Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim: The Complete Write-up Part II. North to South

How did we get to this point?  Read Part I

North Rim to Phantom Ranch

Despite my little bonk on the way up, I was feeling good right away as we headed down.  The trail was steep, but largely runnable and we were back at Supai Tunnel in no time.  At this point Wendy wasn’t feeling tops so we decided to split up.  Artie, Mike, and I pushed ahead in hopes of reaching Phantom ranch by 3:30pm.  Tressa had hiked down and was going to hike back up with us if we got there by 3:30.  Else, she was going to head up on her own. 

After topping off with water and hitting a quick bathroom stop, we began running down to Cottonwood.  Again, the trail was steep in parts, but almost entirely runnable.  The three of us strung out a bit, but reached the campground within minutes of each other.  But everything was taking a bit longer than we had expected and it was going to be a stretch to reach Phantom by 3:30.  We topped off the water again and then Artie took off with plans to push the pace, but I set my sights on 4:00pm to try to buy a lemonade at the canteen before it closed.

We were over 30 miles into the day at this point—longer than I’d ever run before—fatigue was setting in.  I didn’t rest long enough at Cottonwood and knew almost immediately that I would not be running hard through this section.  We ran though the dessert-like area as I watched Artie then Mike pull away and we were strung out again.  I needed to slow down as the heat began to overwhelm me—it was well into the ’90s at this point.  Then I was walking.  The idea of reaching Phantom by 4:00 became laughable as I was averaging 20 minute miles.

As a general observation, I was surprised by the large numbers of people on the trail all day.  Except for this section at this time of day.  Over the 7+ miles, I saw only a half-dozen other people.

I arrived at Phantom Ranch pretty wrecked—nearly exhausted.  Artie had already been there for over 30 minutes (Mike only a little less) but had missed both Tressa and the canteen.  I asked for 15 minutes to sit and rest.  After that, I was feeling much better and as we were deciding whether or not to wait for Dave and Wendy for the remaining (and likely hardest) 10 miles of the day, they came into camp.  We decided to head up Bright Angel as a group so we took a little extra time to let them rest.  I wasn’t complaining.

Dave suffering from an acute case of overcompensation

Phantom Ranch to South Rim

Some of us were fresher than others, but make no mistake that we were all in some state of exhaustion by this point—38 miles and approaching 14 hours into our day.  As we jogged out of camp and toward the river, I was laughing through the pain as I watched from the back of the line as everyone tried to run.  Ha-ha—look them!  That looks slow and miserable!  I’m glad I don’t look like that!  Wait, why am I falling behind…?

From the bottom of Bright Angel to Indian Garden, the trail climbs “gradually” (only 400 feet per mile) for about 3 miles.  From there, it’s 4 and a half miles and 3,000 vertical feet of often steep climbing to the rim.  The sun was setting—we’d go up the way we came in: in the dark. 

There would be no more running for the day.  We hiked at a fair pace considering our fatigue.  Mike was still feeling good and pushed ahead.  The rest of us stuck together in the dark.  My tummy was finally starting to rebel against the 14 hours of sports nutrition I’d been pouring into it.  I kept drinking my Infinit because I knew I needed the hydration and calories, but I was starting to feel queasy.
 

When we reached Indian Garden, my gut was still a problem but everything else was actually feeling better and stronger than an hour or so before at the river.  I dumped out what was left of my Camelbak bladder of Infinit and refilled with plain water.  It was, in a word, delicious. We sat and rested briefly before heading out to the next stop—3 Mile Resthouse about 1,000 feet up over a mile and a half.  Mike again pushed ahead and we didn’t see him again until we made the rim.  Dave was beginning to crack at this point.  The four of us stayed relatively close, but Wendy and I pushed ahead at times with Artie hanging back with Dave as we yo-yo’d to the next stop.

The Garmins ran out of batteries as we approached the 17 hour mark.  When we stopped at the resthouse, we were all pretty tired but the very steepest section was behind us.  We still had to climb 2,000 feet over the last 3 miles and it was easy to see at this point how people get into real trouble attempting this one-day double crossing at this point—so close to the finish.  We could see from the headlamps that there were still several other groups out on the trail, most of them finishing up rim-to-rim-to-rim just as we were.  We talked to a few folks from those groups as we met up on the trail or at rest stops.  Many had run into trouble during the day.  One guy (a manager at a Trader Joes near my hometown who let me know that Colorado is on the expansion plan, maybe as soon as 2013.  Was this the most important info we learned on the day?!) had to split with his partner on the north rim because of medical issues.  He headed back across the canyon while his buddy caught a shuttle for the 200+ mile drive back to the south rim.  The failure rate seemed to be in the 10% range for initial members of the groups that were still out with us.  But everyone in our group was going to make it—not a small deal.  With everything that could go wrong when five people attempt this together, it’s really a testament to the quality of our preparation both as individual athletes and as a group.

But we still had to get out.  Wendy was still physically strong but borderline delirious—laughing hysterically at every word that came out of her mouth.  Dave was moving into pretty rough shape—moving forward more on sheer will than physical strength.  Artie and Wendy moved forward and I stayed with Dave as we moved up to the 1.5 Mile Resthouse.  With my tummy finally flushed out, I was feeling pretty good at the pace.  I know I could have pushed faster, but there was no way I’d leave Dave at this point.  He was making good progress, but seemed a bit unsteady.  I made sure he stayed on the inside of the trail and fed him from my stash of glucose tablets every 10 or so minutes.

When we arrived at the 1.5 Mile Resthouse, Wendy and Artie were waiting for us.  They looked exhausted.  I was feeling better and better by this point, but I’m sure my face was showing a different story.  We moved out again as Wendy and Artie gapped us—we’d next see them at the rim.  Dave and I made slow steady progress on this last push.  Shortly before the top, Dave stopped and asked whether I’d seen a cat cross the trail right in front of us.  I hadn’t, but I looked where he said it went and didn’t see anything.  I didn't see any pawprints on the dusty trail.  We needed to get out of the canyon. 

