The Morning After (Oshkosh Olympic Race Report)
Tuesday, August 14, 2007

As I mentioned, Saturday was not my proudest day. I wanted to quit over and over and over again, and that mentality carried on well into the night after the Dairyland Dare was over.

I didn't get on the road to Green Bay until 8:30 that night. That would have put me in bed somewhere around 11 pm -- about an hour-and-a-half past my goal sleep time. The whole drive I kept thinking how beat up I felt, and that I was only half-way through this hellish weekend. I thought about maybe just sleeping in and then doing my own little triathlon-simulation workout that didn't involve a 45-minute drive, 7 a.m. start time, a $95 entry fee, or any sort of competition. I could swim at the Y, then bike around Green Bay, and run my old route along the Fox River that was so familiar from my college days at St. Norbert and my post-grad school days living with my sister and brother-in-law. I decided, though, that this was unacceptable. I had said I was going to do this race. It was posted on my blog. I needed to do it. There was no good excuse not to.

I finally arrived in Green Bay about 10:30, exhausted and ready to sleep. I organized my race bag for the next morning, double-checked the registration times, and went to crawl into bed. My sister and brother-in-law were supposed to be in Las Vegas, so I chose to crash in their room given perks like a great ceiling fan above and a featherbed below that the guest room just doesn't have.

But then I saw something that stopped me cold. There on the floor were their suitcases -- all packed and with travel info/itineraries on top. Immediately I called their cell phones. Straight to voicemail. I started rifling through their suitcases. Maybe they had just combined suitcases and left these behind. But in my sister's was her new bathing suit, along with other things I knew she'd want to take with her. I tried their cell phones again. Nothing. Then I started calling my parents. Same thing (although, this is not altogether unusual for them not to answer their phones). Finally, after a (very scary) dead-body check of the house, and calling everyone yet again, I called Chief of Stuff and gave him the low-down.

"Is her makeup bag in there? Or Tommy's dopp kit?" he asked.

Huh?!? My sister could have been kidnapped and he's asking about a makeup bag?!?

"No," I answered, audibly annoyed, I'm sure.

"What do the plane tickets say on them?"

I told him they weren't tickets...just an itinerary on checking into their hotel.

"There's a number for the hotel on here -- maybe I should call that and find out if they checked in," I said.

CoS told me to back up and check the check-in date. It was for August 12th.

"Erin," he said, "They're probably just at the wedding with your parents."

Sure enough, just as I hung up the phone with CoS, my sister called. They had, in fact, been at a wedding in Door County with my parents. But it had been a horrible week at work, and I hadn't talked to anyone in my family all week. I had forgotten that little part of their plan.

Lindsey told me they were on their way back to Green Bay, as a matter of fact, and that no one had been kidnapped, maimed, or otherwise harmed.

"So I guess I should vacate your bed," I said. My sister indicated that would be nice.

After all those shenanigans, it was now well past midnight. I had to be up in a little more than four hours. Maybe I'd oversleep and not do the race, I thought.

At 1:40 a.m., raucous thunderstorms woke me, and my first thought was that maybe it would be storming so hard that they'd cancel the race. Then I did some sleepy math and figured that it would have to be the slowest-moving storm in the history of the earth to affect a 7 a.m. start. It was then, at 1:40 in the morning, that I resigned myself to the fact that I had run out of excuses. The only way out, is through.

And so, I showed up the next morning in Winneconne on the bank of a gorgeous, nature-preserve-looking lake and went about the business of registering, body marking, and laying out my transition area. There were people whizzing by me on bikes and on foot, and some in the water already, "warming up" for the day. I just wanted to make it through.

I was in wave 6 -- the last wave for the Olympic distance event. Waiting for the five waves ahead to take off, I looked around me and my stomach started to tighten. What if I'm the very last person out of the water? And then, as a result, the last person on the bike? Just then, this incredibly nice, pint-sized, middle-aged woman standing nearby started chatting at me. It was her first Olympic, and she wasn't just nervous, she was bordering on scared. I told her it was an accomplishment just to be standing here, and that she wasn't competing against anyone but herself. And I realized that I should listen to my own advice.

