tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54884881328205676722024-03-05T07:10:48.207-08:00Triathlon Is: Finding Out What You're Made Of - Every. Damn. Day.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-19388442042451533772022-04-25T09:48:00.020-07:002022-04-25T16:46:45.542-07:00IM Texas 2021: Anything Is Possible<p>It’s been six months since I raced IMTX21, and I think I am finally ready to tell the story. For months, when asked about that race, all I could say was “it was a weird day.” I just left it there, I really didn’t want to explain <i>why</i> it was weird. It was weird because there were too many emotions wrapped into a single day, emotions that had nothing to do with the race, and I guess I just didn't want to talk about it. It was a day with a spectacular outcome, except that it was also a day with a pretty non-spectacular outcome, and I couldn’t resolve all that, so I didn’t want to talk about it. I couldn’t put all those pieces together into a story that made any sense, and so “it was a weird day” was the only story I could tell.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Here’s the real story. The full story. All the pieces that I can now just barely put together if I stare at it just right.<br /><br />I finished fourth in my age group at IMTX21. <i>I WAS ON AN IRONMAN PODIUM.</i> Before IMTX21, I would have told you that the only way I’d ever land on an Ironman podium would be if I outlasted everyone else. As in, if I was the only one (okay one of only five or maybe eight) left racing in my age group because we were all so old. And I’m pretty sure that’s the only way I’ll ever get back there. But on that day, because it was a weird day, I was fourth in my age group.<br /><br />It was a weird day because only about 800 people started the race, versus the 2000 or 3000 that are typically at an Ironman event. The race had been deferred three times due to covid, and I suppose a whole bunch of people just gave up. And only 800 athletes racing means not a lot of athletes in my age group, which means a decent percentage of that age group mathematically ends up being in the top 5, or in other words, on the podium.<br /><br />And it was a weird day because my race was not the race-of-my-life kind of day that in my wildest dreams I imagined could land me on an Ironman podium. I had a solid swim, and a solid bike, and a train wreck of a run. Not the kind of day that you hang your hat on. Not the kind of day that typically makes you feel like you <i>earned</i> that podium.<br /><br />And it was a weird day because the reason I had a train wreck of a run was because my body was absolutely drained of energy. Not from swimming or biking, but because my little sister had died of a drug overdose 12 days before the race. She was 33. She wasn’t an addict, but apparently she was a user, and Fentanyl is unknowingly in a lot of street drugs and it’s lethal. So after a week of living in the trauma of her loss, and five days of trying to step away from that trauma to figure out how the fuck I was going to get the race done, I suppose it’s a bit of a miracle that I was able to will my body forward at all.<br /><br />I wrote up a race report a week or so after the race, which I always do to capture the details and the emotions of the experience. I love doing that, because it helps me process in the moment and capture the details for when I want to look back. And I always, except this once, publish the race report once I write it. This time, some distance has helped me to process with more understanding of that day, and now I can finally publish it.<br /><p></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">IRONMAN TEXAS 2021 </h3><p>Five days before the race my head was entirely stuck at “I have no idea how the fuck I’m going to get this done.” My brain was still in a fog from shock and grief. I was mentally functioning at maybe 50% and I was emotionally exhausted from the prior week. I was terrified, because I knew that getting through an Ironman requires incredible mental and emotional energy, and at that point I was running on emotional fumes.<br /><br />The only thing I could think to do was to compartmentalize like hell. I could either exist within the emotional abyss of loss, or I could try to collect some emotional energy and use it for the race, but I couldn’t do both. So I deflected all conversations about Liz and about how I was doing and basically just did what I could to wall my brain off from that reality.<br /><br />It took actually showing up at the race venue - going to athlete check in and doing my pre-race easy spin and packing gear bags - to really get my brain to shift. Thankfully this was a routine that was really familiar, and I think that familiarity allowed me to put aside the rest of my reality for the moment and live within the context of the race and nothing else.<br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">RACE DAY</h3><p>On race day itself, the focus on the long string of tasks that would take me from my 4:30am alarm through to the finish line and the challenge of constantly convincing myself that I could keep moving forward were enough to crowd out virtually any thoughts that were not race-related. Or maybe I just wanted that to be enough - really, needed that to be enough - so that I could momentarily step away from reality and devote all my energy toward relentless forward progress. Whatever it was that allowed me to detach so profoundly, it worked, and I somehow stepped out of my life and onto a race course that existed in a bubble with no outside reality.<br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Swim / 1:19:13 / 1st AG</h3><p>My Ironman swim times are bizarrely consistent regardless of my training and race effort, so I also don’t really get wrapped up in wondering about my swim split. Which is all to say that I didn’t think much about the swim and it was largely uneventful. I spent most of the time reminding myself not to swallow the water and hoping I wouldn’t get swimmer’s itch. All the talk of duck poop had really gotten in my head. I was happy that the yards went by quickly and wasn’t really thrown off that my swim split was, in fact, a few minutes slower than expected, even accounting for the no-wetsuit swim. It never once crossed my mind that I could be first in my age group out of the water, and it's still a little bizarre to wrap my head around that.<br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Bike / 5:59:09 / 3rd AG</h3><p>So much to say about this bike, and also very little. The roads in The Woodlands were pretty and shaded. The roads through industrial areas with the smell of manufacturing and the sounds of sizzling overhead electrical wires were not. Twenty-two miles on a highway into a headwind with nothing to look at beyond exit signs and another highway were torture. Twenty-two miles on a highway with a tailwind and similar sights weren’t nearly as bad.<br /><br />The most interesting thing about the bike was that I had to pull it off without reliable data. And I am an absolute SLAVE to my power meter data. I stare at my bike computer, and have “watts-cadence-gearing” playing on an infinite loop in my brain. But I’d realized in the weeks leading into the race - after some spectacular blow-ups on training rides - that my (came with my new bike) power meter is, on any given day, either (a) super accurate or (b) about 20 watts higher than it should be. So my plan was, if the power meter turned out to be clearly wrong, to <i>ignore the power meter data</i> and just ride by feel. It is hard to understate both how unusual this was for me and simultaneously how bizarrely comfortable I felt doing it. I don’t ever want to be forced into that position again but it was also no big deal at the time, which was super fucking weird.<br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Run / 6:17:21 / 15th AG</h3><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcBB9DtaWtd9yNfv_gZQRxeaHDEIVl7T5lafHC6wgl5rreHviBKPJYDQwYwhBWAYovmwaFubORvQf1aczpbuXj_NLWzc8W7K-I5E-93Y5bVmOH0Q9gFBSewBbx8OnpbZA6j0_Sc9U965CGoxaZUwRJiI27x_5DVewYDp3MFqrhPVFG4vlNtIb0wrPmA/s3200/241_m-FPIX-3-01014486-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-3812_041619-5908644.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3200" data-original-width="2133" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcBB9DtaWtd9yNfv_gZQRxeaHDEIVl7T5lafHC6wgl5rreHviBKPJYDQwYwhBWAYovmwaFubORvQf1aczpbuXj_NLWzc8W7K-I5E-93Y5bVmOH0Q9gFBSewBbx8OnpbZA6j0_Sc9U965CGoxaZUwRJiI27x_5DVewYDp3MFqrhPVFG4vlNtIb0wrPmA/s320/241_m-FPIX-3-01014486-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-3812_041619-5908644.JPG" width="213" /></a>I started the run and knew that the key to my running any significant portion of the course was to actually run the first three miles. I had mixed results running off the bike in training (which in hindsight was likely due to the power meter inaccuracy causing me to over-bike) BUT I had one “failure isn’t an option” run off a long-as-hell 110-mile ride and that was my reference for how to pull off the first three miles. I had to listen to my breathing, use that to help me slow down to an all-day effort level, and “zoom out” in order to mentally adjust from the micro-focus on effort-cadence-gearing from the bike to the long gaze needed for the run.<br /><br />And it worked. I wasn’t fast (okay let’s be honest, I was slow AF), and I had the occasional hiccup where I overdid effort level and had to take a mini-break, but for the first 10 miles I mostly ran aid station to aid station. My legs, which had been cranky as hell for the first four miles, had eased back to only being moderately cranky. I was getting it done.</p><p>But somewhere after 10 miles the wheels fell off. All I could do was find an effort level that let me run for at least a bit, and then only allow myself to walk for a tiny bit before I forced myself to start running again. That was it - that was all I had. I think out of some form of self-preservation, my brain didn’t even allow me to think about why. To remember that as of five days ago I had no idea how I was going to get this shit done at all, to realize that I had already used up any energy that I’d managed to store up in the few days I'd had to re-group, and to understand that I was almost a miracle that it was still moving forward at all.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK_HpV9Mz4akQ5OgbNoqrH3WwcC4RgMVrPNDB28SRJM-lZAaFF4sKvW3WqjNxh8XaujBwEQyaj8R5hXpmAVS3UrzGXnrH8tbwvsN8MA_KG9PRooySpuvcZnUzO1e68F5yU06I002wREYiO4BdwmSLuoVxfhwOCNcNEDZB6IhfR2dPGNnbkDDFJdCToQ/s275/pic.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="175" data-original-width="275" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizK_HpV9Mz4akQ5OgbNoqrH3WwcC4RgMVrPNDB28SRJM-lZAaFF4sKvW3WqjNxh8XaujBwEQyaj8R5hXpmAVS3UrzGXnrH8tbwvsN8MA_KG9PRooySpuvcZnUzO1e68F5yU06I002wREYiO4BdwmSLuoVxfhwOCNcNEDZB6IhfR2dPGNnbkDDFJdCToQ/s1600/pic.png" width="275" /></a>The one thing my brain did allow me to remember was sitting on my bed the night before, picturing myself in the same spot 24 hours later, and deciding that when I sat there again I <i>did not</i> want to be full of regret and disappointment. When I decided that “running is your only fucking option” was my race mantra. Which is why, no matter what, I only allowed myself to walk for a tiny bit and then I had to fucking run again. It didn’t matter if I was slow, I just had to fucking run. It was the only option.<br /><br />So I struggled along for about twelve miles, which was basically an eternity, then at mile 22 I finally got some near-finish-line adrenaline. I felt like I picked up my pace, and I felt like I was able to run a bit further before walking. That lasted maybe a mile, and then I hit the wall. Hard. All I wanted to do was to walk in the final 5k. But “running is your only fucking option” was <i>still</i> the only fucking option, and I willed myself to the finish the same way I’d gotten through every mile since mile 10.<br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Final Results / 13:51:26 / 4th AG</h3><p>I saw the video of my finish the next day, and it was hilarious: I crossed the finish line and kept running, as if I didn’t realize that I was done. Which totally lines up with the fact that at some point after I’d crossed under the finish line arch I nearly asked a volunteer if I was allowed to stop running yet.<br /><br />I was, as always, THRILLED to be finished. To have the entire ordeal behind me, to be able to lay down the nearly 14-hour burden of willing myself to keep pushing and not give up. I sat in the grass near the finish for a while. I changed into clothing that was dry and clean (yup, right there where I was sitting), ate some food, lay down for a bit, and after about an hour I finally looked at my phone.<br /><br />As expected, there were a bunch of texts from friends, family, and my coach. I scanned through the text previews quickly and then came back to one that made no sense:<br /><br /><i>Way to go!!! Great race and 4th AG! <br /></i><br />WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?!?!? Complete shock. Utter disbelief. I quickly found the text from my coach.<br /><br /><i>Omg! You are 4th AG!! Podium!<br /></i><br />It was a little hard to wrap my head around the fact that I had landed on the podium on a day that hadn’t felt like a success. In fact it took me months to find a way to be proud of that day, and of that award. To realize that yes, I hadn’t thrown down a PR, but what I had done was to dig deep into a well that had run dry days before, and to find every shred of energy I had in order to keep running. To keep fighting, even when I had no fight left.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYmNNpXDUqD1CtqpZJ_0HGzLa5HD813Sn6F37jwtf-3w55okINOkkT11gRJiA5eD1Mw5aWR4fhBIL5MbDhNyJ6NIiOCygxUvULbxhgpK58_tWiAg6NrlV9TBEXruNjIVXjBhAWaiX9dY2-4ZmoymN2IXTF01N2NOsPB4zzJCTkgP2kT3B2Xfbp5ATVA/s1899/IMG_E7294.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1899" data-original-width="1424" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYmNNpXDUqD1CtqpZJ_0HGzLa5HD813Sn6F37jwtf-3w55okINOkkT11gRJiA5eD1Mw5aWR4fhBIL5MbDhNyJ6NIiOCygxUvULbxhgpK58_tWiAg6NrlV9TBEXruNjIVXjBhAWaiX9dY2-4ZmoymN2IXTF01N2NOsPB4zzJCTkgP2kT3B2Xfbp5ATVA/s320/IMG_E7294.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p> <br /></p>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-44633574218230933332021-07-19T22:56:00.004-07:002021-07-20T15:14:43.653-07:00IM Coeur d'Alene 2021, a.k.a. IM Hades Redux<p>It's taken me a long time to gain enough perspective on this race to be able to write about it in a productive manner. Even two weeks out from race day, I was still disappointed in my performance in a way that completely ignored its context and failed to see where I had been strong and brave and unwaveringly focused on the finish line. I always say that racing is where we find out what we're made of - that's literally the title of this blog - and I think that might've been especially true for this race.<br /></p><span><a name='more'></a></span><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Weeks Leading into Race Day</h3><div style="text-align: left;">I will admit that I had a spectacularly bad attitude leading into the race. It didn't start that way. It started with me crying at the mere thought of the Olympics and realizing how much I'd been missing the stories of competition and digging deep and achieving something truly incredible. It started with me remembering that those stories exist on every Ironman race course and that I really, really missed <i>those </i>stories of regular people digging deep and becoming absolute fucking heroes. It started with me thinking that I had been re-virginized by the long, Covid-induced break from racing and <i>I WAS GOING TO BE AN IRONMAN!</i> as if it was actually my very first one. So, yeah, I started off pretty fucking excited to return to a race course.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d64A3Ya-cSUvV7yEeoW4nmuPBdhJI88ALZoIUmEVCAupzuCi3okNXNRGyflwwN9Vle5DksNxXJDUVCjsUOhkfdjvLdFdFDSOr7xPzHD2UOPU1SyhTU6hI7JZfjQu5a0RlNZlvw8D43ox/s288/MDotWFlames.gif" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="288" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1d64A3Ya-cSUvV7yEeoW4nmuPBdhJI88ALZoIUmEVCAupzuCi3okNXNRGyflwwN9Vle5DksNxXJDUVCjsUOhkfdjvLdFdFDSOr7xPzHD2UOPU1SyhTU6hI7JZfjQu5a0RlNZlvw8D43ox/w200-h200/MDotWFlames.gif" title="M-Dot Tattoo, Inspired by IM Hades '15" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My M-Dot tattoo,<br />inspired by IM Hades '15<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Then the weather forecast started changing and the race day temp started creeping up and up. Pretty soon it had hit 101 degrees, and I started having flashbacks to IM Coeur d'Alene 2015 (a.k.a. <a href="https://tricoachalison.blogspot.com/2016/05/imcda-2015-aka-ironman-hades.html">IM Hades</a>, the original) which was 105 degrees and apparently had left me mentally scarred and traumatized. At that point my attitude went very, very negative and even though I knew I needed to, I just couldn't get my head out of that "oh. hell. NO." space.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll be honest, I kinda wanted to bail on the race. Maybe more than kinda. I just had a hard time believing that the 2021 hotter-than-hell day could possibly be less awful than the 2015 hotter-than-hell day, so why on earth would you show up when you know it's going to be that bad. And I did - very momentarily - flirt with the idea of just not showing up. But, aside from the fact that my whole family was coming out for the race and we were going on vacation afterwards, which certainly would've made bailing on the race a little more complicated, I also knew that bailing on a race because the weather was going to suck is just not how I roll. I don't fucking quit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">And since any goals for race day had gone out the window with the arrival of the ridiculous race day forecast, No Fucking Quitting also became one of the few remaining purposes for the event. I didn't feel like I could create goals around splits or paces or even No Fucking Walking, but Keep Moving Forward and No Fucking Quitting are my true north and when all else disappears, that's what's left. It didn't feel like a lot to lean on leading into race day, but it turns out it was enough.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Race</h3><div style="text-align: left;">I never really succeeded in turning around my attitude before race morning. The best I was able to achieve was some solid disassociation. But even with a less-than-stellar attitude, I was still so subconsciously happy to be on a race course that I started tearing up as I approached the front of the swim start queue and prepared to enter the water.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The swim was actually pretty good! The water was about 70, which is just perfect
for me - not too cold but no worries about heating up in the wetsuit. I went out pretty strong, which I don’t normally do, but settled
in within about 500 yards. And then I just swam. I didn’t have any
expectations or goals, because I have swum 1:12:xx for four Ironmans no
matter if I was loafing it or working hard, so I just swam and figured
it’d likely be 1:12 again and even if it was 1:15 that was fine too. To
my surprise, I came in at 1:11 - so exciting!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CR9HLPJawRJe3ciijfc7SalYNY2FUHY4eOE9fiLs21nhiH-sdxhY71_Puc4oy57Kao1xhuQdVKgrHpFHPksz3o88vt3Fg9tjssAG-JP2hBWiY_fCJoDlafZdDvLwpTAzdGROIEd6HFOu/s2048/IMG_5351.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 20px; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7CR9HLPJawRJe3ciijfc7SalYNY2FUHY4eOE9fiLs21nhiH-sdxhY71_Puc4oy57Kao1xhuQdVKgrHpFHPksz3o88vt3Fg9tjssAG-JP2hBWiY_fCJoDlafZdDvLwpTAzdGROIEd6HFOu/w266-h400/IMG_5351.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by @ginamarie_photography<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The entire bike leg was all about getting done with the bike leg as quickly as possible. Based on my experience at IM Hades '15, I knew that the longer the day wore on, the hotter and more hell-like the bike course would become, with temperature readings of 120+ degrees off the highway and heat that simultaneously beat down on your shoulders and rose up from the pavement to burn your feet. I had a smart and disciplined plan for power and effort level on the bike that was subtly but distinctly overruled by a driving urgency to just get the bike done.<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I over-biked. I didn't have the patience to cruise and be comfortable and stick with my plan and save some legs for the run. I was pushing forward, not outrageously hard but just a bit harder than I should have. And when I was on lap two and the highway was feeling like the fifth circle of hell, that urgency to get the bike <i>done</i> kicked in even harder. I put my head down and pedaled and was passing people like crazy. All I could think about was needing to be off the bike as quickly as
possible.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">And then I was off the bike, and I was on the run course, and pretty much immediately it was not going well. If anything, I maybe even felt worse than I'd expected. I
started off with the intention of just running really slowly and
finding some sort of stability in a forward pace that I could sustain.
