Health Implications of Chronic Sugar Consumption Among Endurance Athletes

In endurance sports, sugar-based nutrition products reign supreme. Take a look at the ingredients of any sports drink, gel, or energy bar on the market. The chance it contains sugar as a primary ingredient is pretty high. 

It's because of demand, right?

Possibly. 

Conventional approaches to sports nutrition do revolve around high consumption of carbohydrate, and simple sugars, especially immediately before, during and after hard training sessions and racing. Just the other day, for example, I had breakfast with a fellow triathlete and coach, whose plate was filled with pancakes slathered in maple syrup. He took down the entire thing.

From a purely performance standpoint, there is some evidence supporting a predominantly carbohydrate diet/fueling strategy, particularly at higher intensities. But, more and more research on lipolysis and "fat adaptation" among endurance athletes is showing simple sugars and carbohydrates shouldn't be the primary fuel source, it should be fat. 

Research continues to also pour in showing the long term health implications of chronic sugar consumption. The basic point is this: consuming lots of sugar accelerates the aging process, possibly just as much as smoking. (For example, read this article.)

But, back to endurance athletes. There isn't a ton of research available specifically on this population, but a few studies have emerged. One from earlier this year, I think, is indicative of the caution we, in the endurance sports community, should be taking with an over reliance on sugar-based nutrition.  

The study compared 35 triathletes with 35 non-exercising control individuals. It found an increased risk of dental erosion among triathletes, and a significant correlation between dental caries and cumulative weekly training volume. Basically, a higher prevalence of dental caries was seen among triathletes with higher training loads, presumably due to the larger amounts of mostly sugar-based exogenous fuel sources.

In trying to limit simple sugar consumption during training and racing I take three basic approaches:

1. Don't carry fuel for 90-95% of my workouts. Because I've adapted my metabolism over time to better tap into fat stores, I can easily go for a 2 hour run or a 3 hour bike ride with just water and be perfectly fine. Daily nutrition influences performance.

2.  If I'm in need of a clean fuel source, like during a marathon, I use UCAN Superstarch. It's been my go-to for almost two years, and I don't plan on changing that any time soon.

3. When possible, though, I'm a fan of using whole food sources of nutrition. This is what I did earlier this year during a 16-hour, 300k bike ride through northern New Jersey. I carried plastic bags filled with coconut flakes, coconut oil, almonds, cashews and flax seed crackers. More resources, like the Feed Zone Portables Cookbook, are available to make this approach easier too. I'm looking forward to experimenting more with this in the coming year.

The Wheels Fall Off (Part 3 - Princeton 70.3 Race Report)

This is part 3 of 3 of a series on my race at IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton. Disclosure: I did not receive any form of compensation for mentioning certain products in this posting. 

Part 1: Getting to the Start Line
Part 2: On Pace

****

I dismount. My first steps off the bike are reassuring. The slight cramp sensations in my hamstrings from removing my feet from my cycling shoes are temporary. They faded for the time being just moments after they began 100 meters from the dismount line of the bike course. My calf, hugged by a black compression sleeve, feels normal as I dash to the opposite side of transition to rack my bike. Caution, however, still shields it from the violent force of a normal stride. When I reach my spot in transition, I quickly rack my bike, place my black, Specialized helmet on the handlebars, and insert my feet, one after the other, into a pair of socks, then into my running shoes. The elastic Xtenex laces in my running shoes make shoelace tying obsolete. I simply yank on the ends, and the series of small knots in the laces catch on the shoe eyelets at the exact right tightness.

I pass under the "Run Out" arch. The force incurred during each foot strike comes with a special delivery of confidence, sent directly to my brain. Each step provides a bit more then the previous. Only a few hundred meters into the run, I feel strong and energized. My pace gradually dips close to 6:15 per mile. 

I hit the first aid station. Prior to the race, I completely abandoned the thought of trying UCAN Superstarch in a running flask again. Did I not want to carry the flask? Was UCAN not effective? No and no. I knew I entered the race in a sub-optimal state of fitness. The previous six weeks, as I mentioned in Part 2, were a complete logistical nightmare. There was zero stability. Combine that with Princeton being my last race, wanting to have a good performance in front of my family, and the goal of qualifying for the 70.3 World Championships (which I significantly tempered once our moving calendar became clearer). I'm usually one who tries to strike the balance between health and performance. That got thrown out the window today. 

"Water and two cokes," I call out at the first aid station. I dump the first cup of water over my head and proceed through the buffet line of fuel source options to grab two cups of Coke. Water and Coke worked for me in my last half-Ironman in North Carolina where I placed 2nd in my age group. I stick to that same strategy, at first by choice, later by absolute necessity. 

I feel some tightness in my quads. I definitely pushed the pace on the bike, but never felt I was overly smashing the pedals. It's a similar sensation to the one I felt coming off the bike in North Carolina. With some quickly absorbed fuel early in the run, I figure the tightness will work itself out, just like it has in the past. 

Around the mile 2 mark I find out that's not going to be the case today. I ease up slightly, contemplating a quick stop to stretch, hoping it would help relieve the tightness. Wrong decision. Horrible decision. Both sets of quads seized up simultaneously. Cramps grab hold of each with a vise-like grip. I can't relax them. A loud howl exits my cringing face. Both are stuck in a contracted state. The pain is excruciating, like two knives that have stabbed each. Bent over, I use my thumb to apply as much pressure as possible to each thigh, slowly digging into the muscle to trigger its release. 

It's the most unpleasant and painful deep tissue massage I've ever had. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be the last one that day.

As I'm slowly loosening my thigh muscles, I hear fellow athletes offer words of encouragement as they run by. It's helpful, but I'm still annoyed with the ground I'm losing, and to one athlete in particular. All of a sudden I hear an audible jumble of words that I can't quite make out, but includes the word "bike." I look up, it's the fellow 25-29 age grouper I sparred with on the bike course. I insert my own version of the rest of his statement: "Shouldn't have gone so hard on the bike." 

It lights a match under me. After a minute or two, I finally work out the cramps to a point where I can resume running. My focus narrows to one goal: pass that one athlete. Seeing his stride as he passed me, I know I'm a much better runner. I just need to hold off these cramps for a little while longer. 

Not long after relief arrives in my quads, I feel a lingering, inevitable pain in my right calf. Instead of walking, which I told myself before the race that I would only do as a very last resort, I modified my stride to a less impactful gliding-like gait instead of my typical stride with more pronounced knee-drive and back-kick. Even so, I still manage to work my way further into the field of athletes ahead of me. 

A mile before the end of the first loop, marking the midway point, I'm within striking distance of my goal. He's been in my sights the previous three miles. I've slowly chipped away at his time advantage. We exit one of the park's trails and onto the main access road. I come up on his left, pausing for a few steps to run alongside him. I glance over, look directly at him, then accelerate slightly to pass him. I don't look back.

Barricades lining the road slowly come into few, draped with repeated logos of Training Peak, Tacx, TIMEX and other IRONMAN partners. My eyes dart back and forth to try and spot my family. They are standing along the right side of the road, somewhat spread out, to offer more smaller doses of encouragement rather than all at once. As I round the left turn to enter the second loop, I shoot a thumbs up sign to my wife and dad. I'm feeling okay.

Long before I made it to this point, I transformed the run course in my mind from a daunting 13.1 mile slog, to a series of one mile repeats. I focus only on running to the next aid station, located about one mile beyond the previous. When I think about the half-marathon in smaller segments, it seems much more manageable. "Just get to the next aid station," becomes my mantra. For a while, it works.

