2005 Georgia Triathlon Championships
I'd been doing triathlons off and on since the mid 1980s. The pattern was to train seriously for 3-4yrs, burn out, and then come back to the sport some years later. 2005 was the first year of "Come-back #3." It had been a good year so far. I'd been training hard, averaging double-daily workouts, and my worst race-finish had been 3rd. I was curious as to the kind of competition that might show up for a state championships, so I signed up for the GA State Champs.
The night before race-day, I didn't get to my hotel until pretty late. I was starving and wired from caffeine. Showing poor judgement, I fetched a 6-pack of beer from a local gas station and ordered a pizza. I consumed a large fraction of both, for which I'd pay later.
At a triathlon there is a “transition area” where you keep your cycling and running gear. After you get out of the water you have to run to the transition area, find your carefully staged cycling gear on, don the gear, grab your bike, run out of the transition area and once beyond the "mount point", hop on your bike. The transition area mostly consists of bike racks. The racks are numbered so you know where to put your gear.
Race morning. As usual, I spent time carefully going over the critical parts
of the course. You have to know exactly how the transition area works. Exactly
where you will be leaving the water, exactly how you get to the transition area,
the best way to get to your bike and exactly how to run out of the transition
area. You have to know which way
you turn to get out on the bike course, and all the same details in reverse when
you get back to the transition area after your hard ride. You need to know that
last half mile of the bike course so you can prepare for the transition. You
need to know that last half mile of the run course so, when the time comes, you
can carefully meter out your last reserves with precision. One so completely
thrashed at the end of a triathlon that failing to understand the last 50 meters
of the run can easily lead to loss of a position. God help you if you were
trying to out-kick a group to the tape and you find that it's 50 meters farther
than you thought. The whole group would take you.
All that reconnasiance work is necessary because once the gun goes off, so does
all your higher brain functions. Your brain is in near-hysterics trying to
maintain the effort level. Near as I can tell, hardly a single brain cell keeps
functioning once the race starts. I have to "already know" all the necessary
details because there is no "during the race I’ll just figure it out."
Race time approached and the bike racks filled up. I overheard the guys on my rack complaining about the lack of space. I noted that the rack next to us had more space so I stood there and considered being a good Samaritan and moving my bike and gear over to that other rack. Then one of the guys noted me. He looked to be over 40, so one of my competition. Big city guy noted my race number.
Big city guy (rather unpleasantly): “Hey, you are on the wrong rack. You need to move."
“Hmm,” I said, while thinking "god, I ate so much pizza last night. I'm so full." I looked the situation over. Geez, he was right. Arriving early, perhaps still suffering the after-effects of beer and pizza, I’d somewhat racked my bike and gear in not quite the right place.
Big city guy with some edge in his voice: “If you move your bike, the rest of us will have more space."
I looked at him. He looked at me. I have long valued being polite and considerate. People treating strangers poorly really sticks in my craw.
"Ok, I'll move," I said, while hinking was "this guy's an asshole. I going to make damned sure I kick his ass." I carefully memorized the appearance of his race kit and his number. I moved my gear.
The swim was uneventful. I’m a lousy swimmer so it’s always a matter of damage control. If I can keep my swim losses down to a minimum, I’ll tear them up on the bike and then the run.
The trick in a short swim is getting around the first buoy. There’s always a big traffic jam on the inside and and it's one big wrestling match. With a bit of cleverness though, you can start on the outside, swing wide at the first buoy and zip right past the chaos.
My swim-navigation also worked out ok, which doesn't always happen. Swimming in a pool three times per week, one quickly takes for granted the lines painted on the bottom. Slight diversions of course are dealt with unconsiously. However, in a lake, there are no lines painted on the bottom. So little course corrections don't get done and if you don't routinely glance ahead and make small course corrections, you can end up swanning out on your own and the next thing you know you’re in the next county.
It’s always difficult to swim hard, and then race out of the water towards the bikes. It’s especially hard wearing a wetsuit. I lurched and stumbled out of the water and up the hill towards the bikes. I managed to put the bike gear on and jump on the bike without doing anything unusually stupid.
The ride course was hilly. Savannah, GA doesn't have a hill for 100 miles so hills are tough. It's a challenge to stay focused and not let up on the intensity level. At the same time, I had to resist the temptation to go harder up the hills, because I'd end up deep in oxygen debt, which I'd pay for. Because I’m not a strong swimmer, there’s always a lot of competition on the bike course that I need to pass. I pushed the descents aggressively, rocketed past folks and then applied pressure to maintain the momentum.
That summer I’d been working on improving my bike-run transition. My trick was, a couple hundred yards from the transition area's “dismount point”, I’d pull my feet out of my cycling shoes, leaving them clipped to the pedals. Then, with my feet on top of my shoes, I'd keep riding hard towards the dismount. Since my feet were already out of my shoes, I could vault off the bike and keep running. So far, that summer, it had worked very well.
As I approached what I remembered as the last turn of the ride, I passed one more guy. Just beyond him, I reached down, struggled a bit more than usual to undo the velco straps on my cycling shoes, and then pulled my feet out of my shoes. Because the effort was a little clumsy, the guy behind me was able to get back in front. As he went by, somewhat to my surprise, he turned his head towards me an gave me a curious look.
