneventfully and I got back to my two-foot transition spot on the bike rack to finish setting up. I sent a final text to Boz at 6:29 am telling him my general location and that I was heading to the beach to wetsuit up. A minute later, “Cool, I am and will find you” came back and it helped me just a little bit more knowing I wasn’t all alone in this mass of humanity.

Next Up:  The Swim

Part II is at:  http://professorboz.blogspot.com/2012/08/703-part-ii.html