In Search of the PR

Sometimes it's just about throwing PR's aside and finishing a race out of commitment to the sport, or teammates or yourself. Huge pat on the back to you. For going in knowing that this would be a tough race and doing it anyway! Many others would not have shown up to the starting line!

                                                                        Sue Talent Alschuler

In triathlon circles you hear the term PR thrown around with wild abandon.  PR, or Personal Record, even becomes part of the whole race goal.  I will be the first to admit that I fell into that trap.  My goal for the Lake Stevens 70.3 was to better my time from Boise.  As my earlier blog noted, events conspired to render that goal moot.  I came away disappointed.  I felt like I’d let down myself and let down my coach.  I completely ignored the fact that I’d done the race just over a week after having a bike accident and sustaining a major injury.  But I’d also ignored something else – that each race is different.

When I got back from Seattle I went over to Jaime’s house to help him paint his basement.  Before we got started he pulled me into his office and had me look at a print out of the race I’d run in Lake Stevens.  He had crunched the numbers and the data and compared it to my race in Boise.  He went over it with me and shared some thoughts that I had maybe not considered. 

Two things he shared with me gave me cause to be upbeat about the race.  He noted that my Normalized Power for the race at Lake Stevens had been 210.  Normalized power basically takes into account everything on the racecourse, hills, descents, and flat segments and comes up with a power average.  Basically, this is the amount of power you’d be able to constantly maintain over the course of a workout (or in this case, a race).  Earlier in the year when I raced Boise Jaime had me shoot for a constant power level of around 170.  It may be hard to understand but I will train at a certain power level but then race at a certain heart rate.  This is to keep me from essentially using up all my energy and ‘bonking’.  At Lake Stevens my Normalized Power was a 210.  Mentally this was a big boost as I remember training sessions during the winter where intervals at that level of power would cause my legs to liquefy after three or four sets.  He also noted that my VI, or Variability Index was a 1.21.  The Variability Index is essentially Normalized Power divided by Average Power and basically gives an indication of the smoothness of the ride (not the road, the rider).  You’re trying to get as close to 1.0 as possible.  Hilly courses make for a higher number.  The hills along with some places where I was essentially trapped behind slow moving cars waiting to pass around a slow going rider up a hill made for a potentially high number.  Jaime was pleased with the number and noted that most athletes, let along an average age-grouper such as myself would be happy with that number.

Once we went over the numbers he referenced back to a major variable that differentiated the two races.  In Boise, there had been 1800 feet of elevation gain on the bike course, the majority of the climbing came within the first five miles of the race.  All of the major climbing was done prior to the turn around.  At Lake Stevens there was 2800 feet of elevation gain, the majority of which came in the last 20 miles of the race.  Most of Lake Stevens bike course was what could be considered ‘rollers’ – lots of up, followed by equal down.  Interestingly enough there were a lot of corners in Lake Stevens – 90 degree turns where you would have to slow down – usually on a descent, make the turn, and then immediately start climbing again.  This was vastly different from Boise, where the turns were fewer and flatter.  Most of the race in Boise had roads blocked off so there was little if any traffic with which to contend.  Lake Stevens on the other hand was an open course and there were several instances on some of the hills where I was basically trying to stay upright as I stayed on the bumper of a slow moving vehicle that was waiting to pass an equally slow bike.  All in all, a slower bike time of 5 minutes wasn’t that much to be disappointed about given the data or the conditions.

The run in Boise looped along the DesBois River trail and had an elevation gain 69 feet.  In Lake Stevens the run also looped but there was an elevation gain of 724 feet.  One hill at Lake Stevens in particularly was long and gradual and occurred right before the turn around.  Jaime himself admitted that he seriously questioned his sanity when he knew he’d have to run up that hill again.  Psychologically, the hill took it’s toll on many of the runners and I lost count of how many racers I saw walking up that hill as I made my way back down to the finish.  Given the elevation change, in addition to my left hip and my right foot hurting, a slower time of six minutes wasn’t something to be ashamed of by any means.

Interestingly enough, although my power numbers in Lake Stevens were higher my average heart rate was actually lower, by three beats per minute.  One thing that Jaime has tried to drill into my head is that my heart rate zone numbers will remain the same.  Where I will see the change is in increased power at the same heart rate.  As I noted, earlier in the year, I struggled to maintain a power level of 210 for any extended amount of time.  The fact that my Normalized Power was at 120 for the race showed me that I was improving even if my time didn’t necessarily say so to the rest of the world.

