Boise 70.3 2013 Race Report

Having spent 245 hours training for a roughly 6 hour event, it was with some anticipation that I set off with my wife for Boise's 70.3 half ironman event.  I decided to take the day off work on Friday (June 7) so we drove a little over half way on Thursday evening, before rolling into Boise about noon on Friday.  In fact. there is no way to actually race for me without taking Friday off since all athletes must register by 6pm Friday night.

The first thing we did was drive up to Luck Peak Reservoir to look around, as well as drive the bike route.  That was uneventful, but I knew that the wind would be a major factor the next day.  It was at 15 mph WNW, which is the overall direction of the point to point bike leg.  This means about 40% would be headwind, maybe 20% tailwind, with the rest some kind of crosswind.  

After checking in to the hotel, we walked downtown to check in.  Turns out that the mandatory athlete briefing isn't mandatory.  We skipped the vendor stalls and merchandise extravaganza, and went back to Lucky Peak to check my bike in.  We would have planned a little better, but we didn't know you couldn't take your bike on the shuttles the next morning until we read the registration docs more closely.    After that, we took in a movie, had dinner, and (after I had organized my transition bags) went to sleep.  

Race Morning

Waiting for shuttles to the swim start 

We woke up at a leisurely 8am. In an unhurried way, we got everything ready and then my wife ran me over the bridge to T2 to drop off my run bag. We then drove back to the hotel, and walked back over to wait for the shuttles in front of T2.

Seeing no reason to rush up to Lucky Peak, we lounged in the shade while kind of waiting in line for the shuttles.  In the end, a shortage of shuttle runs got us to Lucky Peak only 15 minutes before T1 was supposed to close.  This didn't concern me too much, but my friend from Pullman who was also racing was none too pleased.  I got things set up on my bike, grabbed my "morning clothes bag" and walked over to the throngs on the shore.
 I yanked my wetsuit on, and dropped my morning clothes bag into the appropriate bin.  By this time, the pros had already gone off, and everyone was waiting around for their heat to start.

Setting up T1

Most people were nervously chatting to pass the time, while keeping an eye on the pack of pros as they inched toward the first turn buoy in the distance.  Race volunteers with large placards queued up in front of the start gate in order of the start waves.  Each placard had the cap for that wave taped on it, as well as the wave number (mine was "8", fluorescent green).  Sooner than I thought, a pack of green-capped lemmings was meandering down to the water behind our placard.  I fell into formation, popping earplugs in and dutifully donning the green cap.  The water felt predictably cold (temp reported at 58f) but after the initial shock, I wouldn't think about the temperature again during the entire swim.  As we fluttered out to the start buoy, the race announcer called 30 seconds.  My 35-39 year old A-J compatriots began tossing about wishes for a good race, and the horn sounded.

The Swim

My swim wave starts as some pros (in red caps) finish

Prior to my first open water swim effort, I had imagined the swim would be something others dreaded, and I loved.  After trying it a couple of times in training, I realized there is something unexpected that happens when you fold yourself into a neoprene suit, jump into a cold puddle, and swim for a half an hour.  I'd describe my experience as a nagging claustrophobic anxiety that just tells me it'd be better to stop swimming.  Nothing major, but unpleasant.  I'd also heard horror stories about the swim start, most of which can be summed up by this youtube video.

For whatever reason, I had absolutely no issues with the "washing machine". I started toward the front of the group, put my head down, and swam.  Perhaps because of the adrenaline, I didn't feel much anxiety either, which was great.  About 5 minutes into the swim, I pulled up for a minute to observe, and saw only 3 green caps, and a few from a previous wave we were overtaking.  Sticking with these three fellows, I rounded the first buoy.  Thereafter, the swell picked up considerably, and I found myself breathing on the left a lot. I sucked down a few unwelcome gulps of lake water while fighting the chop, but it really wasn't too bad.  I drafted perhaps 20% of the time off a guy from my wave, and that felt good.  Rather than anxiety, while about 700 yards out from shore, I felt the surreal other-world-ness of the inky water and the brown sage brush shoreline wash over me.  I thought to myself, "truly, doing this race is one of the strangest behaviors recorded in human history.  What the hell am I doing here?  What is the sequence of events that has transpired that landed me in this lake in the middle of Idaho?".

