70.3 and me — a modern love story

In early 2015, back when triathlons were still a delusion deep in my mind, my wife (Jess) and I were debating whether to have a 3rd kid. I desperately wanted a daughter. Jess pointed out that we had a good rhythm with our two boys, and we both wondered how we’d handle adding a 3rd to the mix. My mom (who is, without question, the most amazing grandma. Like, ever), asked “If I offered to come help for a few months, would that make a difference?” Uh…yeah. That would make all the difference!

We went for it, and in March 2016, our sweet, sweet, adorable baby Clara was born — a girl! As promised, grandma jumped in the car and drove 1,000 miles from Whidbey Island, WA to San Mateo CA, arriving in late July. In addition to making baby Clara’s life possible, grandma’s visit opened another door. I now had the time and flexibility to do something I’d always dreamed of and finally felt physically able to do — train for a half Ironman.

The front bookend for my training was the Seafair Olympic triathlon in Seattle on July 24. That race went well, and left me feeling supremely confident that I’d be ready for the Santa Cruz 70.3 in seven weeks. I didn’t have a training “plan” per se, but seven weeks is plenty of time to ramp my running distance to 13 miles. And hopefully learning how to swim properly — for real this time.

Oh, and remember that long diatribe in the Seafair post about how I desperately wanted a triathlon bike, but, for the sake of my marriage would go without? Well…that lasted less than a week before I was taking my brand new Cervelo P2 for a spin. All was looking good! Until it wasn’t.

I started having lower back pain from (I think) fit issues with the new bike. That made training difficult, but nevertheless I was running 6–8 miles by early August. Until, I stepped on a rusty nail. It dug deep into my foot, and kept me from running or biking for a week. And as I attempted to ramp back up (probably too quickly), I completely screwed up my lower back. Like, “I can’t stand up straight” screwed up. Like, “I can’t sleep” screwed up. Like “will I even be able to race?” screwed up.

The silver lining? No biking and running left lots of time for swimming. Just before jamming that rusty slab or iron into my foot, I had a mini-breakthrough in the pool. I somehow figured out how to breathe in freestyle. Normally I’m gasping for air after 50–100m. Now I’m (mostly) swimming lap after lap. I can swim! Over those two injury weeks, I swam voraciously, and really got into a great freestyle rhythm.

So as the race approaches, the script is seemingly flipped. Usually I’m a horrific swimmer who makes up ground on the bike and crushes the run. But now I appear to be a capable swimmer who is untested on my new bike, and who’ll need to run about 50% further than I’ve ever run before. This run coming after 3 hours on the bike. Oh, and I’m also getting sick. So throw that in the mix.

My goal is to finish under 5 hours and 30 minutes. It feels doable, but it’s more a hope than a plan. Almost anything could happen at this point. Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets!

I pull into Santa Cruz early Saturday afternoon, grab my bike, and head to the expo area. The plan is to register, hit the final athlete meeting, and then do a quick 30–40 minute ride to loosen up my legs. All goes well, and I check my bike into transition around 3:30pm. At Ironman events, you check in your bike the day before. You can also check-in your transition bag, but that would require me to have planned and be prepared. Clearly that’s too much to ask.

I check into my ocean-view room at the scenic Lanai Lodge and head to the beach to scope out the swim. The buoys are out along the wharf, and they look really, really small. The water is going to be even colder than Alcatraz, and it might be just as rough. Waves are crashing back against the shore (Santa Cruz is a surf town, after all) and suddenly I’m not so confident about my swim. And like Alcatraz, there are plenty of sea lions ready to pounce on the weakest swimmers.

I grab a burrito for carb loading, and head back to my room to organize and sleep. Amazingly, I’m in bed with the lights (and my phone) off by 9pm. Unamazingly, I can’t sleep. The night before a race you’re filled with anxiety and excitement. You’re running through every detail. Have I trained enough? Too much? Did I forget anything? Did I set the alarm for AM or PM? If I get a flat at mile 55, should I change it or just run and carry my bike? That kind of stuff.

