The Fork of Knowledge

This is the first race report I've written for a U.S.-based race since college. And like a true American, I'm going to do it using bullet points. (Get it? Because we have an uncontrollable gun violence problem here?)

Also, I apologize for the lack of pictures here. Tumblr doesn’t play nice with photos in the middle of text, and figuring out the HTML for it is too close to my real job to be enjoyable.

PART 1: THE LEAD-UP

This was the first race I've done in more than two-and-a-half years. I took a hiatus because of burnout and an international move, spent 2018 building up a base and really started training again this year.

Going into it, I felt I was adequately trained on the bike. I hadn't done enough long runs, but that was balanced out by the amazing speedwork I've put in. Shoutout to Gerald and the Tuesday morning track crew.

My swim is also at the best it's ever been, though that's not saying much.

The race was in Augusta, Georgia. I have a bit of a shameful history with it – I registered for it in college in 2011. And then midterms happened, so I couldn't make it. To date it's my only DNS. Consider this time grade forgiveness.

I flew out with a bunch of teammates from Triple Threat. It's such a delight to race with a supportive team like this. Many of them were doing their first half-Ironman. They're so cute when they're new.

I got into the rental car with my teammate, Ann, and it took five minutes before I hit the first complication for the weekend. As soon as the speedometer hit 65 mph, WHAPWHAPWHAPWHAPWHAP. Something on the front of the car was rattling. So we turned around and swapped it for a free upgrade to an SUV. Later, my coach would complain the same rental company was out of cars, and I'm partially to blame. Sorry, coach.

Most people paid $350 a night or so to stay at the host hotel. Screw that – do you know how much ice cream $350 can buy? The value inn a half-mile away had a soft bed, a warm shower and a stale continental breakfast. That's more how I roll.

Turns out the cheap hotel was ideally situated – two blocks away from the starting line, damn close to the transition check-in and right at the edge of the downtown area. No regrets.

Augusta is … not the most august location. It has a stench to it. From the river, I learned – the same river we were to start the day swimming in. Greeeeeat.

But at least it wasn't Waco.

We crowded into the Mellow Mushroom for dinner to give the newbies last-minute advice and reassurance. My advice in summary: it was going to be freaking hot, relax on the down-river swim and do a cannonball when you jump off the dock to start.

I found a Publix the day before the race! You have to understand what this means to a Floridian trapped in Texas. Texan friends, it's like finding a Whataburger and a Buc-ees next to each other in the middle of nowhere. Canadian friends, same but for Tim Horton's. UAE friends, imagine if a small town was entirely made out of malls. It just felt right.

I got my chicken tender PubSub and my guava pastries for maximum homeopathy to Florida Man. You could hear Jimmy Buffet playing in the background. Pitbull yodeled. The alligators lurking in the Savannah lifted their heads in praise. God shrugged and turned a blind eye. It was glorious.

At some point I bought a badass helmet with a visor that made me look like Judge Dredd. It was good for 15 minutes of confidence before Devon, who tests these things in a wind tunnel shamed me for it.

The morning of, we trudged down to transition for final prep and then made out way 1.2 miles upstream for the start. Three school buses were working as shuttles, but the line for them stretched almost as long as we'd have to walk.

Here's the nice thing about having a hotel next to the race start: instead of standing in line for the portable toilets before the start, you get to bask in the air conditioning and proper ventilation of your hotel room. Makes quite the difference.

This was my first time racing long-distance in a two-piece kit. I didn't realize you need to apply sunscreen to the small of your back, where the top rides up on the bike. This would later result in a sunburn tramp stamp.

PART 2: THE SWIM

The pros started off at 7:30 a.m., and us age groupers had to wait until 7:50 to start. Except it was a rolling start, with two people going off every three seconds. It took 90 minutes to get everyone in, as the sun rose ever higher.

I made friends with a guy in my age group while waiting in line (thanks to a fast seed time, we only ended up standing around for 35 minutes). His name was Houston, he told me, and he had roots around Delaware, Ohio. Sounded to me like he couldn't decide on a state. I declared I lived in Dallas and that made us rivals.

