Florida 70.3

Viva Las Vegas


I actually qualified for the 70.3 World Championship in Las Vegas last year by winning my age group in New Orleans, but I ended up skipping 70.3 worlds to race Best of the US. That worked out alright, so no real regrets, but I was still somewhat bummed at missing out on Vegas.

So this year as soon as I found out the BOUS race was moving to spring of 2013, I immediately started looking for a 70.3 race to qualify at. I pretty quickly settled on the Florida 70.3 for the simple reason that it was the only race that fit into my schedule. Tiffany also decided that she and Michael would make the trip as well and we'd spend a few days after the race bumming around Florida family vacation style.

The Pre-Race Jams


It turns out sharing a hotel room with a 10 month old baby is not a solid strategy for a good nights sleep, so when my alarm went off at 4AM on race morning I felt like absolute crap. I knew I had to bring out the big guns to turn this situation around, so I cranked up Imperium by Machine Head and stuck that shit on repeat for the half-hour ride from the hotel to the race site.

This song is like an owner's manual for life. It makes me feel like I can wake up, eat a bowl of broken glass and nails for breakfast, run on over to NASA and punt a rocket into orbit. Going hard for 4+ hours in the Florida heat and humidity is nothing...


On to the race...


Swim 

Unfortunately I was in the 15th of 18 waves, which meant I had a solid hour and a half to kill between transition closing and my actual start. I spent most of that time pacing up and down the shoreline watching the 1500 or so people who got to start ahead of me go through the swim. At a boat launch ramp about 20 yards from where we entered the water I saw this lovely sign: 

One silver lining for getting stuck in a late wave... by the time I get in the alligators should already be full. The water was in the mid-80's and super gross. My non-scientific guess is that it was about 50% water, 30% mud and 20% alligator poop. Finally my wave was up, they lined us up in knee deep "water", fired an air horn and we were off. I took a front and center spot on the line and jumped out to a pretty decent start. After the initial washing machine cleared a couple hundred meters out it looked like there was one guy from my wave well off the front already, then a small pack of a half-dozen or so being led by me. I just kept going rather than falling back into the pack to draft since we were already getting mixed up with stragglers from earlier waves so I figured holding a draft would be next to impossible in all that traffic anyway. 

The rest of the swim was spent weaving around traffic and absorbing occasional frog kicks to the kidneys from random breaststrokers. I never saw another cap from my wave after the first turn buoy. My watch showed 29:30 at the swim exit. I was pretty disappointed with that time, but looking at the results I was 3rd in my AG and either 1st or 2nd in my wave (there were 2 waves of M35-39, I was in the 2nd) depending on what happened to the guy who jumped out to the lead at the start so it couldn't have been as lousy as the time would seem to indicate. I'll have to wait until I do a swim where I'm not changing course and/or running into somebody every other stroke to get an honest assessment of my 2012 open water swimming ability. At least I wasn't eaten by a gator.

T1

T1 was my 2nd worst transition ever (my #1 worst transition ever is the 2009 Liberty half, where I had to sit down and bandage a bunch of blisters on my feet before setting off on the bike). I kicked it off by running right past my rack and getting lost, then temporarily forgetting my race number while I scanned up and down the rows looking for my bike. Once I finally found my bike I threw my helmet on, grabbed the bike off the rack and ran a few steps before realizing I forgot to put my race belt on. For some reason WTC requires that a number be worn on the bike, so not wanting to risk a silly penalty I laid the bike down on the ground and did an about face to return to my rack to retrieve my race belt. I'm sure all of this only cost me 30 seconds or so, but it felt like an eternity. It's always demoralizing to piss away time like that so early into what I know is going to be a tough race.

Bike 

I started out the bike in full hammer mode since I figured I was off pace from a slower than expected swim and an epic fail transition. There was a pretty good tailwind the first half and I was holding in the 28mph range while yelling my throat raw at people to move to the right. The roads were pretty narrow with no shoulders for the most part so there was very little room to navigate around slower riders. And of course pretty much nobody was riding to the right like they're supposed to. There aren't enough motorcycles in Sturgis to properly enforce the position rules in the AG waves at a WTC race. 

