The
Blackwater Eagleman 1/2 IronmanThe
Blackwater Eagleman 1/2 Ironman
June 4, 1998 - Cambridge, Maryland
1.2 Mile Swim, 56 Mile Bike, 13.1 Mile Run
Executive Summary:
5:24:25 total. Brutal swim, brutal bike, anger fueled PR of 1:50:40 on the run.
Saturday:
This was going to be a tough race for me, regardless of the distance (1/2IM), or the conditions. Monday night, I drove home to NY for an operation on my Grandfather. A tumor had been found on his brain the previous Thursday, and they were going in to see how bad things were. On Tuesday night after 8 hours of waiting, we found out that it was indeed malignant...and he’d have about a year to live.
This had racked my heart and my perception of life as nothing else before it (including getting hit by that damn car in 1995). I had no intentions of doing this race...but my mother, sister, and most of my friends here encouraged me to make the trip anyway. “You were there when he woke up...you were there like you promised. Now go take care of what you need to do...you’ll beat yourself up if you don’t go.” My mother’s words...so as hard as it was, I packed my gear and made the 3 hour drive from Philadelphia to Cambridge on Saturday afternoon. During the week, I had managed to swim 3000 yds, ride 5 miles, and run 3. As fellow Dead Mark Markley would say: “This wasn’t a taper, it was more like a sever.”
I had done Blackwater last year, and finished with a PR 5:14...despite a broken deraileur cable at mile 8 that had me riding a 53x13 the rest of the way. I had hopes of a sub 5 hour race this time...if things would just go right for me in the right places. The weather looked good for Sunday, although the breeze that had my little Mazda dancing all over 301 South did cross my mind a few times during the drive.
At Sailwinds Park, I had the bike checked out, did the pasta party bit...and despite looking at the number sheet for both Mike Kelly and Michael Parente, had no idea how I could find them. After dinner, I went outside to sit and watch the sun set. I was trying to get focused on the race...but there was just no way I could get my head going in the right way. I was happy to be there...I knew I was doing the right thing to keep my life going and vent away what I was carrying, but I just felt so out of sorts. Watching the gulls dip and soar in front of a setting sun gave me a very peaceful feeling, and help eased my thoughts up a bit.
I drove to the home of John Root, a local legend who opened his converted farmhouse each year for the Eagleman Homestay program to give a few athletes a taste of Cambridge hospitality. I had stayed with him last year, and was ecstatic to hear he was opening his home again. I was the last one to arrive just before 8:30pm...and met the other 6 folks who were all staying the night. We each had our own bed, and John had gone out of his way to make sure everyone would have a good nights sleep. (The bowl of Snickers and fruit in the kitchen didn’t hurt, either!). At 10pm, I settled down across the hall from Scott...a Berkeley swimmer who was hoping to win the swim....and Steve, a Chicago native hoping to have a good day.
Woke up at 4:59, no alarm clock needed. The house was already creaking with the wind moving by outside, and the sun wasn’t even up. I ate a light breakfast of a bagel, ½ a container of yogurt, and a PR bar...and headed for the park. Got there a little after 5:50am, with plenty of time to set things up. It was still very chilly (53 degrees), and the wind wasn’t helping... 15-25mph, gusting to around 30. I set up my bike, gathered my gear, and headed for the transition area.
Walking in, I walked next to a woman whose features seemed strangely familiar. Suddenly, I knew who I was looking at: Lynn Brooks, the most prolific (18 times!) Hawaii Ironman finisher in history. I recognized her face from the Inside Triathlon qualifiers guide cover page that had been in my race goodie bag the day before! We chatted a bit, and she expressed her nervousness about the chop on the water already whitecapping in front of us. I said “Well, the swim is over there, behind that jetty...so hopefully it won’t be too awful.” She smiled and wished me luck...but the truth was, I had no idea how wrong I was about to be.