I’m up at 4:30am after 5–6 hours of on-and-off sleep (a pre-race record!). I’m not feeling sick, just tired. After my carb load salted bagel and a banana, I’m out the door just after 5am.

It’s drizzling, so my bike is wet. And it’s dark, so setup is slow. My tires feel a bit low, and I’m wondering if it’s worth the wait for a bike tech. I decide against, but thankfully a roving tech wanders by and offers to check my tires. They were seriously low. 60 psi vs. the 100 psi I want. Air added, disaster averted. I wonder what else might be wrong with my bike? No time left to find out.

As I leave for the beach, I make a last second decision not to bring shoes. There’s a 1/2 mile run from swim exit to transition, but it’s not clear where I’d even put my shoes. And I can run barefoot. Right? Pretty sure I can.

There are 2,000 participants, with 20 separate ‘wave’ starts. Pros go first, the oldest women go last, and the rest are scattered in-between. I’m in the Purple 4th wave (Men, 40–44, last names A-K). The upside of being in an early wave is you get out of the water earlier, so have less people blocking you on the bike. The downside? More people potentially swimming over you. Especially if you’re slow, like me.

My wave starts with a bang (actually, a horn), and we’re off! I did some warm-up swims earlier, but the water is bitingly cold regardless. Breathing is immediately a struggle, and I quickly revert to the saftely of my backstroke. I flipped to freestyle several times over the 40+ minutes, but could never make it work. My nose was stuffed (shit, maybe I’m sick after all), and I struggled to stay oriented. I’d swim off course, negating any speed gains. I spent probably 80-90% of the swim on my back, and my time reflects that. I also spent a couple minutes working a severe hamstring cramp as I exited the water.

With all that, my swim placed 167 out of 228 in my age group — slower than 3/4 of the field. My dreams of a great swim were dead. But I’ll bet I can make up some time on the run back to transition!

Maybe not. I thought we’d be running back along the smooth sidewalk, but the actual run was along a rough concrete path. Each step was painful, and by the end I was walking. Slowly.

Many minutes later, I'm struggling to get into my bike gear. The temperature was mid-fifties and overcast, and since the warm-up jog never really got going, I’m shivering. Kinda like my very first tri, everything took 3x longer. And because it’s cold, I’m putting on socks, arm warmers and gloves — items I’d normally skip. All told, my T1 time is 12:34. In my mind, the race is slipping away.

The bike course starts along the coast. It’s gorgeous, but freezing. But by the time we get to HWY 1 after ~5 miles, I’m feeling good. The highway is basically a long, mostly straight set of rolling hills. Go flat for a mile, down for a 1/2 mile, up for 1/2 mile, repeat. That’s the bulk of the ride, save for a detour at mile 17 onto Swanton Rd. Swanton is bumpy, windy, and includes a 1 mile, 400 foot climb. Just the thing to test your legs…and your bike.

I passed a dozen people changing flats. Some were caused by bumps on Swanton, but most were on HWY 1, sections of which were pocked with pot holes and cracks. It was bumpy enough that around mile 25, my seat bag launches into the air. The bag has my spare tube and CO2, which I’ll need if I get a flat. So I flip around to retrieve it. Rather than attempt to reattach, I shove it in rear jersey pocket (it’s about the size of a beer can) and get back moving. Only 1–2 minutes lost — could’ve been worse.

Unlike previous races, I’m being passed frequently. Mostly because 80% of the athletes started in later swim waves, and the fast ones are catching up. It’s humbling at first, but after a while I just enjoy admiring the bikes. Even compared to Alcatraz, these bikes are taking it to another level. Most have racing wheels that cost more than my brand new bike, and they seem to be getting their money’s worth.

I was drinking lots of fluids (hydration!) and really had to pee. Should I stop? Or just let fly while riding? I chose the latter…twice. Note: this is actually much harder than you’d think. You really have to relax, and get out of your tuck position. It took several tries to figure it out, and in hindsight might have just been faster to stop. Other Note: I checked to make sure no one was behind me. Spraying others is not cool.