That was what I had told my athletes to do, and it seemed like sound
advice. That worked for I’m guessing at most three minutes. There was an
aid station right away and I needed to fill my handheld water bottle
and fuck it was really fucking hot. I really tried to find some momentum, but micro run/walks was the best I could do ... running for 20 or 30 or 40 seconds, and trying not to walk much
more than that. Running in the shade, walking in the sun. Hitting every
hose and sprinkler the incredible residents of Coeur d’Alene had set up
on the course. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4sYIDgpiS0KxH4AL26QGeI2Jl-VIVWJ1Zz5aD9bOiqWZHy8qyXjxMLrt3abPnTq72U_5EWMdO5DXtMhmiVHLKkP-cKNHXOTQ5UY5XXXm2STVAN5BRcYZhkamlfdYYdIEknKm32if1U_tj/s2048/IMG_5678.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4sYIDgpiS0KxH4AL26QGeI2Jl-VIVWJ1Zz5aD9bOiqWZHy8qyXjxMLrt3abPnTq72U_5EWMdO5DXtMhmiVHLKkP-cKNHXOTQ5UY5XXXm2STVAN5BRcYZhkamlfdYYdIEknKm32if1U_tj/w400-h266/IMG_5678.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by @ginamarie_photography</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;">I knew that I was dehydrated, and now, with the perspective of a few weeks of distance from race day, I also know that my core temp was elevated. I knew I should get some fluids in, and I thought I was doing that, but I wasn't getting in nearly what I needed to pull myself out of a hole. I also knew I needed to manage my core temp, and I dumped so much ice in my shorts that I was a little worried that I’d given myself freezer burn. But I never managed to do everything I need to do at each aid station. I was so focused on Keep Moving Forward that I ended up compromising on grabbing water and Gatorade and ice and filling up my handheld bottle with water or Gatorade and ice, only doing one or two of those things at each aid station when I needed to do all of them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At about the half-marathon mark I hit a wall and my
micro-run/walk intervals were over. I at least wanted to walk quickly, but sometimes I had to slow
down my walk pace because the "fast" walk was making me a little woozy. This was also when the water from all those
amazing hoses and sprinklers was suddenly too cold. I didn't know what
the fuck that was about, because the air temp was definitely still in the 90s,
but I was pretty sure it was a bad sign of something.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">It turns out the wooziness from walking quickly and the cold skin, which was what made the water from the hoses and sprinklers feel too cold, were signs that I was bordering or on maybe actually having heat exhaustion. But I didn't know that. I did know that people - LOTS of people - were puking or getting medical
attention practically everywhere I looked on the run course, and I was desperate not to become one of those people. So I stayed laser-focused on Keep Moving Forward and water and Gatorade and cola, and you-can-do-this and just-to-that-next-corner, and not turning into
a person vomiting on the side of the course.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Funny thing was, during all of that misery, Not Fucking Quitting never even entered my consciousness. Or I guess more accurately, the entire concept of quitting was never part of my reality on race day. It simply never entered my mind. As awful as I felt and as slow as I was moving, it was only ever Keep Moving Forward. In the middle of it all, with zero perspective on what my body was going through and the general stupidity of being on a Ironman course and maintaining forward momentum for way too many fucking hours, Keep Moving Forward seemed like a pretty low bar. But now, having a better understanding of just what I had to do to Keep Moving Forward, I realize that fighting for every ounce of forward motion doesn't always look like what you think it will look like.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1eCxjqcg32ssJ2kqKoarh6GsRzaUuN7x1_FeXGmMWCPIVj7sCMTY1DYLQQVFhmGbcJfPAB14ZUlBHG8KJrEu46q2xglymKT5IPJj6MX-qFMD0zsnL4-VZgqowblulPRznKVM1aNE2wbe/s2048/IMG_6033.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1eCxjqcg32ssJ2kqKoarh6GsRzaUuN7x1_FeXGmMWCPIVj7sCMTY1DYLQQVFhmGbcJfPAB14ZUlBHG8KJrEu46q2xglymKT5IPJj6MX-qFMD0zsnL4-VZgqowblulPRznKVM1aNE2wbe/w400-h266/IMG_6033.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by @ginamarie_photography<br />Titled "OMG My Legs Are Running"<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;"><h3 style="text-align: left;">So I Did It - I Finished <br /></h3></div><div style="text-align: left;">At first finishing didn't feel like much of an accomplishment, given that I'd walked most of the run course. Also, finishing was always the only option on the table, so I didn't give myself a lot of credit for accomplishing that. In the "finding out what you're made of" department, all I saw was the miles of walking, which felt like a judgment on my ability - or lack thereof - to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. This is an area where I'm often hyper-critical of myself, so it was very reflexive to see that first.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Over time, I've been able to see that what I'm made of is, in fact, Keep Moving Forward and No Fucking Quitting. It's in my DNA, it's my true north, and it's central to my entire being. And on days when it's 101 and I'm bordering on or maybe actually having heat exhaustion, it's why I sacrifice my feet and ignore bad signs of something and get to the finish line, no matter what. And that's something that I can be proud of.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comCoeur d'Alene, ID, USA47.6734632 -116.781222519.363229363821155 -151.9374725 75.983697036178853 -81.6249725tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-33965109788147370122021-04-24T19:42:00.061-07:002021-04-28T06:13:27.698-07:00FUIMTX Redemption Day<p>I was six weeks out from IMTX20 when it got canceled. There were approximately zero people who didn’t see this coming, given that the race got canceled on March 13, 2020, which my household officially considers to be Day 1 of the Global Pandemic. The only part of the cancellation that made me cranky was the timing - the email came in 15 minutes after I finished a <i>5-1/2 hour indoor bike and a 50 minute run off the bike</i>. I mean, honestly, FML.<br /><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>So I wrote off IMTX20 and rolled over to IMTX21. Even so, there was a long time where I didn’t know what to think about the prospects for this race. Would the covid numbers be low enough that they’d have it? Would I be willing to fly to TX if they did? What if the numbers weren’t down and they had it anyway - would I be willing to go then? And what if they had the race and I wasn’t vaccinated yet - was I willing to get on a plane at all?<br /><br />Then everything started falling into place. I volunteered at a vaccine clinic and got my first shot just in time to be fully vaccinated before race day. Combo that with Governor Abbott fully opening Texas and - my opinions on that decision aside - it pretty much looked like (a) the race would happen and (b) I would be willing to get on a plane and walk around Texas and participate in the race. We made it past “cancellation day” from 2020 and I really thought the race was going to happen.<br /><br />Maybe two days later they canceled IMTX21. The email notification popped up on my screen and I dropped a “mother FUCKER” that was so loud my son came running in from the next room, convinced that we’d lost all our money or something like that. I was angry for days. I mean ANGRY. After that I gave myself a few days to mope, during which I decided that my IMTX-buddy and I would bike 100 miles and run 20 on race day as our consolation prize.<br /><br />This seemed like a great idea: not the full distance, which is really hard to motivate to do solo. But not just a training day. It had to be bigger than anything we’d normally do in training. Big enough that it was a little crazy and more than a little scary. Big enough that it would hurt. Possibly a lot.<br /><br />During the weeks that followed, I started to question my thinking. Mostly because it meant that I was continuing to train big hours on the bike and run, and that is pretty tiring. And I felt really weird telling people that I was busy or didn’t have time for something because I had to bike X miles and/or run Y miles in training for some random day that I’d invented but didn’t actually have to do. (Which in reality isn’t any different from a random day that someone else invents and you pay for but still don’t actually have to do. It just somehow feels radically different that way.)<br /><br />At the point that I’d actually logged all the big training days, I started to really, sincerely question my thinking. 20 miles is a fucking long way to run. Especially after biking 100. This was definitely going to hurt. A lot. There was a chance - and not a small chance - that I would blow up. As in, massively implode and completely melt down and maybe just bail and call an Uber. What the actual fuck had I been thinking.<br /><br />And then, by way of our NYX Mob Zoom Happy Hour book club-type conversation about Matt Fitzgerald’s <u>How Bad Do You Want It</u> (which you should absolutely read if you haven’t already), I remembered. I remembered why I’d thought this was such a great idea to begin with. I <i>wanted</i> the suffering. I <i>missed</i> the suffering. And yeah that’s pretty fucked up, but there is something really incredible about going to a crazy dark place and then finding your way back out of it. That’s what racing is. That’s why I keep coming back to rather extreme endurance events. And that’s what I’ve missed in the past year of not having races. It was time to get that back. It was time to embrace the fucking darkness.<br /><br />Interestingly, the concept of this random day that I’d invented kinda worked better for me than the normal random day that someone else invents. It was simultaneously a big enough event that I wanted the race-week easy training schedule and extra free time, but not pressure-filled enough that I was having any freak outs (or taper tantrums as my husband calls them). I was worried about that fucking 20 mile run, but not about time or pace or any goals other than just getting it done. I had some thoughts on the watts I’d shoot for on the bike, but if those came in low it didn’t matter because all that <i>did</i> matter was running the fucking run at whatever pace I could manage.<br /><br />The funny thing too about this random day is that we’d picked a date (a Saturday) and a start time, which became very official and locked in for basically no reason. So despite the fact that the weather would definitely have been better on Sunday, the date was the date. And even though we woke up to 33 degrees and dense fog, the start time was the start time. And indoors wasn’t an option. If that’d been a training day there was no fucking way I’d have ridden outdoors.<br /><br />So we put on all the clothing, and headed off on our bikes, and all my fears about being a frozen popsicle for hours melted away and the bike was totally fine. Honestly, I was never super worried about the bike. My bike training had been strong, and for whatever reason I wasn’t worried about riding 100 miles at my target watts. I was a little worried that I wasn’t worried, and that if my expectation was wrong it would throw me off, but mostly I wasn’t worried at all about the bike. And it turns out I was right - the first 43-mile loop flew by and I felt great the entire time. The second loop, which was right around 37 miles, was mentally more challenging but my legs didn’t complain at all. And the final 20 was as smooth as the first. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9a5av0oY44w-NWeqsAEM-_7hwpVXx4NfMgJ4ychzNK_r5Tr7_xTAiKD9FnF73yPMJlLiwtU6DQpkWZsiVRE-1rHWZ5wrcxNOkwNKM0iVbbp46GTi9XOntUY8aLe_qpDVE1CQ1M277zFz6/s2048/FullSizeRender.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9a5av0oY44w-NWeqsAEM-_7hwpVXx4NfMgJ4ychzNK_r5Tr7_xTAiKD9FnF73yPMJlLiwtU6DQpkWZsiVRE-1rHWZ5wrcxNOkwNKM0iVbbp46GTi9XOntUY8aLe_qpDVE1CQ1M277zFz6/s320/FullSizeRender.HEIC" /></a>All I could think about those final 20 miles on the bike was that finishing the bike ride was actually when my day really started. That swapping out my bike for my running shoes was when I would find out what the <i>next</i> 20 miles would be like, and how far into the darkness I was going to have to go. The runs during my last two Ironman-distance races had been train wrecks, derailing fairly quickly, and I started my run not knowing what was going to happen.<br /><br />The first few miles were actually ok. But I also knew that the first few miles aren’t any prediction of what the rest of them might be like. In those first few miles, though, I’d trudged up a long false flat mile that I hate, and rounded a corner to another false flat that’s often my demise, and neither had broken me. Sure, I was already semi-counting down each mile to my walk break, but I was getting there. By the time I got to mile six I had found some rhythm - I wasn’t getting to my every-mile walk breaks without looking at my watch, but I was getting there. And my legs weren’t feeling awesome, but I had realized I was in that I-can-run-even-though-my-legs-feel-shitty mode and stopped thinking about the fact that my legs felt shitty and just kept running. Mile to mile I was getting there, and it felt good even when it felt shitty.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFbRzd0fhIs4Z_c8Fww51IrffKbZacGsVLn-Cvp1H0jysrGkPzfGcDexM5Jpsy90PXqQCn6F2Ohh9hU3cnmWt4lDTfAvOu4SWRTn0tFZo0PPPF0_fYm702oPkGC0Ina_3icGOgwH9K6mG/s2048/IMG_6384.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFbRzd0fhIs4Z_c8Fww51IrffKbZacGsVLn-Cvp1H0jysrGkPzfGcDexM5Jpsy90PXqQCn6F2Ohh9hU3cnmWt4lDTfAvOu4SWRTn0tFZo0PPPF0_fYm702oPkGC0Ina_3icGOgwH9K6mG/s320/IMG_6384.HEIC" width="320" /></a>I was just focused on getting to mile 12. Mile 12 was the first aid station. Because even though this was a made-up event, I wanted/needed aid stations. Aid stations where you walk up to a range of food options and your body pulls you by some magical gravitational force toward exactly what you need to survive. So the week before the random day that I’d invented I had reached out to my local NYX Mob-sters to see if they could help out, and because they are awesome they came out in force. So when I rounded the corner and saw them all standing there and waiting and cheering I almost started crying. It was amazing. Also amazing were the PB&J and flat Coke that I downed. Fuck that was exactly what I needed.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0piaV1gLZsyTKGQiGgVg4_h5HqNeOGAzdhyOnu9a6x5_UUorLiCoikb7e-pGr_kobXvYk4xqCPkGJFIE0rxExk9tvOKzz8AmmQcr73zdMPZxR1NfA0ySql9rZar9TtMyHutC-noCQ-cY/s2048/IMG_6387.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT0piaV1gLZsyTKGQiGgVg4_h5HqNeOGAzdhyOnu9a6x5_UUorLiCoikb7e-pGr_kobXvYk4xqCPkGJFIE0rxExk9tvOKzz8AmmQcr73zdMPZxR1NfA0ySql9rZar9TtMyHutC-noCQ-cY/s320/IMG_6387.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>From that point on, all I cared about was getting to the next aid station, where there would be food and flat Coke and NYX Mob-sters who smiled and said nice things and gave me the energy to keep going. Aid station #2 was 2.25 miles down the road and I got there with only one walk break. The thought of one of those little baby oranges pulled me in. I had two then headed out. After that it got harder. 1 mile got a LOT longer. When I took my first pre-mile-marker walk break, I wasn’t thrilled but I also knew it was going to get harder at some point, so I didn’t freak out. I took some extra walk breaks, but kept them to short breaks and not extended walks, and focused on the next aid station. Because after the next aid station it was almost all downhill - literally, because I’d designed the course that way - and downhill is easier. I was excited for easier.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmxJFnn32bq29Nq-hBF9t_-PlB3eaOAjxF6NR_bYbWLFT7J3Nvz_vmbCSmRg_8rtlJ-sgjn-YuTWuQZOw8Q4IukrM9A91bK4u3sCIsVhVji8Bwtqlkp9c-VozB-q6E6pjyxsd041MshU0/s2048/IMG_6383.HEIC" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmxJFnn32bq29Nq-hBF9t_-PlB3eaOAjxF6NR_bYbWLFT7J3Nvz_vmbCSmRg_8rtlJ-sgjn-YuTWuQZOw8Q4IukrM9A91bK4u3sCIsVhVji8Bwtqlkp9c-VozB-q6E6pjyxsd041MshU0/s320/IMG_6383.HEIC" /></a></div>Aid station #3 was at mile 16. Four fucking miles to go. Fuck 20 miles is a long way to run. I downed half a banana and more flat Coke. Realized that my legs were already fucking trashed. But I wasn’t at the (purely fictional) finish line yet, so I headed off to aid station #4, which I’d totally forgotten was a thing. I’d thought it was a long 4 miles to the finish, but actually it was 2.5 to aid station #4 and then 1.5 to the finish. So I just had to survive 2.5 miles, plus I now had a NYX Mob Sherpa Squad escort which really just changes everything.<br /><br />She told me stories and I focused on making it to the 1/2-mile marker before my next walk break. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty, but I was getting it done and my Sherpa Squad escort was positive and encouraging and supportive and man do I totally understand why it’s illegal to have one at an actual race.<br /><br />Aid station #4 - water and my final hit of flat Coke and ONLY 1.5 MILES TO GO. I started with just that 1/2-mile to the next walk break. I’d been counting down within the 1/2-miles for a while, and even those had gotten long, but I decided that I could run the final mile to the finish. I count down everything, it’s my one true go-to mental skill, and I know how to count down the final mile and get it done.<br /><br />We rounded the corner towards where Garmin had said would be 20 miles, and there were two NYX Mob-sters holding a finish line for me. I was soooooo excited to see them but I had 0.15 miles to go before my Garmin hit 20 and fuck if I was going to stop short of that. So I made them run ahead on the trail to the new finish line and I ran through my very first and likely only finish line tape, which I will be keeping forever, thank you very much.<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9rQylnmPwH-mD1CL95RjGk0duffUH8pxjHULC7QKE0bMBRYFKTHeQzEqp7zgzwvylVV5atDEkXMPeINbf_OU-zJkLHL5MY3-btOydDKyEIcld8qbNR7WjdDxKFvtec191ZoQoBr6bVPp/s2048/IMG_6389.HEIC" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9rQylnmPwH-mD1CL95RjGk0duffUH8pxjHULC7QKE0bMBRYFKTHeQzEqp7zgzwvylVV5atDEkXMPeINbf_OU-zJkLHL5MY3-btOydDKyEIcld8qbNR7WjdDxKFvtec191ZoQoBr6bVPp/s320/IMG_6389.HEIC" /></a>And then I ate a donut and potato chips, which actually go quite well together, because my NYX Mob-sters are awesome and had my favorite foods ready and waiting for me. I ate and smiled and marveled at the fact that I had this crazy stupid idea to do this crazy stupid brick and I ACTUALLY DID IT. And maybe expecting the darkness and walking into it eyes wide open helped it to not be as big and scary as it becomes when you don’t see it coming.</p><p><br /> </p><p></p>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-85966999580251196022020-06-02T21:24:00.003-07:002020-06-03T19:17:20.237-07:00Everesting: Shut Up, LegsI’ll be honest, I don’t really want to be writing this race report. Despite the fact that I logged the biggest ride of my career by far, I did not complete the Everesting challenge and I am having a hard time seeing the “win” in my day. I climbed 20,000 feet on my bike, but I can’t manage to celebrate that.<br /><br /><div>So as Vizzini said, when a job goes wrong, you go back to the beginning.</div><div><br /></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div>Where did this all start? I had done a run challenge in April with my awesome fellow coaches Julie and Laura, and it was amazing. We had done it because we were all missing races due to the season of everything-is-cancelled, but we didn’t realize how badly were were missing them - as both athletes and coaches - until we were in the midst of the run challenge. I need races as an athlete, to create purpose and direction for my training (and, in all reality, for my life) and I need races as a coach, because helping my athletes achieve incredible goals is the Best Thing Ever. So, if there are no races, there are gonna have to be challenges. And they can’t be manageable, I’ve-got-this kind of challenges, because that’s not actually a challenge. Hence: Everesting.<br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbpX-g9vVLxE3ywLd7dtBqxibj4dA3SUROCp2zkxPTXfVCiL7vda9LY95C_Ez1NROtrhKzv-EyrkSBdOSV9mszdU76ZYt899aqXafAS3-MwiJSHDlyPUseEy3DO9yZggq7SiRUuwx6IvA/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbpX-g9vVLxE3ywLd7dtBqxibj4dA3SUROCp2zkxPTXfVCiL7vda9LY95C_Ez1NROtrhKzv-EyrkSBdOSV9mszdU76ZYt899aqXafAS3-MwiJSHDlyPUseEy3DO9yZggq7SiRUuwx6IvA/w200-h200/29029-logo.png" width="200" /></a><i>“Everesting” is climbing the elevation of Mt Everest - 29,029 feet - on your bike or on foot, in a single session, by going up and down the same hill over and over and over again. Its simplicity is also the root of its evil. My Everesting attempt was on my bike, in my basement on my trainer, using Zwift (a virtual cycling app). I chose this for a variety of reasons, mostly because I knew there wouldn’t be enough daylight to do it outside.</i><br /><br />Originally, my goal was something beyond a Half Everest (14,515 feet of climbing). That goal seemed manageable, and manageable goals aren’t exciting, so Base Camp (17,700 feet) or Camp I (19,900 feet) felt more like a reach. Everest itself felt simply unattainable. I trained for the Half, logging about 9400 feet of climb in my final training ride - which was already a lifetime record for elevation gain by several thousand feet - and felt ready. Then Julie texted: “you know you are going to go for the full.” I texted back something obnoxious, and then within five minutes it was “fuck, now I can’t stop thinking about it.” The girl’s a ninja. It was like fucking Inception. Just like that, my goal was Everest.<br /><br />The two weeks between my 9k+ ride and “race day” were not perfect. I did some final recon on hills, spent a lot of time obsessing about the math of the day (miles, minutes, feet of gain, grades, watts, W/kg, and IF - basically all the numbers), didn’t sleep nearly enough because the sun and the fucking birds wake up very, very early in May, and grew increasingly concerned that my legs were continuing to carry the fatigue of my 9k+ training ride.<br /><br />So here’s what happened on race day:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1e-7D23c2GzcPQdbzJavmYNyiTPwbkcOOzpH73xGvrD8qWe1n9BIHyrS795HSOxLZW5bOXC6OKot2qT__vX8OTu5O6pqEE21-ItVDqXBsNTQYQuJ7OS-j8m7ykFqA5N7RoIYyTIbXoPu/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1e-7D23c2GzcPQdbzJavmYNyiTPwbkcOOzpH73xGvrD8qWe1n9BIHyrS795HSOxLZW5bOXC6OKot2qT__vX8OTu5O6pqEE21-ItVDqXBsNTQYQuJ7OS-j8m7ykFqA5N7RoIYyTIbXoPu/s320/IMG_5440.png" width="320" /></a>For starters, my legs were still not fresh. That always freaks me out. I tried to tell myself that I can bike and race on tired legs, and that it’s more about courage than math - my big mantra for the day - but when you’re staring down an actual entire day and then some on the bike that’s a tough sell. The first two laps (of a 19-lap target, with 1500-odd feet of gain per lap) didn’t feel easy, but they did go by quickly thanks to the Zoom sessions with several other Everesters, also on their trainers. And then, for no explicable reason, lap 3 was awful. <i>LAP 3 OF 19</i>. Fuck this is never going to happen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUb3G6yNtOBZX-16ttLWc9p7qvHANLAUlKkHZO7olln0B7HxZY9yS8EVjlpGxVDm1lmqaJW7aObWvqSgT70ncR0zcYb2sgvP-7-FPmTOyYn7sASId3b4Rqg3Yb5EyrQXY1WnizZuqAs8wu/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Thankfully lap 4 was better. And then lap 5 was absolutely horrible. I got off my bike after that one for a kit change and was <i>already</i> practically in tears. All I could think was that I was so absolutely fucked, but I was trying to get out of my own head and not let my brain dictate the day. I was already backing off the Everest goal, and set a new goal of completing one lap more than my legs wanted to climb. Fuck. Already?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUb3G6yNtOBZX-16ttLWc9p7qvHANLAUlKkHZO7olln0B7HxZY9yS8EVjlpGxVDm1lmqaJW7aObWvqSgT70ncR0zcYb2sgvP-7-FPmTOyYn7sASId3b4Rqg3Yb5EyrQXY1WnizZuqAs8wu/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUb3G6yNtOBZX-16ttLWc9p7qvHANLAUlKkHZO7olln0B7HxZY9yS8EVjlpGxVDm1lmqaJW7aObWvqSgT70ncR0zcYb2sgvP-7-FPmTOyYn7sASId3b4Rqg3Yb5EyrQXY1WnizZuqAs8wu/s320/IMG_5434.png" width="320" /></a>For absolutely no reason, lap 6 went quickly. It didn’t feel great, but the time went by without issue. The incredible thing was that at this point, nearly 6 hours into the ride and longer than I’d ever been on my trainer, I had not yet turned on the television. This is how I get through every single trainer ride - 30 minutes, 5 hours, whatever: movies and shows that I record and stockpile are my crutch. And now that I’d hit 10am, I could (a) have the caffeine that I’d been holding out on, and (b) turn on the television without waking my teenagers.<br /><br />Lap 7 started horribly, and then 15 minutes into it the caffeine took hold and Disney’s “Miracle” was all that I remembered and I felt AMAZING. This was going to be ok! I was going to stay on that caffeine wagon and ride it all the way to the top. Lap 8 was fine, not amazing but fine. Lap 9 was DEATH. Lap 10 was no better, and I was desperate. Partway up lap 10 I hit the Half Everest mark and I really, really wanted to stop. The other Everesters on my Zoom had hit their Half mark and had stopped and the Zoom was over. I was all alone, in my basement, I still had literally forever to go to summit Everest, and really what was the point of continuing? What exactly was I gaining by reaching toward some completely arbitrary point between the Half and the summit?<br /><br />But the one thing I wanted to do, since I clearly wasn’t going to Everest, was to go one lap beyond what I thought was my finish line. So I forced myself to (virtually) head back to the bottom of the hill and turn around to start another lap. It took a lot of willpower to make that happen, but I committed to it and wouldn’t allow myself to entertain the thought of doing anything else.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_R5cShchSAE0lt1Ha8HoZdMO3KVCtqMtT4zsFfn7qKxPbKl2IDWNNEvMRM_ru-gtn4y2jfs87hiBUhGqmNyJdBKq07-KjN6UenUS1LMTzBwwczD6fEWKZVzq4xOeafKDZaKgOwJ5Vnrrx/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_R5cShchSAE0lt1Ha8HoZdMO3KVCtqMtT4zsFfn7qKxPbKl2IDWNNEvMRM_ru-gtn4y2jfs87hiBUhGqmNyJdBKq07-KjN6UenUS1LMTzBwwczD6fEWKZVzq4xOeafKDZaKgOwJ5Vnrrx/w320-h240/IMG_5458.png" width="320" /></a>I did another kit change, grabbed Snickers and a Coke, and spent a few minutes HyperVolt-ing my quads. I started lap 11 close to tears, but mentally insistent that I complete three more laps to hit 20,000 feet of climb. (How I convinced myself to do one more lap and then suddenly was going to do three more to hit 20k I have no idea, but I had locked onto that goal something fierce and so there it was.) I scarfed down some donut holes in lieu of the Snickers and made it to the end of lap 11 - 17,000 feet.<br /><br />Lap 12 was rough. I’d been holding endurance-level watts for each climb, and by now they felt like threshold-level watts. Not bueno. I ate more donut holes, and my husband brought me McDonald’s fries that I said I didn’t want and then shoveled in my mouth like a savage emerging from the wilderness. 12 laps and 18,500 feet down.<br /><br />Lap 13 I stopped forcing myself to get into Zone 2, and rode at Zone 1 watts. It felt a little better, and I was terrified that it was going to feel ok and that then I’d have to keep going. At about 19,000 feet that all changed. I started screaming out random words into my empty basement - not my usual string of expletives (although there were a few of those too), but some new ones for me: “Dying!” “Vomit!” The final 1,000 feet were absolute torture. I hit 20k, dismounted my bike, and lay down on the floor directly next to my trainer. I couldn’t move any further, couldn’t take off my shoes, couldn’t lift my head. I was done.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDMmQSnIunee8EPR-52KWwKgk4akZWmdPn2zHbHP27KYEtLDcvmQpGcA4Wb4Zj9SSufKCsdKkO9K6g5WkUiX5NWT1ywS_-aDVBuYQWn1FkjMiZRT10boib5uFXPBirTPRcpYyYl9Ke0g6/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDMmQSnIunee8EPR-52KWwKgk4akZWmdPn2zHbHP27KYEtLDcvmQpGcA4Wb4Zj9SSufKCsdKkO9K6g5WkUiX5NWT1ywS_-aDVBuYQWn1FkjMiZRT10boib5uFXPBirTPRcpYyYl9Ke0g6/s320/IMG_5459.png" width="320" /></a></div>My biggest struggle with the entire ride was knowing that it was not my day, and wanting my legs rather than my brain to be what gave out. Was I setting a goal that my brain could handle, or was I accomplishing my goal of pushing my legs past where they wanted to go? I have a really hard time discerning this in every race situation, and it’s what I always second guess when I reflect on the day.<br /><br />Ultimately, I think I did myself a disservice by setting just the one “A” goal and not “A,” “B,” and “C” goals - and I know better. Racing is not all or nothing. It’s taking what the day gives you, and fighting for every inch no matter what that looks like. If I’d started the day thinking that a Half Everest was my C goal, 20k was my B goal, and an Everest summit was my A goal - and that when I wanted to stop, I absolutely had to do one more lap - I would’ve finished the day feeling pretty damn satisfied.<br /><br />And the funny thing is that writing this race report and overlaying the goals I should’ve had onto the day that I did have actually helps. Which is good, because it means I can stop thinking about a second attempt. For now.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDMmQSnIunee8EPR-52KWwKgk4akZWmdPn2zHbHP27KYEtLDcvmQpGcA4Wb4Zj9SSufKCsdKkO9K6g5WkUiX5NWT1ywS_-aDVBuYQWn1FkjMiZRT10boib5uFXPBirTPRcpYyYl9Ke0g6/" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div><br /><br /><br />Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-14366209554324456842020-04-28T14:50:00.004-07:002020-04-28T14:52:38.825-07:00That’s a Horrible Idea … What Time?I was mentally drafting a blog post last week about how training these days can still have purpose. I was going to discuss how you can use this time as an opportunity (I worked on increasing my run cadence and actually running in my endurance heart rate zone, which was absolute torture until suddenly it wasn’t) and how a shift in training hours with pools and gyms closed can lead to silver linings (hello surprise 6% bump in FTP!). But then on Tuesday or maybe Wednesday I started seeing posts in the Ironman Texas 2020 Facebook group about how right now we were supposed to be packing our bags and getting on a plane… but we weren’t.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>I was supposed to have been doing something epic on Saturday, April 25th, and now I wasn’t. Except that there was a different epic thing that was happening on the 25th, and there was still time to get in on it. Julie, a friend and fellow D3 Multisport coach, had reached out a few weeks ago about a 5/4/24 challenge - run 5 miles every 4 hours for 24 hours, for a total of 30 miles - and I’d responded with a resounding “hell no.” I don’t like running that much, and I do like sleeping, and so really this was not my jam. And while my response made perfect sense a few weeks ago, now it felt different.<br />
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For starters, because I’d been working on my run stuff, I’d been doing a lot of frequent, shorter runs for the past four or five weeks. So a bunch of runs no longer seemed like such a big deal. And really, the challenge was just waking up early for one run and then not going to sleep until a lot later that night. It wasn’t <i>actually</i> pulling an all-nighter or anything like that. Five miles though still seemed like just a bit longer than I wanted to run six times in 24 hours. Specifically a mile longer than I wanted to run, or than I thought my legs could handle. But Julie said it was 5/4/24 or nothing, and I really, really wanted to do SOMETHING epic and I really, really needed the camaraderie and the suffering in harmony with my fellow athletes and the knowledge that we all went to a batshit crazy place and made it out the other side. So, never mind that I didn’t have the run mileage and wasn’t rested or tapered or anywhere close to being prepared for this - fuck it, I was in.<br />