As I went about setting up my bike and toys, I heard the announcer say something about a problem with the buoy’s, but that there was no change in time for the following waves. Cool enough...but as I set up all my gear, I noticed I had left my run hat in Philly. #(%$@! Well...plan B. I left the tube of sunblock where I usually put my hat...I figure the cue would remind me. If that’s all that goes wrong today, I can live with that. Goals for today: After a 22:56 swim at Columbia, I feel a 30 minute swim is possible. a 2:25 bike and a 2:00 run would put me right at 5 hours, depending on my transitions. I hope for the wind to ease as the day moves on.
7:30am - SWIM START
The water was still warmer than the air as we waited at the shore...and as I was hanging about, I spotted Jeff Devlin on his bike, dressed to ride. I knew he had a few students in the race today, so I went over and said hello. He was friendly as always...and wished me luck...reminding me to drink if my HR went up, and eat if it went down. It was my second brush with a tri-legend in one hour, so I felt that my luck was pretty good! I stepped into the water, and waded out to the start. As I was waist deep, I heard the official say ‘One Minute!’, and started praying: “Dear Lord, Please give me the strength to-“ BANG GO!!!!!!!
“Umm, God? Sorry! You know the rest.” Swimswimswimswimswim...I guess we’re a bit off schedule...the chop is already evil. I’m looking for the first buoy, but with the waves at 2-3 feet, I can’t see it. There are bodies headed every which way but forward, and I can’t see a pack to chase onto. I finally spot a buoy and settle in. I don’t mind wavy swims...I actually think its kind of cool bouncing wave to wave, but I’m unsettled watching the spray bounce over my head from the left...since I know on the way home, those waves will be in my face. I get to the first turn after what feels like years. There’s no-one near me, and I can’t see down to the next buoy.
The waves are behind me now...so I try my best to surf along, but I can’t sight worth a damn. There it is! Oh...that’s a single. Maybe the turn back to shore is the next one. Swimswimswim...long and relaxed...roll, roll, roll...flow with the waves...a buoy! Nuts...another single. It can’t be much longer, can it? Man, this is a bad swim...maybe I’m lost? I start doing breast stroke...and it doesn’t help. I can’t see the course. I look around, and the nearest kayak to me is pointing ahead of me...so I reckon there must be something there. I try and get back in rhythm...but swimming to a sight unseen is unsettling. While I’m fighting the voices that say “You’re lost! Swim to shore!”, the leaders of the next wave blow by. In 3 years of triathlon, that has never happened to me on a swim. My concentration officially shatters...and I go back to breast stroke. There isn’t anyone near me...am I last? I finally spot another buoy, and its a double: the turn for home. When I get there, I look at my watch: 35:15. I still have .4 miles to go, and I’m at the time I hit the beach least year! #$^&! &*#! and more #$*&#! At least my race has been ruined early, I think. No pressure now...just finish, right? I settle in to fight the waves home...and hit the ramp at 47:48. It was the slowest swim in my life...17 minutes longer than I’d hoped. Only later will I find out that the swim was actually 1.9 miles, according to Lin-Mark. It is a grim beginning, and my mood is getting worse.
Not feeling in any sort of hurry, I make sure I drink some Gatorade on the way to my bike. On with the HRM, jersey, GU in pockets, helmet and glasses on. Looking around....Hey! My rack is still full of bikes. How can this be? I look behind me, and I can see the chaos in the river. There are caps everywhere, trying to fight the swells and the chop to find shore...and I now know that we’re all feeling it, it wasn’t just me. Somewhat relieved but still crushed that my chance at 5 hours is long gone, roll out of T1 to the Blackwater Refuge. I never bothered to stop my watch for a T1 split, so I hit it now just to keep the times clear.