There was also quite a bit of auto traffic as the roads were open. I lost maybe a minute or two having to wait behind cars as they waited for a safe spot to pass the line of bikes in front of them. Somewhere around mile 30 the terrain started to undulate a bit and we lost our tailwind so the bike started to get much more difficult. Luckily I had already moved up through most of the field at that point so my lungs and throat got a break from the yelling at least. I ended up jumping off the bike with a 2:12:08 split, which was pretty much in the center of the 2:10 - 2:15 I was expecting. I had no idea where I was relative to the rest of my AG or the amateur race as a whole, but I figured I couldn't be in too bad of shape since I wasn't passed the entire ride. I also felt like I did a decent job pacing myself and setting myself up for a good run.  

T2 

T2 was brisk, except for the few seconds I always give away putting on socks. New goal for this season: HTFU and complete a half-iron race without socks... skin of my feet be damned. 

Run 

The run course was extremely challenging. It was 3 loops through the residential streets around the lake with two sizeable hills in the first mile and a half. I was hoping to run right on 6:00/mi pace and nailed it the first loop and was actually feeling pretty decent. The wheels started coming off about midway through the second loop. At around mile 6 I noticed that I had stopped sweating and was starting to shiver a bit, which generally means I'm getting to the point of being dangerously dehydrated. Not wanting to risk a trip to the med tent I decided to do something I haven't done in a race since 2007... walk. From mile 7 onward I briefly walked at every aid station while I guzzled down whatever liquid I could get my hands on. The walk breaks were only about 10-20 seconds each and I was keeping ~6:30 pace between aid stations, so I wasn't losing a ton of time, but it was still pretty demoralizing. I thought for sure I was throwing away the AG win and possibly even a Vegas qualifier.

Because of the chaotic nature of a late wave start and the 3 loop run course I never really had a good idea where I was relative to the rest of the field. I didn't see a single soul from my AG during the 1st lap, which I now know was because I was already at the front, but at the time I thought there had to be at least a couple guys from the previous wave out there in front of me. I passed a handful of 35-39 guys during the 2nd lap, but they were clearly running much slower and I was pretty sure they were a lap behind.  At around mile 8 a 30-34 guy went past me running very strong. He started either 5 or 10 minutes behind me depending on which wave he was in, so crunching some numbers in my head I quickly came to the conclusion that if he was also on lap 2 he was on sub-4 pace and it was basically hopeless for me and if he was still on lap 1 then he was on 4:20-ish pace and as long as I kept putting one foot in front of the other I had nothing to worry about. Either way it made no sense risking a complete blowup trying to go with him so I let him go.

About halfway through the third lap I spotted a couple 35-39 guys up ahead of me who looked strong enough to conceivably be on the 3rd lap as well. I put on as much of a surge as I could to pass them. I wanted to get well ahead by the next aid station because I was still planning on walking through it in order to get more fluids in. It worked as their footsteps faded into the distance and I never saw them again. Looking at the results I'm pretty sure they were on lap 2 anyway.


At about mile 12 I saw the 30-34 guy who passed me back on lap 2 and he became my new target as I tried to lift my pace again. I was still aware that because of the wave start I was either 10 minutes up or down on him, but at that point I no longer cared. It was a point of pride. This guy passed me like I wasn't even moving earlier and now it looks like he's struggling and I need to return the favor. I caught up to about 20 yards back of him when he reached the turnoff for the finish chute... and kept going for another lap. I guess I was 10 minutes up on him after all. I gave myself a mental fist bump, turned into the finish chute and high fived a few kids as I jogged it in for a 4:11:51.