Coming off HWY 1, there was a sharp turn with ambiguous cone layouts. The guy in front of me was going too fast (he’d just passed me), got confused, tried to adjust, and ultimately flipped over his handlebars and landed on his head. Thankfully, race staff was right there to assist. He must’ve been pretty rattled because it took him almost 3 minutes to fly past me again.

I roll into transition around 2 hours and 55 minutes, placing me 112 out of 228 for the bike segment. Right in that meaty part of the curve.

My transition from bike to run was relatively smooth, except I desperately needed to pee again. Apparently too much hydration. I plan to hit the port-a-potties right outside transition, but they’re blocked. No worries, there are aid stations almost every mile. Mile 1 — port-a-potties full, people waiting. Mile 2 — full, waiting. By mile 3.5, I’m out of time. There’s only one port-a-potty, and it’s occupied. I ask the volunteer if I can pee in the bushes. His answer: “hey man, it’s Santa Cruz!” I’ll take that as a yes.

The stop takes over a minute, and robs me of momentum. I’d been running at sub-7 minute pace and, full bladder notwithstanding, felt great. Now I was struggling to get going again. Somewhere between miles 5–6, I start to bonk. Hard. My legs felt like bricks. Except, bricks are strong. So maybe more like jello. But really heavy jello. Like if you took a brick and stuck it inside a jello mold. That’s what my legs felt like.

As I’m dragging my jello bricks around for the next mile, I realize that I’m not going to make it through this run. No chance. I have 6+ miles left. Too far to gut it out, and too far to walk without decimating my time. Desperation is setting in.

Then about mile 8, something happens. My legs are still heavy, but it’s managable. I feel stronger. Invigorated. Like I’m going to make it. Something happened. And that something…is coke.

Apparently, snorting coke is a massive adrenaline rush. It shoots you to the moon and makes you feel invincible. The ultimate (albeit temporary) pick-me-up. Which is interesting, but unrelated to this story. I’m talking about something probably worse for you than coke. Coca-cola. Or to be more exact — flat, warm, Safeway-branded generic fake Coca-cola.

You should never try anything new on race day. No new equipment, no new techniques. No paces and distances you haven’t trained for (whoops!). And absolutely, positively, no new food or drink. There’s no telling how your body will react — especially your stomach. The risk is too great.

But like I said, I’m desperate. The gels, water and gatorade aren’t working. At about mile 7.5 I stop at the aid station to grab a small chunk of banana and a flat fake coke. I cross my fingers and hope for the best. And it works. I grab more flat fake coke at miles 9(ish) and 11(ish). My strength falters a bit, my back is sore, and the blister on my foot is growing. But I finish strong, with a run split of 1:37:15 (7:25 per mile). This places me 24 out of 228, just outside the top 10%.

My overall rank: 69 out of 228 for Men aged 40–44.

Remember that my goal was to finish under 5 hours and 30 minutes. Well, my final time was 5 hours and 30 minutes…and 29 seconds.

This is apparently the new trend. I missed the podium at Seafair by 40 seconds. And I missed my goal here by 30 seconds. The prime culprit, once again, was the swim. And transitions. And my seat bag hitting eject. But when you’re talking 30 seconds out of 5.5 hours, everything is a potential culprit. And if not for fake flat coke, it could have been 6+ hours.

My body is rocked. My quads now really do feel like bricks — heavy, hard, inflexible. Every step hurts. And that illness I felt before? It came back with a vengenge a few hours after the race. My body must’ve put it on hold, for which I’m quite grateful. Now I’m paying the price, but it’s a price worth paying.

Two years ago, if you’d told me I could do a half Ironman (or any length tri), I’d have laughed. And then cried. My knees were shot, my calves torn, my back still recovering from a severely herniated disk. It was a pipe dream at best. I’m honestly not sure how I got here. And given my injury history, I’m not sure I’ll be here very long. So I’m sure as hell going to enjoy it while I can.