Oh buddy, you better believe I did a cannonball.

Augusta is a down-river swim. It ranges from easy to easiest, depending on the current. There are videos of them floating a coke bottle or bag of chips down the river and making the cutoff time. This year the current wasn't too swift, but a personal record was still a foregone conclusion.

I became best friends with some river weeds. Best friends hug each other and stick together, right?

I did not have to punch or shove anyone out of the way, thankfully. Guess all the breast strokers started behind me.

I popped out of the water in 33:49. That's a PR for me, but only enough to hit 67/135 in my age group. I aim for top 50% in the swim, so that was just baaaaarely acceptable.

3:55 T1, because I took some time to towel the grass off my feet before donning socks. This was not the most luxurious transition location.

PART 3: THE BIKE

My choice of a disc wheel and 50mm front was a good decision for the day. It wasn't too windy and the road conditions, while not amazing, were not enough to give me trouble. The 56-mile course starts off flat for 17 miles or so, then has a few hills, then goes back to mostly flat for the last 15.

Ten miles in or so I see a yellow jersey up ahead. Is that … yup, it's Houston. I ding my bell and whoop as I pass him.

Five miles later, I get passed by a dude in a yellow jersey. He waves back at me and compliments my helmet (yessss). We would continue to pass each other every few miles for the remainder of the ride. “Tag, you're it.”

Aid stations on the bike are chaotic. I've found the best way to let the volunteers know what you need is to roar it. It may scare the bejesus out of a middle schooler when some dude rides by on a spaceship-looking bike, points at her and screams “BANANA! BANANA!”, but that's part of the fun. Whatever gets me my potassium.

Nutrition-wise, I nailed it. The usual strategy of super-concentrating my electrolytes in one bottle and picking up water at each aid station worked perfectly. I head enough caffeinated gels to keep my energy going, and while I came close to cramping near the end of the run I never did.

I keep a bell on my aerobars, mostly because I don't want to waste the breath to yell “on your left” each time I pass someone. Because I'm a slow swimmer but a fast cyclist, and I pass a LOT of people.

You know what the bell is also useful for? Cheering a teammate on the other side of the road while your mouth is full of banana. You go, Jeff.

Years ago, star USF time trialist and all-around hammerhead borrowed my disc wheel and put an 11-23 cassette on it. I've never taken it off. You know what that cassette is good for? Flat land. You know what awaited me in the middle of the course? Not flat land.

In races, they say you only have so many “matches” to burn before your legs tire out on you. Most people burn their matches pushing up a steep hill or going fast near the end of the run. Me? I burn them to see if I can hit 40 mph going downhill. While screaming at the top of my lungs. I may not have the best time, but I'll be damned if I'm not having the most fun.

(Garmin reports my max speed was 40.1 mph. Yeeeeaaaahhhhhh.)

I RODE PAST A DUDE WITH A GOAT ON A LEASH.

Despite the hills, I managed to keep a steady heart rate for most of the bike course. Don't know about my power output because my P1 pedals have refused to play nicely for a while. I can finally send them in now that it's the offseason.

I'm happy to say I passed Houston a mile before the end of the bike. But I stopped for the bathroom in transition, so he still beat me to the run.

If there's no volunteer to jump out of the way of your flawless flying dismount, did it even happen? Conversely, if there's nobody around when you jump onto gravel in your socks, did you even scream?

Total bike time was 2:56:25, with a more than 19 mph average page. 57/135 for my age group – that's behind the upper-third that I aim for. I still have a ways to go to regain my bike strength.

PART 4: THE RUN. ALLEGEDLY.

By the time we got to the run, the sun was high in the sky and the ambient temperature was 95. With the humidity, it felt close to 99. A course record by a generous margin. Crap.

I caught Houston within the first mile, and for a while there were four of us 25-29 men within 15 seconds of each other. Every peer I passed got a fist-bump.