All smiles at the end of the day

It wasn’t long before we reached the rim roughly 18 hours and 45 minutes after we started.  Tressa snapped a few pictures of us and then we headed back to the campground to eat the dinners she had bought for us when it became evident that we wouldn’t be up in time to get to a restaurant (most of which closed at 10pm)—salmon, rice, and veggies with corn bread and roasted red pepper soup.  It was an unbelievable feast after our day.  (Mike and I also grabbed a couple slices of pepperoni pizza at the one open restaurant between the rim and the campsite.)


Post-run

Only one blister (and not nearly as bad as it looks in this pic)

We mowed down our late dinner and then headed straight for bed in a wave of stink—the campsite showers had closed at 9pm.  I fell right to sleep but my legs were twitchy and my body thermostat was completely out of whack—first I was warm, then cold, then a sweaty mess.  I awoke at dawn feeling reasonably recovered but not well-rested.  I was achy and sore, but in pretty good shape, all things considered.  Aside from a blister on the side of one of my toes (which I had successfully treated with duct tape on the trail around mile 30), I had no injuries or even any substantial chafing.  Walking and moving around helped loosen things up and the hot shower ($2 for 8 minutes) was absolute heaven.

We had a fancy breakfast at El Tovar before breaking down the campsite and beginning the long drive home.  The weekend had been a success for all of us.  We had each hit and broken through a wall or two during various times of the day, but accomplished something enormous.  For me, this was a one-and-done situation.  There is no chance I’ll do it again, nor will you see me running ultras again.  I’m really, really glad I did it but now it’s done and I have no desire to do it again. 
Would I recommend it to someone else?  Sure—if this is the sort of thing that moves you.  Despite all of the things that could have gone wrong, I was surprised by how safe it felt.  The main trails we packed were full of people almost all day.  The planning and training take some work for sure, but it was all attainable.  I had thought I was well-prepared with my training—turns out I had probably done the minimum necessary.  But it was enough.

Thanks for following along on the SPOT map (if you did) and for reading about the day here.   Many, many thanks to my friend Sharon for hooking me up with the SPOT (and for being my reliable weekday running partner).  And of course, a shout out to our little Grand Canyon R2R2R crew—Mike, Dave, Wendy, Artie, and Tressa.  We made some big memories this weekend.  I’m grateful for your friendship, patience, compassion, and humor.  I’m awed by what we accomplished.


(Complete photo set: http://photobucket.com/r2r2r)

Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim: The Complete Write-up Part I. South to North

An epic blog post (in two parts) to match our epic adventure.  As always thanks for reading!

Pre-run

Looking at the north rim from the Bright Angel trailhead on the south rim.

Mike, Artie, Tressa (Artie’s wife), and I drove all day and arrived at the Grand Canyon after dark on Thursday.  We caught a few glimpses of it in the moonlight as we arrived at the park, but the plan for the night was to get to bed for a good night’s sleep as soon as possible.  Mike and I split a hotel room this night to give us a better shot at quality sleep.

Our crew: Arte, me, Mike, Wendy, Dave

Friday was mostly about relaxing, checking out the canyon, setting up the campsite, and getting Saturday’s logistics nailed down.  The day was easy with a little walking around and seeing the sights—the canyon was beautiful and big.  Dave and Wendy arrived mid-day and we all ate a nice dinner in the Arizona Room overlooking the canyon.  After a short campfire, we hit the sack—at 8:30pm. 

Dave and Wendy sorting out nutrition

I managed some nice sleep…for a few hours, then tossed and turned with anticipation until the alarms went off at 2:30am. 

Tressa and Mike

South Rim to Phantom Ranch

Moments before taking the first step into the canyon.

We arrived at the South Rim at 3:15 and, after some bathroom trips and posed photos, we stepped into the canyon at 3:30am.  Within 3 minutes, the temperature became noticeably warmer.  I peeled off my jacket right away.  We took the descent very easy—no running.  We were concerned about blowing out our quads on the way down and ruining the day.  We got passed by two groups of runners heading out on the same challenge.  Even though it took nearly three hours, it felt like we reached the Colorado River in no time.  The sun was just coming up as we ran the mile along the river to the Bright Angel bridge.  We reached Phantom ranch in a little over three hours after we started where we filled up with water, used the bathroom, and rested for just a minute or two.  Everyone was feeling good and just getting down there felt like an accomplishment (even though it would be the easiest thing we did all day). 

The mighty Colorado River at sunrise

About to cross the river.  All smiles--getting to the river is easy...

We hadn’t set a time goal for the day, but thought 15-17 hours total was reasonable.  Our conservative estimate had us reaching Phantom in 3 hours so we were off that number, but completely unconcerned.    My fear with setting a time goal was that doing so could lead to bad decisions in the canyon.  So the day would take shape as it took shape and we’d make adjustments as necessary.

Moon setting (tough to see) over Phantom Ranch

Phantom Ranch to North Rim

A relatively wide section of "The Box" heading toward Cottonwood

We began the long run up the hill at a very easy pace.  Each area of the canyon was beautiful in its own way.  Through “The Box”—a high-walled red canyon within the canyon—and then into a more dessert-like area and past Ribbon Falls as we came to the Cottonwood Campground.  Although we gained about 1,500 feet over the nearly 7 miles, we really hadn’t begun to climb.  At Cottonwood, my fluids looked good so I didn’t top off to try to save a little weight.  It was only 2 miles (but 1,100 vertical feet) to Roaring Spring. 

This section was our first taste of serious climbing.  Not the steepest we’d face, but there was no question that we were going up in a big way.  Running quickly turned to hiking as we managed to go (unintentionally) right past Roaring Springs without refilling water.  From Roaring Springs, the next water stop is the Supai Tunnel 2.7 miles (and 1,800 vertical feet) later with the rim almost two miles (and another 1,500 vertical feet) beyond.  The water at the rim was set to be turned off for the season at noon (our estimated arrival time at that point).  We had been told the seasonal water would remain on in the canyon all day, but there were some conflicting opinions about that depending on which ranger we spoke with.  As far as mistakes go, this could have been a big one.  We all ran very low or completely out of water before reaching Supai.  The trail includes a flat-ish section here, but the climbing portions are very steep.  We passed over trails carved into the solid rock of the canyon walls and saw some beautiful fall colors.