So I visualized a good, solid swim. I visualized doing my own race, sticking to my pace, and not worrying about anyone around me.

When my wave went off, that's exactly what I did. I put myself into the middle of the pack, because I wanted more experience on getting kicked and pushed around (unfortunately for me, this was the most polite group of triathletes I've seen. Every time someone touched me they'd yell "sorry!" or "whoops" and move over.) I concentrated on keeping my stroke rhythmical and on mechanics. And then, I started passing people. Near the end of the out-and-back course, when everyone was bottlenecked around the last buoy, I looked back and saw I wasn't last (this bottleneck was also hilarious b/c the course is so shallow you can stand up almost the whole way...so everyone was just milling about around the last buoy, chest-deep in water, until things unclogged), and gave myself permission to relax, which I did.

I felt strong the whole way, and let myself race the last 200 or so.

The bike, however, was a different story. Not two minutes in, I knew this was going to be miserable. After 120+ miles the day before on some of the most punishing hills this side of the Rockies, I just had no legs left. They felt shredded. They were burning. My adductors were screaming bloody murder for me to just stop pedaling. The discomfort was actually making my eyes smart. I waited for my legs to loosen up. But somewhere around mile 10, they felt like they were still brimming with lactic acid, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, this was my lot today. They weren't going to loosen up. They were going to keep screaming the whole race. I just had to deal with it.

I wasn't going to die from the pain and it wasn't going to last forever. The only way out is through.

I had been passed by a lot of people in the first 10 miles. I knew a lot of them were doing the sprint, but not all. And the old fear of coming in last resurfaced. I told myself that someone had to be last, and then promptly answered myself that yes, that was true, but it wasn't going to be me.

So I starting pushing a harder gear. I looked only a couple feet in front of me and repeated to myself that in only a matter of hours, this would be over with and I'd be showered and napping. I picked off one person. And then two. And then three. The 1/2 way mark loomed ahead, and I bemoaned the fact that I had another 15 miles to go yet. But I kept pedaling. Every now and then, I'd stand up, try to stretch my adductor, and then start pedaling again. I wasn't fast, but I wasn't just riding, either, and when the end of the course neared, I felt like I had waged my own little battle...and won.

Surprisingly, on the run my legs stopped screaming, even though they felt heavy. I promised myself that at the one-mile water station, I could walk through.

I saw people ahead of me who had passed me early on in the bike. "They'll pass you on the bike, but you'll see them on the run." Not sure where I had heard that, but it came to be my mantra during those six miles. This -- the run -- was my thing. I was happy to be out here, running, finally -- after the previous hell of a day on the bike ... after all of those weeks where my hip throbbed even on the elliptical.

I started to have fun. I was closing the gap on the group ahead of me, and then on the person ahead of that group, and so on. I had no idea what my pace was, as I had purposely left my Garmin in the car. But I was slow enough to be gaining ground on people, and I wasn't walking like so many others who had succumbed to the horribly-hot, thick, standing air.

Before I knew it, I was at the turn-around point. Three more miles. You can do anything for three miles, I told myself. I picked off one more person, and then one more. Two miles. There were goosebumps forming on my arms -- a sure sign for me that I was beginning to overheat. I took two cups of water and doused myself.

I came up on a guy I remember passing me during the bike. He didn't turn around, just said, "Whoever that is sounds fast."

I told him I didn't feel fast, so as to seem like less of a jerk for running up on him (even though, I'm well aware that's the whole idea of a race), but I did. I felt fast, and strong. Were it not for the heat, I could've easily done another six miles.

Finally, a little over a mile out, I passed the woman from my swim heat that morning. We chatted briefly about how it all went for her, and she told me to run on. "How do you look so strong?" she asked.

I didn't have any clue. I had started that day not wanting to be there, not fully believing I could even do this race on my trashed legs from the day before. And I had raced it. Not speedy-gonzales fast, mind you, but that day, I had somehow turned a training day into a race. My head was in the right place, finally, and my body had followed suit.

After finishing, I stripped my shoes and socks and jumped into the lake. The cool water felt good on my skin, but even moreso on my hurting legs. Then I went to collect my things.