We had a nice chat for the next few miles as we admired the beautiful downtown course. It's a zig-zag through the street, with spectators lining the sidewalks. Many of them had water guns, hoses or sprinklers, and I love everyone who cooled us for a few precious seconds.

The very best, though, was the homeowner with a giant inflatable unicorn spouting water from its horn.

I was holding a steady heart rate and pace for the first four miles, but the heat got to me as it got to everyone. Houston dropped me at an aid station and went on to beat me by 20 minutes.

From then it was all about heat management. How much could I push myself before overheating and being forced to slow down? How much cold water could I take in? Was I balancing the right amount of liquid and electrolytes?

I began walking in the shade of every building and running to get to the next patch of shade faster. It served me decently for the rest of the race.

I came up on a cute girl around my age (they write it on your calf) and had fantasies of using a pickup line on her as I passed her. “Excuse me, can you remember this number for me? 727-555-1234.” Thank God I didn't, because a mile later she caught a second wind and dusted me. How humiliating would that have been?

After an hour or so I began to get some underarm chafing. I asked for a bit of sunscreen at an aid station and slapped it on. That hurt. Then the volunteer saw what I was doing: “You know we have Vaseline too, right?” Oh well, too late.

Speaking of which, the second-best sign on the course was “chafing the dream.”

The very best one, though, was a drawing of Marvel's Iron Man next to the words “MAKE STAN LEE PROUD.” At that point I was so worn down that I teared up a bit. And then I picked up my legs and ran for as long as my body would let me.

What stage of heat stroke is it when your body has no idea whether it's cold or hot anymore so it just tells you it's both? Because I had that starting around mile 8. Maintaining homeostasis is not one of my strong suits.

Three times I called out to the onlookers, “Hey man, can I pet your dog?” Three times I was denied. Augusta can burn in hell.

At some point around mile 10 (of 13) I did the math and realized I could still hit a sub-6-hour time if I pushed it. So began a frantic but calculated series of runs and walks.

Thank goodness I was in one of the run stages as I passed my coach and relay teammates on the sidelines. They got a decent picture of me – I'm only panting a little bit.

I made across the line with two minutes to spare. Then I grabbed a water and laid down under the pizza table with two other dudes. For 45 minutes. Good race.

Total run time was 2:20:39, and frankly I'm surprised it was that short. 53/135, which surprisingly was again better than my bike performance, comparatively. I blame my running coaches.

Total race time was 5:58:05. 53/135, which again isn't where I usually shoot for. But I knew I wouldn't hit the top third going into the race.

Total calorie burn for the day, according to Garmin: 5,200.

The overall goal of this race wasn't a time, but nor was it just a finish. It was to have my body do what I told it to – or at least what I could negotiate with it – without cramping, collapsing or bonking. And I did. I have my mojo back. The heat collapsed everyone's plan A, but I was able to pull off plan B without much of a struggle. I could not have done that a year ago.

Unfortunately, the deal with myself was that if I pulled this race off I'd sign up for another Ironman in fall 2020. So it's either Cozumel or Argentina for me next year. I'm going to try to enjoy my social life while I still can.

PART 5: THE AFTERMATH

I ran into Houston a bit past the pizza table and collapsed into the chair next to him. His mom and sister were there to cheer him in his first half-Iron race. He snuck the pizza and beer. Hooray for supportive families.

After collecting some teammates and nursing a pizza slice for an hour, I made my way to the rest of the team to yell at passers-by. And someone finally let me pet her dog. She was from Dallas – go figure.

The walk from my hotel to downtown takes ten minutes. The post-race walk from downtown to my hotel takes 30. The difference is staggering.

I came back to my second batch of car trouble: someone had backed my rental in the parking lot. No note or anything – just a bunch of scrapes and misaligned panels.

I talked to the hotel manager, who earned a great Booking.com review into pulling the security footage. We watched as a family three doors down from me backed their car straight into mine, got out, saw no witnesses and sped off. Thank God for my credit card's insurance coverage.