I pass through another aid station, taking water and Coke, which has become standard protocol. It's been five miles since the cramps struck like two lightning bolts. I'm still gliding along, and actually feel optimistic about holding off any more cramps. Just a few minutes after the thought, though, the cramps strike again. The agonizing pain once again shoots through my quads. They seize up. I yell. Once again, it's time to apply as much pressure as possible with my fingers to relax the contracted muscles. Under my grip, beneath the skin, I feel the lively flurry of out of control muscle spasms.

Frustration returns to my thoughts. Cardiovascularly I feel 100 percent fine. It's like my legs won't work how I want them too. They feel totally disconnected from how I'm mentally and aerobically feeling. "And all the people I just worked so hard to pass are now all passing me," I think to myself. It takes a few moments longer this time then the previous to work things out. But, I do. I'm moving again.

A mile and a half up the road, more cramps. Same story. I give up my goal of beating that one fellow age grouper, who since passed me for the second time. It's all about finishing now, however I can. The cramps would come with greater frequency during the second half of the run. I stop five times in all, including one right next to an aid station, and another less than a mile from the finish line. I don't care how often they come, though, I'm determined to run when I can, and finish the race on my terms, giving it ever ounce of mental and physical effort I have left in my body.

I pass the 12 mile sign. The finish feels within reach. I stop once more because of a cramp, just steps from my family. I'm sure they see the pure agony on my face. I grit my teeth, and with a grimace on my face, a limp in my gait, and my cousin running alongside me for the final half mile, I complete the most brutal and painful triathlon I've ever done. 

I cross the finish line with a brief moment of disappointment on my mind. I had ambitious expectations coming into this race, and my five hour and nine minute finish time didn't even come close to them. Instead of proceeding directly through the finish corral after the finish line, I take a few moments to myself, to reflect on the previous five hours, mostly the past hour of torture. The disappointment quickly fades, though, when I see my cousin's two young boys, one three and the other seven. I know perseverance in the face of adversity is a valuable lesson. I hope I played at least some role in helping them understand that lesson. And that's the "win" I choose to leave the race with. 

Run Split: 1:52:48

Finish Time: 5:09:01 (19th in 25-29 age group / 147 overall)  

****

Stuff happens. Life intervenes. Every race is not always going to be a personal best. Things will go wrong. Stress influences performance much more than we think. Did I have ambitious goals for the race? Absolutely. Do I wish I raced better? No question. Do I know I can race better? Heck yea. But, will there be another race? Yes. Did I learn something from the race? Hand down, without a doubt. Did I experience something during the race I've never experience before? Will these experiences make me a better athlete? A better coach? A better husband? A better person? Emphatically, yes. 

It makes me think of a quote from the movie Life as a House, "Sometimes things happen for a reason. Something bad to force something good." It's all about perspective and finding the good in everything we do and experience. I just finished reading an amazing book, The Obstacle is the Way (stay tuned for a new blog on it), and if anything captures how I feel looking back on the race it's this:

“There is no good or bad without us, there is only perception. There is the event itself and the story we tell ourselves about what it means.” 

My story of IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton is one of grit, persistence, and knowing I gave the race what I honestly and truthfully had on that day. I fought through pain. I raced with the unknown of how an injury would hold up, and it turned out okay. I toed the start line even when I could have easily backed out of the race, whether because of moving or injury. I learned something about myself that day. I explored an unknown part of me. I experienced something new and unforgettable in this magical, unpredictable, and sometimes unrelenting world of ours. 

And that's a win. And I'm grateful for it.

On Pace (Part 2 - Princeton 70.3 Race Report)

This is part 2 of 3 of a series on my race at IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton.

Click here to read part 1.

****

  

I glance at my watch, it reads 7:00am. Transition has been closed for 15 minutes. I see a few other athletes rushing to exit transition. A group of volunteers guards the entrance. "Can I quickly grab something from my transition bag," I ask one of them. I'm half expecting the response to be a sympathetic yet stern, "No, I'm sorry, transition is closed." The response I receive catches me by surprise. "Sure, I don't call the shots here," a late 20-something male volunteer said. 

I reach deep into the side pocket of my black TYR transition bag. The small, smooth, cylindrical object comes into contact with my hand. Tight in my grip, I scamper out of transition as quickly as I can, still feeling devilish for breaking the "out of transition by 6:45am" rule.

Body glide! It's every triathletes' saving grace. Now, you are probably thinking this to be a trivial item, something one could do without. But the bright red rashes caused by the neoprene wetsuit might make you think otherwise. In triathlon circles they're commonly called "hickies," for their unfortunate location and reticent of similar red spots from a different cause. I apply the deodorant-looking substance to my ankles and feet, then slide each leg into its respective place in the wetsuit. I then smear my neck and shoulders. Putting on a wetsuit is a process, always taking a few minutes to shimmy the thick neoprene shell into exactly the right position. To expedite, cover each foot with a plastic shopping bags before inserting them into the legs of the wetsuit. I, unfortunately, forgot to bring those. 

I find a patch of grass next to transition and sit. With about an hour until my swim wave goes off, I have some time to kill. Stephanie and I decided the night before this patch of grass would be our meeting place that morning. We usually fail to remember identifying such a place, which makes seeing each other before the swim start like searching for a thimble in a leaf pile. 

My excitement wins out. I stand up and like some strong magnetic force, I'm pulled in the direction of the swim start, which is a few hundred meters down a wooded path along the lake. "Maybe they saw the masses of spectators and athletes and decided to follow," I rationalize with myself as I abandon the meeting spot. My head swivels back and forth, trying to spot Stephanie, one of my parents, or my cousin and his son. After about 10 minutes of wondering, I decide to sit, partly because I'm tired of looking and partly because I want to take a few moments to collect my thoughts. The playing of the national anthem is that one quiet opportunity I take advantage of to reflect on the gift I have before me. Because of my dash-and-grab incident in transition earlier, I missed that opportunity. 

I stand up and attempt one final pass along the wooded path to find one of my family members. Success. Ten yards ahead of me are my dad, cousin and his son. They call Stephanie and my mom, who are both back close to transition, at our meeting spot. "We said we would meet next to transition," Stephanie teased, knowing she had the upper hand. "I know, I know," I responded sheepishly. We smile together.

A continuous stream of athletes enters the water, in regular three minute intervals. Each wave congregates on the beach around a shoddy sign held by a volunteer with that wave's corresponding age group written in black Sharpie ink. When instructed by the announcer, the group crosses under the white IRONMAN arch to wade at the water's edge. The next command is to enter the water, and swim the 100m to assume their place at the start line behind the first orange buoy. 

Wave 19, my swim wave, is finally announced. It's now my turn to pass through the assembly-line like progression from beachhead to start line. I give one final thumbs up to my support crew along the barricades, and wade into the refreshing 70-degree water. The mass of 109, 25 to 29 year old's took to the water, some aggressively diving in, some more cautiously wading in, one step at a time. I use the brief swim to the start line as a warm up. The warm up area closed some 40 minutes ago, and with such a late wave, I didn't want to be standing on the beach for a half-hour all wet. 

Thumbs up!