A guy about my age had his bike racked next to mine. I hadn't noticed him that morning, but it was hard not to notice him now. He was beaming. He asked me how my race went, and I told him I wasn't sure what any of my times were (sacrilege, I know, in the tri community), but that I was happy with the morning. I asked how his went. "It was the most awesome race I've ever had," he said. Then he told me where to get a print-out of my results.

The print out told me I had placed ninth in my age group. I was instantly thrilled. Ninth! Top ten! I can't remember the last time I had been so proud of my own self. And not just for the placing, but for mentally beating that day...and that whole weekend.

I wanted to tell someone, anyone. But that's the kicker of doing races alone. There's no one to share it with. I eventually called CoS, and my parents, but it was hard to convey all that I was feeling. I couldn't figure out how to share this weekend with them -- to give them the details they needed to see what I saw, and feel what I felt. To impress upon them just how far I'd come in 48 hours. And I came to the bittersweet realization that at its core, that is what competition like this is all about. It's about you and you alone. About what you have to do to get yourself through the toughest imaginable moments. And when you do, it's about recognizing and celebrating those victories for yourself, because no one else can really, truly do that for you.

Later that afternoon, sitting on the couch and still high from the morning's race and results, I checked to see how many were in my age group. Fifteen. Only fifteen people. It didn't diminish how proud I felt of my accomplishments that weekend, but I was sheepish about how big a deal I made the placing out to be.

But when I told CoS that there were only 15, he asked how many of those other 15 I thought had done 120 miles on a bike the day before. "Ninth," he said, "is great."

It was. And it is.

Oshkosh Olympic Triathlon 2007

Swim (3/4 mile): 26:29:09

T1: 2:51 (Could NOT get free of wetsuit -- got all caught on timing chip. Ugh)

Bike (30 miles): 1:45:35

T2: 2:03 (just. plain. slow -- but giving my legs a pass for that one)

Run (6 miles): 57:57:20

Final epic Ironman training weekend: in the books.

Posted by Erin 8:42 AM 3 comments

Me Against Me
Monday, August 13, 2007

*Disclaimer for the grandmas: this post is rated R. The language is not gratuitous; it's necessary and justified. Consider yourself warned.*

This weekend was epic. In so, so many ways. And each day deserves it's own due, so I'll break them out separately. First up, the Dairyland Dare.

The Dairyland Dare sounds scary -- just under 15,000 feet of climbing spread out over 200 kilometers. In reality? It's scarier than it sounds.

Heading toward Dodgeville at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, the most amazing sunrise was breaking over Lake Monona. Almost one month exactly from today, I told myself, you will be in that water with more than 2,000 other people, waiting for this one day that you've been waiting for all this time to start, and watching that same sun come up ... And that -- that -- is what today is about.

But my head wasn't in the game. Even then. Even before the day had started, even surrounded by such a beautiful sight, even though I reminded myself that I was lucky to be out here, doing this -- still healthy and going strong this late in the game -- something was just off.

Was it because I was staring down such a huge, seemingly insurmountable weekend (120+ mile bike and a hour run-off, followed by an olympic triathlon in Oshkosh the very next morning)? Was it because I was staring down that huge weekend all by myself -- no support staff, cheerers, or co-riders/runners/drivers to keep me company? Or was it just out-of-whack hormones/emotions (after all, driving to Green Bay that night, Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying" -- especially the line, "I went two-point-seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu -- got me all choked up and goosebumpy...Yes, really.)? Maybe it was all of it. But whatever the combination was, it nearly broke me.

At the risk of sounding overdramatic, I'll say exactly what ran through my mind over and over again that entire day: I've never seen anything like this. I've never felt anything like this. This is the hardest thing that I've ever done. Ever. And even now, having the benefit of retrospect and distance, I still feel that way.

The first ten miles of any ride is hell for me. I hate it, every time. It's like the first couple of miles of a run for most people. Unfortunately for me, the first ten miles of this ride was filled with Whitte Road-type rollers right off the bat. But I was riding strong, picking off people on the hills (note: I wasn't trying to be competitive in the least...just looking for outside validations). I reminded myself to take a look around, and with the valleys and ravines of southwestern Wisconsin just peeking out from the early-morning mist, it was hard not to be awed. That part of the state has to be among the most beautiful not only in Wisconsin, but the country as a whole. In its own way, it's up there with Colorado, Montana, and the rolling fields of Kentucky.

