Monday, November 18, 2013

Metal Fatigue

Standing on the ice cold sands of King's Beach in a cheap pair of flip-flops, I looked out to the lake where I was about to start my first Ironman and I thought about a conversation 20 years ago in a college rental house. 

"You see, Freud classified the personality into three separate elements: the id, which controls your animal instincts and pleasure center, the ego, which handles your day to day reality interactions and works to supply the id with it's pleasure, and the superego, which is your moral compass and often combats your ego and id and moves you to do things that are better for you in the long run. You have one of the stronger superegos I've seen, and it has managed to keep your ass out of trouble even considering how strong your id's needs are while hanging with us. I think that's why you're going to Germany; it's not the girl, your superego wants you to learn a language and understand other countries, and now I gotta find another guitarist when I move to Dallas." 

"Wasn't Freud a coke addict with an Oedipal complex?" I smirked. 


"That's funny, but you were listening, I saw your eyes flare in understanding. Now shut up and hand me that tap." 


The gunshot went off, the pros were in the water and the age-groupers formed the line. I was standing at the 1:30 marker with my hands drumming in beat with the rhythm of the music. I looked around and wondered if there would be a candidate for the mini-speech I put together just in case someone was about to DNS from fear. 


I know you're scared. So am I. But for reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here on this beach today. For fifteen months you got up early, went to the pool and did lap after lap trying to find a perfect stroke. You got up early to sit on the saddle and ride until your legs stopped burning, and then started burning again. You laced up your shoes to run when everyone else was found reasons not to. You did all that just so by the end of this day, when you're feeling a pain you've never felt before and your body is crying for you to stop, I need to rest, you could think back to every stroke you swam, crank you turned, and step you ran for the last fifteen months and you will say, "No." 


But no, everyone was looking at the water, and the speech remained in my pocket. I began one of the dozens of internal conversations I had that day. 


Id: I can’t wait to get warmer in the water. 
Ego: How many of these people will you be passing at the 1:30 line? 
Superego: Swim slow and smooth and forget the time. We have a long day ahead of us. 


The line moved quickly toward the starting arch and I heard the beep as my chip crossed the pad. Whatever my result would be today, it wasn't going to be DNS; I was an official participant in Ironman Lake Tahoe. 

It was rather odd when my feet felt warmer stepping into the lake after getting out of the sand. I thought about conversations in May of last year. 


"What have you been working on lately, Clint?" 


"I've been trying to keep one of my goggle lenses in the water on my breathing stroke. It keeps my head in the water and my body in line." 


Clint is an older black man in Lane 1 with me in Masters class I started a month before registering. I think he could be in Lane 2, but he likes to swim his clean, smooth strokes at a slower pace, and I think he likes to follow the ladies. It took me about two weeks for me to realize that the things he told me he was working on was his way of telling me what my swim stroke needed. After about one month in Masters, I could swim a 200 without gasping for air, after six months, I finally got to where I could swim a full practice, no small part because of Clint's advice. 


A lot of people were complaining about the cold, and it was, but I was surprised at how many forgot the high winds and rain from yesterday, the DNF rate would have been in the 30% range if the race were a day earlier. 


Instead, the air was calm, and the water was much warmer than the air above it. As someone who studied thermodynamics, I knew that the water would have a higher vapor pressure than the air above it would hold, and this would lead to fog. As a swimmer of modest open water ability, it was a challenge that surprised me because I often veer left when I don't have a clear sight target and the buoys were invisible to my short peeks above the water. 


The water is so crystal clear, you can see the beach and rocks on the floor hundreds of meters away from the shore, and they look so close that you could touch it. I kept my stroke rate slow knowing that the altitude would make the air feel in short supply, but for the first 400 meters, that didn't matter, it still felt like 'breathing through a straw.' I wound up losing the swimmers and after I looked up, I noticed I was 20 meters inside the buoy line and I had to get back on the course to the Turn 1 buoy so I wouldn't get DQ'd. It took some adjusting, but I finally got my stroke in a reasonable form so I was in a mostly straight line. 


After Turn 2, I noticed there were more buoys on the return line, which seemed counterintuitive to me because I can sight off a mountain feature or finish line easily, not so on the way out. I was keeping the buoy line, and near the Turn 3 buoy, some fast AG swimmers had lapped me and were certainly not shy about swimming over me; at least the kicks to the face didn't bruise.
 
The second lap was awesome, even with some hiccups. The sun came out and I could use it to monitor my direction; I still sighted but I would know if I needed to sight sooner. At the Turn 1 buoy, the cramps I always get at one hour kicked in and I had to grab a canoe until I stretched it out. Someday I'll figure the right mix of hydration and stretching, but considering I had to take a couple of short breaks for, ahem, wetsuit warming, I don't think hydration was the issue this time. 


