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Thursday, September 16, 2021

Survival of the Shawangunks

“You are a survivor”

That’s what they say to you at the finish line of Survival of the Shawangunks, aka SOS, a triathlon that involves biking 30 miles and then alternatively running and swimming for a total of 18 and 2.5 miles, respectively. 

But I’m not sure I want that designation. I didn’t “survive” the race. 

Surviving would have been showing up so un(der)prepared that finishing was the accomplishment. And sure, anything can happen in a race (especially a race as crazy as this one), so there are reasons a fit, trained person might not finish. However, I felt confident going in that finishing was not going to be the challenge. The challenge was going to be getting the most out of myself and dealing with unexpected issues quickly and effectively. Because in a race with as many changeups as this one, with as many elements that I simply could not practice in training, there were bound to be at least a few issues. 

And there were.

Bike: 30 miles

Biking has been and perhaps will always be my weakest discipline. In fact, two months out from this race, I was concerned with whether I would be able to finish the 30 miles within the 2:15 cutoff time. The course starts out along flat cornfields and progresses into some rolling hills—right up until the last five miles, which are. All. Up. Hill. 

These hills were problematic for me on several levels. First, there’s the regular old speed issue: The slower you go, the worse you’ll place. And when it comes to triathlon, being slower on the bike is extra-disadvantageous because the longest leg of any triathlon is always the bike. Second, I’m not a great bike handler. In other words, when I’m climbing a hill, descending a hill, avoiding a pothole, turning, or doing virtually anything that requires attention or effort, I do not release my grip on the handlebars. And when my hands are thusly occupied, they can’t do things like rip open a packet of Gu or retrieve a water bottle—both of which would be essential to keep my internal reserves stocked up for the grueling running/swimming miles ahead.

The solution involved several gear-based adjustments devised by my friends/coaches/mentors J___ and N___.  They lent me J___’s much lighter (much more expensive) road bike, which had more gears available, which meant that I could keep my legs turning over on those climbs. They also lent me their hydration backpack so I could drink from the little dangling rubber “straw” that loops over your shoulder on my ascent rather than groping around for the water bottle cage that’s screwed in lower on the bike. It’s a good thing I had that backpack, too, because around mile 19 I accidentally dropped my regular water bottle as I was trying to get one last sip before the hills. (See? Terrible bike handler!)

Run One: 4.5 miles

The bike segment of this race concluded with dismounting and clopping across an asphalt parking lot to where we had to rack our bikes. (For anyone who has never worn bike cleats, imagine you are wearing one-inch heeled shoes, only the raised part is under your toes rather than your heel. That’s what it’s like trying to walk on flat ground in  bike cleats.) At the bike rack, a plastic bag containing my swim/run gear awaited. I don’t like to make lots of mid-race choices if I can help it, so my gear was minimal: sneakers, swim cap, and goggles. I stuffed my bike cleats, helmet, and gloves into the bag, donned my running shoes, and set off with cap and goggles in hand. (I eventually stuffed them between the strap of my sports bra and my shoulder, which is where I stowed them on every run thereafter.)

I’d practiced very few bike-run transitions (otherwise known as “bricks”) in training, so I wasn’t sure quite how I’d feel at this stage of the race. I knew the course started uphill, so even if I felt “good” I knew I wouldn’t be running fast. To my surprise, I ran the first few miles at a mid/low 7 min/mile pace, and I felt fairly in control. Of course, then the hills kicked. The iconic “Cardiac Hill” occurs in that first run, so my pace slowed, but I’d been expecting it, and all in all I didn’t feel terrible—which made me optimistic for the remaining several hours of racing.

Swim One: 1.1 miles

One of the things that makes this race unusual is the fact that you have to bring your shoes with you into the water. No other triathlons require this, because the swim is always first; you go in shoeless, come out shoeless, and then put shoes on for the biking and running segments. In SOS, you run to a lake, swim across that lake, and then get out and run again . . . to another lake. You do this three times. Therefore, if you plan to run wearing shoes, you need to bring them with you across those lakes.

