My First Olympic Tri: Race Report

Since it's so stupid hot out there, I thought I'd post my race report from my first Oly tri which I did back in May of this year. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life, and I'm so glad I did it.

RACE REPORT
MY FIRST OLY TRI
MAY 16, 2010
TEXASMAN TRIATHLON, LAKE RAY ROBERTS STATE PARK
1500 YARD SWIM, 24.1 MILE BIKE, 6.2 MILE RUN

I woke up well before the alarm went off at 4 a.m., knowing this was D day, the day I had selected to do my very first Olympic distance triathlon event. I was excited, nervous and ready to just get it on. So much planning and preparation and now I was eager to see how it all came together in a race.

I had actually entered another Olympic triathlon 4 weeks earlier in Galveston, Texas, and had trained and tapered for that event. We drove down to Galveston on the Thursday before the event (the Oly distance was held on Saturday) in order to pick up my packet and go to a mandatory pre race meeting on Friday. I had never seen the course until that day, although I had a general idea of the layout from the maps and from the fact that I was born and raised in Galveston until I was about 12 years old. Things have changed there, but not that much. I was worried about the bay swim (salt water) but determined to do this thing. I had done two sprint tris the previous year and now the Oly distance was my new goal. I was almost 53 years old and had never been an athlete or any kind of participant in athletic events until the age of 49, when I trained for and ran my first of three half marathons—very slowly. Now I was easing into triathlons, and was ready to up the ante to Oly distance.

I was terribly worried about the weather in Galveston that weekend, which had predicted storms, but we arrived at the event site at 6 a.m. on race day with only a light mist falling and very little wind. I thought it was a good sign. As I struggled into my wetsuit, trying to stop my teeth from chattering nervously, I noticed the wind building and the rain increasing. About 7:15 a.m., 15 minutes from the start of the first wave (I was in the 12th wave; this was not a small race), the wind shifted hard to the north and started blowing about 50 mph—hard enough that all the event signs, markers, and race water buoys blew completely away (including the finish line markers!). After about 30 minutes of no let up (the rain quit, but the wind continued to simply howl) the announcers said they would be canceling the swim –the bay was now a mass of huge waves and churning whitewater--and make the race a duathlon with only the bike and run.

I was so terribly disappointed! I had signed up to do a TRIATHLON, not a duathlon, and it didn’t feel right to cheat the water and then call myself an Oly distance triathlete. After much internal debate, I elected to just pack up my gear and walk away from the race and enter another one 4 weeks later nearer to Dallas, my hometown. Back to training I went.

So the morning of the May 16 race, I naturally ran straight to the computer at 4 a.m. and checked the weather report. Forecast: isolated thunderstorms. Hmmm. I hoped this was not to be a repeat of every tri I entered. Well, nothing to do but get on the road and see what happened.

The Patient Spouse woke up with me and made coffee while I washed my face, put in my contacts, brushed my hair (I asked myself why, but did it anyway), and dressed in my tri gear and Crocs. I was my usual race morning self--excited, nervous, hyper and acting on the outside like I had it all under control.

I then double checked the car (which I had loaded with my bike, my backpack full of gear, my bike pump and my wetsuit the night before, and triple checked already, but in my mind it never hurt to check once more), grabbed a big water bottle and a bagel smeared with peanut butter, and we were out the door into the humid darkness by 4:45 a.m., headed north for about an hour’s drive. I plugged my iPod into the car speaker system and turned on some motivational tunes (“I Believe I Can Fly” was a good start). I nibbled on my bagel and drank water and tried not to obsess on my fears. I was worried about it being hot that day. I really die in the heat. I hate the heat. I can’t stand running in the heat. This was May 16 in Texas. It was not going to NOT be hot.

I was also worried about the swim. I had done just one practice open water swim, about 400 yards worth of it, about six weeks earlier. The Oly swim was 1500 yards. I’d never done that distance other than in a pool. I was terrified that I would try to look out at the start line to see the first buoy and it would be so far away that it would not even be visible. I had agonized over the swim map several times, using a ruler and trying to calculate the distance on each of the three legs (out, across and then back), and how long each would take me. I had tried for weeks to look at buildings, trees, light poles in the distance to see how far 450 yards (what I estimated the "out" swim leg to be) really looked. The answer: really, really far.