The last half-mile to Supai was very tough mentally and physically.  Our limited water and the uncertainty of being able to refill wore me down until we passed someone coming down who told us that the water was indeed on.  At the tunnel, I was tired and climbing the steep sections is not my strong suit.  We were at about the same elevation as the South Rim.  The North Rim is 1,500 feet higher.  This last section to the rim is probably the steepest sustained section of climbing on the north side.  I quickly started falling back from the group.  I had the energy and the will, but my hip flexors were shot and each step was hard work.  Artie waited for me and then walked with me most of the way.  By the time I reached the rim, I was looking forward to heading back down not because down is easier, but just so I could use a slightly different muscle group.

Supai Tunnel

We arrived at the rim at exactly noon and found out the water had been turned off an hour before.  This wasn’t a big deal since we were still pretty full and knew it would be quick back to Supai.  It had taken us 8 and a half hours to cross which would put us at 17 hours if we came back at the same rate.  We have read about some people coming back the same or faster because the North Kaibab trail is longer (so more downhill), the Bright Angel  trail (on the south side) isn’t as steep, and the south rim is lower.  We spent about 10 minutes resting, taking pictures, and eating and then stepped back into the canyon for the return trip—all of us feeling pretty good, considering that we had just run and hiked across the Grand Canyon.

The last few steps up to the North Rim

North Rim

Find out what happened next! Read Part II


(Complete photo set: http://photobucket.com/r2r2r)

Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim FAQ

Next Saturday (10/15), I’ll be attempting a rim-to-rim-to-rim run/hike at the Grand Canyon.  This is a big undertaking and definitely not a “slam dunk.”  Thought I’d share a little FAQ—the questions folks have been asking me about the run and my thoughts.

Q. What is rim-to-rim-to-rim?

A. We’ll be starting at the South Rim, running down the Bright Angel Trail across the Colorado River (over a bridge) and up to the North Rim via the North Kaibab Trail.  When we get to the top, we’ll turn right around and retrace our steps.  It should be about 48 miles.  There are a couple of options for getting across and back.  This option is a little longer than others, but the descent/ascent from the South Rim is a bit more gradual and the trail has year-round water sources.  We felt that even though it was longer, it was the safer choice.

Q. How long with this take?

A. We’ll be doing it as a continuous run/hike in a single day.  We’ll leave around 4am (in the dark but with headlamps and handheld lights) in order to get on the trail ahead of the mule trains and give ourselves the best chance of completing the crossings and getting out at a reasonable hour.  I’m guessing we’ll be in the Canyon for 15-17 hours including stops.

Q. Are you crazy?!  Why are you doing this?

A. I’m probably at least a little bit crazy.  It’s a bit difficult to express what motivates me to take on this sort of challenge.  The simplified version is: it’s out there and I’m capable of it—so why not?  Few people attempt something this big.  I like being the type of person who is willing to try.  Life is a series of experiences to be collected.  They don’t always come to you—sometimes you have to go get them.  Why not take on something that scares you every once in a while?


Q. Is this safe?

A. We’ve made it as safe as we possibly can.  This is NOT an organized event—there will be no aid stations, no medical staff, no support of any kind aside from what we provide to one another (and, for thousands of dollars after the fact, the National Park Service Search and Rescue squad is our “backup”).  We’re a group of 5 friends—strong endurance athletes (Ironmen, marathoners, etc.) but none of us do adventure racing or ultra-running for a living.  The National Park Service strongly discourages people from hiking down to the river and back in a single day.  Attempting to go all the way across and back is not a great idea.  But my training has been very solid and I’m comfortable with my preparation from both a physical and mental standpoint.  We’ll have food and water (and water filters), first aid supplies (including some basic equipment if something goes wrong and we have to spend the night down there), proper clothing, and a SPOT device (satellite-based emergency tracking/distress device).  I should be able to set up a webpage this week that will show our progress if anyone’s interested in checking in.  We picked this weekend because the weather should be decent—not too cold on the rims and not too hot at the bottom.  I’ve done a ton of training (40-60+ miles per week), have read books, visited websites, etc.  I’m absolutely committed to turning around at any point in the day if things aren’t going as planned and we’ve selected the most well-traveled trails in the canyon.  So while this really isn’t all that safe, with the right preparation we’ve made it substantially less risky.  To be fair, I’ll bet that statistics would show that driving from Colorado to Arizona and back is arguably the riskiest part of the trip.

 
Q. What will you eat and drink?

A. While there is a small canteen at Phantom Ranch (on the floor, just north of the river), I’ll be pretty much self-contained with food.  I’ll get the bulk of my calories with my hydration via a calorie rich Infinit mix that includes electrolytes and other critical nutrients.  I’ll also carry some “product” type food like Clif Bars and PowerBar Chews as well as a little real food like PB&J sandwiches.  There are year-round piped-in water sources along the trail for refilling my CamelBak.  (I’ll carry enough Infinit to make a mix each time I refill).

Q. Do you have life insurance?

A. Yes.  I’m worth substantially more dead than alive. ;-)  In all seriousness, there are a lot of ways this can go wrong (and I don’t write that to be flip).  I respect the magnitude of this undertaking and know that nature (and the Grand Canyon in particular) is not to be trifled with.  This was not undertaken on a whim.  We’ve done a lot of research and have done everything we can to make this successful and safe.  I’m very thankful for the support of my family and friends.  I love the adventure and the unthinkable size of this challenge, but I really don’t want to die and wouldn’t be attempting it if I thought that was a likely outcome.  All that said, in the words of my friend Mike (who will be taking this on with me), “you’d be a fool to attempt it.”

Horsetooth Race Report

"Traditional" customization of the race shirt.