Once we concluded looking at the numbers Jaime noted something that I had failed to consider in my quest for a PR.  He told me that each race is different and it’s impossible to compare one to another.  Each course is different as well, as was noted in the almost 1700 feet of elevation gain from Lake Stevens to Boise.  Races are run at different altitudes.  Coming from 4000 feet at Bend to almost sea level at Lake Stevens was a bonus, which wasn’t as noticeable at Boise, which sits at 2,700 feet above sea level.  Even if a race is run over the same course from year to year it doesn’t mean you’ll have the same conditions.  Two years ago in Boise it was snowing and this year the temperature was in the mid-80’s.  You may go into a race feeling differently.  In Boise I was pretty close to 100 percent.  At Lake Stevens I was working my way through an injury that was just over a week old.  Coupled with all of this is the ‘shit happens’ factor, be it a wrong turn, a flat tire, or a broken derailleur.  All can contribute to a busted PR and all can happen without warning.

After my conversation with Jaime I realized that I need to rethink how I approach each race.  This year I’ll be doing the Leadman for the second time, and sure, I hope to lower my race time from last year.  However, as Sue noted so eloquently, sometimes you race out of commitment to the sport, your teammates, and perhaps, most importantly to race out of commitment to oneself and to the time put into training for that race.  If I come out of a race knowing that I gave the best effort I could at that point in time and in that situation then I shouldn’t worry about whether or not I accomplished a PR.  I should be happy in the fact that I am able to compete and push myself to give my best effort.

Lake Stevens 70.3

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

                                             Kurt Vonnegut

My eyes opened to darkness.  To the left of me I could hear deep breathing and light snoring.  Jaime and Riley were sleeping well.  I on the other hand was not.  Once again, I was the third wheel and the odd man out.  I had wrestled with the questions that were going to come to fruition in a couple of hours.  While my teammates were at the top of their game and had formed a close bond I had struggled to keep my head above water.  Self-doubt was doing it’s best to drown me hours before my ‘A’ race. 

I had thought I had gotten over the injury hump with the Deschutes Dash.  It was a good race and I had done well.  However, family commitments had cut into some valuable learning time with my Jaime and Riley and worse still, just over a week before the race I had laid the bike down hard on a ride coming down off of Bachelor.  The bike had come out of the incident with barely a scratch but my left hip had taken the brunt of the fall.  In the week following the event a massive hematoma, the size of a large softball had appeared on my hip.  No amount of icing or ointment could reduce the swelling. 

The week before the event I had attempted to run.  The swelling made for a tight and painful run.  Rather than risk further injury I simply stopped running the week prior to the race.  I concentrated on trying to rest and reduce the swelling in my hip.  A long drive to Seattle didn’t necessarily help things but it didn’t seem to make things worse.  There was a lot of unknown happening as the race was quickly approaching.

The night before the race Jaime, Riley, and I all met up at a hotel near the race.  As the evening unfolded I felt and became more solitary as I tried to wrestle with the questions that were running through my head.  To quit in my mind was not an option, but at the same time I was not sure how my body was going to respond to a half-ironman.  I had gone into Boise relaxed and confident.  Lake Stevens was a different story.  Try as I might I could not relax.  The night before the race I did not sleep well.  I woke up long before the alarm and I struggled to make sense of what I was going to do. 

We readied everything and drove out to Lake Stevens.  We took the bus from the high school down to the cove where the race would start.  There was not much talking on board the bus and it was not packed as rides to Leadman and Boise had been.  I was lost in my thoughts and I knew the clock was ticking down.  I found my bike in the transition area and started laying things out.  The two gentlemen next to me were new to half-ironman.  I tried to put them at ease.  Because my heat was one of the last going off I had plenty of time to think about what was going to happen.  The promise of a sunny day was delayed.  Overcast skies and fog held tight to the lake.