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Then momentum started to build. I was collaborating with Julie and Laura, a third D3 Multisport coach also participating in the challenge, on how to create a community for the event. A community of people suffering by choice and supporting each other while doing it? YES! This is what I love about our sport. So of course I recruited a few people to join the group that was already 50-strong. These athletes jumped into the challenge with 24-48 hours notice, and without hesitation. It was pretty fucking awesome. And it meant that not only was <i>I</i> doing something epic, I got to guide and motivate my athletes through <i>their</i> epic day. I got to coach athletes doing epic shit! I hadn’t realized how much I’d been missing that aspect of coaching until I started texting recommendations for fueling and pacing and such. This batshit crazy challenge just kept getting better.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebzsnP0WZKkxQ-LJBO_kyCeErCCnC6IMFT8xEXQ6_84FUzzqltUcwyIMPImtVaZSsK6F1TY1u8qIWdofTbf0Mgt1jQ4wQwa35_WIkdyFOKmYOSjh6qJhxzzumYyMS3ov8pBD2i6Y1s4rz/s1600/3083C9B4-B5A9-40D2-81B9-D658A6FBFCD5.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1597" data-original-width="1600" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebzsnP0WZKkxQ-LJBO_kyCeErCCnC6IMFT8xEXQ6_84FUzzqltUcwyIMPImtVaZSsK6F1TY1u8qIWdofTbf0Mgt1jQ4wQwa35_WIkdyFOKmYOSjh6qJhxzzumYyMS3ov8pBD2i6Y1s4rz/s200/3083C9B4-B5A9-40D2-81B9-D658A6FBFCD5.JPG" width="200" /></a>I went to sleep the night before the challenge with some pre-race nerves - and it was great. Usually I <i>hate</i> that pre-race anxiety, but this time it was so exciting to actually have an event to have nerves about that I didn’t care. (Granted, there was a lot less on the line, but still.) I didn’t even mind setting an alarm for 4:30am, and I <i>super hate</i> setting alarms for anything before sunrise. I fell asleep ok, but woke up at maybe 2:30 and had a hard time getting back to sleep - which was kinda awesome! Man, if only I could be this happy before every event.<br />
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The morning went really smoothly. I had plotted out my outfits the night before, and so I got dressed, made sure my athletes were up and ready to go (everyone was doing their runs at the same time, regardless of time zone), and hopped on our team pre-run Zoom session. My husband joined me for the first run, the 5am, and it was great to have company plus I knew that running in the dark makes the miles go by quicker. My legs felt fantastic - I guess a two-day taper was plenty? - and five miles didn’t seem nearly as long as I thought it would. But that was just the first one, and I was ready for it to change.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QNVKFqBsdgX6c9RXLTcpCJMoKIErHk1Iq3DDvdOOmhDT7-tOAMGLxofiGV6BVli3eJztCaryx2bB6ShpZI5YQddumfI_30kKvotLeXmTl6PSp0r_K_M5pQpDa05aB24wjICIYAs4gRw8/s1600/IMG_5312.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QNVKFqBsdgX6c9RXLTcpCJMoKIErHk1Iq3DDvdOOmhDT7-tOAMGLxofiGV6BVli3eJztCaryx2bB6ShpZI5YQddumfI_30kKvotLeXmTl6PSp0r_K_M5pQpDa05aB24wjICIYAs4gRw8/s200/IMG_5312.HEIC" width="200" /></a></div>
I finished the run, posted it to Strava, touched base with my athletes, put together a quick Instagram post, checked out the activity in our event Facebook group, ate something, and then hit the couch for some chill time and specifically some time in my recovery boots. Thirty minutes before the next run, I checked in with my athletes again and got suited up for another go at it. This ended up being my routine in between each of the runs, and having that routine was a pretty good way to blow through the three-ish hours of dead time. I added in showers after runs two and four, which were massively appreciated by everyone living in my house.<br />
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My 16 year-old daughter joined me for run #2, the 9am, and so fun that she was almost as excited about the challenge as I was. This was her longest run in a while, but she’s been running consistently and while it was a stretch for her it was totally doable. My legs weren’t quite as fresh for the first minute or two but they warmed up quickly and the miles ticked by just as quickly as they had at 5am. I finished feeling great, but also thinking that I’d already hit what my legs were capable of doing comfortably, and it was just a matter of time before “shut up legs” was going to have to become my mantra.<br />
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I was a little trepidatious heading on out on run #3, the 1pm, and since it was a solo run I brought some music. I hadn’t run with music in months, and my legs still felt pretty good, plus the miles <i>still</i> were going by quickly, which all translated to my fastest 5-miler of the day. Go figure! And how was it that five miles really didn’t feel that long? Is it really all just mental?!?<br />
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Pre-run #4, the 5pm, was all excitement. Julie had magically - I have no idea how - procured a special guest for a pre-run team Zoom session, and all we’d told the athletes was that they would not want to miss it. I had so much fun seeing the looks on their faces when they entered the Zoom session and saw Mike Reilly talking to us. Hearing his stories and absorbing his inspiring words was just incredible, and the entire team was re-energized. How do you <i>not</i> have a great run after that? Plus my 17 year-old son ran with me. I don’t know if you have experience with teenage boys, but when they voluntarily participate in something that does not include other teenage boys, it’s kind of a thing. So, yeah, run #4 was awesome.<br />
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It got tougher from there. The sun went down, which meant I’d rather be asleep in my bed than sitting in limbo on my couch, waiting for the T-minus-30-minutes alarm to go off. And I was absolutely convinced that my legs were going to fall apart, since at this point I was 10 miles beyond my recent weekly run volume. The two things that kept me going were (a) #NFQ* and (b) the fun I was having leading my athletes through the event, and even more so, watching them come together as a team and support each other. So at 8:30 I downed half of a Starbucks’ Nitro Cold Brew (thank goodness for caffeine!) and at 9pm I headed out with two local friends for our socially-distanced run #5, the 9pm.<br />
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I couldn’t believe that my legs held up so well for miles 21-25. I mean, I wasn’t fast, but I was moving fine and my legs didn’t feel sluggish or cranky at all. But by the time I finished my run, went through my now familiar post-run routine, and settled on the couch, it was only 10:30. Two and a half hours before my next run, which might as well have been forever. I was surprised given the cold brew that I felt tired at 11, but I went ahead and closed my eyes, making sure my phone was right next to me for the final pre-run alarm.<br />
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I woke up at 12:15am in a fog. For fuck’s sake, did I really have to run again?!? I could barely open my eyes. This had been a horrible fucking idea, which I’d known all along but had apparently decided to forget until it became really, tragically horrible. I realized I should probably drink the other half of my cold brew to wake up, but I didn’t actually want to wake up and run so I procrastinated until 12:30. Then I figured I should text my athletes to make sure they were up. It’s possible that I briefly considered bailing if no one responded. But I’ll be damned if they all weren’t fucking awake - even the east coasters, who were two hours further into the dead of night and therefore had every right to be even crankier than I was - which meant I definitely had to run.<br />
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Half a cold brew later and I was magically awake and dressed and ready. My local friends arrived and we headed out for the final run, the 1-fucking-am. I knew at this point that it didn’t even matter how my legs felt, I was giving it all I had because these were the final five miles and I wanted them fucking over with so I could finally crawl into bed. So when we started a little fast, I didn’t really care. I held on, picked up a bit with two miles to go, and then put down the hammer for the final mile. Which granted didn’t really look much like putting down the hammer given that it was mile 30, but I did lay down my fastest mile of the entire challenge, so that’s something.<br />
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Even more exciting, every last one of my athletes finished their 30 miles too! It was 2am and I was simultaneously exhausted and pumped up on caffeine and adrenaline, virtually celebrating the finish line with my athletes and socially-distanced high-fiving my local friends. It may not have been quite the same as an Ironman, but between the camaraderie and the suffering in harmony and shepherding my athletes through their day, it was still pretty fucking awesome.<br />
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I can’t wait till we can race again, but until then, I’m in for the next batshit crazy challenge and I hope even more of my athletes are, too.<br />
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<i>*No Fucking Quitting (Did you really have to ask?)</i>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-1820467626483107282019-12-08T09:05:00.000-08:002019-12-14T09:30:42.690-08:00IM 70.3 Indian Wells: Choice. Opportunity. Sheer Force of Will.There was a lot about the lead up to this race that was different. For starters, I signed up less than 2 months before the race date. I'm a huge plan-way-the-f&ck-ahead kind of person, so this was a massive first. I hadn't even considered the race until a teammate suggested the idea after masters swim. For me, this falls under the heading of "spontaneity" (my husband says I'm really spontaneous, as long as I have at least a week's notice). So that was all a little different.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Secondly, I am back to self-coaching. This came about for a few reasons, and while I wasn't totally sure about it at first, it's actually turning out to be okay. As a planner and a huge, self-confessed control freak, I am finding that I'm really happy to have complete control over my calendar again. Also, I've gotten a lot better at talking myself through the crazy. You know, the myopic, irrational crazy that takes over every athlete's inner voice at various times during training, and pretty much always during taper. Previously when I was self-coaching, the crazy would take over. This round, though, I've found a way to tell myself the same things I tell my athletes when their crazy takes over. That's been pretty cool.<br />
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Lastly, I didn't do a single training ride outdoors. So, yes, I know that's a horrible strategy, and as much as I'm a giant chicken about riding outside (especially if I haven't done it in a while), it was not my intention to train solely indoors. Colorado had a shockingly cold and snowy fall - the snowiest since I've lived here - and that forced most of my long rides indoors. Then the one day when the weather was cooperating and I was going to ride long outdoors, I woke up with vertigo. And I figured that balance is generally an important thing while riding a bicycle, so I played it safe and stayed indoors. All in all, not ideal, but it was what it was.<br />
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<h3>
My Race Plan</h3>
By far, this was the biggest difference in my race. I had ultimately signed up for Indian Wells because I was coming off of a long string of disappointing races, and I need a "win" before IMTX in April. While I knew intrinsically what I needed to get out of race day, for weeks leading into the race I could only articulate my race goal as "don't suck," which was both vague and inaccurate.<br />
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When my teammate asked what my race goals were <i>literally the night before the race</i>, I was finally able to state them more clearly. I told her that my goals weren't really about the clock or my pace, but rather on how I wanted to feel during the race. I wanted - <i>needed</i> - to feel like I had agency over my day, like I could choose how hard to push and how much discomfort I was willing to put up with, and that my success was based on my choices in execution and effort and totally within my control. I needed to overwrite my experiences from past races of feeling helpless in the face of massive glycogen depletion or major bike psycho trauma or my stupid inner voice telling me to stop.<br />
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My mantra for the race was: Choice; Opportunity; Sheer Force of Will. As in: How hard I work in the water, the watts I put out on the bike, whether I fuel properly, how I pace the run, and how hard I push to the finish are all my <b>Choice</b>. And: This race is an <b>Opportunity</b> to actually be the athlete that I perceive myself to be. Plus: when it hurts and that stupid voice is telling me to stop, I can keep going by <b>Sheer Force of Will</b>.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Morning</h3>
The logistics for the entire morning went really smoothly, and we were at the race site with plenty of time to spare. Which is why I cannot understand how I <i>once again / as always</i> was racing to put on my wetsuit while rushing to the swim queue and didn't get the damn thing fully on until right before the pro start. I think I have some sort of pathological need to not be early, and I really have to work on that.<br />
<br />
Beyond that, what was notable was my calm (at least, I was calm other than when I was rushing to get my wetsuit on and queue up). I kept telling myself that it was just a training day, just another long workout. I kept thinking about Choice and Opportunity, and focused on the choices I wanted to make in the swim and on the bike. I wasn't even looking far enough ahead to think about the run.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Swim - 34:13 / 8th AG</h3>
At masters on Thursday (all of 3 days before race day), our coach had us do a kind of random "drill" where we swam fly for half a length then finished out with free, trying to incorporate the butterfly catch and finish into our freestyle stroke. I don't know what kind of magic she was sprinkling on deck but I'll be damned if that didn't double the power in my stroke and drop 5 seconds off my 100 time. <i>For the entire practice</i>. So my execution focus for the swim was to find that same weird butterfree technique and hold power in my stroke for the entire 1.2 miles.<br />
<br />
Thankfully I was focused on that and not the water temperature, which was really fucking cold. They said the water temp race morning was 59.8° but either they lied or I really don't like cold water. The weird thing was that when I first put my face in the water it wasn't that horrible shock that cold water can be. I didn't have to bob my face in and out or anything like that, but about 100yds in my face and hands <i>hurt</i> from the cold. By the first turn, the hurt had thankfully gone but my face and hands and feet were super cold, and they stayed that way until ... later that morning maybe?<br />
<br />
<h3>
T1 - 5:51</h3>
There's no real excuse for my T1 time other than the fact that I was cold as fuck and my hands didn't work so well and it just took me a few beats to collect myself and get my shit together. Also, they cram a ludicrous number of bikes on the racks and so when I was trying to take my bike off, my base bars went right through the spokes of the wheel of the bike next to mine, and it was a process to untangle those suckers. So I guess I do have one excuse then.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Bike - 2:53:18 / 28th AG</h3>
One thing I had discovered/remembered during my pre-race mini-ride the day prior was that during my first few rides outdoors each season, I tend to underestimate my effort level. I'll be riding along thinking I'm solidly at ___ watts, and I'm inevitably 10W below that. I don't know if it's because I'm not used to the visual of the road rushing by, I spend too much time riding in erg mode, or because I'm convinced that air resistance is actually a headwind, but the same thing happened last spring so I know there's a cause-effect relationship.<br />
<br />
Because of that, my execution goal on the bike (in addition to nailing my fueling) was to really pay attention to my watts and ride as close to my 80% target as possible. All things considered, I think I did pretty well. My ride average was just a few watts shy of my goal, which may at least in part be explained by the dramatic and prolonged drop in power I experienced each and every time I turned a corner (another wonderful side effect of training indoors).<br />
<br />
So while this wasn't my best 70.3 bike ever, or necessarily even the best I could do on that particular course, this was a "win" in terms of what I needed to accomplish on that day. Throughout the 56 miles, I consistently brought myself back to my race goal, and focused on my Choice to ride at the watts I was hitting. Yes, they were a few shy of what I wanted to see - I knew this the whole time - but that was my Choice. I could choose to push harder if I wanted to, and I acknowledged that I wasn't choosing that option. But the point was that I <i>was</i> in control and actively making decisions, rather than feeling like I had no ability to dictate my day.<br />
<br />
<h3>
T2 - 3:39</h3>
This one at least was short and sweet. It would've been longer if I'd hit the port o potty, but the four heading out of T2 were full and there were already a few people waiting and fuck if I was just going to stand around. The squelching in my shoes only lasted a mile or so. 😳<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Run - 2:04:55 / 28th AG</h3>
Everyone knows that the run is what matters - if you have a solid run, you're happy with your day. If you fall apart on the run, not so much. Beyond not falling apart, my execution goal was to have ideally four gears on the run - 4 miles in first gear, 3 in second, 3 in third, and the final 5k in my top gear. If second and third gear kinda blended into a single gear, that was okay, but I need to start easy, stay moderate in the middle, and finish strong.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_B-mqZYbSbCtrE-zPnZy55YqDHy5d7yAJvfkpDkyofkz7bFLdeGgeXdvSUvZa7rAvOBSKH6el3F8WkweiGz1hmqVf-eFBKz8UowB83pgiuWOaoo5PB5mO0MhIVI_AEj98WvG_YNXOUz3f/s1600/78787994_10220233473402928_5287754737431609344_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_B-mqZYbSbCtrE-zPnZy55YqDHy5d7yAJvfkpDkyofkz7bFLdeGgeXdvSUvZa7rAvOBSKH6el3F8WkweiGz1hmqVf-eFBKz8UowB83pgiuWOaoo5PB5mO0MhIVI_AEj98WvG_YNXOUz3f/s200/78787994_10220233473402928_5287754737431609344_n.jpg" width="150" /></a>I didn't want to get my head messed up by knowing my pace, because inevitably I look at my watch and either freak out because I think I'm running too fast or get discouraged because I can't believe how slow I am. So as soon as I started running, I switched my watch data screen to a pre-set miles-only display, and never once looked at a mile split.<br />
<br />
And there started the most mentally positive and present run I've had in maybe my entire life. Within the first mile I noted that my legs didn't feel great. But that's all I did - I noted it. I didn't panic, I didn't immediately turn to doomsday thinking, I was just aware of it. And I stayed aware of it, even as my legs got a bit crankier the final 5 miles or so, but that was it. Just awareness.<br />
<br />
All I really thought about was my effort level - was it where I needed it to be now so that I could increase it later - and my fueling. When to eat a gel block, what I was going to take in at the next aid station, whether I was going to run through it or walk for a minute to down a more substantial amount of fluids. I didn't think almost at all about how much further I had to run (usually a constant, overwhelming thought) and I don't think I even looked at my watch to check the distance between mile markers until I was past mile 10. I wasn't phased by the absolutely relentless undulations of the 3 miles of golf cart paths on each loop of the run. Just: Effort Level. Fueling. Choice. Opportunity. (Sadly, Sheer Force of Will had dropped off at some point.)<br />
<br />
By the final 5k, I was pushing the pace as best I could, and I was able to pick up the pace just a bit - but I didn't have that strong final gear that I was hoping for (not a big surprise, I would've told you based on my training that I had developed good endurance but not a ton of speed). Instead of getting discouraged, though, I felt good about the fact that my middle 6 miles had been so strong.<br />
<br />
Cue the final mile. I took one last gulp of water at the aid station (okay maybe that was an excuse to catch my breath), stayed steady up the hill, then kicked it to the finish. I was mentally counting down the final few tenths of a mile, and visualized the last few turns to the finish. I hit the second-to-last turn - damn that final stretch is longer than I thought! - and made that last turn into the finisher's chute.<br />
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<h3>
Overall - 5:41:56 / 24th AG</h3>
I hadn't remembered my swim split, kind of knew my T1, bike, and T2 splits, but had absolutely no idea what my run paces were or what my run split might be. And I had spent zero minutes doing any math to predict what my overall time would be (yet another first). I did know that the clock showed 7:16am as I was approaching the swim start, so I knew that I was 16+ minutes behind the race clock.<br />
<br />
I was <i>thrilled</i> when I rounded the final corner to the finish, saw the race clock, and realized that I'd actually beat my that-would-be-a-solid-day time guesstimate. I had no idea how thrilled, though, until I saw my finisher pics. Damn, I was happy! And apparently very surprised.<br />
<br />
Having had some time to reflect on the day, I'm still really pleased with how everything played out. I got exactly what I needed out of my day and posted a time comparable with other solid races. I know where I have room for improvement, and have specific ideas about how to address those before my next race. One thing I won't change though, is my race mantra. That primed a really good mental state that I would love to repeat.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comIndian Wells, CA, USA33.717631 -116.3407548999999833.611957499999995 -116.50211639999998 33.8233045 -116.17939339999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-39766696511229416692019-08-12T14:53:00.003-07:002019-12-12T19:29:24.163-08:00The Longest Recovery in Ironman HistoryI had done three Ironman-distance races and thirteen 70.3's before Ironman Boulder. As a coach, I've seen dozens and dozens of long-course triathlon recoveries. I know what a normal recovery looks like and what it feels like. My recovery from Ironman Boulder was nothing close to normal.<br />
<br />
Granted, my race wasn't normal either. You can read the full race report <a href="https://tricoachalison.blogspot.com/2019/06/im-boulder-2019-f-me.html" target="_blank">here</a>, but I'll summarize my day with this statement:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>When you are running and your forearms are sore it’s because your body has pulled all the
glycogen out of them. When your body is resorting to finding
glycogen in your forearms you are seriously fucked.</i></blockquote>
So, yeah, I think it's reasonable to presume that I finished the race with maybe close to zero glycogen reserves in my body. Here are some other facts supporting my hypothesis:<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>(1) I ended up in the med tent with mild hypothermia after the race. I mean, it was maybe 65-70 degrees on the run course versus the surface-of-the-sun 90-95 degree temps we typically see on race day, but that really shouldn't be hypothermia territory unless you've fucked your body over pretty good.<br />
<br />
(2) I was sore as all fuck for days after the race, which usually indicates that you ran really hard. Except that I clocked a 5:36 marathon, which clearly shows that there was not nearly enough running involved to warrant being that sore.<br />
<br />
(3) I was exhausted, I mean, <i>exhausted</i>, and in a complete brain fog of stupidity, for a solid five days post-race. It was all I could do to drag myself through each day, and I routinely trailed off mid-sentence because I'd lost my train of thought. From five words ago. Brain function was massively lacking.<br />
<br />
What I <i>should </i>have done in the days immediately post-race was to routinely, three times a day if not more frequently, stuff my face with pasta and pizza and ice cream and in doing so, begin to replenish my glycogen stores. What I <i>did</i> do was eat some pasta and some ice cream maybe once or twice and then I went back to eating more like someone who wasn't doing any training. Because, in my oh-so-twisted-brain, I hadn't run enough on the race course to have earned stuffing my face more than that. Oh FFS, what on earth is wrong with me?<br />
<br />
<h3>
Post-Race, Week Two</h3>
At this point, I'd finally regained normal cognitive function and the overall fatigue had lifted. I was on vacation, mostly eating fish tacos (which don't do much by way of replenishing glycogen stores) and, for reasons I cannot explain, not drinking nearly enough wine (which would have been a fabulous way to replenish glycogen stores). I hit the treadmill on two quiet, rainy afternoons and after the second run I was thinking that my legs felt a little more crushed than they should. But other than that, I was feeling pretty good/normal and ready to get back to training.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Post-Race, Week Three</h3>
I had signed up for IM 70.3 Boulder weeks (months?) before IM Boulder, to make sure I got in before it sold out. The 70.3 is eight weeks after the full, which may sound nuts but it's actually an awesome way to PR and that's exactly what I'd done in 2017. So two weeks post-IM it was time to hit training again and get dialed in for HIM pacing and fitness.<br />
<br />
Monday was fine. Tuesday was a little sluggish. Wednesday's bike intervals - usually where I shine - were a total, complete, spectacular fail. I barely survived the first interval, bumped down the second, struggled through maybe 2/3 of the third while dropping the power every minute, and only lasted a single minute of the final interval, and at reduced watts no less. This could not be more atypical of how I handle bike intervals.<br />
<br />
So Coach and I talked and we shortened the weekend bike to 1:45 with a little run off the bike, cut the long run back to 30 minutes, and decided I should eat pasta for five straight days. I took the swim easy Thursday, hopped on my bike Friday and barely survived 1:30. Three weeks prior to this, I had biked my strongest 112 miles ever, and this week I couldn't even last 2 hours. Oh FFS, what on earth was wrong with me?<br />
<br />
<h3>
Post-Race, Week Four</h3>
Week four felt pretty normal! Had some decent bikes, including the Wednesday intervals, and some solid runs, including 9 hilly miles over the weekend. Sure the run was slow and the long bike felt a little sluggish, and it had been a rocky four weeks, but it can sometimes take that long to recover from an Ironman and at least I was feeling better now. And while I wasn't quite hitting HIM paces or distances, I still had a couple of weeks to get back to that before 70.3 Boulder.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Post-Race, Week Five</h3>
The week went pretty well through Thursday. Bike intervals were strong and I even hit some pretty decent paces during a progression run. So I was feeling pretty hopeful on Friday heading out for my long ride - 3 hours with some HIM efforts thrown in for good measure, plus a decent run off the bike - except that I absolutely could not put down any watts. I felt like I was really working, and yet I was 10 watts shy of my Ironman watts that had come <i>so easily</i> five weeks ago. Those HIM efforts were never, ever going to happen. I texted coach 90 minutes into the ride to let her know I was a disaster and was maybe just going to ride back to my car. Why I actually stayed on my bike for 3+ hours and even ran for 10+ minutes after is anyone's guess. It's certainly not because the workout quality improved <i>at all</i>.<br />
<br />
But the next morning I headed out for my run with an open, optimistic mindset - because you for real never know what your legs will do if you ask them nicely. (Or yell at them. Yelling works too.) Legs were cranky the first mile and felt like absolute shit the second. By mile five my gait was uncoordinated and I called it and headed home. So much for a 2 hour run with HIM pacing.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Post-Race, Week Six</h3>
This week was do or die - either I was able to train like a normal 70.3-capable person or I wasn't. To say that I was cranky about my predicament is a massive understatement. Monday I had a decent endurance ride, but Tuesday's run felt awful and I couldn't for the life of me hit anything resembling a normal pace in the pool. When I still felt like shit in the pool on Thursday, I called it and offically decided to scratch the 70.3. Which turned out to be the right move, since my week got worse from there - I didn't even survive 2 hours at generally pathetic watts on Friday's ride, and Saturday's 6-mile run required eight - <i>eight!!!</i> - walk breaks.<br />
<br />
While I knew that scratching the race was the right call, it was frustrating as fuck. How was it possible that six weeks ago I'd completed 140.6 miles (granted, 13 or maybe 24 of them were really fucking ugly) and now I couldn't even complete half that? <b>Oh FFS, what on earth was wrong with me?!?!?</b><br />
<br />
<h3>
What the Actual Fuck?</h3>
Before you start composing a scathing text/email explaining that I should've had my iron checked and then eaten an entire cow, I will tell you that I <i>did</i> have a full blood panel done in week seven, and it all came back normal. So that's <i>not</i> what the fuck was going on.<br />
<br />
The way I've ultimately made sense of what may well be The Longest Recovery in Ironman History is to think of it through the lens of an injury rather than recovery. Compared to my recovery from IM Boulder 2017, this was a horse of an entirely different color. Two weeks after IMB'17, I started panic training for Triple Bypass; three weeks after the race I rode up Maroon Bells as part of a 3 hour ride; four weeks after I did the Boulder Peak; eight weeks after I PR'd at the 70.3 distance, on virtually the same course that I'd set the prior PR so you can't even handicap it (and before you say anything, I already handicapped for the short bike course). Eight weeks after IMB'19 I couldn't have even completed 70.3 miles, let alone PR'd it.<br />
<br />
So instead of thinking that I was simply recovering from an Ironman, I should've been thinking that I was recovering from an injury. Because while I didn't pull a hamstring or strain my Achilles, plundering my glycogen stores as badly as I did seems to have resulted in what I'm going to call a metabolic injury.*<br />
<br />
A typical injury narrative is to (1) get injured, (2) take a few days or weeks easy and feel better, (3) try to come back too soon, which leads to (4) a mild to massive setback, and then (5) a repeat of steps 2 through 4. And that pretty well sums up my weeks post-Ironman. I can't necessarily tell you what a metabolic injury is, but I <i>can</i> tell you that roughly two weeks of eating all the food plus dramatically reducing time and intensity for workouts makes a massive difference. Eight weeks post-race I finally started to feel like myself again during workouts, and nine weeks post-race the injury seems to be a thing of the past. Only bummer is that I've now lost all of my Ironman fitness. Oh FFS.<br />
<br />
<i>*The idea of a "metabolic injury" was suggested by my neighbor Laura. I have no idea if it's a real thing or what it would be if it was, but I'm going with it.</i>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-56519961783829950332019-06-09T10:33:00.000-07:002019-08-12T10:45:10.758-07:00IM Boulder 2019: F&%#$ck MeIt took me a long time to get my head around what happened at this race. In the days immediately following, I had a few different synopses floating around in my head:<br />
<i><br />- A solid swim and a great bike but a shitty run actually means you fucked up your race execution.<br />- I had no business thinking I could bike like that given how relatively low my fitness was for this race.<br />- I’m chasing a time that I’m not actually capable of achieving, and I should just quit cuz it will never happen.<br />- Given that I don’t have my usual elaborate narrative to let myself off the hook for my performance, maybe the reality is that I just suck.</i><br />
<br />
Four entire days later, after listening and thinking and talking to Coach, I finally had an explanation for my race that didn’t leave me practically in tears. And now I know exactly what it means to bonk. Because bonk I did, and on a pretty epic level.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<a name='more'></a>Race Week</h3>
I had learned a lot about what <i>didn’t</i> work for my race week schedule from IM Boulder ‘17. So this time around, I was careful not to overload my plate. I pre-loaded a lot of my coaching work into prior weeks so that I didn’t have a big to do list, and I blocked off the days altogether after Wednesday. I did schedule some race week activities, but only ones that didn’t stress me out and actually felt like a lot of fun. I made sure that the days leading into race day weren’t individually over-scheduled, so I wasn’t racing around like a madwoman. And I was able to combine all this (plus some truly deliberate ignoring of my kids) to help me feel like I was out of town and “off the clock” for every aspect of my life outside of the race.<br />