In any case, before I could get completely into a rhythm, I saw ahead of me a frightening sight: a hill that climbed high into the trees and out of sight, and on it, riders that looked like ants crawling upwards. Only, even from where I was, still a ways off, I could tell that almost every single one was walking.

I will not walk. I will not walk. I will not walk. I had never walked a hill on my bike before. Before the day was over, I would have walked one and a quarter. I would consider it an accomplishment that I hadn't put my foot on the ground more than that.

I don't know where this hill was. Looking back at the maps, the elevation charts, and the cue sheet, I still don't know. In honesty, the entire day, save for a few moments, blended together. For this, I am thankful.

There was a photographer three-quarters of the way up that hill. I will not have a picture taken of me walking my bike. I will NOT. I will pedal this entire motherfucking thing. Yippe-ki-yay motherfucker. (This is what I yell to myself silently on really hard hills.)

And here I am, pedaling the hill. I am not smiling. That is pain on my face.

And here is a picture looking down the hill. It doesn't even begin to do this monster justice. At the next rest stop, someone commented that it was a 23 percent grade.

In the end, I walked. I had to. I thought I had to throw up and wasn't going fast enough to keep moving forward. As I was nearing the top, on foot -- embarrassed and disappointed -- I allowed myself a look back. There were only two people still pedaling. I cheered for one, who was grinding past me. "Way to go! That is im-pressive!" I no sooner got the words out then he stopped and threw a trembling foot to the ground. "Not impressive enough," he said. The other gutted it out and upon reaching the top said, "Jesus Christ, that thing is Machiavellian."

At the rest stop after that hill, weather had started to move in. The sky was night-time dark. People talked amongst the groups they were riding with. I had a brief exchange with a nice guy from Illinois, but other than that, no one approached me. No one talked to me. My confidence was shaken by that hill, a fear of the rest of the day was slowly building. I felt lonely and alone. To make matters worse, it was the best spread I'd ever seen at a ride/race -- sandwiches, cookies, five kinds of fruit, various power bars, string cheese, muffins...you name it -- and I couldn't have any of it. I was testing out my race day nutrition plan, and none of those things was a part of it.

Finally, we got the go-ahead to leave. "The severe stuff is past us, but you're going to get poured on," one of the volunteers announced.

And we did. For nearly two hours. The rain made the roads grease-slick, and I rode every downhill on my breaks. At the end, my forearms and hands ached from trying to keep a grip on the breaks, and the handlebars. And it wasn't the rain, or the searing pain in my arms, or the hill after hill after hill, or the being alone. It was all of it, combined together, that made me think, If I can do this...

Then the rain broke, and almost instantly, the air was still-hot and thick with humidity. Breathing was hard. My head started to hurt.

If I can do this....

I never let myself finish that thought, because I couldn't. I couldn't even go there, because I wasn't sure I could finish. For the first time that I could remember -- with anything -- I wasn't confident that I could overcome, that I could persevere...that I even wanted to.

I started checking my computer obsessively. I was watching half-miles go by, like I was running instead of biking. And the math I was doing scared me. At this rate...

I tried concentrating on my nutrition instead. On reading the little laminated postcard that I had wedged between my aerobars. But it was broken up into half-hour increments, and the time between those half-hours when I was supposed to be eating or drinking or popping Endurolytes seemed to stretch on forever. The road ahead of me, the hill after hill after hill, seemed to go on forever.

The only way out is through. I had heard that somewhere recently, and I tried telling myself that, convincing myself of it. But I knew better. There was a different way...there was just not doing it. Stopping.

So I did. I stopped. I was at the top of another hill -- a plateau if you will -- surrounded by cornfields that didn't rustle and heavy air and a relentless sun. I pulled out the cue sheet to find out how. much. farther. Just then, a pair of guys who seemed like they had only been out for a handful of miles whizzed by. "Can't stop now -- we're almost there," they said. I asked where. "Clyde. The rest stop in Clyde," one called back to me.

So it was settled. I could not, would not, go on. I would swallow my pride, call as far as I had covered on this course good enough, and catch a lift back to Harris Park.