Finally, I was worried about the bike. I had driven up to the race site and ridden the bike course once before, two weeks prior. That day was hot, windy and I simply and completely bonked on the hills and the wind snarling in my face. I ended up with a terribly slow bike time and so I was afraid the wind and the hills would suck me dry on the bike.

As we got closer to the race site, I started noticing lightning in the sky up to the north—where we were headed, naturally. OMG. Was this going to be a repeat of my last tri—or worse? Would there be waves and chop from wind? Would I get hit by lightning? Would they cancel the race?

OK, did I have enough to worry about here? I dialed up the iPod and tried to relax. I visualized my swim, bike and run as being smooth and successful. My heart was still hammering, but I started to calm down. I had trained for this. I could do this.

Fortunately, by the time we got to the state park, the lightning had moved off to the east and the sun was starting to rise in a clear sky. Great swimming weather. Lousy hot running weather. The other good news was, the wind seemed minimal. Great swimming weather again! And great biking weather! However, gonna be totally hot on that run. Well, the run was a long way away. I quit thinking about it. Or I quit constantly thinking about it, which was the next best thing.

I used the facilities when we arrived about 6:00 a.m. (the race started at 7), pumped up my bike tires, got body marked, and then set up my transition spot, choosing to be closer to the swim entrance than the bike and run exit (no real strategy to this in my mind). The Oly racks were designated as certain areas, and there were also sprint racks and 70.3 racks (all three events were happening at the same time; the sprint and 70.3 had the biggest entries). I set up next to an extremely young and very fit man who looked at me as if I were his mother---and I guess I certainly could have been. I set out my run and bike shoes, with a gel in each one (last tri I put a gel in my back shirt pocket and it somehow fell out on the swim), turned on my Garmin for the run portion, put my helmet, gloves and glasses on the bike bars, and my race belt on top of my run shoes. I also set out socks on top of my bike shoes. I had decided to wear socks on this tri although I had gone sockless in my first 2 sprint tris. I was concerned about 6.2 miles in the heat on my feet—blisters were not something I wanted to experience. I decided to put them on before the bike so they would already be there when I transitioned to the run.

I then rejoined Patient Spouse and we went to the little beach area to look at the swim start. There was a long narrow sandy beach with a bunch of serious looking folks on it in black, peering out into the rising sun. It took us a while to figure out where the swim areas were because they were just then setting out the marker buoys. Even then, no one announced which buoy marked which course, and although it seemed fairly obvious (the short ones would be the sprint, the medium ones the Oly, and those loonnng ones are the 70.3), I wanted to double check with someone about that. I asked several people and no one could really say; finally I found the race director who assured me that I was right and that the buoys were also white, yellow and orange colored for each different events Except there were two buoys that were to me obviously the wrong color--green--but I decided to give up worrying and just figure it out. This was going to be a beach start, and that first Oly buoy did look far, but you know what? Not impossibly far. I felt the stirring of hope and eagerness in my chest.

It was then time to squeeze my body into the wetsuit, being about 6:30 a.m. I applied the bodyglide all over and managed of course to smear my body markings into unreadable hieroglyphics when I did so. I put the wetsuit on and about that time this all became real in my head. I was going to swim, bike and run a total of 31.2 miles. I kept trying to drink water, and then I ate a banana about 6:45 a.m. I was quite scared, but also ready and determined.

The race start area was relaxed and friends and family were encouraged to come and stand with the athletes on the sand. The 70.3s were going off first, in two waves (men and women), then the Olys in two waves, and then the sprints. There were supposed to be about 20 minutes between starts. This meant that I would start around 7:30 a.m. and the sprint racers would start around 8:00 a.m. Plenty of time to get out of their way. So I thought. I ended up being wrong, but it was good not to know that at the start line. I was worried about being kicked in the face.

I waded in the water to warm up and tried not to gasp at the temperature; it really wasn’t all THAT cold, about 72 degrees, but it felt downright artic. I paddled around a bit in the shallows, trying to still my beating heart and remind myself that I could indeed do this swim. I cleaned and spit up my goggles, zipped up the back of my wetsuit, and checked my watch to be sure it was ready to hit “start.” I practiced swimming out and back about 50 or 60 yards and it felt okay. I could swim without gasping for breath, which seemed like a good omen.