Perpendicular to the orange start buoy, I gently tread water, mostly relying on my wetsuit to keep me afloat. Just a few moments later the loud air horn cuts through the morning's cloudy air. The sun is nowhere to be found, and its uncharacteristically humid, not a forecast I wanted. Heads go down, arms begin to swing, water is churned up, each athlete trying feverishly to break away from the rest of the pack. I remain calm, regularly sighting up ahead to find a pocket between the kicking feet.

The congestion finally begins to dissipate. Breathing to my left I spot and pass the second orange buoy with a large, black "2" displayed on the side. I rhythmically cruise forward, my right hand exiting the water, elbow high forming an acute arm angle, my arm gradually straightening as my fingertips enter the water. Sinking just a few inches, and now pointing towards the bottom of the lake, I pull my hand towards my feet, like a paddle, pressing against the water, and propelling me forward.  My right foot simultaneously kicks a single beat as my torso ever so slightly rolls toward the left, the water's surface bisecting my face into two symmetrical parts, allowing a quick inhale of air. Rinse, wash, repeat.

The first few hundred meters are smooth. I stream into a pocket of water and begin to focus on my breathing. It's calm, maybe too calm. Am I not going hard enough? I'm amongst a number of fellow age groupers, but I can't help but wonder. My stroke feels acceptable, though slightly uncoordinated. Something seems out of sync. Something is off. Could it be from the disjointed and unpredictable schedule of the last six weeks? The stress, the uncertainty, the living out of a suitcase, it all is combining together into some twisted villain trying to sabotage my race. If I'm not careful, he might. 

****

One early afternoon on June 24 Stephanie and I received a disheartening email from our property manager. We had been renting a townhouse in Reston, Virginia from a gentlemen who was suppose to be on an overseas assignment for the federal government for two years. His assignment was cut short, and he wanted his house back. I was at work, about to go on my regular 25 minute lunchtime walk. Then it appeared at the top of my email inbox, the bold subject line staring at me, hurling my fate out of the screen. "1626 Valencia lease termination," the subject line read. September would mark the one year anniversary of our moving into the house. We felt settled. Our townhouse in Reston was beginning to feel like home. And now it won't be. We had to vacate the property by August 22, exactly one month before IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton. 

The solution seemed clear at that point, we needed a new apartment or townhouse. This is where the story complicated more. At the same time, Stephanie was approached by a former colleague at a company she interned with a number of years ago regarding a potential job opportunity. It was a dream job, exciting, challenging, and filled with opportunity. The only catch, the job was in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her family lives in the Twin Cities, and Stephanie grew up there. We had talked about moving there at some point, but thought it would be down the road a bit further. "Maybe this lease termination is a sign we should make the jump," we hypothesized together on more then one occasion. 

As the summer bounded on, our future in Minnesota became a little clearer, though it was still far from crystal. August 22nd continued to loom. We felt the pressure. Early September was the mostly likely time we'd hear about Stephanie's job. July came and went, and Stephanie and I were faced with a major decision: do we search for a new rental in Washington, DC or northern Virginia, hopefully a month-to-month, though those are rare and expensive? Or do we gamble by moving our belongings into storage and stay with friends until we hear a decision regarding the job in Minnesota, hopefully a positive one? Both came with their downsides. 

Each day ticked by, a steady march towards our fateful deadline. Our "drop-dead" date of August 8th, two weeks before the end of our lease, arrived. We made our decision. The logistics were complicated. Several existing events already occupied a few weekends on the August and September calendar. Thankfully, during the course of all of this, Stephanie was offered her dream job. Determining my own job future also solidified. It went something like this:

• Weekend of August 2nd: trip to Asheville, North Carolina to visit my brother and his family for his birthday, and race the Lake Logan Half triathlon. 
• We moved our belongings into a storage unit in Reston on August 17th. 
• The next two weeks, we house-sat for friends, who live in the Capitol Hill area of Washington, DC, for two weeks while they were away on vacation.  
• The weekend between those two weeks, Stephanie traveled to Dallas, Texas for a baby shower and I went to New Jersey to race TriRock Asbury Park triathlon.  
• The weekend after house-sitting, the weekend of Labor Day, we traveled to New Jersey and Delaware for my sister and her fiancee's bridal shower/bachelorette party/bachelor party weekend.  
• That Sunday, August 31st, we returned to DC and stayed in a hotel for one night. 
• The next morning, we loaded our belongings from the storage unit into a 17-foot U-Haul truck and drove the next two days to Minneapolis. The day after we arrived, we unloaded our things from the truck into a storage unit in the Twin Cities. 
• We stayed the rest of the week in Minnesota, so we could attend a wedding that Friday, which we planned to attend long before all of the commotion started. Stephanie received her job offer this week as well. We flew back to Washington, DC on Sunday, September 7th.  
• The week of September 8-12 we stayed with friends in their two-bedroom apartment, coincidentally back in the Capitol Hill area of DC. I found out on Monday what my forthcoming job arrangement would be, which provided some much needed stability.   
• We spent the following weekend with my aunt and uncle in Lewes, Delaware, the weekend I injured my calf.  
• Our friends kindly allowed us to stay with them a second week, which was September 15-19. 
• Friday, September 19th was the last day of work for both Stephanie and myself. After work, we made the familiar drive back up to my cousin's house in Yardley, Pennsylvania where we stayed the weekend. IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton race day: Sunday, September 21st. We would leave on Monday morning to return to Washington, DC for one night, so I could fulfill a speaking invitation at George Washington University. The next morning we would do the same two-day drive to Minnesota, though this time in the comfort of a Honda Accord rather then a bulky, torturing U-Haul truck.

****

The colored dots that are swim caps gradually transition from exclusively blue to a mixture of colors, purple, orange, red, pink. I'm entering a fresh pack of swimmers from age groups that started before I did, each representing an obstacle I need to steer around. I round the first turn buoy on my left at the 900 meter mark, hugging the inside track. A short hundred meters more, and I make the second of three turns on the elongated rectangle course. I head back in the direction I came, this time with yellow instead of orange buoys on my left. In addition to the buoys, small orange hemispheres lined the lake. These are useful for the rowing teams that practice on the lake. For me, they are simply a nuisance.

The final turn buoy slowly comes into my sight path. Traffic seems to thicken. I'm surrounded, each of us more focused on the white IRONMAN arch in the distance that reads "Swim Out" rather then each other. My vision narrows. It's the only thing in my field of vision as I sight between strokes. I swim up to the concrete launch ramp where a volunteer assists athletes exiting the water. I push myself to a standing position and begin to slowly jog up the ramp, navigating around several other athletes who exit the water at the same time. I hold back slightly, conscious of my calf. Inclines generally exacerbate calf injuries. I didn't want to take any chances.

I bypass the "wetsuit strippers," who yank off your wetsuit for you as you sit on the ground, all free of charge. Instead, I opt to peel off my own wetsuit at my designated spot in transition. Routine. Habit. Whatever you call it, I don't like to deviate from it. I check my watch, the time I see isn't ideal. It's not what I hoped for before the race. It wasn't a personal best by a long shot. But it's sufficient for today. I think about the time for about 10 seconds and almost instantly turn my attention to executing a quick transition and getting out on the bike course.

