Ironman 70.3 Steelhead Race Report

Ironman 70.3 Steelhead, Saturday, July 31, 2010

This was more than a race for me, and it was more than just "my first Half Ironman." I came to this race this year to settle a score. If you read my blog from the beginning, you know what I'm talking about. It was last summer, just 3 weeks before the 2009 Ironman 70.3 Steelhead race. It was 7 months after I really began serious triathlon "training" for the first time in my life and only 10 months after my first triathlon. I committed myself to this race in 2009 and meant business. Those 7 months were more instrumental to me than I knew at the time because, slowly, they began to shape who I am today as an athlete. I no longer skipped workouts or cut them short and training became less of a hobby and more of a daily protocol. I started to learn one week, one month at a time what was really required of a good triathlete. I also began developing a desire to be competitive at some point in the distant future- maybe a few years down the line- but I started paying attention to what was required and made an effort to surround myself with the best triathletes in the entire Chicagoland area. I started to ask questions of the elite team like,

"How fast do YOU come out of the water?"
"How fast do YOU finish your bike split?"
"What pace is YOUR run?"

An athlete asks these questions only when they begin the journey of seriously pursuing these times themselves. I believed I was ready for Steelhead last year as beginner triathlete who trained as best she could with the WellFit training center. I didn't know what watts on the bike meant yet, I still got freaked out in open water once in a while, and I could only dream of breaking a 9-minute mile run but in my mind I was ready. That all ended when I crashed my bike 3 weeks before the race at 20 mph because of fresh gravel at a turn while training on the course "just one more time to be sure." I was out for the next 8 weeks with various torn wrist ligaments and a small tear on my right shoulder labrum. I missed the Steelhead Half-Ironman and returned to racing with a splint on my right wrist 5 days before what would only be my third triathlon, the Chicago Triathlon on August 30, 2009. I PR'd at that race despite no training for 8 weeks and being sick with the swine flu and high fever. It was only my 3rd triathlon ever. That goes to show you how ready I was for Steelhead last year and how devastated I was when I couldn't compete in it.

Well, it turns out when I went to the Steelhead Half Ironman race last year to cheer on my teammates from the sidelines, I nearly freaked out when I took a look at the swim course. WHAT! It's THAT LONG! NO WAY. There's NO WAY! It goes on FOREVER! And, so it goes that everything in life happens for a reason. It wasn't that I hadn't trained to swim the distance; I had. It was more a reflection of my mental preparedness as a triathlete. The fact that the distance I saw that morning appreared twice as long as what I was used to swimming just because the course was point to point instead of a loop like what I was used to training in back in Chicago was enough to send my mind out of control. If I really had to do Steelhead last year feeling so overhwhelmed at the race start, maybe I would've freaked out so bad that I wouldn't have finished the swim. Or maybe I would have had only a so-so race and wouldn't have even wanted to go for the full Ironman distance. And, then maybe I wouldn't even be writing this blog. Ted Ramos, one of my coaches from the 2009 training season said it best:

"I knew you'd either drop triathlon or come back stronger than ever. But, I knew you had it in you."

And so I came back stronger than ever. It's funny, because I didn't prepare specifically for this Steelhead Half Ironman race this year. The full Ironman race is all I think about, for nearly one year. Steelhead was approaching and the only goal I had was to ride the course once before race day to check my significantly improved bike fitness in order to submit my race plan (and estimated times) to Liz. My last blog post was about how I did squeeze in that one ride on the Steelhead course this year on July 18, 2010. I hammered the hell out of it 2 weeks before the race on Liz's carbon Cervelo. As we all know, though, that dream of hammering it on race day was derailed when the bike was stolen later that day. As an athlete, this was traumatic because all you want to do is race fast enough to be recognized. I wouldn't have placed this year even if I did have her bike, but I would have come close enough to be recognized as potential for the elite team. It was not swimming in open water, or training my legs to tolerate 56 miles on the bike and running a half marathon after that I would have to overcome for this year's Half Ironman. No. Instead, I would have to accept what I had inside of me as inner strength and physical strength without a $6,000 bike to get faster results and recognition. And, I had 12 days to do this.

The 2 weeks between the stolen bike and this Half Ironman were spent playing detective for the bike theft better than the Chicago Police Department. I was calling witnesses and begging them to go in for line-ups at 1am to nail these guys, paying hundreds of dollars for reverse phone number searches from the ad the thieves placed which I found on Craig's List, pleading with a judge and detectives to please submit a search warrant request, and filing entries in national databases and Craigs List to help find the stolen bike. Nothing but discouraging news, even though we knew exactly who stole the bike and where it was this whole time. In the meantime, Ironman training was carrying on and I somehow had to get it together for this Half-Ironman.