Pulling into the rest stop, I expected to feel relieved. I would end this now. I would be done. But I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone. I had been on the verge of tears for hours, and if I spoke, at all, I was afraid the flood gates would open.

The worst part was that I had no idea why. My body was holding up fine. I was out there with other bikers on a supported ride -- not by myself in the pouring rain like had been the case in my 120-miler to Waupaca earlier in the summer. I told myself to get a grip, to toughen up, to make a peanut butter sandwich. And sitting down to eat it, the tears started.

They wouldn't stop. Initially, I hoped people would think I was just sweating. But after a while, the bike tech guy was giving me strange looks. And really, why wouldn't he? Some random girl eating a peanut butter sandwich in the middle of a beautiful day on a beautiful ride, crying. Not hurt, nothing wrong, but crying. So I went and sat by my bike near the side of the shelter, hoping to calm myself, and I just cried harder.

Eventually, I ended up behind the shelter, unable to get a hold of myself. I was in full meltdown mode, with the worst part being that even if someone asked, I couldn't begin to articulate why. Tonight, looking back, I still don't know. But I can feel why. And there are few worse things that I've felt.

That rest stop stretched on, and on. I watched two groups come in and go out. I couldn't bring myself to ask for a ride back to Harris Park, but I couldn't bring myself to get back on my bike either. So, paralyzed by this unknown thing bearing down on me, I sat and sipped water. Sipped water and sat.

I'm not sure how or why or when I got back on my bike. I don't much remember pedaling. I remember cursing even the little rollers, dropping down into the lowest gear possible on inclines that I would have stayed in my 53 on any other day. I didn't turn my computer back on either. I didn't know what time it was (I had accidentally bumped the clock ahead last week, and never reset it), how fast I was going, or how long I'd been out there. All I knew was that the only way was, in fact, through. I gave myself the out of getting picked up, but every time the sweep van passed, I gave them a thumbs up and waved, telling myself that I could change my mind next time.

Then I came to a hill that made the Old Sauk Pass bitch look appealing. It stretched on and on, just gradually steep enough to fool you into thinking you could do it. After what I thought was the first quarter of it, I gave up. Looking back, I could have biked further up, but I could never have ground out the whole thing. Mentally or physically. Because I could only see about a quarter of the whole thing. Around every bend, it just kept climbing. Up and up and up. Then a bend, then up some more. And just when it seemed to even out, it wrapped itself around another curve, and climbed a bit more. There was just. no. way.

At that point, though, I was resigned. I would finish this. I wouldn't be fast. I wouldn't be happy. I might cry again. But I would keep pedaling (god-awful slowly) until I finished. And if the sweep van had to pick me up, it would do so because the course was closing, and not because I gave up.

And then, an older/middle-aged man who was, I swear, pedaling by me on a mountain bike like he was out for a Sunday morning ride on a city bike trail, said cheerily, "Only 16 or so more."

"Hills?!?!?"

"Miles," he said.

I didn't believe him. I started trying to do math, to figure miles from kilometers and hours I had been out there, but my head wouldn't work. I didn't believe him, or my own figuring. I didn't believe anything. I had no idea how far I had biked, and I was no longer confident about exactly how far the 200k ride was, because I couldn't believe that I had ridden nearly 100 miles already. So I tried extrapolation: if a 10k is 6.2 miles, and a 5k is 3.1 miles, then a 200k should be...ugh. No idea. Too much figuring. Head hurt. And I didn't need to know where I was or how far along (which was probably better in the long run). All I knew was that I had to get to the top of that hill. And that after, there would be another hill, and another. And all I could hope for was that they got progressively smaller. But in the meantime, I cursed every foot of every climb. I cursed myself for getting me into this -- the DLD, and the Ironman. Into biking in general. I cursed the hot air and the rain that was still hanging out in my shoes, starting my feet on the path to blistering.

Turns out, he was right. A rest stop only ten or so miles past that hill found me less than ten miles to go to the finish. There, a volunteer said that there were a couple more decent climbs, but they were long and gradual.