It hurts to type.  A day-and-a-half after finishing the race, every part of my body aches.  Head to toe.  Literally.  But I actually feel good about it.  My friend Whitney calls it "glory soreness."

Here's the (really) long-form race report.  I've added a few headings so you can scroll down to the actual race report if you just want to read about the pain.  Remember two things--you aren't required to read this and you paid nothing for it.  (You get what you pay for...)

Saturday
Saturday was a busy day--kids' sports, brunch with an old friend, packing/prep for the race, just trying to rest and stay out of the sun.  Horsetooth was my only "A" race of the season and I was serious about hitting it hard.  As I pulled out of the driveway at 4pm to head up to Fort Collins for the pre-race meeting/dinner, I managed to relax.  I was in the "funnel" that would draw me to the event without too many distractions.

Arrived at my friends Sandy and Dean's house just after 5pm. (Dean was my paddler--each swimmer goes with an escort, primarily for safety reasons.) and we relaxed and chatted for a while before leaving at 5:45 for the dinner (which was to start at 6).  Just as we're leaving, I get a text from my friend (and fellow competitor) Jenny letting me know I'm late. (I know it's trouble when she calls me "mister.")  Apparently they had changed the start of the event and I was working off an old email.  We were probably the last to arrive, but worked out fine--the mandatory meeting portion of the evening began about 3 minutes after we walked in.  Let's just call that perfect timing.

The meeting was longer (and more boring) than necessary, but it's part of the ritual and I was content just to be sitting down and immersing myself in the race.  Afterwards, Sandy, Dean, and I stopped for some sandwiches (not a good sign when you're hungry an hour after dinner) and drove up to the start area.  The race went from south to north last year but was turned around to go north to south this year so this was a valuable perspective that I hadn't seen before.  We noticed right away that the contour of the start inlet and the shoreline beyond led to an obvious strategy.  Once we got around that first point, the straight line route would take us out toward the middle of the reservoir as the concave shoreline didn't come back out to the next point for what looked like about 4 miles.  Dean was very comfortable taking me along that straight line--definitely the shortest distance.

Back to the house where we watched home movies for a bit, then in bed a little after 10.  Sound asleep by 10:30.

Sunday (Pre-Race)
Awake at 1:00am.  Dang!  Listened to some boring podcasts, tossed and turned, suffered with my thoughts of not sleeping.  Finally dozed off again a little before 3am and then had the classic "missed the race start" dream.  Alarm woke me up at my usual 4:44am.  Haven't had that restless pre-race sleep in a long time.  I took it as a good sign--this was a big event for me and my brain was clearly working on it.

Ate my usual oatmeal breakfast and we were off to the start, arriving a few minutes ahead of schedule.  The air was already warming up and temps were very comfortable.  Got the boats unloaded, got body-marked, hung out with Jenny and family, pre-race instructions, got our paddlers in the water, then went for a short warm-up.  The water felt great--official temp was 72 degrees.  This is a non-wetsuit swim and the reservoir can be in the mid-60s this time of year.  We had been tracking it and were expecting a nice temp but actually getting into the water and feeling it was a relief.

I swam a few hundred meters and did a couple of pickups then lined up at the start.  Traded a few good words and high fives with friends, and cleared my head.  Ready and relaxed.  With 30 seconds to the start, I looked over to notice that the majority of the field was on the south side of the little dock.  We'd been told to be on the north side but the lines were better from the other side.  Too late to move.  We were off.

The Race
As soon as we started, I could see the line of faster swimmers begin to extend out to my right.  It's a long race that I wasn't likely to win so it didn't really make much difference in the long run, but I was unhappy.  I expected to be near the front of the race and this was a disadvantage.  But I settled my brain and kept an eye out for their direction as I sighted for the line of paddlers at the first point (less than 1k out).

The paddler meet-up is a crazy thing when it goes as planned; mayhem when it doesn't.  We had mayhem.

The paddlers line up their boats side by side in two lines (facing each other).  Paddlers with faster swimmers line up at the far end, slow swimmers at the near end.  Swimmers are supposed to swim down the middle lane created by the boats and the paddlers call out numbers as we pass through.  Theoretically, by the time the faster swimmers reach the end of the lane, their paddlers just peel off the end and move out along with them.  Great plan!  (On paper...)

The paddlers lined up way too far out from the point and the lead swimmers smartly didn't bother going out the extra distance to the meet-up lane.  The entire race passed by well behind both lines of paddlers.  I was out about as far as anyone but never got close to the paddler lane--they were just too far out.  I definitely should have made a bee-line for the point from the start had I anticipated how this would go down.  Cost me a little time and distance, but there was nothing I could do about it but hope Dean would eventually find me.

As I mentioned, it was mayhem.  Paddlers and swimmers everywhere.  The paddlers were too dispersed to hear each other calling out numbers so they were just moving up and down the slowly spreading out line of swimmers.  I decided just to go with the flow and hope I'd be found before my first planned feeding at 30 minutes.  I spotted Dean up ahead before he found me, but didn't bother taking the time to stop and try to get his attention.  I figured I'd keep an eye on him to make sure he was moving with the group and we'd hook up eventually.  He was looking for me in the lead group but because I took the bad line out there, I was further back than expected.

We eventually hooked up about 5 minutes before my first feed and all was good.  He immediately sighted the far point and began paddling a perfect line.  When I stopped to drink, we talked for a moment and I made sure to take in the right amount.  (This was a problem for me last year--my stops were too infrequent and I took in too little at each one.  Bonking at 8k sucks.  You can't exactly walk it in...)

My plan was simple: swim strong for the first hour, build to my max maintainable speed during the second hour, and then hold it for the last 30 minutes to the finish.  Feedings (all Infinit drink) at 30 minutes then every 20 minutes thereafter.  The feeding schedule would also help me keep track of time since I don't race with a watch.

