Ow, There's the Rub
Santa Cruz Sentinel Triathlon
Santa Cruz, California California, October 2, 2005
1500m swim / 40k bike / 10k run

All season long I've been struggling with my self-image as a triathlete. Having transformed myself from a modestly fast,semi-fat triathlete to a very slow, really very fat triathlete in the course of a year or so, I've tried to adjust my thinking and my criteria for "having a good race" accordingly. I no longer strive to place in the Athena division, nor do I attempt to set a personal best for the swim, bike, run, or even transition in any given race. Now my goals really are to finish, to have fun, and not to get hurt. I also strive not to come in dead last. Not that there's anything wrong with being the last one over the line, in fact, I think it's a position of honor, but I have a streak going.

I do want to get thinner again, but I just haven't yet been able to muster up the commitment to being hungry most of the time, to endless servings of vegetables, and to the constant denial of my baser food appetites. So I had come to a tenuous peace with my condition. I wasn't totally happy with the shape I was in, but I definitely gave myself a few pats on the back for persevering in my training and continuing to participate in the sport I love. I was feeling pretty good.

And then the race shirt incident happened. Tim and I were down at race registration in Santa Cruz and it was all going very smoothly. I stepped up to the t-shirt table and admired the long-sleeved, burnt orange and navy blue shirt made of high-tech wicking fabric. It was just gorgeous - the nicest race shirt I'd ever seen. I asked for an XL shirt, but found, to my horror, that it was about two sizes smaller than a regular XL t-shirt. It fit me like a corset but was much less flattering. I asked for an XXL only to be told they had "just run out." I was devastated. "But - but - but" I sputtered. "These shirts are nowhere near being extra-large! They're not even large!" "Yeah," the volunteer agreed. "Last year they ran big; this year they're running small. You just never know." I was angry and disappointed about missing out on the best race shirt ever and embarrassed that I couldn't fit into a size XL shirt. As small as those shirts were, I might not have made it into the XXL shirt. "You'll just have to lose some weight so you can wear it," Tim suggested helpfully. "Oh, shut up," I replied, having temporarily lost my sense of humor and my manners.

I whined to the race director about my plight, and he was incredibly nice about it, sending off a minion to see if there were any hidden XXLs anywhere. When there weren't, he gave me a free volunteers' T-shirt AND a race shirt from 2003. I was mollified by the efforts on my behalf, and Tim and I wandered over to Pacific Avenue to eat some lunch.

Back at the house, I decided to try on the wetsuit I had rented because I'd gotten too fat for my old wetsuit. I should have done this when I picked it up, but I was sneaking out from work for a few minutes and didn't have time to yank on a wetsuit and get all hot and sweaty. You can guess what happens next, no doubt. But actually this rental suit went on relatively easily - legs and arms fitted quite well; I could move them all freely. The damn thing just would not zip up despite all Tim's efforts. I was mad all over again. I had told the wetsuit guy my actual, real measurements, and he had told me the suit would fit. Ha! Then I thought, well, maybe my old wetsuit would fit better. Ha again! OK, I decided. I'm going commando. But I was depressed. Too damn fat for everything. I worried that I'd get so cold during the swim that I'd get hypothermic on the bike. And of course I worried that I wouldn't make the race cutoff time, even though the race director had moved up the start times for the Athenas, Clydesdales, and older women.

When I got out of the car in Santa Cruz the next morning, I couldn't believe I was thinking of jumping in the ocean without a wetsuit. The wind was already blowing a little and I was slightly cold even in my sweats. I didn't really know what to do with myself in transition for the whole time I would normally spend putting on my wetsuit. I futzed around with my stuff for a while, then reluctantly peeled off my sweats and headed down to the beach. As we crowded onto the steps down by the pier, I overheard three older guys talking about the swim. "It'll be kind of fun having the women swimming in front of us," one commented. I don't know what came over me, but I turned and cracked, "Well, just watch where you're putting your hands, OK?" This got a much bigger laugh than it deserved, which I attribute to everyone's general nervousness and adrenaline.

Down on the sand, there were about 900 people in wetsuits, and about five without. I saw people looking at me funny. I felt funny. I jogged up and down on the wet sand a few times, trying to get warm and kind of succeeding. I joked around with some acquaintances and some strangers. Then it was time to get in the water. I didn't want my first acquaintance with the icy waters (60 degrees or so) to be at the start. I wanted to get that whole shock to the system over with. So I girded up my metaphorical loins and strode into the water. It wasn't too bad. Then I plunged in and started to swim. I was instantly aware of the location of every one of my sinus cavities. My face went numb and I had a hard time catching my breath. Other than that, though, I felt ok. I kept swimming around until I felt a bit numb all over, and then it was fine. I got out with a few minutes to spare before my wave start, and felt the advantages of my body fat. I was quite comfortable.

