Extremely Over Long and Boring Half Ironman Race Report

Well, Poconos 70.3 or, more accurately upper 60s something point something, is now in the history books, and I am a proud survivor. To say an experience is a roller coaster ride is a cliché, but, wow, does it ever apply to this one.

Way back in February when I signed up for this, I had two big concerns: getting through an open water swim without floaties and finding time to train. I figured I would just keep hitting the open water as much as possible until I got comfortable in it and I would wedge in the training time, just as I did for the Steamtown Marathon last year.

Sometime after I registered, I saw for the first time the elevation chart for the bike course. It looked just like a seismic readout for a megaquake, with one big hill near the end that stood out like a middle finger being waved at the riders. I am not a hill rider. I live in Philly, and the roads near me are flat. Also, climbers are light little wispy people, and I am extremely tall and more food-focused than most dogs I know. But I figured, like the swim, I would just keep practicing until I got comfortable.

And then, June happened. The diagnosis of Shelly’s metastatic recurrence was Earth-shattering, and it changed every priority I had. The idea of spending so much time satisfying my own personal glory in the face of what my family was going through just seemed far too self-indulgent. I stopped training, and coasted into Philly Tri, an Olympic distance event at the end of June, off the fumes of my previous work. It was at the Expo for that tri that I met the Team DetermiNation people, who showed me a path to make this race more meaningful than anything I have ever participated in. So, armed with a modified training plan, I trudged forward.

In the early part of the summer, I got in enough open-water swims that I began to feel comfortable. I would be the last person out of the water because I pretty much swim backwards, but I would not drown. The bike was a bigger problem. Every time I tried to get out for a long, hilly bike ride, there was either a storm threat or life obligation that got in the way. I had to skip three sprint triathlons I planned on doing in the later part of the summer because of weather issues. As race date neared, I felt unprepared to face 56 miles of Poconos hills.

The flip side of this was the overwhelming support from my friends and family. I’m not just talking about the donations to the American Cancer Society on behalf of my race goal, which totaled over $3,000, but also the messages expressing gratitude for raising the money, describing loved ones’ fights against cancer and talking about what a special person my sister is and sending thoughts and prayers her way. There is simply no way to express how much this support meant to me. Thinking of this kept me grounded.

It kept me grounded, that is, right up until the day before race day, when it struck me that I was really going to have to do this thing. The ironic thing leading up to race weekend was that, after all that worrying and training for the swim, it ended up being cancelled anyway because locally ridiculous rains caused the river to be unsafe. It is good that I learned how to swim, however, since Mother Nature seems intent on turning my basement into its own open-water spot. The event organizers decided the event would become a 69.1 duathlon instead of a 70.3 triathlon. After hearing tales of whole trees shooting down the Delaware, I was cool with that.

There was nothing, however, that was going to get me out of the bike. We got to the race Expo on Saturday in time for the noon athlete’s meeting. The speakers spent a lot of time telling us things like, “coming off the steep descent on this road, you go right into a turn that is greater than 90 degrees onto a narrow path, and there will probably be wet leaves on the ground.” They showed us tennis ball sized walnuts that would be on the ground, and spoke of bear sightings and deer crossings. This was not comforting.

And then we drove the bike course. By the end of that ride, I was so terrified I lost the ability to speak. There were hills that were so intense I don’t know how our car handled them. And there were lots and lots and lots of them. In fact, no part of the course was flat. To make matters worse, it rained all through Saturday night, ensuring that the course would be wet and covered in debris. It was also likely to rain on us while we were riding.

To put my fear in perspective, I was only able to put away about half of my dinner on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning, it took me two hours to force myself to eat half a bagel. I NEVER lose my appetite. I was reminded of my mortality at the first transition area, from which the race begins, when I looked around and saw the super human born athletes I was “competing” against. They all looked like they used to be Olympians. I looked like I should be ordering a hoagie. We lined up in the transition area, and as it became close to the time for me to go, I nearly started crying from terror. The officials at the start told me to go, I went over the giant speed bump out of the transition area (really, race directors, was this necessary?) and directly onto the first hill to the road without an issue.