As soon as I leave town, the wind begins what will be a 2 ½ hour boxing match. Last year on this course, I rode a 2:30 to average 22.3. I hope to equal that today, but the wind is already telling me “Fat chance, Bobke. Unless your name is Jan, Miguel, Lance, Thomas, Jurgen, or Mike Plumb, you have no shot.” At 150bpm, my speed is a whopping 18mph. I settle in, hoping to make the best of it. At the end of the first hour, I’ve covered 20.2 miles, but the only stretch of road with a tailwind is coming up...so I figure I’d better make the time while I can. I turn the corner, and hit the gas as hard as I can...26...27...28...29mph, HR at 155. For a few minutes, I actually feel good, before the wind begins to square dance with me. Every slight bend in the road, it changes. Each second, I feel like it parries my every thrust. I struggle to keep the numbers above 25. As the bottom of the course comes to an end and I prepare to head back into the crosswind, I know I haven’t made the ground I needed. 36 miles in, and avg. at 21.1. I know in my heart, I’m toast. I try to look at the scenery...for this is a beautiful race in this great refuge, but right now, I just want to go home.
The last leg is as brutal as I feared. The wind has me in the little ring at times, standing up to achieve 12mph. Despite feeling so bad, I stick to my schedule of a GU per hour, and a PR Bar at 45 miles to fuel up for the run. I’ve had a little bit of chafing where my Mr. Flitie has taken to rubbing Mr. Inner Thigh a bit too much....memo to myself: more Body Glide before the swim start next time. At the final aid station, I grab a bottle of RaceDay...glad that at least I’ve had 4 perfect handups from those awesome volunteers out there. At least that part has been flawless...my mood shows a slight turn: “Thanks Sister!” I say. I think of all the things going on in my life, and how lucky I am to be having this day. Even if its a bad one...I still have a day. I relax, and try to let go of the ego bat I’ve been beating myself up with for almost 3 hours now. I take a deep breath, and give my fresh bottle a good squeeze...KER-SPLASH!!
I’m covered in RaceDay. The top of my bottle was accidentally left loose! I’m wearing my only fluid for the last 11 miles, and my eyelids have been glued shut. My HRM stops working and now just says “TILT”. My chafed thighs suddenly feel as if they could (and should) burst into flames. I look behind me, wondering if the smoke coming out of my legs has garnered the attention of the USA tri officials. If so, I just hope they have an extinguisher with them when they pull me over for “Illegal Use of Body Mounted Afterburner”...it’s got to be against the rules somewhere. My mood tacks like an Americas Cup yacht, and goes straight back to Eeyore the Triathlete. I want off my bike, now.
T2 and The Run:
(a.k.a - "How to Make Rage Your Friend.")
As I finally put the fire in my legs out and pull into
T2, I’ve recorded a 2:40 bike split. Good
enough for 21.1 mph despite the wind, but a disappointment nevertheless.
For now, though, I’m just happy to be somewhere that the wind will feel
good. I spot the tree I picked as
my landmark, and turn down my aisle. Whoops!
Not my stuff. No problem...one rack
up. Hmm, nope.
I head back down 2 racks, getting irked. There’s only one tree!
I can’t be far off here...I head back down the middle, and there are my
shoes...underneath a bike. A bike I
didn’t ride. It’s the rig of
the twit that started sprinting ahead of me with 2 miles to go.
A Red, White and Blue Trek that I remembered from before the swim start,
a bike that was ACROSS from me at the beginning of the day.
With a quiet, yet meaningful ping,
my last nerve snaps. On this day I have been lost at sea, beat up by wind, and
lit on fire during a freak hydration accident...and now, someone has decided
that their race is more important than mine, even if they’re only 20 friggin’
seconds up the road, hopelessly behind an Ironman slot.
I drop my rig. I pick up the offending bike, and while holding the front wheel, fling the back up and over the rack. Just like Nadia Comaneci (sp?) working the uneven bars, as the front wheel pivots I catch the top tube on the way down, and re-mount it on the right side of the rack, nose in. It takes less than a second, and has given me my spot back. I’m ready for the officials to stop by, since gymnastics with the bikes of others is probably good for an unsportsmanlike. However, I’m lucky to get away with no such call. I change my shoes, look for the hat I know isn’t there, and squirt some sunblock in my hand. SPLAT on my noodle, and I’m off. Mad.