I lined up with my wave and we sprinted over the start trench, down the beach and into the water. By the time we got there I was already out of breath. Sprinting in the sand is hard. I eased my way in and started toward the pier. The sun was burning through the fog and I could hear the sea lions barking from their perches on the pilings. I love those first few seconds of a swim, when you know you're committed to the race and all you have to think about is your next stroke, your next breath, your next kick. It's very liberating. I kicked harder than usual to keep my legs warm and aimed for the orange buoy. When I got there, an eternity later, I realized that the pier's weird structure had fooled me again. There's a dogleg after the first buoy, so you can't see that there's a bunch more pier beyond that buoy. You'd think I'd learn after four races at the same site, but I don't. But I was committed, so I swam on. I noticed that my upper arms were chafing on the underarm seam of my tri top, which was really annoying, especially since I'd applied BodyGlide and everything.

I finally caught up to someone in my wave at the second buoy, and then passed her as we turned for the beach. I reminded myself that the tide was coming in now, which would make the inbound stretch go faster. Indeed, I could feel the surge of the waves lifting me gently towards land. I could also feel the swimmers of the wave behind me catching up to me and thrashing past me. Another eternity passed, and I was at the beach, stumbling across the soft sand and up the path to the street.

It's a little cruel to have T1 at the top of a hill. I was panting hard when I reached the transition area, but at least I didn't have to strip off a wetsuit. I sat down heavily on my towel, fumbled with my socks and bike shoes, and stood up. My brain was frozen solid, so it took me a second to realize that all I had to do now was put on my helmet and run my bike out of transition. I've learned that wearing ear plugs helps me retain my equilibrium after I get out of the water, so having removed those helpful tools, I mounted my bike more smoothly than in the past and pedaled off. I had even remembered to zero out my bike computer so I'd have accurate readings. I had managed to do the swim in 39 minutes and change and was up the hill and out of transition in 45 minutes flat. I was aiming to do the bike in 90 minutes, averaging just over 16 miles per hour. It was ambitious, considering I hadn't done that all year over the 24.8 mile distance, but I thought it was doable.

Another thing I always forget about Sentinel is how up and down the bike course is. And there was a noticeable headwind on the road north to Davenport. My average MPH was not looking great, but I told myself to have faith in the tailwind on the return. My bike leg took on a pattern: I would crawl up the hills in my lowest gear, then hammer over the crest until I picked up speed. Then I'd bomb down the back side of the hills, tucking over my bars as tightly as I could, letting gravity pull me down and my weight counteract the wind resistance. I could pass a lot of the people who'd passed me on the uphill this way. Then we'd change places again on the next up. Once I could see Davenport, I thought I had a chance of hitting my time goal, and I began to feel quite cheerful. Davenport sits at the top of a very steep hill, so I was less cheerful when I started the circuit of the tiny town, but I picked up a fresh water bottle and hit Highway One at speed for the return journey.

There was a tailwind on the way back, and I made good use of it without blowing out my legs too much. One of these days I'm going to do the bike leg in a relay team, just so I can experience what it's like to ride all out and not have to save my legs at all for the run. But that's some other day. On this day I was all about pacing myself. We got back to town, did our painfully bumpy loop around the marine lab, and headed back to transition. I arrived in just over 1:33. Close enough. I was almost at the transition exit when I realized I needed more BodyGlide on my upper arms. There was a nasty chafe going on, and I still had 6.2 miles of running to go. I jogged back and applied the 'Glide with vigor. A few sips of water at the exit, and I was off, moving my feet with that leaden shuffle peculiar to untalented triathletes at the start of the run.

The first mile or mile and a half were just awful. Something was going on with the outsides of my ankles that made me think there was no way I could keep running. My legs didn't want to move; my shoes felt too loose, then too tight; and my arms were chafing something terrible. I considered bailing, but decided to give myself till mile 2 to see if things would improve. And miraculously, they did. My ankles quit hurting, my legs got a tiny amount of boing, and my shoes felt better. My arms, well, not so good, but I tried not to swing them too hard. At the aid station at mile 2, I decided the worst was over. One more mile and I'd be at mile 3, and that of course would basically be the turnaround. I was averaging under 14 minute miles, very fast for me in 2005, and I knew I would easily come in under the time limit.