How you do this is entirely up to you. Some people carry dry bags, others stuff their shoes into the zip-up section of their tri suit. My plan (courtesy of race veteran “Dr. Mike”) was to stuff the shoes up the back of the legs of my tri suit. If you want to try this at home, take a sneaker and hold it against the back of your thigh, toes pointed toward your butt, sole out. Now imagine you’re wearing spandex shorts, and jam the shoe in between the shorts and your upper thigh so they’re nice and snug and ready for a swim. That was the strategy, and it worked! The most difficult part was getting the shoes on and off my feet. In this first swim, it wasn’t so bad, because I was still wearing socks, which I had worn on the bike. (Pro tip: Don’t try to swim in socks. I gave it a shot, but after a few hundred meters I had to shed them. They somehow really impair your kick!)

This first swim was the longest and in the coldest lake. It was made even more challenging by two additional factors: First, the water was choppy. Like, really choppy. Ocean-swim choppy. The waves made breathing difficult, but it made sighting (the process of lifting your head to see where you’re going) almost impossible. And second, sighting was already difficult because there were no buoys. Usually in open water swims, there are bright orange, red, or yellow buoys floating in the water that you use in order to ensure you’re swimming in the right direction. However, in this lake there were only two buoys: one where you enter the lake, and where you exit a mile away. Suffice to say, I did a fair amount of breast stroking to get my head high enough to find other swimmers I could swim toward. Being half a mile from shore and unable to see what direction to swim is not great, especially in the middle of a race!

Run Two: 5.5 miles


The second run was probably the most enjoyable due to what wasn’t happening yet: I wasn’t feeling tired, and I wasn’t developing blisters. Also the terrain of this run was generally gentler, the path smoother, and the inclines and declines less steep. (Although again, I wasn’t as tired yet, so don’t quote me!) 

It’s on this run that I caught up with people from the SOS “camp” I had done a month prior, all of whom I’d judged to be formidable athletes. It felt good to breeze past them while feeling in control. The third run is going to be the tough one, I reminded myself as I pranced downhill. That’s where the real race starts.

Swim Two: 0.5 miles

Before I could get to that “tough run” though, I first had to get through the second lake swim. This one was much easier than the first, by virtue of the fact that the water was warmer and there was a yellow rope strung straight across the lake, from the entry point to the exit point. What I should have done was keep my head down and breath to my right for the whole swim so I could navigate using that yellow rope, but I was too stuck in “open water swimming” mode and kept lifting my head to look in front of me, even though there was no need. Definitely something I’d do differently next time

I passed one swimmer about halfway across, and I was three quarters of the way when a man blew by me. By the time I thought “maybe I can draft off of him” he was a whole body length in front of me—too far to catch any useful draft. I knew who it was: A___, who had been part of the camp, who had shared all of his tips and tricks, and who had said in no uncertain terms that swimming was his best discipline. I was impressed, because it’s not like I’m a particularly slow swimmer, and the guy is at least in his 60s.  But I knew I’d catch him on the run. And I did.

Run Three: 8 miles

The third run was THE run, in my mind. This was the leg of the race I really wanted to nail. It was far enough into the race that I could be sure everyone would feel miserable, and yet it was flat enough that I knew I could run it well if I did things right.

As it turns out, most of the eight miles was not just flat, but downhill. In fact, the very beginning of the route was steeply downhill, to the point of causing some serious quad damage as you try to keep from tumbling ass-over-teakettle. Thankfully that decline only lasted maybe half a mile before the pavement leveled out and transitioned back to groomed trail, and then I was off.

Now I was passing the real competitors. How did I know? Well some of them had their last names on the backs of their tri suits. That’s a sign someone’s at least taking triathlon seriously, right? Also they were all running; only one man I passed started walking, and when I saw him do it, I yelled at him to “please come along, I need company!” (He declined.) And finally, I was running fast—or at least faster than I’d expected. My plan was to run by feel, whatever a “marathon effort” should be. But thanks to the gently descending terrain, my watch told me I was cruising at a sub-7 min/mile pace. After four-plus hours of exercise, that wasn’t too bad!

