Hogzilla At Large
Wildflower Olympic Distance Triathlon
Lake San Antonio, CA
May 1, 2005

When camping at large and festive events, I have often wished I had a soundproof tent. My neighbors, I believe, have also wished I had a soundproof tent. When I woke up Saturday morning on the steep hillside above Lake San Antonio, surrounded by nylon domes and the sociable sounds of triathletes at play, I could hear some reference in the general conversation to the loud snoring emanating from one of the temporary shelters. Some people suggested that maybe Hogzilla, the great boss-pig of the feral pigs who roam these coastal mountains, had returned for a second visit. Once I had made myself decent and crawled out into the misty morning, I insisted that I was the culprit, but my fellow Silicon Valley Tri Club members laughed at my attempts at self-incrimination. They were wrong to do so, but it got the morning off to a humorous start.

About 120 SVTC-ers, family members, and groupies had gathered in the Redonda Vista campground area "M" in preparation for the Wildflower triathlon weekend. Some of them were doing the long (half-Ironman) course on Saturday; I was signed up for the Olympic distance race on Sunday. I'm usually nervous about some aspect of a triathlon, and this event was no different. In this case, though, my worries were pretty all-encompassing. I had spent the winter being injured and sick and complementing those inactivities by steadily getting fatter. Once I was finally able to train again, I noticed that it's harder to do certain things with the extra weight. Climbing hills being foremost among them. Well, fitting into my clothes being foremost among them, but from the triathlon perspective, climbing hills was the most serious concern. Especially for Wildflower, which is pretty much entirely composed of hills, except for the swim. But the problem with being the author of a book called Slow Fat Triathlete is that you can't back out of a race just because you feel like you're slow and fat.

I had secondary worries too. Would I be able to swim comfortably in my now incredibly snug wetsuit? Would I be able to enjoy the race experience knowing that I was going to finish in a substantially slower time than my last attempt? Would I drop dead on the course? My mother seemed convinced that my added weight would lead me to have a heart attack and expire mid-race, and it was hard to overcome her worries with my own argument that six years of constant and committed exercise would not be totally wiped out by 2 1/2 months of inactivity.

With all this running through my mind, I made a radical decision. I would throw away my watch, my heart rate monitor, and my bike computer for this event, and go out onto the course completely data-free. This decision was helped along by the fact that my heart rate monitor needed a new transmitter, and my bike computer was kaput. Rather than deal with replacing and repairing, I took the sluggard's way out and figured I would be better off without.

Having breakfasted, digested, and gone for a short pre-race jog along the rolling trails around Redonda Vista, I gathered up my water bottle, backpack, and wallet and hiked down the ridiculously steep trail to the main festival area where the start, finish, and expo are located. Oh, and the food stands. I needed to get my registration packet down there, and I figured I'd hang out for a few hours, and I'd need lunch, of course.

It's hard not to tire oneself out on the Saturday at Wildflower. Either you're out racing one of the toughest half-Ironman courses in the country, or you're roaming around the huge expo, drooling over fabulous carbon-fiber bikes, flexible new wetsuits, cute socks, and an ever-increasing selection of sports gels. The big merchandising hit at this year's festival was undoubtedly the Crocs clog, a light, flexible, funky rubber sandal that felt like a constant foot massage and came in a startling variety of colors. I bought mine in duck-foot orange. Thus equipped, I picked up my race packet, then wandered over to the finish to see the pro men and women come in. Great Britain's Simon Lessing broke the 5 year old course record by over 40 seconds, finishing the half-Ironman race in just under 4 hours. I was in awe, realizing it was going to take me longer than that to complete about one-half that distance in my race the next day. The women's winner, Samantha McGlone, missed the course record by about half a minute, but she still had a great time at the race, taking care to praise the chocolate fountain at the pro athletes' dinner in her post-r ace interview. Chocolate freakin' fountain!!!???!! So THAT's where our outrageous race entry fees went to. They certainly weren't going towards making sure that there were enough toilet facilities at the campgrounds where the lowly amateurs were staying, or any food for the age-group racers.