Riley and Jaime were long gone with their early race heats and I knew more than likely they would finish pretty close to one another and finish long before myself.  I was alone and bided my time staring into the lake as wave upon wave of athletes made their way onto the deck to begin their race.  As my wave got closer to the dock the fog became thicker and began to obscure the buoys out on the lake.  It seemed to mimic the uncertainty and sense of loneliness that I was feeling.  I was frustrated and upset.  I took a deep breath, called upon the spirits of friends and family, closed my eyes and tried to visualize the race ahead.  Somewhere in the lonely darkness a moment of clarity took hold.

I realized that I was not going to set the world on fire.  I was not going to make a name for my coach as a prize pupil, and I knew I was more than likely not going to have a PR from the race.  I could either laugh or I could cry.  I chose the former. 

I jumped into the water, relaxed, and waited for the horn to sound.  For the first time I was not nervous about the open water swim.  I told myself I would use that time during the swim to work on my catch, my pull, and to work on my streamline.  The horn went off and I surprised myself in my level of comfort.  The fog made sighting the buoys difficult but I realized that there was a line used for sculling races that would lead me out and back.  I relaxed, worked on my stroke, and found myself in the thick of my age group swim.

I came out of the water with a sense of purpose.  If this was not going to be a PR race well then I might as well have a bit of fun.  As I began the course a younger guy passed me and asked me how things were going and I said that they were going to be just fine.  The first twenty miles were pretty benign.  It was a beautiful course and made even more so with the light wisps of fog.  I passed a lot of riders.  I would give them a verbal high five when I went by.  My hip was tight but not painful.  To take my mind off it I started playing a little game.  If I passed a woman in her 40’s or 50’s I’d make a remark about how the marker had gotten their age wrong on their leg.  Some of the riders would remain stoic but the majority of the ladies would bust out laughing and we’d quickly wish each other a great race.  On a particularly tough hill at mile 38 I passed many people pushing their bikes up the steep incline and trying to dig down deep to keep going.  Motivation was at a low point and I sensed it was time to let it all hang out.  I yelled out, “Hey everyone, it’s time to find your inner Diana Ross!”  I then started singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough at the top of my lungs.  I picked up my cadence and pushed up the hill.  Once I reached the top and picked my way through the tired riders I tried to lift spirits by yelling out, “We came, we saw, we kicked it’s ass.”  That elicited a couple of chuckles from the riders around me and my spirits were lifted for the remainder of the bike ride.

I came into the transition area and readied for my run.  I knew that this would be the telling moment in the race.  The first mile went by without much fanfare.  There was a short and steady hill but things seemed ok.  I came into the first run aid station feeling good and confident and I had a good pace going.  Another mile went by and things were good.  If I passed someone I would urge them on and let them know that they were doing a great job.  If someone passed me I would do likewise and give them a verbal fist bump.  The third mile featured a short, but steep hill and that’s where my hip began to make its presence known.  My left hip began to tighten up and each step began to hurt just a little bit more.  The trail turned and ran along the lake.  During this point the run went up a long and extended hill.  As I struggled to make my way up the hill I caught sight of Riley gingerly coming down the hill.  He was running at a great pace but I could see he was in pain.  I yelled out encouragement to him and kept plugging up the hill.  A couple of minutes later I met Jaime coming down the hill.  I urged him on as well, crested the hill, turned around, and began the run back to town.  I ran past the halfway point, told myself that I was going to finish, gritted my teeth, and resolved to gut things out.  My urgings to others became less frequent and I began to concentrate on simply finishing.  The sun was high, the air warm and thick, and with each aid station I would grab a cup of ice, pop one cube in my mouth, and pour the rest down my backside.  As I came to the big hill for the second time I realized that I was no longer in race mode but on survival mode.  My hip was throbbing, as were my feet.  I hit the turnaround, felt a slight surge of energy and made my way back to town.  I rounded the corner, heard the announcer call my name, and crossed the finish line.  My wife and kids were cheering me on from one side of the finish line and Jaime and Riley were cheering me on from the other side.  I felt a sense of relief and began to walk around to keep myself from throwing up.

In a fitting end to the race my wife and son had brought at my request a cooler full of ice cubes.  I took the cooler, filled it with water from Lake Stevens, and promptly took the ALS ice water challenge.  I dedicated the challenge to Loren Dils, a friend and former tennis coach at the University of New Mexico.  The water felt good and I reflected on how lucky I was in being able to complete my race.  The ravages of ALS had taken a healthy and athletic body such as Loren’s and reduced it to the status of an invalid.  Any issues I had during the race paled in comparison with what Lauren had gone and was continuing to go through on a daily basis.  I was thankful that I was able to celebrate my accomplishment with my family and my teammates.