There's not much to report for the next few miles.  Dean did an excellent job tracking in a straight line.  I drifted to my left a bit a times (I sometimes have this problem), but only had to sight ahead in order to get my bearings or keep an eye on the competition.  I'd go 100 or more strokes between sightings.  At one point I went about 500 strokes.  I sang songs, counted my strokes, and generally tried to keep my mind off what I was asking of my body.

At my 1:50 feeding, I was approaching what I estimated was my goal speed and I was definitely working very hard.  I was nervous about this point in the race.  Last year, I hit the wall shortly after 2 hours.  It was miserable.  My training and focus were much better this year and I was pretty confident, but the memories haunted me a bit.

There was a small group of swimmers who had been ahead of me following the shoreline instead of taking the more direct straight line Dean was piloting.  We had come together now and I was just behind.  Even though I thought I was at my max, I dug in and found a little more.  It was risky--I didn't know whether I could hold this new, higher pace to the finish but I just had to go for it.

At the 2:10 feeding I was right alongside the last person I could pass.  Took a short feed and got back to work, not losing too much distance in the process.  My 2:30 goal seemed unlikely at this point, but I was focused on the present situation.  I finally passed her after another 10 or so minutes of work and she was not going to give it to me easily.  When Dean signaled for the 2:30 feed, I waved him off.  I was only about 10 seconds ahead and the finish was in sight.  Plus, I had been working so hard, my stomach was turning and I thought I was going to throw up.  I didn't just think it, I expected it.  To the point of considering what I'd eaten that morning in anticipation of how bad it would be.  But somehow, I didn't.

The race is a straight shot--point-to-point down the reservoir--for 6 miles.  We swam past the finish line and then u-turned back to get the last 0.2 miles in.  As I approached the turnaround buoy, I began to worry what the twisting and change of direction might do to my body.  Cramping up was a real possibility--I was at my limit in every sense--and would have been a major bummer with someone hot on my tail.  I decided to take a couple of backstrokes as I went around to try to keep my body more aligned.  It worked and I was headed for the finish--flat out at this point.  If she could have passed me, she would have earned it.

The finish area was confusing and I was headed toward a buoy from an earlier race (not part of our race).  We had seen a picture of what we were looking for at the dinner the night before, but it was taken from the shore--the opposite of what I was trying to look for.  Dean started squeezing me in toward where I was supposed to go but at this point, very little oxygen was getting to my brain and I wasn't moving over.  He finally moved ahead of me a little and turned the boat in front of me.  I finally got the picture, made the adjustment and took the last few strokes around the dock and across the line.

Then, it got even rougher.  I was exhausted, emotional, and a little dizzy.  My muscles were throbbing and my head was foggy.  I was completely drained and felt like crying.  I stayed in the water for a minute or two to try to get my bearings.  I saw Sandy cheering from the shore.  Lindsey walked down to greet me.  I have no idea what I said.  A few strangers high-fived me or patted me on the back.  It was a blur for the next several minutes but I eventually regained my senses.

2:40:15.  11 minutes faster than last year but about 10 minutes off my goal. (I set an audacious goal.)  But that was as fast as I could have swum.  Maybe I lost a minute or even two taking the bad line at the start of the race but that was it.  I swam to the maximum of my current ability and it felt great. This was the hardest I've ever swum and I left everything I had out there--no regrets.  That's the way to race and I'm really proud of my day!

Looking good! (pre-race)

11k SCM. WTF!

Nope, I'm not nuts.  Okay, well I am, but not because of this.

Saturday morning, I was first in the pool (6:54am) at the Y to get my key workout in to complete my peak week of training for the Horsetooth 10k on August 7.

11 x 1,000 meters on 1 minute rest.

Assuming neutral wind/lake conditions, I'm aiming for 2:30 (or 15 minutes/kilometer) at the race so I set out to swim about that pace here.  The stroke and kick work go a little slower plus the rest interval made for 3 hours and 2 minutes.  Solid.

This workout has scared me ever since a friend pointed it out to me back in January.  It's just a long way to go.  I tried, unsuccessfully, to get someone to join me.  So it was just me and the thoughts in my head for all that time.

A few takeaways:

• I'm ready.  I won't say it was easy, but it was easier than I expected it to be.  Last year, my longest workout was 6k and my biggest week was probably around 15k.  It wasn't nearly enough prep as I hit the wall with 2k to go in the race.  I'm determined to burst through the 8k mark with speed and strength this year.
• It wasn't that boring.  I don't know why, but it really wasn't.  I counted strokes and laps, sang songs, did a little deep thinking.  My brain is an entertaining place.  It's not a great place for everyone, but it seems to work for me.
• It wasn't that hard.  This has more to do with the right kind of prep and training ramp than the workout itself.  I came into Saturday with over 20k on the week and a solid progression of building volume over the past several weeks.  Even the 1,000 IM wasn't a big deal (though I took that one pretty slowly...).

It was mildly surprising that none of the four lifeguards who watched over me bothered to ask what the eff I was doing. Thanks to Dave McMillan for sending me the link to Tim Hola's blog post about this workout.

So that's that.  The longest swim workout of my life.  Somehow, I suspect that even longer workouts are in my future as I look at some of my bucket-list swim goals...

Catching Up on Race Reports: Loveland Lake to Lake

I shouldn't put this off because I forget the details.  (And I know all my faithful readers want ALL the details...)

I raced the Loveland Lake to Lake Tri at the end of June.  This is a very well-run, local event with a longer than usual, challenging bike course and a flat/fast run.  I came into this race feeling pretty good about my training and somewhat, but not completely, rested.  By my assessment, the race is all about what happens from the time you exit the water to T2.  There's a long run to T1 and then the long and somewhat hilly bike.  My plan was to push the bike harder than usual, but my bike fitness is not as strong this season as it has been in the past.  This is an easy course to over-ride.  Of course, the Ricci-rivalry was top of my mind.  After a little bit of fun smacktalk in the week leading up to the race, on race morning, Mike mentioned to me that the best the loser of this one could do was tie our summer series.  (We were 1-1 coming in, this was race 3, and the Peak is the last head-to-head meeting of the season.)  Spoiler alert: I made Mike eat his words.

