Home-course advantage, my butt: Laramie Duathlon

OK, so maybe I am only posting when I race. That's easy to do when you're racing four consecutive weeks. Let me say that though I'm not traveling a lot for these races -- four straight weeks of racing with no overnight stays? Score! -- I can't imagine crisscrossing the globe for ITU races the way the pros do. It's hard enough to get rebooted for shorter events within two hours' drive. Mt hat's off to those boys and girls.

Saturday's Laramie Duathlon represented the second-shortest I've ever gone from front door to start line. The top honor goes to the F.E. Warren Triathlon, which took place on the F.E. Warren Air Force Base, just outside of Cheyenne. That was about two miles from my house but I did have the added bonus of explaining to the guard what a triathlon was, since there was no advance pub for this race at all. Saturday, I rode my bike 3.5 miles to Kiwanis Park in West Laramie for the duathlon.

But before I did that, I rode my bike for 45 minutes, just to get the blood flowing. Then I rode the 3.5 miles over the railroad tracks and under I-80 to the park, where I got my number, set up transition, and went for about a two-mile jog. Because this race was so short and I was doing it for nothing more than a measured brick, I thought it would be good to get in something resembling a workout beforehand. Overall, I benefited from the extra miles but my race suffered.

So the transition area was set up on a dirt parking lot. Because it's been a rainy spring I would either be brushing mud off my feet or kicking it out of my cycling shoes for the first part of the ride. Eh, I'll run in my cycling shoes, briefly.

Now, the literature for the race -- namely the Web site (cyclewyoming.org/du.htm), such as it is -- called the first run a 2-kilometer run. That was the case the night before when I checked the site to confirm what time I needed to be there. The course map still said 2 kilometers though the course was changed for some reason. So when the race director yelled "go," I was all set for a 2K run. Thus I was a little shocked when people seriously took off sprinting. Turns out it was a 1K run so I picked up the pace after the first turn, and then promptly dialed it back when I felt like the bear jumped on my back (high school track runners who ran a 400, ever, know what I'm talking about).

I was at a jog when I strolled into transition, already thinking "bike." I yanked my feet out of my shoes and with the right one came one of the insoles. Fun. I tried stuffing back in and I'm pretty sure about 20 people passed me in that first transition. That's fine, I thought, I'll just crush the bike. It was a rare windless day so any of the legions riding mountain bikes were ripe for the picking. Indeed, I lost track of the number of people I passed on the 25-kilometer, out-and-back cycle portion, so I focused on keeping my heart rate reasonable. That is, when I wasn't trying to pass more people. The two were mutually exclusive, however.

Anyway, I was about 15th when I made it back to transition for the 5K run. Got my feet into my running shoes with no problem, surprisingly, and I took off on the run, though about three people got places on me in transition. My transitions are glacial and need work.

Oof. Again, the lactic acid set in within a few strides so I dialed it back, reminding myself that this was just a workout, and then end result was not as important as... other things. I felt like I was jogging and my heart rate was in the 180s for much of that second run. What the hell? I finished with a time of 23:35 for the 5K, 2:35 slower than six days prior. The cooldown jog, in barefeet around the three little-kid soccer fields, actually felt better than any point during the race.

Anyway, I got third in my age group and brought home a white ribbon. Now, while I've gotten age-group hardware the past two weeks, this Saturday's Loveland Lake-to-Lake will be entirely different matter altogether. It's Colorado's de-facto state championship and I expect to get my clock cleaned quite nicely. From this race I'm just looking for physiological gains. And maybe some faster transitions.

Need some cowbell: Greeley Triathlon report

Don't get the idea that I'll blog only when I race. It's just worked out that way recently, between a work trip and a tiny bit of training despair. Plus, this is the month where I do four races in a span of 21 days, or if you count Bolder Boulder, five races in 35 days. So there will be at least one blog a week between now and then. Bitchin', right?

So yesterday was the first triathlon of the season. I did the Greeley Triathlon in the eponymous town in Colorado in 2003, while my parents were visiting. I don't remember a whole lot of the course other than the swim at Centennial Park's pool. It was short and it hurt like a MF. Since then, the race is under new management and the course is different. It's still short, though, and it effing hurts.