It didn’t take long into the ride before I almost ate it. At the 1.8-mile point, we had to do an extremely narrow u-turn. I went off the road into the dirt, but somehow managed to get back onto the road unscathed. The first Big Nasty Climb came around mile five. I learned two things on this climb. One, you have to decide before the climb whether you want to ride it or get off the bike and walk it. Cyclists ride with hard-soled shoes that are clipped into the pedals. Unless your clip-out skills are sublime, you can’t clip out on a steep, wet uphill without ending up on the ground. If you change your mind halfway up, you have to suck it up and find a way to get to the top. Two, if you have such a death grip on the handlebars of your super light road bike that you are pulling up, the bike will oblige you by lifting up the front wheel. This makes it both harder to climb and more likely that the bike will decide you are worthy of ejection.

The first 10 miles of the ride were particularly brutal, and then it and I calmed down for a bit. I was staying hydrated with my camelback, which easily identified me as someone who needed to be passed by everyone else, and got my nutrients by eating a Gu Chomp every 15 minutes. I decided to move really slow and stick to low gears to lower the risk of my bike chain escaping its home. I coasted every descent, and braked heavily through a lot of the more intense ones.

The hills started to get more severe again in the mid-20s, and my whole body was hurting from spending all that time digging into the handle bars with all my strength. I had ibuprofen in my pocket, but couldn’t reach it. By the aid station at mile 39, I was hurting badly. Still, I was about to go past it without stopping when I noticed the sharp climb right past it. The climb had a turn, and it was impossible to gauge how long the ascent would last. I decided to hop off and walk the bike up, so I also had a chance to get to my pill. It was probably a combination of the slight break from riding and the painkiller, but I felt much better after that. I expected the nastiest of the Big Nasty Hills to come at mile 39, but because of last-minute course corrections stemming from roads being flooded, it presented itself at mile 44. I remembered it from the car ride, and immediately dismounted and started hoofing it up the hill. Lots of other riders joined in. A few riders who apparently did not check out the course continued riding it, likely not realizing that what looked like the crest of the hill up ahead was a turn leading to twice of the same of what they had just tackled. I heard lots of very colorful language and the name of every known deity taken in vain. I heard it clearly, too, because the riders were moving almost as slow as I was walking.

All manner of bike carnage appeared along the ride. I saw too many people dealing with popped chains and flat tires to count. One ambulance passed with sirens blaring, and I had to weave around another. Serious competitors with $10,000 tri bikes sat by the side of the road, mournfully watching me go by while they waited for mechanical assistance. None of this was surprising given the conditions of debris, wet leaves and sometimes even small streams of water we had to ride through. The race directors did a great job of clearing what they could, but there’s only so much you can do with weather conditions like what we faced.

I tackled one last Big Nasty Hill at mile 51 and settled in for the last four miles (they announced that they cut off a mile on race morning because of road conditions). At mile 53 1/2, a large crowd appeared, and I suddenly saw the best sign I have ever seen in my life: “BIKE IN.” T1! My ride was over, a mile and a half earlier than expected. I was ecstatic and immensely relieved, and I spent extra time chatting with others in transition while getting ready for the run.

I think it was the joy of being off the bike that made my legs feel really good at the beginning of the run. I had to remind myself to slow down. But I was happy, happy, joking with the volunteers and high-fiving my friends who were also racing the event. The run, advertised as relatively flat, was hilly compared to other runs I’ve done, but not compared to the bike. I held a nice steady pace, walked the water stations and walked some of the ascents. When it started to get tough in the last six miles, my marathon experience kicked in, and I settled into the grind. I had ribbons on the back of my jersey with the names of my own and my supporters’ loved ones who have fought cancer. I thought about those names a lot. I had Shelly’s name on a ribbon on the front of my jersey. I thought about her through the whole race. These fights inspired me and humbled me, and I was very emotional when I turned the corner into the finish. I heard my name announced as I crossed the finish line, kissed Shelly’s ribbon and collected my medal. I finished in 6 hours and 25 minutes, with a bike ride of 3 hours and 57 minutes and a half marathon of 2 hours and 20 minutes.