<br />
On top of that, I was in a pretty good place mentally. All the talk of cold water temps and cooler weather wasn’t stressing me out (too much). I got a little concerned about layers on the bike and whether it might rain, but I was far from my usual spin out. I felt the love coming in through well wishes from my athletes and friends in the community, which in the past has felt more like pressure. When I talked to people, they told me I seemed ready, which made sense because I <i>felt</i> ready. I was feeling about as calm and steady as I’d ever felt going into race day.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Race Morning</h3>
I am not a morning person. I don’t like setting an alarm for 3:30am. I don’t like waking up at 3:30am. And I particularly hate, regardless of the time, having to get out of bed straightaway and start my day and actually interact with people, rather than lying in bed for 30 minutes adjusting to the fact that the day is going to start. So race day always begins with me wishing I could just stay in bed.<br />
<br />
Outside of that, things went mostly smoothly. I was one scoop short of Infinit when preparing my two bike bottles (that’s what you get for eyeballing it), but I had Justin’s peanut butter cups for special needs and that would cover the shortfall. My dog had apparently eaten my teammate’s chocolate bar sometime overnight, but per the Interweb it was a mild to moderate amount of toxicity so that saved us (really my husband) from logging the dog’s third chocolate-induced ER trip. And while the line for the buses to T1 seemed outrageously long, they moved reasonably quickly and we got to transition in plenty of time.<br />
<br />
Mostly, I realized that the anticipation of suffering is my least favorite part of racing. I just wanted to queue up for the swim and get the day started so I could move from anticipating it to executing it.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Swim - 1:12:23 / 5th AG</h3>
The swim start felt like it took <i>forever</i>. Apparently they did spread all 1150 of us out over an hour, so I wasn’t imagining the creeping pace of the swim chute. I wouldn’t have minded it as much if I wasn’t standing barefoot on really rocky, painful asphalt.<br />
<br />
I finally got to the front of the queue, where they were letting us into the water one-by-one, and off I went. The first 200m - actually the first 2000m - felt fantastic. My stroke felt strong, I felt like I was moving well through the water, the buoys were coming and going practically without my noticing them, and I was passing people like crazy. Woohoo! I was finally going to have a drop in my swim time. And if the race in general felt like it moved as quickly as the swim, rather than minutes feeling like hours, this was going to be a great day.<br />
<br />
Two things happened at around the first turn. One was that either I got tired or just didn’t feel as strong because somehow there were swells in the Rez. The other was that the sun, which had come out since the 46-degrees-and-cloudy start conditions, had disappeared. Another blanket of clouds had moved in, but I was sure they would move out soon.<br />
<br />
<h3>
T1 - 6:42</h3>
And just like that the swim was over. Shockingly and at the same time not all all surprisingly, I had virtually the same swim time as my three other IMs. I am, if nothing else, very consistent.<br />
<br />
T1 was a crazy blur of being surrounded by maybe four or five D3 teammates who were volunteering in the change tent. It was awesome but also a little overwhelming. I didn’t know whether to sit back and be waited on like a queen or do everything myself cuz it seemed a little simpler that way. The best part was that Dana toweled my hair off really well, so at least I wasn’t still dripping when I headed off to my bike.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Bike - 6:03:13 / 8th AG</h3>
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Fuck I had a great bike. It was definitely cold in the beginning - colder than It seemed when running through T1 - but my shorts were still damp and wind chill on the bike and all. I don’t remember it feeling cold for that long. That being said, the sun basically never came out. I think it climbed from the upper 40s to the mid 50s over the course of my six hour ride, and if it had been sunny that would’ve been okay. With a full sky of clouds, though, I never felt warm or like I wanted to ditch my arm warmers or space-blanket-turned-under-jersey-layer. In hindsight, I was probably colder than I realized.<br />
<br />
So anyway, you start the bike with a little 1-2 mile lollipop on the grounds of the Rez which I just used to get in my first sip of Infinit and make sure my space blanket was all tucked in, but as soon as I got out on the Diagonal I settled into my watts. They were coming easy, which is just how you want to feel the first miles of the bike.<br />
<br />
In fact, my entire first loop felt great. Watts were just flowing, miles were going by quickly, I was holding back to make sure I didn’t overdo it on the flats, and gearing down on the hills so I didn’t use matches when I didn’t have to. I knew there were two hills that I would hit on each loop that mandated at least a match each, and those were the only matches I wanted to burn. I was beyond happy to get up the second hill - which I could only do if I got out of the saddle - still feeling really strong. I finished out loop one feeling almost as fresh as when I’d started, and wondering when that was going to change.<br />
<br />
<i>[Warning! Entering TMI territory.]</i><br />
<br />
I also at this point had already peed maybe 4 or 5 times. When my bladder started talking at mile 20, I calculated that stopping to pee was going to cost me 3-5 minutes and I just wasn’t willing to sacrifice that times two or three across 112 miles. But the problem when peeing on my bike is that apparently my bladder doesn’t fully empty. So I was peeing what felt like every 5 miles or so. Which meant my shorts were constantly wet, or at least damp. And when I was able to find a good downhill to really let loose, my socks got wet. When it’s 50 degrees and cloudy, socks don’t dry, so now my feet were wet and cold. At mile 30. And that never improved.<br />
<br />
I hit special needs, gobbled one peanut butter cup and took one for the road, and I was off. That second, long out and back on Diagonal was challenging. Mentally it just felt like I was in a holding pattern before I could start the actual second loop. Physically, it was the only part of the bike where I felt like I had to work a bit to hold my watts.<br />
<br />
Finally I was off the Diagonal, and headed onto the front half of the second loop, where all I needed to do was get through three hills and I was home free. Once again the watts were coming easily, and while I was still peeing every 5 miles I’d gotten a lot better at it. The miles continued to go by quickly, and I was approaching the final hill feeling strong. I told myself to dance-dance-dance up the final climb, made the turn onto 36, threw it into a big gear and bombed down toward the flats.<br />
<br />
The final 15 miles back to T2 I was feeling like a rock star. The sun was FINALLY starting to peak through. I had held my watts right at (ok 2 or 3 watts above) my target - easily. I didn’t burn any matches other than the ones that I knew going in were unavoidable, and my legs felt freaking amazing. In fact, the watts were still coming easily enough that I had to hold back so I didn’t go blazing into T2. I had never felt this strong the final 30 miles of an Ironman bike leg, and I was over the moon. I spent at least 10 miles giving all kinds of credit to Coach, the heavy weights she made me lift, and the torture she’d put me through on the trainer. I fucking ROCKED the bike. Oh, and at this point I had perfected peeing while still putting down target watts.<br />
<br />
<i>[Looking back at my bike data file, I really did have a near-perfect bike: IF of 0.72, VI of 1.05, and the two bike laps differed only by a single watt. Steady and consistent AF.]</i><br />
<br />
<h3>
T2 - 5:48</h3>
You know that T2 is staffed with incredible volunteers when you run up yelling “I am a hazmat zone” and two people raise their hands to help you. Erin and anonymous volunteer #2 were fantastic, and I was out of my gross, wet bike gear and into dry, clean run gear pretty quickly. Hit the port-o-potty because despite peeing 17 times on the bike (every 5 miles from mile 25!) my bladder was mind-bogglingly not empty. And I was off.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Run (If you can call it that) - 5:36:31 / 15th AG</h3>
The first quarter mile felt totally fine. Of course I started too fast, but I was able to reign it in pretty quickly thanks to the slight uphill leading out of the Rez. I hit that one bitch of a hill another quarter of a mile down the road and walked the top half as I’d planned.<br />
<br />
And then my legs never recovered. On one hand: <i>what the actual fuck is going on with my legs</i>. On the other hand, I’d had an epically disastrous training run where my legs felt just as poorly and I’d gotten it done. OK, fine, if that’s what it’s got to be, then that’s what it is. Except: mentally, this is not an awesome way to start a marathon. When your plan is to walk each aid station from the first one, so you’re walking before you need to, except that you actually need to walk the first one, it’s hard to look 25 miles down the road and feel optimistic.<br />
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I was working hard at positive self talk coming into aid station #2 when I realized I actually didn’t <i>have</i> to walk the aid station. But I did, because that was the plan for how to still feel ok at mile 18. And then I started running, and immediately felt less strong, and started counting down to the next aid station. It went like that to mile 8 - a few minutes of realizing I didn’t feel great but I was doing ok, a few minutes of feeling like my legs were trash and it was a struggle. At mile 8 I had two more realizations: (1) gel blocks are too sweet and I cannot eat any more of them (oops, there goes my run fueling plan), and (2) my legs are sore. Not tired. Sore. Fuck.<br />
<br />
This is where my day started to blur. It’s also where my record for most number of f-bombs dropped per mile started. By the time I hit mile 11 I was apparently only seeing the faces right in front of me (I have no recollection of seeing an athlete whom I’ve worked with for five years helping me at an aid station, despite video evidence). I saw Kim right after that, and have no idea what I said beyond it involving a lot of complaining and five or maybe ten f-bombs. I kept moving till mile 13 when I realized that the wheels had actually come off a few miles earlier.<br />
<br />
I knew I was depleted and needed fuel, and yet somehow my addled brain thought that two sips of Coke and one mini pretzel would cover that. I could no longer make it aid station to aid station, so decided to run a half mile at a time. Who can’t run for five (okay at that point six) minutes. By mile 16, apparently me. Brian had walked with me for a few minutes at the Flux Capacitor and asked how my feet were doing. I said they were fine, then corrected myself the next time I passed through the Flux - they actually hurt like shit. Apparently so many things hurt at that point that I wasn’t able to pick out one pain from another.<br />
<br />
At this point I was only able to run a few minutes before I had to walk again. I was as sore at 17.5 as I’d been at 22 in my last standalone marathon, after which I as sore as hell for days. I was dropping an f-bomb due to pain every time I start running, and usually one when I stopped due to frustration. I was feeling woozy every time I stopped running, so I’d walk till I felt better then start running again. I knew it was going to take for-fucking-ever to finish the race and I wanted to run but couldn’t, so I dropped another f-bomb. I quit the sport, 100% for sure, no changing my mind, then remembered I’d already signed up for the 70.3 and dropped another f-bomb. And in case you were wondering, all these f-bombs were out loud, to no one other than me, and did not even make me feel better.<br />
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By maybe 18 or 19 - seriously it was mostly a blur - I couldn’t shake the woozy and just resigned myself to walking and drinking water and Gatorade until I felt better. The worst fucking part was that at this point my heart rate was maybe 105 or 110 and I should've felt awesome and recovered and ready to go, but I just wanted to lie down and take a nap. I saw my family at the turnaround at 19.5 or so, and it was so lovely to see them but it was simultaneously so disheartening to be putting up what felt like yet another display of weakness.<br />
<br />
After the turnaround, maybe mile 20, I was finally feeling a little stronger and the finish line, while still distant, was almost in sight. I started running! Still only a minute or two at a time, but it was at least an improvement. I also made a friend, which anyone can tell you is the best way to perk up a hard, shitty run. I had changed my gait a bit, so my feet weren’t screaming, and that (or the 2 mile walk) seemed to lessen the pain in my legs. Now just weird muscles like my core and forearms, of all things, were squawking every time I ran.<br />
<br />
But I was ready for the shit show to be over. So I ran the flats (cuz up and down both hurt more), a few minutes at a time, and walked in between. I still felt woozy after running, and sometimes I would wobble off my line which was a little odd. My new friend ditched me after a few miles, I think cuz he was tired of me making him run.<br />
<br />
The course was long - worst. thing. ever. - so mile 24 stretched on for maybe 1.5 miles. But then I finally hit the sign for 25, and I was heading downhill for the last time toward the finish. Once I hit the last aid station, I think I actually ran it in from there. Maybe 4 minutes? And why the fuck couldn’t I have run 4 minutes before that??? Well, maybe cuz I was hoping I’d literally give it every last thing and collapse at the finish like I told Coach I would.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Explanation</h3>
I had done IM Boulder ‘17 and had a shit run then. I may have over-biked a smidge, and I started the run too fast, but I also think I kind of gave up when it started to hurt. I really wanted redemption. And I spent days super, super pissed off that I had once again failed.<br />
<br />
Putting a few pieces together, though, I am beginning to think that I did give it what I had on that day. There may be additional contributing elements to the story (for real my fitness was on the low side for an Ironman), but I (and Coach and others) believe the biggest contributor was the cold on the bike. To maintain my core temp, I was burning a lot of extra energy. As in calories. And I did not up my on-bike fueling plan to reflect that. So when I got off the bike, I was already depleted. And then at mile 8 when I gave up on gel blocks, I just deepened my hole. So at 13 I bonked, because I was totally out of glycogen to burn. What I should’ve done, at 8 or 13 or 16, was down half a dozen gels and 4 cups of Coke. If my brain had been functional, maybe I would have.<br />
<br />
<i>[Note to self: when your forearms are sore it’s because your body has pulled all the glycogen out of them, and when your body is resorting to finding glycogen in your forearms you are seriously fucked.]</i><br />
<br />
I did meet one goal, though: I wanted to push hard enough on the run to be sore the next day. Check. I was amazingly sore for two full days post-race, plus had a semi-sore day 3. I have never, ever been that sore after an Ironman. I also was flat out <i>exhausted</i> for five full days. Exhausted as in I could barely drag myself though each day, could not pull myself out of a massive brain fog, and routinely trailed off mid-sentence because I had lost my train of thought.<br />
<br />
So that was my race. And yes, I did swear off Ironman repeatedly on the run course, and for days after. But now that I can at least get my head around what happened, of course I’m starting to reconsider. I’m not sure how many more of these I have in me, but this is not how I want to walk away.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comBoulder, CO, USA40.0149856 -105.2705455999999939.820449100000005 -105.59326909999999 40.2095221 -104.9478221tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-60749184895371727302019-04-08T13:13:00.000-07:002019-04-15T07:10:17.327-07:00IM 70.3 Oceanside: Swim. Don’t Die On The Bike. Run.That was the short version of my race plan for IM 70.3 Oceanside. Yes, I wrote a full, detailed race plan the week before the race. Yes, I did review it the night before the race, mostly to remind myself of the strategies I wanted to use if (when) it got tough on the run. I knew my watts for the bike and paces for the run, and my fueling plan. But come race morning, it really came down to: Swim. Don’t Die On The Bike. Run.<br />
<br />
<h3>
<a name='more'></a>The Context</h3>
To understand where my head was at for this race, you need to know two things:<br />
<br />
First, I had bilateral bunion surgery in mid-September. And, due to the bunions and related foot issues that led to the surgery, I hadn’t run more than 12 miles in a week since Memorial Day 2018. To be clear, between the injury, the surgery, and the time it took to rebuild my run fitness, I wasn’t doing anything that resembled normal run distances for <i>seven fucking months</i> (during which I was miserable and cranky and it’s a miracle my husband and kids put up with me). By January 1st, I could finally run 6 miles, but my weekly volume was barely above 10. Which gave my coach not even 3 months to build my long run, my total volume, and some speed before Oceanside. Not ideal, especially given that I insisted on being conservative with the ramp up so that I didn’t create some new injury. Coach absolutely did punish me enough in training that I developed some decent fitness, but there was just not enough time to get totally back to where I’d been the year before.<br />
<br />
Second, I was a total shit show on the bike. More specifically, my head was so fucked up about the bike that a week beforehand it crossed my mind (fleetingly, cuz I’m no quitter) to bag the race altogether. On race day, at about mile 25 on the bike, it crossed my mind (fleetingly, cuz I’m not gonna <i>choose</i> to DNF) just to hop a sag-wagon back to transition. And no, I haven’t always been this much of a mess.<br />
<br />
Last summer, the same time that my foot was acting up and I was barely running and so was already a cranky-ass bitch, I had some problems with my bike. It started when I was coming down a road steep enough that it involves some switch backs with guard rails and I was working hard to control my speed. There was some weird squeaking or squealing noise while I was braking, and I instinctively knew that if I put more pressure on my brakes I was going to endo. Oh, and there is a stop sign at the bottom of the road that you really need to stop at. So, yeah, I was a fucking panicking. I did manage to stop, about 30 feet above the stop sign where there was a bit of a shoulder for safety, and my back tire did pop up enough to land me in the gravel, and it took a few minutes to get my heart rate out of let’s-call-911 territory, but I stopped. It was an absolutely terrifying experience.<br />
<br />
So fast forward through 2 months, several trips to bike techs who sanded my brake pads, and even replaced my brakes altogether, and told me that I was absolutely fine ... except that then I’d go ride my bike and it would be fine for an entire ride or for the first 90 minutes of the ride or maybe just the first 5 minutes of the ride, and then I’d be right back to realizing that additional brake pressure would be super no bueno, and oh yeah I’m approaching a red light on a downhill. I threw in the towel on my bike when coming to a gradual stop on flat road caused my back tire to pop up so severely that it launched a water bottle and my bike computer said it was going to text my emergency contact because it detected an “incident.”<br />
<br />
Luckily I had brought a chaperone with me for that particular ride, since I was already a total head case, and he was kind enough to ride back to my car and come pick me up. I was not riding that damn bike again till I was convinced it was fixed. And thanks to a few very diligent bike techs, they figured out that the problem was actually tire size - I was riding on 25s, and the bike was spec’d for 23s, and so as the tires got worn over time and warmed during rides they would expand. And then, when the front forked bowed just a fraction of a millimeter upon braking, the tire would rub my frame and squeak and squeal and the friction was very, very no bueno.<br />
<br />
At this point, even though intellectually I understood that my bike is fixed, I was still absolutely terrified to ride the damn thing. But it was also mid-September and I was about to head in for foot surgery, so I hung up the bitch and tried to shelve my scary thoughts of steep mountain descents and squealing brakes (or squealing rubber-meets-carbon or whatever).<br />
<br />
So now it’s January. My heart still raced and nearly leapt out of my chest every time I thought of riding my bike, but I had signed up for this damn race so apparently I would have to figure out a way to ride the fucking thing. Thankfully, the D3 Multisport mental skills expert actually has a miraculous PTSD protocol that he and his team are about to roll out nationwide (I swear they are going to change the world with this!), so I sat down with him for an hour, and I’ll be damned if the heart-pounding didn’t vanish.<br />
<br />
But given that we had a relatively bad winter here in Colorado, I only got one outdoor ride in before Oceanside … two weeks before the race. (Which is clearly not to say that I didn’t get in any bike training. Coach punished me on the regular with nasty bike intervals and long rides on the trainer. Thankfully I really, really like my trainer.) I’ll spare you the blow by blow of that one outdoor ride, but I will say that I did bring chaperones, and they were incredibly kind and patient with me and how irrationally timid I was on each and every downhill. I’m so glad I got that ride in, and it was a good first step in rebuilding trust in my bike, but I wasn’t yet back to my normal self.<br />
<br />
I was able to sneak in one last session with Will pre-race, and once again he was incredibly helpful. In fact, thanks to him I was remarkable calm from the time of our session right up until the night before the race. At which point I got all twisted up in my head again, and would have loved to have had some legit reason not to ride my bike. But I didn’t, and so I decided to turn on auto-pilot and showed up at the race start as if I was ready to go.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Race</h3>
This race really wasn’t about the clock. It was about riding my damn bike and feeling like the athlete that I was spring of 2018, not the injured athlete who couldn’t run 3 miles or the post-surgery invalid who couldn’t even keep up with the silver sneakers on a stationary bike. I cared about executing first and racing second, and that showed in my times, which - with one exception - were all pretty sub-par for me. But as I tell my athletes, there are lots of wins out there that have nothing to do with the clock, and I did find some of those.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Swim - 38:33</h4>
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It’s worth noting that they “put the ocean back in Oceanside” and so we had a beach start for the race. The waves in the chilly Pacific were 1-2 feet early that morning … and suddenly jumped to 4-8 feet right in time for the age groupers. Thankfully I’d spent a bunch of summer vacations playing in the waves in the Atlantic, so I wasn’t too freaked out, but all the experience in the world can’t keep you from getting tossed around a bit when you find yourself exactly the wrong distance from a breaking 6-8 footer. I’m going to add a minute on to my time for that wave. The other extra minutes are all me, since I was just swimming and not really pushing the pace at all.<br />
<br />
<h4>
T1 - 7:05</h4>
We will not speak of T1. I have no idea what took me so long, other than a total lack of urgency to start riding my bike.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Bike - 3:15:33 … And I Didn’t Die</h4>
It did occur to me that I was in all likelihood the only person on the course who’s goal was to survive the bike, in a very literal way. And I have to believe that my generally fucked up mental state is at least a large part of - if not the entire reason behind - why I was not able to produce any watts on the bike. I mean, it’s not like Coach didn’t routinely destroy me in training, and so I know that my fitness was there. But it was pretty evident 10 or 15 miles in that I was not going to put up the numbers that I’d trained for, but hey, at least I wasn’t going to over-bike it and trash my run.<br />
<br />
I had done this race in 2018 so knew a lot of what to expect on the bike course. As a result, I spent the first 30 miles mentally preparing for the 3 big climbs - and 3 big descents - that are crammed right into the middle of the course. I got better at using riders ahead of me to pace and anticipate what was coming on the downhills. I noted each and every time I successfully slowed my bike, and used that as evidence to build the case that I would be fine. I consistently reminded myself that the whistling of the carbon brake pads was normal, and that it did not signal danger of any kind. And yes, I did fleetingly consider the sag wagon at around mile 25, but there was no way that was going to be my story.<br />
<br />
The first climb is a real bitch - a half a mile at some awful percent grade where even in my granny gear I’m just hoping to keep my legs turning over. I honestly was so grateful to crest that sucker that I decided I was totally willing to do the descent. And I did! I wasn’t terrified, and I paced off the dude in front of me, telling myself that if he could do it so could I, and I didn’t touch my brakes, and it was totally fine.<br />
<br />
The next climb wasn’t as brutal, but the descent was the one I’d been dreading since the night before (or maybe for three solid months). It’s pretty steep, is apparently called Dead Man’s Curve (yup, that helped my mindset a TON), and has a strictly enforced speed limit - as in they DQ you on the spot - of 25 mph. I will admit that I was overly conservative, and rode the shit out of my brakes at 20-21 mph, but I wasn’t terrified, and I didn’t want to instantly wormhole myself into an alternate universe the way I had on my one outdoor ride two weeks prior. I was so proud of myself when I got down that hill!<br />
<br />
Then one last climb, and a long gradual descent back to the flat road home. I was still pretty conservative on the downhills, and I didn’t really have that sigh of relief till I knew I’d finished descending, but I did it and wasn’t panicking and I do think I got a little faster as the descent went on. Best of all, I felt happy and strong that final 10 miles back to T2. I started to feel like myself again, putting a little more power in the pedals and passing people and actually smiling!<br />
<br />
So, yeah, my time was stupid slow compared to last year, but I slayed some major demons out there on the bike course.<br />
<br />
<h4>
T2 - 5:12</h4>
Not as embarrassingly slow as T1, but nothing to brag about. Just happy to have gotten off the bike feeling ready to go, and not like I needed a few minutes to decompress from the stress of it all.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Run - 2:04:06!</h4>
I had some different demons to slay here. I knew I didn’t have the same run fitness that I’d had last year, but I also knew that the run is as much about smart execution as it is about fitness. I’d run a 2:09 last year off of great run fitness, because I’d started too fast and it became a miserable shit show of run-walk-repeat after about two miles. I was determined not to relive that experience.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAbIJMI6bGtjan1L_U15UDs9VxgmK2i-4GkABhfnVB8kyjyr05M0pGMd77lnAQZYFFLniOzW2Kr62PE8T4MIrOE2F2nMaQ716gPOdiWXzCQYvW-Sy_vzPdKQ-nVd_7iqp071HAnRBdpc8/s1600/Oside19-451.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1440" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzAbIJMI6bGtjan1L_U15UDs9VxgmK2i-4GkABhfnVB8kyjyr05M0pGMd77lnAQZYFFLniOzW2Kr62PE8T4MIrOE2F2nMaQ716gPOdiWXzCQYvW-Sy_vzPdKQ-nVd_7iqp071HAnRBdpc8/s320/Oside19-451.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Paul Phillips/Competitive Image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I headed out of transition, looked at my watch 30 yards in and saw that I was going way too fast. I heard Coach in my head: “You have to slow down, yes it’s fucking hard but you just do it.” And I did. Still a touch fast, but really close to where I wanted to start the run. I stayed disciplined for the first two miles, constantly looking at my watch and forcing myself to slow down. At that point, I could tell that I’d settled into a comfortable pace and had avoided the awful blow up that had happened the year before.<br />
<br />
I stayed steady and comfortable through the first turnaround, just shy of mile four. I had stopped looking at my watch, because at that point I cared less about my pace than I did about feeling like I could hold my effort level to the finish. After the turnaround, though, I stopped holding back at all, and just ran. I focused on the course landmarks and just getting from one to the next. I ran steady and strong and still wasn’t looking at my watch. My quads were cranky going up hill, but I knew the burn would wear off if I was patient, and I knew I’d run feeling worse in training. And I was not going to give in.<br />
<br />
At mile 9 my watch buzzed and I looked at my time and realized that if I held steady I might hit 2:05. Coach and I had agreed on that as a run goal, but honestly I didn’t have a lot of confidence in anything much below 2:10. Seeing my 9 mile time and knowing I was on pace for my goal gave me a boost of energy, and I dialed it up a notch. I was counting down the “hills” on the course as a way to define how much pain was left. I was counting down by kilometer from 5k just to feel like I was making progress. When I crested the final “hill” and had seven or eight tenths of a mile left, I knew I was home free. I turned it up that final notch to the finish, crossed the line, saw the 2:04 on my watch, and broke into my biggest grin of the day.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Overall</h3>
Like I said, this race wasn’t really about the clock. I’m proud that I rode that damn course even though I really didn’t want to, and I’m proud that I was smart and strong on the run. I feel more like myself than I have in a long time, and I can see a future where this crazy is all in the past. So, yeah, this one was a win.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comOceanside, CA, USA33.1958696 -117.3794834000000332.9833456 -117.70220690000002 33.408393600000004 -117.05675990000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-37674344197774548532018-10-11T01:01:00.001-07:002018-10-12T12:40:06.076-07:00Life Is What Happens When You're Busy Making Other Plans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj4Ku5uom2ogQQOT0f-WxTWXTOSagNYN7URn2NWRK9Kpqs-9ce12xuNs2OKtq8YRpgubv0qpir4JBcOhThwY2comHZ-C9CM8D7oqVIO_8WRK7gITaeKJDk7pktZYyOkwvCslBAPJC4fY9u/s1600/IMG_4377.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj4Ku5uom2ogQQOT0f-WxTWXTOSagNYN7URn2NWRK9Kpqs-9ce12xuNs2OKtq8YRpgubv0qpir4JBcOhThwY2comHZ-C9CM8D7oqVIO_8WRK7gITaeKJDk7pktZYyOkwvCslBAPJC4fY9u/s320/IMG_4377.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I am in Kona this week as part of 303Triathlon's media team covering the 2018 Ironman World Championship race. It's an incredible experience, and I feel lucky to be here on the big island for the single biggest day of the triathlon season. At the same time, being surrounded by triathletes at the peak of their elite fitness level feels like a slap in the face to my current pathetic existence of shuffling along at something kind of resembling a walk. I can't even get down stairs properly. I almost-not-jokingly want to wear a sign around my neck explaining that I'm three weeks post-bilateral bunion surgery, and really this is <i>not</i> who I normally am. More so, this is not who I was supposed to be this week - I was supposed to be in near peak Ironman-fitness myself. But apparently life had other plans.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>As of May 2018, after an appropriately blunt evaluation of my
semi-disappointing spring races, Coach and I were making plans. We were making A LOT of plans.
