Triathlon Race Revisited: Nationals and Nationals

As summer in Missouri insists on making me a prisoner of the air conditioning today, it only seems prescient to take time to reflect on the adventures and awesomeness that have made this season a "hot" one.

Particularly a set of races I did back-to-back a few weekends ago. I couldn't do just one, couldn't drive all the way to Milwaukee, WI for the olympic distance race and leave the sprint race on the table. That is how I found myself racing two triathlon National Championships on back-to-back days in the same weekend.

I was feeling "sharky", after all, it was Shark Week. And so, as a special treat and favor, I worked with Splish to design and print a cartoon of an open-mouthed great white shark across the torso of my race suit, and to display the word "JAWESOME" with the "O" formed from the same open-mouthed design, in bold letters across the butt.  Who wouldn't be feeling sharky with a race kit like that?

Off to the races! My travel buddy, Maggie, herself a first time Nationals competitor, arrived lakeside at the 3000+ person transition area to set up our stuff alongside our bikes that had spent the night there. We arrived right on time, after taking more than a few "detours" because of closed roads and construction. I was barely awake, and still suffering indigestion from the worst pre-race meal of my triathlon career (USAT, we're going to have to talk). No matter, it was 7:15AM, and my race didn't start until 10:20! The advantage was, I got to watch, cheer, and picture-take the start of Maggie's race, her emergence from the water, and her transition to the bike (smooth) all before beginning my warm-up.

The morning wore on, I walked around, cheered a bit, tried to look nonchalant (fail), visited the Honeybuckets, and finally headed back to the car to start gearing up... nothing really to write home about.

The start was something else though. In the best-tasting (yeah, I pretty much sample all of them), most refreshing water I have swum in all summer, 200 women between the ages of 30-34 years old clung in a wide swath to the dock outside the Discovery Center, shivering until the horn blew. And then churning, as the course narrowed to a sliver beneath a pedestrian walkway bridge not far enough into the race to spread the field. The bridge is a perfect spot to view the race, but it forced that wide swath to bunch together, slapping arms, legs, and torsos one against another. And on it went. It has been a long time since I spent an entire swim leg swallowing water and getting slapped in the face (I did my own slapping, too, of course).

Needless to say, I was disoriented as I exited the water, hypoxic, and not a little flustered to have spent the swim that way. I shook it off, recovered quickly, and sprinted into transition like I was going for a gold medal (I guess, in a way I was). I caught up with a group of women in transition who had emerged just before me. We all dove headlong into our transition spots, and emerged in various states of cycling preparedness. I ran-wheeled my bike out, skillfully maneuvering around competitors, and executed a flying mount onto my Scott Tri bike that would make Katie Compton herself proud. And this without padding!

I could see two women who were likely suspects for my age group just ahead as I started climbing the gradually inclining course, reeling them in. Much, much, much easier said than done. I eventually caught them at the top, turned and burned around the 180 turnaround and never looked back. Of course, I did not really have to, because first one woman and then another would catch me throughout the course. Shifty winds and gradual inclines and declines meant that there would be no rest on this course, and the winner would be the one who could make her quads burn the hottest.

I entered the transition zone in fifth, I was sure, hot on the heels of my competitors. We began the run in an evenly-spaced Congo line that stretched for 200 yards or more, each of us about 15 seconds behind the next one, all the way up to the lead woman in neon green knee-high compression socks that tickled my brain like a bug-zapper does a mosquito.

I had work to do, and I set a stiff pace, finding my legs immediately and gaining ground on the woman in front of me. I had passed all but one of the women by the two-mile mark and pulled within 15 seconds of the leader (not neon green socks by this time). I knew that she knew that I was back there, and my legs could feel her inching up the pace as the race wore on. We passed the four-mile mark, and still I hadn't closed the gap. I could feel the blisters form on my left toes, a result of that foot being a 1/2 size bigger than the right foot and in a to small shoe. Still, I pushed the pace. And still, I couldn't close the gap. Onto the finishing carpet, I did my best impression of Usain Bolt coming down the straightaway, and still I finished 15 seconds back in second. It wasn't the fastest time of the day, and I was just the teensiest-tiniest bit heart broken that I didn't win. But, I was cheered when I heard the announcer say, "Sunny Gilbert, welcome back to the national scene. Good to have you back!"