I tear out of the transition area, with all of my anger at a peak. I know why I’m mad, I know its not rational, and I know its no-one’s fault (well, except for that dude who racked in my spot). I wonder why this had to be this way. It has been the worst race of my life, and its not getting better. I needed to have a day to focus and enjoy a long course event I’ve been looking forward to all year, and everything has been wrong. I’m mad at myself for coming, and figure that I don’t belong here. I know that at IMC, it could easily go this wrong too, so I try and just re-focus the best that I can.
While I’m busy flogging myself, the first mile goes by in 7:53. I’ve never run quicker in a half-Ironman.
I know I can’t break 5 hours, but I figure I might as well run as hard as I can. I’ve got all this angry, negative energy stored up, and now I’ve got a place to burn it. I settle in, and prepare to suffer. Usually, I get passed on the run. For the first three miles, no-one passes me. I hit 3 miles in 24:25. I walk a bit, grab some race-day, and get right back to tempo. Coming up to 4 miles, I notice a woman I’ve been running steadily behind since 2 miles, so I bridge up to her. Usually, I talk my way thorough these runs, just happy to be there. Today, I feel different. I’m focused: I’m angry. I want to go faster, I don’t care how bad it feels. This woman is at my tempo, so we synch up. 4 miles, not a word. We drink, we nod, we go. 5 miles. 6 miles. Each water stop, the same. We walk, we drink, we look, we nod, we go. 6.55, halfway home in 55:04. I turn to her and say “I’m Bob.” She says “I’m Sarah, and you’re saving my life”. “You’re towing me too, sister.” I reply. It will be our only words of the day.
7 miles, nothing but the Zen tapping of feet on pavement
and breathing. 8 miles...drink,
nod, go. I’m
starting to hurt
now. With each stride, my hip
flexors are starting to cry. I’ve
never run this hard in a half Ironman, and my body won’t allow itself to
believe it can be done. 8 miles,
the clock is at 1:07 something. I’m
running just off Sarah’s left shoulder, trying to hang on.
I’m pushing her, but she’s pulling me.
No-one’s driving, but we’re just going.
9 miles...10 miles at 1:24, walk, drink, nod, go.
My best ½ marathon is a 1:44. At
this rate, I’m flirting with the 1:40’s again.
2 hours is a sure thing if I don’t crack...
11 miles in 1:33 and change. I really hurt now...I want to quit, but I know if I can hang on, the run alone will salvage a race I’d all but given up on almost 5 hours ago. I turn to Sarah and hold up 2 fingers. She nods, we go. At 12 miles, we turn along the water, and can see the finishing pier just ahead. Side by side, stride for stride...no words. We turn into the park, and after what feels the longest day of my triathlon life, the finish calls us in. I turn to Sarah and hold a hand out...and she gives it a squeeze that says everything and nothing at the same time.
We cross the line side by side...with my run time stopped at 1:50:40. It is the second fastest half marathon of my life, and a Half-Ironman run PR by 13 minutes. My final time of 5:24 is disappointing, but to have broken 5:30 is a moral victory I didn’t think possible at all. As we walk through the chute, I finally let all the anger go, and my legs just wobble below me. It was the catharsis I needed, and I feel emotionally, spiritually, and physically spent.
Before I can even say thanks, an official comes over and says “Sarah? Could you come this way? You’re husband has had a bike accident and is in the medical tent.” Before I can even say “Oh, no!”, she’s gone. I don’t even know her last name. It is a bittersweet ending to a bittersweet day.
Driving home, I thought about all I had learned...and above all, I need to roll with the punches more in races. I’ve had bad days, but never as hard as this one...and I let it get to me. I want to enjoy the Ironman experience...and I need to learn to flow with what happens...or I’ll miss the entire point of doing an Ironman. Good days can become bad, and bad days can become good. How you deal with it is what makes the race a good memory, or a bitter pill.