HUFF 50K 2013: A Gorgeous Suckfest

December 28 was forecast to be an unusually nice day, especially for late December in Indiana, so I couldn't use the weather as an excuse not to do the HUFF. The HUFF used to take place in Huntington, IN, hence the name: Huntington Ultra Frigid Fifty. It has since moved to a beautiful park in Albion, IN, but the name has stayed the same. It's a two-loop trail run in unpredictable conditions. Some years the course is flooded with icy cold water, other years it's a muddy slog, a bone-chilling cold run in the snow, or a perfect day to hang out in the woods. 2013 was a perfect day to hang out in the woods.

Temperatures were a warmer than usual (THIS year) low-30's, with a beautiful clear blue sky. For once it wasn't blustery, and there was enough snow on the ground to make it a classic winter-in-the-woods scene. The race started just as the sun was breaking the horizon, and the crisp winter light added to the positive energy. Everyone was looking forward to enjoying the day, our last warm one before the colder-than-usual temperatures predicted to return on Sunday.

This is a larger trail ultra, with a combined 900 runners between the full 50K, the 10-mile loop, and the 50K relay. Like most trail runs, and most ultras, the atmosphere is far more laid-back than at a typical road race. All experience levels were there, from seasoned pros to newbies like myself. Before the race, people compared opinions on running shoes, racing strategies, and previous HUFF race experiences. The start was a guy saying (not yelling), "Go!"

The first loop went well, with a spectacular sunrise over the frozen lakes covered in snow. There was no mud, as the ground was still frozen hard. I was surprised it was so hard, and while it was nice not to slog through mud, the hard uneven surface was tough on the feet. There were several times when I really wished I had dragged along a camera. I felt great at the ten-mile point, and still felt pretty darned good after completing loop 1 of 2. I was a little tired, but not horribly so, and the bottoms of my feet were starting to complain a little from the hard irregular surface, but nothing I couldn't manage. My goal was to finish the 50K under 7 hours, so I was happy with my time of 3:19 for the first loop...

...until about one mile into loop 2, when the foot annoyance became full-blown hotspots that felt like the entire pads of both feet were large blisters. I've had hotspots before, but never this bad. I knew they would hurt whether I walked or ran, so I settled into a walk/trot combo that worked out well. I was still passing people, and they weren't catching and passing me at aid stations, so I was happy with my pace. The day had warmed up into the 40's, thawing things out. There were several impressively deep mud pits the second time around.

At mile 24, the previous eight miles of compensating for aching feet finally caught up with me. One ankle had been slowly developing a sharp pain with each foot-plant, and I could no longer even try to trot with it. The pain was such that it felt like I was in real danger of seriously injuring myself if I insisted on anything faster than a walk. Up to this point I had been maintaining a decent pace, and was still passing people. My ankle made it clear that my pace was going to have to slow way down: I was going to have to walk the last six miles. Urg.

So, I trudged/staggered/limped the last six miles, and tried to focus on enjoying the day. "This is just a looooong walk in the woods on a beautiful day." "I'm still catching a few people, how is that happening?" "Oh crap, here comes that guy who had a real attitude when people were taking their time crossing a creek earlier. I really wanted to beat him." "I only have to hurt for another (fill in the number) miles. Don't think about how many minutes that will take."

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the guy with an attitude really was an ok person. I don't know why he was so impatient earlier, but he had since mellowed and was slogging along just like the rest of us. And since misery loves company, I felt a little better as I saw how slowly most people were tackling loop 2. I wasn't the only one who was forced to slow down to a death march: the suffering was widespread. Yet no one was considering quitting. It was getting more and more difficult to navigate the mud pits with aching feet, but overall was not nearly as muddy as I had expected.

The last mile I watched runner after runner pass me and pull out of sight. By this point, my frustration was blunted by the searing pain of each step. How is it possible for your feet to hurt this badly and not be blistered? At the last aid station less than a mile from the finish, the wonderful volunteers saw my hat ("will run for beer") and offered up a Sam Adams. I seriously considered it, but just wanted to finish and get off my feet. I asked for an oxy instead, but they were all out. Time to suck it up and get that last half-mile out of the way.

I crossed the finish at 7:32, surprised at my time since I had to walk so far. It had been a pitiful walk, with tiny steps getting smaller with each mile, until I had slowed to a 20-minute pace. I happily collected my very cool belt buckle/medal combo, and staggered to the food tent. Found a chair, and a fabulous runner/volunteer brought me some wonderful home-made corn chowder. He was wearing a ten-mile loop medal, so he had obviously run earlier and then stuck around to help the rest of us. A special person indeed.

After warming up and sitting for a while, it was time to attempt to get to the car, which was parked about a quarter-mile away. After an excruciating 10-minute shuffle that must have epitomized "pitiful", and much grunting and groaning, I finally threw myself into the car with a huge sigh of relief.

On the way out of the park, I forced myself out of the car (and yes, back on the screaming feet), to take a photo of a glorious sunset over one of the frozen lakes. No, it wasn't beautiful enough to make me forget about the pain, but it made me even happier that I had spent the day outside enjoying the gift of a perfect December day in Indiana.

PS: Now I know which socks NOT to wear in a trail ultra. Duh.

Brrrrr! Flying Monkey Marathon 2013

This is a most irreverent race that sucks you in with its sarcastic attitude. I survived this one last year, and was once again unable to resist the temptation to invite bodily pain.

You see, the Harpeth Hills Flying Monkey marathon boasts a total elevation change of 7200 feet (or 7500, depending on which statement you believe). In any case, it's a brutal combo of steep ups and downs, and the downs never seem to be quite as long as the ups. The slogan of the race is "Running is Stupid", and that attitude pervades the entire day.

Flying Monkeys are said to inhabit a beautiful park just southwest of Nashville, TN, and are rumored to occasionally attack runners. You are encouraged to deal with the hills as quickly as possible, or risk attack. This is not a "race" for most participants however -- it's an experience to survive, and most people are quite laid-back about the whole thing. There are a few genetic mutants who actually do race, and the rest of us watch in awe when we see them coming, on their way to finish a good two hours before us mere mortals.

It's a small race, about 300 runners. Part of the swag is a personalized race bib and tech shirt, and you are asked for your "monkey name" when you register. Since I was stupid enough to subject myself to this again, knowing full well what was ahead, I chose "Stupid". Not everybody was as self-aware as I, but I did run into Idiot before the race. There was also a red cape in the swag bag, to go along with this year's "Faster than a speeding banana" theme, but I forgot to wear it. Sigh.