About 7 a.m. we were asked to clear the water and a group consisting of a saxophonist and 2 trumpet players did a jazzy National Anthem. I was okay with the anthem, but I was starting to get antsy because let’s face it, our anthem is pretty long, and when they started a second verse of it in a jazz mode, I wondered if they ever intended to get done playing. These were local high school kids and this was a big deal to them, I know, but I was getting more nervous by the moment.

Around 7:10 the race director announced that the only parathlete entered would start first, followed by the men’s 70.3 wave. I guess a lot of people didn’t hear that, because when the gun went off, about 1/3 of the 70.3 men started into the water right with the parathlete. It was not possible to call them back, and after about 20seconds, every other 70.3 male started, now angry that their compadres got a 20 second head start.

Five minutes later, the 70.3 women were given their horn, and soon it was going to be the Oly turn. The director announced we had fifteen minutes (what happened to 20?), and I went and sat in the water for a second, trying to get acclimated and relaxed. The day was turning out to be warm and sunny; great weather for a little swim around the lake, very little current and hardly any chop. I told myself not to think past the swim. Actually, I told myself not to think past making it to the first turn buoy. That was my goal. It could be done. Let the future take care of itself after I made it to the first buoy.

Right on schedule, the male Olys started their swim and now us ladies were up next. I had five minutes to get mentally prepared and suddenly I realized I had forgotten to take Advil. I had sustained a bad bike fall about six weeks ago and managed a grade 2 separation of my right shoulder. I was better, but I really wanted the insurance of a pain reliever especially going into the bike. I asked my Patient Spouse if he thought he could get to our car and back in four minutes, and he said he thought that he could. He sprinted off down the sand to fetch Advil for his nervous wife. He didn’t realize he had signed up to do a sprint that day.

The race director started counting down the minutes until our start time, and when he got to one minute, I knew I was going to have to go Advil-less. I stayed high on the beach to one side and behind just in case the Patient Spouse ran up at the last second, but I had planned to do that anyway. When the horn went off, I tarried a bit (in retrospect, probably too much) to let the faster swimmers go and I finally waded in (so much for running in, like I had planned) and then belly flopped and started to stroke. AT LAST. Come heck or high water, here I go.

The swim portion wasn’t as bad as I feared, but it also wasn’t as easy as I hoped. I found that I had to stop and regroup several times during the first leg of the race out to sea, both to sight and to just calm myself down and remind myself that I really wasn’t coming even close to drowning. I didn’t have much company with me—everyone else had zoomed off and there were only a handful of us slow swimmers in the back. Every time I stopped to look and regroup, an over zealous rescue kayak would paddle over in front of me and ask if I needed help. The third time I said NO, I really meant it, although I did appreciate his concern. I could tell I needed more practice in sighting and swimming as I had difficulty seeing where I was headed. I had worn my tinted goggles, but the rising sun in my face and reflected on the water made seeing the markers difficult. However, when I wasn’t stopping to regroup, I swam freestyle the whole way. No breast stroking or doggy paddling, which I was thinking might happen. I was proud of my effort, slow as I was.

As I got to my first turn marker buoy, I heard the sprint race start horn go off. A glance at my watch told me they had sent the sprint males off about 10 minutes ahead of the promised schedule. Well, their marked course was shorter than mine, so I didn’t care. Other than I forgot the last leg of the swim--to the beach-- was going to be shared by all swimmers. Once again, it was good not to know that at the time.

I was so excited to get to my first swim turn that I stopped there a moment to catch my breath (I would NOT, no I would NOT look behind me to see how far out I was). There was an older plump guy holding onto the buoy with an Oly colored swim cap that looked pretty wasted. I asked him if he was okay, and he said he thought so, but just needed to rest. I got worried for him and looked and motioned a rescue kayak over to him as those buoys didn't look very stable. I didn’t see him again and I don’t know if he finished the swim, but I am afraid he might not have. I hope he did. The rescue kayaks were awesome and were paying close attention to us slowpokes at the end. I never worried about not being rescued if something went wrong.

Well, I made the first turn and then ran smack into Mr. Current on the long leg across. Mr. Current was not friendly. I kept swimming hard and felt like I wasn’t going anywhere, like Wile E. Coyote hanging in mid air pumping his legs. It seemed to take forever to reach the halfway mark, and then even longer to reach the second turn buoy. I would tell myself, 30 more strokes and you’re there, but after 30 strokes the turn buoy would look even farther than before. Finally, I managed to reach it. And at least I was now turned for shore.