Swim: 33:57

****

I struggle for a moment to free my right foot from my wetsuit. Once off, I throw the suit over the bike rack, put on my helmet and sunglasses, and dash towards the other side of transition to "Bike Out." I mount my bike amongst five or six other athletes.  Space is a premium after the mount/dismount line, but I manage to find a pocket. Unlike in past races, I forgot a rubber band to fasten my cycling shoes in place so they don't spin around while running with the bike through transition. It makes for an easier first few pedal strokes when the shoes are in a more or less fixed position. I manage. I pedal out of the group and find some open road so I can slip my feet into my cycling shoes. 

Athletes line the right side of the road way. Pockets are almost nonexistent, unless one wants to encroach on the three bike-lengths required between riders. I continuously pass other athletes, and decide to stay towards the left as a result. "What's the point in moving to the right if I just keep passing people?" I think. My predicament is the result of my age group being the 19th of 22 total swim waves. This means all male athletes aside from my age group (25-29) began the swim before I did. This also means that all female competitors aside from four age groups began the swim before I did. I don't know exactly how many of the other roughly 2,000 athletes are ahead of me, but it feels like a lot. 

I exit Mercer County Park and turn right onto one of the surrounding roads. My legs pedal close to 100 revolutions per minute in a slightly lower gear as I try to warm them up. I grab my water bottle from the cage on my bike's down tube and feverishly shake it, trying to dissolve the white UCAN superstarch powder that settled to the bottom of the bottle. Superstarch and almond butter worked for me in my two previous half-Ironman distance races. I stick with it for this race.

The bike course features about 1,300 feet of rolling hills amongst an otherwise relatively flat 57.5 mile, one loop bike course. Race organizers and local police were unable to identify a sufficient 56 mile course, the standard half IRONMAN bike course length. Their best effort yielded 1.5 miles over. 

Potholes are a common sight. In addition to having to navigate an above average number of turns, and other athletes crowding the road, riders are faced with a mine field of potholes. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. But in the case of this bike course, it's not always the safest. 

About 15 miles into the ride, I hear a clicking noise. Tick. Tick. Tick. I look down and what I see is a complete disaster. My spare tire tube, which was secured under my saddle, fell out and is now twisted in my rear wheel hub. Just a few minutes earlier I started to break away from a number of fellow 25-29 age groupers. I'm annoyed I'll need to give that time back. It's a long bike course though. I pull to the side of the road and calmly begin to untie the tube from the hub. It takes a minute or so. I stuff the tube in a jersey pocket, remount my bike, and aggressively pedal out of the saddle to resume the 23 mph speed I was at a few moments before. 

The ensuing 25 miles pass as planned. I hold a steady pace and continue to stay to the left, periodically yelling the standard "on your left." A few athletes pass me, though I'm able to reel them in shortly after. One athlete is particularly stubborn, his black Specialized Shiv coming into my peripheral vision field just a few moments after I pass him. We leapfrog each other for the next 10 miles or so. Leading into one small set of rolling hills, I notice he slows ever so slightly ahead of me. I click into a bigger gear on the downhill and power past him, another athlete shielding his sight of me as I pass. "I wonder if he saw me," I think, hoping to pull away any way I can. I push the pace to try and escape. I don't see him the rest of the bike course, though we'll be reunited not too far into the run, in a much different set of circumstances.

I re-enter Mercer County Park and prepare for transition while also keeping an eye out for my support crew. I see them along the barricades, each yelling words of encouragement as I ride by. I slip my right foot out of my cycling shoe. A sharp tightness suddenly permeates from my hamstring, reminiscent of a cramp. The sensation repeats for the left leg. A brief thought of doubt flies into my consciousness. Did I go too hard on the bike? I jumped 13 places in my age group on the bike course, from 25th at the end of the swim to 12th when I hit the dismount line. I hit my bike split time, while also knowing I have no idea how my calf will hold up on the run. I'm on pace and confident as I take my first strides on the run course. 

Bike: 2:37:08

Getting to the Start Line (Part 1 - Princeton 70.3 Race Report)

I awake feeling a mixture of energy and nervousness. The cool morning air seeped through the window screen to fill the room. After putting in my contacts, I step out the front door to feel the chill more completely. The sun already brightly illuminates the morning. Taking a deep gulp of the morning's scent, arms outstretched overhead, I tilt my head back, eyes focusing beyond my hands to the bright blue backdrop. 

It's a perfect fall morning - though fall doesn't officially begin until the next day - and I must temper my excitement another 24 hours. 

My plan for that day, the day before IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton, is different then my normal day-before-a-race days. I usually schedule my last workout two days prior to a race, leaving the next day to completely rest. This generally works out well since 1) Stephanie and I often travel to the race venue that morning (if it's within driving distance), and 2) a portion of the day is always consumed with expo visiting, bike washing, eating, and any other pre-race preparations I need to take care of. Today, deviating from my normal routine, I go for a short bike ride and light jog. I had no opportunity to get a workout in the previous day, which happened for several reasons that I'll explain later. 

On my bike, I exit the neighborhood and head towards my favorite place to ride in the area: River Road. Yardley is a small town butting against the Delaware River, opposite Trenton, New Jersey on the other side. It's where my cousin and her family have lived for years and also a frequent destination of Stephanie and me. River Road, as you can imagine, stretches for miles adjacent to the river. The road slightly rises as you travel north, making it ideal for negative split sessions, taking advantage of the small decline on the way back. This, unless, of course, you are greeted by a headwind that smacks you in the face, which has happened to me on several occasions. 

About twenty or twenty-five minutes into the ride, I turn around. I'm not timing myself, but I do glance at my watch to get a sense. I stop at my second cousin's flag football game for a few minutes on the way back. He's only seven, but I know he'll be standing somewhere along the barricades the next day, cheering as loud as he can. I want to return the favor in advance. (I'm not sure if second cousin is the correct term here. There was a discussion about what exactly this relationship is called between myself and Stephanie, and my cousin's two kids. Whatever it's called, they're family.)

Now, the test. I dismount my bike, lean it up against the wall in the garage, and lace up my running shoes. I have several benchmarks in my head, each taking only a few minutes, but providing a certain threshold of physical and mental reassurance that I'll be able to run like a gazelle rather then shuffling like a cross-country skier. It's the day before a big race, my "A" race of the year, why am I testing anything at all? To answer that, we'll need to go back to the previous weekend, where Stephanie and I visited my aunt and uncle in Lewes, Delaware. 

****

It's exactly one week before the inaugural IRONMAN 70.3 Princeton triathlon, the pinnacle of my 2014 season. Like many weekends one week out from a race, I did an easy brick workout, a short bike ride followed by an easy run, each with short bursts of race-pace intensity sprinkled throughout. The weather was perfect, one of the reasons I love this time of the year. I'm not quite sure the weather could've been any better that morning. Just 24 hours after a gloomy, cloudy day, with a few rain showers, that morning's sky had no traces of imperfection. The bright blue appeared as if painted on. A cool wind would periodically gust through, chilling the air enough to warrant a light jacket for my bike ride.

The plan: ride leisurely for about 45 minutes, followed by a brick run of about the same duration. I knew the route through the streets of Lewes well. It was suppose to be a routine training session, one I could do in my sleep. The goal for any taper, which I was in the middle of, is to rest, recovery, re-energize, and maintain peak performance through shorter efforts that simply stimulate the muscles. It's no time for actual training. That happened weeks ago. But it is a time where injuries can happen, self-destructive injuries. 

Aside from dodging a few potholes, the bike rides through Cape Henlopen State Park was uneventful. I arrived back at my aunt and uncle's house, and popped my head inside the rear sliding glass door. "T2," I said to Stephanie, who was sitting in a chair watching TV. She smiled back at me.