The weather in Nashville in late November can be a total crap shoot. Last year it was a very comfortable high-40s range and dry. This year it was a beautiful sunny day, but the temps were in the 20s with wind-chills in the teens for most of the race. Some people were thoroughly bundled up, most were like me (knit hat, gloves, tights, couple of tech shirts and a running jacket), and a few crazies were wearing shorts and/or nothing on their arms. Ummm. NO.

Everyone gathered in the park for the casual start, stood around trying to use other bodies as wind blockage, and got ready to enjoy the gorgeous day ahead, cold wind be damned. One very nice runner offered me an extra set of hand warmers. I took one, and asked him to give the other one to another needy runner. I'm sure he had plenty of takers. I was carrying a camera in the other hand anyway, so it would be warm enough. Trent (the race director) said, "Ready, set, go!" and we were off. No ceremony. It was wonderful.

Before the first mile, we saw our first sign in the "I hate Trent" series: "Trent Sucks". Awesome. I ran with Dorothy for another mile or so. I remembered seeing her last year. She has run the Monkey every year, this was #8, and she drove up from Birmingham AL She had red-sequin slipcovers for her running shoes, and didn't think the wig would get too hot this year. She was going to be happy with anything under six hours. I didn't want to be that cold for that long, so I went on ahead.

After another mile or so, I caught up with group of guys who were running together, obviously old friends. We were all walking up a hill, and one of them was wearing a blade prosthetic. I asked him if his monkey name was "Badass". He laughed and said, no, he just stuck with "Matt" this time. I hung with them until we got to the top of the hill, then took advantage of the downhill. We would leap-frog each other for about 18 more miles before I finally left them behind for good. I don't care what Matt says, he's a major badass and I am in awe.

Thankfully the trees and hills provided some coverage from the wind for most of the course, but there were a few spots on the tops and outside edges where the wind was painfully cold. The biggest problem with stopping to drink or suck down a cold, stiff gel was the chill that could set in if you dawdled too long. I was amazed at the cheerfulness of the volunteers at each and every aid station. They HAD to be miserably cold, yet were smiling and supportive and very helpful. One was even breaking the thin crust of ice in the water cups before handing them to us!

Personally, I had a great day. After I passed mile 20, I decided that I wasn't going to let anyone catch and pass me for the last 10k...unless they were really moving. I steadily caught and passed runners, and managed to stay ahead of them. Things started hurting but not too badly, and finally I passed the mile 26 marker. There stood Paula, holding my cape! I was happy to use that as an excuse to stop long enough to put it on, then run to the finish, passing someone else along the way. I managed to finish three minutes faster than last year, at 5:13:54, relatively pain-free.

...until I got back to the car with my medal and beer. The second I stopped moving, my legs started bitching loudly about the hills. The quads were actually fine, but the hams and calves were just itching to seize up. Somehow I avoided a full-on cramp-fest, and was very happy to sit in the warm car with the seat heater turned on. We had to get Paula back to Indianapolis in time to work that night, so there was no hanging around to socialize or try to score any more swag. Along with the free beer (from a local brewer, Yazoo), there was a pot-luck feast of goodies. I grabbed a plate of food and munched on that all the way back home. Wonderful way to end a race!

How to Half-Ass a PR

The Indianapolis Monumental Half Marathon was half #58 for me, and I was completely unprepared, so I had zero expectations. I just wanted to enjoy the day without more than the usual aches and pains, and preferably with none. However, despite all the odds, I beat my personal best time by almost two minutes, and had a very good day. Crazy!

I present the Happel Half-Assed Half-Marathon Training Plan.

Week 1:

1. Move to a new apartment.
2. Have PRK surgery on both eyes, rendering yourself useless for at least three full days. Don't bother to eat for these three days, as that requires too much effort to rouse from the Vicodin-induced pain-avoiding slumber.
3. Spend rest of the week trying to find basic items, such as running tights, running socks, favorite running shoes, etc. In the process, find some dress socks and clean underwear.
4. End the week participating in a 30-hour event (Bourbon Chase relay). The night before the relay, make sure you make wise diet choices such as Apple Pie Bourbon samples and Town Branch Rum. Continue the bourbon-sample diet throughout the event.

Week 2:

1. Improve diet slightly by finally going to store and buying some fresh fruit, and lay off the burgers.
2. Fight eye-strain headaches and exhaustion while waiting for eyes to heal. Continue to sleep as much as possible after miserable 8-hour days of staring at laptop. Hope the eyes settle down soon.
3. Wear sweat pants to training sessions at gym, since you can't find the gym shorts and prefer not to wear spandex.
4. End the week traveling to a 40th-anniversary celebration of your high school opening. Participate in multiple events, ensuring you don't get enough rest. Continue to monitor the diet with genuine Tex-Mex and Starbucks coffee and pastries. Return home to unpacked apartment with a severe case of hotel-head sniffles and dry coughing.

Week 3:

1. Give up on finding gym shorts and wear spandex shorts to training session at gym.
2. Eat more of that fresh fruit you bought in week 2. Contemplate adding some fresh vegetables. Find the oatmeal and get back to your normal breakfast.
3. Break down and buy a pair of reading glasses to at least get you through the work day, knowing you likely will have to buy another pair of a different strength before too much longer.
4. Drag yourself to the first group exercise class in a month, an Insanity class. Be humbled at how severely it kicks your butt. Try to hang on to knowledge that it won't kick your butt so badly the next time.
5. The night before the half-marathon, usher a symphony concert, assuring you will get home later and will be going to Jimmy John's for dinner at some point during the concert.
6. Don't bother looking for gels for the upcoming race. No idea where they are anyway, and looking for them will eat into what's left of your sleep time. Be happy you can find a complete running ensemble that will be comfortable for 13 miles.

Race Day:

1. Skip the race fanny pack. Can't find the nutrition anyway, so why bother? Check the ID and money at gear check and don't worry about it. Make a plan to consume Gatorade for your calories, and hope for the best.
2. Remember to turn on the Garmin since it can take forever to find the satellites. Ponder the significance of the fact that somehow the Garmin made it through the move without disappearing into a random box, yet the nutrition has gone AWOL.
3. Enjoy the pre-race chatter, look forward to the impending beautiful day, and make your way to the starting corral. Optimistically place yourself in the corral that's a few minutes faster than your average starting time, just to avoid getting trapped behind any large groups of walkers.
4. Start the race, turn on the Garmin, and forget about it. At 3 miles, see the race clock and double-check the Garmin to make sure. Note that you are on track for a PR, but decide to see how it's going at the 10K mark before committing to seriously pursuing it. Continue walking only at aid stations, and resist the urge for walk breaks anywhere else.
   
