Atlantic City, New Jersey is an interesting place. The glitz of the casinos is within sight but largely apart from the working class, kind of dirty streets with neighborhood restaurants where I stayed the night before the race. (The Tropicana Hotel, where I was going to stay with Kevin and Zander before they bailed out for various unfortunate reasons, was shining its neon through the window of my AirBNB.)
This was my 10th Half Ironman distance. But after a shin-splint injury and getting over a sore throat had broken up the training, I had only started to feel ready the week before race day.
Set alarm for 3:45 a.m. to pack up, fuel up and leave before 5. Seemed crazy early for a 6:45 start, but the race director accurately predicted a 30-minute delay to park (everyone funneling down one narrow road to Bader Field). It was a full moon, and I thought, Lon Chaney (the Wolfman) might have cried out, “Oh, no! I must race again!”
Lots of new athletes, enthusiasm and jitters all around. Lucked out: with my assigned spot almost at the end of the bike rack, I could store my big tri bag between a rack and a garbage can. Slapped on sunscreen for what it would be worth, ate and drank the rest of my morning fuel, and waited in a relatively short line for the portable toilets.
Despite the race director’s attempt to get athletes to self-seed for the swim, and my dutifully trying to line up with others who expected to do the 1.2 miles in 37 minutes, it didn’t work: we all lined up in one direction behind our estimated time placards, then turned 90 degrees to right and became a disorganized mass walking to the pier. Chatted with strangers, then jumped, waded, swam HARD for the start and tried to find my rhythm.
Conditions were terrific: no wind, 73.5 degrees F water (perfect for a full length wetsuit), and unusually frequent sight buoys (every 100 meters!). But… the water was crowded with swimmers the whole way, in part because of the failed self-seeding; also, the sharp turns at the end of the out-and-back snarled up a lot of people around those big red buoys. And there seemed to be some head current as we crossed the channel, first at the turnaround and then to cross over to the finish line. I later learned (because Coach Steve wisely told me to ignore my swim time until after the race) that I finished 42:30, a dismal 2:12 minute/100 meter pace, but 10/43 for my age group (AG).
T1 went great: found my row (#3) and my area (almost the end of the rack, across from the Iroman tent), and wetsuit slipped off as if it were lubricated (that spray-on worked!). BUT it took 5:12 minutes because we all had to ride a full mile, across the tarmac of this former airport, to get out of transition. And the bike route didn’t officially start until the road!
Ride was thankfully uneventful and manageable. The course was so flat, they didn’t even bother to provide an elevation map. Two and ½ weird loops (the charismatic race director told us at orientation, “It’s only two laps. But one of you, I promise, will miss the finish line turn and instead go back into Atlantic City a third time…”; and I swore to myself, “it won’t be me. I’ve paid my dues by missing turns at OTHER races…”).
No wind to speak of, despite being along the ocean shore, and kind of cool to zoom along the Atlantic City Expressway in a lane closed to traffic. (“Thank you, officer!”). Started racking up 5-mile laps on the watch in around 15 minutes. So I was tempted to make that personal breakthrough of averaging 20 mph, and also tried to keep within the 165-watt goal Coach Steve had suggested. But the power meter really didn’t work: now that I developed a light, even cadence, the pedals felt less pressure and so recorded ridiculously low wattage (125? 144?). So I had to go by RPE (relative perceived exertion), and I dared not exceed a 7 or 8 on a scale of 10 for fear of Bonking on the Run. So by Mile 45, I realized I’d either have to push harder to make the 20 mph goal, or Stick to the Plan and survive the run.
I made the more boring but safer choice. Finished the ride in 2:49:55 (=19:78 mph), 16/43 AG. And then, of course, the extra mile ride back to transition. (This was really a 72.3 mile triathlon…). T2 went well (again, a lucky and easy to find spot at almost the end of a rack) and completed in exactly the same time as T1: 5:12 minutes.
Ah, the run: by midway through, at noon, it was only 73 degrees and 74% humidity. Not bad at all. The wooden boardwalk initially was thrilling because there was a bounce to it, but everything started to feel less exciting as the race wore on. Almost entirely without shade for 13.1 miles.
The plan had been to start at 9:00-9:15 minute/mile pace for the first 8 to 10 miles, then pour it on. I did it in reverse: first four miles ranged from 8:35 to 8:58, and it didn’t feel sustainable; in fact, I was ready to quit at Mile 4. So I settled into vowing not to go slower than 9:15, checking my watch, ignoring my heart rate, willing myself not to walk because I’d never start up again. And at that relatively slow pace, I kept plugging at it, taking mild pleasure at counting those I passed (37, I think), but cheating because I didn’t count how many people passed me.
Mostly it was digging deep, trying to just hold on, pretty certain I couldn’t push faster, maybe I was fighting for 5th place, maybe that guy I’m chasing is in my age group, there’s Paul from my last race who took second place to my first, I gotta beat him, working my way one mile at a time, nothing felt injured but everything hurt, only 3 miles left, 27 minutes isn’t very long; actually, 27 minutes is VERY long, does this route REALLY go up hill a mile before the finish? At least I was ready for the last 50 yards running on the sand and they announced my name and hometown and OMG I finished.
Stumbled to the surf and stood there knee deep for fear if I sat down I’d not be able to stand and I’d drown there. My heart rate dropped eventually but it felt like I was panting for 45 minutes after the race had ended.
Eventually got the results: 1:58:44 run (= 9:07 minute/mile), not my fastest by a long shot but 7/43 AG (picking up 9 slots!). Race total: 5:42:51. 8/43 AG, 440/1692 overall. (Turns out, Paul beat me, even though my swim, run and transition times were faster — he smoked the bike at 21.5 mph!)
So, what’s the takeaway? The results are fine, not as dramatic as the podium but a solid performance in a tough crowd. I mean, those of us who are still racing at 60-64 years are pretty serious about racing. I wish I could dig deep without digging into so much discomfort; the memory of this race is not pleasant; but I guess that’s ridiculous, I came to race, and that was everything I owned that day.
Regardless of the relatively slow pace (relative to what I’ve done in the past), it might be the deepest I’ve gone into the pain cave. I left behind nothing on the race course — except the heels of my running shoes.
Turn at the outer point (just beyond the jetty – Alan had teased Mike that we had to swim to the horizon), maybe 15 yards to the next red buoy, then some confusion as three or four guys ahead of me start heading towards the buoys from the first leg instead of straight into shore – another fine lesson of Racing MY Race; literally, “that’s the wrong course, guys.” Maybe a current was pushing against me on the way out, maybe the same one helps to push to shore, but it feels great, and 0.9 Miles is DONE. More water to run through, get onto shore and start stripping my wetsuit and RUNNING uphill to transition among the folks taking their sweet time. And Jeff Boyer, coach for some friends, shouting from the sidelines, “Ah, THERE’s someone who’s racing!”
What goes up…