Helmet and cycling shoes off, running shoes on. But, there was one caveat. Instead of taking the few extra minutes to go upstairs and retrieve my new running shoes I purchased a few weeks prior, I dug through the trunk of our car to find my older pair of Brooks PureConnect2's. I didn't think much of the substitution. There were still a few miles left in those ragged red shoes that saw the streets of Boston and the mountains of western North Carolina in the past few months. I knew they were shot, but I wore them anyway. I would come to regret the decision.

The first 15 minutes of the run were around goal pace, just to stimulate. After that, it was easy, comfortable running for the remaining 25 or 30 minutes. After a loop into Lewes, and cutting across the high school campus, I re-entered the neighborhood. I picked up the tempo one final time for a short half mile effort around the circularly arranged neighborhood. 

I felt good. My stride felt quick and powerful. I began to ease my pace, slowing to a comfortable jog, and preparing to cool down. 

Bang!

A sharp pain darted through the center of my right calf muscle. It was the left one that gave me most of the trouble back in January, forcing me to truncate my training for the Boston Marathon. I immediately stopped once I felt the sharp, searing pain. It was like a flash of lightning, quick, deliberate, and forceful. My hands instinctively moved towards my head, and forming a bowl, covered my face. I felt like crying. I wanted the tears to flow. I tried to force them out. Nothing. Nothing, except me and my worst-case, doomsday, negative thoughts. "There goes Princeton," I thought, totally disregarding what could happen in the seven days between then and the race. In that moment, I felt as though an entire year of training was for naught. 

I returned to the house. There wasn't a limp visible, but each step featured a short, deliberate reminder of what just happened. "How was your run," Stephanie asked, sitting in the family room with my aunt. A half-hearted, unconvincing "good" escaped my mouth. I went to shower. Looking back towards her, I gave her a side-to-side shake of the head. My "good" really meant "no," and she could see it. Stephanie knows me too well. 

For the rest of the day, before returning to DC, I tried my best to enjoy our time together, with my aunt and uncle. But, whether during breakfast or out to dinner, my thoughts continued to drift, always landing on one simple, yet pivotal question, "Will I be able to race Princeton?"

****

Back in the quaint neighborhood in Yardley, shoes tied, sunglasses on, expectations high, everything seemingly built to this one moment. It was like flipping the switch for the first time, jumping the car after the battery has been dead, or adding another small weight to the balsa wood bridge we built back in middle school engineering class. Would it work?? Whether "it" was a light bulb, car, small, model bridge, or my calf, the only thing that mattered was if it worked.

I walk out to the road and cautiously brake into a light jog. As if on egg shells, I nervously place one foot in front of the other. Each successful step provides a small shot of confidence, each compounding upon the previous. My pace gradually quickens, slowly ticking up the internal intensity dial. I reach what feels like goal pace and hold it for a few yards. No pain. I ease up, relieved to have cleared the first hurdle. Again, I repeat the gradual acceleration up to goal pace. Again, I hold it for about 50 yards or so. No pain. A few more and my confidence is resurrected. A small, dull pain looms in my right calf, but it's so faint that it's something of my own mind's creating. The placebo effect is a powerful thing. 

"How does it feel," my cousin asks as I return into the driveway after about 15 minutes of running. "I wouldn't say all systems are go, but it's as close as it's going to get," I replied. I'm just happy I'll be able to give it a go the next day. 

****

Earlier in the week I wasn't so sure if five days would be enough to bounce back. The entire week was exclusively non-impact training:

Monday: swim
Tuesday: rest and yoga
Wednesday: swim and bike
Thursday: swim and aqua running
Friday: travel 

I've heard of some runners using aqua running during their taper period, but I've never tried it myself. I used it consistently for about a month in January while rehabilitating my previous calf injury. The non-impact nature of aqua running is both its benefit and limitation. Though it's useful for maintaining some cardiovascular fitness, it lacks specificity. The only thing that can really simulate the muscle adaptation needed to run efficiently is to actually run. During a taper, however, the focus is more on rest and recovery, while stimulating some muscle activation. Aqua running does this to some degree. 

****

Later that day, just after noon, Stephanie and I drive to the expo at Mercer County Park. It's a massive complex, fields outstretched to both sides as you enter on the two-lane road - a popular venue for everything from soccer tournaments to outdoor concerts. Growing up just an hour north (and playing soccer), you'd think I would've been a regular at the complex. Instead, two years ago was my first time visiting the park, as a participant in the New Jersey State Triathlon. I didn't have a great race, struck down by the day's humidity. My swim was average, my bike was strong, and then I fell apart on the run, draining ever last ounce of glycogen from my muscles to cross the finish line. I sat in a cold shower for 30 minutes after the race, drinking a Coke. 

My first order of business is to pick up my race packet, then to get my bike fixed and racked. I had a brake issue, which I'll come back to. We approach the large inflatable IRONMAN arch greeting visitors as they approach the expo. Hundreds of others zip about, like bees hovering around a nest. It's easy to get caught up in what other people are doing rather then focusing on what you need to do. The same holds true for race morning. As I've gained more experience in the sport, though, this tendency has subsided. I have a routine that works for me. I know what I need to do. I stick to it. The bigger issue comes if I'm forced to deviate from my normal. Today, I'm focused. My intense, competitive Craig is switched on. It's what often happens the day before a race. I fall into "race mode," as Stephanie puts it. 

I step up to the registration table, the first check point in a series of stops to validate my registration and collect the necessary race-day items. Pulling my wallet out, I realize my driver's license isn't in its normal place. Personal identification is required to collect your race packet. At the moment I realize my license is missing, I know exactly where it is, sitting in a small, plastic zip-lock bag on the kitchen counter along with one of my credit cards. Both were in my jersey pocket during my bike ride earlier that morning, but never made it back into my wallet after the ride. It was a mistake I've done before, but never at such a inopportune time like this. 

"I left my ID at home. Can I show you a credit card and my USAT card?" I ask one of the volunteers sitting at the table checking in athletes. "We need a picture ID, but let me go see what I can do," she responded. It would be the one bright spot in the event's organizing for the entire weekend. Thankfully, the woman navigated me to a separate table inside the large tent with a sign overhead stating "SOLUTIONS." The young volunteer pulls my registration up on the computer in front of her and asks me to verify certain demographic information. "Date of birth?...Address?...Phone Number?...." I feel like I'm being quizzed. Thankfully I pass and receive my athlete wrist band. I proceed through the rest of pack pickup without any issues.

Next stop, the bike mechanic. You would think this would be pretty easy to spot. It isn't. I ask one of the volunteers, "Do you know where the bike mechanic is?" She responds with a hesitant, uncertain, "I'm not sure they are here today. I think just tomorrow morning before the race." This doesn't sound quite right. I know bike mechanics are almost always available the day before a race, and this is an IRONMAN event nonetheless. I walk to the expo tent for the bike shop that's also providing tech support for the race. I ask one of the employees. More confidently, they say that all the mechanics are down in transition. "How does a volunteer not know that," I disappointingly thought to myself.

The disappointment continues once we get to the mechanics. "What can we help with?" a young tech asks me. "The brakes are sticking and won't release all the way." Over the past few weeks, I noticed my brake calipers wouldn't snap back all the way, providing only a fraction of a millimeter between them and the wheel rim. I don't want to be riding with my brakes on for 56 miles, right? 