5. Try not to get annoyed at being passed by the juggling guy. Yes, he was juggling three balls for the entire race. And he passed me before mile 6.
6. Hit the 10K mark, and see another PR. Hmmm. Dismiss the idea of calling it good and relaxing for the remainder of the race, and hope they have some nutrition at the next aid station.
7. Finally find food after mile 8. Take two Cliff blocks, grateful for the calories. Take a little extra time to choke them down with some water, and make a mental note that those things sure do take a lot of chewing.
8. At mile 10, note another PR, and decide to push for the remaining three miles. Keep resisting the urge to take walk breaks. Enjoy the fact that you are passing a lot of people who haven't leap-frogged you, and that you don't sound quite as bad as some of them.
9. Pass mile marker 12. Do some mental math, rule out any possibility of a much-wanted walk break, and keep pushing on.
10. Cross the finish line at 2:07:53 with a 9:45/mile pace, very close to two minutes faster than your last PR (which was two years ago, two days after a Spirits Expo and approximately 63 samples of high-quality spirits).
    
11. Laugh about the whole thing while enjoying a large caramel latte from the best coffee shop in town (Mo Joe's). Take a walk in the local park and admire the beautiful fall foliage. Enjoy the rest of the weekend.

Death of a Muse

In general, I have no beef with growing older. In fact, I'm really enjoying the heck out of it. Each decade is better than the previous, and I look forward to every day. However, there is one giant caveat to growing older: losing friends.

Last week the world lost a pretty unique and amazing human named Georgeann. I met Georgeann a very long time ago at Arizona State, in 1983. She played trombone, I played bassoon. The trombones sat right behind the bassoon section, and we entertained each other through tedious orchestra rehearsals while the conductor completely ignored anything sitting beyond the string sections. She was my roommate at the Aspen Music Festival in 1984, and three of us spent the nine weeks laughing ourselves silly when we weren't in rehearsals.

But there was a lot more to George than fun times. When I met her, she explained that she had no spleen, so had to be careful about staying healthy. It had been removed in her early twenties due to some sort of immune system disorder. Since the spleen is a major component of the immune system, there were certain things she had to be especially careful about. She wasn't particularly concerned about it and didn't let it control her life, it was just something to be aware of.

Life went on. I moved to Boston, she and Barry built a locksmithing business in Chicago, she gave up trombone and learned to play the cello, and eventually had a little girl, Kati. She even volunteered at a children's hospital, on top of everything else.

Thanksgiving weekend of 1995, after a shift at the hospital, Georgeann went home and went to bed, feeling like she had the flu. Barry came home early from the shop to look after little Kati, who was only a few months old. Georgeann fell asleep for a few hours. Some time in the night, she got up to go to the bathroom. Only she couldn't walk. Her hands and feet were very, very cold. She woke up Barry, who had the presence of mind to literally carry her and the baby down to the car and go to the nearest hospital.

Luck was still with them, as someone in the emergency room recognized what was going on. Georgeann had picked up the same strep bug that killed Jim Henson (creator of the Muppets) in a matter of hours. The only treatment is to throw multiple combinations of antibiotics at it and hope something works in time. I don't know the details, but at some point her heart stopped, she was in a coma, and went into septic shock. The survival rate for septic shock is somewhere around 40%. It was lower 18 years ago when this happened. Somehow, she survived all of this.

After a couple of weeks of inaccurate second-hand information, I finally flew to Chicago to see her. The first words out of her mouth were, "Carla! I'm alive! What happened to my hands and feet could have happened to my brain! They tell me I'm going to be able to hold my daughter!" She had dry gangrene in all of her digits and both feet, starting above the ankles. All were a dark purple color. Her fingers were so shriveled they looked like claws -- the fingernails were huge on her poor sticks of fingers. Her feet were bloated like a kiddie balloon with toes. The infection had sent all of her coagulants to her extremities, and had been literally killing her from the outside in. It was quite a shock to see, but her enthusiasm for living quickly made it just part of who she was. That was how she handled it.

I was there for three days, and lost track of how many times she exclaimed, "Carla! I'm alive!" She was very eager to get the feet amputated and get started on recovery. She had already been prepped more than once, only to get down to surgery and spike a fever and wake up back in her room with the dead feet still attached. She was scheduled to try again the day after I left. Typical of Georgeann, she said, "I know they're holding me back, and I'm ready to have them gone, but ya know, it's gonna be a little strange to look down and see them gone." Sheesh. I had to laugh at her and say, "Georgeann! It's going to be more than a 'little strange', it's going to be effing weird!" We had a good laugh.

Even after her feet were amputated, it took another couple of months before she could start learning to walk again, because they were trying to salvage as much of her hands as possible. She endured many debriding sessions and bided her time until they removed her fingers. She was left with no knuckles, and half a thumb joint in one hand. After surgery, she held up her hands and said, "I have Muppet hands!" She learned to walk, celebrated Kati's first birthday right there in the hospital, and she was discharged eight months after going to bed to sleep off a flu.

A few years later she and Barry adopted a boy from Russia. By this time she was driving again (still like a bat out of hell), walking around 2.5 miles a day (same gait as before), raising the kids, working with Barry at the security shop, riding a stationary bike 30 minutes a day, etc. While she still needed help with some things, she was amazingly self-sufficient, and never let on how exhausting or frustrating it all had to be. She didn't let it define who she was or what she did. She was very annoyed at having to wear pants with elastic waistbands, however.

In the last few years of her life, she discovered her passion in horseback riding. She bought a horse and trained for dressage competitions. All with no feet and no hands to speak of. Her dream was to ride in a competition herself, and I think she would have done that very soon had things gone her way. I can't even imagine how hard it is to ride a horse when you can't use your feet and ankles to hold on or communicate with the horse - she was using only her upper legs and her core simply to stay upright. Amazing.

I have a short list of people that truly motivate and inspire me when things are getting hard in an endurance event and it's slipping into a sufferfest. George was, and will always be, one of those people. When my feet hurt, I am happy to have feet and happy to have the ability to feel pain. I think of how hard Georgeann had to work to do anything at all, and that usually stops the pity party before it can get started. Every visit with her was a laugh-fest, whether we were making fun of Pia Zadora, telling stories, or making plans to get totally plowed, visit Graceland, and see how long it took to get kicked out. I will miss the emails forwarding links of potential Darwin-award winners in the news, accompanied by some hilariously sarcastic remark.

