Before I start this post, I would like to clarify something I said yesterday. All comments are welcome, as long as you (please) refrain from using profanity. Thank you.
Well, Cal.E is still "sitting in the lap of luxury" (Lucia, actually). I will just go right to Chapter fifteen of "Beyond the Thirteenth Mile; The Iron Man Chronicles" since I have skipped posting chapters for the last couple of days.
d.c. scot
CHAPTER 15:
TWO HALVES DO NOT EQUAL A WHOLE (IRONMAN)
Run course; Mile thirteen: I have finished one-half of the run course. That IS pretty good! I am still on pace to finish within fourteen hours. WOW! And I was going to pull out.
I must have hit the ultimate “runner’s high.” I believe that I could run twice as far as this, but I will not attempt that now. I just want to finish this course and be able to say that I am an IronMan. That would be phenomenal!
I never thought that this day would come. NOT after my first attempt at a one-half IronMan distance triathlon. At least I have finished that course and two more. of that distance. However, no matter how you look at it, two one-half IronMan distance triathlon finishes (or even three) do NOT equal a whole Iron Man distance triathlon...
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I'm really not bad at math. In fact, I'm quite good at adding and subtracting figures in my head. But, if you ask any experienced triathlete, he/she will tell you that doing two one-half-IronMan triathlons is not the same as completing a full one.
My disappointment level was extremely high that next season because I tried unsuccessfully to enter the only Iron Man distance triathlon in which I could feasibly compete, factoring in the time of year and the distance that I would need to travel to compete in the race-IronMan Florida. Heeding one of my swimming companions' warning to enter early, I tried to enter in mid-May. Unfortunately, I found out that the early November race had been closed-for the second time.
Not masking my disappointment very well, I set my sights on what I believed to be the toughest one-half-IronMan distance triathlon on the circuit at the time, Buffalo Springs Lake. There is a reason that this race is a qualifier for the Hawaiian Iron- Man distance World Championship Triathlon; it is a tough course.
Remembering the year before, I seemed to hear Mac Davis's "Happiness is Lubbock, Texas in the Rearview Mirror" in my mind every time I thought about that horrific experience. Usually, every leg of a race isn't torture. There is at least one phase of a triathlon that triathletes regard as his/her strength. For me, that part of the race is usually the bike leg, except for the one involving the hills outside of Lubbock, Texas. Between the twisting, hilly roads, the fresh-cut hay playing havoc with my sinuses, and the cramps in my legs, I really had little desire to get back on that course again. So why did I even go back? Because I can take being beaten by a better (or smarter) athlete, but that was the first time that I felt like the course had beaten me. I knew the second that I set foot in that pickup truck the year before that I MUST go back, and finish!
To add to the tension, there was only one triathlon in which I could feasibly compete as a warm-up race for the one-half-Iron-Man distance triathlon at Buffalo Springs Lake, and it was only a week before the Lubbock date. However, it was only five miles from my house, and it was staged in the same park in which Nicole and I had gotten married.
Nicole had thoughtfully tied a ribbon from one of the balloons from our wedding decorations to the handlebars of my bike, which took my focus away from racing (slightly) and helped me relax. I would have liked to have been ''a hometown hero” (especially since this race was in its inaugural year) and at least finished at the top of my division. Sometimes, the best races one does are the ones s/he has no intention of trying to win. I needed to conserve energy for the following week, so this would seem to be a good plan.
Even though I got squeezed into the first buoy at the first turn in the swim, I was very relaxed in the swim, finishing it two whole minutes ahead of my projected time. I then proceeded to waste those two minutes in the transition, my weakest phase of racing.
The bike leg started out nicely, with a 22 m.p.h. tailwind. However, this being an out-and-back course, that also resulted in a 22 m.p.h. headwind on the second half of the bike leg. This resulted in fatigued legs from fighting the wind. Not wanting to "overrun my legs" as Seth had, I ran a cautious run leg, about one minute per mile below my normal pace It also didn't help that I misjudged the finish line, almost missing it entirely. I finished in the middle of the pack, but, as much as ever, I felt ready!
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The flight to Lubbock was fairly uneventful. Nicole and I had decided that, without Luke to help us drive, we would "fly the friendly skies" instead of reliving our "mid-night run" of the year before.
