"Do not eat your glove!" somebody chides good-naturedly as I start out on the bike course. I grin around my bike glove, temporarily lodged between my teeth until such a moment as I can safely slip it onto my hand. I usually don't bother with gloves in a race, but again, I'm thinking of comfort over speed for a long day. Besides, 56 miles offers twice as many miles as an Olympic race does for stuff to stick in your tires that you might want to brush off with a glove.Out on the flats and rollers of the first mile I keep the gears low and spin, warming up my legs in anticipation of Beach Hill. It's too rolly and there's too much foot and bike traffic out here to allow me to use the aerobars, so I just concentrate on spinning and getting my gloves on. At about half a mile I feel something skim by my knee, something soft and light. I gaze down at the bandana tied to my stem (a little multipurpose amenity); no, it's still there. Hmm, what the heck was that? Oh well.
Rolling through the Cal Poly campground, the students cheer lustily as I approach the bottom of Beach Hill. "I hate this hill!" I shout defiantly to no one in particular as I begin the climb. Several racers in the near vicinity agree wholeheartedly.
What can you say about Beach Hill? It's nasty, a rude awakening early in the race. I have no pride, I immediately drop into my 25 and sit back, determined to keep from redlining in the first 3 miles of the bike. I manage to relax pretty well as a passle of riders blow right by me and hammer up the hill. I pay no attention. "Let 'em blow themselves up; I'm perfectly happy doing my own race, thank you."
Perhaps because of this laissez-faire attitude, the climb doesn't seem quite as painful as it did last year. This is good! It's almost eerie how quiet it is as we're all grinding our way up the hill away from the hubbub lakeside; there's something very peaceful and majestic about it. There is nothing peaceful or majestic, however, about the pain; this hurts! I don't need the prompting, but I laugh to notice for the first time today the marking on the left calf of all the open women competitors: OW. Yep, that pretty well sums it up.
Nearing the top I gear up to the 23, then the 21. Spectators clap and shout encouragement, and I feel pretty good. A couple more short rises and rollers, and now it's flat enough for a bit to get aero. OK, here we go...
--------Insert the expletive of your choice here-----------
"THAT's what that thing that blew by my knee was. DAMMIT!" Looking not a little like something out of an 11th century dungeon, the exposed surface of my aerobar armrest grimaces up at me. The pad had blown off, leaving nothing but hard metal, velcro loops, and ugly-looking bolts waiting to greet my right elbow. Swell. Well, maybe I don't need it, it might not be that uncomf... yow. Nope, 'fraid that won't work. Great. 50 miles of rolling terrain with no aerobars are staring me in the face; this is not a pretty picture. What the hell am I gonna do?? I could turn around and go look for the pad, but going back down Beach Hill is possibly the only thing less appealing than finishing this ride sans aerobars right now!
Wait, I know: the bandana. I'll tie it around the armrest, that should do it.
I wrest the bandana from my stem and wrap it around the armrest as I continue pedalling. Yeah, that should help a bit; I'll have to stop and actually tie it down, though. At the next level stretch I pull over and perform this little bit of triage as half a dozen cyclists stream by. There!
I get going again. More rolling hills out of the park. We get a long downhill just before hitting Interlake Road and I get aero, picking up a lot of speed. Shoot, that knot sure is in an uncomfortable sport. And this bandana isn't very cushy. I don't know how much good this is going to do.
If it weren't for my little pad problem, I'd say things were going great. The weather couldn't be better, clear and sunny with a slight breeze, my swim was right on schedule, and I'm feeling pretty good. I know this first part of the bike quite well, and it suits my strength on the bike. The volunteers are fantastic and enthusiastic. Who could ask for anything more?
Me! I could! I could ask for my pad back!
