Vitruvian Triathlon
10th September 2016
1900m swim/85K bike/21K run
The week before the race, I checked the weather forecast religiously, only to find it growing more and more likely that my first iron-distance race was going to be a wet one. Great. By the end of the week, I had just about wrapped my brain around the idea of racing in the rain. I held onto some small hope that the bike wouldn’t be too soggy, but alas, it was not to be.
The weather for Friday evening registration was lovely, I picked up all of my relevant information, paid for the next day’s parking, racked my bike, and navigated my way to the entrances and exits to and from transition. In spite of an early bedtime, I didn’t sleep much that night. We piled into the car in the dark on Saturday morning, and I headed off to set up my transition area. Nervous, I slowly arranged my towel and sorted out my gear and nutrition. Somehow, in my distracted state, I managed to misplace a toggle from my fuel belt and couldn’t find it before the race started. Fortunately, I had a spare, so I carried on getting ready. It started raining shortly after I arrived, so by the time I needed to get into my wetsuit, both it and I were a bit damp. Trying to wrestle myself into the suit provided a useful distraction and helped calm my nerves.
After the race briefing, we had a very brief warmup in the water — I managed to get in up to my calves before they called us out again. What seemed like seconds later, we were off, and it felt positively surreal. An experienced friend encouraged me to focus only on the swim when I was swimming, the bike as I was cycling and the run as I was running. Usually, this isn’t too difficult for me, but it took me one lap on the swim to get my mind in the right place: I kept thinking (read: worrying) about the bike leg. I had a good swim, I found a good rhythm, navigated the Australian exit with less time and trouble than anticipated and even avoided the scrum — tricky on the second lap once the men were filtering through. Swim time: 36:39.
I stopped my watch but didn’t take in the time. I jogged, then walked up to transition to get ready for the bike leg. I wrestled myself out of my wetsuit, strapped on my helmet and dazedly put on my bike socks and shoes. T1: 5:12.
I was on my bike for a few kilometres when I realised that I hadn’t put on my sunglasses (yellow lenses to enhance visibility) or my cycling gloves. My bike was pretty wet already, and it was raining steadily, so in my slightly addled state of mind, I figured it would be all right. It wasn’t as though I had much choice in the matter. I’d been dreading the bike, partially because of the rain, but also because I simply didn’t know how it would feel. I’d had a handful of good longer training rides, but I’d also had a handful of less good ones, rides where my nutrition was off or my back cramped up enough to shake my confidence. I knew that my swim bought me some extra time, so if the proverbial wheels fell off the bus, I stood a good chance of making it back before the time cutoff. Given the weather on Saturday, I wanted to finish in one piece and avoid any mechanical issues as well. I made my way through my first lap, finding a sustainable pace, rolling up the hills, trying not to white knuckle my handlebars too much as I hurtled down the wet and treacherous descents. The course had a good mixture of hills and flat, though as you made the final turn heading back to Whitwell, there were a couple of ascents that were just sharp enough to make you a little extra tired. My back cramped up toward the end of the first loop, and in order to keep it from complaining too much, I had to drop my gears a bit, slowing my pace slightly on the second. At this point, my legs were numb, the wind and the rain were up, and I was envying my husband and kids their warm breakfast somewhere dry. But I was getting across that finish line, whether I had to walk, crawl or bum shuffle, so I carried on, promising myself with each segment that I would never have to do this again. The pain in my back abated slightly as the second loop went on — it may have faded into the general discomfort, but I didn’t mind. I checked my watch as we headed back toward Whitwell the second time, and I had at least an hour to spare. Indescribable relief washed over me as I approached the dismount line. It wasn’t my best bike, but I was in one piece, without mechanicals and within the time limit. Bike time: 3:41:46.
If my first transition had felt dazed, this one felt downright distracted. I heard a voice on the PA system declare several people “Vitruvians” as I headed in and wondered how on earth they’d finished so quickly. I racked my bike, retrieved my watch, removed my helmet and went to change my shoes. In spite of my liberal use of bin bags, my transition towel was completely soaked, as was one of my running socks. While it was slightly disappointing, I knew that most everything was going to get wet anyway. As I put on my right shoe, something felt a bit strange, but I chalked it up to my sock getting a bit bunched up, so I pulled my foot out and put it in again. No change. I didn’t want to lose too much time or momentum, so I staggered out of transition and headed for the run. T2: 6:09.