Immediately after my chip was removed I went straight to a nearby picnic table and bent over it dry heaving. Three different EMT's approached me and asked if I needed to go to the med tent but I managed to convince them all that this was standard behavior for me after a half-iron race and avoided the IV needle. It was however a little disconcerting that nothing at all was coming up given that I had managed to take in two full cups of water and/or sports drink at the previous five aid stations. After the dry heaves stopped I went straight to the post-race food tent and guzzled four cans of Coke and two of Sprite and started to feel somewhat normal again.

I wandered around the finish line for area for a while looking to see if results were posted anywhere, but they were nowhere to be found so I resigned myself to sitting on the ground in the food tent until transition finally reopened and I could get to my phone to check the results online. I ran into Jeff Fleig from LaCrosse, who I had previously met last summer at TriStar Minnesota and we sat there comparing notes from our races for a bit. It's always nice to run into a familiar face when you're 1,000 miles from home.

Once they finally reopened transition and I was able to get the results I was blown away that my 4:11:51 was good enough for 11th overall and first amateur. I was pretty confident that I had my Vegas spot sewn up, but I figured that with all the walking I did that someone out there had to have managed better. Some days it really is all about the bike I guess.

After heading out for some nutritious recovery chow at a nearby McDonalds, I reported to the Vegas signup table credit card in hand and claimed my spot, fully intent on actually attending this year. Mission accomplished.

World Turtle Day


Did you know that May 23rd was World Turtle Day? No?!?!? Get with the program.

Most people finding themselves with a few spare days in central Florida with a small child would choose to go to Disney and proceed to drain their wallet for the privilege of spending hours and hours standing in line. Well, most people are chumps. We chose to go the full-on nerd route, first taking little Mikey over to the Kennedy Space Center and then down to the Keys where we were visited the Turtle Hospital, a facility that rescues and rehabs sick or injured sea turtles for eventual release. Yep, that picture below is me wearing a turtle shirt, holding my kid who is also wearing a turtle shirt, standing in front of a building filled with sea turtles (bonus nerdery... the picture was taken by my wife who was also wearing a turtle shirt). Keepin' it awesome in 2012.

Duathlon Nationals

Still Alive

Wow... it's been a solid six months since I've updated my craptacular blog. I'm sure my one or two loyal readers (hi mom!) are very disappointed. Truth is I've been on my grind. If I want to get any training done these days it has to happen in the early morning, so setting the alarm for 5AM has become completely standard.  Between work, training, and trying to keep my kid alive and my wife sane there isn't room for much else. My master plan of regularly posting original content in order to build up a loyal following who I can then proceed to spam with Adsense and affiliate links so I can eventually generate enough revenue to go to the liquor store and buy a 40oz is way behind schedule. I'll try to do better.

Since it worked out so well last time, Patrick Parish and I decided we'd take our show on the road yet again. This time for Duathlon Nationals in Tuscon.

In Duct Tape We Trust

Ever since I forked over my credit card at the luggage counter on the way out to my first fly-in race back in 2010, I've had the dream of cobbling together my own bike boxes and outwitting those greedy bastards.  About a half dozen trips and several hundred dollars in bike fees later I finally got off of my ass to do something about it.  

This trip was the maiden voyage of my DIY ghetto bike boxes.  They're made out of corrugated plastic held together by canvas straps and several hundred feet of duct tape.  The good news is that the bike got there and back without damage, the boxes held up just fine to the rigors of air travel, they actually fit through the x-ray machines so there's less chance the TSA will open them, and they're much easier to carry and get into/out of a car than a traditional bike box.  The bad news is that I only avoided the fee on one leg of the trip.  I can make the frame box substantially smaller by removing the crank, so I'll make that adjustment for the next trip and see how it goes.

The Pre-Race Ridiculousness

For some reason USAT insists on having a mandatory day-before packet pickup and bike check-in for this race.  Since Tucson is about a 2 hour drive from Phoenix you either have to take a really early flight out that morning or head out two days before the race and deal with an extra night away from home.  Since the extra night away from home is not a viable option I went with the really early flight.  I hopped out of bed at 4:30 on Friday morning, said a prayer for my sketchy looking homemade bike boxes as I tossed them in the trunk of the car and headed off to the airport for a 6:15 scheduled departure.