A little more shopping - BodyGlide, Cytomax, elastic shoelaces, a little chicken burrito, and it was time to hike back up the steep trail to the campground. I walked slowly, saving my energy, and cheered on the long-course racers as they wound through the trails around the encampments. The energy of any race always seizes me and forces me to yell wildly for people I don't know. This also seems to happen to other spectators, so the atmosphere at Wildflower, where there are thousands of spectators, is pretty electric.

Back at Redonda Vista Area M, a smattering of Sunday racers moved around slowly, stretching, fiddling with their bike numbers and helmet stickers, and snacking. I fiddled with my own bike, helmet, etc, and then I decided it was time for a nap. When I awoke, the camp was filling back up with exhausted long-course racers and nervous short-course racers, all of them asking what time dinner was likely to be happening. The tri-tip barbeque is the highlight of the SVTC Wildflower outing, and the committee that makes it happen, in the midst of the crowds and madness, post-race fatigue and pre-race insanity, is a valiant bunch. Isa in particular raced the long course and then went straight over to work on the food prep. Isa is a much better person than I am. I wasn't even racing till the next day and I was totally unmotivated to volunteer. I was, however, motivated to consume tri-tip, potato salad, green salad, and brownies, and to chat with my SVTC brethren and sistern, who I haven't seen nearly enough of since I started this pesky full-time job thing.

Retiring to my tent at an absurdly early hour, I arranged my sleeping pad so that I was more or less level, or at least not corkscrewing downhill, and pulled out a book to read myself to sleep. Note to self - do NOT use David Sedaris as pre-race reading. Way too haunting and full of self-doubt. The night before a race is not a time for self-doubt in one's reading matter. I lay awake, feeling that I was probably delusional for even attempting Wildflower in my current shape and that it was all going to be too pathetic even to make a good story. Thus inspired, I drifted off to a surprisingly sound and refreshing sleep.

As it always does, the morning of the race arrived. I struggled into my race clothes in the little tent, noting as I popped out into the cool morning air that the sun was already shining and the day promised to be perhaps a little warm. Searing heat is often an issue at Wildflower; it had reached the high 90s the previous year. I didn't think we were in for that kind of treat, but I had been hoping for 64 with heavy cloud cover. I ate breakfast, drank tea, stood in line for one of the two toilet stalls serving some 150 women in the nearby camping areas, and got ready to make the thrilling journey down Lynch Hill to the transition area. The 2005 race season was suddenly looking very immediate, although I still had over 2 hours from the time I arrived at transition until my wave started. I set up my stuff - still remembered how even after a long off-season - and looked for another set of porta-loos. Sigh. I waited on the grass above the boat ramp for the clock to move to 10:10 am, the time I had designated for the beginning of my wetsuit battle. I stretched, I drank water, and then I went to pee yet again. The sun was high by now and the sky was clear.

Finally it was time to test the limits of my wetsuit. It was nice and warm from hanging on the bike rack in the sun, and I hoped that would make it more stretchy. I applied BodyGlide with a heavy hand from a brand new stick, and gingerly poked my legs into the neoprene. It was somewhat forgiving, but I was still sweating a little by the time I had the legs all the way up - at least up enough so that the crotch wasn't hanging around my knees. My watch said it was time to head down to the boat ramp and the start, so I unbuckled the watch, left it in my backpack, and strode across the vast transition area, trying to project confidence. The water was pleasantly cool and not too murky. I worked to pump myself up, emitting a few "whoooooo!" sounds and grinning maniacally at my fellow 40-44 F's. The horn sounded, and we splashed forward into Lake San Antonio. Game on! I figured on about 45 minutes for the swim, since I hadn't had a lot of training time in the pool all spring, and without my watch I had no idea what I was actually doing. I bobbed like a rubber ducky in the water, between my wetsuit and my added layer of fat, so that was reducing drag. On the other hand, the suit was a little tight across the shoulders and it was inhibiting my reach just a little. I took an embarrassing wrong turn less than halfway into the course, thinking an intermediary buoy was the corner buoy where we made the turn, so that probably cost me a minute or two. Women from the wave behind me came flying by, and I didn't eve r see anyone from the wave ahead of me, which I used to do back when I swam a little faster. Overall I was feeling pretty good, though, pacing myself and preparing for a long day out there.