About midway through this run, the trail wound past a popular climbing area. I darted around climbers who moved along the path in slow motion and cheered the way stoned Brooklynites might—with breathy, mid-octave voices that indicated they had no idea what was going on but that they were in good spirits and were happy to acknowledge my passing by. After leaving those khaki-clad groups behind, there were long stretches where I saw nothing but trees, rocks, and dirt . . . until eventually I glimpsed a woman with blond braids up ahead. Generally speaking, I’d passed a lot more men than women, so seeing her got me excited—another competitor! But soon the trail began ascending, and any ground I was gaining became moot; she vanished into the trees. I never glimpsed her again.

This ascent was the second named hill of the course, aptly called “Godzilla.” More than one person had told me they intended to walk it “so they wouldn’t cramp.” I was skeptical of the wisdom of this, so I asked a friend who had won the race a few years prior if he’d walked Godzilla. His response (after a multi-second pause to make sure I was serious) was, “Maybe I walked for a second to gather myself, catch my breath. But then I kept running.” 

All of this is to say, I hadn’t decided what I’d do on this hill before I set out, which left me straddling the two strategies: I would run (which on that gradient is more like a shuffle), then choose a tree or rock ahead, and give myself a walk break. A few steps into the “break” I’d get annoyed and choose another landmark which, when I reached it, would be when I had to start “running” again. I proceeded thusly up the never-ending hill, alternatively lambasting myself for losing sight of Blond Braids and telling myself that it didn’t matter because I wasn’t going to win this race anyway. (Plus what royally pissed me off was that I couldn’t even win this segment of the race. There is an award for “fastest third run,” but it’s an overall award, not gendered. And I might be a fast runner, but I’m not dude-fast.)

The other, progressively louder thread going through my head at this point was f*ck my feet hurt. My left foot had hurt from the start of the run, but I was now 100% confident that I’d developed blisters on the arches of both feet. I’d naively hoped that by doing a fair amount of my training runs sockless and putting waterproof Band-Aids on my heels, I might avoid damaging my feet. Alas, the best I could hope for was that at lake number three, the blisters wouldn’t burst while I wrenched my shoes off or jammed them back on.

Swim Three: 0.5 miles

By the third swim, I was feeling a little delirious (this is five hours into the race, after all), and I was excited to get this last swim done. Entering the lake required sliding under a fence and down a dirt embankment, so by the time I hit the water, I still had my sneakers on. I had real trouble getting them off, which I first attributed to doing it in the water and then to my woozy state. Only after a good thirty seconds of failure did I realize that I’d forgotten to loosen the laces.

With that problem solved, I stuffed the shoes into the legs of my tri suit and dolphin-dove in . . . only to feel sudden stabbing pain as both of my calf muscles seized up. Not now, I thought as I flexed my toes to ease the cramps. I’m so close to the end. Not now. The cramps would not let up. With every tiny flutter kick, my calves tightened from the back of my knees to my ankles, and so I did my best to move my legs as little as possible while dragging my body forward with shoulders made of lead. (No one warns you how tired running can make your arms and shoulders!) The farther I swam, the louder the voice in my head shouted, What are you going to do? How are you going to get up that last hill?

Run Four: 0.7 miles 

The last run may have loomed large in my mind, but before I could attempt that, I had to get out of the water. It was no small feat. Balancing on sore calves atop yet another rock submerged in lake water, I did my best to shove my wounded feet into sopping shoes before scrambling up a rocky wall. (That’s right, there’s veritable rock climbing in this race!) At the top I stared around in a frantic daze until a volunteer finally pointed the way forward, and onward I went, alternatively shuffling and walking, panting all the while. Blond Braids was gone, and I knew the pros had finished eons ago, and there was no one behind me, so I made an effort, but I know myself, and it wasn’t all-out.