I've had the issue before, and it's usually a fairly simple fix. Today, it isn't looking that way. The first tech plays around for a few moments, trying a couple things. Unsuccessful, he tells me to ask one of the other guys. "Well, that's not too helpful," I think. "A bike mechanic at an expo who doesn't know what to do and passes it along to some other guy." I'm sure he thinks it requires a more advanced fix, something he isn't experienced enough to do. But, still, not a huge vote of confidence coming from this bike shop. 

The next bike tech I approach isn't any friendlier. I explain the problem again. He tests the brakes. Unemotionally, he says it could be something inside the brake components, maybe some rust. His attention wonders to other things. I ask about cost and how long it will take. "We're thinking of getting some lunch, should I come back in about an hour?" He coldly responds as if I'm creating some sort of inconvenience for him. About 90 minutes later, after the athlete briefing and lunch, I go back to pick up the bike. He did a good job. Everything worked well. He even said he looked at the gearing. But, it might have been my worst experience with a bike mechanic. Another strike against the race for poor athlete experience.

Another disappointing - yet quite comical - moment happens at the final athlete briefing, where a race official explains the ins and outs of what to expect on race day. These meetings tend to be filled with logistical information, but they also often include small snippets of detail on the swim, bike, and run courses. Something like, "On the swim, there are three red turn buoys, with yellow sighting buoys on the way out, and orange on the way back." Similar information generally follows with the bike course. Not this time. The race official, in a very nonchalant, matter-of-fact way confesses, "I don't really know much about the bike course because I haven't actually been on it."

"Well, sir," I think to myself, "why the heck are you giving a pre-race briefing if you've never seen the course?!" Stephanie and I turn to each other and exchange snickers. Another strike.

I rack my bike and the rest of the evening calmly progress without any issues. Dinner consists of chicken kabobs - as plain as it gets. I prepare my transition bag for the following morning, strategically lay out the clothes I think I'll need for the following morning in the bathroom, and join everyone outside around the fire pit. The amber flame cut through the darkness. Stars dotted the sky like tiny specs of glitter shimmering on a chalkboard. Peacefulness washes over me as I periodically lean my head back to stare at the vast heavens above. I feel relaxed. And sleepy.

I glance at my watch. It reads 9:48pm, and I call it a night, as if it were any other night. Unlike my last half Ironman in North Carolina, I spend just a few moments awake in bed, and quickly drift off to sleep. 

****

Red brake lights greet me just after exiting the highway. I'm still several miles from the park, and cars form a serpentine line along the two-lane road. We inch forward, slowly. The morning thus far has gone terribly smoothly, unlike the day before. I woke up naturally at 4:45am, 15 minutes before my alarm, giving me a few extra minutes to eat and make coffee. Breakfast included the same foods I've eaten for previous races: mashed sweet potato, avocado, almonds, and an extra strong cup of coffee with coconut oil. 

My plan was to arrive at the park at 6am, giving me about 45 minutes to set up transition and re-check my bike for any issues. As I painfully roll forward, several feet at a time before braking, I focus on the music from the Linken Park Pandora station on my phone rather then the clock. I feel surprisingly calm given the time constraints. I exited the highway at 5:45am. It's now 6am and I think I've moved about 100 yards. Forty-five minutes later I finally park, thankfully on the side of the lot closest to transition. I grab my transition bag from the backseat and my bike pump, and rush towards transition. 

Twelve minutes. That's how much time I have to get body marked and set up transition. My swim wave doesn't go off until 8:10am, but transition still closes at 6:45am for all athletes. I rush past body marking hoping I can set up my transition and come back to be marked. Denied. A volunteer monitoring the flow of athletes into transition instructs me to get body marked before entering transition. "Come on," I think. I quickly do as told, and return to the entrance of transition. I dart to the opposite side of the most expensive fenced in pen I've ever seen. 

It's at this moment I'm thankful I've rehearsed my transition so many times. I know exactly what I need and where it goes. Habit takes over. At 6:45am I hear the stern announcement of a volunteer, "Transition is closed!" I grab my wetsuit and head towards the meeting place Stephanie and I decided on the night before. 

I sat on the dew-covered grass, collecting my thoughts, and waiting. Then, I observe a fellow athlete doing something that triggers something in my head. I forgot something in transition, something pretty important. Shoot. It's closed though. Would it be possible to re-enter transition just to grab this one thing? I know exactly where it is. It won't take but a few moments. I walk towards transition.

My first win! 1st place in my age group at TriRock Asbury Park

Never change anything the day before a race: your wake up time; your morning routine; your diet. Keep it all the same, especially food. It's standard race-day advice you'll likely hear from just about any triathlon coach out there (myself included). Aside from overdoing training during the days (and even weeks) before a race, the one thing that will undoubtedly derail your race-day ambitions is to mess up on nutrition. 

That's exactly what almost happened to me at last weekend's TriRock Asbury Park.

I tend to stick to very simple, whole, unprocessed, clean foods. Things like eggs, coconut (all parts: meat, oil and milk), avocado, vegetables, fish and quality meats make up the majority of my diet. Carbohydrate sources tend to be only white rice, sweet potatoes and nuts. I'm sure it sounds a bit bland, but these are foods I know work for me, and I don't mind sticking to them. Veering off course generally results in performance loss, whether cognitively or physically. 

Staying on course with nutrition is even harder when things are outside your control, like during travel for a race. Traveling is always difficult from a food standpoint. There's only so many things you can bring with you (even harder when flying - don't get me started on the food deserts that are airports). I try to stock my mobile pantry with many of my essentials, but its inevitable I'll need to eat out at a restaurant or buy food from an unfamiliar grocery store at least once.

Thankfully, there was a Wegman's grocery store not too far from the hotel my mom and I were staying at the night before the race. Though my wife and dad couldn't make this race, I was grateful my mom could - some quality mother-son time. 

I stopped at this particular Wegman's on Route 35, just north of Asbury Park, NJ, for both lunch and dinner the day before the race. They are known to have a pretty good selection of prepared foods, good salad bars, and they carry the sardines and coconut I eat. All good. 

The day before the day lunch was fairly normal: big salad with sardines, avocado (this time it happened to be in the form of guacamole), and some olives. 

Dinner threw me a curve ball.

When my mom and I arrived at the store just before 8pm, we found many of the prepared food stations empty or being closed down. "There goes my plan to get some cooked rice and vegetables." I was also conscious of my mom. Not everyone is comfortable eating such an eclectic bunch of foods from random areas of the grocery store. 

Dinner ended being a hodgepodge of random items. We got some sushi (for me), olives, raw veggies and hummus, and some rice crackers with a small wedge of manchego cheese. After I finished my two sushi rolls and olives, I still felt a little hungry. I sampled some of the veggies with hummus and cheese and crackers. Poor decision.

I cut out both legumes and most dairy (aside from butter) from my diet a few months ago. I used to eat a ton more yogurt, cheese, and the occasional hummus, but I've been feeling and performing better since ditching them. The most notable difference has been with my GI system. Gas, bloating, and the like have become race occurrences. 