She was exactly right. The last one I remember was gradual enough, but seemed to go on for a mile at least, though it could be longer or shorter -- I have no way to verify which. She had said that you have to climb from the valley back up into Dodgeville, and that phrase kept going through my head as I pedaled. In my lowest gear, I pedaled. I checked and double-checked that I couldn't go any lower. And I pedaled. I stared at the asphalt two feet in front of me, and even though I was convinced I couldn't go any slower -- or faster -- I pedaled. Because the end of the hill was way off in the distance, and I couldn't conceive of walking that whole way up, and because I was still moving, I kept pedaling.

Eventually, I reached the top. Eventually, I finished. I don't know how long it took me, and I'd rather not know. All I do know is that I felt, even at the end, like crying. Like sobbing. And not out of joy, but relief. Out of a feeling that comes from not having conquered, but merely endured. I had nothing to be proud about on that ride. Even though I finished, it still feels like I quit. Because I did. A hundred times over.

I changed then, and started my run-off, which I downgraded from an hour to 40 minutes. Because I could. Because I had to. After all, it was almost 6 p.m., and I still had to drive back to Madison, pack, and drive to Green Bay to finish the final part of this epic weekend the next morning, and I still wasn't sure how I was going to do it all -- logistically, mentally, physically, or emotionally.

Running out of the park, there was a guy ahead of me doing the same thing. I heard someone call us "crazy triathletes." Eventually, I caught up to him, asked him what he was training for (Ironman Wisconsin), wished him luck, and passed by him. It would have been nice to run with someone, but I wasn't sure if he wanted company, and suddenly, I wasn't sure that I did, either. After all, this whole day had been me against me, and I wanted to finish it that way.

After my turn-around point, I passed by him again and waved. "I'm hoping if I just keep lying to myself, I can get 40 minutes out of this run," he said.

As I ran on, those words echoed in my head. I decided that it was no good lying to yourself on this journey. I wasn't proud of me that day. I couldn't say that I had been tough, or determined, or any other qualities that an Ironman-to-be should have. I couldn't say that I hadn't looked for any and every excuse to just quit. But I could say that I didn't lie to myself. I got down into the grime and muck and murk with me. I took a hard look at my inner demons, and I gave them their due. I won out, but just barely. They almost beat me. They almost broke me.

Or, rather, I almost broke myself.

I didn't though. I cracked, but I didn't break. Somehow, I made it through, and went on to have one of the best races I've ever had the following morning. Right now, though, it's time to sleep. So, more on that to come...

Posted by Erin 1:17 PM 12 comments

Back in the Saddle
Friday, August 10, 2007

Last night, I managed to get a measly 2-hour bike in. That's about 1/4th of the workout time I was scheduled for the past three days, but I can't do anything about those lost hours, and at least it's something. Even better, I had fun out there.

It was actually the first time in six days that I had been on my bike. For some strange reason, I wasn't scheduled to bike at all last weekend -- only a long (2-mile) swim and run (13 miles) -- a very welcome reprieve. Now, some might say that at this stage in the game, that's a little long to be away from one's bike. And, to an extent, I agree. Three or four days might have been nice. Six is slightly excessive. Regardless, it was the first time in as long as I can remember that I was actually looking forward to spending a little QT with the blue machine. And that, I think, possibly counts for as much as getting in some of those miles. The mental part of this little game is huge, and my mental attitude toward biking needed a readjustment. Especially with the mega weekend I have scheduled, starting bright and early tomorrow.

Saturday I will be on my bike for 120 miles in 90 degree heat (with 60-70% humidity predicted), during which time I'll test out my Ironman nutrition plan, and after which I'll do an hour run-off. Then it's off to Green Bay, where I'll hopefully stay awake on the drive up and stay at my sister and brother-in-law's house overnight. Then I'll do the Oshkosh Triathlon (Olympic) -- once again, bright and early (grrrrr) -- on Sunday morning.

I'm dreading this a little. It's going to be waaaaay hard weekend and parts of it are really going to suck. So, in other words, perfect preparation for Ironman.

But I'm looking forward to Sunday afternoon, when, as I'm cozying up in my old room (I lived with Linds and Tommy for longer than they probably would've liked after grad school) for a nap, I think I'm going to feel really pleased with myself. At that point, it's one more tough weekend behind me, and only one more to go before the big day.

