Race Report - Half Vineman, Santa Rosa, CA (August 3, 2003)
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Half Vineman Race Report
or
How to Qualify for Hawaii Without Knowing How to Swim
or
The Stank Booty Has a Lucky Day
respectfully submitted by
Dave Bailey
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For the first time in ages, I can actually sleep the night before a race.
Maybe it's because I've thoroughly convinced myself that this is just a
stepping stone to my "A" race, Ironman Canada, which is three weeks off.
It's a great system and I've used it in just about every triathlon I've
ever done because I can get crappy results and nobody asks any questions.
"Oh, I trained through this race, I needed the beatdown". Could it be that
maybe I just suck? I ask myself this question as I exit the swim after a
seemingly endless 37 and a half minutes in the water. This is the normal
start for all of the triathlons I do. Annoyingly, three of the four races
I'd done before Half Vineman also started the bike leg with a ridiculously
hard climb - Wildflower Long Course, World's Toughest Half, and of course
Donner. I have found that this prolongs the feelings of suckage for me
and thus I was very happy to be riding on smooth, flat roads exiting T1
at Vineman. Having trained on these roads several times this season
leading up to the race, I feel at home, which for some reason helps me a
lot.
Starting the bike leg I stay nice and mellow, but the road is fast and the
passing cars create an artificial tailwind, so I am blasting along at 28 mph
with a heart rate in the low 160's. I can't feel my legs yet, which is a
good thing. Leading into the 5 mile mark I step on the gas to crack my
shell open and hatch a pretty little bird of anaerobic pain. The bird
spreads its wings and flies at 55 kph for a little while before settling
down to roost while I cruise through the technical section and recover.
Lactic acid buffering is ON! All systems go for the Vineman Rollers of
Death.
The next 10 miles were better than sex (with myself). I sat through the
first roller and marveled at the feeling of having hamstrings that work
properly and aren't all beaten down. Then I went Big Ring (but fresh and
pretty big ring, not three-toed sloth big ring) and kept the hammer down
while paying close attention to style points. I gave myself a 9 and
called it a day as I hit mile 15. For the next 10 miles I was on autopilot
in the 160's while I fiddled with my Camelbak and waited for some left VMO
(vastus medialis oblique) crappiness to dissipate.
I woke up for the turn onto Canyon Road and the staircase climb to the
halfway point. This was another chance for me to hatch some pretty little
anaerobic birdies. These newer, more dynamically colored birdies felt a
tailwind and chirped away at 32 kph all the way to the top. I hit the 28
mile mark in 1:03:55 and chortled gleefully while tearing past the older
guys who had started in the waves ahead of me. Go, old guys! You guys
are totally sweet. One guy was like 70, and he was hauling ass. I did a
double take. Then through Geyserville for another 10 miles of autopilot
followed by the approach to Chalk Hill.
Last year the approach was 3 miles of rolling uphill. This year it was 3
miles of rolling downhill. I don't ask questions, I just ride right into
the back of a truck towing a ripe port-a-potty. The poop stench fades as
he pulls away, leaving me only with my own stank booty, which propels me up
and over Chalk Hill before I fully comprehend that I've begun to climb it.
I thank my stank booty and fly back into rear end of the crap-mobile where I
get jammed up waiting for him to pass the cyclists ahead of him. The road
is like a constipated bowel. Unfortunately the guy just sits there going
their speed and I have an official motorbike hovering behind me. I motion
for the bike to come up and ask if I can pass the truck. This is sort of
like asking if I can use a laxative. The official shakes his head no.
I sit there for what seems like 87 light years (it was really more like 2
kilometers). Then the official hands me a bucket of Prescription Strength
Ex-Lax and says I can try to pass on the right. I nod and flip on the
nitrous and fly away.
Wheels down at mile 50 where I suffer through the Cones of Frustration.
Riders are clogging a narrow, cone-marked lane which takes us through the
busy part. I'm stuck at 37 kph when I want to be at 45. It hurts and I
want to cry, but finally the cones are gone and I transform into a bottle
rocket full blast over the freeway. Reese Witherspoon smiles at me in an
angelic way. I ignore her. By this time I know I will ride faster than
2:10, which was my nominal "best expected" target time for the bike leg.
But it's smooth flat pavement again and I have to let the birdies out one
last time. They don't disappoint, and T2 shows up after 2:08:48 on the
bike.
I guzzle some salt tablets, get the house in order and take off on the run.