I pull over once more at the 10-mile mark. I *must* reposition this bandana, it really isn't working well. Wait a minute--- of course! It's brilliant, why didn't I think of it before? Off with the bandana. Quicker than you can say "John Kruempelstaedter" ;-) I tear off one of my cycling gloves and wrap it, palm upward, around the armrest. Perfect! I knew these gloves would come in handy (pun intended). I get going again with one glove tenderly cradling my right elbow. A mile later I stop one last time to add some cushioning in the form of the second glove. At last, the ultimate solution: the Pearl Izumi Gel armrest! Now, let's get down to business!
With both elbows resting comfortably, it's time to focus on racing. I'm pacing myself carefully, but I feel strong. No longer distracted by aero discomfort, I'm zipping along at a zesty pace, passing riders right and left. The Wildflower bike course suits me well. Except for Beach Hill and a couple of other monster climbs late in the ride, it's mostly rollers and very gradual rises. I'm no mountain goat on a bike, but I can power along on a course like this one with ease.
A rip-roaring downhill between mile 12 and 13 sends my computer into hyperdrive...44, 45, 46 mph.... Yahooo! This is one place where we Clydesdales rule! Yeeeeaaaaaa......... "ON YOUR LEFT!!!! MOVE THE HELL OVER!!" I scream at the top of my lungs. My god, this guy is an imbecile! He's toodling along down this hill smack in the middle of the bloody lane! I recall a recent thread on RST about how few people seem to be aware of the rule (not to mention the common sense) of staying to the right at all times when not actually passing someone. This guy is a menace! Unfortunately, he later proved to be only the first in a long line of such bozos I'd encounter this day. At the moment, however, he is the sole source of my angst. I almost feel sorry for him as this fire-breathing demon from hell, the avenging angel of tri-safety and protocol, roars past, leaving him in the dust. Geez, it'd put the fear of god in me, I tell ya!
Having disposed of the clueless one, I next set my sights on the motley array of cyclists dotting the road ahead. One by one, I inexorably mow them down. Hey, this is pretty cool! I'm passing people on Softrides and Zipps all tricked out with the latest and greatest, disk wheels and everything. And I'm really not pushing that hard. Heeding some valuable words of wisdom from Kurian, I'm forcing myself to ride conservatively: "You'll want to just hammer out there, 'cause it's just rollers for the first 30 or 40 miles, and you can really power through it, but resist the temptation; if you don't, you'll pay for it when you hit that nasty hill at mile 42." I have a healthy respect for that hill; Skippy and I drove the course on Friday, and I had to shift the car into second gear near the top. Bearing this in mind, I pay close attention to my heart rate monitor and keep it pegged between 155 and 160.
Around mile 18 and I'm settling into a nice smooth rhythm. At last I have time to enjoy my surroundings and the experience of actually doing my first half-IM. This is fantastic! The weather couldn't be better, and the fields and hills around me burst with color and fragrance and spring. I'm feeling great. And, hey, I'm already nearly 1/3 done with the bike. I pass another girl and cheer her on with "Good job!" She responds in kind and I move on.
Mile 19, and the turn onto Jolon Road. I'm approaching the aid station, and I spy a fellow racer in desperate straits at the port-a-john; giving up on waiting her turn, she throws caution (and modesty) to the wind and does the squat behind the shed. Boy, am I glad of that long transition I had! I turn my attention to the volunteers as I near the station, toss my half-empty Cytomax bottle, and grab a full bottle of Gatorade. "Thanks for being out here, you guys!" I yell at them all as I pass. The Cal Poly students are fantastic, and they thank me right back: "Thank YOU! Lookin' good, you're doing a great job! Keep it goin'!" These guys and gals are the best, no doubt about it.
The next 10 miles seem to pass very quickly indeed. It's out here that I start thinking about Vineman. I am simply having way too much fun! I have *got* to do the Vineman half; going long is proving to be more interesting and exciting than I'd imagined, I gotta have more! All right, all right, calm down, Fire-eater; put your head back on your shoulders and pay attention to the task at hand. Just wait until you hit that little speed bump at mile 42 before you start getting grand ideas about Vineman. And even after that, wait and see how you feel after about 5 or 6 miles of running. Curb the flow on that adrenalin faucet, TriBaby.