I kept trotting, stopping to stretch and walk a few strides when I felt I needed to. I was pleased to note that I was not having to stop as often or walk for as long as in my last Oly triathlon in San Jose in June. I had actually made some progress this year in spite of myself. A large man wearing a Viking helmet and a red fringed belt ran past me and yelled encouragement: "Go big people!" I laughed. At the turnaround, I gulped a gel and more water and noticed that it was hard to start running again. With the sugar entering my system, though, I got a second wind that lasted till mile 4. I did contemplate diving into the water and hitching a ride with a passing sea kayak, but I jogged on along the cliff path instead. The day was glorious, clear and mild. I watched the cormorants and pelicans on the rocks and enjoyed the million-dollar views.

At mile 4 I realized that I could break 3:50 if I hustled a little over the last two miles, so I tried hustling. That tactic had limited success, and by the time I reached mile 5 it seemed clear that I'd have to hustle more than I really wanted to. Still, if you have any gas left in the tank over the last mile, you can't help but pick the pace up a bit, if only to get it over with sooner. So I picked it up a bit. But then I'd have to walk and I lost that momentum. In a season filled with results far slower than those of my past seasons, I was unwilling to experience the burning legs and heaving lungs of a full-out stretch run, just to be a minute less slow over an almost four-hour race. Call me a wimp. But I did put on an extra effort in the last quarter-mile, and I crossed the line pumping my fist in triumph. 3:51 and something or other. I had beaten the time limit by almost 20 minutes in my best overall performance of the season.

I went over to a little throng of SVTC members, some of whom I'd seen out on the course, some of whom were playing spectator. High fives and congratulations all round, and then an earnest discussion about lunch. I ate a banana and gulped energy drinks and water before heading back to my bike. Without a floppy, soggy wetsuit to deal with, it was much easier to get my stuff packed up, though Post-Race Stupidity Syndrome did kick in as I tried to find my way back to the car. I also realized when I got to the car that I really didn't understand where the agreed-upon lunch spot was, so I decided to grab some salty snacks and soda pop and head home. My chafed arms were exquisitely sensitive, so I adjusted my driving position to minimize any contact between the arms and anything else.

When I got home, I could see why the arms hurt so much. The raw patches of skin were about three inches in diameter and very, very red. The rest of me felt pretty good, considering, so I looked for a shirt that would protect the frayed arms. As it turned out, the garment that served this purpose best was the tight-fitting burnt orange Sentinel race shirt. I wore it proudly, though only in the house.

With my triathlon season officially concluded, I spent some time pondering what I had learned about training and competing with all the extra weight I now carry. Not all the performance decline this season was due to weight gain, I know. My job and heinous commute tipped the balance between deciding to work out and deciding to flop on the couch a few too many times this spring and summer. If I'd put in another five to ten hours a month of training, I could have taken ten minutes or more off my total times, especially toward the end of the season, weight or no weight. The weight did slow me down a lot, though. I could feel it in the water, on the bike, and most of all on the run. It's simple physics - it takes more energy to move more mass, and I just couldn't generate the sustained energy to move my mass any faster.

On the other hand, though, I found that I could finish races, I could enjoy them, and I didn't injure myself all year. Even my nagging foot pain may be caused more by my hours of daily driving than by running, according to my chiropractor/physical therapist. This time my foot felt better after a 10k run than it did the day before. I didn't have a heart attack or collapse from heat exhaustion, and I recovered from race efforts about as well as I have in the past, maybe a little better because I wasn't pushing myself quite as hard to beat pre-determined time goals. The biggest problem with being fatter was in the interaction between myself and my equipment. My butt hurt a little more on the bike; I couldn't fit into my wetsuit, and my various upper body bulges combined with seams on my clothes led to the painful arm chafing. I found ways around some of those issues and just endured the others, and I found that it wasn't so hard to take some of my own advice, like the slogan on my Slow Fat Triathlete business card: Be Slow. Be Proud. Have Fun. And by golly, I am proud.

Next up, the Calistoga Relay, a weekend of running, wine-tasting, and sleep deprivation, followed by two weeks of fairly serious rest. Then I will embark on my campaign to become a Slow Fat Marathoner by March 2006. Stay tuned for more excitement. or next year!