It wasn’t the race I had hoped to complete.  Other than a good swim, no PR’s occurred.  In the whole scheme of things that was ok.  Sue, a woman I met at Jaime’s triathlon camp in Tucson said it best.  “Sometimes it's just about throwing PR's aside and finishing a race out of commitment to the sport, or teammates or yourself.”  While it was not my best race, it was a gut check.  It was a race where the mind won out over the body.  It gave me confidence to face other races and told me that I could dig down deep and laugh at the frustrations of injuries, interrupted training time, and a race that didn’t meet up to initial expectations.

Reflecting Back

Saturday night. Not a care in the world. My wife and I sat outside by our firepit and enjoyed the perfect Central Oregon summer evening. It was our first free weekend in almost two months. It was relaxing and it felt good. Friday we’d be heading north to Seattle. I’d meet up with Jaime and Riley on Saturday and we’d head to Lake Stevens together bright and early Sunday morning to race the Ironman 70.3. Tonight though, it was all about kicking back.

I scrolled through my email and then logged on to Facebook. There was mention of the Socorro Chile Harvest Triathlon as well as the Leadville 100 among posts from my friends. I was reminded of a time 10 years ago when I tried to get started as a triathlete and the interesting turn of events that happened on that day in August.

My good friend Matt Perini was one of the organizers of the Chile Harvest Triathlon. I had known Matt since junior high. I knew he and his brother (who I knew as a swimmer at UNM) had gotten into triathlons. Maybe it was that connection that emboldened me. I’m not sure what caused me to take the bait but in May of 2004 I decided to print out a 10-week program in order to train for a Sprint Triathlon and I signed up for my first triathlon.

As I look back I blush a bit at my naivete. I was five years into my new career as a stay at home Dad. I had a six year old son and a soon to be four year old daughter. My training happened when my wife came home from work if it happened at all. I'd squeeze an early morning swim (if one could call it that) at the Y, or hop on the bike, or throw on the shoes and head out into the heat of the early evening between playdates and trips to the zoo or the park.  Still, I remember throwing my bike into the back of my truck on a very early August morning and heading south to Socorro. The plan was to race, drive back to Albuquerque, and then head up to Breckenridge, CO where my wife would be attending a conference.

I drove south as the sun rose over the Sandias and cast a bright hue on Landron Peak. I was excited and a bit nervous, as I wasn’t sure what to expect. I don’t think I had even thought about transition. As I approached the exit for Belen my truck lurched, I heard a massive thump, and I began to lose power in my truck. I pulled off the interstate and saw that my transmission light had come on. I stopped and called my wife to let her know what had happened. The truck was driveable but just barely. I limped back to Albuquerque on back roads with my hazard lights blinking. A neighbor, who was a mechanic, recommended a transmission place fairly close to our house. After what seemed like a nervous eternity I pulled into the transmission place, met my wife, and we headed home to pack up the car and head north. I called Matt to tell him what happened. My current coach Jaime (who I didn't know at the time) was in that race that day and completed it in just over an hour.

Our drive north to Breckenridge was pretty uneventful. We decided to stop in Leadville for an early dinner and came into town just as the first racers were completing the Leadville 100. It was exciting to see these guys finish and the atmosphere was festive and electric. We had an enjoyable dinner and it was interesting to see some of the finishers make their way into the Golden Burro, chat them up, and hear them recount their adventures. It was a fun evening and we lingered as long as we could before making our final push into Breckenridge.

A year passed and once again I set my sights on the Chile Harvest Tri. I trained a little better, and even convinced my friend Jim to join me in the race. Heck, we even drove down to Socorro and biked and ran the route in 100 degree heat the weekend before the race. The Tuesday before the race I received word that my aunt had died. The funeral would be held that weekend in Farmington and I was asked to be a pallbearer. Once again, my thoughts of completing a tri were dashed.

