When not slagging the World Triathlon Corporation, you can usually find me doing their races. But once I finish and regain my soul, I feel the need to race off the beaten path (figuratively anyway) to restore the necessary balance to my universe.
That's how the early part of my race season has gone. I raced the California half-Ironman on April 2, and then the Razor City Splash and Dash in Gillette on May 7. One packs 2,000 athletes into a town that could pass for a winter escape paradise, the other packs less than 100 athletes into a town that struggles to fight off winter deep into May. One offers a sheltered bay swim, the other offers a pool swim. One cycle leg takes athletes over four righteous climbs through a military installation, the other takes athletes through empty fields dotted with oil derricks and mines. One run leg takes athletes along one of the most beautiful beaches in a state full of them, the other takes athletes along a set of railroad tracks in a glorified trailer park of a neighborhood.
The first one required some begging just get the time off, but I did it, and I'll spare another rant about my desire to take my time off when I damned well please. I flew into San Diego, which always thrills me, what with the approach amongst the buildings downtown. I stayed in Oceanside, California, with my friends Jacob and Tracy and their cat, Nixey. I owe them an incredible debt of gratitude for putting up with me and my bizarre habits for three days, and I repaid them with a pot of my mediocre spaghetti. I really need to learn to cook something else for when I'm crashing at someone's pad.
Anyway, I got all the sleep and transportation I needed before the race, and I was well-rested on race morning, if not well-trained. After my week in Tucson the shit hit the fan at work and I felt like I needed to go in every morning rather than train, and then I managed to short my training at night and on the weekends, meaning I never did more than I felt like because I had to hit trainer and treadmill for my fixes. Shit's gotta change, no doubt.
So the swim does indeed take place in Oceanside Harbor. Surprisingly, the water was fairly clean, minimal boat fuels, maximal salt content. My wave went last of 23, so I also got to swim through everyone else's pee — always a joy, when you expect the water to be quite a bit cooler, and you know why it's warmer. I hammered through about a half-mile of the 1.2-mile swim when my goggles snapped. The nosepiece, really just a piece of rubber strap connecting the two lenses, broke, and as I bobbed in the chop of the exposed part of the course, there was no MacGuyvering a repair. I tossed the goggles to a lifeguard, and after chuckling at the assurance that I had "plenty of time to finish, dude," I went on my way, sidestroking and breaststroking. Then I figured out that I could see much in the water when I had the goggles, so I closed my eyes, put my head down, and went back to swimming freestyle, opening my eyes to sight every now and then. Came out of the water in 34:40, not my fastest but not my slowest, either. I heard one of the volunteers comment that I was hardcore for going without goggles. Thanks to the salt, I must have looked like a pothead.
The bike starts with a brisk criterium-style loop around the harbor before getting on to Camp Pendleton, a Marine Corps installation. I pounded the flats going north parallel to I-5, not realizing a tailwind was pushing me along. That meant that when we turned toward the mountains in the base the tailwind became a crosswind, and then for much of the second half of the race, we had a headwind. That meant that for the four climbs, we were uphill into the wind, which took way more out of me than I would have liked. We were rewarded with some screaming descents, but naturally my head was out of it for all the climbing we did. I did the ride in 3 hours and something, glacial by my standards, so I was looking forward to a stellar run.
For about five miles, I had it right. Per the results I did the first 3.75-mile leg at 8:23 per mile, which felt quick but manageable. I stayed on top of my hydration on the bike, enough that I visited the loo twice out on the road, and once in transition. So I thought I could keep that early run pace indefinitely — run 8:23 per mile until I couldn't anymore. That shit came to a halt at mile 5, where I felt like crashing on the beach and taking a nap on someone's towel. I walked significant portions of the next five miles before starting the cola and pretzels at every aid station. Rocket fuel. I started running again at 10, and finished up that way, but not before clocking a 2:05 half-marathon — again, wars are fought and won in that time. Hey, at least the 5:54 overall time allowed me to maximize my time in the California sun and get a nice pink layer on the pasty whiteness of my body.
Four weeks later I was in Gillette, blowing off UW's commencement to defend an age-group title. The drive up alternates scenic (Sybille Canyon between Laramie and Wheatland) and yucky (WY-59 from Douglas to Gillette), but doesn't take long if you feel like testing the state patrol on commencement weekend, which I never do.
I saw many of the same people I saw the year before, and had that feeling of security and familiarity in a place I'd been only a couple of times. Doesn't take much when you've bounced around as much as I have. This time I split the lane with a couple of younger dudes, and we determined our order. The gun went off, we plowed through the water, and we all stayed on the same lap, amazingly. Now, when circle-swimming, etiquette dictates that one swimmer wishing to pass another tap the foot of the swimmer in front of them. I did that, and no dice. Meanwhile, the guy behind me at one point pulled out into the middle of the lane and passed me on a turn. So I learned that lap swimming etiquette apparently doesn't apply in a race situation; good to know.
I got out into the transition area in roughly seventh place. Per usual, I was glacial in transition and got passed before heading out on the bike. I enjoyed a strong south wind blowing me northward for much of the first half of the bike. Then I hit the turnaround and came to a virtual halt. By then I was in fifth, and trying to hold on to the guys in third and fourth. Another lesson became clear during the second half of the bike — if the race is not USA Triathlon sanctioned, drafting is legal. Indeed, I was in third briefly as I pulled these two guys over a couple of brief hills. Then they made a move and worked a two-man paceline for the rest of the bike while I dealt with the wind on my own.
Much like a non-USAT race I did a couple years back where I pulled a competitor through much of the bike before yielding a spot on the run on tired legs, I had no jump and couldn't bridge the gap on the run. I stayed in fifth place, but I ran a 21:48 5K (7:01 per mile). I take solace in that after fighting the wind in the countryside north of Gillette. Oddly, in terms of placing, last year I was fifth overall, fourth man (yes, I got chicked), first in my age group. This year, I was 3:30 faster, finished fifth overall, fifth man, and third in my age group. Yep, the two guys working the paceline were both 35. That's how it goes sometimes.
While there never was any rule about drafting in the prerace literature, the debate here is the letter of the law (such as it is) against the spirit of the law (in triathlon, there. is. no. drafting.). Far as I'm concerned, I raced honestly and took my medal home with a certain amount of pride in that. What could I have done, anyway, other than telling them to get the fuck off my wheel? Or hooked them (used my book to nudge them off the road)? Guess I can be content to sleep well with my principles.
Tomorrow is the 30-somethingth Bolder Boulder, a race I swore I'd always do as long as I was in this part of the country. For some reason, running a 10K in Boulder with 50,000 other people has lost its appeal, and I won't go back until I have the wheels to pull off a PR. Seriously, if I start in one of the first couple of waves, I only have a couple hundred people in front of me to shove out of the way — er, I mean, slalom through on my way from Pearl and 28th to Folsom Field. So maybe next year if I'm not ass-deep in Ironman training.