After negotiating the 2nd turn buoy, I headed home, drafting a little more, and thinking about getting out of the water.  Upon pulling up to the ramp, I tried to stand, whiffed (the water was too deep) and had to flail around to get closer before stumbling out.  I was a little gassed, but not too bad.  I knew a few others from my wave had come in ahead of me, but not many (it turned out to be 5).  I'd find out later my split was 35:15.

While walking up the ramp to my bike, I spotted my wife.  Knowing that she would snap an obligatory photo, I gamely broke into a trot, and smiled.

I made use of the excellent wetsuit strippers, and headed off to find my bike.

The Bike

Transition went fine, although it was a little slow as I tried to spray sunscreen on myself.  Soon enough, I was clopping out to the "bike mount" area, not being cool enough to execute the flying squirrel bike mounting technique.  Once on the bike, I settled into a rhythm, and began to eat and drink at regular intervals.

My fueling strategy was pretty simple.  I squeezed 10 gel packs into a water bottle the night before, diluted it with a little water, and carried it on an x-lab wing behind my saddle.  I had a throw-away water bottle in the other cage, and 3 stinger waffles in a pocket on the back of my tri suit.  I also had some salt tablets that I took as a precaution as the temperatures were in the high 80's.

The heat combined with the headwind made for a challenging bike ride.  For me, the struggle was to keep my effort low enough that my heart rate would stay in the right range.  That entailed just accepting that I wasn't going as fast as I did in training.  It's a little hard to explain, but that's frustrating.  That said, the bike ride itself was my favorite part of the race, especially the turn-around leg that wound its way through fields and small rollers.

Still, it was clear to me that I have a lot of improving to do on the bike.  I was routinely passed by athletes like I was standing still, to the point that it seemed mind-boggling that they could generate such wattage.  I often heard the hollow rumble of a disk wheel in my left ear as the uber-bikers came up behind me and sprinted past.  Even after the turn-around, I was surprised at how many speedy cyclists kept coming - I can only assume those guys swam elementary backstroke.

Although I wasn't fast on the hills, they weren't particularly difficult - I just kept my heart rate around 160 and did them.  I don't think the course was particularly hilly, but some people did. When we turned off the highway, and back toward the downtown, I was feeling tired but still ok.

Throughout the bike, I had just watched my heart rate and cadence, not total time.  I didn't want to concern myself with it, but with a few miles left, I glanced at it - 2:52.  That was a let down.  Nothing to do but keep pedaling, though, and I coasted down the last hill and into T2.  Later I'd find my bike time was 2:59.

The Run

Transition was again fine - uneventful and relatively fast.  I started running unsure about how much energy I would have.  My plan was to start at 8:15/mile for the first couple, and then try to put in more effort and get faster.  This wasn't in the cards.  I did start out ok, but soon was sucking wind and fighting with myself to keep running.  The aid stations helped, but the heat seemed to clamp down on me, and I was frequently parched between stations.  A nice lady from St. George talked with me for a mile or so on the first loop.  She mentioned having done a number of half-ironman distance races, and seemed to be doing well.  She was faster than me, and I wished her luck before dropping back.  I've heard some guy triathletes refer to the humiliation of getting "chicked" but I was pretty sure there'd be lots of women who were faster than me (I think there were 80 or so).  During the run, one red-headed lady who was about 4'6" cruised past me at roughly twice my pace.

Eventually I settled on walking through the aid stations, dumping water on my head, downing some sports drink, and dumping some ice down my tri suit. That last part wasn't without consequence, as some ice slipped through from my back to, shall we say, places that are not my back. I really didn't care, though.  I was just trying to put one foot in front of the other at that point.