After a mini-eternity I could see the boat dock and the swim finish. I picked up my kick just a little, and immediately got a vicious cramp in my right calf. I tried treading water and stretching it out, to no avail. I stuck my leg straight out behind me with my toe flexed up toward my shin and swam awkwardly to the finish. By the time my feet touched bottom, the cramp had subsided pretty well, but I didn't want to push it so I walked up the ramp to transition. The wetsuit didn't want to come off any more than it wanted to go on, but with considerable grunting and struggling, I finally extracted myself from my black wrapper and grabbed the bike helmet and shoes.

Time for the hills. The mile-long climb of Lynch Hill wouldn't be so bad - if only it was three miles instead. As it is, it's one hell of a steep mile. Two hundred yards into it I was down in my lowest gear and still struggling to push the pedals around. I probably made it halfway up when it became clear that I would go faster on foot. I wiggled out of my pedals and started to push the bike. I was not alone. Many of my comrades on wheels were clipping out and trudging with me, and we were all shaking our heads in disbelief. I had never walked my bike in a race before, but there's a first time for everything, I guess. Two years ago I had made it up Lynch without too much pain. I was lighter and fitter then, and this was a very clear reminder of that.

At long last the hill flattened out enough for me to ride, and I took to the pedals with determination. The bike course is pretty much either up or down at Wildflower, with a couple of stretches in the middle that are sort of flattish for a mile or two each. I pedaled along, enjoying the scenery and the profusion of flowers that were the payoff for a long wet rainy season. I wondered if I'd see a wild pig in the fields, but no such luck. I struggled up all the steep little hills on the outbound route, made the turnaround without incident, and headed back towards the lake. It was all going ok for a while, but then I hit another steep and I just could not turn the pedals once again.. I think I could have, actually, but I was thinking I needed to save my legs for the long and equally hilly run. My cleats were coming a little loose, so it was actually hard to clip out and walk, but I eventually twisted my feet out and started plodding. Road bike shoes are really not meant for walking, and I could feel an unpleasant pulling on my right ankle. Once again I was joined by non-climbers who were hoofing it up the hill, and by now I was very glad I didn't have my watch. It would have been discouraging.

Once that hill was dealt with, the rest of the ride back was slow but not impossible, and I stayed on the bike for every other hill. Lynch Hill is as exhilarating on the way down as it is nasty on the way up, so I hit some pretty high speeds on my way to the bike dismount. I futzed with my socks a little bit in transition, perhaps putting off the last leg of the race just those few extra seconds.

I started to trot through transition, but I wasn't feeling quite right yet, so I walked as far as the Gatorade stand, and downed a little fluid. The run start is sort of irritating, in that you run back down the boat ramp, and then you have to climb a short but steep flight of stairs back up to the road. It's hard to get your legs back after the bike, and even harder after those stairs. I started trotting again and was immediately made aware that I really didn't have much in the way of legs. Or energy. I felt pretty exhausted, not with burning legs and lungs, but just fatigued. And fat. Boy, did I feel fat.

So I started to walk and jog, walk and jog, jogging for as long as I could, then walking until I could get up a bit of enthusiasm for some more jogging, or until the road tipped downhill somewhat. A beery undergraduate jogged along beside me for a while, encouraging me by telling me how he was whupped just from this little bit of jogging, whereas I had been out on my bike and in the water and everything. I did feel a little encouraged. I mean, I've always maintained that everyone who gets out of bed and aims to complete a triathlon, no matter how slowly, is way ahead of the mass of people who stay in bed and then get up to read the paper and eat muffins. So here was someone who echoed those thoughts, even if he was slightly drunk.