I left for Michigan on Thursday afternoon, July 29, 2010. During the drive, I thought about the Cervelo and how this race was going to be different than that glorious ride 2 weeks earlier. I thought about MY bike, and how Akemi knew exactly what to say to me earlier in the week when I brought it to practice instead of Liz's Cervelo. I was remembering how she smiled at me and said, "Ahhh. She's back. She missed you." It was the perfect thing to say with the perfect intention, from the person who knew me the best throughout all of this training. And, so, as I neared Benton Harbor, I started to get excited for MY race and MY bike, aluminum or not. I still had the strength in my arms for the swim and the power in my legs for the bike and run and that wasn't about to change. I decided at that point that I was going to this race to prove what I had in me without any bells and whistles.

I checked into our house, unpacked for the few workouts remaining before race day and prepared my old bike for a test run. I felt good and was surprisingly happy with my pace on an aluminum frame. I wasn't that far off from the ride on Liz's Cervelo although there was no denying I wouldn't be matching my 20mph pace from 2 weeks ago. Marc Robertson, Bill Jones and Pat Jones were also at the house now and I started to feel like this weekend was going to be a good one afterall. Being surrounded by my good friends on the elite team contributed to the sense of calm and comfort that I needed going into this race. My coach always reminds her athletes that 2 nights before a race is the most important night for sleep. I heeded her advice and slept well that night.

The next morning, the day before race day, involved getting up for breakfast then planning our run and swim and then trip to the expo to pick up our race numbers. My run was steady and strong and my swim went well, too. Hours later, we were home from the expo and beginning the ritual of preparing race belts, nutrition bottles, and securing our numbers to our bikes. When I put the bike sticker on that said, "Ironman 70.3," I knew this was for real. It was a moment I deserved last year but had to wait for until this year. I was calm and I was ready. Two additional athletes arrived at the house that night, one was a pro and another was elite. I was surrounded by confidence.

Then the ritual of checking the weather begins late friday night before we all went to bed. We succumbed to the hourly forecast because rain was predicted. Just as the weather channel showed thunderstorms rolling in, my phone alerted me to a new incoming email. It was from my coach and it addressed the possibility of a duathlon, run/bike/run. Her tone was level yet alerting with the message that this day will be no different than other training days. She reminded me, "I never understand when athletes blame their races on the weather. You train in the same conditions. You have a choice to either do this or don't. Your choice will determine your outcome tomorrow."

I went to bed that night knowing that I was ready. When my alarm went off at 4:15, I was up. I ate my cereal, got dressed, and took my bottles out of the freezer. Because I prepared so well the night before, it took little effort and thinking to get ready on time. We were watching the weather and the storms were definitely approaching. Almost as the orange and dark green flashes lit up the radar screen for our area, crackling thunder and bright lightening in the dark night provided stereo surround sound. The pro guy and the younger elite guy had this race morning thing down, and they were ready to leave at 4:45. They had room for one more in their car. My friends Marc, Bill and Pat were a little more relaxed and not exactly bolting out the door. I took the ride and was at the race start setting up transition 30 minutes later.

It was raining and it was dark but I planned ahead. Before I left the house, I packed each running shoe in large ziplocs, along with dry socks, and a dry visor. I was wearing a garbage bag to stay dry but quickly realized that was a lost cause so I put on my wetsuit. As I started putting my bottles in their respective water bottle cages, I realized something was wrong. I didn't have the 2 black rubberbands with me to secure my aero bottle to the aerobars. This could have been a drastic mistake not only because I would be short nearly 2 bottles due to the size of the aerobottle, but because I froze them overnight already mixed with nutrition, I wouldn't be able to dump it into another bottle even. After 5 minutes of quick thinking, I realized that my goggles are made of thick elastic and quickly tied them around the bottle to make sure it would be secure enough. IT WORKED! I couldn't believe it. Good, done! I decided to keep the aerobottle (without a cap) balance between my shoes in transition so when I saw it coming out of the swim, I would remember to use my goggle to connect it to the bike still. Otherwise, I might forget in the rush of the race and ride off without the bottle even attached.