Georgeann died in the hospital, choking on her breakfast. She had been sick off and on for the past year, with what appeared to be respiratory issues and perhaps congestive heart failure. We all attributed this to her compromised immune system, and figured she probably had a lot of damage from the original illness 18 years ago. This time, she'd been in the hospital a couple of weeks, was very weak, and was having difficulty sitting up straight. It's a mystery to us as to why she was left alone to eat in this condition.

What none of us knew was that earlier in the week, they had done a bone marrow biopsy, and found multiple myeloma. Her husband didn't even know about this finding until after she died. We think she may have found out the day before, but never had the chance to talk to anyone about it. She was planning to go to rehab the following Monday for three days, then go home (she died on a Saturday). We don't know details, but the implications are that the cancer was bad enough that she was not going to survive it. It certainly looks like one of the more nasty forms to get, without a very hopeful prognosis.

So. How to respond to this. Be upset that she died choking, likely knowing she was dying, due to what can only be viewed as neglect? Or be grateful that she didn't have to suffer the indignities of chemo, radiation, and likely horrible bone pain for an extended period of time? While sad and shocked that we had to lose her the way we lost her, I choose to be grateful, while a little angry and disgusted with the hospital. I'm so glad she didn't have to hurt or be sick anymore. She fought so hard and for so long that she had to be tired of it. I know she wasn't quite ready to go, but her future was grim.

Georgeann, thank you for all the smiles, all the tears from laughing so hard, all the inspiration and motivation. You have no idea how many people admired you for your strength and refusal to sit back and give up. You will always be my muse.

IM Louisville 2013: Fate Catches Up

Everyone who races knows that, eventually, they will have a day when the body refuses to play along. It is inevitable. If we are lucky, it happens at a smaller, less significant event. If we are not, it happens at our "A" race, the one we've been training for all year.

Such was my fate at Ironman Louisville 2013.

After a very easy (and slow) swim, I got out of the water feeling fabulous and full of energy for the bike ride and run ahead. I was actually looking forward to getting out there on the bike, and eager to start the run. The helpful volunteer in the changing tent helped me get all my stuff sorted out, opened my lube for me, and handed me things as I needed them. I drank my Shakeology, which topped off a filling breakfast of two Core Powers and a protein drink made with almond milk and a peach, and I was out of there in a quick 10:45. While five minutes faster than the last time I did this race, it felt very relaxed and calm, and I was looking forward to the rest of my day.

Got deluxe service with two more volunteers slathering me from head to toe in sunscreen, found my bike, waved goodbye to Paula and Shirley, and took off. It was a beautiful day, just starting to heat up into the low 70's.

Things went well. As I expected, the first 22 miles were the fastest. This was the flattest part of the course, with only two big hills. The next 25 or so miles I slowed down about as much as I had expected, knowing it was going to be non-stop hills for another 40 miles or so. It was getting warmer, but I wasn't feeling particularly uncomfortable, and I was on schedule with my fluids and fuel. I made sure to sip on my carb/protein mix on a regular basis, and had stopped a couple of times to take water and some electrolyte drink, and stand up to stretch the legs a bit. Was passing lots of people on the hills without killing myself. So far so good. Gonna be a great day!

At mile 50 or so, the freight train hit. I felt like I wanted to puke. My legs lost all strength. I was consumed with an overwhelming fatigue. I started fantasizing about stopping, laying down in the grass by the road, and taking a 3-hour nap. What is going on? I sure hope this passes. I've NEVER felt that bad during any kind of physical event. I've felt mildly nauseas for maybe five minutes at a time when it's been particularly hot, but nothing that compares to this fatigue. I definitely wasn't bonking; I'd been taking in good calories all day. I wasn't trying anything new. All my nutrition was stuff I'd been using all summer. Did I start out too fast and flame out? No, I had kept a very reasonable and comfortable-feeling pace up to this point. Am I getting sick with something and it's just now hitting me? All I could do was keep going and hope it passed. But I had a dark feeling it wouldn't.

Around mile 56 (or maybe 58?), I pulled into an aid station and knew I had to sit down before I fell down. A wonderful volunteer brought me a baggie of ice, and I put that on my neck. Drank a full bottle of water and felt a little better. Got up and realized I probably should lay down for a few minutes. Laying in the grass, I put the ice on my side, and that helped quite a bit. Was finally feeling good enough to get up, go to the bathroom (well I guess that rules out dehydration, no?), and get moving again. By now, my focus was on making it to my food at special needs, which was mile 65.

I struggled more than normal to get up the hills, and tried to go as fast as I could going down. By now I was starting to get a little woozy, which was frightening when coasting down a hill at something like 35mph (I haven't checked my Garmin yet to verify). Going down one hill, I realized that the walls were indeed closing in, and it was all I could do to focus on the pavement immediately in front of me and holding a stable form, so as not to crash. I was very aware of making a conscious effort not to let the attention stray and do something stupid that would cause me to lose control of the bike.

Finally got to special needs. Called out my number, and yet another outstanding volunteer found me a chair and brought my bag of goodies. I drank another Shakeology, hoping the protein would at least alleviate this agony enough to get the brain back in gear. The volunteer was a man about my age, and he was feeling my pain. That poor guy tried his best to buck me up and get me pumped about doing the remaining 47 miles. If I had been feeling normally, I would have been thrilled to only have 47 miles left. In my current condition, I could only groan and thank him for trying. After I-don't-know-how-long, I got back on the bike and left, very slowly. Walking wasn't the problem, pedaling was. If I could just get myself back to transition, I could WALK the marathon if need be. If I can just get back on the bike.

But the legs continued to get weaker and weaker. It got to the point where I could barely pedal even on the flat sections. Since when is it hard to get 13mph on my bike?? What is going on here?

The nausea never really went away; instead it proceeded to get worse and worse, as did the struggle to focus. Finally, around mile 72 or 73, I stopped, laid the bike down, and sat down next to it, hoping to wait out the nausea. Some other cyclists came by (also going fairly slowly but obviously not feeling as awful as I was) and asked if I needed anything. I told them I was done and asked if they could please mention me at the next aid station. They promised they would and continued on.

I laid down in the grass by the road and promptly lost everything I had just put in my stomach. Several times. Damn. Is this ever going to stop? It finally did, and I sat up. Realized that I actually felt a lot better after puking. Maybe I can get a few more miles in and see how it goes?