I completed the first loop and went back out for the second.  I did latch on to some guy that seemed to be going the same pace as I wanted to.  That lasted for 3 or so miles.  The run course itself is really nice - much of it is shaded, and it winds along next to the river.  Still, it was a tough slog.  On the second lap especially, I had no legs.  I couldn't even get my HR into zone 4 - it stayed in the low 170's for most of the time, whereas I can almost always push it into the 180's at will.  Only after emerging from a tunnel and making a left hand turn onto the final straight away did I feel some happiness start to seep back in.  With the finish line in sight, I tried to speed up to little effect.  I finished with a run time of 2:02, and a total time of 5:44.

Sweaty and tired, I'm done

The Wrap Up

What are my take-aways from this race?  I guess there are more than a few.

1. It was fun and I'd like to do it again.  I wasn't sure right after I finished, but the next day I'd already decided I'd like to race another 70.3.  It's difficult to explain how it was fun - it just was.  
2. My cycling skills need major work.  I think I need to get maybe 50% more power than I have right now.  I need more training that focuses on building sustained power - I'm going to work on this for the next year.
3. In the swim, I need to be more disciplined about keeping my head down and swimming rather than pulling up to see what's going on.  If I used a regular system of strokes with sighting built in,  and practiced swimming for 15 minutes straight, that would help.  
4. I think I under-fueled, even though I thought that wasn't possible.  Looking back, I only took in about 1600 calories during the race.  I even realized this part way into the run, but was not even remotely interested in eating or drinking anything with calories.  It was a strange feeling.  
5. It's probably true that something always goes wrong.  In this case, the one condition I hadn't prepared for (heat) plus one that was just annoying (wind) combined to make me have a much slower time than I'd hoped for.  That made everybody slower too, but I think I could've felt stronger for the run if I hadn't battled the wind on the bike so much.
6. During the run, I might want to carry some water to use between aid stations if it's hot and dry.  It was surprising how many times I wished I had water when I didn't.  
7. Sunscreen - Application could've been more thorough, which left me with crescent-shaped burns on both shoulder blades.
8. Boise struck me as a great place to have the event.  I liked the city's suburban frontier vibe, even if the oversubscribed Broncos football franchise is a little annoying.  
9. I'd read this a lot going in, but all the rules about drafting, passing, blocking, etc. are really just for the pros.  I never got the impression that anyone was carefully looking for violators, and didn't ever see anyone serving a penalty.  I didn't see many people drafting, either, but it seemed common courtesy and etiquette were more relevant than rules when actually racing.

The Burnt Blade

70.3 in Retrospect

About 5 months ago, I registered for a half ironman distance triathlon. When I began, I couldn't actually spell "triathlon".  Now that I've finished that first race, I wanted to look back and reflect on the experience.  I'll go through the training and acquiring of triathlon paraphernalia in this post, and then report on the race in the 2nd post.

Why it Happened
I suppose the Economist magazine and the Almond Board had a hand in all this.  After going to the almond board national convention in Sacramento last December as an exhibitor, I sat stranded in a mostly deserted exhibit hall with 2 days of nothingness in front of me.  Although there was no way to know beforehand the conference would be a dud, it was.  Having recently decided that reading my way through the Economist's "Best Books of 2012" was a good way to become well-read, I chose the most attractive book on the list: Tyler Hamilton's "The Secret Race".  The book is a scathing indictment of the cycling establishment, as well as an engrossing tale of Hamilton's ascent to the highest echelon of the sport.  I decided I needed to get a bike and try it myself.  Having already fallen for swimming and running, I thought triathlon was the logical way to do this (I note here that true cyclists are loathe to be associated with triathletes).

What I Bought
Triathlon is first and foremost about money.  Many people will dispute this, but it's true.  The combination of a middle-aged demographic holding increased disposable income with a "slow twitch", equipment-laden sport that can be executed at high levels by middle-aged people is the reason triathlon exists.  On the advice of Josh, a triathlete friend of mine, I bought an aluminum road bike for $1500, and fitted it with clip-on aerobars.  A nice bike shop guy in Coeur d'Alene "fit" the bike for me, moving the seat forward and getting me in a more aerodynamic position.  I also bought pedals, shoes, a wetsuit, bike wheels, an indoor trainer, a new saddle, running shoes, a tri suit, sunglasses, an aero helmet, a swim watch, a 1 year membership on trainingpeaks.com, and a little device that functions as a power meter on my indoor trainer.  I'm mentioning only the items that cost over $100.  If all items were included, this list would go on indefinitely.  Luckily, I already had a Garmin 305 with heart rate strap.  I also bought "The Triathlete's Bible"- written by the pedantic Joe Friel.  This book helped me grasp many basics of triathlon, especially since it started as such a vast unknown.