My last 800 meters will remain with me always, I'm not a great swimmer but I found the water, executed all of Clint’s tips, and kicked out sub-2:00 minute hundreds for most of the final leg. I kept sighting off the incredible view of the mountains, all the while thinking, This race will always sell out. 

I head out of the water, and look behind me briefly. 


Id: The lake is gorgeous with the fog, sun and mountains. 
Ego: See, you’re not the last person in the water! 
Superego: Well done, you finished your weakest leg, but you’re fifteen minutes past your plan, you need to move. 


The volunteers, I should say, the excellent, super cool, awesome, great volunteers, helped me get out of the wet suit in half the time I normally would, and I found my Bike Gear bag with no problem (the garbage bag wrapping them did it’s job). The nightmare that was the T1 tent has been discussed ad nauseum. If the race directors would like me to put together a spreadsheet to help them size the tent properly, I will offer my skills in numerical analysis pro bono


Id: That was worse than Black Thursday during fraternity pledgeship. 
Ego: That asshole stole my seat! 
Superego: We lost another 10 minutes from the plan, keep moving. 


I made smart choices on clothing; full length leg warmers, full gloves with a spare pair of fingerless in the back pocket, arm warmers and a tri-shirt, and a long sleeve cycling jersey my wife bought me three years ago (she noticed). I pop the Garmin on, get on the bike, and take off. 


I was out of the water in 1:43, and transition was 17 minutes, but my bike is generally my strongest leg and I started passing people by the dozen. I pull out of the Carnelian Bay detour and then I felt a shakiness in the rear wheel. 


Id: Not again! 
Ego: You goddamn moron, why didn’t you buy a tire? 
Superego: Berate yourself later. Fix the problem now. 


I’ve had a couple of flats and I thought I solved the problem when I pulled some small debris out of the wheel, it rode for 30 miles and I thought it was taken care of. But it wasn’t. I pulled the wheel off quickly and levered off the tire completely. Before I had checked the wheel meticulously, now I checked the tire in full daylight and saw a microthin wire sticking out. I found you. 


Right then another rider shouted, “SAG wagon right there!” 


We now interrupt this race report for a message from our sponsor. 


Is your race about screwed because you were too damn stupid and lazy to do the right preventative maintenance? Fear not, dumb warrior, SAG Monkey, www.sagmonkey.com, will come to your rescue for all of your needs provided you're lucky enough to be near them. They’ll fix a flat three times faster than you can, and be super cool about it too. Remember, SAG Monkey, they’ll keep you on the road, even if you’re an idiot. 


Boom! I’m on the road again and flying. I must have been passed by 100 people while I fixed the tire, and half of them were behind me before getting to Tahoe City. 


My coach was clear that I needed to ride this course. She had ridden it many times and she believed it would crush people who weren’t familiar with it. I’ve ridden the loop three times already, except for the Martis Camp, so I knew what was coming up. However, the section from Tahoe City to Truckee is such a euphoric joyride I just had to bask in the glow of a cool breeze in my face, the steady cadence and gentle burn of my legs turning the crank, and the sights and sounds of the Truckee River valley. 


Id: I love the cool weather when I’m riding, the sun is nice too. This race will always sell out. 
Ego: I love watching people go by me. See my power! 
Superego: We are way behind schedule, do not get comfortable. 


I’m feeling very strong as I pass through Truckee, seeing the rather funny signs (‘Worst Parade Ever!’) and hearing the crowd cheer. A few more turns and I rode through the walking path No Passing Zone, stand on the pedals to get some speed, three pro riders fly by me as if I’m standing still. 


Id: Damn! 
Ego: Damn! 
Superego: Damn! 


I keep my eyes on the road and make my way to Schaffer Mill Road. I never had the chance to preview this part of the course, but I did ride to the Ritz from Highland two times and the elevation map didn’t show any surprises, I figured it would be tough but within my limits. 
I passed the Martis Camp sign, and stopped for a quick refuel at the aid station. One lady volunteer was cheering us on, then said, “I’ll not mention what’s up ahead.” with a chuckle. How bad could it be? 


SOAPBOX MOMENT

What wasn't shown in the overdamped elevation map were the staircase rollers that add about 500-700 feet of elevation that you weren’t expecting, and the twists and curves of the road make four or five false summits that are demoralizing the first time you ride it. Look Race Directors, I get it, I’m doing an Ironman in the mountains, this stuff is hard, but don’t sugar coat the elevation profile on the section of the course that can’t be previewed. 

END SOAPBOX MOMENT 


It was this time when I had my first encounter with Public Servant (I know his name, but I don’t have permission to use it). He and I played the most enduring game of tag I’ve ever participated in. I would pass him, and then I’d refuel or go to the bathroom, then I would pass him again. And again. And again. It was reminding me of the Tortoise and the Hare, except I’m not fast enough to be a hare. 