The geniuses were staying through the end of the week – the hotel had their driver's license and video evidence of them leaving the scene of an accident. Easiest police report the cop had ever filed.

As I was packing up the next morning, and after the policeman had talked to her, the woman approached me apologizing. I shrugged and wished her best of luck against the insurance and rental car companies. If I have to deal with this load of paperwork, so does she.

In the day after the race, I polished off three meals' worth of leftovers – including two different pizzas. Between those, the finish-line pizza and the week of carb-loading, I never wanted to eat another slice in my life.

That resolve didn't even last three days.

I bonded with a fellow athlete seated behind me on the plane ride back. Turns out his carry-on was not a suitcase, but a reusable bag of fresh vegetables and a half-eaten box of Life cereal. The absolute legend.

I learned later that day that over the weekend my Abu Dhabi friend Leanne had taken fourth place in Ironman Cozumel that same weekend in her debut as a pro. But I didn’t pee myself on the bike, so who really came out ahead there?

So now I'm in the off season. It's nice to get eight hours of sleep most nights. I'll be tweaking my workout schedule to build a base over the fall and winter, and then it's back to training. I'm looking at one or two half-Irons and a full next year, plus whatever local sprints and olympics bubble up.

When I came back to the US two years ago, I left important parts of my identity behind. Bunches of friends, a journalism career, my expat status. And triathlons were placed on hold. This past season has made me feel more like myself again, and it's a comforting feeling after so much doubt and uncertainty. It's good to be in love with the sport again after a few years of burnout.

Juana, a Peruvian medic living in Zambia. (Conversation in Spanish)

Life in Zambia is completely different from what we know in the West. There's so much corruption and poverty. If people aren't suffering from natural disasters, they're suffering from man-made ones. But it has a natural beauty to it too - Lake Victoria is an hour away from where we live. We're free to appreciate God's creations.

I'm a Christian, and I've worked as a medic for a humanitarian charity in Zambia for 25 years. Before that I traveled all over the world working at athletic competitions. I've done 14 Pan American games - even one in Medellin. I've done the Olympics. But since I went to Oklahoma Christian University and found God, I knew I wanted to help people. So I moved to Africa. I married a Zambian Ian and had three beautiful children. I've just dropped the middle one at Oklahoma Christian. He's studying aerospace engineering - and I can't wait to see how he ends up helping people.

(She was seated next to me on a flight from Dallas to Mexico City. She was connecting to Peru to see her 95-year-old mother and 103-year-old father.)

__

I'm back, and currently traveling from my current home in Dallas to Medellín, Colombia for a vacation. First, though, a 20-hour layover in Mexico City. 12 hours into the trip and I've already added two people on Facebook from the airport lounge, helped Juana here race through the airport and make a connection, swapped travel stories with an old man on the night bus and spoken more Spanish than I have after a year and a half of living in Dallas. I'm looking forward to meeting and sharing about more interesting people.

It's good to be back.

So I did a thing.

I tell this story often enough. Now, ten years after it happened, it’s immortalized in a podcast. Or a prototype of one - I don’t quite have the details hammered out yet.

I’m standing at the Smith machine, my apartment gym’s stand-in for a squat rack, and in front of me is a bigger guy who’s about the same novice level as I am. He’s doing bicep curls and struggling every inch of the way. Unsteady arms, embarrassed expression, inconsistent technique.

I watch as he tries to lift the weight and fails. Tries again and fails. Tries again and still can’t get it all the way. He tries with the other arm and also fails. He sighs in exasperation. He looks over at me and I just smile before staring into the distance to do my exercises - don’t want the guy to think I’m judging him, because I’m not. We all start where he is.

And then a woman about his age walks in with a baby in her arms. The guy looks over at her and sees her approaching. He turns his head away from her - toward me - and contorts his face into the most strained expression you can imagine. With a mighty heave he curls the weight again, and I watch as he at last raises it up to his shoulder.