Next step, now that the rain was coming down hard, was to try to use my phone through 2 plastic bags to call my mom. She was going on 3 hours of sleep and had to stay in a hotel over an hour away near NOTRE DAME. It was ridiculous. I was wavering between calling her to make sure she was on time still and then not wanting to call her for fear she'd get upset she was late while driving in the pitch black of night in a torrential thunderstorm on no sleep. It was 6:30, though, and our plan was to be out of transition already and on to the swim start. It was 1.5 miles away still and my wave was going off in only 1 hour.

My mom arrived minutes later, and at this point, I started to get nervous. It was still raining, I was running late, and I was very worried they might cancel the swim and/or the whole race. When I found my mom, she was so sweet and trying to be so wonderfully supportive, but I was a mess. I started crying and was suddenly frazzled because I didn't know the exact time and we still had to walk all the way down to the swim start. She looked tired and I felt terrible that she just endured a night of hell for me. I collected myself long enough to take a quick photo and then all of a sudden I realized it was time to GO. We walked extremely fast in deep sand for 1.5 miles to the swim start. It was still raining but definitely not as hard. My mom was keeping up pretty well and I assumed her tired face was expected from all she's been through lately. Within the last few years, including our trip to Italy, she has started to get short of breath, which is weird for her. She's an oncology nurse and someone who only eats the freshest and healthiest foods since we were children. She was the first person I ever know at 10 years old that paid attention to counting fat grams way before anyone else was on to that. She never goes to the doctor, though, despite us begging her to do so yet we never give her an ultimatum because, well, she's our dearest mom and nothing could possibly be wrong with her anyway.

We get the swim start with about 15 inutes to spare. I quickly leave her and head to the swim corral. I am just feet from the water, and my wave is about 3 back in the line-up still, maybe 10 minutes I had to spare. I hear Liz's and Chris's voice in my head (her husband, Chris, reassured us at the Galena triathlon 2 months earlier that it's really worth it to get in the water for a test swim before you start). I decide to put my feet in before my wave moves up in the cue and then decide to go ahead and take a few strokes before getting back in line. I am still nervous. All of a sudden, I see Akemi running toward the water. She and I have become so close as friends during Ironman training this whole year that we can finish each other's sentences and thoughts. She is waving to me and I realize she has driven all the way from Chicago this morning, with an hour time change, to cheer me on. I see her and I cry, and I suddenly feel ready. "That is what I needed" I tell her and I get in line for the swim start.

The music is pumping, it is now only lightly raining, and they bring my wave to the water's edge. I look into the distance of the swim course and see it further than the eye can see. I am not nervous at all, though, and the distance is a welcomed one after all of my Ironman training. I realize how different my race is going to be this year compared to if I raced in it last year. I am not nervous at all, I am ready. I see my Mom again and get a last minute hug and kiss and she so dearly snaps a few more photos. THIS IS IT, I think to myself. This is going to be a GREAT RACE!

And the HORN GOES OFF! I run into the water and start swimming. There is the usual kicking and pulling and fighting for space and position, but it doesn't bother me. I just swim. I see the first buoy and keep sighting. There were a few athletes who were very irritating in the swim, but that can be expected. You adjust your mind and keep going. The buoy order was yellow, orange then green. They went on forever and ever, but I wasn't tired, I wasn't stressed, and I felt like I could actually work at the swim instead of just surviving it. I was in a zone, it was unreal. When I came around that last red buoy and ran out of the water, I heard my brother now screaming, "GO LORI!!!!" so I knew he arrived from his 3+ hour drive in the storms as well. I heard my mom! I heard Akemi! I took off my goggles as a ran out of the water and looked at my watch. 39 MINUTES!!!! NO WAY!!!!!!!! It was unreal.

As I ran up the beach in the sand, I fought with my heart rate monitor because I accidently hit the wrong button and exited the mode I needed for the entire rest of the race. You have to keep in mind that these watches are computers and it can take 5-8 screens before getting back to the correct program. So, as I'm trying to race to transition in the sand, I'm also messing around with this stupid watch! It was annoying. However, I actually figured it out before getting to my bike, remembered to use my goggles to attach the aerobottle and within seconds my wetsuit was history and my bike shoes and helmet were strapped on. I had the longest possible run with my bike out of transition but determined the night before that this was actually the preferred position because I'd rather run with my bike fresh through T1 then be on the opposite end close to bike out and have to run with it tired after the bike during T2. I was off.