Mind you, my training breaks down like this: I hadn't swum in two weeks for one reason or another; I hadn't biked for a week while I was at Yellowstone for work, though I paroled it from the shop and took it out for some hills Friday, followed by a 2:15 wind-fest on Saturday; and I ran once while at Yellowstone, though I hiked around five miles a day on average. I was racing purely because I signed up. And because I wanted to race, I wanted to get the synapses firing, I wanted to have my body respond to my number being written on me in toxic magic marker, and I wanted to match up with the rest of the world (or northern Colorado, as it were). However, I decided I wouldn't wear a watch, as both my old-school and new-school Timex Ironmans have dead batteries and I haven't bothered to fix them. My heart-rate monitor has a strap that wraps around my chest, and I haven't figured out how tight I can get it to stay on during a swim without suffocating myself. So I would be competing on what Colorado cross country coach Mark Wetmore calls "sensory data," going as fast as you feel comfortable.

The night before the race, I shaved my legs. Those who know me well know I'm militantly anti leg-shaving for guys because I don't think it serves any purpose other than fashion, and I've never been one for aesthetics. If shaving legs stood between me and a spot in Kona, I'd think about it. Might even give up beer and Pepsi before mowing the blond lawn on my legs. But on Saturday I was bored and there was a pool swim, and thanks to my years of high school swimming I know for a fact there's a distinct advantage when gliding through the water with smooth legs. Sunday, I figured I'd need every advantage I could get. Fortified by two bottles of Sunshine Wheat, a little bit of Bailey's on the rocks, and nearly asleep with boredom, I grabbed the Sensor Excel and scraped away. They look pretty good, if I do say so myself.

My sleep ended up being a four-hour nap. I never get much sleep the night before a race because I'm always so excited to line up and go. That's why, the night before the night before, I blow off the alarm and slumber away (learned that in HS track). So after my four-hour nap that passed for sleep, I loaded up the car, secured my newly cleaned and tuned-up ride (thanks, Pedal House in Laramie!) to the roof of my Honda Civic Hybrid, and headed east and south. I caught the backside of a fairly serious thunderstorm with hail, and clutched at the thought of my bike getting pelted with frozen ice balls. Fortunately, no damage was sustained. Whew.

I did a longer warmup than normal, as six years of Ironman training has finally made me realize I need to be sweating with a rapid pulse before a sprint. Half-irons and irons offer a nice, long warmup in the form of a swim. Sunday, a hard 500 meters wasn't going to cut it so I did about 20 minutes between the three disciplines.

With the pool swim comes the most creative solution for getting everyone on the course in good order. Entrants provide a predicted swim time for the 500-meter swim, and the race numbers reflect this. For example, the fastest predicted swim time gets No. 1 and so on. I was No. 48, though I predicted my swim time when I had been in Laramie for two months and was still gasping for every breath of pool air. Nine minutes seemed reasonable at the time. Every 10 seconds a competitor pushed off the wall, though the race director increased the interval when things got bottlenecked. I got to see the first couple of guys leave the pool, and I observed that almost everyone ahead of me did flip turns; I was at last among friends.

So I pushed off and my shorts rolled down my waist. I'll call out the brand name because this was why I stopped swimming in them regularly. Louis Garneau tri-shorts have a looped drawstring that loosens and tightens at will. The problem is you can't knot them because not only does the drawstring congeal like cement in the water, now you have to figure out how to get them on. I knotted them somewhat loosely late last year and did pool work in them, but got tired of them almost falling off with every push-off, so I saved them for races. Well, this was a race, so I wore them. And I ended up having to shuffle off the wall instead of truly pushing to spare the crowd a shot of my white ass, and possibly my fellows.

I passed four people ahead of me in the water, hammered the last lap, hopped out of the pool (Christ in a cartoon, it's cold!) and ran to my bike. I had some trouble with my top but you try putting a dry top on a wet body. Off I went for the 11.8-mile bike ride. I took the bottle cages off my bike for the short race, thinking I'd just hydrate well beforehand and grab drinks in each transition, which worked too well. It was a two-lap course so I spent the first lap just hammering on my big gear and doing recon for the second lap. I caught this guy on a much nicer bike and we went back and forth for a bit before I managed to get into a groove. On the second lap I used my knowledge and picked up the pace, dropping off the big gear for a minor climb and the turn to the transition area.

There weren't very many bikes but I took my time and found my rack easily, as opposed to rushing through it. My feet found the shoes nicely, I grabbed my shades (it was overcast but I was thinking positive), and dashed off. The guy on the sweet bike beat me out of transition by a few seconds so I figured I'd have a pacing point. I stayed with him for a while but fell back because the tiny bit of fluid I drank before the race was sloshing around in my stomach. And I was starting to hurt a bit. Wah. I just kept it steady, took a little water halfway through the run, and picked it up when I made the turn for home.