I got out to a nice start in the water, pulling a few guys out with me.  As soon as I hit the back of the wave ahead of us, (only about 200 meters in), I put on a small gap and then pressed hard, weaving through the stragglers.  I figured this was a good opportunity to ditch everyone behind me and it worked.  Although I was working through traffic, gaps just seemed to open up and I was hauling.  On the long straightaway to the swim exit, I was completely alone.  For some reason, everyone was taking a wide line--the crowds were about 10 meters off to my right.  I took a few extra long looks at the finish buoys to make sure I had it right and everyone else was off (what are the chances, right?) but that was exactly what had happened.

Out of the water over a minute ahead of the next closest guy in the wave and I was hauling butt on the long run to transition, knowing this is a place where Mike should have an advantage.  Another solid transition (this has been a real strength for me this season--no time wasted).  Out onto the bike course and feeling really good.

The first several miles are mostly downhill and I spent a fair amount of time checking in with the powermeter to be sure I wasn't riding too hard.  I settled into an effort that felt about right and was passing everyone in sight.  (We were the last wave to start.)  Around 10 miles into the ride and we're heading up a long gradual grade moving toward the steeper climbing that's around the halfway point of the 30-mile ride.  No one has passed me.  My brain was having trouble comprehending why this would be the case--I knew I'd had a good swim and I was riding well, but didn't seem like it was that great.  Finally got passed by a few guys in the age group on the climb at around mile 15 and then a few more came by on the rollers on the way back.  I was able to hang in just behind the second group.  A slight headwind makes this section challenging but I still felt strong.  The ride was otherwise uneventful and after another fast transition, I exited T2 with the group.

They pretty much ran away from me right from the start.  No worries, I had a decent pace going.  My plan was to try to build effort through the run.  Although the course is essentially "flat and fast," it always feels like there's more elevation loss on the way out.  I was going to really start pushing at the turnaround (just before halfway) but I got passed at mile 2 by a guy I knew who is only a little faster runner than I am and I pushed to try to hang with him (which I did for a while).  By the time I was coming back from the turnaround, I was already going about as hard as I could maintain so that was that.

Mike and I crossed and I estimated I had about a 90 second advantage.  That math was good--he wasn't going to take 30 seconds per mile out of me back to the finish at my pace.  But no relaxing either.  The last mile was very painful and the course has a lot of turns through the park on the concrete path.  I turned to look for Mike on more than one occasion as I came into the park but couldn't see him.  I was starting to come apart and couldn't even lift my pace a little bit to try to kick at the finish--I had maxed out.

I set a big PR on the course overall, ran a PR split (43:45), and beat my boy Mike by 62 seconds.  The first thing he said once he was able to talk after crossing the line was "Good news/bad news.  You beat me at my best."  I had a hard time figuring out the bad news part of this, but appreciated the compliment.  So yet another close one and another race where the rivalry made me a better racer.  Thanks Mike!

Patience as a Race Plan

On race day strategy: "Don't write a strategic check that your physiology can't cash." -Phil Skiba

At the Boulder Sunrise Oly tri, one thing was clear from the very beginning--I wasn't in top shape for racing.

Often, I push the swim very hard from the start in order to build as much lead as possible going into T1.  Despite a solid warmup riding to the race and in the water pre-start, I was not feeling loose at the start.  After getting into the rez and waiting at the start line for a few minutes, it was announced that the race would be delayed while we waited for the paramedics to arrive--they were running late.  The water was too cold to just stand around in so I spent some time on the shore casually chatting with Mike, Manuel, Bill, Liz, Jay...passing time.  We got a 2 minute warning for the eventual race start--time enough to wade back in but not for another warmup.

Looking around, I only recognized one guy I knew would outswim me for sure--no one else looked familiar.  At the start, six of us went out front pretty quickly and then two guys gapped the group and were moving ahead at a faster pace than I could follow.  I settled into my pace and ended up shoulder to shoulder with another guy so I dropped back and took his feet but I kept swimming into him.  I pulled out to go around and he matched my pace stroke for stroke--wouldn't let me go by.  I didn't want to waste energy so I dropped back again--this time there was another guy with us so I slipped into third position and relaxed.

These guys started navigating off course to the left so I just broke off the back and took a good line to the intermediate buoy.  I could see the two leaders, but wasn't going to get to them so I resigned myself just to go it alone and try not to burn too much energy.  Then the guys I had been with adjusted and came back to me so we were together again.  I looked ahead and the two guys out front had split--one was heading to the wrong turn buoy (cutting the course).  One of the guys I was with began to follow the guy who was off course.  Things were getting weird.

So I came around the first of two turn buoys in third position.  When I got to the second turn about 200 meters later, I was in fourth (and no one had passed me).  I could have missed him, but I'm pretty sure that one of the course-cutters never readjusted and ended up back in the mix at that second turn.  Whatever.  Ultimately came out of the water in 5th overall and didn't burn too much energy.

I made the fastest swim-bike transition in the race and headed out on the ride, but it was immediately clear that I wasn't going to have the legs to ride hard.  So I rode smart--pushing on the sections that made sense, resting (sometimes even coasting) on some of the downhills.  I kept focused on keeping my pace consistent and my effort even and manageable.  I'll admit that at my pace, I thought about the possibility of Mike passing me before the run, but I kept focused and never turned to look back.

I arrived in T2 with Mike still behind me and, surprisingly, the 16th best bike split of the day.  The bike course is more or less the Boulder Peak without Olde Stage--my kind of ride--but when you don't feel strong, the course doesn't matter much.  I had another good transition and was off on the two-loop out-and-back run course.  Mike had out-ridden me by over a minute so with my  better swim, I was up by 1:05.  It was hard to know where I was in the age group thanks to a couple of guys who had passed me on the bike wearing calf sleeves.  (I couldn't see their age group marking--doesn't seem fair, but maybe that's fodder for another post.)