We put a smattering of short races on my calendar over the summer to
address run speed and to discover my inner bitch, a.k.a. my competitive
drive. I'd already picked out a local 70.3 in September, and all of this
was building to IM Cozumel in November, which I'd committed to way back
in January. We had a Plan, and I am really happy when there's a Plan,
so I was pretty darn excited.<br />
<br />
I should've known better. It started mid-May with an achiness in my right big toe joint after a fairly brutal but not quite as successful 5k time trial. That quickly transitioned to some weird heel discomfort, which was too migratory and come-and-go to be assumed to be plantar fasciitis. So, like any good triathlete, I figured it was not such a big deal and I could run through it. <br />
<br />
That lasted two weeks. I then spent about two months hopping from podiatrist to physical therapist to chiropractor, trying and failing to run without pain, and getting so aggravated that I spent every minute of every day on the verge of completely losing my shit. Finally in late July, upon visiting my second podiatrist and fourth medical professional of the summer, I got an actual diagnosis: bunion. So now I knew what I was dealing with, was told I could wait to have surgery till post-IMCoz (but not much longer than that), and with my chiro and Coach had developed a plan to get just barely, I mean BARELY, sufficiently run trained in time for the race. <br />
<br />
That lasted a month. In late August, right before it all fell apart, I was on track with my "barely trained" run plan, my swim was as strong as it'd been in a while (thanks to bonus miles due to such low run volume), and my bike was stronger than literally ever (thanks to weekly - sometimes twice-weekly - ass-kickings on the trainer, courtesy of Coach and TrainerRoad). I had knocked out a 90-mile ride at record pace right before the bottom fell out. <br />
<br />
So my 90-miler had been awesome speed-wise, but raised some concern about my bunion. Every time I started from a stop, just those two or three standing pedal strokes were enough to make the stupid joint scream at me. That was kinda worrisome. It made me think back to my "long" 3 and 4 mile runs and that the stupid joint was cranky after just a mile or two. I was worried. Worried that the stupid joint was not going to hold up under the stress of Ironman training, and that all the struggling through the summer and the weekly (sometimes twice-weekly) trainer ass-kickings and bonus swim miles would be for naught. <br />
<br />
That weekend the final piece of the puzzle that ended my plans landed in my lap. Some personal issues came up which required taking IMCoz off the calendar and moving up my bunion surgery to September. I was heartbroken. Sure, my run was likely going to suck ass, but my bike was so freaking strong and I wasn't going to get the chance to see what that meant on race day. And I was worried that I'd never, ever get that back. I was actually worried that somehow I'd never get the chance to race an Ironman again. I know it sounds nuts, but there was a lot of uncertainty about a lot of things, and I was terrified that I'd have to let that piece of my life go. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9-PKmMkfqYzvLSgSiXq36e-JKmsMzYmiW_f4ftfz9_Xe_Cx2bB18pFX4hIOzJ_T3B_B_IXsHESsWqKJlOL4lHIRShCREMXfzVZCu8K1sHEDd82YY9I_Tl1eEqAEyWt787t1wx6gXKkoS/s1600/IMG_4342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9-PKmMkfqYzvLSgSiXq36e-JKmsMzYmiW_f4ftfz9_Xe_Cx2bB18pFX4hIOzJ_T3B_B_IXsHESsWqKJlOL4lHIRShCREMXfzVZCu8K1sHEDd82YY9I_Tl1eEqAEyWt787t1wx6gXKkoS/s320/IMG_4342.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My feet, just a few hours after surgery. And yes,<br />
that is a walker in the background.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here I am now, three-ish weeks post-surgery, and I’m still pretty terrified that I’ll never get back what I had. I’ve been going to the gym, sitting next to the silver sneakers on the recumbent bikes, staring at a power number that I swear is mocking me. I’ve tried swimming, but when you can’t kick and you can’t push off the walls, it’s pretty fucking frustrating. At least I can do some strength training, but once you rule out squats, dead lifts, leg press, and lunges, lower body work is pretty limited.<br />
<br />
At this point, I’m convinced I can literally sit and watch my muscles melting into fat. I’m entering my limited training into TrainingPeaks - I’ll take any credit I can get right now! - but watching that damn CTL curve drop is ruining me. I’m trying to guesstimate how much my FTP will have dropped by the time I’m allowed to ride my actual bike again. And I really, really don’t know if I’m ever going to get back to where I was.<br />
<br />
Plus, it’s Kona week and I have an athlete toeing the line at his first Ironman in just a few days. All the talk of races and finish lines is somehow even more emotional than usual. The moment I conjure up the image of screaming throngs of spectators lining the finisher’s chute - any freaking Ironman finisher’s chute - I start to well up. I want that so fucking badly right now!<br />
<br />
And that is how I know that I am going to fight like hell to get back to where I was. To get back to crushing a grueling masters swim set, hitting every damn send-off that I thought for sure was never going to happen. To get back to feeling like a badass on my bike, knocking down 80 and 90 and 100 mile rides like I own the road. To get back to running eight or ten miles without thinking twice about it, pushing myself to pull off a negative split and finishing the run depleted but proud as hell. To make sure that I cross another Ironman finish line.<br />
<br />
Like I said in the post-workout comments for my last ride before surgery:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Fuck this shit.</i><br />
<i>When I come back, I am going to kick the shit out of this sport. </i> </blockquote>
Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-40443649238591219082018-07-08T06:35:00.000-07:002018-09-03T06:38:05.138-07:00So You Wanna Be An Ironman<h3>
... Or: Five Things to Consider Before Jumping Up to A New Race Distance</h3><br />
<i>Originally published on <a href="http://d3multisport.com/">D3Multisport.com</a></i> <br />
<br />
It’s that time of year: your friends‘ Strava feeds are exploding, social media is clogged with finisher photos and race recaps, your FOMO antenna is quivering, and you’re left wondering … should I throw my hat in the ring? If you’re considering making the jump from sprints and Olympics to a 70.3, or from 70.3’s to the Ironman distance, here are five things you should consider:<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><h3>
1. Prerequisites</h3>
Before hitting up a new distance, make sure you’re solid at your current race distance. Sure, there are triathletes who jump into a 70.3 or Ironman-distance race their first season. Would I recommend it? Not really. I believe that endurance is built over years, not months, and therefore your best chance for success at a new race distance comes from one or two years of racing one tier below that.<br />
<br />
For 70.3’s, I recommend two years of sprint- and Olympic-distance racing before making the jump. For Ironman-distance, I recommend completing several 70.3’s before moving up to 140.6. You also want to make sure you have at least one Olympic (prior to 70.3’s) or 70.3 (prior to 140.6's) that you would call successful, as in: you executed your day more or less as you’d planned.<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. Training Hours</h3>
If you’re going to train for a race that’s twice as long as your last one, it’s obviously going to involve some additional training hours. Here’s what you can expect along that front:<br />
<br />
Going from Olympic-distance training to 70.3 training can present a noticeable change in training volume. If you’re accustomed to the two swims, two bikes, and two runs per week training approach, settling into a three swims, three bikes, and three runs per week schedule can take some time. You should anticipate doubling up on workouts most weekdays, plus completing weekend rides that build to 3-4 hours and weekend runs that build to two hours or longer.<br />
<br />
Ironman-distance training both is and isn’t much different from 70.3 training. The three swims, three bikes, and three runs schedule still applies, and your mid-week training training volume doesn’t increase by all that much. Clearly, though, the long swims, bikes, and runs get a lot longer. You should anticipate swims building to at least 4000 meters/yards, bikes building to 5-7 hours, and runs building to the 2.5-3 hour range.<br />
<br />
(And while you’re budgeting time for training, be sure to factor in extra naps and early bedtimes. Your first year training for a new distance can be exhausting!)<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. Race Fueling</h3>
Grab a Gatorade or some gel blocks and you’re good for a sprint-distance race. A full day of swim-bike-run, however, requires that you put a lot more thought into fueling.<br />
<br />
Along with training for swim-bike-run, you need to include developing, testing, and tweaking your race day fueling plan in your training. You’ll want to get a good understanding of your caloric, hydration, and sodium requirements, find products that meet those requirements, and test them on long training days - starting months before the actual race.<br />
<br />
Oh - pro tip - all those gel blocks and endurance drinks and peanut butter filled granola bars don’t grow on trees. If you’re the budgeting type, you’ll want to factor those into the overall equation.<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. Your Grocery Bill</h3>
Speaking of budgeting, your grocery bill is definitely going to go up as your training volume increases. Morning pre-workout fueling, post-workout recovery fueling, healthy afternoon snacks, and healthy dinners that can fuel tomorrow’s long workouts are all a part of long-course triathlon training. On top of the number of meals, the amount you consume at any given meal is likely to go up as well.<br />
<br />
Given that, you’ll need to start stocking the kitchen a little more robustly than you might have previously. As you hit weeks with considerable training volume, you’re going to be hungry - all the time. You want to ensure that you’ve got healthy options within arm’s reach so that you don’t default to quick and easy solutions (but sub-optimal fueling choices) like potato chips and fast food.<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. Know Your “Why”</h3>
Most importantly, you need to have a good understand of why you’ve chosen to undertake this massive, fabulous goal. Everyone’s reason is different, and no one needs to understand yours except for you, but you HAVE to know what it is.<br />
<br />
If you didn’t figure it out from the discussion of training hours, long-course triathlon training requires a lot of time, energy, and focus (and napping). Finding the space for that within a life that was already filled with work, family, friends, and other hobbies can be challenging. Even after you figure out that balance, you are always going to hit a point (or several points) in training where you feel like you’ve been training forever, you’re staring down the face of a long workout, and you just lack the motivation to hit the pool, road, or trail. Reminding yourself of your “why” and the realities of race day might be the only way to convince yourself to get out the door.<br />
<br />
And then there’s race day. No matter how well prepared you are, no matter how well you execute your day, at some point (or several points) during the race you’re going to hit a low, and wonder what on earth you were thinking signing up for this darn event. This is where your “why” is of critical importance. There WAS a reason why you signed up, and if you believe that reason deep in your bones it will propel you toward the glory of that magical finish line.<br />
<br />
And believe me: that finish line is, in fact, glorious and magical, and you really, really want to experience it.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-20297248122248534692018-05-10T11:42:00.000-07:002018-09-03T11:54:59.506-07:006 Reasons Why Wildflower Needs to Be on Your Bucket List<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
<br />
I recently traveled to California to participate in the iconic <a href="https://www.wildflowerexperience.com/" target="_blank">Wildflower Experience</a>, a race that’s been on my bucket list for nearly my entire triathlon career. My weekend did not disappoint! The gorgeous venue, challenging course, and full weekend of being off the grid with thousands of compatriots were exactly what I’d been imagining. If you’re looking for a race venue that does not involve the Boulder Rez, I highly recommend making the trip to Wildflower. Here’s why:<br />
<br />
<h3>
<a name='more'></a>1. The History</h3>
2018 marked the 35th running of the Wildflower triathlon (<a href="https://tricoachalison.blogspot.com/2017/10/lets-do-wildflower-whats-wildflower.html" target="_blank">what’s Wildflower?</a>). If that doesn’t make it a race rich with history, then I don’t know what does. Surely there’s a reason for the longevity of this race - don’t you want to find out what it is?<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. The Unique Environment</h3>
This is not the standard race where everyone shows up for packet pickup, returns for the race, and then departs soon after crossing the finish line. The venue is 35 miles from the nearest town - and nearest hotel - so you’re showing up on Thursday, eating, sleeping, hanging out, racing, maybe racing again, and celebrating through Sunday afternoon, all at the race venue ... and all with your race weekend posse plus thousands of others doing the same. It truly is the Wildflower Experience, not just a triathlon.<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. The Brutal Bike and Run Courses</h3>
I realize that doesn’t sound like a selling point at first blush. But if you hold the opinion that too many people are looking for easy races so they can PR, and that too many race directors are taking the challenge out of their courses to enable those PRs, you will LOVE the Wildflower course. It has more elevation on both the bike and the run than any other course that I know of in North America, including three rated climbs on the bike and one on the run. Even the pros are known to power hike the big climb on the run course!<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. Local Race Vibe; National Brand Numbers</h3>
The local race vibe brings a more laid back attitude and a wider range of athletes than you might see at a nationally-branded race. But with registration numbers in the thousands, you’re not going to get lonely out there on the run course. And numbers like that also mean great vendors at the Expo and a stocked merch tent, two of my favorite things (cuz, just like snacks after 10pm, Expo and merch tent money don’t count).<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. There’s Something For Everyone ... And I Mean, EVERYONE</h3>
With four triathlons over two days, two trail running races, SUP races and rentals, it’s easy to pull together a wide-ranging group for a girls’ weekend / guys’ weekend / family race-cation. Even if your friends or family don’t want to break a sweat, there are bands playing all day at the Expo, where they can also do some wine tasting and get a massage. And for those with a real specialty-focus to their sport, there was even a well attended but very under-the-radar running of the Beer Mile this year. Oh, wait, and did I mention the 80s dance party? I mean, who isn’t going to want to come with you next year?<br />
<br />
<h3>
6. The Logistics Are NOT As Overwhelming As You Think</h3>
Getting yourself, your gear, and your bike to a race can often be headache enough, so it’s understandable that adding food, water, and shelter to that list might feel like a deal-breaker. But, really, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Your guide to <a href="https://tricoachalison.blogspot.com/2018/03/how-to-wildflower.html" target="_blank">How to Wildflower</a> spells out all the details, and rumor has it that local bike transport extraordinaire ProBike Express will be serving Wildflower once again in 2019. With PBE transporting your bike, your gear, and your tent, the rest is a piece of cake. Or at least a nice s’more.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-41988545032601110572018-04-07T09:00:00.000-07:002018-04-22T10:39:07.060-07:00IM 70.3 Oceanside 2018 Race ReportI sent the following email to Coach the Monday before race day:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #666666;"><i>Just thought I’d let you know that I’m losing my shit to the point of (not actually) thinking that I just shouldn’t come to the race. I don’t really mean it, but it is definitely circling through my batshit crazy brain. Normally I don’t get cold feet till 12-24 hours before the start, so this is super fun for me. <br /><br />- I still have a cold and my sinuses seem hell bent on staying clogged up.<br />- I have shit weather karma and so it is clearly going to rain.<br />- The water is stupid cold and I am going to freeze.<br />- I hate disassembling and reassembling my bike and the wheels don’t fit well in the case and TSA is definitely going to break something.<br />- I am never going to be able to hold my watts and it’s going to take me forever to finish the bike and my time will suck and so there’s no point in showing up.</i></span></blockquote>
<a name='more'></a>Who knows what the hell actually sent me into a crazy downward spiral, but there I was and there I more or less stayed right up until my flight to California. I reverted to auto-pilot, so I actually did pack and get on the plane, but the crazy was still sitting quietly there in the background.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrWNCJogyHgp3XqoKH3RF6ThYQ3mWG_361GzgYduzs3om0sdzh1O2Z24QDDxUlKQf_sgSFCY7d_YJ2ndkHsuGC4d6o6qaVdhHuAVH2ZZySb6hydqgEAv23SEHF4oVSZch6OuxCDD_6AFi/s1600/IMG_3624.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMrWNCJogyHgp3XqoKH3RF6ThYQ3mWG_361GzgYduzs3om0sdzh1O2Z24QDDxUlKQf_sgSFCY7d_YJ2ndkHsuGC4d6o6qaVdhHuAVH2ZZySb6hydqgEAv23SEHF4oVSZch6OuxCDD_6AFi/s200/IMG_3624.jpg" width="200" /></a>Arriving in California (where, it's worth noting, neither my kids nor my to do list live) helped a lot to calm my nerves. All the unknowns were starting to sort themselves out - the chance of rain had vanished, my sinuses were semi-clearing, and TSA did not end up breaking my bike - and I think that helped immensely. The Pacific was still fucking cold, as we discovered during our practice swim, but at least the air was warm.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Morning</h3>
At some point over the prior 36 hours in California, my batshit crazy mindset had transformed into something resembling calm. I had a race plan and I was focused on executing it. I knew that the plan was going to involve some suffering, particularly on the run, and I was ready for it.<br />
<br />
So race morning I did not wake up and wonder why the fuck I do this to myself, which is my usual MO on race morning. I just got up, sucked down my applesauce squeezers, threw on my kit and headed out with Sarah. We parked, took the shuttle to T1 (or really halfway there, and then we had to walk the other half), and I started setting up my transition spot.<br />
<br />
If it hadn't been totally evident the day prior when I forgot which direction to rack my bike (it's cool, this was only my 29th triathlon), I was very, very rusty on how this whole race-thing was supposed to flow. My trusty 70.3 race plan ensured that I hadn't forgotten anything, but setting up transition was less "I need this and that and the other thing" and more "what's all the stuff in my bag" and "oh yeah I guess I'll need that."<br />
<br />
At 6:30 - 20 minutes before the AG start - I had done all the transition things I needed to, wetsuit was on to my waist, and I was mostly worried about not leaving my goggles or ponytail holders (yup, hair was still down and unruly) before heading to the swim queue. Figured I had plenty of time when I walked over to the swim start chute ... and began a 15 minute, panic-stricken, swimming-upstream struggle from the back of the chute all the way up to the 30-35 minute sign. What started as politely walking through the crowd ended with me basically throwing elbows and screaming at people to get out of my way.<br />
<br />
Note to self: if I do this race again, get in the freaking swim queue by 6:15! Maybe even earlier. What the hell. Anyway, I did manage to get up to the 30-35 zone and finish putting on my wetsuit and did up my pigtails (cuz nothing says awesome like a 47-yr-old in pigtails) and got my neoprene cap and my goggles and my race cap on and all was ok. And just like that, we were off.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Swim - 33:53 / 5th (!!!) AG</h3>
Coach had instructed me to swim hard - harder than I usually do, and harder than I'd normally dare - and I was hoping to finally break through to a 32:XX split with that approach. Swimming in the harbor (they'd moved the swim from the planned ocean start due to wave height) was certainly going to help with that goal. The harbor was also nice because the shallow entry wasn't ice cold and so the swim start wasn't take-your-breath-away temps the way the ocean had been in our practice swim the day prior.<br />
<br />
Once I got going and dealt with the weird shock of cold about 10 meters in, the swim was pretty uneventful. I swam hard, sighted, tried not to back off the pace, ticked off the buoys, made the turns, and headed back. I was passing people - kind of a lot of people - which made me happy. There were some bumps and run ins with the swimmers around me, but nothing that was really a big deal.<br />
<br />
The final couple hundred meters did get a little crazy. It was like swimming in a washing machine. Apparently that's because there were still people starting the swim as we were finishing (O'side swim start is spread over an hour or so) and hoards of people swimming in opposite directions must churn up the water something good. But I kept pushing and maintained a strong pull and next thing you know the swim was over. Like I said: uneventful.<br />
<br />
<h3>
T1 - 5:30</h3>
Oceanside is a HUGE race - 3500 participants? - and so transition is understandably a huge piece of real estate. Which means it's a long ass run from the swim exit all the way down one side of transition before you turn around and run to your bike. This gave me time to be a little annoyed at my 33-high swim split (I swam hard! but I could've swum harder ... and I stopped being annoyed post-race when I found out I was 5th AG in the swim out of 130ish). It also gave me lots of time to figure out how to unlock the buttons on my watch, which auto-lock for open water swims. I swear it took me the entire run from swim exit to my bike, and more than a moment of thinking I just wasn't going to be able to do it, but I finally figured it out.<br />
<br />
Got to my bike: take a breath, dump the wet gear, shoes, race bib (yup you need it on the bike for this race), helmet, GO!<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Bike - 3:03:38 / 23rd AG</h3>
I'd studied the course profile, heard about the "steep 1/2 mile hill" and the bad roads, and thought I knew what I was getting into. As with just about anything, studying and hearing about things is not nearly the same as experiencing them firsthand. So here's what reality looked like:<br />
<br />
The first few miles really were crap. Winding asphalt trails with a ton of little curves and bumps and ups and downs and it was impossible to get into aero and establish some rhythm. Also there were tons of people and between passing a few and getting passed by many (the downside of swimming fast) I spent most of my energy just navigating the paths and the potholes and the people.<br />
<br />
Finally got on open road, settled in, and realized that - contrary to my concern about my bike strength - the watts were coming way too easily. My normalized power was WAY above target. But hey, it's only been a few miles, it'll all work itself out.<br />
<br />
The rest of the first 28 miles went by in a weird time-is-moving-both-slowly-and-quickly kind of way. My watts were still high, but gradually coming down. The course was crowded as fuck - as in, twenty people in the 30 to 50 yards ahead of me at all times - so it was really challenging to ride my pace and not draft. It didn't help that there was a moto cruising along +/- 20 yards from me for what felt like miles, but I used that time to coast a little and help get my watts down. The roads were sometimes passable and sometimes crap, and there were bottles everywhere.<br />
<br />
So I turned into Camp Pendleton and around there was the half-way mark, and while my normalized power was finally where it was supposed to be, my half-way split was 1:28. Seriously?!?!? Coach said the first half of the course was fast, and that is not a fast half-way split, and my bike split is going to suck and this is not ok. FUCK.<br />
<br />
But there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it, so I started looking for the first "hill." I'm from Colorado, and we have hills, and I've even ridden some of them, so I wasn't worried. Until I saw the hill. MOTHER. FUCKER. Yeah, so, Colorado apparently has not cornered the market on hills. There was a sign that explained that this one's called "Hell Hill" and I can see why. It was straight up, approximately forever, and it was going to hurt like shit. Having no choice, I hauled my ass up that hill, spiking stupid high watts in my granny gear, and getting out of the saddle a few times to keep my legs turning over and prevent me from ending up on the asphalt. And then I decided to blow downhill and not give up a second coasting, and so I didn't get any recovery. Which is probably why the cramps started.<br />
<br />
After "Hell Hill" there was "Junior Hell Hill" and "Mini Hell Hill" plus some miles of just general uphill in between I forgot which two hell hills. There were descents, but for some reason they don't really provide recovery. And after all that you've got 10 or so miles into a headwind to get back to transition. I spent those miles in complete misery. Going uphill I crushed my watts because I'm not good at holding back on hills, and then downhill I dealt with stabbing stomach (?) cramps, right up under my ribcage. I stopped taking in nutrition thinking that was the cause of the cramps (stupid) and wondered if the cramps would stay this bad or maybe get worse and if they were this bad on the run what would I do??? And my normalized power once again climbed way above where it was supposed to be (double stupid - and I KNOW BETTER) and I knew I was doomed.<br />
<br />
By the time I was battling the headwinds for those final miles back to T2, I was alternately working hard to get the damn bike over with and delusionally hoping to break 3:00, and holding back because I knew I'd fried my legs on the hills and I was trying to keep the cramps in check. I was holding onto the thought that somehow run legs and bike legs were different and I would be ok.<br />
<br />
<h3>
T2 - 4:22</h3>
The unexpectedly nice thing about T2 was that you ride your bike down the (very narrow, therefore very slow) swim exit to the back of T2 before dismounting. I thought I'd be running that distance, so coasting on my bike and having the chance to collect myself before starting the run was great.<br />
<br />
Ditched my bike, swapped out shoes, grabbed my visor, on my way. Oh, and hit the port-o-potty. Then really on my way.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Run - 2:08:56 / 50th AG</h3>
The run is typically my weakest leg, and therefore is the obvious place to make gains. The goal of a sub-2:00 run was the big focus of my training for this race. But even as I was finishing the bike (and knowing that I'd over-biked that course), I was thinking maybe this wasn't the course to be shooting for a sub-2 run. That maybe that goal was better saved for a day when the bike course wasn't fucking ridiculous.<br />
<br />
But I started the run - and I was feeling good! Legs felt fine, not trashed at all. Something had magically gotten the cramps to disappear, and there was some cloud cover, and all was right with the world. I was running fast - too fast - and I was trying to slow down. I kept looking at my watch, kept trying to slow my pace, managed to get to where I felt like I was cruising at a slow jog - and I was still going to fast. I finally gave up and just ran the pace I was running (triple stupid - and I KNOW BETTER). I was thinking that if I kept feeling that good I was going to have an amazing day. HA.<br />
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My first mile was WAY too fast. My second mile started to get back to normal, in part because I walked through an aid station. I was still feeling pretty good, and then I hit the first ramp from beach level to street level. Coach had said they were "steep" and until I saw them in person at Athlete Check In I didn't really get it. Honestly, they might as well have just been stairs. They were THAT steep. But I took it really, really slow and thought I'd managed my effort level nicely - until my quads started screaming as I returned to normal pace post-ramp. Shit. This was NOT going to be ok.<br />
<br />
I blew up at mile 2. Mile 2 of a 13.1 mile run leg. That's a lot of miles to be staring at when the shit has hit the fan. Could've been because I had left 200 calories in my bike bottle. Could've been because I biked 50 minutes at 93% in the middle of the bike course (idiot). Could've been because I'd run the first two miles too fast and my lactate levels had skyrocketed (double idiot). I didn't have the presence of mind to think all that through at that point, I just kept going. All I could think was, "Never give up on the idea that your next mile will be better."<br />
<br />
Miles 3, 4, and 5 were horrible. Miles 6 and 7 were actually ok. Not great, but ok. At the 7 mile mark I realized that my legs felt like shit but my cardio was fine, so if my legs were going to hurt they might as well hurt running faster. I turned it up a little, and re-blew up. Miles 8, 9, and 10 were back to horrible. I was holding out for a final adrenaline push to get me through the final 5k. The adrenaline finally hit with a half mile to go. Good fucking times.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Overall - 5:56:17 / 26th AG</h3>
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I spent the next few days processing my race. It took a while to get my head around my day - I was definitely disappointed with my performance, and it was definitely not the race I'd planned for. I mostly blamed it on having over-biked, but that really wasn't the whole story. I looked for some wins on the day: for the first time, I had been confident enough in my run to really go for it on the bike; for having blown up on the run, my time was actually comparable to prior non-blow up runs; for as disappointing a race as it was, my IM points (which are calculated as a difference between your time and the fastest time in your AG) were my all-time highest for a 70.3.<br />
<br />
I also constructed a massive narrative in my head explaining all the contextual stuff that I thought contributed to my day. Pre-race stress, my fragile athlete identity and how that ties into my fixation on my bike watts and bike split, how I don't like knowing that a bunch of people are watching my results, yadda yadda yadda. I put just a small fraction of this contextual narrative into my post-race recap email to Coach ... and she totally called me to the carpet on all of it.<br />
