Wildflower

There were days when I was preparing for the Wildflower Triathlon that I would turn the corner onto Slate River Drive here in Crested Butte and imagine it to be the foot of Lynch Hill, the brutal descent that ends the run course, to the finish line. More often than not it was snowing or blowing hard, or both, during my preparation in the high mountains. As I was trying to suck in the cold mountain air and push through the rolling hill between the corner and home my mind was on the warm finish chute and the international flags blowing in the wind lining the final stretch of the Olympic distance course I would be taking on at Lake San Antonio in Central California. My first triathlon.

When I actually hit the foot of Lynch Hill during the race I was suffering. A mile of downhill at the end of the race might sound like sweet relief, but it is hard on the body after a race like the Wildflower. My friend Kurt was at the top of the hill shouting “Just let it go!” I had to let go of the pain in my IT bands and feet and try to bound using as much energy as the gravity and momentum would allow. I retreated into my head, blurred my visual focus, and tried to let it rip. Then I got passed by a dude with a 54 written on his calf (his age) that started the race ten minutes after me.

Blazing blue sky and a light breeze welcomed racers as we made our way down the boat ramp towards the swim start. Waves of competitors distinguished by different colored swim caps for each heat start moved down the ramp securing their wetsuits and making adjustments to their goggles while going through whatever each of us needed to in order to find the right mental space to launch from.

My brother-in-law, Jim, had made a last minute decision to come to the race. He is a seasoned triathlete who had not done much training through the spring, but still wanted to show up and kick my ass. He is competitive and I am more of an enjoy the race kind of guy, but this was a pretty fun challenge and Jim was not over-bearing about his desire to crush me. In fact, Jim and many of the people I was working with had given me great advice and encouragement leading up to the event.

Jim and I stood in the sunshine listening to the announcers and shuffling towards our starts. Jim gave me one last big smile and a high five then headed up to his start group. I’d been feeling some nagging aches and pains, concerns about the equipment I was borrowing, and my preparation over the prior couple days. Standing alone, surrounded by other middle aged men (am I already middle-aged? How could this be?!) in their wetsuits, I felt great. Really and truly great. Beautiful day, good health, friends and family around, and a race that had been months in the making for me.

The horn blew for the group before me and a row of volunteers – students from Cal Poly Tech – opened up and let my group down to the water’s edge. I waded in with my group to get wet, pee (sorry Kurt) and get used to the 62 degree water. We all came back to the boat ramp for our start horn. The hungry, eager racers toed the line, then there was a less defined space with bodies spread out before the group at the back of the wave that was full of folks who didn’t want to get their goggles kicked off or have to water wrestle for a clean line in the crowd. I stood in front of them. Swim cap and goggles on. Ready.

Bwaaaaaaaaaap! I trotted into Lake San Antonio and dove into the melee. Water was flying through the air with all the wagging arms and legs. I started to do the freestyle stroke with my head up, looking for a line through the flailing bodies. Over the arms and legs I saw the first buoy and remembered my plan to stay left of the pack to try and get some clean water to breath and swim in, since I am a unilateral, left-side breather. I made a couple quick moves and got a good line to the first mark.

The wetsuit I was using, a high-end Aquasphere tri suit, I’d only worn in the water once before was remarkable. Wearing this suit was akin to having a supersuit. Once in the water, the suit floated me right to the surface so all I had to do was propel myself forward. Piece of cake – except it was a 1.5-kilometer course. But I went after the task with vigor and found myself rounding the first mark with only about ten green caps from my group in front of me.

Settled into a good rhythm I started to pass the tail end of the group that started before mine. There had been starts going off since 9 AM with five minute intervals breaking them up. I could see the volunteers on stand up paddle boards and kayaks as I came up for breath and every so many strokes would crane my head up enough to spot the next buoy and make sure I wasn’t going to plow into anyone. I watched the bubbles as I exhaled float away through the green water. Sunlight sparkled on the waves.

The groove was good. I was (relatively) flying using the same amount of energy it would take to keep a solid training pace. I rounded the far end of the swim course and was getting giddy with the number of swimmers I was passing and how good I felt. I reminded myself to be steady and stay focused because there was a lot more racing to do.

The last buoy is on the end of a dock where the course bends left and then bee lines for the boat ramp exit. I swam my pace until I could see the concrete landing, found my footing and ran into transition one (T1). I heard my name from my left and looked over to see Alexis, a girl I coached snowboarding who was now attending Cal Poly. I smiled and kept running while trying to get the string dangling across my back to unzip the wetsuit.


As I entered the massive T1 area looking for my visual cues to find my row – left at the Avia tent and down to where someone had written Ed in chalk for the long course – I tried to remember all the advice about a quick, efficient transition. My transition zone was well organized as I’d left it. I stripped off the wetsuit, goggle and cap. Grabbed my jersey and put it on. Slipped on the socks that were in each of my shoes and then slipped the riding shoes on. I took a gulp from my water bottle, spritzed some sun screen, pulled the bike from the rack and started jogging to the Bike Out sign.