The first two miles or so are pretty gently rolling - even I have to admit the hills aren't much to complain about - but somewhere around mile 2.5 the route passes another boat ramp and then heads uphill for about a mile and a half. The first half mile or so of that is pretty steep, and by this time I was basically resigned to walking everything that went up rather than down. There weren't that many of us out on the course by this time. Right at the beginning of the run leg, I passed one woman who might have been fatter than me, whose walking seemed labored. I hoped she would finish, because I didn't want to be last if I could help it. Hey, not charitable, I know, but I'm not really that nice a person. But if I had to be last, I would be. I had made up my mind that they'd have to come scrape me off the course, but I would finish. If I made the cutoff time. I couldn't remember what the cutoff time was, and of course I didn't have my watch anyway, but I did find out that I was well within the time limits when I chatted with a woman who passed me just before the big hill.

There was a surreal quality to the experience as I trudged up the endless climb. There was a light cloud cover that gave the light a strange glow - the sky and the hills and the road all seemed sort of brownish gray, and the quiet countryside, dotted at widely spaced intervals with tired jogging walkers or walking joggers, was eerily deserted. A Team In Training coach came down the hill on his mountain bike and spent a couple of minutes urging me on and telling me that I was going to finish the hardest Olympic distance race in the country. It might be, in fact. Trudge, trudge, trudge. The hill went on for a really long time, but eventually I saw the aid station that marks the top and I downed my last energy gel of the day, washed down with water. I started to jog down the gentle downslope leading to the overflow camping. Immediately my stomach started to burble and complain, and I had to stop and bend over to relieve the mounting pressure within.

Wind broken, I jogged on. We moved onto the dusty paths that parallel the road all the way to Lynch Hill, and I was able to make my jogs longer and my walks shorter for a while. But the sense of fatigue was pretty overwhelming, and I just couldn't keep up a jog for long at all. I stopped in the shade of a tree to shake some small irritants out of my shoes, and it was really hard to get back up and move forward, even though I probably had just about a mile and a quarter to go. The roads were filled with fortunate, happy people who had finished the race and were coasting back to their cars. I hated them, even the ones who cheered me on. I had been out there forever, and I just wanted to lie down. Right before the final slope down to Lynch, there's a short, steep rise that always makes me nuts. I walked it, of course. People started yelling that it was all downhill from there, and I started feeling a little cheerful. I started to jog and I didn't stop. As I approached the crosswalk where the trail from the lake meets the road at the top of Lynch, a huge crowd had gathered to cross and to cheer. They saw me coming and really let out a roar. I no longer hated them or anyone else. I was one downhill mile from the end and I was going to make it. I leaned into the downhill and tried to move my feet lightly and quickly. I was in the steepest part when I heard ear-splitting whoops. "Jaaaaaaayyne! Good Tiiiiimmmes! Whoo HOOOOOO!" Suzie and Julie, who had raced the day before, were on their way back to camp and they were seemingly just ecstatic to see me. "Go Jaaaaaayne! Gooooo! You're my freakin' herooooooooo!" Suzie yelled. "Good Tiiiiiiimes!"

I whooped and waved and started to choke up a little. I love my tri club. I love a downhill finish. I love it when a long slog is almost over.

Coming around the last corkscrew turns of Lynch, I could finally see the finishing chute. The boost of the crowd at the top and of Julie and Suzie's cheers had worn off, and it was really hard to keep my legs moving in a running-like motion. There was no way I was going to walk to the finish though, so I lifted my knees a little and tried to put on a good show as the chute got closer. There weren't too many people left to cheer, and the staff guys were taking down some of the auxiliary structures, but the announcer, bless his heart, was there to give me the big booming voice, "and here comes Jayne Williams of Mountain View!" Or something. I actually don't know what he said; it was all a fog. I know I pumped my fists in the gleeful triumph of a stubborn fat girl as I crossed the line. I did a quick calculation and realized that it had taken me almost five hours to finish - a full 90 minutes slower than my last attempt. I was still pretty gleeful though.