It wouldn’t be until 2006 that I would finally be able to complete a triathlon. That year my friend Jim and I would register for the Jay Benson Tri in Albuquerque. I remember seeing and talking to Matt as he was one of the course officials. Jaime was there too, though I didn’t really know him at the time. We had met previously the year before at a holiday party we hosted (his wife had been hired as a hospitalist by my wife) but it was just that one social occasion. Maybe we nodded or yelled encouragement to one another as we passed one another on the out and back run course that began the race. All I remember is chatting with Jim while we ran, doing the bike portion on my old steel frame mountain bike, and slogging my way through the pool portion of the race. It was fun and I finished 30 minutes behind Jaime, who no doubt had probably already headed home to celebrate Mother’s Day with his wife and daughter.

The following year I had signed up for the Jay Benson but came down with strep throat the morning of the race. That was the last attempt at racing a triathlon until I moved to Bend.  I put the thought out of my mind, became a teacher once again, juggled parenthood, and got fat.  It wasn't until I turned 50 and took a look in the mirror that thoughts of doing a triathlon returned.  It wasn't until I met back up with Jaime that I got serious about doing something about it and resolved to become a triathlete.

As I looked back at some of those results and thought about that time 10 years I was amazed at the changes that occurred and a little bit of the kismit that had taken hold. This year I completed a sprint tri (with a longer swim than the Jay Benson) in a time that was 28 minutes faster than my first effort. The person that I nodded to, and knew only briefly in a social setting is now my coach and a good friend. He and I have done a half ironman and a long course race together and we’ll do another one this weekend. I hope either next year or the year after next to attempt and complete my first Ironman and hopefully he and my family will be there to witness the moment.

It’s been an interesting turn of events and it was fun to reflect back on those memories. My children are now older and more self-sufficient, one is in high school and the other is finishing up middle school. My wife is now carving out her own niche in racing mountain bikes when she’s not working. And as for myself, this guy who struggled to show up and just complete his first tri has adopted the triathlete lifestyle and is looking forward to his next half ironman. Life is good. 

Priorities

I learned that we can do anything, but we can’t do everything...at least not at the same time. So think of your priorities not in terms of what activities you do, but when you do them. Timing is everything.
                                       Dan Millman

I typed out the text, sent it to Jaime, and let out a long and pronounced sigh. I got up and started to pack for my long seven-hour journey to the Wallowas to pick up my daughter at music camp. Originally my wife was supposed to drive to Wallowa to pick up my daughter Kiley. I knew that my wife really wanted to do a mountain bike race over in Oakridge – a three-hour drive away. The race was the same day that my daughter would have her end of camp concert in Joseph. I decided to be the good soldier and told her that I’d pick up Kiley so she could do the race.

I was originally supposed to ride with Jaime and Riley on Friday. It was going to be the epic over Bachelor to Sparks Lake ride and back. It would challenge me and get me ready for Lake Stevens. We would leave at 10:30 a.m. and the ride would probably take 3 and a half hours. I would be lucky to leave Bend for Wallowa by 2:30 or 3:00. This would get me into Wallowa around 10 if everything went perfectly. It would also not account for me being tired after a ride that would involve 60 miles of riding and 4000 feet of climbing. Somewhere along the way common sense kicked in. I realized if I wanted to get to Wallowa in one piece I needed to prioritize things, even if I wasn’t happy with the results. I texted Jaime and told him I wouldn’t be riding, packed up my bag, got my bike on the rack (I would at least do some training) and began the trek to the far reaches of Northeastern Oregon.

I arrived in Wallowa in time to get in a good afternoon ride. Before I left I saw that Jaime and Riley had noted on social media just how epic a ride it had been. I threw on my kit, drove out to Joseph, and prepared for a long ride alone. It was gorgeous scenery. The Wallowas are known as Oregon’s Alps and I could understand why the Nez Perce had fought so valiantly for the right to remain in this area. The miles flew by but my mind wandered. I couldn’t put my finger on why I was in such a funk over a ride. I finished up, changed into street clothes and set out to explore Joseph. Much like my ride I felt like I was going through the motions, in the same old funk.