I roll on by a fella toting a backpack. "Wow,"I think to myself, "that guy must be carrying some serious aid! I've never seen that in a race before!" I would discover several days later that the backpacker was none other than RST's own Timothy Carlson. I'm chagrined to say I don't even recall whether I tossed him a greeting as I blasted by---if I had only known!
I fly onward, still keeping my heartrate reasonable, still passing cyclists here and there, though they're becoming fewer and farther between. The wind is just starting to kick up a bit now, but it doesn't feel significant. The highlight (or perhaps, lowlight) of this part of the bike appears in the form of a couple of trucks towing boats that pass me, several minutes apart, but only several inches away at, 55 mph. I can hardly believe I'm still in one piece after they've passed me, and my voice very nearly cracks as I scream after them, "Don't mind me! Come a little closer next time!" Geez, I did *not* need any more adrenalin, thank you very much! That's one race experience I could do without.
Another aid station around mile 30 or 32, and I grab a bottle of water to dump into my Jetstream. I've been drinking constantly, thirsty or not, and cramming down bits of Powerbar and PopTart at regular intervals. In addition, I'm slurping up that bottle of Champion cocktail I mixed up, half Cytomax/half Metabolol Endurance, and I feel fantastic (amazing that a body could feel "fantastic"while being subjected to such a gustatorial garden of delights, huh?). By now I'm on Nacimiento Road, characterized by more rollers, a narrower roadway with a slightly rougher surface, and, if it's possible, even more beautiful hillsides. I know the killer climb is less than 10 miles away, and I take a moment now and again to stretch my legs, back, and neck, gauging how loose and fresh I am for what is to come.
I catch and pass several more riders out here, including 3 or 4 women. Amazingly, I haven't been passed once since implementing the Pearl Izumi Gel aero-pad solution. I don't waste any energy on self-satisfaction here, however; I'll get what's coming to me the moment I hit that hill. Clydesdales may hammer on the rollers and the descents, but we're helpless babes when it comes to climbing.
Mile 40 and I hit the metal bridge. A lone volunteer is staked out at the near end, and I grin as I roll onto the steel span, "Geez, you sure picked a lonely post! Thanks for being out here!" "No problem! Good job!" he calls after me. Another volunteer at the far end and we have a similar exchange. I really admire these guys; I can't imagine drawing a more boring assignment, but they're out there doing it and offering us, the racers, so much encouragement and support. Go, Cal Poly!
Not much further to go before the moment of truth. I roll up alongside another gal just ahead of me and discuss what's in store for us. "How long is the climb?"she asks, "I can't remember." "It's a total of two miles, including the part after the false summit where you turn right." "I hope I survive it! Unless I die of kidney failure first; I've got to go to the bathroom so badly...I'd do it on the bike if I could." "God, I could just never do that,"I reply. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't!" The deal I cut myself with that long transition just seems better and better all the time.
A curve to the right, and the road starts to tilt ever so slightly upward. "Here's where the fun begins!"I tell my companion. "I know what's good for me; I'm dropping my gears right now! See you later!" "Oh, it's not that bad,"she tosses over her shoulder as she slowly rolls away. "At least it'll get us out of the saddle for a little while." "Well, have a good one."
I do "know what's good for me", but the gradual rise here proves to be not all that bad. In my 23 it seems easy, so I click back to the 21. We hit the left hand turn where the real climbing begins, and still the 21 feels fine. I'm sitting up, relaxed and spinning. Ok, so *now* it's time for the 23. Amazing, I'm still spinning! I mentally shrug: Well, maybe this climb isn't as tough as it seemed driving it. I've already covered about half a mile, and I have yet to drop all the way to my 25.