At 75 miles, the legs totally gave out and refused to move the pedals any more. Well, crap. Whatever this is, it's bad. And it's not letting up. In fact, it's getting worse. There's no possible way I can do another 37 miles, even if it's flat, and it isn't. Found some shade, leaned the bike up against someone's mailbox out in the middle of nowhere, and sat down. Pretty soon a Sheriff's vehicle came by, and I let him know I wasn't needing EMS, I just needed a ride back to Louisville. Waited maybe ten minutes, and a race SAG van showed up.

[Side note: Another rider came up while I was getting into the van. She was going to hitch a ride because she didn't think she was going to make the bike cutoff. I told her she had plenty of time if she kept going, and it came out that she thought the cutoff was 5:30pm. She was very happy when I told her no, it was either 6:20 or 6:30, so she could definitely make the 37 miles by then. It was probably 3pm or so by this time, so she still had around three hours to play with. She left, smiling. I really hope she made it. I was too out of it to look at her number, much less remember it, so I can't look her up in the results.]

I climbed in the back, thinking I might lie down, and we headed for the next person to pick up. It was blissfully cool inside. Uh oh. I think I'm gonna puke again, and the windows back here don't open. Ack! Climbed up into the front seat and hung my head out the window. Is this misery ever going to end? The driver took my chip, wrote my number down, and called it in. Damn. I'm really going to DNF. I N-E-V-E-R DNF. Especially not at my one major race, especially not an Ironman! But I couldn't do a thing about it. This was not a matter of will power or mental strength. It simply wasn't happening today.

We picked up two more people who were having mechanical issues, and passed a third who was going back in an ambulance. I had to ask the driver to pull over once on the highway, but didn't get sick. I rode the rest of the way back with my head hanging out the window like a dog, wondering if I should have chosen the ambulance instead. Dear god, what is wrong with me?

Got back to transition, walked straight to the medical tent and laid down. Baggies of ice in the armpits and under the neck felt great. Answered a few questions (no not dehydrated, just peed an hour ago, yes BP is always that low, no a pulse of 60 when I'm not moving is not unusual, yes had plenty of fuel onboard until I puked). They watched me for a few minutes and as we chatted, it was obvious I was not in IV territory or worse. The nurse called Paula and told her where I was, and within a few minutes, she and Shirley rounded the corner. They had been waiting nearby, watching my splits get slower and slower, and they knew something was going on. Paula had even turned her phone up super-loud so she'd be sure to hear it, and was ready to answer any unknown phone numbers that called. We retrieved all my stuff from transition and walked back to the hotel. Stopped in the Starbucks in the lobby and got a vanilla frappacino, which was a little bit of bliss after feeling so awful for so long.

Showered, went to dinner, came back and napped until 10:30pm, then went back downstairs to watch the last hour of finishers. The last hour is the most exciting, as people push hard to get in under the 17-hour cutoff. I was happy to see a few people that had been in the back-forty with me on the bike successfully finish their race, and I'm sure I missed a few. It was good to see that they managed to get back in time, even though they were struggling for a while.

Felt fine after a decent night's sleep, and two days later feel completely normal. Looking back, I think I must have been on the verge of heat exhaustion or something like that. We've had a very mild summer in Indianapolis, and I've lost my hot-weather conditioning. (I was more prepared for heat in June.) One of the medics told me that the heat index had spiked right about the time I started tanking, and he wasn't surprised. I was caught completely off-guard, though. I did everything right: training, nutrition, fluids, pacing. I've done over 60 triathlons, almost 60 half-marathons, 15 marathons, and a slew of other distances, and have never felt anything like this. It took me totally by surprise. I'll be happy if I get another 10-year run of mishap-free racing, now that I've got this spectacular bonk (or whatever it was) out of the way.

Sadly, there are no more iron-distance opportunities this year that are not sold out, save one. It's $575 and in a state that I've already raced in...sigh. I'd love to do it, but hate to spend the money, again. However, I'm mapping out the rest of the tri/half-marathon/marathon season, figuring out which states to hit, and am grateful to be injury-free and able to plan more races.

And hey, no recovery time to speak of! All I did was an easy two-hour swim and five-hour bike -- didn't beat myself up on the run, so I'm ready to go work out tomorrow. Ha!

Who Needs Sleep?

I've concluded that loud country music is more painful than the crotch pain from 120 miles on a bike. After running a trail half-marathon. All on two hours of sleep.

So Ironman Louisville is in four weeks (now two). This meant I had two weekends' worth of hard training before having to taper. What better way to spend this one than beating myself to a pulp? As it happened, Planet Adventure put together the perfect hard training weekend and I was able to take advantage of it. Paula and I were scheduled to work timing for a 24-hour bike ride at the Subaru test track (how many times can you ride the two-mile loop in 24 hours?), which didn't start until noon. This meant we could also participate in the Planet Adventure trail run that morning before heading up to Subaru.

Saturday's alarm went off at 5:45am, giving us plenty of time to have a good breakfast, make sure the car was loaded up, stop at Starbucks for some caffeine, and get to the race site in time to relax and get ready to run. The Eagle Creek trail half- and full-marathon is a much-anticipated race, and drew a sold-out crowd. I planned on doing the half, and Paula signed on for the quarter-marathon (~ 6.5 miles). The course is more challenging than many, with lots of ups and downs and a fair number of fallen limbs to step over.

The day was perfect for running, with cloud cover that kept the temperatures down and the humidity high. No one minded the humidity, since we were having outrageously cool temps for August. Paula won her age group and I placed second in mine (out of seven). Surprising since I had an unusually slow day (2:49:01), but I guess everyone in the female 50-54 group was feeling laid-back that day.

Paula finished up, then rode with James (of Planet Adventure) up to the Subaru test track at Lafayette, to start getting the timing set up for the 24-hour bike ride. After I finished running, I headed directly there and helped them finish getting ready. The count-down clock was turned on at noon, and all the riders took off.

After making sure everyone's chip was reading and recording properly, Paula and I signed up to ride in the "solo female" division. This event is primarily made up of teams who ride the full 24-hours, taking turns. There was only one woman signed up for the female solo category, so we were both guaranteed to place in the top three. I like those odds! Around 1pm I took off and did a few laps, and got my legs under me.