When I get like this I have to start figuring out why and then I have to figure a way out of it. I’m sure it drives my friends crazy and I’m sure it does my coach as well. It took some contemplation during dinner to put my finger on things. I was reminded of something Jaime told me about a bike camp he had gone to in Moab. Joe Friel, of Training Peaks, and countless books that triathletes and bike enthusiasts swear by showed up as a surprise guest of the camp. Jaime said he spent the whole camp attached to Friel, riding with him, asking questions, listening to what he had to say. Hanging on his every word. He gained a lot of insight and knowledge during his time with Friel and he expressed surprise that others at the camp weren’t doing likewise.

As I thought about this story I realized that some of what Jaime saw in Joe Friel I myself saw in Jaime. When we ride Jaime tends to talk about things, share insight and wisdom, and relate things that he normally doesn’t do off the bike.  He notices things in your own cycling skills and offers suggestions. Most importantly he pushes you ever so slightly to go a little bit harder and just a little bit faster. I noticed how Riley had benefited from his time during the spring when they’d ride together. I was perhaps envious of the benefits he was gleaning from those rides. During the school year I rarely if ever got a chance to do a hard ride with him. I hoped the summer would give me a chance to ride with Jaime and learn from him but life as a Dad and a husband, along with an injury had seemed to have gotten in the way of these rides. Here I was yet again wondering about the whys, the what ifs, and the what becomes, and wondering if I’d ever get to benefit from the intrinsic things that only occurred on the bike.

While I may have determined the cause of my funk I still needed to figure a way out of it. That night I briefly talked to my wife and wished her luck in her race. I went to bed a bit depressed and awoke the same. I didn’t feel like doing anything. I needed to drive down to Wallowa Lake and meet my daughter Kiley at 11. It would give me plenty of time to get a training set in but I just couldn’t bring myself to do so. I’m not sure why. I just wasn’t feeling it. I drove into Joseph, got breakfast, and walked around – still the same mental zombie as the night before. I drove down to Wallowa Lake to the camp where my daughter had been staying for the past week. She was excited to see me and related what a wonderful time camp had been and how much fun she had while she was there. We talked over lunch and then she told me she wanted to play some of the music she had learned for the afternoon’s concert for me. We finished up our lunch and walked up to her cabin. She got out her saxophone and her sheet music and set up a music stand outside. I sat on the steps of her cabin and I began to listen to her play. I was surprised at how well she had progressed during the week. She played with feeling and passion. As I watched her play under the towering pines I realized that this was my priority at this place in time. Sure things would be different if I was single or had a job that allowed me to train basically any day or any time of the week, but that just wasn’t the case. I realized that with what I had going on in my life that sometimes what I wanted wasn’t necessarily going to be the highest priority in my life at that point in time.

I went to the concert and marveled at how my daughter, who was one of the youngest musicians at camp was holding her own with other students who had been play two to three times longer than she had. I texted Jaime a note that basically said I had made the right decision and he texted the word 'priorities' back to me. I knew I’d miss another ride on Sunday with him – the concert wouldn’t be done until after 4 so it only made sense to stay another night. I’d miss another chance to learn, to talk, to share, and to be challenged. I was ok with the decision. I knew right now that where I needed to be was with my daughter, even if it did foul up training for Lake Stevens.

That night she and I enjoyed a great dinner together at a tavern the innkeeper had recommended. It was in a tiny town called Lostine. We had time to talk and share and tell each other about things that normally got trampled at home by living our lives. We headed back to the inn and I decided to take a walk around town to the let the food settle. I walked along the deserted storefronts and thought of my priorities in the coming weeks – getting ready for Lake Stevens, finishing up the round of various appointments for the kids, getting ready for the school year, and hopefully getting in a swim or two and a couple of bike rides with Jaime (he tends to chat during our breaks in between laps, and it’s amazing how much you can learn). I could feel the wind pick up and it looked like a storm was coming in. I decided to head back to the room.  Before I reached the room I got a text from my wife. Earlier in the day she had texted me that she had won the Master’s Division of her race. I congratulated her and let her know how happy and proud I was of her. We had gone back and forth and finally I jokingly asked her if she had gotten anything for her winnings. She noted the only thing she got was the knowledge that she could accomplish and finish the race (a very difficult one I might add) and in that was her personal victory. I smiled knowing that even though at the time I might have thought the opposite that I clearly had gotten my priorities straight. I also realized that with each passing day I would need to constantly review, reset the table, and hope in the end that I’d gotten my priorities straight.