This is the Moment of Truth for me. I want to run 1:35 or better so I can
build some confidence in my ability to get through Ironman Canada in one
piece. This is what will decide if today is a good day or a bad day. First
mile is short so I ignore it. Next three miles at 6:35 or so. Wendy
"Wingnut" Ingraham, 8 million time Ironman Champion, is out cruising around
on her bike and giving people encouragement. "How's your nutrition?", she
asks. Fine so far I guess. Then, "run this next mile really hard", she
instructs me, cryptically. I nod assent and keep the pressure on. Then I
hit that short, steep hill which transitions you from the cool, shaded,
pleasant part to the wide-open fields of desolation part.
In the fields of desolation, I see fences. Sammy Hagar is singing "Eagles
Fly" and I remember Tahoe and the horses. Then it gets bad. I am a lava
bomb and I gag for about 45 seconds, struggling my utmost to keep from going
into full body vomit contractions. The last thing I want is to be doubled
over by the side of the road because you're not making forward progress like
that! My pukes stay little - nice little baby pukes which I then spit out
into the brush. I feel proud of myself for not stopping. By this time I've
settled to just under a 7 minute pace and I go by the SF Tri aid station.
Familiar faces come into focus. Liz Franklin, Louisa Pickering, John Benko,
the Sisters Stewart. Benko (I think) hands me a cup of water and I splash
it into my face so hard that most of it goes up my nose. The searing pain
in my sinuses distracts me for a while. At the winery I opt out of the
water tunnel because I don't want my shoes to get soaked. A lap around the
lake and homeward bound.
The phrase "homeward bound" has always annoyed me, by the way. I hate it
and I hate that stupid song and that feeling of being in the back seat of a
small car with tan vinyl seats when I was a kid.
SF Tri aid station again, and now it's getting harder to sustain the pace,
but the gang gives me a psychological boost (thanks Louisa for the catcalls),
so the stank booty marches on. It is in this next mile that I realize that
I am going to make it all the way to the finish without slowing down any
further. I feel incredibly relieved to be able to compute my ETA at the
finish line without having to integrate a curve.
At this point I have begun to realize that I may be doing well in my age
group. In 9 miles of running, not a single person has passed me. This is
new and exciting, like satin sheets I guess. Then a 28 year old passes me
but I don't care. He's wearing one of those Degree Ironman outfits, which
secretly reveals to me that he's a Fake Wannabe Pro. Finally, with 2.5
miles to go I am passed by a 32 year old who is actually too far ahead
(different wave) for me to do anything. So technically, he had already
been beating me for who knows how long. I just don't know how many guys
are up the road and suddenly this stuff is starting to matter as I think
about Hawaii, and how I saw the qualifiers at this race last year, and how
I wanted to be one of them.
Charitably, Wingnut offers that I'm still "looking great" with a mile to
go to the finish. Then Lex Grecu is yelling at me that I've got 300 meters
to go and I immediately assume that this really means 500 because I always
lie to people in situations like that. At the finish line I take my run
split at 1:28:32, which is the fastest I've ever run a half marathon.
The fun's not over because now I have to find out where I am in the results.
After glad-handing and back-slapping for a few minutes, I limp off into the
periphery for a while. Steve Larsen and I make out briefly amid the clanging
and banging of a thousand pots and pans. Hours later, I see myself at 5th
in the M30-34, with 2 Hawaii slots to go around. I'm sitting in the high
school gymnasium with Podium Fixture Diana Hassel (distant relative of
David Hasselhof, and reigning W30-34 IMH queen) for the awards and
(simultaneously conducted) Hawaii rolldown/egg-eating contest. Knots pile
up in my stomach while the announcer makes his way to my age group, where
first place is already qualified. Second place takes the first slot. Third
place is already qualified. Then they call the name of the fourth place
guy. I squint and grit my teeth. No answer from the crowd and then I hear
my name and I completely lose bowel control and squeal like a pig seeing
Britney Spears live in concert. After cleaning myself up, I walk down the
steps like a beauty queen with concomitant out-of-body awareness of my
overall crapitude. Confetti tickles my skin and rose petals brush my cheeks.
Then a bunch of guys take me outside and beat the tar out of me with
baseball bats. And that's it! That's my story. Eleven weeks until the
prom, and I even get to have a dress rehearsal in Canada.
I crafted this and was wide awake.
I remain,
Dave Bailey
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