As I was walking across the skyway from the parking ramp to the terminal I noticed an unusually large number of people outside the terminal on the sidewalk.  As I attempted to enter the terminal I found out why... TSA was not letting anyone in.  About every five minutes or so they pushed everyone back farther until we were eventually all back out in the middle of the parking ramp.  After about an hour or so the bomb squad truck rolls up and some guy gets out in the full-on bomb suit just like something out of a movie and heads into the terminal.

Eventually the bomb suit guy comes back outside, gets in the truck and rolls off, but for some reason it's a solid 30 minutes before we get the all clear to go back inside.  It turns out some numbnuts checked a bag with some sort of homemade water filter that looked like a pipe bomb when they x-rayed it.  By now it's about an hour and a half past our scheduled departure time.

When they finally give the all clear I hustle back inside as fast as I can and end up 2nd in line at the Southwest counter.  I say another silent prayer for my plastic and duct tape handiwork and get in the now hour-long line for security screening.  The whole time I'm in line I'm checking the status of my flight on my phone and the departure time keeps getting pushed farther and farther back.  When I clear security I head over to my gate and see the board is displaying no info for my flight at all.  It turns out they sent the thing out about a half hour after TSA declared the bomb scare over.  I can only guess that the plane had approximately zero passengers on board since the vast majority of us had no chance to clear security in that time.  They must've really needed that plane in Phoenix or something.

Luckily I was able to get rerouted onto a flight to St. Louis with a connection to Phoenix that got me in around noon.  Patrick was not so lucky.  He was supposed to be on the same flight, but it took him several hours to get through the luggage check and security lines and he wouldn't be landing in Phoenix until 8PM.

Once I hit the ground I hopped in the rental car and headed toward Tucson with a quick stop at the In-N-Out Burger drive-thru for some pre-race fuel.  Upon arrival in Tucson I threw my bike together like a NASCAR pit stop and made it to packet pickup and bike check-in with about a microsecond to spare. For some reason the packet pickup only went until 4PM. Seriously guys, if you're going to insist on this day-before crap at least extend it into the early evening.  It would make life much easier for people coming from out of town.

I could've had it much worse however. By the time Patrick finally makes it to the hotel I've already been asleep for a couple hours.  

The Pre-Race Jams

In honor of my recent entry into the M35-39 age group, here's an appropriately titled blast from the past:

The Race

Between the time zone change, the travel freakout the day before and general pre-race nervousness both Patrick and I are wide awake by 5AM.  Patrick had negotiated a race morning packet pick up due to the airport drama, so he left for the race site pretty early.  Our wave wasn't going until 8:15, so I sat there and watched TV for a couple hours before I headed out.

Once I arrived I quickly aired up my tires, set up my transition and emptied an entire spray can of sunscreen onto my pasty white midwestern skin.  We actually got pretty lucky with the weather.  It was in the high-70's/low-80's with light winds while we were racing.  It could've easily been much, much hotter and windier.

After a more than likely inadequate warm-up jog I got in the start corral the moment they called my wave.  The start line was extremely narrow and I wanted to stake out a spot on the front row so I wouldn't have to worry about getting boxed in by anyone else.

Right from the gun some maniac takes off at full on kamikaze suicide pace, a couple other guys try to follow, and 1/4mi in I'm sitting in 5th or 6th.  Strangely enough, Patrick is not one of the guys in front of me.  That should've been a giant red flag that I'm probably not pacing this run very intelligently.  At about 1/2mi Patrick finally pulls around.  I hit the first mile marker at 4:55 and I'm somewhere around 7th position nowhere near the leaders.  Assuming that marker was in the right place I think that's my new mile PR.  Even if it wasn't in the right place that opening mile was still damn fast.

Mile 2 is significantly downhill and I clock a 5:13, getting passed by 3 more guys in the process, which is pretty standard for me since I hate running downhill and seem to really suck at it compared to most of the guys I try to race with.  Of course, what goes down must come up, and we soon make the turn to climb back toward transition.  I manage to pass a bunch of guys on the uphill and come into transition 5th in my wave.