Another Planet Adventure staffer showed up and relieved James, and Brian was there with us until midnight. The track was dimly lit, and cyclists had to have some sort of headlamp and tail-light, but it was pretty easy to see everyone. By the time it got dark, riders were spread out with only a couple clumps. The wind finally died down and made for some very pleasant riding. Paula and I took turns, and I managed to rack up 36 laps before calling it quits around 11pm. At this point the other solo female had 43 laps, but she had called it day and turned in her chip. Cool! I should win this thing, since my goal was to complete 50 laps. The way she had cranked out those 43 laps had convinced me she was going to leave me in her dust, so I was happy to find out she'd done all she was going to do.

At midnight, Brian went to join his family at a local hotel and get some sleep, and I crawled into the back of the car and slept until 2am. When I relieved Paula, she filled me in on some issues that were going on, then she went to get some rest. There were a couple of chips that were going completely wonky, registering laps that didn't exist and ridiculously fast laps. I had to pay close attention and make sure everyone's chip was registering as they crossed the start line, and delete all of the extraneous entries being generated by the wonky chips. I actually didn't mind, as this forced me to stay awake and alert.

Working 24-hour events is very interesting. The dynamics change as the hours go by, and people get more and more relaxed. Even the hyper-competitive types start to mellow out by 3am. Everyone was camped out in the infield of the track, and teams had tents and congregating areas set up. Some riders didn't even show up to the track until midnight or later, whenever their shifts began. The event was a fundraiser for CASA, an Indiana organization that helps abused and neglected children, and Subaru is a major supporter of that group. The organizers did a wonderful job keeping riders fed, with a food tent that never closed and always had plenty of good things to eat and drink. They catered dinner, breakfast, and lunch from local restaurants, and it was great to have real food to eat.

Overnight was quiet, with a steady stream of riders switching out with teammates, and three very determined male solo riders going non-stop. Those guys would crank out 30-40 miles, take a 30-minute break, then go right back and do another 30-40 miles. Crazy. Many people were sleeping, but that didn't dampen the enthusiasm of those who were up and riding or supporting the riders.

Paula relieved me around 5:30am, and I was back out on the track by 5:45. It was great to ride at sunrise, free of the crazy winds that had blown us around Saturday afternoon. I clinched my victory (did the eight laps needed to get me to 44 laps), then Paula took a turn. Finally, around 7:30am, I reached my goal of 50 laps. Hmmm, Ironman is 56 laps (112 miles), surely I can get that? Reached that goal with a little over two hours to go, then took a break. Decided I wanted to get 60 laps under my belt before calling it quits, so went out and did my last four. By now the sun had fully risen and the wind was picking up. I was extremely tired even though I felt great, and got sick of fighting the wind all the way down the first half of the track. I had hoped to possibly break 60 by at least a couple of laps, but was just too tired to keep working against the wind. My legs felt good but heavy, and mentally I was very happy with my 60 and ready to call it good.

The countdown clock finally hit zero, there was a quick awards ceremony, and I was presented with a nice plaque for first place solo female. The winning solo male had some crazy number like 150 laps, and the winning teams were in the 365 mile range. We then got busy packing up all our gear. Down came the start/finish line, the clock got put away, all our timing stuff packed up and stowed, all the cables coiled, speakers put away, trailer loaded. By 1:30pm, the track was clear of tents, mobile homes, and riders, and looking very quiet. We were grateful for the relatively short ride home (< 1 hour), and decided to stop at Texas Roadhouse for takeout steak...

...and were bombarded with outrageously loud bad country music. "I love my truck and my ex ran over my dog" kind of country music. Loud enough we had to use our outside voices to order our food. And it was loud outside too, with nowhere to go to get away from it. After an excruciating 15-minute wait, our food was finally ready. I asked the employee how she listened to that all day without shooting anybody. She laughed and said she got used to it. I gave her my condolences.

And yes, loud country music truly is more miserable than any amount of bike-riding-induced crotch pain and sleep deprivation.

Ironman Muncie 70.3 2013: Successful Day

This past weekend was the Ironman Muncie 70.3, and I had a far better day than expected. I went into this one unconcerned about time. My race-day plan was not to really race, but to view it as a good, long training day, do what I felt like doing, let the day come to me, and see how that played out. No pressure. I fiddle-faddled through the transitions, stopped twice on the bike to stand up, and took plenty of walk breaks on the run. Yet I was completely surprised to see the clock when I finished, handily beating my projected 7:10-7:15 time.

For the first time in several years, the weather was perfect. It seems like the last few years have either brought crazy-wild thunderstorms (my attempt #1 at the distance), torrential downpours (my first successful attempt at the distance), or record heat that resulted in shortening the course. This year was a gift from the weather gods, and everyone was quite excited. The water temp was 76, just barely wetsuit legal, but legal all the same, so most of us decided to go ahead and wear the thing for its buoyancy benefits.

The swim was my usual pathetic pace, but felt better than any this season. Though slow, it was much more a swim than a flounder, so even though the time was a bit disappointing, my day got off to a good start. It was wonderful to get out of the water and hear my name being called by a friend who was there spectating with her boyfriend. (Why aren't you racing, Jen? You're waaaaay more than ready.) Nice to see their smiling faces!

Swim: 52:46

T1 was a long walk from the beach to the transition area, and I took my time. Stopped in a porta-potty to take care of business and wipe sand off myself. After exiting the water, I had flopped to let the wetsuit strippers do their work, and came up covered with sand/dirt. That would drive me crazy all day if I didn't wipe it off. So I took some extra time to clean up before getting ready to bike for 3+ hours. Thought about getting a massage while I was there, but decided that could wait.

T1: 7:27

The bike was on a (mostly) nice course with good roads. However, there had been a course change to alleviate some permitting issues, and it resulted in some oddness. Around mile 20 was a section of road that was a no-passing zone, about 3/4-mile long. In addition to a not-so-great surface, it was narrow, so race officials made it a no-passing zone, but relaxed the drafting rules a bit. I was lucky enough not to get behind anyone going painfully slow, so I didn't mind the break, but apparently some people were not so lucky and got frustrated. It was only 3/4 of a mile, so most took advantage of the time to drink something and relax for a few minutes. The bad part was coming up.

We took a left and headed for the turnaround point at mile 28. Unfortunately, this stretch of road was exceedingly crappy, full of very sloppy chip-seal and some good rollers. The hills were very manageable, but it's amazing how exhausting it is to constantly be bumpity-bumping over lousy road on a bike for 16 or so miles. Ugh. This stretch was also narrow, so even though passing was legal, if someone was passing from each direction at the same time, it got a bit tight. The bumping was also hard on the crotch, and got old quite quickly. I stopped once to stand up and give the nether regions a break.