This wasn’t just a triumph for me, but a win against cancer. It was an amazing experience to conquer my fears and accomplish something like this for myself and at the same time so much bigger than myself.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who donated and wished me well. And thank you again. Also, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my friend, Sheryl Massie, who came to support me, try in vain to keep me calm, sleep on a lumpy sofa in the hotel, cheer for me on the course and drive my poor wrecked body home. Everyone needs a friend like Sheryl.

Epilogue:

1. I am now going to be on the committee for Team DetermiNation, and I plan to be actively involved for years to come. This means you’ll be hearing from me again about other events. I promise that every event I do I will pay the race entry fee, so no one should ever feel I am asking for donations just to participate in a new event.

2. While I am very proud that I finished this, because of the swim and bike mileage being cut, I feel like the 70.3 is unfinished business. There is another 70.3 coming up in Austin, Texas on October, 23 and, well, I already trained…. Stay tuned.

3. It’s now in my head that I want to do a full before I’m 50. Sorry, mom, but it’s partially your fault for giving me that “I am an Ironman” book.

Finally Worthy of My Bike?

Hello, road bike. We have to have a little talk. You are a beautiful, powerful machine. You are fast, light and agile, and any cyclist would be proud to ride with you.

I don’t know what you thought when I claimed you at the bike shop. You must have been hoping for a serious male rider in his early thirties looking for a race-worthy bike. You got a 42-year-old woman who actually let out a cheer when she heard the pumpkin donuts were again available at DD. Since you came home with me, you have spent almost all of your time sitting in a corner. When you have gone outside, you learned that I have become a nervous rider, and I’m slower than I used to be. I know you want to break free and fly, but I just don’t have that kind of power any more.

Next week, however, is your moment. You get to do the kind of ride your mommies and daddies at Scott Bikes imagined when they created you. It is a 56- mile race, and it has switchbacks and lots of steep and long climbs and descents. Now, we both know that you are far more equipped than I to handle this ride, but we have to do this together. You’ve been bathed, checked and re-greased in anticipation, and you are perfect. I believe in you – you will keep a nice steady ride, your tires will stay inflated, your chain will stay in place and all of your parts will be in proper working order. Since this race is much harder for me than it is for you, I am quite nervous. But I promise you this: I will do my very best to be worthy of you. So let’s do this race and make each other proud.

Queen of All Media

Here's a link:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?fr_id=35316&pg=personal&px=22260434

This is my personal page for team DetermiNation. I joined DetermiNation to raise money for the American Cancer Society by completing a half Ironman in the Poconos in October. The personal page has my other blog. That's right, I now have two blogs. The demand was just too great for only one, as you can see by the multitudes of followers and comments to my posts. So I am now a media empire, as I always should have been.

Fears

Under five weeks to go until Poconos 70.3, and I’m scared. Of everything.

I’m afraid of fish. Much as I’ve started to appreciate the open-water swims I’ve been doing, I don’t like sharing lakes and rivers with other creatures. I’d say they probably feel the same way about me, but it’s more likely they see me as comic relief. To the lakes’ natural inhabitants, I am “Jersey Shore.” I was in Lake Nockamixon a few weeks ago, and I heard a buzzing when I passed a buoy. I punched it into high gear and swam as fast as I’ve ever swum in my life until the buzzing subsided. I almost swam as fast as other people, that’s how freaked I was.

I’m afraid of swimming against the current when I’m already tired. I’m afraid of being dead last in the swim. I’m afraid of using so much energy on the swim that I don’t have much left to start the bike.

On the bike, I’m afraid of everything. I’m afraid of road rash. I’m afraid of broken collarbones. I’m afraid of damaging my new bike. I’m so afraid of my aero bars that I had them removed for the season. I’ll try again next year. I’m afraid of clipping out of the pedals, because I never feel stable and I have tipped over. I’m afraid of grabbing my water bottle. I’m absolutely terrified of the concept of a bottle exchange. I’m afraid of climbing large hills. I’m also afraid of descending them. I’m afraid of debris on the road. I’m afraid of other riders, and also cars and pedestrians. I’m afraid of getting a flat that will take me so long to repair that I won’t finish the event before the time cutoff.

