Meltdown

So last summer, while I was swirling in a vortex of race-junky tendencies, enabler friends, and social media reports of limited remaining availability for Ironman Mont Tremblant, I succumbed and registered.  IMMT is a “real” Ironman, meaning it is Ironman-branded.  Unlike Beach to Battleship, the Iron-distance race I did in October, the swim does not boast of a current that would push a boulder into the finish within the time limit, and there is very significant climbing on the bike.  IMMT will be held in Quebec in August.

I registered for Rev3 Quassy as an afterthought.  Quassy is a half-Iron distance race held in Connecticut in June.  It is conducted by Rev 3, which is establishing itself as a competitor to Ironman.  I picked it because if I was going to do IMMT, I wanted to get a half in first before the summer got too hot, and because I felt I needed the hilly bike experience that Quassy would provide. 

A few things I didn’t count on. The first was that the first real it-gets-ugly-hot-in-this-area heat wave would hit on Quassy weekend.  Second, that because of all of the extra family time I needed this year, I would take a good half of March and the entire month of April off of training, and still be limited after that.  I thought I’d be hill-ready by Quassy.  Doing that, however, actually means taking your bike outside and, I don’t know, riding on hills.

I should also mention that the stress of this past year has carried over into my racing.  I did a marathon in Cape May in March, and I was miserable with every step, instead of my usual dimly content plod until the pain sets in between miles 20 and 22.  I am grieving, anxiety-ridden and tired, and this mix does not create happy and strong athletic performances.  

At the expo the day before the race, the pros, including some of the top athletes in the sport, gave a Q&A.  At that session, they described the course as one of the toughest on the circuit.  The bike had over 4,000 feet of climbing, including all varieties, e.g., long and slow and steep enough that you have to get out of your saddle to tackle it.  The difficulty, they said, was that you never get a break.  You are always ascending, descending or dealing with sharp turns, meaning precious little time to settle down and regroup. They also talked about a very difficult run course, but I tuned that out because I was so concerned about the bike. 

This news, in combination with my drive-through of the bike course and the threat of severe thunderstorms for race day, did not put me in a very peaceful state of mind for the race.  Before the weekend hit, I knew I was undertrained, but I conned myself into thinking that since I had completed a full, a half shouldn’t be that big a deal.  The absurdity of that notion began sinking in on Saturday.

Still, I did lots of stuff wrong that day.  I ate a big breakfast, and then didn’t eat again until a big dinner right before bedtime.   Worse, I did not hydrate well at all. 

Sunday morning I woke up thirsty and with an achy stomach.  I drank a good amount of water, but could only eat half of the bagel I set aside for breakfast.  I drove to the race start, tugged on my wetsuit and went to the water for the warm-up swim.  I did a very brief swim in the lake, which had beautiful clear, calm, 72.6-degree water.  While waiting for my wave to be called, I realized that I was in trouble for this race.  I was thirsty.  I was thirsty before a very long race on a very hot day even began.  I knew I’d be ok for the swim, but I was under-hydrated and poorly nourished for the bike and run.

The swim was great.  I felt comfortable all the way through and got in a good push to finish strong (still slow, but happy).  I took my time, however, exiting the water and I strolled slowly toward the swim exit timing mat, because I was not looking forward to the bike. 

As is usual for me in T1, my bike was easy to find because it was very lonely.  The plus side of this is that I always have lots of space to spread out to squeeze my way out of my wetsuit and gear up for the ride. 

The pros were not wrong about the Quassy bike course.  You get slammed with hills early, and they never let up.  I knew I needed nutrition, so as soon as I was on slightly level ground I tried to eat a Honey Stinger waffle.  I could barely choke half of it down, because my mouth was so dry it felt like paste.  I hit my water and sports drink bottles, but that didn’t help.  I switched to Gu Chomps and gels for nutrition, less than what I needed to get me through the day. 

I remembered the seven-mile continuous climb from the course elevation chart, from my drive-through and from the discussion of it by the pros at the Q&A.  I knew climbing for that long at once would hurt, but it seemed like more of a gradual than steep climb, so I felt like I could handle it.  What I didn’t pay attention to in the drive-through was the lack of any shade at all on this climb.  Halfway up, the heat felt like it was choking the life out of me, and by the time I was finished I didn’t have much energy left. 

But, of course, there was still lots more climbing to be done, and both my physical capabilities and mental faculties were deteriorating fast.  My max speed even on the easiest climbs after 40 miles was about 7-8 mph. 

I think I was about at mile 53 when a woman on the sidelines yelled out that there was a “huge, nasty hill” ahead.  I rode about a half mile and then it came into view.  It started out as a sharp out-of-the-saddle climb, and then just leveled off slightly but kept going for another half mile.  The combination of that woman’s voice in my head and the realization that my legs had morphed into overcooked fusilli noodles hit me hard.  I went into this race really, really not wanting to have to dismount and walk the bike up any hills.  But I broke, and that’s exactly what I did. 