Ah, ok! NOW the climbing begins! OK, Clyde, use that 25, and make it count!In my lowest gear now, but, thankfully, I'm still able to spin. And miraculously, I'm passing people! Mostly men, too. I'm passing a guy an a gorgeous tricked-out Kestrel. Hmmm. OK. Now I'm passing a guy on a ritzy Softride with 650c wheels; 650c wheels notwithstanding, those gears look way too big for this, he's grinding. Whoops, look out! This guy up here is having such a tough time that he's actually weaving across the road, careful. Truth to tell, I myself am starting to feel the strain of this climb. Not only that, but I'm getting a King Kong complex---a pair of flies has benificently chosen me as their torture target, circling like the little biplanes around that poor mythical gorilla atop the Empire State Building. Get AWAY! Geez, it's not enough to endure the hill, you gotta deal with incoming insects to boot.
But look, there's an aid station in the middle of the hill up ahead, focus on that, take it easy, relax, almost there.... I take on some more water and swap Gatorade bottles here where the hill relents just a trifle and the Cal Poly crew offer hearty encouragement. "You're lookin' good, almost to the top!" they lie through their teeth. I appreciate their efforts anyway, and thank them with what little breath I can spare. In truth, the hardest part of the hill is just ahead, but the brief "flat" through the aid station gives me a second wind. I know there's about another 200-300 yards to the false summit, where you get another short breather as you turn right for the last big piece of the climb. OK, here we go, get over this part and the rest is cake.
I focus on breathing, deep, relaxed, rhythmic. I sit back and relax, then relieve the painful monotony by standing up and honking for 10 or 20 seconds at a time. Almost there.... Oh, god, look! I actually *did* hit that thing yesterday, I feel bad! I've just rolled past the remains of a rather large rattlesnake splattered on the road, my mind flashing back to yesterday's course reconnaisance. Grinding up this hill in the car, marvelling at the pitch of the road, I had suddenly spotted a shimmering something slithering across the asphalt right in front of us; I immediately slowed, but I was afraid my reaction wasn't quick enough. Well, now I know: it wasn't. I'm sorry, little rattlesnake!
I can't waste too much time mourning the luckless serpent, though; this blasted hill requires all my attention. 30 yards beyond the snake, I crest the first part of the climb and sit back for a short breather as I turn right, heading for the top of the hill. This part, thankfully, is not as steep as what preceded it, and is relatively short. I begin to catch glimpses of Lake San Antonio far below on the right, and as I turn the pedals over the last few strokes to the top, I look to the left to see beautiful Lake Nacimiento laid out like a sparkling deep blue sapphire amongst the green and tawny gold hills. Wow! If you gotta hurt in a race, sights like this almost make it worth it. I'm positively elated, and I exhult to a fellow cyclist, "The worst is over! And isn't it gorgeous up here?" A gentle breeze wafts across the hilltop, cooling sweat-drenched brows and bodies. I suddenly feel very alive.
A quick, exhilarating downhill before one last short climb---whoops, dang somebody actually passed me, darn it! Oh, well, he's a relay rider anyway, don't sweat it---and now the real fun begins! I've heard others discuss this downhill on RST, and after driving it in the car, I anticipated it with relish. Here we go!
Click! Click! Click! Click! Into the big chain ring, shift through all the gears, now you're cranking in the 53x12! Pushing it, now spinning it, now spinning out....the computer says 40, 41, 43....faster! Coasting through the big curve, I feather the brakes to maintain control. Whew! Yow, we are MOVING! The wind rushing by deafens me and defeats my Oakleys, snaking its way around my lenses to blow tears from my eyes. I blink deliberately several times to clear my vision; this would not be a good place to get distracted by eye problems, not hurtling downhill at....my god! 48 mph!!
Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, hold up! There's a car slowing down a wee bit too much up ahead....dang it! I'm forced to begin braking, cancelling all the momentum I've worked so hard to build up and control. I'm still going 35 now, but what's up with this??? Oh.... That's not a good thing.