<br />
After a brief double take, I realized that I'd gotten incredibly skilled in creating these elaborate narratives to let myself off the hook for the mistakes I made on race day. I had gotten serious about my goals, but still had a rec league, just-do-what-you-can-and-enjoy-the-day-and-give-yourself-some-grace mindset. If I want to have Varsity goals, I needed to stop letting myself off the hook and adopt a Varsity, toughen-the-fuck-up-and-deal-with-your-shit-and-get-it-done mindset.<br />
<br />
I always say that you learn something at every race. THIS was my biggest learning: <i><b>It's time to stop making excuses and just get my shit done</b></i>. I'm so grateful to have a Coach who doesn't pull any punches, and who called me out on my bullshit. I responded to her email with a list of things that I can/will/need to do better at my next race. Thankfully that race is only a few weeks away, and I have the opportunity to make some immediate changes. My next race still may not be perfect, but I can see the path toward improvement, and that's exciting.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comOceanside, CA, USA33.1958696 -117.3794834000000332.9833456 -117.70220690000002 33.408393600000004 -117.05675990000003tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-1173942994390501472018-03-28T08:51:00.000-07:002018-03-28T13:24:05.001-07:00Four Things I've Learned as a Coached Triathlon CoachI've been a triathlete for nearly a decade and have been a triathlon coach for nearly four years, but this is my first stint at being a coached triathlon coach. Layer onto that the fact that I am a highly opinionated, strong type A,
serious control freak, logical-coach-by-day,
classic-headcase-athlete-by-night, and you can imagine that my
adjustment window from self-coaching to being coached has been ... interesting.<br />
<br />
It's taken me about four months to settle in - yup, FOUR MONTHS - but I've learned some great things along the way.<br />
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<h3>
<a name='more'></a></h3>
<h3>
The Transition-to-Coaching Phase is Real</h3>
I've always told my new athletes that I prefer to have at least 4-8 weeks of training "prep time" - if not more - before we start their for-real training for an A race. It takes time for me to get to know them, and for them to get to know me, I tell them. It can take a bit for me to dial in the right balance of training for their individual needs, I tell them. And it can take some time for them to settle into their training calendar, I tell them.<br />
<br />
I know that my end of the equation as a coach is real - I absolutely pay attention to how my athletes respond to those first few weeks of training, and adjust course as needed based on that. What I understood less well was how thrown off kilter it can feel as an athlete to dive into a very unfamiliar pattern of training.<br />
<br />
So I spent a month or so having some really weird, totally circular conversations with myself:<br />
"This training is not at all what I'm used to."<br />
"No shit, Sherlock, that's exactly why you hired a coach."<br />
"Yeah, okay, but it's really different."<br />
"No shit, Sherlock, that's exactly why you hired a coach."<br />
"But I'm kinda thrown for a loop because it's really different."<br />
"Seriously, are you going to make me say it again? THAT'S WHY YOU HIRED A COACH."<br />
<br />
And then I settled in. And I gained a greater appreciation for each of my athlete's first month/s of our journey.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Communication is Key</h3>
It turns out, what was really causing me to get my panties all in a bunch over those first training blocks was the fact that I missed my bike. Coach had me doing a lot of work on the run - no argument there, my run sucks - but it meant less time on my bike. (Actually, it meant less time on my trainer, which maybe was what I missed more than my bike, because #imbatshitcrazy and I love my trainer.) And after eight weeks or so, I was about to lose my shit.<br />
<br />
Then an amazing thing happened: I talked to Coach about getting on my bike (trainer) a little more frequently. Literally, one more time each week. I know - having a conversation about the batshit crazy in my head seems so fucking logical, but, I'll remind you: logical-coach-by-day, classic-headcase-athlete-by-night. And, just like that, more bike workouts appeared in TrainingPeaks and all was right with the world.<br />
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So, yes, #trustyourcoach and #followtheplan, but it's also ok to say how you feel.<br />
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<h3>
If You Don't Hate Your Coach Every So Often, They're Not Doing Their Job</h3>
One of the main reasons that I switched from self-coaching to being coached was that I knew a coach would challenge me to work harder than I would challenge myself. And I appreciated the fact that Coach was putting more runs on my calendar than I'd ever dared, even though the very thought of lacing up my shoes made me want to cry. I *really* appreciated it when all those runs started paying off.<br />
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My training was really humming along, and I was happy. I was running well, and I got to spend more time on my bike (trainer), and I was feeling like everything was finally clicking. So what does Coach do? Turn up the heat. I mean, I get it, we'd hit the final few weeks before my A race and so, as a coach, that's what you do. But I will also acknowledge that I started cursing her name - routinely.<br />
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As in: "Fucking Coach has got to be fucking kidding if she thinks I can do that workout." "Fucking Coach is high on crack if she thinks I can run that fast off the bike." "Fucking Coach is just plain fucking mean."<br />
<br />
But, since: #trustyourcoach and #followtheplan, I showed up and did all the fucking things she asked me to do (except one which I tried but my legs wouldn't cooperate, and I swear it really was a fucking mean workout). And while I did curse Coach's name all the fucking time, I know she can take it.<br />
<br />
So yes, if you're reading this and are coached by me and have never cursed my name, please let me know so that I can do better by you. :) <br />
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<h3>
Your Coach Knows What You're Capable Of, Even If You Don't</h3>
A friend asked me a month ago what my expectations were for my A race this spring. My response? I haven't a clue. Which is kinda unusual for me - I'm usually pretty dialed into how my training is going, and how that will (could, should) translate on race day. But I'm also used to MY training style and MY workouts, which I've been doing for years, and so I can compare this year to last year and know where I stand.<br />
<br />
But this year I'm doing Coach's style and Coach's workouts, so I can't really compare this year to last year. They're just different. And it doesn't even feel apples to oranges different - more like apples to elevators different. So I don't know how to look at what I'm doing in the pool or on the bike or on the run and say "yup, this is what that means for race day."<br />
<br />
Here's what I do know: Coach has been putting some stuff on my training calendar that I think is hilariously, insanely ambitious. And lately, I've actually been hitting those numbers. I never think I'm capable of pulling off the workout, but Coach does, and more often than not Coach is right.<br />
<br />
So, come race day (10 days!!!), I'm going to go with her expectations for what I can do on the course. I think she's batshit crazy with some of her numbers, but cuz #trustyourcoach and #followtheplan, I'm just going to show up and trust that it will happen.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-11436244014030630392018-03-15T11:46:00.000-07:002018-09-03T11:54:35.390-07:00How to Wildflower<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
<br />
Maybe you’ve signed up for Wildflower (<a href="https://tricoachalison.blogspot.com/2017/10/lets-do-wildflower-whats-wildflower.html" target="_blank">what’s Wildflower?</a>) and haven’t quite sorted out your logistics for the epic weekend of triathlon, camping, beer, wine, and music. Or maybe you’ve always <i>wanted</i> to sign up for Wildflower, but have been holding back because sorting out the BYO details is just too overwhelming. (Do I have to eat freeze dried camp food for my pre-race dinner? Is there an option besides instant coffee? Where do I shower? No, really. WHERE DO I SHOWER???) No worries, I’ve got all your answers right here.<br />
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<h3>
<a name='more'></a>TRAVEL</h3>
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Assuming that you’re not driving to the race, Monterey Regional Airport is the closest airport to Lake San Antonio … but doesn’t seem to serve direct flights from Denver. Given that, your best bet is to fly into San Jose Airport, although San Francisco and Oakland are also decent options. You’ll need to rent a car, as the race site is not Uber-able from the airport. Don’t want to deal with flying with your bike and then having to rent an enormous, expensive SUV? ProBike Express, your local bike concierge, will offer bike + bag + tent + anything else you need transport services if there is sufficient interest; TriBike Transport serves the race as well.<br />
<br />
Plan for a 2-1/2 to 3 hour drive from the airport down to Lake San Antonio, but make sure to buffer an extra 30-60 minutes to stop for provisions along the way (see “Food & Water” below). Your best bet is to hit up Salinas, which is about halfway from San Jose Airport to Lake San Antonio and serves as a convenient place to stock up on supplies for the weekend. There’s a Costco, a Walmart, a Target, and a Safeway, so between the four you should be able to find pretty much everything you need. There’s also an In-N-Out Burger in Salinas, and if you don’t stop and get a double-double animal style, we’re going to have a serious conversation about your priorities.<br />
<br />
If you find yourself 15 minutes south of Salinas and realize you forgot the key ingredient for your famous campfire mac n cheese, you can stop at the Safeway in King City, which is about an hour outside of Lake San Antonio. For real this is the last place to find provisions, so check your list twice before driving off.<br />
<br />
Finally, you’ll want to plan your trip timing around the road closures within Lake San Antonio Park. <i>All roads in the park are closed</i> on Saturday from 7am-3pm and on Sunday from 8am-3pm. Regardless of what race you’re eyeing, plan to arrive no later than Friday and leave late Sunday afternoon. (Already made travel arrangements that conflict with road closures? You can park at North Shore campground and take a boat shuttle to/from the race site.)<br />
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<h3>
SHELTER & SHOWERS</h3>
There are a myriad of great lodging options available for Wildflower, as long as you’re not dead set on turn down service and a chocolate on your pillow: there are no hotels to be found anywhere near the race site. Here’s what is available:<br />
<br />
<b>Camping</b> is available at a number of campgrounds surrounding the Lake. You can lock in advance reservations through the <a href="https://www.wildflowerexperience.com/" target="_blank">Wildflower website</a>. Individual spaces are first-come-first-served, so if you’re picky about locations, plan to arrive at the race site on Thursday rather than Friday. Camping is $25/person/night for everyone over 16.<br />
<br />
<b>RV</b> parking is available at the campgrounds as well with the same logistics and pricing as tent camping. (The limited number of RV spots with hookups are, unfortunately, sold out.) You can bring your own RV or you can arrange to have one delivered to the campsite if a two-day drive each way doesn’t fit your schedule.<br />
<br />
While sadly the super-cool Tinker Tins are sold out for 2018, there is still limited available for the <b>Bell Tents</b> (think: Glamping), at $950 for the full three nights. If you like the idea of camping but want to add a little civility, or just back support, to the weekend, I’d jump on these quickly.<br />
<br />
For all of these lodging options, standard campground bathrooms should typically be no more than a few hundred yards away. Some of these will have showers, some won’t, so get the lay of the land ahead of time and strategize shower timing to avoid the crowds.<br />
<br />
If you really can’t get past the idea of a private, hot shower, AirBnB and VRBO are great sources for rentals surrounding Lake San Antonio, and there are hotels in nearby Paso Robles, approximately 35 miles from the Lake. If you do stay outside the park, keep those Saturday and Sunday road closure times in mind, and plan to pay the $10/person/day Festival pass rates upon entering the Park.<br />
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<h3>
FOOD & WATER</h3>
This is the area where your advance planning skills really get tested. You do want to think through ALL of your food and drink needs prior to heading to Wildflower for the weekend. <br />
<br />
• Water - Yes, you need to bring your own water. Maybe a half gallon per day per person? Maybe even a smidge more to account for race day requirements.<br />
<br />
• Race Fueling - Breakfast / pre-race nutrition; Race nutrition; Post-race nutrition. If it’s a powder-based product, make sure you’ll have sufficient water AND sufficient clean water bottles. If it’s real food, see next item …<br />
<br />
• Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner - How many days? What do you want to eat? How are you going to cook it? How are you going to store it? If you’re going to cook, you’ll need to bring your own skillet, pots, plates and utensils, and be sure to grab a cooler - styrofoam or the real deal - when you stop for provisions. You can grab ice, firewood, and lighter fluid at the small, very basic, general store onsite.<br />
<br />
• Want to restock mid-weekend? In addition to the small, onsite store, Oak Hill Market is roughly 15 minutes outside the park and is about the best general store there is: quality meats, great produce, wine, barbecue supplies, eggs, and a great deli. (There’s also a gas station here - the nearest one I believe - if you are running low!)<br />
<br />
• Don’t want to cook over a fire? - Welcome to my world. Thankfully we won’t be left to starve - there will be a wide variety of food trucks at the festival all weekend, and they will mostly be serving healthy/gourmet food rather than traditional carnival food truck fare. Save for your 5am pre-race meal, the food trucks will have you covered. Pro tip: TriCalifornia is exploring a cashless system for festival vendors, including food trucks. Keep an eye out for more info on their website and Facebook page!<br />
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• Must. Have. Pasta. - No duh. There’s a pasta party Friday night. Did you really think they’d leave you hanging? Tickets will be available online starting in Mid-March ($12 adults / $6 under 16) and you can buy tickets onsite if that’s more your style ($14 / $8), but only those who buy tickets in advance get a second serving.<br />
<br />
• But what about coffee??? - Yup, they thought of that too. Nate Dressel, former pro triathlete, will be there with his new venture, Frontier Coffee. Just be prepared to stand in a long line if your morning routine involves anything incorporating the word “latte.”<br />
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And if reading all that just gave you an enormous headache, there are a limited number of $200 VIP packages remaining that cover breakfast, lunch and dinner for the entire weekend. You can add this option to your campground reservation, Bell Tent reservation, or pre-purchased Festival day pass upon checkout through active.com.<br />
<br />
So then … Travel: Check. Shelter: Check. Showers: Check. Food & Water: Check. … <br />
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<h3>
NOW WHAT?</h3>
You’ve sorted through the headache of a race venue where everything - literally, EVERYTHING - is BYO. So now what? TIME TO PARTY!!! Just kidding. Well, not really. Pretty much the whole point of Wildflower is that it’s not just a race, it’s an entire weekend of awesomeness. And to experience all of this awesomeness properly, it’s going to require just a little more advance preparation.<br />
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First off, in the weeks leading into the Wildflower Experience weekend, TriCalifornia is going to release the <b>official Wildflower app</b>. (Yup, there’s an app for that.) Given the very limited cell service at Lake San Antonio - no, I would not anticipate any wifi hotspots - you’ll want to download this app before race weekend. Then, while you still have cell service, make sure the maps and shuttle schedules are loaded, and review the race weekend schedule. <i>Within the app you can reserve spots for activities and services - as in: post-race massages and pedicures - and you’ll want to do this before race weekend.</i><br />
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Minus scheduling your massage, you can take advantage of much of the race weekend awesomeness on a more spontaneous basis. Plan for lots of time hanging around the campsite - pack your Eno hammock, or consider grabbing a cheap-o lawn chair at Walmart to enable this activity. But do wander off from your campsite at some point and check out the Festival: bands will be playing throughout the day on Saturday and Sunday, there will be local artisan tents and helicopter tours (only $99 - if I weren’t terrified of helicopters I’d say this sounds like a steal), there’s an art bar where you can paint and drink wine (this is more my speed), and you can rent paddle boards and kayaks anytime outside of race swim windows. And yes, beer and wine will be flowing all weekend long.<br />
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As if all that weren’t enough, there is a 5k run at the Redonda Vista campground on Saturday night (think: pre- or post-race shake out run) that ends with an 80’s dance party, sponsored by Clif Bar. Seriously: AN 80’S DANCE PARTY. I mean, I thought I was excited about the Wildflower Experience when I signed up - now I don’t even care about the race. I just want to go to the 80s dance party. <br />
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<h3>
HOW DO I SIGN UP?</h3>
More info about the races (long and short course tri’s - both on-road and off-road, 10k, 5k, trail run, and SUP races) and camping/lodging, as well as registration for all things, can be found on the <a href="https://www.wildflowerexperience.com/" target="_blank">Wildflower website</a>.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-22154565491837886392018-02-07T06:41:00.000-08:002018-09-03T11:56:09.837-07:00Musings from a Data Geek: Two Things to Ignore, Two Things to Watch<i>Originally published on <a href="http://d3multisport.com/">D3Multisport.com</a></i><br />
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I am a big time data geek. Not in a casual "I like numbers" kind of way; more in an "I love physics" kind of way. So I definitely get into the data when I review my athletes’ training logs, and I enjoy talking with them about the data - how to interpret it, what to watch, and what to ignore. Through my own conversations and too much time spent in Facebook groups, I’ve noticed that often athletes are paying attention to the wrong metrics. Here’s my advice on what matters and what doesn’t:<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Two Metrics You Can Stop Watching</h3>
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<b>1. VO2 Max</b><br />
For real, this doesn’t matter. A few of the newer GPS watches will estimate your VO2 based on your workout data, and notify you as they think it changes. As a result, I’ve seen lots of conversations in Facebook groups about “is my VO2 Max accurate” and “why isn’t my VO2 Max changing?” My response: Who cares? VO2 Max is a metric that is largely driven by your personal physiology and genetics, is not going to see dramatic changes once base fitness is achieved, and - most importantly - cannot be used to direct training or racing. No one has a training run targeted at X% of their VO2 Max, and you definitely aren’t pacing your race off your VO2 Max. There is also plenty of evidence showing that grit and determination play an equally important role in race results as athletic potential (e.g., VO2 Max). So it really, really doesn’t matter what that number is.<br />
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<b>2. CTL (Chronic Training Load, a.k.a. Fitness)</b><br />
Athletes *love* to stare at their Performance Management Chart in TrainingPeaks. (Confession: myself included, when I take my coaching hat off.) It’s really easy to get totally flipped out about your CTL. Is it high enough? Is it climbing fast enough? Why is mine lower than hers? When I put my coaching hat back on, I remember that the CTL measurement is NOT the final judge and jury on my fitness. It’s a single piece of data based on individual workout training stress calculations that also have some inherent flaws, so the absolute number - and even the ramp rate - really isn’t as meaningful as you think. If you have a well written training plan with progressive increases in duration and/or intensity, then you can rest assured that your fitness is improving and stop staring at that darn chart.<br />
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<h3>
Two Metrics You Should Care About</h3>
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<b>1. Time in Zones</b><br />
Zone 2 (endurance level) training is a critical piece in improving your aerobic capacity. Training in this zone increases your body’s fuel efficiency at sub-threshold effort levels and increases fatigue resistance, all while minimizing the training stress on your body. Because of this, no matter if you’re a short-course or long-course athlete, you should spend roughly 80% of your training time in Zone 2. Take a look at your Time In Zones charts, particularly for bike and run - do you have that covered, or are you putting in too much time at higher intensities, particularly Zone 3? If so, a shift in your training balance can provide the improvements that have been eluding you.<br />
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<b>2. EF (Efficiency Factor)</b><br />
The best way to spot fitness improvements without subjecting yourself to those horrible 30 minute time trials is by watching your EF. An increase in EF across workouts signals either an improvement in pace or power at a constant heart rate, or a lower heart rate for constant pace or power, also known as: increased fitness. In other words, if you’re running faster than a month ago at the same heart rate, you’re pace zones have increased and your race paces have all improved. And THAT is what everyone is after, isn’t it?Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-27112993841414864252018-01-30T11:37:00.000-08:002018-09-03T11:55:12.682-07:00New Year. New Product. New You.<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
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We’ve all been there: It’s Friday, you’ve just finished a tough bike ride, your legs feel like lead, and your coach / training plan has two more daunting workouts on your calendar before you get a recovery day. My prior solution to this problem was to stare longingly at TrainingPeaks, in hopes that if I blinked my eyes quickly enough the recovery day would magically move up and I could breathe a sigh of relief. Shockingly, despite dozens of attempts, it has never worked.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>This is exactly the situation I found myself in when my favorite person ever - the UPS delivery lady - rang my doorbell to deliver my Footbeats. I had high hopes that some quality Footbeat time would help me survive until the long-awaited recovery day, and I’m happy to say that Footbeat did not disappoint.<br />
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<h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf6IRXLBdPQz3hfh6kYQ8Y9etleCM5ZRYwoQ5_ouBYqZ3RtGX0tJtmsAbHH__IkRMrOJYkyVGC-mZBcnE0JYr9AKbfEUgv_afoU3Nl16uGVZKSyBCBCZ7kKYfuq3jYUIh1bCZX0uUBpzA/s1600/Footbeat.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf6IRXLBdPQz3hfh6kYQ8Y9etleCM5ZRYwoQ5_ouBYqZ3RtGX0tJtmsAbHH__IkRMrOJYkyVGC-mZBcnE0JYr9AKbfEUgv_afoU3Nl16uGVZKSyBCBCZ7kKYfuq3jYUIh1bCZX0uUBpzA/s320/Footbeat.JPG" width="240" /></a>WHAT IS IT?</h3>
<a href="https://footbeat.com/sport" target="_blank">Footbeat</a> is a pair of moccasins that house insoles that house a little engine-driven bubble, which compresses your arch which then increases circulation and therefore removes metabolic waste - including lactate, which is also known as: the reason your legs feel like crap. Tiny little engine, big freakin’ deal.<br />
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Another way to think about Footbeat is that they’ve taken the recovery benefits associated with sequential compression devices (a.k.a., recovery boots) and stuffed those benefits into a smaller, more portable product. Cool, right?<br />
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<h3>
WHY SHOULD YOU CARE?</h3>
If you’re like me - getting older but convinced you can get faster and beat the pants off your younger self - then you know how important recovery is to your training. Recovery is what allows you to execute your workouts day in and day out and to handle continued increases in weekly training volume and intensity.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVnkumfVz78Qu96rphM8xm7D7kUjS3y-acVF5L3g10_rb-RUw13UA1IACbe8suCg0JW0tF4zVE14OoI0t1LmjkRliH6x0hUsR9jcqrpzILLw7q7hhYxo-Vi8FzQDqYCNDn7yC6PmXbdta/s1600/FBairplane.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVnkumfVz78Qu96rphM8xm7D7kUjS3y-acVF5L3g10_rb-RUw13UA1IACbe8suCg0JW0tF4zVE14OoI0t1LmjkRliH6x0hUsR9jcqrpzILLw7q7hhYxo-Vi8FzQDqYCNDn7yC6PmXbdta/s320/FBairplane.JPG" width="320" /></a>As far as recovery products go, Footbeat is your best bet for a cost effective, easy to use, portable recovery solution. You can pop ‘em on for 30 minutes pre-workout, while you drink coffee and catch up on email. And then you can pop ‘em on for 30-60 minutes post-workout, while you download and review your workout details, drink a recovery shake, and answer some more emails. Even more exciting, you can pop ‘em on as soon as you board your flight for your “A” race, wear them the entire time (depending on how long the flight is), and minimize the fatiguing impact of air travel on your legs.<br />
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<h3>
HOW DOES IT WORK?</h3>
Let me tackle this question in three different ways …<br />
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<i><b>First Question: How does the concept work? As in, how does a little engine-driven bubble in a moccasin promote recovery?</b></i><br />
Start with the idea that your circulatory system drives your ability to rebound from tough training days because it delivers products to your muscles that promote repair and recovery. So: increase circulation, speed up recovery.<br />
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The question then is, how do you increase circulation? One option is walking - apparently there’s a pump in your foot that stimulates circulation in your legs as you walk. OR you can replicate this exact same foot pump and the corresponding circulatory increase by sitting around and wearing your Footbeats. Hence: sit around and eat bon bons (or maybe a kale salad), speed up recovery.<br />
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So, yeah, that’s how the concept works.<br />
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<i><b>Second Question: How does the product work? As in, what buttons do you push to make it go?</b></i><br />
It’s actually super simple. You pull out the insoles to charge them using the provided charging cord - a full charge takes about an hour, and you can just leave the insoles on the charger any time you’re not wearing them so they’re always ready to go. When you’re ready for a little Footbeat pre-workout warm up or post-workout recovery, slide the insoles into the moc’s, open up the Footbeat app, (yup, there’s an app for that), and hit “Start.” (You do need to pair the app to your Footbeat before your first use, but that’s just a matter of hitting “Pair” and waiting a few seconds.)<br />
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Once you’re going, the bubbles in your arches will inflate every 20 seconds, and all you gotta do is let it happen. They work best when seated, as there’s a little counter-pressure from the floor that helps really stimulate your foot pump. You can get up and walk around if you want to refill your water bottle or grab a snack, and your insoles will note the change in pressure and (usually) stop inflating until you sit back down. (I have noticed that sometimes one foot or the other will think I’m standing when I’m not, and removing all pressure from the bottom of that foot will get it going again.) I’ve even worn my Footbeat while driving to/from workouts, although I’m not sure if that’s totally above board or not.<br />
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So, yeah, that’s how the product works.<br />
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<i><b>Final Question: How *well* does the product work?</b></i><br />
Often assessing the benefits of a recovery product are tricky, especially if you don’t have sophisticated lab equipment or - even better - a time machine, so you can test your recovery from a given workout both with and without using the product. Footbeat actually has a pretty nifty protocol for testing their product, which both my uber-skeptical husband and I tried out during a 4-hour flight a few days after getting our Footbeats. We each put on only one Footbeat for 30 minutes, then got up and walked around. I’ll be darned if the Footbeat leg didn’t feel noticeably different for both of us - lighter and lacking the obvious fatigue in the non-Footbeat leg.<br />
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So, yeah, I’m going to say the product works pretty well.<br />
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<h3>
HOW DO I GET STARTED?</h3>
You can set yourself up with a pair of <a href="https://footbeat.com/sport/shop" target="_blank">Footbeat</a> direct from the company. They offer a 30-day risk-free purchase option, so what’s stopping you?Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-82264602079641420682017-11-06T12:45:00.001-08:002017-11-06T12:47:33.527-08:00O.M.F. ... My Coach Is Trying to Kill MeFor starters, there is not a typo in the title. Sometimes OMG is not enough. But before I get to my OMF moment, allow me to backtrack ...<br />
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I started working with my new coach, Julie, on November 1st. After two years of self-coaching, I decided this past summer that self-coaching is a ludicrous concept for two reasons: (1) you don't have the distance or perspective to talk yourself out of a "taper tantrum" (full credit for this term going to my husband); and (2) you are never going to put a workout on your own calendar that you are truly scared of. Just not going to happen. At least, not in my world.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>So after a nice break that was extended by an <a href="http://tricoachco.blogspot.com/2017/10/fat-drunk-and-out-of-shape-is-no-way-to.html" target="_blank">injury</a>, I started working with Julie last Wednesday. In the days leading up to the Official Start Day, I obsessively checked TrainingPeaks to see what kind of fun (pain) Julie had in store for me. And when the first set of training showed up, I broke out in a huge, massive grin. It - no shit - felt like Christmas morning. I finally had purpose in my life! I was no longer wandering aimlessly week to week! I had a training plan to follow!!!<br />