I took it relatively easy up the hill and then settled into a fast (for me) pace that I thought I'd be able to maintain.  Since I don't race with a watch, I had no idea what pace I was running.  At the turnaround, I counted footstep cycles until Mike and I crossed.  47.  So I figured that was just over a minute advantage.  It was too early to push any harder and I only had this single data point--I had no idea if he had been gaining or not but his form looked very good and he was focused.  At the second turnaround, the count was 35.  Not good.  At that rate, it would be too close at the finish and he has a keen tracking sense--if I were close, he'd shut me down in the last few meters.  I decided to push the way back out and try to hold or even increase the gap.  It was a bit risky--this was my first 10k at race pace for the year and I didn't really know what I had in me.  But I was feeling good and decided the potential benefit outweighed the risk.

At the final turnaround, the count was back up to 45, his form didn't look as solid as before, and I still had plenty of energy to finish.  At that point, he'd have to outrun me by about 40 seconds a mile and I guessed my pace to be around 7 minutes.  Seemed unlikely and I was closing in on the guy in front of me who was in second place my age group (I didn't know it at the time).  I set my sights on catching him--something I can rarely pull off late in a run at this distance--and halfway back, I was only a few seconds behind.  I was close enough for him to hear me so there would be no element of surprise.  I decided to wait to make my move until after we got off the dam head and onto the pavement.  There's a small rise there that's always tough for me--a mental block, but gets me every time.

He put a couple of seconds into me at that rise despite my best effort to stay strong and then I really started pushing to catch him.  We had about a half mile to go and he was pushing to hold me off.  As we reached the top of the downhill to the finish, he really kicked and I couldn't respond--he beat me by 11 seconds.  I ran a PR 10k split at 43:50 and Mike came in 54 seconds later.

So I finished 3rd in the age group and 12th overall.  Not too bad for an day without my best stuff.  Mike and I are now 1-1 on the year with Loveland up next in a couple of weeks and the Peak a few weeks after that.  He probably has the advantage in both of those races because of the courses, but it'll be close enough that either one could go either way.  Loving this rivalry--it makes me better.

Fear of the Water

(Demotivational poster from despair.com--check out their site for plenty more like this.)

This morning, I received a reminder of what it's like to be a frightened beginner in the water.

• What it's like to feel short of breath.  
• What it's like to feel the uncomfortable pressure of the water pushing on my chest.  
• What it's like to feel like I was being pulled downward; struggling to stay on the surface.
• What it's like to feel too far from the shore.
• What it's like to wonder, really wonder, whether this is a good idea...

This morning was the opening day of BAM morning swims at the Boulder Reservoir.  There was some difference in opinion about water temperature--the guy at the gate said 49 or 50 degrees but I doubt it was that cold.  Mid-'50s seems like a reasonable guess.  The air temp was probably in a similar range or cooler and cloud cover kept the sun from doing it's thing.  Let's just say it was uncomfortably cold.

In preparation for this summer's Horsetooth 10k swim, today was my first day of cold-water acclimatization training.  Wetsuits aren't allowed in this event and water temps are typically in the '60s.  I'll spend around two and a half hours in the water at that event--maintaining core temp is critical to success.  I'm not breaking new ground by stating that the human body is an amazing thing.  Among its many capabilities is its ability to adjust to longer exposure to cold water if you gradually train it to do so.

My initial plan was not to bring a wetsuit at all, but I grabbed it this morning before leaving.  The new plan was to get in and swim a few laps to warm up in the suit and then swim one lap without.  I pulled on the suit and waded in.  It was cold on my toes, but the suit shielded my legs from the true temp of the rez.  I gathered my courage and splashed some water on my face and neck.  It was cold--took my breath away a little--but manageable.  A few more splashes to prime myself and then into the water to start swimming the first ~600 meter loop.

The first thing I noticed was the cold on my face, but it wasn't too bad.  Suddenly, my hands were on fire--I don't ever remember them hurting so much from the cold.  I stood up and rubbed them together and took a minute plunging them back into the water, holding them there until the pain hit me, pulling them back out, and repeating.

Another start and after a few dozen strokes, I rolled over onto my back to try to relieve the pain on my face.  A little treading water to reset my brain (and my resolve) at the first buoy (still along the shoreline) and then I headed out.  My suit kept everything it covered pretty comfortable but I was very aware of everything that was exposed as it all began to numb up.  I knew I just needed to wait out that painful time between cold and numb and it finally came by the end of the first lap.

After the second lap, I was feeling comfortable in the water.  I actually thought to myself, "This isn't so bad.  It'll be fine when I pull the wetsuit off."  So I pulled the wetsuit off, left it on the shore and waded back in.  I could definitely feel the cold hit me but I was still convinced it wasn't that bad.  This is not a water temp you want to stand around in--I started swimming right away.

The first thing I noticed was not the cold but the huge difference a good wetsuit makes.  I was riding much lower in the water.  I checked my stroke--looked and felt good, but I was moving much slower.  Then the pins and needles started on my chest, back, legs.  To be expected--I was alive with the discomfort.

All of the sudden, the water felt thick and I had a strong and disorienting sensation of being pulled down.  I kept swimming but was quickly losing feeling in most of my body and my brain was running away from me.

I was breathing every stroke and was getting enough air, but I felt short of breath anyhow.  The pressure on my torso was intense and the feeling of being pulled down was pervasive.  As I rounded the first buoy, I thought twice about heading away from shore.  Even though I didn't feel like I was in control of my arms and legs, I knew they were doing their thing.  I could hear my kick even though I couldn't really feel my feet anymore.  I could see my arms recovering and I was moving forward.  Everything was on autopilot except my brain.

I am a confident swimmer, but I don't take that for granted.  I've been around the water enough to respect it.  Water is heavy--better to be on top of it rather than under it.  As I swam out, I fought off fearful thoughts and repeated a mantra of, "You're a strong swimmer."  I also considered that this is how it must feel to an inexperienced swimmer all the time.  But without the confidence that they actually are a strong swimmer, I can see how it could be terrifying.