Posted by Erin 1:15 PM 3 comments

Today, Madison Smells Like Wet Socks
Thursday, August 09, 2007

It's that humid out. Just thought I'd share.

Posted by Erin 11:14 AM 2 comments

Not Now!
Wednesday, August 08, 2007

So, I'm scheduled for a 3-hour bike tonight and a 1.5 mile swim.

Last night it was a swim workout and a 1.5-hour bike.

And how many of those workouts have I gotten in? Zero. As in none, nada, zip, zilch. That's nearly seven hours of working out, completely unaccounted for.

I was supposed to have left work three hours ago to get my bike ride in. I was supposed to ride a loop of the course tonight. And what am I doing? Still at work, with no end in sight. Oh, and completely freaking out. Lets not forget that. Because Ironman is exactly 24 days away, and unless I pull an all-nighter on my trainer or do a midnight swim at Wingra (the thought alone gives me shivers -- open water in the daylight is bad enough), I'm not getting those hours in.

Freaking out, I tell you. Freak-ing out.

And busy as hell, too. Ok, back to work.

Posted by Erin 4:14 PM 1 comments

The Fourth Pillar
Monday, August 06, 2007

As if swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, and running a marathon isn't enough, there's an often-forgotten, fourth discipline in Ironman: nutrition.

I thought I had my nutrition down pat. After all, I know what I like, I know about how much I need to take in, and I know about when I need to do it. My coach, however, had me write up my nutrition plan for race day, and am I ever glad I did. It's a lot to think through sitting here nice and comfy and able-minded on my bed. It will be quite another thing, I'm sure, come race day with all of the emotions and fears and commotion. So, below is my plan, followed by the little cheat sheet she had me draw up to actually tape to my bike where I can see it that day.

I have a feeling this is all going to be indispensable. After all, as Chief of Stuff just said, "All of the double-bricks in the world aren't going to help if you screw up your nutrition that day."

Aptly put. And without further ado, here it is:

RACE DAY NUTRITION PLAN

4:00 a.m.

• Whole wheat English muffin with peanut butter and honey (200)
• Gatorade Nutrition Shake (370)

5:00 - 5:30 a.m.

• Grande café mocha (330)
• Sip water

6:30 a.m.

• Sip Gatorade

7:00 a.m. Race starts.

7:00 – 8:45 a.m. Swim

9:00 a.m. Out of T1, start biking.

• First 20-30 minutes: water only
• 3-6 Clif Blocks or ½ Clif Bar at top of each hour
• Chase with water
• 3-6 Endurolytes on every x:30
• 1 bottle of Gatorade per hour
• Bonus: Combos in special needs bag (131 calories, 316mg sodium)
• 3 Advil – then –Water only 30 minutes before T2 (about mile 105)

Advice to Remember:

• "When your attitude about the race changes, take in some fuel." (Translation: Feeling sorry for yourself or angry at the wind is a sign of low blood sugar. Eat!)

• "When you feel good, eat." (Translation: When you feel good during the race don’t hammer;, take advantage of this time to get more fuel onboard.

5:30 p.m. Out of T2, start running.

• First two miles, just water.
• Alternate oranges or Clif bar/blocks + water and Gatorade every aid station.
• 3 Advil at ½ marathon point
• Start sipping coke at mile 15-18. Continue through end of race.
• One Endurolyte per hour.

Post-Race

• No water immediately (and no caffeine or alcohol). Sports drink only.
• Recovery shake or Protein Berry Workout smoothie from Jamba Juice.

0-1 hour Water and Gatorade

3 Endurolytes

1:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 1:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

2:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 2:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

3:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 3:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

4:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 4:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

5:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 5:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

6:00 hr. ½ Clif Bar or Clif Blocks 6:30 hr. 3-6 Endurolytes

7:00 hr. 3 ADVIL, Water only.

***1 bottle Gatorade/hour!***

There it is...full race weekend plan forthcoming.

Posted by Erin 8:49 PM 5 comments

If I Was Crazy Enough to Do This Again Next Year...

Almost makes me want to give it another (more organized) shot...

Almost.

Posted by Erin 3:01 PM 2 comments