About 2 miles into the bike, I pulled my left groin because I was stubbornly climbing the first hill in the aerobars on a wet bike and a wet course. Dumby dumb dumb. I paid for it the entire rest of the race. However, I didn't let it affect my time. I paced my ride and timed my nutrition really well, which contributed to a strong bike split. The rain stopped but the sun was now hot. I was shooting for 3 hours on my aluminum bike on my best day, which would be about 30 MINUTES faster than what I trained at last year. Most of my ride was occupied by timing the milestones I remembered so well from last summer's training and then the other time was spent calculating and recaculating 100 times where I was for time because my watch was 39 minutes off. I knew I had to be close to 3 hours on the bike. I then started calculating how my legs felt and what I thought I could do on the run course. Because I bought myself so many extra minutes on the swim and now realized my 3 hour bike would be close to reality, I started to freak out because a sub-6 hour race could be in my future. NO WAY. NO WAY!!!!

Coming down the bike chute into T2 was surreal. The crowds were packed and I was just 2 hours away from completing my first Half Ironman. People were screaming my name and I just felt like I was on fire. I racked my bike, threw my bike helmet off, put the visor and race belt on, switched shoes and was OFF TO THE RUN.

I was excited for the run because I'd finally see my family again. I assumed it was them screaming my name in the bike chute, because that was the plan. They'd leave the race at that point and drive out to meet me on the run course, at mile 6. It would be half-way through the run when I'd see them and I'd need their encouragement and love at that point.

The first mile of the run is a steady uphill with a sharp incline right before mile 1. It's a big one and if you make it past that, you know you got it for the next couple of miles. I keep my pace and pass through the aid station because I decided to carry my own nutrition. It's what I'm used to and we race as we train. It was getting hot out and my legs were still settling in along with my breathing. When you're in the aerobars for nearly 60 miles, you body compensates for that position and you do very little deep, diaphramatic breathing. On the run, however, your body needs that oxygen and it can take miles before you adjust.

As I approach mile 4-5, already baking in the sun, we are suddenly running through this very stuffy and cramped nature preserve path that I did not expect at all. I studied the course, but somehow missed this mile stretch. There was no wind and the trail was wide enough for 2 people a the most. You could tell the heat was getting to some of the athletes or it could've been their pacing because people were walking now. That is never a good sign. I felt good enough to keep my pace and I knew mile 6 was just steps away. We came out of the trail and then through the winding drive that would lead me to my family. As I turned the corner, I didn't exactly see them in the distance, but it was still a full block away. As it got close, I could definitely tell they weren't there. I went from this high of knowing I'd get my second wind with seeing them to worrying what could have gone wrong. As the course turns again with my back now to the corner we planned to meet, I know that was my one and only chance at seeing my family on the race course. Could it have been their parking spot? Were my directions confusing and they missed the turn? I had no idea, but I knew it was WEIRD.

The run continued, and 1.5 miles later I was confronted with the other monster hill. I ran it, didn't walk, except the last 5 steps. I was glad I did because I was able to pick my pace right back up at the top. I turned again, now on M-36 (the main drag and signal of more than half way through with the 13.1 mile run. I now see Pat Jones on the sidelines, screaming my name, then my friend Eric and old swim coach, Noelle! They're all cheering for me and telling me I look strong and steady. It is exactly what I needed from the distraction of hoping my family is OK. I start the second loop, run the second long stretch of treeless streets in the hot sun now 85 degrees, and survive the second time through the trail. I see Eric and Noelle again and realize I am 1.5 miles from the finish. I run hard and I don't stop. I keep my form and tighten my core and tell fellow athletes "STAY STRONG! KEEP IT GOING!" as I pass them. Down the hill I once ran up and around the corner to the final 1/2 mile stretch before the finish chute. The crowd is starting to build as I get close and I can hear the announcer congratulating athletes crossing the line. As I race down the finish chute, I am pulling what must be a 7:30 pace, and some elite guy yells out, "NICE PACE GIRL!" I see the finish line 200 yards ahead and the crowd is so loud and thick I think to myslef, "Just keep on running, enjoy every second." I don't take my eyes of that finish line, except to look for my family as I keep this pace. I think, "Am I running so fast that they missed me?" And, I am disappointed during the highest point of my race history to date, because they could have somehow missed seeing me fly down this finish chute for some crazy reason. Within seconds, I am across the finish line, and the annoncer even yells, "LORI BRAVI FROM CHICAGO!!!" My feet are still on the timing mat when I see my good friend, Joe. He is yelling, YOU DID IT, BRAVI! AWESOME TIME!!! AWEOMSE!"