I survived that wetsuit-less lap and to be honest, it didn't end up being all that bad.  (It took me a while to get warmed up afterward, but I was prepared with a thermos of hot tea, warm clothing, truck heater on full-blast, and a hot shower at my nearby office.)  I'll have to do this again and maybe throw in some cold showers and baths as well to be prepared for Horsetooth.  I know what to expect from the cold.

But I hadn't expected the fear.  In some ways, I hope to feel that fear again in future swims.  As a swim coach, it's a great reminder of what some folks deal with every time they get in the water.  As a person, it's not such a bad thing to feel this way once in a while.  I built a little confidence by overcoming the fear this morning.  The next time will be cold again, but I'll survive that swim too.

CU Triathlon--National Champs!

It’s Sunday—the morning after the University of Colorado Triathlon Team won the national championship.  I’m up early, as usual.  The kids were out celebrating until the early hours and are sleeping heavily.  I quietly lace up my shoes and head out for an easy, long solo run with no real plan.  As I take my first few steps, I decide to head down to the race site. 

I want to solidify my memories of yesterday.

As I approach the Tuscaloosa Amphitheater, I’m on the road and path that made up the last couple of miles of the run.  I can imagine the effort and speed that was left along this way yesterday—I’m outputting embarrassingly less.

I run past the swim start. The little park is empty and quiet except for the workers taking out the last section of the temporary dock that served as the starting line yesterday morning.  Up the short, steep hill that I sprinted up and down yesterday in a wild eyed panic as Jess realized a few minutes before the start that she had left her timing chip in the team tent.  Made it back with the chip and about 30 seconds to spare.  Might just log that as a workout—2x 300 at panic pace.

Then past the swim exit and the locked, empty amphitheater.  I peeked inside to see the spot where the finishing chute stood and where we later celebrated in our cowboy get-ups.  I could picture all the great finishes—Rudy, exhausted; Ryan, elated; Chris, in his usual throes of pain from having given it all.  The women heroically going all out to the line then wilting from the heat on the very next step.  I anxiously waited for each of them and walked them to the medical tent to the ice baths.  I remember my relief as our last athlete came in.  It was hot.  It was dangerously hot.  Safe finishes were more important than fast ones.  (Of course, we wanted both.)  There was no shortage of women staggering across the line—I’ll admit, it was a scary and emotional at the same time.  And then Nate falling to his hands and knees across the line after the sprint, throwing up, and then spraying himself down with a bottle of Gatorade—somehow simultaneously horrifying and hilarious.

Over by the area where CBS had interviewed some of our contenders for their broadcast of the race.  Rudy speaking eloquently about the importance of “team.”  Jess, poised and polished beyond her years—an ambassador and advocate for the sport.  Chris, showing off his goofy sense of humor—his relaxation and ease a complete juxtaposition of the violently competitive effort he laid out on the course.

The transition area is now completely gone.  Some chalked phrases on the ground and a locked USAT trailer are the only hints that a race happened here just a day ago.

I turn toward the hill by the train trestle that the racers came down at full speed.  Every step must have been agony but our athletes looked smooth and fast—ignoring the pain.  I ran through the intersection where Mike and I stood in the heat and humidity and yelled at our girls to drink as we watched them come through the halfway point of the bike with nearly full bottles.  Then up the hill where we nervously counted the women and measured splits.  They were all working so hard (and looked so thirsty)—it was going to be close.

I turned on University and ran by the sandwich and bike shops and then over to The Strip where on the first night, Corey nearly killed Andy from laughter as he told a story about a short Vegas stop a few years ago.

I ran past the grocery store where I found peanut butter, bananas, and just the right wheat bread for Rudy’s lunch.  The cheap, poofy kind, like white bread—but wheat.  Apparently I speak the language of wheat bread because I managed to find exactly what he was craving.

Back along the edge of the University of Alabama campus (Roll Tide!) where the kids commented on the massive football stadium and big red brick fraternity houses every time we passed through.

Down some stairs and a turn onto McFarland for a short spur.  I pass the hospital where Bryant and I had retrieved Will and Steve the night before.  Will collapsed on the course with less than a mile to go on the run.  People talk about giving 100% (or more) but very few actually deliver.  Will nearly ran himself to death with his effort.  Literally.  Think about that.  Of course, we’re all thankful that it turned out okay.  After we busted Will out of the hospital, the four of us spent a solid 5 minutes circling the parking structure trying to figure out how to get out.  We may not be the smartest guys in the world, but that shouldn’t have been so hard.  A light moment at the end of what was a scary trip to the hospital.

I ran along the busy boulevard to the Starbucks where Mike, Steve, Eric, and I arrived before opening and waited for the doors to be unlocked so we could get a caffeine fix.  Next door is the yogurt shop where we celebrated after the awards ceremony.  The team thankful out of proportion to the value of the yogurt Mike and I treated them to.

As I ran the last mile or so back up to the hotel, I reflected on how this group came together to support each other during this trip.  The chant before the swim start (with Nate spelling Colorado correctly on his first try).  Jess, after a disappointing (but still outstanding) individual result, breezily commenting that she was more than satisfied—the day was about the team.  Bryn riding 30k on a flat tire and finishing the race because she didn’t know if the team might need her points, however far she fell in the standings.  Letting the little stuff like delayed (and disabled) flights roll off our backs, cheering each other on, packing and unpacking bikes, getting everyone to the multiple venues throughout the trip on schedule (well, for the most part), and simply being there for one-another.  I’m blown away by this group.

I started coaching this season with the idea of helping Mike out—not much more.  As the season has progressed, I’ve become more and more attached to this group of outstanding people.  Of course, they’re tremendous athletes, but I expected to be impressed by how fast they can swim, bike, and run.  What has surprised me is how attached I’ve become to them.  I fully expect to see future leaders of our community and beyond coming out of this group.  I know I’ll someday be saying I knew him or her way back when…before the whole world knew. 

I’m honored to be a part of this team and hope I’m adding the smallest sliver of guidance to the big picture of who they’ll become—on and off the race course.