The results came out about 20 minutes after I finished. Well, a draft of the results. They had me second in my age group, men 35-39 years old, arguably the toughest in the sport at any race. No, I thought, that won't last. There are people still on the course. Another 20 minutes passed and some more results were printed. Still second. I talked to the guy who started right before me in the swim. He was second in his age group, too, after riding a flat tire for five miles of the bike. He said there would have to be some serious cyclists and runners still out there, and to just accept the results and be glad. No, that's not in my nature. Where are the other 35-39 males today, I asked? There was a sprint at the Boulder Reservoir Saturday, so some of them might have done that. And they couldn't re-boot a day later for another sprint. Wussies.

The last finisher crossed and the awards started. Lo and behold, I went up and accepted my prize, a big, red cowbell. Bitchin'. First hardware in a triathlon since 2005, when I was the third Wyoming finisher in the Best in the US race at the Loveland Lake-to-Lake Triathlon. At that time I told people that was all they needed to know about the lack of triathletes in Wyoming. Once again, I fall back on having finished well in a weak field. But as my friend Gail said, all you have to do is beat whoever is there on that day rather than worry about who didn't show. Brilliant.

Done, done, on to the next one...

Hell of a start, eh? Bolder Boulder report

There's not much to say after running my slowest standalone 10K ever. Seriously, I've split faster on the end of triathlons than I did at the Bolder Boulder yesterday. And, appropriately enough, the story at the Boulder Daily Camera (http://www.dailycamera.com/news/2009/may/25/bolder-boulder-kicks-cool-dry-weather/) refers to "No-excuses weather."

Right, no excuses other than my own shoddy training. I've run seven times since the St. Louis Marathon, and while that time was (supposed to have been) spent reacquainting myself with the bike and the pool, I still should have had a little more jump than I did, given what my final time was. For the record it goes in the books as a 48:34, exactly six minutes slower than I ran in 2003. Yesterday it was low 50s and cloudy with no wind, while six years ago it was mid 70s and sunny. There's the fact that I started in the third wave of the day in 2003, meaning I had no more than 600 people on the course ahead of me, but I know how to run in thick crowds, which I did in 1995 when I ran a 46:07 while starting in one of the last waves (I signed up two days before the race).

I stayed the night at my friend Jen's condo, located a 10-minute drive from the start line. We parked at her office and had a little jog to the start line. The starters this year were University of Colorado athletics director Mike Bohn and 2008 Olympic steeplechaser Jenny Barringer, a CU alum. My wave started and I stayed to the outside because the first two turns tend to be pretty crowded. Naturally, I couldn't help but be caught up in the energy of the pack and I easily ran 7:25 for the first mile. After the race, Jen and I looked at an elevation profile of the course and, surprise, the first mile is all downhill. There's maybe 200 feet in variation between the course's lowest point (at about 1.25 miles) and the highest (around 5), but there's still going to be gravity conspiring with momentum to jack with my intended pace.

Onward. I slowed down quite a bit for the second mile as the race turned into north Boulder's residential areas. That's where some hills start. So, really, I didn't need to slow myself down as I had gravity helping me out. And I had my own muscle rebellion to help out. The last two miles of the race felt like the last 300 of an 800-meter run. Even on the last two hills, up into Folsom Field for the big stadium finish, the muscle fibers wouldn't fire. As Phil Liggett would say, channeling "Star Trek" while calling the Tour de France: "Control to engine room, we need more power. Engine room to control, there's nothing to give."

The start I'm referring to is the official start of my Ironman Wisconsin training. While I've long since accepted that a Kona spot just ain't happening this year, it's still discouraging to know how far I have to go. Granted, a flat-out 10k is in no way an indication of what it will take to roll through an Ironman marathon, but it's discouraging nonetheless.

Where do I go from here? The open roads...

Cycling sucks

Hate is a strong word. Life is too short to hate anyone or anything. I don't hate Walmart or KMart, but I won't shop there for a number of reasons. I don't hate American cars but the one I've had crapped the bed way too soon and I'll never buy another.

So it should come as a shock to learn that I hate cycling. Maybe.

Swimming and running are pure. You put on your suit and goggles, hop in the water, and go. If something hurts, change how you swim. Or grab a kickboard. Or pull buoy. Or fins. Or you put on your shoes and go. If something hurts you walk, or stretch, or stop.