Thanks K___ for convincing me to do this wacky race!
My feet hurt. The chafing inside my suit hurt. But I felt calm. I was almost done.

The Finish

When finally glimpsed the timer at the top of the peak, I thought there might be a mistake. I had told anyone who asked that I’d be satisfied with a sub-6-hour finish time. But the clock I was seeing read 5:20-something. My frazzled brain tried to reconcile these numbers, but the fact was that I’d actually started later than what that clock was calculating (my age group had started three minutes after the official start), meaning I’d gone even faster.

And then it was done. I crossed the finish line. Someone handed me a towel. Someone else handed me a medal. I waited for a feeling: of excitement, relief, pride, anything. I was among strangers on a mountaintop. I’d done a ton of work to get here, but that work was what had mattered; this was just the outcome.

I think what I was feeling was contentment.


TimePaceAG Place (F25-29)Gender Place (F)Overall Place
Bike1:58:2515.2 mph5 / 842 / 52130 / 145
Run135:077:48 min/mi1 / 82 / 527 / 145
Swim1
30:401:35 min/100 yd3 / 812 / 5234 / 145
Run241:227:31 min/mi1 / 81 / 523 / 145
Swim2
16:391:53 min/100 yd2 / 89 / 5223 / 145
Run355:466:58 min/mi1 / 81 / 522 / 145
Swim3
14:081:45 min/100 yd2 / 811 / 5245 / 145
Run46:199:01 min/mi2 / 89 / 5225 / 145
Overall5:18:34N/A2 / 86 / 5222 / 145

Saturday, September 11, 2021

SOS Pre-Race: Switching Things Up

I’m racing a triathlon tomorrow. Surprise!

Truly, it’s been a season of surprises. 

"Tri Camp" (aka course preview)
For the first time ever, or at least in a very very long time, I enjoyed the act of training more than the prospect of the race. Now don’t get me wrong—if the race were cancelled (god forbid), I’d be pretty displeased; it’s what has kept me focused on and committed to training all this time. (I do not know how people push themselves without this sort of goal. Kudos to those who can!) Yet as the months ticked by, I realized that more than performing well on race day, I was generally looking forward to fitting this training into my life. It’s a jigsaw puzzle, but I was just generally excited to see how my body would respond to this new endeavor. Would swimming exhaust me so that my run immediately afterward was a slog? (Yes, initially, but as I got fitter the swim actually helped get me loose for the run!) Would biking ever get any easier? (Yes and no: I hate it less, fear it about the same, and am marginally better than when I started, but no one would ever mistake me for a “cyclist” or probably even “triathlete.”) Would running less mileage mean losing running fitness altogether? (No. Although how this translates to an actual running race remains TBD.)