How I Trained
I started by allocating the time I thought I could afford: 15 hours a week.  This time was split out by Joe's training plan into different workouts on different days, with the duration, intensity, and volume varying according to a "periodized" plan.  I knew cycling would be my biggest weakness, so I emphasized that in the training plan.  I started on December 30.  I hadn't gotten my bike yet, and bummed one off my brother to begin training in my downstairs.  I have a pool close by, and a treadmill, so winter training really boiled down to finding shows on Netflix to pass the hours.  Soon, disgusting puddles of sweat appeared on the workout room floor at regular intervals, and I enjoyed the challenge of the "base building" phase of the workout plan.

Complications with sticking to the schedule arose only a few times.  The first happened with a wicked business trip/personal trip/common cold trifecta in February.  Luckily, this only cost a few days of training.  The second happened in May when a stomach flu outbreak ravaged everyone in the family.  I was quite lucky in this cycle not to have any serious injuries or setbacks.  All that stuff went surprisingly well.

By April, I was putting more lengthy workouts in, and although I did a little interval training, almost everything I did focused on endurance.  My first "bricks" were trainer/treadmill affairs, but I liked the challenge of trying to run after biking at high intensity.

When May rolled around, I drove down to the Snake river to do combined swim/bike/runs of significant length.  I only did 2 of these, but found them surprisingly enjoyable, especially the 2nd one.  They also shifted my focus from the training to practical issues like how I wanted to refuel during the 70.3.  I was also getting faster, a welcome development.

Overall Observations

1. Triathlon isn't healthy - I feel faster after having trained for 5 months, but not healthier.  I'd read enough research before I started that I didn't have any illusions that working out for 500 hours in a year would make me healthier.  If anything it appears to have a small negative impact on health.
2. Although I dropped 2 belt loops over the course of training, my weight didn't change that much - maybe 5 lbs.  Since I was exercising 3 times as much as I had at any time in the past, this was curious. 
3. I was frustrated by the lack of specific workouts in the "Bible" and trainingpeaks.com.  I think this is meant to emphasize the importance of a coach (speaking of $), but I'd rather they just made it generic and deal with the possibility that a particular interval workout may not have been precisely what every person needs.  Instead they just say stuff like "Rolling hills, zone 1 and 2".
4. Recording HR and other data makes working out more interesting.  It's easy to go back and compare things.  Triathlon is particularly attractive to people who love measuring and analyzing.  
5. Fitting workouts into a life schedule requires discipline and opportunism.  This is just life.
6. Triathlon is a conspicuous, annoying sport.  I enjoy it. I'm doing it, but there's no denying that most age groupers are rich, and that there is little in this world as loud as a triathlete decked out in tri suit, calf compression, aero helmet, and $400 Rudy Project sunglasses, riding a $6000 TT bike with "ZIPP" printed in billboard-sized script on carbon wheels.  It's a little ridiculous.  Never mind that the triathlete's uniform leaves little to the imagination.  If all triathletes were swimsuit models, this would be counted as one of the sport's strengths (see "olympic beach volleyball").  Alas, elite triathletes look emaciated rather than healthy.  The majority of age groupers are men who have difficulty hiding their shame underneath a race bib, and most are either in the "super-fast emaciated" group or the "rather slow, shouldn't step out in lycra" group.  
7. It's easy to get sucked in to triathlon web sites, gear, race reports, and the fabulously detailed reviews of dcrainmaker.com.  However, no non-triathlete really wants to talk about the sport of triathlon.  It's much better to find another triathlete than to burden your loved ones with the minutiae of a sport whose most recognizable figure is ... nobody.