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And then an interesting thing happened. Day one I was great - did everything as specified, buried myself in a bike FTP test (really? even though I just did one in September? wait! no questioning the new coach, dipshit!), and had that beautiful green day in TrainingPeaks. Day two I showed up at master's swim with absolutely nothing in the tank and bailed early - yellow workout. I swore to coach that this is NOT how I normally operate. I did get my strength training done, but also kinda whined about how sore I was going to be.<br />
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And then came day three. A day that may live in infamy forever. Two - yes TWO - red workouts. I missed a swim due to life insanity, and then I extended a run because the next day was forecasted to have 20+ mph sustained winds and really, I'm not going to run outside when it's blowing like that. So I just combined the two runs into one. More excuses, more explaining to coach, more promises that this is not how I operate.<br />
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Except ... is it?!?!? I've been self-coaching for two years, thinking of myself as an awesome, all-green athlete. One of those people who Julie <a href="http://jdunkle.blogspot.com/2017/08/green-noser.html" target="_blank">makes fun of</a> for jumping through hoops to make sure TrainingPeaks is all-green. But maybe I'm not. Maybe over the past two years, what I've actually done is rearrange my workouts as needed in order to create the <i>illusion</i> that I'm an all-green athlete. Maybe self-coaching has allowed me a lot more wiggle room in my training than I realized. Because - reason three to not self-coach - being accountable to yourself is NOT the same as being accountable to someone else.<br />
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So, my first (half) week with new coach behind me and a rainbow week on TrainingPeaks the likes of which I have never (knowingly) experienced, I vow to myself to get my shit together. No more excuses. No more whining. The workouts go up, the workouts get done. This week WILL be all green, no matter what it takes.<br />
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Which brings us to Monday morning. I'm drinking my coffee, getting organized for the day, and pull up my scheduled TrainerRoad workout so that I'm ready to go as soon as I walk down to the basement. One glance at the workout details and "Oh my fuck, my coach is trying to kill me." An IF of 0.98?!?!? A one hour TSS of 95?!?!? I am pretty sure I've never gone beyond a one-hour TSS of 75, maybe 78 tops. Why does it have to be the +1 version? Maybe she won't notice if I do the regular version. No, she'll definitely notice. There is no way in hell I'm going to be able to hold that power for that long. I am FUCKED. This is going to hurt like a mother.<br />
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So, totally appropriately, I turn to my 13-year old daughter and start complaining. My coach is trying to kill me. There's no way I can do this workout. Daughter quite reasonably responds, "So tell your coach you can't do it." What?!?!? You can't say that to your coach. If one of my athletes said that to me, I'd tell them that I don't put anything on their calendar they can't do, and to put on their big girl panties and get it done.<br />
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Which is obviously what I need to do. THIS is why I have a coach. And not just a coach, a coach that I'm not totally sure that I'm worthy of. A coach that kind of scares me. A coach whom I will bury myself to try to impress. A coach that is going to ask a lot of me, and a coach that I do not want to disappoint. This is how I'm going to find out how much fitness is untapped, and how much more time there is to gain on the course. This is what I cannot accomplish on my own.<br />
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With that realization, I put on my big girl panties and walked down to the basement. Yes, the workout hurt, but it was nothing more than I could handle. Coach always knows best.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-51846420642671821912017-11-03T09:25:00.000-07:002017-11-08T09:35:54.113-08:00The Rudy Project Boost 01 – Aero Every Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
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When I first stepped into the world of triathlon on my entry-level road bike, I was somewhat taken aback by all the fancy, tri-specific equipment - time trial bikes and disc wheels and, in particular, those long-tailed aero helmets. I thought that normal bikes and normal wheels and normal helmets were for normal people like me, and all that fancy gear was for the fancy people winning the races.<br />
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Fast forward almost a decade, and my concept of “normal” has changed considerably. I still consider myself a normal person (as in, not one of the fancy people winning races) but I am now surrounded by lots and lots of fancy, tri-specific equipment. My one hold out has been my helmet - I just haven’t been able to get past the idea that I need to be really, really fast not too look like a massive poser in an aero helmet. My mind may have been changed, however, by the <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/HL600021US" target="_blank">Rudy Project Boost 01</a> helmet.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>WHAT IS IT?<br />
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The Boost 01 is Rudy Project’s first ever road aero helmet. Which begs the question, what exactly is a road aero helmet? Like a road helmet, the Boost 01 has a standard profile - no tail - and provides ventilation through 10 strategically placed vents. Like an aero helmet, the Boost 01 has a smooth, mostly solid surface and was crafted in a wind tunnel in order to achieve superior drag reduction. So: the Boost 01 is an aero helmet shaped like a road helmet, a.k.a. a road helmet with aerodynamic properties, a.k.a. an aero helmet that you can wear every day.<br />
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HOW DOES IT WORK?<br />
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To better understand the wearability and aero properties of the Boost 01, but not having access to or the budget for a wind tunnel, I conducted highly scientific field testing based solely on observation. Observation which is definitely not subject to perception bias, as evidenced by the fact that I definitely thought the Boost 01 was a little heavier than my WindMax when it is, in fact, almost 30 grams lighter.<br />
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So while we can acknowledge that my high school physics teacher would not have signed off on my experiment, I still did my best to be as scientific as possible. I rode a rectangular, rolling route on a gorgeous, 65 degree day with a slight breeze that (because: Boulder) was always either a crosswind or a headwind. I tested three different setups: Boost 01 with Optical Shield, Boost 01 with <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/SP491081-0000" target="_blank">Sintryx</a> sunglasses, and Boost 01 with <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/SP231042D0001" target="_blank">Stratofly SX</a> sunglasses, and made sure to experience both climbs and descents with each setup.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqrkCv_fxfXGdP02Bcckn4dAs8I_tSrPq7i9-Rb6MctPR7A8YK6A7YZIPxY569WtAA8hyphenhyphenSo_1N_2KLvwgP_U7Dkbu-CQr8dr3syIXpxXcQCLXj5CsmfpQSiOvR5Izottw4ASawoNEZvX3/s1600/boostvisor.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifqrkCv_fxfXGdP02Bcckn4dAs8I_tSrPq7i9-Rb6MctPR7A8YK6A7YZIPxY569WtAA8hyphenhyphenSo_1N_2KLvwgP_U7Dkbu-CQr8dr3syIXpxXcQCLXj5CsmfpQSiOvR5Izottw4ASawoNEZvX3/s200/boostvisor.JPG" width="150" /></a>I started out my ride wearing the Boost 01 with Optical Shield. The shield itself can be popped in and removed easily, but feels snug once it’s in place, and has a hinge so you can flip it up and down (that’s so you can get the helmet on and off while the visor is installed, which I quickly discovered). Having sun protection without wearing glasses was a new experience for me, and I did initially have to resist the urge to push the visor up the bridge of my nose. I also fidgeted a bit with the fit of the helmet to get the proper shield position, but that may be the result of my head being slightly miniature.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3CgvVm33ALet78OuoncrvwcnFKqzfjpHnDX3cagEe0yjXmkNfTecs0sHMkCVxsbhxjZvXnpVZuguZzmFRR-iwjwrIFX8gNAOfyrxLr9bSgr7S0XUHccUDXCRBuyArX8djsj1SurnOqAi/s1600/boostsintryx.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3CgvVm33ALet78OuoncrvwcnFKqzfjpHnDX3cagEe0yjXmkNfTecs0sHMkCVxsbhxjZvXnpVZuguZzmFRR-iwjwrIFX8gNAOfyrxLr9bSgr7S0XUHccUDXCRBuyArX8djsj1SurnOqAi/s200/boostsintryx.JPG" width="150" /></a>I spent a lot of time throughout my ride popping back and forth from my basebars to my aerobars to get a sense of the aerodynamic benefit that I would (or wouldn’t) get from riding aero. With the Optical Shield, I noticed a distinct and sizable difference in wind noise each and every time I dropped into aero. (Holy cow it’s working!) I also noticed the center hinge on the shield disrupting my view each time I popped into aero, and couldn’t decide if this was a big deal or not.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3CgvVm33ALet78OuoncrvwcnFKqzfjpHnDX3cagEe0yjXmkNfTecs0sHMkCVxsbhxjZvXnpVZuguZzmFRR-iwjwrIFX8gNAOfyrxLr9bSgr7S0XUHccUDXCRBuyArX8djsj1SurnOqAi/s1600/boostsintryx.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>After about 7 miles I swapped the Optical Shield out for the large profile <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/SP491081-0000" target="_blank">Sintryx</a> sunglasses, and I immediately noticed a smaller visual field relative to the shield - and decided that the minor annoyance of the hinge from the shield was a small price to pay for that wide angle view. I again popped back and forth from basebars to aerobars, this time noticing an occasional but not consistent difference in wind noise between the two positions. At higher speeds there was a lessening of wind noise - and in my mind, drag - in aero, but at lower speeds there seemed to be no difference.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6RZ7fxcxWtgRBH8tLJLqW5as_BJr6tbOUuFnCeapBIyeeh2JHkxcXleoFviOG-KXHGnzjgjhxCvhbbexKtPGlqbah_X45sQeOxxrs_QNz274V_R4AMnA1gGZXAwe5rKNrGtHt1FsZ0yG/s1600/booststrato.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6RZ7fxcxWtgRBH8tLJLqW5as_BJr6tbOUuFnCeapBIyeeh2JHkxcXleoFviOG-KXHGnzjgjhxCvhbbexKtPGlqbah_X45sQeOxxrs_QNz274V_R4AMnA1gGZXAwe5rKNrGtHt1FsZ0yG/s200/booststrato.JPG" width="150" /></a>For the final leg of my ride I swapped out the Sintryx for a pair of small profile <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/SP231042D0001" target="_blank">Stratofly SX</a> sunglasses. At this point I was really jonesing to put that Optical Shield back on, to return to the wide angle view and get the pressure of the sunglasses off my nose, but I stuck with the Stratoflys to complete my testing. I was a little tired of the back and forth between aero and basebars, and when I found no discernible difference between the two I decided to stay in my comfy position and just ride home.<br />
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Overall I really like the Boost 01. Based on the fact that cyclists in the opposite direction were waving in response to my wave (and sometimes waving first!), I concluded that I did not look like a giant bozo wearing the helmet. I also appreciated how forgiving the aero profile was - I didn’t notice any crosswind issues while riding or when turning my head to check for traffic, and didn’t feel that I had to hold a specific head position in aero to attain the aero benefits (yes, I did try several head positions!).<br />
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What I actually appreciate the most is the fact that I can get that race day pop in speed by saving the Optical Shield for racing only, and wearing my smaller profile sunglasses for every day training rides. So unlike my race wheels, the Boost 01 is an investment in free speed that you can use more than a handful of days each year.<br />
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HOW DO I GET STARTED?<br />
The Boost 01 is available direct from <a href="http://www.e-rudy.com/en/products/detail/HL600021US" target="_blank">Rudy Project</a> in a variety of colors, and both with and without the Optical Shield. I highly recommend springing for the shield for race day speed as well as the uber cool vibe.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-24192198909785376522017-10-30T09:34:00.000-07:002017-11-08T09:36:07.745-08:00Let’s do Wildflower! … What’s Wildflower?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
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As soon as I heard that Wildflower was back for 2018 after a hiatus in 2017 due to drought conditions, I knew I wanted to race it. Except that I truly, honestly, knew nothing about the race. OK, maybe that’s an overstatement: I knew that it includes a challenging bike course, and I knew that it involves camping. But for real that’s all I knew.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTBTmK8bbWvODZkbCPg_tcHMZZgnDcEMcWpBhOWbnL30BOqeZJl6NDzpexb_vMhyphenhyphenDClET6OETvXYV_7Dn8jWj2hYBk8gy2Z-SLPS_PK1yHAz2dnSjO3Kg34Jw_j1J-V-X8pBnlO4XuRCs/s1600/entertainment.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a name='more'></a>Which kinda means that I have a lot in common with Terry Davis, the founder and race director of the Wildflower Festival (now called the Wildflower Experience). Yes, that sounds crazy - so let me explain. Back in ‘80s, Terry was working as the Marketing and Events Director of the Monterrey County Parks Department and they were looking for events that would utilize the Lake San Antonio venue outside of the summer months. Terry and his team were busy developing the Wildflower Bluegrass Festival, that would feature - you guessed it - wildflower exhibits and bluegrass music, when a friend suggested including a triathlon during the festival weekend. “OK, let’s do a triathlon,” said Terry. “What is it?”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKtrSfTGRCKwOMa23Ow29_HXBs0aF-FW5ma9hFHUz2PXDG5uqpj8VbZbhd0Z6f9YRkhGniLjUMTFeTw7_Bsi4CbN0Qv08Ii96ncanN63SmG1mGnIa82o61j-QZkuCBBwtugdO_u-UWLEIL/s1600/venue.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="1600" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKtrSfTGRCKwOMa23Ow29_HXBs0aF-FW5ma9hFHUz2PXDG5uqpj8VbZbhd0Z6f9YRkhGniLjUMTFeTw7_Bsi4CbN0Qv08Ii96ncanN63SmG1mGnIa82o61j-QZkuCBBwtugdO_u-UWLEIL/s320/venue.jpg" width="320" /></a>So that’s how one of the most iconic races in the triathlon world was born - spearheaded by a wonderful fellow who didn’t know what a triathlon was, and who to this day has never participated in one. The race has grown from 82 participants in 1983 to 7,500 participants at its peak. But the Wildflower Experience is more than just a single race - the weekend includes triathlons on both Saturday and Sunday of various distances, live music, food trucks, wine tasting, retail vendors, and family events including a Friday night kids’ fun run.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTBTmK8bbWvODZkbCPg_tcHMZZgnDcEMcWpBhOWbnL30BOqeZJl6NDzpexb_vMhyphenhyphenDClET6OETvXYV_7Dn8jWj2hYBk8gy2Z-SLPS_PK1yHAz2dnSjO3Kg34Jw_j1J-V-X8pBnlO4XuRCs/s1600/entertainment.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>While a two-day, multi-faceted weekend of activities already sets the Wildflower Experience apart from other race experiences, what makes Wildflower truly unique is the venue itself. Lake San Antonio is thirty-five miles from the nearest city. Thirty. Five. Miles. Thirty-five miles from the nearest Motel 6. Thirty-five miles from the nearest Target or Walmart or major grocery chain or anywhere that sells get blocks. Which raises the question of how on earth does Wildflower host tens of thousands of participants and spectators for this incredible weekend?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTBTmK8bbWvODZkbCPg_tcHMZZgnDcEMcWpBhOWbnL30BOqeZJl6NDzpexb_vMhyphenhyphenDClET6OETvXYV_7Dn8jWj2hYBk8gy2Z-SLPS_PK1yHAz2dnSjO3Kg34Jw_j1J-V-X8pBnlO4XuRCs/s1600/entertainment.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="1600" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTBTmK8bbWvODZkbCPg_tcHMZZgnDcEMcWpBhOWbnL30BOqeZJl6NDzpexb_vMhyphenhyphenDClET6OETvXYV_7Dn8jWj2hYBk8gy2Z-SLPS_PK1yHAz2dnSjO3Kg34Jw_j1J-V-X8pBnlO4XuRCs/s320/entertainment.jpg" width="320" /></a>Turns out, Terry and his crew spend months creating a temporary city at Lake San Antonio solely for the Wildflower Experience weekend. They build out infrastructure including restrooms, parking, medical facilities, and transportation to move bikes and people from camping and RV sites to the expo and race venue. They bring in water and massive tents for the pasta party and temporary housing for the 1000 students from nearby California Polytechnic State University who comprise the majority of their volunteer staff.<br />
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What Terry’s crew doesn’t build, however, are temporary four-star hotels. Instead, 80-85% of the participants, along with their friends and families, are camping or RV-ing it up in the area surrounding Lake San Antonio, creating a sprawling make-shift city comprised mostly of triathletes. This is why the Wildflower Experience is often referred to as the “Woodstock of Triathlon” or the “Burning Man of Triathlon” and this is why I am SO EXCITED to head to the Wildflower Experience this May.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZWzcd_2v3ZaXsocZLFykvzA1NjOjjbXLmP2H3aJ1D79TNyZjM11I90C_2o6qQxjFrKwDcCLSbCMSGhtBr4Uxbenbh8uBGSQ-WOacjowpXA5py8-KpgTHJlI_41m1q3nUPHrmstMNOiuM/s1600/camping.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZWzcd_2v3ZaXsocZLFykvzA1NjOjjbXLmP2H3aJ1D79TNyZjM11I90C_2o6qQxjFrKwDcCLSbCMSGhtBr4Uxbenbh8uBGSQ-WOacjowpXA5py8-KpgTHJlI_41m1q3nUPHrmstMNOiuM/s200/camping.jpg" width="200" /></a>Just picture it: thousands upon thousands of triathletes and their sherpa crews, hanging out and listening to music and discussing how much time they spend in zone 2 and whether they train by heart rate or pace or power or feel and the weekly workout that increased their FTP by 10% and the swim drill that instantly shaved five seconds off their 100m pace and the merits of living solely off of gel blocks versus a strict keto diet. I mean if this doesn’t sound like heaven to you (and sheer hell to my husband) then you have a much more balanced approach to triathlon than I do.<br />
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So, maybe this Triathlete City is heaven and maybe it’s more like an asylum for uber-fit individuals. Either way, it’s also temporary home to the pros who take part in the Wildflower Experience - pros like defending champs Jesse Thomas and Liz Lyles, who could conceivably be in the camping spot right next to yours. You could give Jesse some suggestions for new Picky Bars flavors, and ask Liz some advice on the best way to handle “Beach Hill” while you cook your pre-race breakfast over a shared campfire. I mean, if that’s not a unique racing experience, I don’t know what is.<br />
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<b>Great Things To Know About the Wildflower Experience</b><br />
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<u>DATES</u><br />
Saturday, May 5th, 2018<br />
• Long-course (70.3) triathlon<br />
• Off-road sprint distance triathlon<br />
Sunday, May 6th, 2018<br />
• Olympic distance triathlon<br />
Sprint distance triathlon<br />
<u><br />THE LONG-COURSE RACE</u><br />
• 1.2 mile swim; 56 mile bike; 13.1 mile run.<br />
• The bike course has 3600 feet of elevation gain, including the climb up “Beach Hill” right out of the gate and “Nasty Grade” at mile 42.<br />
• The run is partially on roads and partially on trails, including some nice, challenging hills.<br />
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<u>THE OLYMPIC DISTANCE RACE</u><br />
• 1.5k swim (0.9 miles); 40k bike (24.8 miles); 6.2 mile run.<br />
• The bike course is challenging, including “Lynch Hill” and “Heartrate Hill.”<br />
• Like the long-course route, the run is partially on roads and partially on trails. And, you know, hills.<br />
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<u>THE OFF-ROAD RACE</u><br />
• 0.25 mile swim; 8.5 mile bike; 2 mile run. And, you guessed it, hills.<br />
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<u>THE SPRINT DISTANCE RACE</u><br />
• 0.25 mile swim; 20k bike (12.4 miles); 3 mile run.<br />
• The Sprint is new for 2018 and course details are not yet available. I’m assuming there are hills.<br />
<u><br />SPECIAL BRAGGING RIGHTS</u><br />
• Wildflower Squared: Long-course on Saturday + Olympic distance on Sunday!<br />
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<u>LOGISTICS</u><br />
Keep your eyes out for a future 303 Triathlon article with a “How To Wildflower” primer. For now:<br />
• If you want to book flights, the closest major airport is San Jose; San Francisco and Oakland are also decent options.<br />
• Pro Bike Express is offering bike transport plus will bring your tent and sleeping bag for you. Sign up <a href="http://www.planetreg.com/E81320105827746" target="_blank">here</a> to reserve your spot!<br />
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REGISTER FOR THE WILDFLOWER EXPERIENCE <a href="https://endurancecui.active.com/new/events/47629553/select-race?_p=9134922555956159&e4q=1b35ba63-b76a-49e1-b898-8c234e188881&e4p=1e5951a9-9f98-4a56-997f-b59efb9a7523&e4ts=1508258196&e4c=active&e4e=snawe00000000&e4rt=Safetynet&e4h=aaf5fac8b0a41b0576dce44c9367ab77" target="_blank">HERE</a>! Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-47631356501589146052017-10-11T06:34:00.000-07:002017-10-16T23:14:14.743-07:00Fat, Drunk, and Out of Shape is No Way to Go Through LifeThat's the line that's been going through my head almost daily for the past four weeks, ever since my off-season got extended well beyond what I'd intended. (And yes, it's an Animal House reference.)<br />
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I'll back up by saying that I am a strong believer in the importance of an off-season, on having some time when your focus isn't on training: When fitting in your workout isn't the driving force behind how you organize every day. When you have the option to go for a hike or take a yoga class instead of a swim/bike/run workout. When you ease back on the miles and give your muscles and your joints some time to recover.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>And that's why I extended my off-season from the originally planned four weeks to a solid, plenty-of-time-to-get-antsy, eight weeks. I was really enjoying the hiking and the yoga and totally blowing off masters swim and drinking margaritas at lunch. Part of the reason I enjoyed it so much, I think, is because I knew (or rather believed, incorrectly) that it was pretty finite. And then on September 9th I developed a stress reaction in my foot. (How I managed to do that on reduced mileage is a story of total idiocy that I won't include here. Just chalk it up to my being a moron.)<br />
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Suddenly my off-season was extended to ... twelve weeks? sixteen? I thought I handled the news pretty well, but looking back on it I was hilariously, quietly, unknowingly, losing my marbles. I figured I was really taking things in stride because I wasn't making a big deal of the stress reaction. Sure, I couldn't run for 4-6 weeks, but I could swim and bike and I wasn't training for anything so really it wasn't a big deal. People would ask me what was new, <i>and I wouldn't even tell them about the stress reaction</i>. I mean, when a triathlete doesn't talk about an injury you know that shit has gotten weird.<br />
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So, I could't run. I was just working out aimlessly, with no goals and no plan and no purpose. Fall is crazy, crazy quiet when you're a triathlon coach because most of your athletes are in their off-season, so I didn't have much work to do. And since I didn't have a lot of work, and didn't have to be feeling good to tackle some tough workout the next day, I was consuming a glass (or two or three) of wine every night. (But if I average out the whole year including my big training weeks where I didn't drink at all, it's really totally fine.)<br />
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<i>Fat, Drunk, and Out of Shape is No Way to Go Through Life.</i><br />
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Clearly it was time to pull it together: I found a plan on TrainerRoad and started burying myself in some sweet spot bike workouts. I hatched plans for multiple projects: I'm going to write a blog! (Evidence of this effort is obvious.) I'm going to finally organize all my coaching systems and notes into a Filemaker database! (That's what happens when you were once a management consultant.) I was at least keeping myself occupied ... but something was still off.<br />
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It took me another week to put my finger on it, but then it hit me: <i>I am filling my weeks with coffees and lunches and have absolutely nothing to say during any of them. <b>I don't even know who I am when I'm not training for something.</b></i><br />
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Does that statement make me sound totally unhinged? Or at least massively addicted to training? Sure, I'll own that. But batshit crazy or not, this is where I am. So my off-season now has an official expiration date of Oct 31st. It's time to pick an Ironman for 2018 and start setting some goals for next year. And then maybe I'll start to feel normal again.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-75145660731188579002017-09-15T07:56:00.000-07:002017-10-03T08:06:00.241-07:00WTF Is My Hand Doing? And Other Thoughts From Swim Physio Testing<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
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As many of us triathletes approach the off-season, we tend to think about how we can improve for next year. The off-season is an awesome time to focus on one sport at the expense of the other two and make some big gains in that sport. And if you come away from your tri season post-mortem realizing that it’s time to step up your swim, I highly recommend booking time at the CU Sports Medicine & Performance Center (CUSMPC) for a round of physiological testing in the swim flume.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>I did <a href="https://tricoachco.blogspot.com/2017/03/why-is-lab-lactate-test-worth-pain.html" target="_blank">physio testing</a> on the bike at CUSMPC last spring and found that to be incredibly useful. I’ll admit, I was a little skeptical about whether the swim physio testing was going to have the same impact. I love it when I’m proven wrong!<br />
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<h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89-wnSce5pF_3hLanaqfW3t3M1iMxagyAdt7EX-WvejYLbzDzTkQ4PIrjAbw9662Tu4d4ktzK0ZhUzSbOCuAKh756ck9N7H2WLcktJ-FJmUeD32UWy3GHlx3wKYWEDKL04eO6Q2dLz7Te/s1600/flumepic.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh89-wnSce5pF_3hLanaqfW3t3M1iMxagyAdt7EX-WvejYLbzDzTkQ4PIrjAbw9662Tu4d4ktzK0ZhUzSbOCuAKh756ck9N7H2WLcktJ-FJmUeD32UWy3GHlx3wKYWEDKL04eO6Q2dLz7Te/s320/flumepic.JPG" width="240" /></a>WHAT IS IT?</h3>
Similar to bike or run physio tests, the swim physio test measures your heart rate and blood lactate levels across a range of swim paces, with the goal of scientifically determining your individualized training paces. Beyond that, you also get the benefit of a swim stroke analysis, complete with before and after video of your technique.<br />
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<h3>
WHY SHOULD YOU CARE?</h3>
In swimming, there is a distinct intertwining of effort and technique: if your technique is flawed (and really, whose isn’t?), then you’re less efficient and it’s going to take more effort to swim - at any pace. The swim physio testing begins by identifying your swim training zones, which are cool to know but aren’t game changing. The stroke analysis is where the magic happens.<br />
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Jared Berg, CUSMPC’s testing specialist who’s also a certified strength and conditioning specialist as well as a former pro triathlete, focuses on stroke improvements that will reduce your effort level and/or improve your pace within your training zones. In other words, (cue lights and “aha” music) Jared looks for ways to help you swim faster while expending less effort - IMMEDIATELY. Not after four months of hitting the pool three to five times a week, but within just a few workouts.<br />
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<h3>
HOW DOES IT WORK?</h3>
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Swim physio testing takes place in a swim flume, essentially a treadmill for swimming … which I translated to: bo-ring. I was so wrong. I hopped in, started warming up, noticed the mirrors on the bottom and sides of the flume, and was immediately fixated on WTF was my right hand doing and now I understand why my masters swim coach keeps telling me to straighten my wrist. Seeing yourself swim is about as eye opening as it gets.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyhGQwQEZJ6Dr-72Cn4gGgGKo7H-0ybOYLQMrh3iW6w2YjzL2qUriAHYFC6eumiF6uITm8xt8n0Ai2wfx9xdw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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The testing itself takes approximately 30-45 minutes and goes like this: after your warm up, Jared takes you through a series of four minute swim intervals at increasingly challenging paces. The first few are endurance to tempo pace, as in: no big deal. But by the third I was sucking wind and by the fourth I was desperately trying to just keep my feet off the back wall. The only reason I survived the testing is because in between each interval Jared has you pause swimming to check your heart rate and lactate levels. I used that time to gasp for air and beg for a countdown during the final interval so I knew how much longer I’d have to suffer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuprn1tGm1Lorjs-HE-HLep-c6yAwxwaSivKdknshts5ChTUJs6vQuasa9sJ_WhFjwmSBH17vtrw1j5aqkOTxjrqqQhxjaoy1Rf9edOKwnOdE5ASdaYYWdpkLsbKTuHEUF7VMAsNo6ZDsZ/s1600/earprick.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuprn1tGm1Lorjs-HE-HLep-c6yAwxwaSivKdknshts5ChTUJs6vQuasa9sJ_WhFjwmSBH17vtrw1j5aqkOTxjrqqQhxjaoy1Rf9edOKwnOdE5ASdaYYWdpkLsbKTuHEUF7VMAsNo6ZDsZ/s320/earprick.JPG" width="240" /></a>After you complete the testing portion you move on to stroke analysis. Jared sets up two incredibly high end, super cool underwater video cameras in front and side view positions. You’ll swim for a minute to capture your baseline stroke, then Jared reviews the video with you and provides an overview of what looks good and what needs improvement. Next he’ll pick one element for you to concentrate on, have you swim a minute focusing on this particular improvement, and show you side-by-side before-and-after videos to see how you did. After that he’ll move onto a second point of focus and repeat the process. All in all you’ll walk away with three or four discrete form points that you will have practiced in the flume and can continue to work on after your session. More importantly, these form points are specifically selected to provide near-term results - as in, you’ll swim with less effort and/or faster almost immediately.<br />