A lot of this was surprising to me—I really tried to go into the experience with a mindset of “if I wind up feeling unfit or generally weird or lonely, it’s okay,” but I’ll admit it: I was nervous. Instead I got more (mostly) welcome surprises. A few worth mentioning:
  • Despite putting in at least as many overall training hours as when I’m marathon training, I felt about a third as “beaten down” throughout the four-month training cycle. I know everyone talks about what a “toll” running takes on your body, but I’ve always thought that immensely exhausted, can’t-lift-my-feet feeling was the price of fitness. (After all, back in college when I was swimming doubles and lifting two to three times a week, I could barely drag myself up and down stairs, and I fell asleep in nearly every dark, auditorium-style class.) My “undercarriage” is less pleased with me, and I’ve chafed and blistered in brand new places, but I’d be lying if I said I missed that feeling of utter eyelid-slamming exhaustion around 2pm every day.
  • Training alone is not as miserable as I expected. In the past, whenever I’ve had to do hard running workouts alone, I’ve struggled. Not all the time, not to the same degree every time, but more often than not, I failed to hit the prescribed workout 100%. This has trained me to avoid working out alone if at all possible. Yet if you think trying to find a running partner who can run your pace and is willing to run your workout at your (or their) preferred time is hard, try finding someone who is your swimming pace, interested in doing your swimming workout, and can arrive at the same (probably inconveniently located for one of you) pool at the same (very narrow window of) time. Seriously, I dare you. Try it, and then report back. Needless to say, I did every single swim set—and about 90% of my biking and running workouts—alone. And it actually wasn’t that bad.
  • So grateful for the guidance and generosity of friends.
    One reason it wasn’t that bad is because most of these workouts were effort-based. “Run 15 minutes at 85%” is not something I’ve done much of, nor is “swim 5x75 hard with 30s rest between each.” I’m used to knowing what pace I’m targeting and trying my darndest to hit it. Those paces, of course, are all numbers, which means you either nail them or you don’t. It’s pretty black-and-white: If you don’t, you failed. But when there are no numbers to hit, you can’t really fail. So this was, if nothing else, a nice vacation away from that little gremlin at the base of my brain who likes to pipe up right when I’m really hurting and declare, “You suck. You will never be able to do this. Every success you’ve ever had was a fluke. This is the real you, and the real you can’t do shit.”
  • Another reason working out alone wasn’t so bad is because in two of the three sports (i.e., biking and swimming), I essentially was starting over from zero. A year of COVID meant a year of no swimming, and anyone who knows me knows that I don’t ride bicycles if there is any viable alternative. This means that even in the case where I do have a past self to compare to (I swam collegiately . . . it’s a long story), I know the amount of work that past performance required, and I know that I’ve barely done a fraction of that work. Therefore, I cannot compare to that swimmer. And while I’ve done triathlon before, I’ve never put in any real bike training effort. Therefore it was like being new in these sports, and everyone knows that being new in a sport is the best because improvements are visible in short order, and seeing progress is motivating.
  • The last surprise was how flexible I learned to be. Sometimes pools simply were not available when I wanted or expected. (I showed up at a pool more than once only to have the gates locked, no humans in sight.) Bad weather also played a bigger role, as it’s inadvisable to bike or swim outside during, say, a thunderstorm. In these situations, I did my best to be resourceful, but sometimes you just cannot do what you planned. So call it maturity (the gremlin would call it laziness), but for whatever reason, I increasingly found myself being okay with these changes of plans. I hope I can maintain this outlook, because it’s so, so liberating.

Of course, there was one final surprise that was not so great. The fact of the matter is that I cannot seem to make it to the start line of a big race without some sort of crisis happening. This time it wasn’t my mother, father, or sister, it was my cat.

I think we'll keep her.
For those of you who have never owned a pet, you’re probably rolling your eyes. I get it! I didn’t birth this creature; it doesn't share my DNA. For those of you who are pet owners, however, I think you’ll understand that when I say my cat started throwing up last weekend and then did not eat or drink for an entire week, when she curled up in corners on soft surfaces and barely moved day or night, it was a crisis. Tabouli is four years old. She can’t tell us what is wrong, can’t point to where it hurts. And, as I learned on one trip to the vet (there were two in a matter of three days), cats are really, really good at disguising pain. (It’s apparently some sort of survival mechanism?) Thirteen hundred dollars, four stressful Uber rides, three “shot in the dark” medications, two teary breakdowns, and a whole lot of useless googling later, she magically started eating. The day before I left for this race, she went over the wet food bowl, which we kept refreshing, and took a bite. And another bite. And eventually that little spoonful of wet food was gone.

Relief is not something that is added to a person, it’s a release—like a balloon letting out helium, or whatever bad breath huffed into it. So I had about twelve hours to be a saggy, deflated balloon, and now I’m filling back up with nervous excitement. I don’t think I’ll be as full as I might have been, but I can feel the lift. That’s why we do these races: for the flutters of anticipation, and the battle on the course, the triumph at the end. I’m aiming for the finish line of the SOS Triathlon (and if you don’t know what it is, it’s worth a quick read). There’s no guarantee I’ll make it to the end, and certainly no guarantee of how I’ll place. But that’s why we race.