About a hundred metres into the run, I realised that the strange feeling in my sock was my missing toggle. I knew that if I stopped to retrieve it, I may not be able to start again, so I carried on. (Fortunately, I had room in the toe box of my shoe, and it wasn’t rubbing.) My first kilometre or so felt like vaguely organised stumbling, but I concentrated on my walk/run intervals, and gradually, the stumbling turned into shuffling. The run course consisted of two out and back loops around Rutland Water. On a sunny day (or even an overcast one), I’m sure it would have been lovely. In the rain, however, it was risky to focus on much more than the path in front of you. The length of each part of the course meant that each segment felt manageable, so I kept my focus on the current segment, heeding my intervals all the way. Everyone, even the speedy folks, seemed to be suffering, which made me feel better, though most returned a friendly smile. In spite of good, consistent training, I have yet to feel great on the run leg of a race, but perhaps no one does. I knew I needed to keep shuffling along to get to the finish, and so I squelched my way through each out and back. The race organisers had placed distance markers along the course, mercifully, these were every few kilometres as opposed to every kilometre. The feeding stations were well placed, though I only managed to pass through one when I was on a walk interval once. (I shuffled along with cups of water the rest of the time.) Similar to the bike leg, the second loop felt somehow lighter, even though I was slowing a bit. Knowing I was passing this wooded area or that group of sheep for the last time made a big psychological difference. The last few kilometres felt extraordinarily long, but eventually I was shuffling my way to the finish chute. Run time: 2:29:37. Finishing time: 6:59:23.
I had no idea how long the race would take, I was imagining somewhere in the neighbourhood of eight hours, so I was really pleased to come in a hair under seven. My primary goal was to finish the race within the time cutoffs, which I accomplished. While I was a little disappointed with my slightly slow bike, I did the best I could with what the day brought, crucial in any race. I still can’t quite wrap my brain around the fact that I ran a half marathon, perhaps it will sink in at some point. After a few fuelling lessons learned the hard way in training, I sorted myself out in the race and felt much better for it. This was the first race I have done with other people — I can’t tell you how comforting it is to have people to commiserate with over the awfulness of the weather as you huddle in the rain during the race briefing, to give a kind word as they speed past you on the bike, and to return your exhausted grin as you trudge your way through the run — my massive thanks to Liz and Beth!
In spite of the meteorological challenges, the race ran smoothly, as far as I was concerned. The marshals and volunteers were wonderful and encouraging, in spite of their having to spend hours out in the rain. I worried slightly that the feed stations on the run might run out by the time I made my way through, but I needn’t have done. There were even a few Jaffa cakes left by the time I ran my second lap (not that I had any interest in eating them). The handful of spectators that braved the wet were very good for the spirits. Apparently, this race usually has a good turnout on that front, but I certainly don’t begrudge anyone staying in the warm and dry. In past races, as everyone and their mother drops me on the bike, words of encouragement have only ever come from women, but in this race, both men and women panted kind words as they passed.
For me, training feels much more satisfying than racing. I like showing up for workouts, feeling the improvement through each training cycle, but mostly I enjoy the routine. This time, however, I struggled through the last month and a half of workouts. As the long rides and runs stacked up, I stopped feeling any fulfilment from my consistent efforts. Fortunately, finishing this race felt enormously and uncharacteristically satisfying. I basked in the glow for a few days — as I sought to eat everything in sight. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little, but I don’t recall ever having experienced hunger that intense.
So, what next? A few weeks to recuperate, keep my body gently moving without asking too much of it. I am not planning another race of this magnitude anytime soon. I remember thinking, “This is a good distance,” as I finished the first lap of the bike course, so I daresay another olympic triathlon is in my future. I’m also keen to see what a half marathon feels like without swimming and biking, so I’m currently searching for one that won’t see me training through too much of next summer.
This race provided a bigger-than-usual challenge for me. It forced me to push myself harder in training: ride longer (up hills!), run further (in the heat!), swim in my wetsuit loads (experience wetsuit hickeys!). Crucially, I had to live with massive uncertainty: how long would it take? Would I be fast enough to make the cutoffs? How much would I suffer on the day? Fortunately, the answers were: less time than I thought; yes, with time to spare; and plenty, but not enough to be completely miserable. But none of these could be answered before the day itself, which accounts for the fear I felt upon registering. Under circumstances like that, fear is a good thing. I needed that fear, that discomfort. And even though it all felt like too much through those last weeks, I made it. And I wouldn’t change that for anything.