I don't even know what my time is at this point and I don't even care. The race of a lifetime is the least of my concerns because my family is not here. People are still yelling congratulations at me yet I cannot hear them. I was surrounded by an eerie silence because it was now at least one minute after I finished and my brother and mom were both missing. I go up to Joe and get my high five, but my end of it is half-ass. I am smiling and he tells me I finished "under 6", but I don't really care. You have to remember that my estimated time last year was to finish at 6:30 and my DREAM goal for this year was to finish "at 6." To finish "under 6" was absolutely an outstanding milestone that could change my future as a triathlete and pivot me into the potential elite field next year. I say I had the race of a lifetime but I say this hazily not even looking at him as I am nervously scoping the crowd literally so close to the finish line still that an official asks me to move. I tell Joe that something weird is going on and that my family is missing. He is mixed up in the excitement of the race and doesn't really absorb my concerns. People everywhere are just screaming as loud as they can at athletes crossing the finish line, the music is blarring and athletes keep bumping into me as they cross the line but I just stand there. Suddenly, I see my brother walking slowly and aimlessly toward the finish area and I yell and wave out to him. He half smiles, and I can tell something is very wrong. "CONGRATULATIONS!" he yells. I say nervously, "Where were you guys?" He says, "Hmm? What do you mean?" I say, "What do you mean, what do I mean??? Where were you on the race??" He is still only half smiling and acts like nothing is wrong. I can tell he is covering something up all of a sudden and my heart starts racing. "Where the hell is MOM???" Ryan: "Hmmm? [fake smile]. Oh, she's sitting down over there, come down there. Get out of the finish area." "NO" I say. She's not down there. Tell me what the hell is going on. "Come down there and I'll tell you, she's fine." "NO, TELL ME NOW."

"She's in the hospital. It's her heart."

My world stopped. Picture yourself standing in the finish area still after the race of a lifetime, leaning on the fence, trying to stay out of the way of hundreds of athletes crossing the finish line, people cheering and screaming, music blarring,
announcers rallying and then processing that your mom was rushed to the hospital. The was my mom, our pillar of strength for as long as we've lived, the one person who all of us have relied on and leaned on forever. We don't have anyone else except each other.

It was sobering to be standing in the ER 20 minutes later with my perfect little mom on oxygen and in a hospital gown hooked up to heart monitors and an IV. It was so soon after the race that I hadn't even replenished with gatorade or fruit and my race uniform was still wet from sweat. In the end, it's always a good thing when medical problems are caught before they blow up into bigger ones. We learned that day that my mom went into atrial fibrilation, or A-fib. It is a very dangerous, life-threatening episode that occurs when the electicity of your heart is erradic. Her resting heart rate shot up to 180-190 and wouldn't come down for an hour. The beach sand for a total of 3 miles probably set it off. Later, I learned that this happened nearly the moment after I exited the swim. She became short of breath and when Ryan and her walked to sit down, her shirt was vibrating from her speeding heart rate. Blood tests indicated that she narrowly escaped the diagnosis of a heart attack by .2 units on the troponin blood test, which indicates the presence of cardiac enzymes in the blood from a heart attack. She went into A-fib once more later that day and even the next morning, but she was stable enough for to go home on Sunday on a large dosage of beta blockers and aspirin, and is following up with Cardiology at Rush in Chicago.

It wasn't until almost 2 days later when I was first able to process the milestone race that took place at the Steelhead Half Ironman. When asked how did my race go, I say "Like Clockwork." It was literally stroke after stroke, pedal after pedal, stride after stride, one, after another, after another. I was prepared and I raced as I trained. The difference between this year and last is my mental preparedness. I no longer get freaked out by, well, anything. Ironman training has a way of desensitizing you to anything and everything. You could bring me to a race swim start that goes on further than the eye can see and it wouldn't phase me anymore because I know I am prepared.

As I go into the final 2 weeks before the full Ironman, I will do the same. I will make lists, cross them off, and make new ones. I will visualize the course along the way and set to hit my milestones one, after another, after another. Anything can happen in Ironman. And then again, anything can happen in training. It's how you prepare and adjust that determines the outcome. As coach Liz says,

"If you have approached your training with commitment, vigor, and honesty you will do in the race what you have done in training- except you'll do it fresher, better, and faster. Nothing magical happens on race day but on race day you should be able to put together your BEST training day- on a race course."

And, that's what I came to do and that's what I did at the Steelhead Half Ironman. Finally.

Overall Time 5:47.06 (13 minutes faster than even my dream time) (Div 41/110)(Overall 997/1860, including all elite athletes)

Swim 40.59 (including swim out through sand)
T1 2:54
Bike 3:00.28 (18.6 mph average)
T2 2:08
Run 2:00.31 (9:13 pace)