I’m afraid I’ll screw up the transition areas so that when I finish the bike and get to T2, my running shoes aren’t there. I’m afraid that all of the joints that have given me problems, particularly ankles, knees and hips will act up at once, or that one will be so severe I won’t be able to continue. I’m afraid of chafing. I’m afraid that I’ll be so tired that I’ll have to walk the entire half marathon at too slow a pace to make the time cutoff. I’m afraid of the hill at mile 8. I’m afraid my nutrition plan isn’t good enough, leading to an unrecoverable bonk.

I’m afraid of bears. I hadn’t even considered this until my training camp, when someone told me he saw one.

I’m afraid I’m undertrained. I’m afraid I’ll look fat in my tri suit.

I’m afraid of the weather. There’s the Big Obvious Problem, though thunderstorms hopefully are not as likely on October 2. But I’m afraid of rain on the bike, and I’m really afraid of wind. I’m afraid it will be too hot. I’m afraid it will be too cold.

By confronting all of these fears and doing the race anyway, you might think I’m brave. And maybe I am, but that’s only because I have an inspiration. My sister has to get in the car every week to have poisons pumped into her veins, knowing full well they will leave her feeling horribly nauseated and fatigued. She’s had to deal with surgeries and nasty needles and rooms full of students examining her body. Over and over and over again, she has to sit in rooms to wait to hear test results that determine how hard her road is going forward. Through it all, she is a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and teacher, and an amazing one. Each day she looks into the eyes of the people who love her and are terrified for her, and she is brave for them. From the time I was born, she’s been my hero. I always knew she had it in her to be the woman she is today.

So I’ll manage all of the fears above, because, really, they’re little (except, maybe, if I actually encounter a bear). But if you want to throw a “good luck” my way, I’ll take it.

Is It Selfish To Raise Money For Charity?

Hi. My name is Jill, and I am a compulsive race enterer. I sign up for everything, 5ks, 10ks, half-marathons, 10-milers, marathons, bike rides, triathlons. I won’t let myself do the math, but if there was a pie chart of my expenses, the race fees section would look just like Pac Man. My moment of clarity on this came last month, when I was at the expo for the Philly Tri talking with people from the DetermiNation team for the American Cancer Society. DetermiNation, like other charity teams, trains you and pays your race fees in exchange for you raising a certain amount of money for the underlying charity. At the expo, they handed me their list of upcoming events, and I realized that I had already registered for every one of them.

While almost every event I do either fully supports a charity or has some charitable component, I’ll be honest. I’m signing up mostly because I want to do the event itself. That my race fee is going to a worthy cause is an excellent bonus, but is usually just that, a bonus. I have certainly participated in events primarily to raise money for the underlying charity, e.g., Race for the Cure, the ACS Making Strides for Breast Cancer walk, 5ks for Haiti, for family members of fallen police officer and firefighters, etc. Other times, my motives were split right down the middle, such as my first marathon in Alaska, in which I raised $4,000 for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society via Team in Training, or the MS150 City to Shore Bike ride that I do every year, an event that raises millions of dollars annually toward MS research.

I often feel some guilt about fundraising for these events. While I know the money contributed is tremendously helpful to exceedingly worthy causes, there is still that part of me that feels like I’m asking you to pay for me to do yet another race. That is why for most events I do I just cover the amount myself and don’t solicit additional donations. Even when I do solicit donations for an event, I try to cover the minimum fundraising level myself, so that I feel I am actually asking for donations, and not a race entry fee. Depending on the year and event, however, this is not always possible. Still, there I am again every year, virtual tin cup in hand (thank you, Facebook!), requesting you support my walk/run/ride. I have to remind myself it IS a good thing to raise funds for charity, even if I get something personal out of doing it.