I've actually noticed a slight improvement in my nasal breathing as well. Mouth breathing tends to be my default, which isn't a good thing. But this is largely due to my nasal passages feeling obstructed. Air simply doesn't flow smoothly in and out. A soccer injury from a number of years ago may have something to do with it. And my wife thinks I have a deviated septum, though it's never been diagnosed. Nasal breathing difficulty could also be the result of inflammation. Obviously the more inflammation, the harder it is to breath (an extreme example being when you're sick with a cold). Inflammation can also be triggered by food sensitivities. Some of the most common culprits are gluten, dairy, soy and legumes. I've never actually had any of these tested, but by implementing a simple elimination diet, I've been able to track how I feel with and without certain foods. Gluten's a no-brainer in my book. After eliminating it from my diet several years ago (along with significantly cutting back on carbs and processed foods), I'm a totally different person. (Read this post on headaches as one example). 

Anyway, what seemed like harmless bits of cheese and hummus may have actually created all kinds of issues for me the next morning before and during the race.

****

The other major thing on my mind the day before the race was the weather. A few hours before dinner, I drove down Asbury Avenue, en route to the expo. The rain was off and on. Gusts of wind blew through on occasion. "I really hope this rain stops and the clouds move out before tomorrow," I thought to myself. The weather forecast for that day called for a mixture of clouds and sun, but not rain. I hoped the next day's forecast would be a bit more accurate. 

As I've said before, pre-race athlete meetings can be hit or miss. I'm sure glad I dropped by this one. The race director alerted all of the athletes that due to the weather, the ocean that day was pretty rough, too rough for lifeguards to allow swimmers in the water because of safety concerns. It looked likely that the same could be true for the following morning. They would make the call at 5am on race morning, but it seemed as though the swim would be substituted for a 1.3 mile run, making it a duathlon. 

My first reaction to the news was that I felt bummed. My wife and I are in between houses at the moment, so my swim has been somewhat inconsistent not having access to my regular pool. I was looking forward to getting in the water. Those feelings quickly faded when I realized the change played exactly into my strengths. I consider running my strongest of the three disciplines in triathlon, and swimming my weakest. I'll take replacing my weakest discipline with my strongest any day (which, of course, begs the question: should I be doing more duathlons? That's a different conversation). 

Though it wasn't a sure thing, I left the expo and spent the rest of the evening mentally preparing for a run-bike-run. How am I going to approach the first run? "I should go out with a fairly strong pace, but not too hard where I don't have legs left on the second run," I thought. What are transitions going to look like? I mentally played the script in my head. The biggest question, which may seem minor but it makes a big difference, is socks (ask anyone whose tried running without socks for the first time - hello blisters!). I typically wear socks on the run, but not on the bike. In T2, I put socks on before my running shoes. However, I'll be starting on the run, so I'll need socks. But, then I'm getting on the bike, which I generally have my shoes already clipped in and ride barefoot. Should I put socks and cycling shoes on, run through transition and then mount? I settled on a mixture of familiar and unfamiliar. After the run, I kept my socks on, but still had my cycling shoes already clipped in. I ran through transition in my socks, which worked just fine because transition was in a parking lot. This would not have worked in a grassy field. I decided T2 would be the same, minus having to put on my socks, since they'll already be one.

****

Wake up and breakfast on race morning were both pretty typical. Alarm went off at 5am with the plan of leaving the hotel by 5:30am, to make it to transition at around 6am. Breakfast wasn't as big as what I've done previously for half distance races but a little something: coffee with coconut oil, a very small sweet potato and half a banana. 

As expected, I arrived at transition to the announcement that the race would be a run-bike-run. My transition set up didn't require much, just racking my bike, putting my helmet on the handlebars, clipping my shoes in, and inserting my water bottles into their cages. I had two, as I usually do, one with UCAN Superstarch and the other with water. (It ended up being an overkill. I had two or three sips from the Superstarch bottle and didn't even touch the other.)

I took 10 minutes to warm up along Ocean Avenue, sneaking a peak at the ocean periodically. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and there was a slight chill in the air. Absolutely perfect racing conditions.

At the start line, we were instructed to assemble by our original swim wave. The run start would proceed as the swim would have, in a time trial start. I was the second wave. I inched my way to the front of the group. The last thing I wanted was to get stuck behind a slower runner. I stepped up to the line with four fellow athletes. The race official's arms momentarily blocked us from moving forward. A few seconds passed, they quickly dropped. That was our cue to get moving.

As planned, I went out fairly hard, but also comfortable. This wasn't the time to push any kind of limits. Instead, I wanted to make sure I finished the 1.3 mile run towards the front of the pack.

I rounded the corner from the boardwalk and into transition. I passed a number of athletes ahead of me. I wasn't quite sure where I was, but I knew I was towards the front. 

Run 1: 8:36

The bike course was a double loop on almost entirely pancake flat roads. A good stretch of road was newly paved and in good condition, but a few other parts were pretty dodgy. You really had to be paying attention to spot potholes. They were abundant in some parts. 

After slipping my feet into my shoes and getting up to speed, I clicked into a bigger gear and put my head down. After a few quick turns, there was a long stretch of straight road. I passed several athletes initially, but then found myself in no mans land for a little. It wasn't too long before I joined a small pack of three other riders. I stayed with them for the rest of the bike. 

At a few points I got pretty annoyed with some of the drafting. One rider, who was pretty close to me for a while, moved past me and was probably only about one bike length behind one of the other riders in our group. I made a comment to another athlete, but then channeled my frustration to the pedals. "Whatever, can't do anything about it."

I ended with a pretty solid bike, while still preserving my legs for the run. So far, so good.

Bike: 51:07

Those first few steps out of T2 tell the story about how the rest of the run will go. I pass those three athletes who I just rode with on the bike within the first half mile. I sized them up on the bike and had a gut instinct I could easily take them on the run. The first mile seemed a bit slow, with my legs transitioning. But once I hit the boardwalk, and the remaining 5 miles or so, my legs felt great. 

I thought back to those days growing up when I ran the boardwalk at the Jersey shore. I felt inspired, uplifted. The sun in my face and the sound of crashing waves in my ears, "does it get better than this," I thought. 

Except for one issue. This is where my food choice the night before came back to bite me. At this point I started to feel some major GI distress. I had some nasty gas build up, almost to the point where it felt like a really bad cramp (there is no such thing as TMI in triathlon). I slogged on as fast as my stomach would let me. I struggled the entire run this way. There was no let up. I pushed on as best I could. 

The thing I loved about the run was also the thing I hated: the boardwalk. It wasn't closed to beach goers, and on a beautiful morning as it was, people packed the wood planks. It was a challenge to weave through people. I almost ran into one guy who crossed without looking. 

Two miles in and I hit the first aid station. I stuck with water the entire way, mostly to throw on my head. One volunteer yelled to me, "you're in third." This gave me a boost of confidence, but also contentment. This was the definitive part of the run, I think. Looking back, I think this was the moment I internalized that comment to mean "you're on the podium," and therefore content with my pace. I kept a decent pace on the run, but not nearly what I know I'm capable of. This was the moment I decided I didn't need to dig deeper. And considering the shape my stomach was in, I was okay with it (at least at the time. I had a very different opinion just after the race). As it turned out, I was actually in 4th place, not 3rd, and just 90 seconds off the podium. Lesson learned. Lesson learned.

I entered the finish chute to cheers from my mom, and cousin Jason and his son Cal, who made the drive out to the race. It felt great to see them and feel their support. They're some of my biggest fans, and I can't thank them enough. 

Run 2: 40:43

Overall: 1:42:06

It did turn out to be an awesome day, though - my first win! 1st in my age group (25-29) and 4th overall. 