Finally, around mile 36, we made a right turn back into the no-passing zone. Hurrah! The torture is almost over! There was a collective sigh of relief as riders got back on to nice, smooth road, and everyone sped up again. I decided I wanted to take another break when I got to the final aid station at mile 44, and pulled over. Got the left foot unclipped, and just then my right calf decided it was going to have The Mother Of All Charlie Horses. You can't coordinate the foot well enough to unclip when the calf is one seized-up spasming knot, so over I went. Damn. Didn't hurt myself, but had to lay there under the bike a minute with the right foot still clipped in, waiting for the calf to stop seizing. Finally it loosened up just enough to give me back control of my foot and ankle. I unclipped, climbed out from under the bike, stood up and stretched a minute, then got on my way. The rest of the ride was uneventful, and I was happy to pull back into transition after three hours and 17 minutes, with an average of 17.05 mph. Faster than it felt like, so a successful ride.

Bike: 3:17:03
First 28 miles: 1:38:56
Second 28 miles: 1:38:07. Negative split!

T2 was slightly more efficient than T1. I walked it, chatted with my rackmate while we both got changed for the run, sucked down another gel, stopped at the table by the exit to cover my arms/neck with sunscreen, and headed out. Felt good, just wasn't feeling the need to kill myself rushing.

T2: 4:20

The run was entirely uneventful. I did my usual walk/trudge/run thing, and was pleased at the prospect of hitting the turnaround pretty close to an hour and ten minutes. The volunteers at the aid stations were terrific, full of energy and quite helpful. There was cold water and electrolyte drink at every stop, and most had cups of ice as well. The first station was armed with garden hoses and water guns, and sprayed us down. Boy did that feel good at the beginning and end of the run! It really wasn't that hot, low 80's and not grossly humid, but the cold liquids made a big difference. The enthusiasm of the volunteers made it easy to keep moving, and the 13.1 miles passed rather painlessly.

With maybe 1/4-mile to go, I again heard my name being yelled, this time by some fellow tri-nuts that were there spectating. It was great to see them and they helped motivate me to finally put the hammer down and run it in. I was able to all-out sprint the last 1/10-mile down the finish chute, catching and passing a couple of guys who were ahead of me, and was pleasantly stunned to see the clock at the finish. It was under seven hours! Anything under seven hours is a gift, and the time on the clock didn't account for the fact that my swim wave started a few minutes later than the official race start time. Wow!

Run: 2:24:40
First half: 1:13:05
Second half: 1:11:35. Another negative split! AND my best time ever for the run in a 70.3 race! How did that happen?

Total time: 6:46:16

I have some thoughts about my unexpected success, but I'll save those for another blog post. This one is already long enough!

Rev3 Williamsburg Half Tri

I violated the "never do an inaugural event" rule, and while there were some hiccups, overall the day was a success. There are always things learned during any race, but inaugural ones can be quite challenging for participants and race directors alike.

The Road Trip

Our drive from Indianapolis was uneventful until we tried to get out of Charlston, WV. We made it two exits past our hotel before being caught in a major traffic jam. There had just been some sort of accident that looked like a simple fender-bender when we finally drove by it almost an hour later. It was a nice morning, though, so we got out and wandered the highway, making friends with the locals who were using their smart phones to find out what was going on. One was originally from L.A., and we laughed at the lack of road rage.

The detour along part of the Blue Ridge Parkway was a nice break from interstates. We took the time to stop and look around, and enjoy the beautiful afternoon.

Pre-Race

This was a two-transition race, which always complicates things. What this means is that you get out of the water and start the bike at one location, then come back to a totally different location to rack the bike and start the run. Logistically, the set-up is a pain. You have to check the bike into T1 (transition 1) the day before the race, then go back to it race morning to put your fluids and nutrition on it, and set up with the helmet/bike shoes/towel/etc. Saturday, we checked our bikes, then spent the rest of the day at Colonial Williamsburg.

Race morning we got to the finish area/T2 and got parked. Paula was doing the Olympic distance tri that was happening simultaneously, and we both got our run stuff set up and ready to go. Then we got in line for the shuttles to T1...and encountered the first "new race" issue: not nearly enough buses. They were allowing both the half and olympic participants to board, along with spectators and family, which would have been great had there been enough buses. (My race started 30 minutes before Paula's.) The longer we stood in line, the higher everyone's stress level got. Transition was supposed to close in less than half an hour, and the line was around the corner and down the block. Finally they moved all of us doing the half to another line and got us on the next couple of buses, then brought everyone else.

As it turned out, Paula and Shirley got there right behind me. I had just finished getting set up with my fluids on the bike, shoes, helmet, and race belt. My race was about to start, and I was relieved to hear they were delaying the start a few minutes, so I had time to hit a port-a-john. Thank goodness. I still haven't mastered the art of peeing while swimming, so waiting wasn't an option.

The Swim

I've done 60+ triathlons, and this was by far the most frustrating swim I have ever experienced.

The swim was in the James River, which is a tidal river. Apparently it can get very squirrely when weather comes through, and we had a rainstorm come through overnight Saturday. The course was a giant triangle, making two right turns around two red buoys. Paula's swim was a smaller triangle inside of mine, with two orange/yellow buoys marking her turns. There were yellow buoys guiding the way to the turns. Seemed clear enough from the shore.

The swim start was in waves, with the pros starting first, then younger folks, then older folks. I watched the first few waves start, and immediately was confused. People were WALKING most of the way to the first yellow buoy. Whaaaaa? A few were dolphin-diving, trying to make some headway, but the vast majority were walking. Very odd. My wave started, and a few people tried to swim/dolphin dive, but there were too many people walking to get any swimming space. I trudged out along with the rest of them.

The swim was ok for the first two or three yellow buoys, but we clearly were getting pushed around. I couldn't really see the red buoy, but was in a crowd of swimmers, so was hopeful some of them could see it. However, as we approached the orange/yellow buoy for the Olympic turn, it became clear that we were off course. Um, ok, now to figure out where we were supposed to be. A kayaker came through and pointed out the red buoy, waaaaaaay over there, about 90 degrees from our swim direction. Oh great. I couldn't figure out how the yellow buoys were in any way guiding people over there...maybe some had drifted? I don't know. There were probably at least 50 of us in that group. Sigh. Ok, I'll start heading out to the red buoy.