I got through transition quickly and headed out onto the bike course still in 5th.  The bike course is a 2-loop out and back with constant rolling hills.  The 50+ wave went out 15 minutes ahead of us, so there was a constant stream of traffic to pass.  Because of all the traffic I never had that great of an idea of where the rest of the guys from my wave were, so I just did my best to keep hammering away.  I made my way around the one and only guy from my wave I ever came into contact with at about mile 9, putting me in 4th.

Shortly after making the turnaround to start the 2nd lap I had one of the scarier moments of my racing life.  Heading into a turn I'm rapidly approaching one of the guys from the earlier wave and screaming "ON YOUR LEFT!" at the top of my lungs.  He seems to have heard me and looks to be setting up for a wide turn so I start to take the inside line, still shouting at him for good measure.  Well, it turns out he must have interpreted "on your left" as "move to the left", because as soon as I get up next to him, he drifts over to me and we rub shoulders.  Since I have more momentum I continue to pull ahead, and eventually his front wheel touches my back wheel and down he goes.  Luckily there were two police officers working that intersection as well as a couple dozen spectators, so figuring that my stopping would serve no purpose I rode on.

The whole rest of the loop I'm replaying that incident in my head and praying that the guy isn't seriously messed up. I breathe a giant sigh of relief when I ride back through that corner ~15 minutes later and there are no body or bike parts on the ground and no ambulance on the scene. I would've felt like the world's biggest scumbag for riding off had that guy been seriously hurt. I jogged out to that intersection after the race and talked to one of the cops. He said the guy had some road rash, but was otherwise OK, refused any medical attention and left the scene under his own power.  Everything happened so quickly I don't know what else I really could have done, but I still feel pretty shitty for being one half of an encounter that probably ruined someone's day.

I get through transition without any hiccups and head out onto the run course in 4th place, about 20 seconds back of the guy in 3rd.  I manage the first mile in 5:15 this time around and look to be closing the gap a bit to 3rd, but I start to lose ground again as we head down the hill. I develop a wicked side stitch on the way down the hill, which is odd. It's been several years since that has happened.  Did I mention I hate running downhill?  Luckily the side stitch clears up toward the bottom and I try to maintain some type of reasonable form for the last push back up the hill.  By now I'm in pretty rough shape and just ready to be done.  

I enter the finish chute a few steps behind one of the 60+ guys from the first wave.  Deciding that a finish line sprint with a guy who started 15 minutes ahead of me is ridiculous (and truthfully, a little afraid that I wouldn't even win said sprint), I set up shop about 10 yards behind him and cruise the last couple hundred meters, crossing the line in 4th.

When I cross the line I give Patrick (who finished 2nd overall, only a handful of seconds behind a guy who finished 2nd in the pro wave at last years Duathlon Nationals) a high five and and proceed to dry heave over a fence while Patrick is being interviewed.

Since the awards ceremony is at 6PM back at the host hotel we don't stick around long and collect our belongings as soon as the transition area is reopened.  We head back to the hotel and to get cleaned up before a post-race refuel at In-N-Out.

This whole time we're still under the impression that we're 2nd and 4th overall. After returning to the hotel I get on the computer and check to see if the official results are posted.  It turns out that I've been upgraded to 3rd overall since the guy who crossed the line in 3rd managed to somehow accumulate 6 minutes worth of penalties.  And since the overall winner is Canadian, he's not eligible for the US championship (apparently he was racing in a one-man "open" division).  That makes Patrick the US champ and me the runner up!

Minnesota was well represented at the awards ceremony, as not only were Patrick and I on the overall podium and winners of our respective age groups, but Bob Powers and Ben Ewers won their age groups as well.  

So the first race of 2012 is over and done with.  Patrick and I both brought home national championship jerseys and a hell of a lot of stories to tell (although most of them have more to do with the fake bomb scare than the race). I'll take that to kick off the season anytime.