For the entire week before Steelhead, I tortured myself with thoughts about the race. With the bee sting, swimming was out. With the shin splints, running was out. It really sucks when you can’t do 2 of the 3 events that made up this race. Each day, I’d wake up, throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. Gingerly, I’d shift all my weight to my left leg to see if I’d feel any pain. And so it went,
for the next 6 days. I tried so hard to NOT think about running and training and just tried to focus on other things. As the days went by, it was looking more and more like I’d have to forego the run portion of this race. It was mental torture. But every time I climbed up the stairs in my house, I knew that running on this injury could do me no good. Even if I pushed through, which I believe I could have done, I don’t think I could’ve improved my last Half IM time, and…even if I did, at what cost would that be? Set me back another 3-4 weeks of run training while I stay off my feet???
Even as I packed to go to the race and threw my running shoes in the bag, just in case, by some miracle, the shin made a spectacular recovery overnight, I had a deep gut feeling that I was going to have to chalk up this race as my very first DNF. On the way up to Benton Harbor, CJB gave me a call to see how the leg was and wish me luck. When I told him it still wasn’t feeling good, he encouraged me to not run. While I’d been having the thoughts of just bailing on the run all week, the words from him were like the sign I needed to affirm my thoughts on preventing myself from doing further damage. Why was this so important? Because although CJB and I have had our differences and can bicker like brother and sister, we both share a certain passion for the sport. And neither of us likes to give up. When another over-the-top-psycho-competitive triathlete tells you it’s probably best to sit it out, well, then it probably is. And though it’s easy for me to tell someone it’s the right thing to do, it’s a very different thing to follow that same advice.
We arrived at the obnoxiously overcrowded packet pick up only to be directed to park over a mile away from the site. It looked like everyone was bringing their bikes, so I reluctantly pulled my bike out of the car, put it back together and hopped on it for a test spin. Everything seemed to be OK, so we walked over to pick up my race materials. It was utter chaos. Even though there were volunteers directing athletes where to park, it was an absolute nightmare. Vehicles were parked on both sides of the narrow entrance into the park area. There were cars trying to get in and others trying to get out while trying to maneuver around the athletes (like me) who had to walk their bikes from a much further location. I had one volunteer say to me “Hey, we have cars coming down here.” Uh, yeah, I’m walking on the grass way off the side of the road. Where else would you like me to go? Completely ridiculous. Keep in mind this race was about half the size (and price) last year. I truly believe the race grew too much too fast.
I made my way slowly over to the expo area and the place was a zoo. One thing that jumped out to me immediately was that there were not near enough porta potties for a race of this size. I grabbed my packet and weaved my way through the oncoming swarm of anxious triathletes. I had to put my number on my bike before they’d let me in transition, which was a bummer, because I like to take my time and put it on the bike in just the right way. Fortunately, there were numbers for each athlete, so there was no rush to try and get a good space on the rack. I threw the bike up on the rack, let air out of the tires (it was quite hot out and would be a big bummer if a tire blew before I came back tomorrow morning!) and immediately headed back to the car. I couldn’t get away from this crowd of craziness fast enough.
I called BC and Chuck who were just heading in to the expo. We made some plans to hook up for dinner later and that gave us just enough time to go check in to the hotel and shower. Dinner was at the same place as last year. The food was OK, it’s the outside seating that is a big win for me. Then it was back to the hotel to try and get some sleep. I was not nervous in the least. In fact, I think I was much too relaxed. But I felt like I had no business being there. It was weird, I almost felt ashamed knowing I wasn’t going to complete the race. I had no ambition about doing well because I knew it wasn’t going to matter. I guess ithe feeling is hard to describe, but I really wish I had tried to defer my entry to next year. My head was not at all in the game.
Transition was opening at 4:30, but the race wasn’t starting until 7:00. We decided to leave the hotel around 5:15, just to be safe. This ended up being a good call as the cars were lined up as far as the eye could see to get into the parking lot. There were cars coming from both directions and there was no one out there yet directing traffic and it was starting to look like a mess. We were then shuttled over to the transition area. It was dark and I was bummed to have not remembered my head lamp. Athletes were piling into transition and it got crowded quickly. There was very little space between bikes and I was lucky to have empty spaces on not just one but BOTH sides of my bike. I felt like I had a lot of real estate! Many of the athletes were complaining because they had no where to put their bags and they weren’t letting you line them up along the fence like they do in many races. I set up all my stuff quickly, leaving my running shoes in my bag.
I went over to body marking, went over to wish BC luck and then jumped in the ever-growing line for the porta potties. I knew we had to walk 1.2 miles down the beach for the start of the race. I guess I didn’t realize how long walking 1.2 miles in the sand was going to take me because I missed BC’s start. Next thing you know, they’re calling for wave 4 to line up. I was in wave 7 and hadn’t put my wetsuit on yet!