The bike, a Jamis Xenith T2, was another perk. I’ve been at the race for the past three years working as a videographer and editor and was able to borrow equipment from the folks I worked with. The bike is carbon fiber and equipped with all the high-end componentry that would give me every mechanical advantage possible. I pushed the lightweight bike out of T1 and started the 40 kilometer bike course, which starts out going straight up Lynch Hill – a beast of a 400 foot climb on a bike geared for time trialing.

Despite the climb, I was rolling past the riders in front of me at a steady clip. The climb came and went and I was on the much more manageable roads, still passing riders. In this race there is no drafting allowed so I would dip to the right and then arch around the riders I was passing on the left – careful not to pass the center line, a penalty worthy offense.

The road course takes racers through stunning rolling hills dotted with California Live Oak trees and fields of tall grass. This time of year everything is green and alive making the course glow. The aid stations are manned by enthusiastic co-eds handing out Gatorade or water and some energy food, too. The course is lined with riders grinding out the miles, some going out, some coming back. It is frenetic and orderly at the same time.

As the miles unfolded my steady march past the riders in front of me was not broken until a fast moving man with a 51 on his leg passed me. By the time I reached the turn around at mile 12.4 I had been passed once more, but felt very positively charged as I had been passing racers by the score. Felt like a shark in a school of bait-fish. The power was consistent and energy high on the return leg, so I kept pressing. I grabbed water from the aid stations and sipped at my recovery drink and took in a couple gels along the way to keep the tanks topped.

A couple more hammer heads passed me on the return trip, but I never stopped reeling in the competitors in front of me. It was uplifting and kept morale high. Knowing the run was coming and that I had done more running than swimming or biking to prepare (knowing it was my weakest link) gave me confidence, but I also knew that a lot of triathlon people come from running and that all the gains I’d made could be quickly lost if I didn’t have a solid run.

As the ride came to a close I tried to stand up in the pedals a bit to get some blood flowing to my back. Then it was back down Lynch Hill and into T2. I glided through the jump off zone and ran my bike back into transition. I hung the bike and did a quick strip down of bike gear and slid my running shoes on, slurped from the water bottle, spritzed on more screen, and ran out of T2 pulling a fresh shirt over my head.

The run essentially starts up a staircase and then contours along the shore. I heard my name again, this time it was a co-worker, Ann, whose husband I had just passed in T2. Again, good to hear friends out there. The legs were turning over well, and I was making ground against the runners, but clearly I was not seeing the advantage I had on the bike. The first two miles of the run are relatively flat and there was a light breeze coming off the lake.

Kurt was on the shore road taking pictures. “Just under two hours. Looking good, man!” I started to calculate distance and time – something I hadn’t done much of to that point and realized I might be able to beat the three hour mark that Kurt had set as a goal for me. I thought about Jim and what kind of a race he was having – still behind me. Mostly I just tried to keep a steady pace with solid output. I took on water and got sprayed down by volunteers through the aid stations and everything was working well.

Then the road turned and we were running uphill. And the cool breeze was gone. I felt some small pebbles that were wedged between my foot and sock at the ball of my feet. It was harder to run, harder to breathe, and my pace slowed. I kept running. Over and over throughout the lead up to the race I told people I’ll survive because I am stubborn. The weight of gravity and the heat of the day worked its way into my brain and begged me to walk. The shade of the trees stood still six inches from the side of the road in loose, off-camber sand.

Each footfall got me closer. Kurt rode nearby on his bike shouting encouragement. The climb was accentuated with the runners plodding along with an occasional real-deal runner loping past. I saw a couple more calf numbers from my class, but not enough to discourage me worse than the heat and incline. I pushed up through the course and the volunteers and spectators gave endless encouragement. It was uplifting, but not enough to put a spring in my stride.

The course climbed and climbed. Off the road onto a talc-covered dirt path it climbed some more. Then I heard “Last Hill” and found a little hope. Another aid station, some more water. I stopped for a split second to keep from choking while I drank, and ran on. Last hill was not true, but the next time I heard “Last Hill” it was. The course dumped back out at the top of Lynch Hill and Kurt, riding nearby, said “Just let it go.” Which I did as well as I could.

The finish chute is about 200 meters long, surrounded by pop fence and international flags waving in the breeze. There were spectators lining the whole thing cheering and smiling. I tried to kick into high gear from the foot of Lynch Hill to the chute, but my muscles threatened a cramp-strike if I did, so I found the line and toed it. I rounded into the chute and the vivid colors of spring, the flags, faces, and finish line came into focus. My transponder queued the announcer that I was coming and I fist-pumped when she said my name. The pain eased as the last meters whipped past and I crossed the line with a fist in the air. 2:37:38



Jim ended up beating me on time by less than a minute. As far as how things could have played out, I’ll take it. He’d competed on the course three times in the past, but got his personal best to take me out. I ended up 14th out of 142 in my age group. I could not have asked for a better day to race, more support from friends and family, or for my body to perform better than it did. Could I have made up less than a minute to get Jim? Maybe next time.