When I first looked up on the final swim leg to sight the beach, I was totally horrified at how far away it was. But I put my head down with determination and kept swimming, now with no current to slow me down. About halfway through the last leg I ran—literally-- into the male sprint swimmers, each of whom seemed to have a personal need for my five feet of water. At first I was scared when they plowed into me, but then I actually got mad. I started kicking out at every little touch or splash and that seemed to help keep them away from me. I kept swimming. The beach was coming closer, but not as fast as I wanted it to.

100 years or so later, I felt the bottom under my hand and stood up. I hadn’t drowned! I was so excited that I almost forgot I had a lot more race to do. I staggered out, third to last of the Oly swimmers that finished that day. The nice man knee deep in water helped unzip my suit and the wetsuit strippers grabbed the rest of it and peeled me like a banana. During all this I kept babbling over to my Patient Spouse, who was taking photos, that I had survived the swim. He didn’t look all that impressed. However, I was extremely impressed with myself. So far. I knew I could do the rest of the race and not panic. I tried to start thinking about the bike, but couldn't get over how glad I was that I had completed the swim.

I tossed my wetsuit to the Patient Spouse and trotted up to transition, where most of the Oly bikes were already gone (mentally this is a tough sight. As a slower athlete, I have to learn to get over it). Quick into the helmet and sunglasses first. Then into the socks (wasn’t too hard to put them on, I was glad to see, and I could manage it standing on one leg like a stork) and the bike shoes, grab the gel and stuff it in the shirt pocket, and off I galumped with the bike to the mounting area. Leg went over the bar the first time, a good sign. Now I’m pedaling and out of the parking lot and onto the very road that ate my lunch 2 weeks before. I’m wet and cool and the morning is bright and sunny. I’m also seeing bikers coming back into transition already. Don’t think about it.

The bike ride went much better than my practice ride two weeks before and I posted a much faster time. The wind was not as much of factor on race day, and I was prepared for the roller hills and the areas of bad pavement already in my mind. I stayed down on the bars as much as my injured shoulder would permit (which wasn’t much) and tried to remember to drink my sports drink every 2 miles on the dot. Before I knew it, I had done 6 miles and was ¼ of the way through! I passed one Oly biker about mile 7 and was excited about that, but the rest of the bikes that I passed—and those were very, very few—were sprinters. The good news is, very few people passed me. Mostly because I was one of the last ones out on the bike.

About mile 15 I came upon what was the hardest part of the bike, where the road was pretty torn up and the hills were constantly up and down, but seemed primarily to be up. It was also getting really warmish out there already. I gobbled down a full gel at mile 16 and kept drinking and pedaling and wishing the bike were over with. My rear was starting to get numbish.

A lot sooner than I truly expected, I was making the turn back into the state park and coming up the last bike leg to the transition. I had passed several runners that had Oly numbers on them, but I tried not to think about that, either.

Into transition I bumped, and as I dismounted and ran to my spot, I heard the Patient Spouse yell at me: “Do you want to leave?”

I looked over the transition fence at him and simply was astonished. Okay, I was in like fourth to last place out of 225 Oly finishers, but I certainly wasn’t going to QUIT. He repeated “do you want to leave?” and this time he held out his hand as if to assist me over the fence and into, I suspect, a waiting ambulance.

Then I realized he was holding out two Aleve to me. He had been asking, “do you want an Aleve?” I laughed as I stripped off my helmet and bike shoes. I told him no, I wasn’t allowed to accept outside assistance once the race began, and said I’d see him after the run was done. I slid on my lightly bodyglided running shoes, snapped on my race belt, strapped on my Garmin and hit start, and started out of transition with a lot of determination. Running was my best sport of the three. I knew I could run six miles without stopping, at least without a bike and swim beforehand, so I planned to run most of the run portion, even if I had to walk a little bit of it.

My great plan was to run a mile and then walk for 3 minutes, run another mile and walk for 3 minutes, all up until mile 4, when I suspected I might need to walk a bit more often, maybe every three-quarters of a mile (but I was playing that by ear). However, I didn’t count on the heat. By the time I started my run, it was already pushing above 90 degrees and very still. And over half of the run was on sunbaked asphalt and pavement with no shade.