I see why the car has slowed. He is being careful as he rolls by several figures at the side of the road up ahead, one of which appears to be a person lying prone, covered to the neck with a white sheet or blanket. "Oh, god!" I think aloud. "Poor guy! God, what a scary place to wipe out; I hope he's ok... I mean, obviously he's not ok, but I hope his injuries aren't life-threatening or somehow irreparable." The thought of crashing on this descent sends a chill up my spine as I fly past. Imagine wiping out while going nearly 50 miles per hour on your bike.... God, I hope he'll be ok!
Sobered by this, I finish up the last of the descent and begin the long series of rollers heading back to the Lake. A mile later I see an ambulance coming toward me, now past me, heading to the rescue. Thank heaven! Take good care of that poor guy.
All right, you're in the final stretch now, less than 10 miles to go. Rollers. Stay relaxed. Keep drinking. Make sure you finish up all your Cytomax/Metabolol. Keep spinning, keep the gears low on the rises.
I pass quite a few tired-looking cyclists out here, including the woman who dropped me as we began the climb. Yep, a lot of these folks look pretty beat; funny, I really don't feel too bad. Yeah, well, hold the thought, and try to keep it that way! Hey, look at this! That's the relay guy who passed me on that last climb. I don't believe it! All right, all right, stay calm, finish strong, don't get too damn full of yourself.
At last, here's the turn heading back into the park, just 5 miles to go! The climb here is not insignificant, but I don't find it all that daunting. I'm smooth and relaxed, and, hey! Nice bar tape! This woman passed me going up Beach Hill, and complimented me on our matching handlebar tape; now I return both the compliment and the pass. "Good job!" I tell her as I spin by. "Geez, you look really good!" she marvels to me. "Yeah, I'm actually pretty amazed by it myself," I reply over my shoulder. "But don't worry, you'll be blowing right by me on the run, I'll be seeing you soon!"
The run. Oh, yeah, I guess I should start thinking about that! Well, I feel pretty fresh. My bike time seems to be pretty respectable, well under my conservative estimate of 4 hours. It's just about 1 o'clock; hey, I might actually finish the race by 4:00! All right, well, just keep drinking, keep spinning, keep it moving.
I crest the last long climb, and now there are just a few rollers. I pick up some good speed on some of the downhills, and it carries me through most of the following rises. Hey, I can see runners out on the trails now! There's the 6-mile marker for the run; boy, am I jealous of those guys! I wish I was that far out on the run by now. But it's ok, you've got all day, don't worry, do your own race.
The final short uphill before the turn down Lynch Hill! A mile of steep roadway and sinewy curves, and damn! Another one of these bozos who don't know about staying to the right! I slip by him on the inside and barrel on down the last of the descent, rounding the final curve to the transition area with speed to spare. "Prepare to Slow Down!" shout both the sign and the volunteers ahead of me. There it is, the transition area! I made it through the bike! OK, ok, stretch your legs as you head into the narrow chute, watch where you're going, careful not to hook yourself on the snow-fencing.
I clear the chute and roll into the open transition area, and there's Skippy hollering and pointing me to my row. Thanks, Skip! Into my slot, click out, rack the bike. Shorts off, cleats off, helmet off. "How'd you do, Skip?" I call out to her as I struggle with my running shoes. "Well, I did!" she calls back cryptically. I remember to hit my split button. "Well, that's good!" I don't have time to inquire more fully at the moment. Let's see, hat, number belt, torso-pack, grab that Gatorade bottle off the bike...y'know what? I gotta go to the bathroom! And guess what---the bathroom is right down my row!
I sprint past Skippy into the restroom. "I don't care how long it takes, I gotta go!" I say as I slip by. I'm out again in seconds, ready to run. "Which way out??" I ask frantically as I exit the restroom. Hmmm, was it Mike Pigg or Greg Welch I recall seeing ask this on the Alcatraz broadcast last year? It makes me laugh as I think of it. A volunteer points me in the right direction, and off I go. "See ya in about 2 an' a half hours, Skip!" I cry over my shoulder.
Here I go!