It felt good to be back. And it felt even better to see Maggie's big smile at the end of the chute.

Let's do it again! Sunday's race was a sprint distance, roughly half the distance of the olympic. The story was the same: up early, a plethora of detours (also known as getting slightly lost on back roads), arriving at the transition late this time. I made quick work of setting up, but I was still putting the last touches of Vaseline along the tongues of my racing flats as the official was coming by yelling, "If I pass you still in the transition zone, you're getting a penalty." I scooted out of there quickly.

Maggie felt like one race was more than enough for her, and so she and I hung out and watched the show (the show being the multi-thousand dollar bikes being rough-handled out of the transition zone by the earlier waves). At 9:00AM, I began to don my wetsuit, but stopped mid torso as it became evident that something was about, amiss, and afoot. Racers in wetsuits and swim caps started pacing and clustering as police started strolling onto the scene, a coastguard boat and outboard motor boat with SCUBA divers in dry suits navigated into the inlet, and the announcers fell silent. The race start was indefinitely delayed.

Aside: A racer in an early wave was electronically checked in with his chip, but did not to complete the swim. Because his transition was untouched, a massive hunt was on to find him in the water or in the crowd. He was later discovered spectating, coffee in hand, having decided at the last minute not to go through with the race.

This caused a slight problem, because the race directors can only keep the roads open for so long, and the race was already delayed an hour, it became a well-coordinated rush to get the rest of the competitors into the water and underway. With no opportunity to warm-up, I jumped into the water and went from zero to something near 3 mph (hey, I was swimming), in a jiffy.

This swim was night and day to the Olympic distance swim/water-wrestling-match. Within thirty strokes, I was smooth in the water and just off another woman's feet making a bee-line for the pedestrian bridge. I had asked Maggie to snap away with the camera and look for the red accents on the sleeves of my wetsuit for pictures of the swim. She was unsure that was going to work. On the bridge, she started talking to someone about this problem, and got an unexpected response from her fellow spectators, "oh that's easy. She has the longest, slowest stroke of anyone out there." Apparently, I am notorious for this, but I was also in third place, which made it even easier!

Go-Go Gadget Arms

After such an unexpectedly awesome swim, I blasted in and out of transition, once again executing my Compton-esque mad flying bike mount skills. And that was about as awesome as the bike was going to get. I felt every muscle fiber burn with yesterday's lactic acid as I willed them to keep firing. The conditions on the bike were nearly identical, but I managed to dismount at transition in second, within spitting distance of first place (yesterday's 30-34F champion).

Perfect flying mount execution.

We started the run in lockstep with each other. I was worried that my uncooperative muscles might continue to ignore my mental instructions to fire, but 100 yards in to the foot race and I could tell that all the hard interval training with Big River Running Company  on the track were about to payoff. I started to pull away, and I never looked back, again. This time, I didn't need to because I knew that I was rolling. I fixed on a guy ahead of me that was clearly feeling good as well, and promised myself I would catch him before the finish. At around mile four I looked down to see the toe of my left shoe red against the stark white and blue Brooks logo. The blisters on my toes finally burst, but I wasn't feeling any of it. I pulled even with my target with about a half mile to go, and he wouldn't let me coast. He met me stride for stride, encouraging me along with "beautiful stride" and "you've got this". We hit the carpet in full sprint, and this time Usain Bolt would have been no match for me.

Leaving the transition area all together now. Apparently, I need
 to know the time to gauge just how fast I am about to run!

Let's do the numbers. I finished 2nd in the 30-34F in the Olympic distance. I was National Champion in the 30-34F in the Sprint and finished third overall female. My run split was the second fastest women's split in the race, and quite possibly my fastest triathlon 5K ever (who keeps track of these things!)! And props must be given to my cycling mechanic extraordinaire boyfriend, Big Shark, and our friendly neighborhood SRAM/ Louis Garneau rep for the insane amount of support.