Only I didn't get anywhere. I swam and swam and swam, and every time I looked up, that damned orange/yellow buoy was the same distance off my shoulder. WTF. I was hit with a serious bout of frustration, and struggled to shake it off. A woman swam over to a nearby kayak and appeared to be quitting (she took off her swim cap and goggles and hung on). That's when I made the conscious decision to cut the course and simply try to get back to the line of swimmers that were on course. Apparently that's what most of us did, judging by the number of violet-colored swim caps I saw right there with me.

I swam for what felt like forever, finally spotted the second red buoy, and thought perhaps this hell was almost over. I made decent, if slow, progress, but at least I wasn't looking at that effing orange buoy anymore. I felt another intense wave of frustration, as I realized how pitifully slow my progress really was, then got pissed, then decided, "Oh what the hell, this'll be good endurance practice for Ironman. And besides, I paid $250 for this punishment, and drove 750 miles to get here. And I really want to ride my new bike. Suck it up."

Swam and swam and swam and...finally made it within maybe 50 yards of the second red buoy, then totally stalled out. Wasn't getting anywhere. After another few minutes of swimming, I confirmed this by looking at my Garmin. Finally, I checked the distance again, and had gone .84 miles. Hmmm. Ok. If I cut the course again (along with lots of fellow swimmers), I'll end up doing the full 1.2 miles anyway, and I'll get out of here sometime before noon. I've never ever cut a course before, but this time it really had become a matter of survival. The fact that not one of the kayakers was trying to herd us back on course was significant. Clearly the swim had devolved into such a cluster that they really just wanted people out of the water.

Imagine my surprise when I finally had the finish in sight, still a good 100 yards away, and I saw the backsides of people standing! How odd. Normally you swim until your hands are brushing the bottom, as that is much faster than walking in waist-deep water. Wow. Looks like everyone else was as beat up and tired of swimming as I was! Ok, I'll start walking too. It gave me time to pull the wetsuit down to my waist, and I can pee while walking, just not while swimming. Hooray! I joined the mass of walking, peeing swimmers, and happily made my way to shore.

Paula's swim started 30 minutes after mine, so I expected her to finish maybe 15 minutes after I did. I was concerned about her the entire swim, because these were unusually horrid conditions, and she's not used to that kind of challenge. Shirley met me at the shore, and I mentioned to her that I was worried. It was a quarter of a mile to transition, and once again it was clear this had been a tough one, not part of my imagination. Ordinarily in a race, people are running to get to their bikes and get out on the road. Not this time. Almost no one was bothering to run; they were walking and taking their time. One woman said, "I've done an Ironman, and that was the hardest thing I've ever done." Another normally swam that distance in 36 minutes, yet here she was getting out of the water with me after an hour and four minutes. Yikes. I normally take about 45 minutes.

Swim time: 1:04:14 [15-20 minutes slower than usual]

T1

Just as I was about to leave on the bike, Paula came up and told me she had been pulled. She was in good company. There were two people with her on the boat who had completed multiple Ironmans, and they were calling it a day. While disappointed for her, I wasn't surprised (it was THAT bad), and was able to relax, knowing she was ok. [She later told me that between the late start and the currents, people were out there longer than expected - no surprise. However, the ferry was coming, and they were worried people might get pulled under, so they hauled swimmers out of the water until it passed. They were given the option to get back in the water and continue, but most packed it in for the day.] Between the very long trek back to the bike and chatting with Paula to make sure she was ok, I had the world's longest T1 time, over ten minutes. Oh well, really not going to matter when I hit the finish line. Time to enjoy the bike.

The Bike

This was the third time I had ridden my new bike, but I felt comfortable that it would be fine, since I'd done 64 miles on it the previous weekend. Still, I wasn't completely sure how I'd feel in a race situation by mile 56. As it happened, I thoroughly enjoyed the bike course. It was beautiful, green, mostly good roads, some nice winding sections, and rollers that were just enough to make it challenging but not particularly hard. While not especially fast, I fell in love with the bike as I was passing people going up hills...and wasn't exhausting myself. Since the day had already started with a slow swim and slow transition, I decided to experiment and see how I felt if I didn't stop until the last aid station at mile 38. At that point I stopped long enough to stand up, take some water, and transfer the last of my protein/carb drink to the front bottle on the bike, where it's easy to access. Felt ok, but probably should stop and stand up every 20 miles or so. I think I wouldn't slow down quite as much near the end and would make up for any rest time.

The best part of the bike was around mile 50, when I passed some younger guy (wearing an uber-expensive aero helmet and using expensive wheels), going up a hill. And didn't see him again. Hehehe all that expensive gear didn't prevent him from being chicked by someone close to 20 years older. That made the last six miles fly by. Happily got off the bike after 56 miles, and left for the run.

Bike time: 3:26:24 [about the same as usual, maybe +10 minutes]

The Run

Ah, the joy of being a BOP-er (back of the packer)...start the run in the heat of the day. Nothing new there, I'm used to that. The run was hillier than advertised, but was fine. Thankfully there weren't too many stretches without shade, and the support was phenomenal. Wet sponges at some stations, ice and gels at most, and very supportive and enthusiastic volunteers at all of them. It was a two-loop course that made it easy to find your peeps near the end, and it was nice to see Paula and Shirley as I came through both times. I stopped and chatted with Paula for a minute, making sure she was ok with how her day had ended. She was disappointed but ok, so I could relax again for the second loop. It was very spectator-friendly, and the finish was noisy and supportive. I did my usual walk/trudge combo, and was definitely slower due to the heat, but still managed to pass quite a few people along the way. One woman and I kept leap-frogging each other and laughing about it. I knew I liked her when she passed me at an aid station around mile 12, shook her head, and said, "Oh holy shit!", referring to the heat. My sentiments exactly.

Paula joined me at the entrance to the finisher chute, and ran with me to the finish. Was handed a nice cold wet towel and an enormous medal. What a nice way to finish a long hot day!

Run time: 2:38:37 [~10 minutes slower than usual]

Total race time: 7:22:18 [anything under 7:00 is a gift, so not bad]

Post-Race

Got cleaned up, had a lamb burger and a beer, then relaxed for a couple of hours. We did an evening "ghost walk" at Colonial Williamsburg that night and thoroughly enjoyed it. Monday we walked ourselves silly at Busch Gardens, and managed to ride almost every coaster there before the heat/stomachs made us stop. This was an excellent venue for a destination race, and I truly hope they can get the swim issues worked out. This has the potential to be a truly kick-butt event.