A stop in Austin resulted in our once comfortably filled flight being filled to the gills with triathletes and THEIR bikes, all in boxes. I decided that, if I needed help with the details of rebuilding my bike, I may have some help, because we were all headed for the same destination. This helped calm frazzled nerves since I found that I must tear down my bike to put it in the new bike box that I had bought for the flight. Of course, this meant that I must put it back together by myself, a first for me, upon our arrival at the Arid City on the West Texas Tundra. Putting a bike back together after shipping it in a box was a new experience for me, but not a bad one. It actually is easier than it looks, if one is very familiar with his or her bike, as every serious triathlete should be.
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Race day morning brought two surprises, one was pleasant, and one was not. The great Scott Tinley, a two-time winner of the Hawaiian IronMan, had just retired from professional status six months before this race. Tinley, ever the competitor, had decided to do several races as an age-grouper, "just for fun." This was one of the ones in which he chose to compete. Nicole, recognizing one of the speakers from the seminar the day before, pointed out Tinley to me. He stood directly behind me, waiting to get his body markings done. (I was, unfortunately, unable to say even "hello" before he was finished and out of sight. Tinley has a reputation as one of the friendlier professionals, and I was disappointed that I didn't get a chance to at least meet him.) At least once, though, I could say that I was ahead of Scott Tinley, even if the race hadn't started yet!
The next surprise was not as pleasant as the first. Remembering how cold the water had been the year before and how much of a struggle the swim leg was, I had fully intended to bring my wetsuit. The wetsuit, however, remained in Brazos, as I discovered before the start of the swim (much to my chagrin). Without the wetsuit to increase my buoyancy, I struggled a bit with the swim (as one of the other swimmers probably figured out after following me closely for much of the last part of the swim. I was a little annoyed by the end of it.) I finished the swim about ten minutes over my projected goal of three-quarters of an hour but didn't feel nearly as tired as I had the year before. Maybe because of that, the bike leg didn't seem nearly as taxing as the year before.
A Gatorade shower had wiped out my computer. (I had a reservoir attached to the front of my handlebars. I put Gatorade in it since I could fit my water bottles into the cages attached to my bike’s frame). As a result, I had no idea how fast I was going most of the time. That may have been a good thing, because my watch read four hours as I racked my bike, just in time to hear the announcer begin to call out the leaders' names as they came into his sight.
It was extremely hot on the run course, though. The official temperature at the finish line was 108 degrees Fahrenheit, a new record for the course. (That was the official temperature, but someone put a thermometer on the pavement, and it registered 120.)
Seeing people falling over in the grass from heat exhaustion and dehydration did nothing to improve my mental condition, already fragile from reliving the nightmare of the year before. However, I was very thankful for the electrolyte replacement capsules a friend had lent me for this race. I must have miscalculated how many I needed, though. Between mile nine and ten I ran out, and the cramps started. I walked for what seemed to be miles, but the cramps proceeded. Around the eleventh mile, a quick glance at my watch and some very simple math told me that I could still hit my adjusted goal of seven hours. All I must do was run two eight-minute miles, something I am normally very capable of doing. At this point, the course was shaded and many of the residents of the park were kind enough to sprinkle the road with their water hoses, giving the triathletes a chance to cool off if they chose to do so. As I started to trot, I felt no pain. Then, I decided to run, which caused extreme pain in my weary legs. I depend on my legs much too much in my job to risk serious injury, so I trotted to the thirteen-mile mark, sprinting the last one-tenth of a mile, and finishing in seven hours and 11 minutes and some seconds, well under the time limit.
I began the race ranked ninety-fourth in my division, and finished ninetieth, but I did finish, something that five to ten percent of the field chose not to attempt after the bike leg, mainly because of the brutal, unforgiving heat.
I went on to have a decent season, setting personal bests (some by as much as ten percent) in every race in which I competed. I also finished in the top twenty in my division twice, something that I had never accomplished once in a season before. I believe that I peeked at the right time (late in the season).
I still believe that, had I been able to get into IronMan Florida, I could have finished it in less than seventeen hours, the legal time limit.
I had a new goal now, though. I did not want merely to beat the time limit; I wanted to finish the course in less than 13 hours. That time should have put me in the top one-third to one-half of the field.
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