Now with my feet on top of my shoes, I accelerated, passed him back, and started slowly pull away. I was confused about the ride-finish though. I had pulled out of my shoes because I thought we were almost at the transition area. But the transition area didn't suddenly appear, and my effort level wasn't sustainable. I had to back off the pace because I was going into oxygen debt. That allowed the other guy to catch back and hang on, a couple bike lengths back. We continued this way for another couple of minutes, me riding pretty hard with my feet on top of my shoes. I kept thinking that the finish line would be around the next turn. Then I'd get around the next turn and all I'd see is another stretch of road.
I slowed up a moment and fell back beside the other guy. I
turned and hollered, “where’s the bike-finish?"
"Not for another mile," he said. He might have let a little grin slip. Smug
bastard.
“Oops," I said, breathing hard, "I guess I took my shoes off prematurely." I was
pretty sure I heard him chuckle. I accelerated a bit and got back out in front.
It was a little awkward riding so far with my bare feet on top of my shoes, but
I was still well ahead of the other guy when I hit the transition area and the
dismount point. My vault off of the bike was pretty.
Mr. "not for another mile" had a slightly faster transition than I, so we started the run into the woods side-by-side. Even though we were near the front of the race, I could see a scattering of targets in front of me and threats behind. Mr. “not.." and I headed after a guy 50m in front of us up the trail.
Then we hit the first hill.
Omigod. The trail went straight up. The only hill within 100 miles of Savannah is a bridge and there I was trying to run up a trail that seemed to go up a cliff. As in near-vertical. Running after riding hard takes years of focused training. Running up hills, after cycling hard, is so much worse. Slogging up the vertical trail, I was reduced to little six inch baby steps. To my frustration, Mr. “not...” went up the hill like a deer, leaving me far behind, and he passed the guy ahead of us. Desperate to minimize how much time I was losing, I tried to press the pace as I crested the hill and regain some of the lost ground.
It was a tricky trail. On the hills the trail was full of
treacherous roots and big rocks, and the low-ground between hills had creeks and marshes.
I was clearly in trouble on the steep inclines, so I was positively desperate to
recover lost ground on the steep descents. But because the trail was so
treacherous, flying down the descents meant accepting significant risk. I was
concentrating furiously, as I flew down the descents, trying to map out and
inspect the location that each foot would hit. The concentration was making my
eyes water, so tears were streaming down my face. This was keeping
me in contact with the guy that had remained in front of me, but any second I
might blow an ankle and go sprawling on to some sharp branch that would impale
me.
Over hill after hill, I'd race down like a maniac and pass the
guy, but then he’d pick me back up while I was struggling with wheezing 6” baby steps going back up on the
hill.
In triathlons they mark your age and your race # on your arm and your calf with a big black marker. So you can tell, in the middle of the race if the other guy is in your age division. I needed to keep an eye out for guys over 40.
We hit the halfway point in the run. We were on a road, going over rolling hills. I
had caught up with the guy I'd battled so hard to keep up with up the terrible
hills and risky descents. He had no markings on his calf, so I figured that he
was on one of the three-person relay teams, where each person does one event.
About 50 meters up ahead was Mr. “not for another mile." That wasn't a crisis
though because his calf marking indicated that he was a youngster. I didn't care
about youngsters, and I didn't care about relay teams. All I cared about was
guys that might be in my Masters (40 and over) division. Against these two, I was still
struggling on the up-hills, but I was gaining ground on the down-hills. It
looked to me like my biggest problem was a third guy about 100 meters
ahead--much too far to make out the age group marking on his calf. Potentially,
he was in Masters like me.
With a mile to go we hit a gentle descent and I poured the
coals on. Unmarked guy tried to go with me, but didn't last. I was really concerned about that
far ahead guy up there, and I didn't have much time left to do something about
it. If I was to have any prayer of outkicking to the tape, I needed to get up
there within striking distance in the next several minutes. I pushed hard, digging deep into
what reserves I had left.
I caught up and then passed Mr. "not..." and started slowly closing ground on the “maybe my age division guy” up ahead. The closure rate was slow though. He was hauling ass and I was running out of gas--really digging deep into my reserves, able to maintain the pace only on sheer meanness. I was very worried that the Masters Champion title hinged on that guy, so everything rested on what I could do in the next couple minutes. The race would be over in 3-4 minutes. A person can stand anything for 3-4 minutes.
The guy had picked up the pace once he recognized me as a
threat. As a result, I was only barely closing on him. As we approached the turn
off of the road, I started unraveling. Him picking up the pace was proving to be
my undoing. I was losing coordination, and I still hadn't quite got into kicking
range. The reserves I needed to outkick him had already been burned through just
trying to catch him. Up ahead he turned off of the road and towards the finish.
Fuck! I was not yet close enough to outkick him to the tape and I was absolutely
shattered. Frustrated at my failure, I made the
turn and crossed the finish.
It was another 30min before the snotty guy back at the bike rack came in. I was
hopeful that he noticed that my bike and my gear were already packed up and out
of the transition area.
15min after the last person finished, they posted the race
results. Awesome! I'd won Masters, so I was the Georgia (Masters)
Triathlon Champion. I had to puzzle through the race numbers and times to figure
out what happened. The critical guy, the guy that I absolutely had to beat, was
the unmarked guy, the one I thought was a relay competitor. He got 2nd in
Masters. I'd beat him by about 30 seconds. I totally didn't know that he was in
my age group. Dang, that was a near thing.