The woman then comes up to him and starts chatting. She’s his wife, and that’s his child, and she just saw him lift a big weight all manly-like. He beams and tries to look like it didn’t take everything he had to lift that weight.

I’m not feeling enough burn/soreness from just the Starting Strength routine in the gym. It’s designed for beginners I’m guessing, and not people whose bodies are well-versed to adapting to exercise.

So my strategy now is to just do three sets of 5-10 reps on each machine around the apartment’s gym after finishing the prescribed freeweight exercises. The last set goes to failure, but that usually only means one or two more reps above 10.

I think at this point I’ve figured out what weight levels I’m at on the different machines. The results definitely show my cycling background: I can push the adductor machine on max weight (about my own bodyweight) for days, but I can only get to a fraction of that on the pectoral machine, which uses muscles that are supposed to be a lot stronger.

Here’s the full list. Feedback is welcome:

Some days you stick carefully and dutifully to the training plan you’re on.

And then other days you realize your body is trained for speedy recovery and isn’t getting tired out by these starter repetitions, so you do the exercise and then just go ham on every machine in sight until you feel sore.

You know those gruff, manly grunts men make when they move heavy things around?

You know you’re a cyclist when you get on the leg press after the big, hulking bro and have to bump the weight up. And then you try out the abductor machine and easily move the max weight.

This post is long-winded, vulnerable and brutally honest. You’ve been warned.

Send your boyfriend/husband flowers. Randomly, just because.

Yeah, I know, it sounds unmasculine or whatever. But hear me out.

We guys are used to doing a lot of the heavy lifting in relationships. Most of the time, we ask you out. We plan dates. We send flowers/chocolates. We love coming up with thoughtful ways to show our affection to you. And it makes us feel all manly when we see the smile it puts on your faces. It’s an active role vs a passive role.

But.

While we’re used to giving these kinds of affectionate things, they don’t necessarily come back to us in equal measure. Call it gender roles or sexism or whatever you want, but it’s still something we deal with.  I send flowers and chocolates and food left and right when I’m dating someone, but I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been given a small random gift by an ex, and each time it made me smile for days.  We still have the same emotional needs as you, the same desire to feel loved — we’re just socialized not to show it. Which means that when we do get affectionate gifts like that it means so, so much more to us. This link says it well: When he can finally let go of the crank he continually turns day after day in order to earn love and, even if only for a moment, it turns by itself to nourish him in return, that is when he will know he is loved.

And flowers, in our culture, are one of the purest expressions of love you can give us. They’re not a practical object. They’re not something he’ll have to put effort into to enjoy, like car parts or a new grill. Their only function is to brighten his day. They say “I love you, I want you (and everyone around you) to know I love you, and you deserve to sit back and see beauty in your life.” What man would not love that?

It’s not just me who has this opinion. I’m on this rant because of my visit to a friend in Dresden the other day. She’s in a long-distance relationship with her boyfriend, and she was telling me that she missed him. I made the flowers suggestion, which threw her for a loop.

A girl send a guy flowers? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Guys don’t get flowers. What if he’s embarrassed by them? What if his co-workers make fun of him?

So I explained her the above, and then brought up the topic when we were eating dinner with her two other male friends. Their reactions were the same: “I would be shocked, but in a good way. It’s an amazingly thoughtful gift — and that never happens to me.”

So she did it. We sat on the couch next to each other and ordered flowers. I sent mine to my Mom, because Mother’s Day is the most important day of the year for her, and she called up a flower shop in Switzerland and arranged for a bouquet to be sent to her boyfriend’s work.

And they arrived today. The secretary called him in from the field to pick them up. He loved them, she said: “[He told me] That it was one of the nicest gifts he's ever gotten, made his day, and all co-workers were jealous. So basically I am the best girlfriend EVER.”

I can only imagine the smile on that guy’s face. He’d been apart from the most beautiful thing in his life for a month, and likely wouldn’t see her for a few months more. And now he had something pretty to remind him of what he would be coming back to.