My legs burned walking up that hill.  I got back on the bike, and spent the remainder of the ride wondering how the hell I could possible run after this.

Usually I’m excited to get to T2, happy to have completed the bike.  This time I just felt broken, and dragged myself and my bike slowly in to change gear for the run.  I pulled off my helmet, put my running shoes next to me, sat on the ground and pulled off my cycling shoes.  I then pulled off one of my cycling gloves, and then just sat and stared, and started to cry.  I didn’t have anything left.  I didn’t even have the energy to get both gloves off and put on my shoes.

In all of the races I’ve done, I’ve only quit two.  The first was the Ugly Mudder, a vicious “trail” run in Reading (there’s no trail, you’re just meandering in the woods). This was my first race after an achilles tendon injury, and about the seventh time I fell after twisting the already injured ankle, I realized the tendon would snap if I didn’t stop.  The second was right before the second loop of the bike in Quakerman tri, when I recognized enough thunderstorm clouds to realize a 13-mile ride through a wooded area with no place to take cover would not be a wise move for me.  Both times were choices I made to protect myself.  I have never quit a race just because it was too hard or miserable. 

So, still crying, I pulled off the second glove and reached for my running shoes. 

I walked out of transition.  I grabbed water and Gatorade at the aid station, and tried to run a bit when I saw some shade.  That lasted about 20 feet.  I walked slowly forward, pausing about every minute to try to catch my breath, because I was so despondent and overwhelmed at the task ahead.  About a half mile in I saw a course arrow and took a turn.  A bunch of runners were coming right at me, and it didn’t register immediately that I didn’t see anyone going in my direction.  Finally, at least a third of a mile down the road, I realized all of the arrows on the ground were pointing in the other direction, and I realized I had made a wrong turn and gone off course.  Worse, I now had to climb up a hill to get back on course. 

I had been under the impression that we had 8 hours from the start of the last swim wave to complete the course, or our effort would be considered a DNF, or Did Not Finish.  I was in a late swim wave, so that meant I had 8 hours and 10 minutes to complete the race.  Considering I finished my full Iron-distance tri in 13 hours and 53 minutes, I hadn’t really worried about the time limit before.  But now this was a real concern.  I was also worried that the later I finished, the more likely it was that I would encounter thunderstorms as I was trying to drive home. 

The wrong turn set me off again, crying and hyperventilating.  I was a wreck by the time I stumbled onto the next aid station.  The volunteers here were amazing.  They swarmed around me getting me whatever I needed and insisting that I would be ok.  So I started walking again, and began to calm down a bit.  I started to pick up the walking pace at mile 2, and kept a better pace until mile 5. Unfortunately, since I did not study the run course before the race, and I only remembered the pros saying it was really hilly after mile 3, when I got stuck on that nasty, horrible, twisty, can’t see the top hill at mile 5, I had no idea when it would end.  I went about 100 feet past an aid station, and hunched over.  More volunteers came over to help, and I asked about how much longer the hill went.  They said I was very near the top.  I started walking again, and a volunteer driving a SAG wagon pulled up to me and asked me very gently if I wanted to get in.  My malfunctioning brain was slightly insulted at this, but I was alert enough to realize I must have looked like I really needed help.  I politely declined and kept marching forward. 

I hit the aid station and timing mat right before mile six and started chatting with another runner.  John, whose right calf told me he was 25 years old, said that he remembered the race directors saying that the hills weren’t as bad from this point on.  He then told me this was his very first race.  Ever.  Of any kind.  This blew my mind, and got me thinking about something other than how much my present world sucked.  This and all of the water and Gatorade I had been guzzling at the aid stations made me feel better.  I picked up my walking pace, and even ran some of the downhills and shady flats.  John and I were passing each other back and forth, and would chat intermittently.  He was very upbeat and cute, and I kind of want to introduce him to my niece. 

With about three miles left, I calculated that as long as I kept a decent walking pace, I would beat the time cutoff.  I crossed the finish line with a time of 8:02:55 (would have been under 8 hours except for that stupid wrong turn), a very pathetic number but finishing this one at all was something of a miracle.  I collected one of the few remaining medals and finishers’ tees, and ate a couple of bites while watching the dismantling of the race structures. 

 

I immediately hopped in the car, and luckily made good time home, avoiding any bad weather on the way.  

So here’s what I learned:

I shouldn’t hate myself for quitting by walking a hill on the bike or walking too much on the run, and instead remember that I didn’t give in when every single molecule I possess begged me to stop.

You can’t phone in a half Ironman, particularly a tough course.  

I have to remember that races on hot days are unlikely to be competitive for me, and just go with the flow.  Probably 90% of the time I run in the heat, it’s an awful, slow and demoralizing experience for me.  Conversely, 90% of the time I run when the temps are between 40 and 60 degrees, I love the run and do great.  

I have to cut myself some slack for being off my game this year, and have a little more respect for the impact of all this stuff I haven’t even begun to come to terms with.

 

People can make the difference between breaking completely or recovering enough to survive, if you let them.