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How did this shake out for me? Well, it turns out the alternate-side breathing that I thought made me super cool was in fact my undoing. Jared noticed during my physio testing that my lactate levels were unusually high during the initial rounds of testing. He had me change to a single-side breathing, galloping style stroke (a la Katie Ledecky - even cooler!) to improve my oxygen levels and reduce lactate levels, and then gave me some specific form points to concentrate on to maximize my stroke efficiency for this new style.<br />
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Think it all sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo? We put it to the test. I came back exactly two weeks later - after only three swim workouts - and re-did the physio testing. My lactate levels started lower and stayed lower during the initial testing intervals, and my heart rate stayed lower as well. My stroke rate was lower across all the intervals, and I was able to add a fifth, faster interval that had been impossible two weeks prior.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNXrCvkrUM-PRwcDs7GgjK0JsXX17_WLJXn2ktXuHr9iW86sQI172v_gHyZ-mWW_sRHlB13rXjeLgUsb2vZsEcb2elAZIho62s1L7glxSsu71wL3yTm0099LFttTMSG9hcfwWczFYQiwI/s1600/charts.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="1038" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNXrCvkrUM-PRwcDs7GgjK0JsXX17_WLJXn2ktXuHr9iW86sQI172v_gHyZ-mWW_sRHlB13rXjeLgUsb2vZsEcb2elAZIho62s1L7glxSsu71wL3yTm0099LFttTMSG9hcfwWczFYQiwI/s400/charts.png" width="400" /></a><br />
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I still have work to do to get faster and refine my stroke, but now I know what to work on. And with Jared’s help I will come out of the water at my next tri feeling less tired, and therefore having more energy for the bike and run. #ForTheWin!<br />
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<h3>
HOW DO I GET STARTED?</h3>
Just pop on over to the CUSMPC website’s page on <a href="http://cusportsmedcenter.com/performance/" target="_blank">performance testing</a> and select “Physiology.” Scroll down to “(SWIM) Lactate Profile,” click to pop up the scheduling tool, pick a time and you’re good to go.<br />
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While you’re at CUSMPC for your swim physio testing, be sure to check out their state-of-the-art facility. They offer everything from physio and metabolic testing to physical therapy to an alter-G (anti-gravity) treadmill. It’s all open to the public, and it’s right in our own back yard.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-46525242919510149312017-08-30T08:10:00.000-07:002017-10-03T08:10:32.484-07:00Looking for Redemption?<i>Originally published on <a href="http://d3multisport.com/">D3Multisport.com</a></i><br /><br />As we approach fall, many triathletes have completed their “A” races for the season - or at least the first of them. Maybe you had a great day and are working to identify those minor tweaks to make your next race even better. Or maybe on race day you weren’t able to accomplish what you set out to achieve. In other words, ‘round about now you might be looking for redemption.<br /><br />
<a name='more'></a>You might be tempted to just show up and hammer the next race, harnessing all your frustration from the day that didn’t go as planned. But unless you make some changes in your training and racing, “just hammer it” may not be an effective race strategy. Here are four ways you can improve your chance for redemption in as little as 6-8 weeks:<br /><br /><b>1. Identify Your Greatest Potential for Improvement</b><br />Specifically, I’m talking about finding the low hanging fruit of race time. Is there somewhere that you can shave off a few minutes by making a relatively minor change? If your transition times were long compared to those who finished around you, that’s a perfect place to start. Did you fade in the final miles of the bike or run? Spend a few weeks boosting your endurance. Want a slight bump in speed? Incorporate hills on the bike and run.<br /><br /><b>2. Review Your Training Habits</b><br />First, take an honest look at your training calendar and assess your training consistency. Is Training Peaks mostly green, or do you have a lot of “rainbow” weeks? If your calendar tends to be more of the latter, focus on increasing your consistency by just one or two workouts a week. It’s a manageable change but one that will yield noticeable results.<br /><br />Next, look critically at how you’re executing your workouts. Are your easy days easy enough, and are your hard days hard enough, or is there little difference between the two? Set a goal of ensuring that a bystander on the pool deck or spying you along your biking and running routes could unquestionably spot the difference between hard and easy.<br /><br />Lastly, examine how your weeks and days stack up: are you getting any/enough recovery? If you’re not seeing a day or two within each week with lighter intensity, and one week out of every three or four with a noticeable decrease in training volume, then the answer is no. Increased fitness cannot occur without recovery, so hit the couch. That’s an order!<br /><br /><b>3. Evaluate Your Race-Day Fueling</b><br />This piece can be particularly critical for long-course athletes. If you don’t have a rock solid, tried and true fueling plan that you can execute without thinking about it, now’s the time to create one. If you do, take a second look at it. If you often feel you’ve run out of gas by the end of the race, you may need to adjust your caloric intake. If the logistics of bringing twenty gels on your bike are bringing you down, explore liquid nutrition options. And if you don’t currently include protein (long-course only), sodium, and amino acids in your fueling, it’s time to add those in.<br /><br /><b>4. Fine Tune Your Race Plan</b><br />If your mental response to point #4 was “Race plan? What’s that?” I’ve just identified the number one change for your next race. A race plan doesn’t have to be long or complicated, but it does need to outline your intended effort levels and nutrition intake for the race.<br /><br />Once you have a plan, you’ll want to confirm that your race targets are effort-based rather than pace-based and are appropriate for your fitness level and training experience. Another way of thinking about it is that your race targets should be based on what you’ve recently proven you can execute through training, and not the goal time that you’ve dreamed up but has no basis in reality.<br /><br />The last piece of the puzzle, then, is to actually execute your race plan. Redemption will be found through improving the process, not by watching the clock. And an extra dose of grit couldn’t hurt. Best of luck!<br />Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-25509917183644518302017-08-05T10:05:00.000-07:002017-10-02T14:08:48.977-07:00Boulder 70.3 2017 Race ReportI had originally planned my 2017 season as IM 70.3 Texas + IM Boulder and then done. Well, actually then Triple Bypass - a 120-mile ride with 10k of elevation gain - then done. My 2016 season had been long, as in 11 months long, and I had therefore rolled pretty much right into my 2017 season and I knew after that I’d need some serious off-season. But I also had kept in the back of my mind that IM 70.3 Boulder was in August, and I could probably hold my Ironman fitness long enough to pull that off, especially with the Triple Bypass in between. I figured that I could decide a few weeks beforehand and jump in if I felt like it. But then in May, a month or so before IM Boulder, I heard there were only 100 spots left in IM 70.3 Boulder. And I have major sell-out paranoia. So I pulled the trigger.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>I felt totally great about signing up for the 70.3. I mean, I figured I’d barely even need to train for it what with Ironman fitness and all. And then Ironman came and went, and the Triple Bypass got canceled - meaning I did *not* have the big bike fitness bump I was counting on - and I was 4 weeks from a 70.3 with almost no swim or run training since IM Boulder. I started referring to the race as “stupid Boulder 70.3,” as if it wasn’t actually my own damn idea and more like someone else had committed me to the race, or it was court ordered community service.<br />
<br />
I managed to eek out two pretty standard 70.3 training weeks - run volume and intensity were lower than I would've liked, but it was all my schedule and my legs would allow for. I did pull off a solid 65+ mile ride to Raymond and Ward (that means a shit ton of climbing, for those who don't cycle in Boulder) so I was at least feeling confident in my bike fitness.<br />
<br />
I did a two week taper into the race to allow me enough time to actually train, but I've done that before for 70.3 B races so I wasn't worried. Even with a 2 week taper though, I was able to magically forget my long rides and long runs and question my fitness. I had to set a pretty aggressive goal time due to a wager with one of my athletes and it made me pretty freaked out. I did the math over and over and it made sense, but the goal was 2 minutes faster than my lifetime 70.3 PR and this was a throwaway race. Which translated in my head to W. T. F.<br />
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<h3>
The Morning</h3>
It was a good thing that I tend to err on the side of arriving early to things, because the traffic getting into the Rez was just nuts. Probably took us 30+ minutes to get the final mile in and get parked. I still had plenty of time to get my transition area set up, chat a bit, and then sit around *FOREVER* waiting for my swim wave. I was the last wave, going off 63 minutes after the first pro wave, and there was a 25 minute delay due to the traffic. I totally appreciate that they wanted to give everyone the chance to get in and parked and ready for the day, but I had quite a bit of waiting around. I hung out at the D3 tent, chatted a bit, then took my time getting on my wetsuit and headed down for a quick warm up swim. Got in line for the swim start and summoned up all my good race juju.<br />
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<h3>
The Swim - 33:14 / 6th AG</h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsfAfFlTpj12zIRFe0t8J1-dA7mXz5ro3utNKDhr2AaJXMVo99lEGK2zxlyuvH1Li9L9gUogzdetrQSo_UnuiIZDYSO6sd5Y69Iyu5O04BeH6Sx10ZFgApq80n_hj6qIGIADL35RcO6gh/s1600/IMG_3071_arrow.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="940" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPsfAfFlTpj12zIRFe0t8J1-dA7mXz5ro3utNKDhr2AaJXMVo99lEGK2zxlyuvH1Li9L9gUogzdetrQSo_UnuiIZDYSO6sd5Y69Iyu5O04BeH6Sx10ZFgApq80n_hj6qIGIADL35RcO6gh/s320/IMG_3071_arrow.png" width="187" /></a>
Mike told me that if you don’t drop a few f-bombs during the swim you’re not working hard enough. I don’t remember any specific f-bombs but that swim was annoying as shit. The problem with being a strong swimmer in the very last swim wave is that after only a few hundred yards everyone is fucking in your way. No sooner had I swam through one group of people than I was on top of the next. I know everyone out there is doing the best they can, but they were seriously pissing me off.<br />
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My race mantra for the day was "strong and consistent" and that's how I was swimming - strong, driving strokes that inevitably put me on top of I don't even know how many other swimmers. I was lifting my head to make sure I didn't run over people as much as I was for sighting. Swimming pissed off apparently works for me, though, since I had my first swim in ages where I was happy to be done because my arms were tired and not because I was bored of swimming.<br />
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End result: I actually think the swim was a PR by a few seconds. Didn't even realize that till I wrote up this race report. Go figure!<br />
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<h3>
T1 - 2:46</h3>
A quick stop at the wetsuit strippers (love you!) and I was off to my transition spot. Kinda shocked by how many bikes were still there! Especially since I was racked with all the all world athlete ladies, I wasn't expecting that. A nice ego boost helped a purposeful but not rushed transition and I was off.<br />
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<h3>
The Bike - 2:37:48 / 10th AG</h3>
If I thought the swim course was crowded, the bike course was even worse. I hopped on my bike, saw a dozen people leisurely pedaling in front of me, and basically screamed "all right people, ON YOUR LEFT!" And that was the entire fucking course, all day long.<br />
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I was cranking right out of the gate, and based on last year I figured it would be 30-35 miles before I found clear road. Turns out that never happened. I have no idea how to quantify the extra effort of screaming at people for 2-1/2+ hours, but I can tell you that it's annoying as shit. But like the swim, maybe it was good to be pissed off.<br />
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I had both a power target for my ride and a hope / anticipation for how that would translate to my bike time. I needed to average 20mph - or 15 minutes per 5 miles, a.k.a. easy math - in order to match my time from 2016. But time is the *output* so I was focused on my input - power - and hoping that the time fell into place. At mile 10 I felt great, my watts were coming in above my target (don't overdo it too early!!!) and I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule. Hot damn.<br />
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So I kept screaming at people so they'd stay on the right, focused on my watts and my cadence and on my mantra: strong and consistent. I got held up at every narrow underpass, every turn, and every aid station because of crowds of slow people. Between that and people who liked to ride right down the damn middle of the bike lane my pissed off-ness stayed at a pretty consistent level (at least that was in keeping with my mantra). I knew that I'd lose a few minutes on the upcoming uphill portions of the course, but my hope was that I'd at least stay on track time-wise and maybe even pull ahead again on the downhill sections that followed.<br />
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I hit the top of Nelson - the final uphill section of the bike - around mile 35, and my watts were still strong and my time was right on pace. By mile 40 I was back to being a few minutes ahead of schedule, and started to really get a glimpse of what my day could hold. My WTF goal time required the same swim as in 2016 (check), the same bike as in 2016 (looking like that's in the bag with room to spare), and a 2:10 run - 5 minutes faster than 2016 when it was melt-your-skin kind of hot.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IfTZHa-BKo2aq3d-AKnBjA0hYf0SwFYVdMwAUT9qj8z7mpRiO1bYGXFhDCI3hhNb4UEt8l_0R6RUDZ2BK0s8k9XG80zht5lerHxpzU-rU_GtvfBfRDdS_804yBgxzLlyz1wQk2moefOe/s1600/IMG_1561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="550" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IfTZHa-BKo2aq3d-AKnBjA0hYf0SwFYVdMwAUT9qj8z7mpRiO1bYGXFhDCI3hhNb4UEt8l_0R6RUDZ2BK0s8k9XG80zht5lerHxpzU-rU_GtvfBfRDdS_804yBgxzLlyz1wQk2moefOe/s320/IMG_1561.JPG" width="320" /></a>I started picturing one of my favorite inspirational posters, and decided that I was going to have to go to where the magic happens. The downside of self-coaching for the past 2 years is that I didn't spend a lot of time out of my comfort zone (one of the main reasons I'm going to start working with a coach again in September), but despite being majorly out of practice, suffering is what what race day is about and I was going to do my damnedest to get there.<br />
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During those final 14 miles (yes, the bike course was 2 miles short and I knew that going in) any time I felt myself letting up I would think of that poster and my WTF goal time and the possibly of crushing that goal and I would get those damn watts back up. I was working hard, but my legs felt less trashed than at IMTX 70.3 in April or at Boulder 70.3 in 2016 so I knew I was ok.<br />
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And I had some help staying pissed off. There was the BSR guy that would pass me and then 20 yards later stop pedaling. I seriously wanted to tell him that if he just kept fucking pedaling then he'd stay in front of me and save me the trouble of passing him again. Then there was the massive douchebag that I saw drafting off a girl for *at least* a half mile if not longer. And this was deliberate, flagrant drafting: 18 inches off her wheel, up and down rollers and sticking right with her as she was passing people. At this point I'd been pissed off for various reasons for almost 3 hours and I was just bubbling over with annoyance, so I pulled up next to the asshat and asked if his race plan included drafting off her on the run, too. Apparently I was snarky enough that he finally dropped off her tail, so at least something positive came from being so damn irritated for so damn long.<br />
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I was still flying by and passing people the final 10 miles, all the way to the dismount line. I have no idea why the field never spread out, but it just didn't happen. Despite that, I kept up my power through to the very end, and my average watts for the ride (nicely visible on my Edge because I'd just added that data field the day before) were right on target. And I came in about 5 minutes ahead of plan. Hot. Damn.<br />
<br />
<h3>
T2 - 3:11</h3>
I had made the decision during the final miles of the bike to stop at the port o potty in transition. Yes, there are other ways to play this, but I've tried them before and ultimately I just feel gross, and given that I'd bought some time on the bike I was willing to sacrifice the minute to avoid that. So the potty run and finally brushing the rocks off my feet that I'd picked up in T1 were the highlights of transition.<br />
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<h3>
The Run - 2:09:14 / 14th AG</h3>
I knew that I'd bought enough time on the bike that I didn't need a stellar run to hit my WTF goal. I also knew two other things: (1) if I hit my goal run split I'd have a lifetime 70.3 PR *even after adjusting for the short bike course* and (2) I was not going to feel proud of my day if I loafed the run, even if I hit my WTF goal. So I was going to dig in and follow my well detailed run plan (the only part of my race plan that had any detail, which makes sense if you know about my day at <a href="http://tricoachco.blogspot.com/2017/06/im-boulder-2017-race-report.html" target="_blank">IM Boulder 2017</a>).<br />
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My run plan, while having greater detail, essentially came down to walking ONLY at the aid stations and, in the immortal words of Ed Harris as Gene Krantz in Apollo 13, working the problem when it arose. This whole walking only the aid stations was kind of a thing because the first half of each loop includes two pretty nasty hills. So the first three miles were all about being conservative with my pace and getting up the damn hills.<br />
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I pulled that off and decided to work the 2nd half of the loop, which is flat to downhill. I didn't want to work it too hard, because I wanted to run the hills on loop 2, but I figured it should feel harder than a standard long run and so I picked it up a little. If I had more practice getting outside my comfort zone I probably could have pushed even harder, but I was working and was running strong and consistent and I was happy with that. Plus I was just a tiny bit ahead of my goal pace, which was perfect.<br />
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The bigger issue was that I was bored. My legs were ok and my heart rate wasn't off the charts but I was working and I wanted a milestone to hit, preferably an aid station where I could get to walk and get in the gel that I'd been carrying from the mile 3 aid station thinking I'd take it in at mile 4, but apparently there was no mile 4 aid station. At the point that I realized this I was running shoulder to shoulder with a guy, and figured it was completely reasonable to ask him where the FUCK the aid station was. Because that's how I roll.<br />
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Good news was that the question led to Kenny and I running together, which went a long way toward solving the boredom problem. We finally hit the mile 5 aid station after some additional color commentary on my part, and then I made Kenny start running again sooner than he wanted to so I'd continue to have company. We were running down the dam road (not a typo - the road is along a dam) and chatting, which was great for killing time, and kept me from noticing right away a new out and back section they'd added to the course. And then all the sudden I saw it - tiny section but with a hill - and dropped a giant Fuck. Me. loudly enough that I actually apologized to a 3rd guy running a few feet from us.<br />
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I dragged Kenny about halfway around the loop me with me. We walked through the aid stations but that was it - I'd run this course 2 other times and had never run both hills on both loops, but this time I was determined to Run the Damn Hills. We had taken the pace down a notch, but Kenny was not happy that there was no walking allowed, and was possibly pretty sure he didn't like me much in general, even though I promised him that he'd thank me later. At the top of the final hill Kenny gave up on me and decided to walk a bit.<br />
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I swear I hadn't run more than 20 steps after leaving Kenny before I turned and realized I was running shoulder to shoulder with Kris, whom I'd driven in with that morning. We said hi and then she put a little distance on me, but I caught up to her at the 10 mile aid station. Holy shit - I'd made it to the 10 mile aid station. Final 5k is when I wanted to dig in and go for it. I was on track to hit my goal run split and I knew that meant I was crushing my WTF goal, but I didn't want to give up on my other goal of embracing the suck.<br />
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I was doing my best to run strong, but that 2 mile stretch due to a missing aid station is a tough one mentally. I really wanted a little break, and was trying to find an excuse for one. There should be an aid station, I rationalized, so I can walk for 30 seconds at the 11 mile mark. But I ran through that because there was a more logical break ahead, and then I ran through that because ahead there was a woman giving out ice. Given how dry my mouth was, I thought walking for a few seconds to suck down a piece of ice was a totally justifiable break.<br />
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After that it became doable. Just a half mile or so to the aid station, final gulp of water and then count it down to the finish. I had about 2.5 miles to go, and I worked those final miles as best I could. I hit that fucking little out and back and then wound around to the final straightaway along the Rez. Once there's only a mile left it's easier to count down, and I mentally placed myself on the final mile of my route home so I'd have a better sense of how far I had to go.<br />
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Hit the final corner, just a few tenths of a mile to the finish. Turn it on big, sprint in, all smiles. Wasn't sure what my time was just yet, but I knew I'd crushed it.<br />
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<h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPumqF-6lCifJFIBDxMOLi1LKSEIaLDuUmbDdiHAkjeV3L1EfKm0mHK33hkfhAYEo4yK2hw3n6POriLHOKSIh4EEdzu8xGnpP4rMfnkuXVhN-U5k89TKmVW536Q9Lx7RqEtpWXshVz53uC/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="939" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPumqF-6lCifJFIBDxMOLi1LKSEIaLDuUmbDdiHAkjeV3L1EfKm0mHK33hkfhAYEo4yK2hw3n6POriLHOKSIh4EEdzu8xGnpP4rMfnkuXVhN-U5k89TKmVW536Q9Lx7RqEtpWXshVz53uC/s320/FullSizeRender.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>
Overall - 5:26:10 / 9th AG / 102nd Female / 456th Overall</h3>
I was thrilled - THRILLED - with my final time. Even adding 6 minutes to adjust for the short bike, it's a 5:32 - five minutes faster than my lifetime 70.3 PR. And I broke into the top 10 in a field of 108. AWESOME!!!<br />
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I do think that, had I been more comfortable getting out of my comfort zone, I could've run harder. I know I've run harder before. But rather than being disappointed in this, I honestly believe I did the best I could given my run fitness (and lack of run speed post-IM) and recent running experience, suffering-wise. Suffering is something you need to practice, and I haven't of late. Plus it's kind of nice to know how I can improve and do even better next time. Next goal: break 5:30 on a true 70.3 course. I think it's absolutely doable if I do the work I need to do to get there.Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.com5565 Reservoir Rd, Boulder, CO 80301, USA40.071757600161916 -105.2238537054687439.877221100161918 -105.54657720546874 40.266294100161915 -104.90113020546875tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5488488132820567672.post-72996596731905404312017-07-19T07:40:00.000-07:002017-10-06T19:20:26.997-07:00Blinky Bike Lights Make Me Look Cool<i>Originally published on <a href="http://303triathlon.com/">303Triathlon.com</a></i><br />
<br />
I often explain that I have a low-grade fear of cycling the same way that some people have a low-grade fear of flying. Now, if you have a fear of flying you can potentially pop a Xanax or just down a few glasses of Pinot before boarding and you're good to go. With cycling, this is not typically advised.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Due to this low-grade fear of cycling and the fact that I can’t just cycle with a buzz on, I do a number of things to feel safer on my bike. My biggest chicken-out solution is to ride a lot indoors. My best if-I-really-should-ride-outdoors solution is to pop a set of blinky bike lights on Sarah Connor (my newly re-named ride). My 14 year old son was appalled - I mean *appalled* - when he first saw them on Sarah, because he thinks my bike is super slick and that the lights are way, WAY uncool. But I love them. Maybe they don’t actually make me look cool, but they definitely make me feel safe.<br />
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<h3>
WHAT ARE THEY?</h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy02uL-OcVdAqdGuPfXO_rcGnpzjTlnpIraUONGCUkK5lIH-9XhY3w0bLMiQ9qwN6P2VbEt8uqfi486-Ch_y1p3hdmQPy1EroAcAuxafGKCi3-1DXU4YdZLxpF__WHZ5fICYnGJvTwJLl/s1600/lights.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1600" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcy02uL-OcVdAqdGuPfXO_rcGnpzjTlnpIraUONGCUkK5lIH-9XhY3w0bLMiQ9qwN6P2VbEt8uqfi486-Ch_y1p3hdmQPy1EroAcAuxafGKCi3-1DXU4YdZLxpF__WHZ5fICYnGJvTwJLl/s320/lights.jpg" width="320" /></a>Technically, they are called “daytime running lights” but I prefer my more descriptive terminology. Simply put, they are LED lights that you mount on your stem or handle bars in front and seat post in back, and are specifically designed for visibility in daylight conditions. <a href="https://www.trekbikes.com/us/en_US/daytime_running_lights/" target="_blank">Trek/Bontrager</a> and <a href="https://www.specialized.com/us/en/accessories/lights" target="_blank">Specialized</a> both make versions of the product.<br />
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<h3>
WHY SHOULD YOU CARE?</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Daytime running lights have long been used for motor vehicles and motorcycles, resulting in proven decreased rates of collisions. In fact, daytime running lights are credited with reducing the rate of motorcycle-car collisions by over 25%.* The extension to bicycle use is obvious. Based on data from the U.K., approximately 80% of cycling accidents occur during daylight hours.* So: bicycle accidents happen during the day + daytime running lights reduce the rate of collision = you are safer riding with blinky bike lights.<br />
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I can tell you from personal experience that blinky bike lights … ahem, daytime running lights really do make a difference. Since popping those puppies on Sarah Conner, I have noticed a distinct change in behavior of the cars I encounter. (Granted, there could be some perception bias here, but I’m going with it.) Most cars, assuming there’s no oncoming traffic, will give me at least half a lane of space when passing. A good number of cars will totally cross over the double yellow line, giving me an entire lane of space. <i>Even the pickup trucks.</i> Additionally, I feel safer when approaching cars at intersections - I feel more visible, and therefore less likely to be totally ignored. <br />
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HOW DOES IT WORK?</h3>
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Most daytime running lights have some common features:<br />
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(1) A range of LED modes, from steady to pulsing to blinking. I recommend pulsing or blinking as, per Trek, flashing lights are 1.4x more visible than steady lights. Do note that different modes tend to correspond to different battery lifespans, so pick one that will last for the duration of your ride.<br />
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(2) A provided mounting system to attach the light to your bike. Pay attention to this, as you may need specific sizes or adapters depending on your bike (my tri bike required a longer mounting strap given the profile of the base bars and seat post).<br />
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(3) Charging via USB or micro USB.<br />
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Also keep in mind that the white light for the front of your bike and the red light for the back of your bike are often sold separately. You’ll want them both.<br />
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HOW DO I GET STARTED?</h3>
Your Local Bike Shop likely carries the daytime running lights manufactured by their preferred bike supplier. Given that different shops have different bike suppliers, It’s worth it to visit a few different ones and evaluate their options. In particular, I’d look specifically at the mounting options to see which is most easily compatible with your bike. Once you’ve figured that out, grab yourself a pair of blinky bike lights, strap ‘em on your bike, head out for a ride and enjoy the breathing room.<br />
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<i>*Source: Outside Online, <a href="https://www.outsideonline.com/2064501/you-have-no-excuse-not-bike-light-day-or-nigh" target="_blank">“You Have No Excuse Not to Bike with a Light, Day or Night”</a></i><br />
<i>March 24, 2016</i>Alison Freemanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00612153599657278083noreply@blogger.com