I trotted out comfortably at about an 11:30 pace and within three minutes was out into the full hot blazing sun. After about a half mile I knew my original plan was going to go out the window. I had to walk at a half mile and hated myself for doing it. I caught my breath for 3 minutes and started up again, a bit slower, and managed to hit the one mile mark where the first water station was. I asked for something besides water but water was all they had (next time, I’ll wear my fuel belt with sports drink stashed in it). Water in my mouth and water poured over my head and I ran to 1.5 miles where I walked a bit again. Then I ran to 2 miles, which was uphill and no shade, and now I’m starting to really feel the heat. Another water stop with only water offered. I sucked down another half gel (in reality, shoulda done that before the run started) and ran to 2.5 miles, almost halfway, and watched a 70.3 guy stop and throw up almost on my shoes. Oops. Glad I didn’t have that problem. Yet. Getting hotter. I managed to run to 3.1 miles and that station had water and gels, but I didn’t need a gel, I was hoping for something liquid with electrolytes in it, or something salty, but it wasn’t offered. Water again down the hatch and over the head. I ran it out to 3.5 miles – by this time the 70.3s were starting their second loop and nearly every one coming at me kept saying “good job, good job.” I was one of the last Olys still out there but these guys were nodding at me as if I had secured a podium place. It was awesome and inspiring. I picked up the idea and encouraged everyone else that was coming at me, and also the one guy I managed to pass (we duked it out back and forth for awhile, but I finally got past him at mile 5 and never saw him again).

I kept walking for three minutes and running half miles until mile 5.5, when I had to walk five minutes as it was all uphill about then. I could smell the finish line and I knew I would finish under my main time goal (which was four hours) but not my secondary time goal (3:45). I was getting a bit woozy in the heat and my stomach was growling and empty. The race site had promised gummy bears, pretzels and flat Coke at the aid stations, but I never saw any of that. I learned you best carry stuff with you if you want something besides water.

I started running again about 5.8 miles determined to take it to the finish line, which seemed a thousand miles away. I could hear the band and the announcer and yet the path kept winding on, with liars constantly telling me “almost there.” (Almost there, to me, means about 20 yards. Not half a mile). Finally, I came out of the last turn and saw the finish—and Patient Spouse-- up ahead. I had no sprint left in me but did stay upright and raise my arms as I came through. I had done it! 3:53 total time. 40 minute swim, 14.5 average bike pace, and a lousy 12 minute something average run portion. As I staggered into the arms of the Patient Spouse, I said, "that was the hardest thing I've ever done. And if I can survive that, I can survive ANYTHING."

I finished 223 out of 225 Oly entrants. That did not include any DNFs, which weren’t listed. I sported my medal, basked in post race pizza and Vitawater and rested for a while in the shade (it continued to get hotter!). It took a long time until results were posted, and when they were, I wasn’t even on the sheet (they didn’t list the late finishers). I had to go ask the timer for my official time, to be sure it matched my watch (it was within 2 seconds). My listing did show up on the internet posting the next day. I was dead last in my age group, but also the second oldest women to even finish the Oly (the oldest woman smoked me by about 15 minutes).

The Patient Spouse took all my gear as I handed it to him over the transition fence and we loaded up the car to head for a great barbecue lunch in town. As we drove out of the park, some of the last 70.3 bikers were just headed out for their 13.1 mile run in the shimmering noon heat. I said to him: “next year that’s gonna be me.”

What I learned from the race, and what I would do differently:

Start the swim more aggressively. No reason to hang back if you are slow; you will end up behind everyone anyway. I wouldn’t be up front, but I would be breathing down the wetsuited neck of the others in my rear position.

Swim a bit harder. It takes more energy to stop and tread water than it does to just keep swimming.

Work on sighting better beforehand.

Be more aggressive coming out of the water. Head fast to stripping and transition. Don't pat yourself on the back so long that you lose valuable time.

Get down more on the areobars during the bike.

Drink more often during the bike.

Take in more carbs on the bike. 2 gels rather than 1.

Push harder on the flats on the bike. This is not a Sunday stroll ride. Keep the cadence high.

Acclimate to running better in the heat prior to race day.

Carry my own sports drink, gummy bears, etc. in my fuel belt. Don’t rely on the break stations to have what I want or even what they advertise. Take in some electrolytes during the run.

Fuel up more for the run. Maybe a gel or some gummy bears at the start.

Push harder the last mile of the run. Who cares how bad you feel at the finish?

I’ll be there next year—in the 70.3!