My glee abated somewhat when I reached for my finisher's medal only to be told that they had RUN OUT! Excuse me???? It's not like you didn't know how many people were going to be racing today. I signed up in December, for crying out loud! I was pissed, frankly. There wasn't any food left, either, and I started experiencing some pretty negative emotions about TriCalifornia, the race organizers. Chocolate fountains for the pros, and diddly squat for the people who paid $140 to come down here and share inadequate bathrooms. I was tired and I had worked my ample ass off, and I wanted a medal. I turned to a woman beside me and complained. "Can you believe they ran out of medals?" To my chagrin, she tried to give me hers. I demurred vigorously. I went down to the water to float around, stretch in a weightless environment, and let the water cool away any inflammation. I stepped in, but I immediately saw a little dead fish floating in the water. I moved as far away from it as I could, swam out into the deep water, and floated like a dead fish myself for as long as I wanted to. When I came out, there was a medal lying on top of my shoes. I shook my head and smiled. I started to put my shoes back on, and my Good Samaritan ran up to me. "I'm so sorry, but now my kids are crying because Mommy doesn't have a medal." Stupid kids, I thought. "Oh, of course, here you go!' I cried. "Really, you shouldn't have given it to me at all, though I really appreciate the generous gesture." She ran off with the medal, and I dripped my way back up to transition.

One thing I noticed was that even though I hadn't been able to go at all fast during the race, my slowness had resulted in less Post Race Stupidity Syndrome than usual. It didn't take me too long to mix my recovery drink, pack up my stuff, and head over to the shuttle line. I just could not face humping my bike back up the trail after having put out five hours of work. The shuttle line was endless, and once the bus arrived, I had to haul the bike onto the bus with me, which is no mean feat. I was so happy to sit down, though, that I wished the ride back up the hill was going to last a couple of hours instead of five minutes.

The final hurdle of Wildflower is that after all that, you have to break camp and drive home. To my amazement, Isa and Alex and Mary and Maaike and Chris were still hanging around the SVTC camp when I got back. They helped me get my bike up onto the car and fed me rice and beans, and Alex insisted on loaning me his medal. The TriCalifornioids had promised they would get more for those who missed out and mail them to us. I was touched. I put the medal on and noticed that TriCalifornia is even giving out cheaper medals than they used to, but I didn't care. It was a thing of beauty.

I managed to get changed and packed up my tent without any muscles cramping up - another advantage of not trying to go too fast - and I was on my way home. Maybe I had chugged through the course like Hogzilla, but I did finish the toughest Oly race in the country. Hey, maybe the world, who knows?

Postscript: Recovery from this race took the form of dropping off to sleep at inopportune moments, and, in fact, wanting to sleep all the time. Other than that, though, I didn't feel too bad afterwards. On the Thursday morning though, I noticed a small discomfort under my breastbone. I thought (as I am prone to thinking) that maybe I just needed to eat a little something to make it go away. Instead of going away, though the discomfort grew until it could reasonably be described as pain. In the middle of my chest. I did a little Googling. Apparently unusual fatigue often hits women in the days before theyhave - gulp - a heart attack. I started to feel nervous. And tired. And annoyed. My mom was right? My first triathlon of the season gave me a heart attack? Well, that would suck! Not so much becoming a cardiac case at the age of 41, but having my mom be so humiliatingly right.

As the day wore on and my chest still hurt, I decided to call my doctor. Not surprisingly, they had no trouble fitting me in right away. Blood pressure was normal, pulse normal, EKG - yup, they did one - normal. Doc said it was chest wall strain brought on by the exertion of the race, and possibly by some contributing factor, like a tight wetsuit or a less-than-optimally supportive sports bra. I lounged about for the rest of the day with an ice pack on my chest, and felt fine by Friday. I will return to the trusty, if constrictive, Enell bra for my next race, Uvas in two weeks' time.