I started freaking out that I was going to miss my start so I frantically turned the wetsuit right side out and squirmed my way in. The waves were only 2 minutes apart, and that information was no where to be found. (in fact, the race packet was one of the most skimpy, information-bare packets I’ve ever received) I wanted to get in for a quick warm up swim, but there was no time. Each athlete had to go all the way around the fence and go over the mat in order to activate the timing chip. I stood at the entrance of thw swim start waiting for my wave. I needed to make sure I got to the front of the 100+ people that would be in my wave. As I stood there, athlete after athlete ran through….they had already missed their wave. I saw people in all but the first wave who had missed their start. I wasn’t counting, but I’m going to guess I witnessed over 30 athletes who had missed their start. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Then there was another weird little thing. This girl with a Purdue “P” on her face told me she was going to run down the beach. Huh? Yeah, she said she watched all the elite people in the first wave do it. People were running down the beach in the direction of the first buoy and then swimming straight out to it instead of the diagnal line we would’ve had to swim had we started swimming from the start. The Saint then tells me to do it because the people running down the beach to start are getting a huge head start from those who are opting to jump in the water immediately. And yes, I thought it was weird, but no one was stopping them and, technically, we’re still going around the first buoy correctly, so I guess it’s legit…? With the start of the horn, I start running down the beach. I was not in the front of the pack and people were running down the beach much further than I thought they would, but I just followed. I was already winded when we started running into the water. It was shallow for a LONG time and I did several dolphin dives before I got out far enough to actually start swimming. By this point, I was breathing really heavy and I could not believe the amount of energy it took me to do that short run and all those dolphin dives. It was draining! I had to slow down a bit to get my breathing back under control and I was swimming parallel with another woman from my wave. It looked like we had pulled away from the pack (later I would learn that someone got out about 2 minutes before me…I bet it was the Purdue girl). The swim reminded me of Accenture. Within 5 minutes, I was swimming among a sea of people. It seemed near impossible to get away from them. The sighting for this course was pretty easy, but it still seemed that people were veering off course between each bouy. I swam comfortably, but the swim felt long to me. I could still see the other woman from my wave, but I was able to put just a little distance between us. We made the right turn that headed us back into the beach and it felt like I picked up a huge amount of speed. I started to pull harder to take advantage of that feeling. Soon, I was greeted by athletes walking in the water across a sandbar that was pretty far out into the lake. What are they doing?? There is still quite a ways for us to swim! Some of them realized they had only hit a sand bar and started swimming again. Others just kept walking toward the beach.
I continued to swim until I was close to 4 feet away from shore. I ran out of the water and started up the long, sandy, uphill section toward transition. I quickly ripped off my goggles and cap and started trying to unzip my wetsuit. Uh oh. Stuck. Stop trying and keep running. Try to unzip again while running. Stuck. This was frustrating. I looked for a volunteer to help me unzip all while still running toward transition. No volunteers. CRAP! Finally, I step to the side to try and use 2 hands to unzip the wetsuit. After struggling with it a few times, I was able to break the zipper free. I jumped back on the little carpet path toward transition and tried to run a little faster to make up the ground I had just lost.
I find my bike and see that my helmet and shoes have all been moved around. Apparently, some other athletes figured it was OK to use the space that was empty because of the biker that did not show who was supposed to rack next to me. First of all, it’s not, it’s a penalty…ask the guy who shoulda won Muncie. Second, if you’re going to do that, DON’T TOUCH MY STUFF!! I was ticked and I should’ve tossed those bags (there were 2 large backpacks) as far as I could have, but I only stopped to strip off the wetsuit, put on my socks (over very sandy, dirty feet), shoes, sunglasses, helmet and off I went. My sunglasses steamed up immediately and I had to take them back off. There were athletes practically lined up to get out of transition. The opening was a little narrow and there was nothing you could do except wait for the pack of athletes in front of you to move out of the way. This section was sandy, so it made for slow moving people.
The Mount line was also another fiasco. Athletes lined up as wide as the street struggling to get on their bikes. Remembering what CJB told me he did in another race, I ran about 10 feet past the mount line and then got on the bike. It worked. I was able to get on and get moving before a lot of people that were struggling to get clipped in. I was a little chilly as I started picking up speed, but this is pretty normal and I tried not to think about how cold my arms were.
The bike – well, I passed a lot of women, I was passed by a few women, I was passed by PACKS of men. And when I say packs, yes, they were drafting in packs. I mean, sometimes, it’s hard NOT to draft when the course is so crowded, but then there’s blatant drafting. Then I jockeyed back and forth with several women. I even jockeyed with this dude who kept blocking after he passed me. Very irritating. If I had the breath, I would’ve told him he needed new shorts. I could see his butt crack very clearly through the worn out bike shorts. I had to get in front of this guy…just don’t like the scenery.
The course is a little hilly. Not much, but just rollers. Just enough for you to work your way to the top and get the heart rate up. Volunteers were very good about handing out the water and running along side you to pass it to you. Intersections were pretty well controlled. I tried to hammer. I knew where I wanted to be and at what time. Bike computer showed time, but no mileage or mph. I just had to use the mile markers on the course. It felt long. I didn’t move around on the seat enough and I was uncomfortable. I wanted it to be over. And just when I thought I was going to just give up and coast in, I’d catch up to another woman and try to use her energy to keep me going. I can’t tell if I slowed down or not, but I felt like I left it all out there. I mean, I wasn’t running, so don’t leave anything in the bank, right?
I crossed the line into T2 and started walking. Why rush? I tried to stay out of the way of other atheletes so they could have a quick T2 and make it out on to the run course. I racked the bike, changed my shoes and handed my ship to a guy in transition (I think he was the race director). As it turns out, since I didn’t finish the whole race, they didn’t publish any of my splits. I don’t even show up as having raced. Depressing. I wasn’t happy with the bike split, but after seeing the bike splits of the women pros, well, I see that I did better than I thought.
Biggest accomplishment: Skipping the run and opting to let myself heal. I’ve never been able to do that before. I’m still not 100%, but I’m a lot better off having skipped that 13.1 mile run.
And I think that will be the last time I ever do Steelhead.