"Only the bicycle is pure in heart," wrote Iris Murdock. She has a point. To a point. The bicycle involves moving parts that need maintenance -- lubrication or adjustment or replacement. It's key to know when those things are needed, either by looking at them or by feel. I know my own body inside and out, but this extension of my body, 22 years after I bought my first one, remains a mystery.

Distance-wise cycling comprises roughly 80 percent of an Ironman, 112 miles of 140.6. Time-wise, that figure drops to around 56 percent. In my PR of 11:42:40 (Florida 2003), my bike split was 5:42 and something, less than half the time I spent out there, attributable to hitting the wall on the run. But in my goal for Ironman Wisconsin this year, my goal split of 5:36 is around 55 percent of the 10:45 I hope to be out there. The split goal looks arbitrary but that's 20 mph for 112 miles. And to meet that goal I'd better get cracking. Sigh.

It's no secret why triathletes like T.J. Tollakson and Jordan Rapp are tearing things up. They both have degrees in engineering, and they spend every fiber of their expertise making their bikes faster, from shaving ounces off the weight of their chains to debating the drag coefficients of 10 different kinds of wheels. None of that shit interests me. Since seventh grade, when Mr. Kannegeiter suggested I just don't have the mental faculties to do math, I've been more than happy to fulfill that prophecy (witness the mental gymnastics to figure out my pace in St. Louis, at least until I mailed it in the last 5.2 miles). Mechanical things puzzle me, and my seven-year-old bike, like most everything that's seven years old (including humans) requires more attention than I can muster. Beyond lubing the chain once a week and changing tubes, however, I have no idea what to do. And I have no idea (beyond general fitness) why I feel so damned slow and cumbersome on it.

Cycling in the sustained 30 mph winds of the Laramie Valley can be frustrating at best, dangerous at worst. You think you're headed straight into the wind and then it shifts 45 degrees, blowing you either into traffic or into the ditch. Or maybe it doesn't shift and you spend an hour-and-a-half in your third-smallest gear, spinning into the zephyr, only to turn around and spend an hour coasting back to town. Is there any real aerobic benefit to that? Let's not forget that the only viable north-south route (guaranteeing an equally dangerous crosswind) is a U.S. highway favored by drunk motorists and methed-out truckers, and reputed to be a 65 mph graveyard.

All this is to say nothing of the ridiculous culture divide between cyclists and triathletes. Cyclist culture is one of conformity, from their packs and arcane rules of etiquette to the attire, matching the jersey to the shorts to the socks. Triathletes are just out to ride, to get from the swim to the run in the most efficient manner possible, and it doesn't have to look pretty. Put me in the "just ride, baby" camp, which of course runs counter to the local culture. Fuck that noise.

So there. My bike leans against some shelves in my interior hallway, ready to go. I lay in bed and wait for the alarm to go off. When it does, I go to the bathroom, pass my bike, return to my bedroom... and get dressed for work.

Cycling... or not

The bike made its outdoor debut on Monday. I took it up Roger Canyon Road north and east of town, giving it a climb I wasn't aware was that steep. It was the one day out of about 20 that the wind blew out of the east; normally it prevails from the west off the Snowy Range, picking up speed on the 32 miles of savannah between a wide spot in the road called Centennial and Laramie.

But I'll brave that another day. Point is, it's May and I've had my bike outside twice. Twice. Granted, some of that had to do with my hopeless run focus, but the weather has kept me on the trainer in front of endless Ironman videos for much of what's passed for spring. The bike-focused Ironman training will either come as a huge shock to my system or it'll be a welcome change from the pounding of marathon training.

Perhaps both.

Breaking the fast

"I don't know if it'll make any change. But I guess it's time I started playing ball."

Back to the pool I went. There's a thermometer high on the wall above the five-lane pool at Half-Acre Gymnasium. I still haven't figured out if it's the air temperature or the water temperature but it read 82 degrees. Neither one would surprise me, and I now know a bottle full of frigid water is mandatory to keep me from overheating. When I took off my cap (yes, I'm about four months clear of my last haircut) the water trapped inside felt like soup as it tumbled down my neck.

Anyway, I stumbled through 2,000 yards, missed about three flip turns, and probably stared a millisecond too long at the babe in the lane next to mine. Some things never change.

The BFSIB gets even more SI

Here are the photos. I've never bought my pics and I'm not starting with this race.

I can't get this damn thing to link, so if you're curious enough to copy and paste, tip o' the hat to ya.

http://www.runphotos.com/browse.cfm?race_id=153&bib_number=331&searchword=&subFind=Find+Photos