The first time up Brockway was fun. I was spinning strong, I found it easier than Martis, and I had to stay to the left because there was a line of people I was passing. The party at the top was cool, the lady wearing the shirt that said, ‘I don’t do Iron Man, I do Ironmen!’ was chatting me up telling me I looked great and keep it up (I haven’t told The Wife that part yet). I was beginning to think, based on numbers, that I was well within cutoff and I had made the time back up. 


If there is one thing I do well on the bike, it’s descending. I used to ride dirt bikes so I’m fairly comfortable at high speeds, and after the bike gets to escape velocity I can hold a tuck, manage my braking and safely navigate slower descenders. The smooth, resurfaced roads allowed me to make it to 48 mph in a few spots; the yelling from the yahoos in the cars let me know how it looked from the outside. 


The second lap was much like the first, except the climbs began to take their toll. I had reached an equilibrium with the riders, we’d pass each other from time to time, and the second time up Brockway had me going at a snails pace with cramped adductor muscles listening to every fourth car playing “Eye of the Tiger.” Public Servant and I changed places about five times, and we rolled into Squaw Valley at about the same time. 


The Wife, The Girls, and The Grandma were waiting at the Squaw Creek entrance, and it was nice to sneak in a kiss before that ‘tiny little marathon’ the spectator reminded me about.
 
T2 was in much better condition than T1, and I followed a Slowtwitcher's advice to have a long sleeved jacket tied around my hips during the run. This was the first time I had seen such energy from the spectators, they knew my name from my bib and it freaked me out when perfect strangers were cheering. But that lasts until you leave the Village, then I was alone with my thoughts, which were primarily those of cramped legs and sore backs. 


Two weeks before the race I had done the bike course at full distance, swam three miles in open water, and did long runs. The total time was going to be longer than I had hoped, and I knew it. I stared in the mirror at a body that was 40 pounds lighter than when it started, and I looked at my wife and said, 


“Besides finishing, I had time goals for this race, and I’m not going to meet them. My one goal now is to finish the marathon running.” 


“That sounds good.” she said. 


My coach told me two things about the marathon: 1) the first three to four miles are terribly painful, and 2) plan to walk through the aid stations and run between them. The moment you start walking between aid stations is the moment you walk the race. 


The adductor muscles in both of my legs were cramping, especially when I had to run around tri-club members that were walking three and four abreast on a six-foot jogging path. I remembered the running drills in Don Fink’s ‘Be Iron Fit’ I’ve been working on for the last six months; the Two Strings and Steady Focal Point drills. In spite of the pain, I was able to have an imaginary string pull my head up and straighten my back, and have another string pull my chest forward. Then I would focus on a target and adjust my run gait such that it didn’t move. When I do it right, I can feel the efficiency in my run. I run 8:30 minute miles on flats when fresh, I felt lucky to get 11:00 minute miles now. And the course is gradually uphill for the first 10 miles. 


I walked through almost every aid station and then started running again immediately. The volunteers never cease to impress me; so kind, so friendly, and they have to be cold after the sunset, yet they don’t bitch. At mile 7 I hear, “I remember you from the bike.” It was another one of my tag partners, an Asian lady that had good speed on the flats but would slow a little on climbs and descents. We chatted a while about the bike course and the upcoming cutoffs at Mile 9.2. Then abruptly she said, “Good luck, my stomach is cramping.” and I left her behind. It almost felt like combat, and I was tempted to stop and help her, but I kept going. I was glad to see later she made it. 


Right around Mile 14, I left an aid station and every muscle in my body felt like a brick. I saw people walking, and I wanted nothing more than to just keep walking and share the misery with company. 


Id: This hurts, I want to eat and go to bed. 
Ego: It’s about 8:30, you have over three hours to go 12 miles, you only need about 15:00 minute miles, it would be easy. 
Superego: (pauses) For reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here today. What are those reasons? Your first reply would be things you couldn’t control, the crimes and neglect that others have done to you and your family. But really the reasons are what you could control and didn’t; your weight, alcohol and an unending travel schedule. You changed all of that so you could be here right now and you’re asking yourself to play games with the cutoff time, knowing your knees may not let you try again. You may be right, you could finish, but do you really want to look back on this day five years from now and remember doing anything less than your absolute best? 


No. 


I knew I wrote that speech for someone. I pulled the strings, focused on a target, and turned over my legs. 


For 12 miles I ignored everything except the sound of my shoes and kept my legs churning. Other runners and volunteers were asking how I could still be running. I didn’t know where it came from, but I was driven. As I completed the first loop I saw my wife and she could see I had it and she shouted her encouragement. That energy from her, and the rest of the Village drove me harder. 

With four miles left, I passed Public Servant for the last time. I told him my name and congratulated him because I knew his metronome would carry him across; he did the same for me. 


At a near sprint I ran through the Village, smiling, giving high fives, and hooting for the crowd. As I crossed the finish line, the final time was 15:46, and I finished the last four miles at a pace equal to what I started. While I know it means a lot to everyone who does it, something inside me became whole when Mike Reilly called me an Ironman.