This year is different. I am currently paid and registered for the biggest event I had ever planned on doing, the Half Ironman triathlon in the Poconos in October. I am also registered for the Rock ‘n Roll Philly half marathon in September and the full Philly Marathon in November. I was deeply excited when I signed up for these. Now, I’m ambivalent at best. My change of heart occurred when we learned that my sister, Michelle, who so bravely fought her breast cancer a few years ago, would have to do it all over again, but this time against a metastatic recurrence. Suddenly wasting every spare minute of my time for a 70.3 sticker to put on my car seems stupid and empty. A Half Ironman no longer feels consequential to me, not in the way that spending time with my family does. The fees for the races and supplemental stuff such as hotel rooms and gear are already paid and non-refundable, so I’ve toyed with the idea of doing the events without really training intensely for them.

There is a way to make the races meaningful, however, and it goes back to DetermiNation. I can decide to train for these races in a way that doesn’t interrupt my time with my family, but it means I won’t perform anywhere near my personal best. And I can sign up with team DetermiNation, thereby bringing good money to the American Cancer Society, an organization I admire deeply. So wait to hear from me, because very soon I likely will don my electronic sandwich board and grab my e-mail bell to get you to donate to the ACS. And this time, it really will be for the ACS.

The Stupidest Idea in the History of Time

I’ve done some idiotic athletic things over the years. I’ve ignored virtually every injury I’ve had, unless they’ve completely immobilized me. I ran at least 300 miles in training for the Steamtown Marathon with a tear in my Achilles tendon, and then the race itself. I don’t stretch enough. I don’t pay enough attention to core strength. I have not been on a consistent weight training program in years. I’m even lax about icing down the problem areas. My training diet has improved, but I still think of a complex carb as a regular white-flour carb embellished with cheese.

None of this comes even close to comparing to the crime against common sense I’m about to commit. Four marathons and eight half marathons in, and I’ve finally achieved average status in these events. It’s time for me to suck at something new.

Several years ago, while rehabbing a high ankle sprain I was only allowed to swim for exercise. A few weeks into the PT, I was then put on the exercise bike. Finally, I was permitted to run. Swim/bike/run. So, of course, at the first opportunity, I signed up for a sprint triathlon. The race included a .25 mile swim, a 16 mile ride and a 3.1 mile run in Middletown, Delaware. The swim was in a nice, warm and calm pond. To prepare, I had only been swimming in my gym’s pool. When I hit the open water in the tri, I panicked. I couldn’t put my face down, and every time I was tagged by another competitor, I shrieked. My stroke turned into a hybrid freestyle-doggie paddle. All of this caught the attention of one of the rescue personnel, who rowed his boat up to me and offered to pluck me from the water. I refused, protesting that I actually trained for this thing. He hovered nearby, likely assuming I would either change my mind or drown, until I finished. I was the second to the last person out of the water. The last swimmer hit the shore and promptly puked on it.

I haven’t done another tri since then. The idea flashed through my mind now and again, but I brushed it off by signing up for a new marathon.

This year, I rejoined my old gym, the one with the pool. I’ve been swimming once a week. I had forgotten how much I enjoy it, even though I’m ridiculously slow. Simultaneously, two of my running friends signed up for a triathlon in October, and they have been talking about their spring and summer training plan.

I started thinking about that October triathlon. I began believing I could do it, and that it could even be good for me because it would compel me to cross train. Like most triathlons, there’s a lake swim, then a bike ride with some hills, followed by a run.

Now for the stupid: it’s not a sprint tri. It’s also not an Olympic distance tri. I am currently poised to sign up for a half-Ironman in the Poconos. Yes, folks, this is a 1.2-mile swim, followed by a 56-mile ride, followed by a 13.1-mile run, 70.3 miles that all must be accomplished in under eight hours.

I’m not afraid of the ride or the run, though I do know that doing these things in combination makes them exponentially more difficult than mastering each on its own. If I survive the swim, I’m sure I’ll get through those legs of the event. The challenge here is getting through a 1.2-mile swim when my only open-water experience of 1/5 of this length nearly resulted in an emergency rescue. I think it’s because of the swimming disaster that I’m compelled to go for this. It is unfinished business, and I need an event of this magnitude to force me into preparing properly. If I do this, I’ll finally have conquered it. And I’ll get a 70.3 sticker for my car.