 

My First Triathlon Podium on My Second Half Distance Race: Lake Logan Half race report

I lay still in bed. It's eerily quiet; more quiet than I'm used to. In about nine hours I'll be entering the water about to start the Lake Logan Half triathlon. The constant white noise I typically sleep with is noticeably absent. I try to think about something else. Trying to fall asleep white consciously attempting to slow down the bustling pre-race jitters and thoughts is never a recipe for quickly nodding off. Flashes of what could happen in tomorrow's half Ironman distance race snap in my head (the good and the bad) as if images in a slide show. With some adrenaline already flowing, I play the "fall asleep" game, which happens the night before a race - any race - whether it's the Boston marathon or a local 5k. 

Mentally visualizing the next day and how I hope to perform isn't something new to me. This pre-competition ritual dates back to my years playing soccer. In fact, research points to a host of psychological and physical performance benefits from mental visualization. It's your brain's way of priming the body for what it plans to do. More research points to the nervous system as the primary limiter in endurance sports. The so-called "central governor" (see work by Tim Noakes on this topic) takes a variety of sensory feedback to basically tell your body what a safe pace is. It's basically a safety mechanism preventing you from going faster than is physiologically safe. Anyway, this is a long way of saying: a huge chunk of performance is mental. A number of years ago, during the middle of really tough matches or weekend-long tournaments with multiple matches in a day, a very wise soccer coach of mine would always calmly say, "keep the head focused and the legs will follow." This is exactly why I incorporate yoga, deep breathing, and visualization into my training. It makes a difference!

But, back to the story.

No matter how much I follow my sleep routine (link to previous post of sleep), I never sleep as well as I normally do the night before a race. Tonight isn't any different. It's dark. It's quiet. I'm tired. But, thoughts still jump around in my head like a young toddler crying for attention. But, I resist the urge to toss and turn. This only wastes precious energy I'll need the following day. Instead, I lay as still as possible, still sending "rest" signals to my body (and brain). I've become more and more comfortable with this approach over the years, knowing some of my sleep the night before a race will be in the form of this "restful awake" state. The more I obsess over not being able to fall asleep, or constantly checking the clock, the worse the outcome. It's simply counter-productive. Why do it? 

My blue tech Baltimore half-marathon shirt covers the clock. I know that nothing good will come of me checking the time. I get up several times to go to the bathroom, a classic sign of nerves. But I contently come back into bed and resume my still, restful position on my back, legs crossed, eyes closed, calmly and deeply breathing through my nose. (I can't sleep on my side in this situation because when it's this quiet, I can actually hear the blood pulsing in my ear against the fabric of the pillow case. the reoccurring beat is like water drops in Chinese water torture.)

I abruptly open my eyes, startled by the vibration from my alarm. It's 4:30am, which seems early but it's only 30 minutes earlier than my typical wake up time during training. The night before a race I always pre-position everything I need the next morning. This time is no different. I'm more on autopilot than having to think too much about where things are. My bag is already packed and my main to-do's are just to get dressed, make breakfast, and then grab a variety of miscellaneous items like water bottles and sunglasses.

Breakfast is a variation of what I've done the past few races. It's work; why change it? I make a strong cup of coffee and scoop one round spoonful of coconut oil into it. I microwave a small sweet potato that I later mix with an avocado, almonds, Maca powder, half a banana and a little more coconut oil in a small glass bowl. I toss my bag into the car, mount my bike on the car rack, and embark on the hour drive from my brother's house in Hendersonville to the race in Canton. 

Lake Logan is a somewhat small but pristine fresh water lake nestled in the Great Smokey Mountains of North Carolina, about 30 minutes drive from Asheville. A small camp surrounds the lake, but for the most part, it's triathlon at its purest. As you approach the lake on a narrow two-lane road (which is basically the only way in and out), those reception bars on your phone slowly disappear. You're literally off the grid. It's out and the picturesque scenery; glass-like water with green, tree-covered mountains jetting up in all directions. Just off the highway I notice a few cars ahead of me. "They must be going to the race." 

A few minutes later, once we hit that narrow, two-lane road leading to the lake, bright red lights pierce through the blackness. It's almost 6am, the sun still hasn't come up year. My car windows are down all the way. I'm soaking in the cool morning air, which is in the low 60's. The cars ahead of me inch along closer to the parking area near transition. I keep a close eye on the clock. My swim wave is set for 7:12am.

As the minutes slowly tick past 6am, and the cars ahead of me moving just as slow, I feel more and more anxious. I have my transition set-up pretty well mastered, but it's always nice have some buffer in case something unexpected comes up, like what happened last year at the NJ State Triathlon when I had to adjust my front derailleur just before the race.

Along with one access road, the park only has one parking area, and old air strip that's a long grassy area with interspersed patches of pavement. Following the cars ahead of me, I seemingly ended my 75 minute drive that morning at the very end of the parking area. I know I still need to walk a good 10 minutes back to transition. 

I jump out of the car, unrack my bike, quickly top off my tires with air, grab my bag, and start walking...quickly. I made it to transition and checked my watch: 6:30am. The sun is finally peeking through the mountains, but I can't stop to admire it. I still need to pick up my timing chip and get marked (both things that often happen the day before at packet pick-up to minimize race day bottle-necking). I rack my bike in transition, drop my bag, and jog quickly to get my chip and get marked. 

I'm feeling the time crunch. I run back to my transition spot and finish setting things up.

Things seem set. I don't take time to double check. I grab my goggles, swim cap, wetsuit, and jog back out of transition. 

Twenty minutes until my wave start and I still need to make the most important "pit stop" of the morning. Of course, there's a huge line. I nervously check my watch. "There's no way i can wait in this line and make my wave." My next move seemed like the only I have: ask the people in front of me if I could cut the line. There are a good 50-60 people ahead of me. Humbly, I move towards the front, asking "I have a 7:12 wave start. Do you mind if I cut." Thank goodness most triathletes are nice folks and probably sympathize with my time-crunch situation.

I finally make it to the water with about 5 minutes to spare. A nearby spectator kindly helps me zip up my wetsuit, seeing I'm in a rush. Goggles and swim cap on and I wade into the chill 68 degree water. It feels really refreshing, though I think what 55 degrees is going to feel like when we hit the segment of the course under the bridge. While warming up I overhear someone mention the water temperature under the bridge is about 12 degrees colder than the rest of the lake. The thought quickly leaves my head.

I make my way onto the floating dock along with the rest of the under-29 swim wave, all of use decked out in our pink swim caps. One by one, the group jumps into the water to assume our positions for the in-water start. I'm one of the first to jump in. The countdown finally comes over the loud speaker system. My thumb presses the "Start" button on my Timex sports water, and we're off. 

The first few hundred meters are always chaotic. Athletes frantically jokey to find an open path of water. Two athletes converge in front of me, blocking my attempted pass. I move around to the inside and finally find some open water after 200 meters. 

The course is a basic rectangle, but the buoys are all kept to the right. This makes my sighting slightly trickier as I tend to unilaterally breath to my left. A few hundred meters in, this isn't an issue at all. I fall into a good rhythm, sighting the next big orange buoy every few strokes. The view from the water's surface - looking out onto the lake with the mountains in the distance - is an unforgettable sight. I take a mental photo, wishing I had the chance to take a real one from this vantage point. 

Not too long into the swim I find myself swimming side-by-side with a fellow athlete in my wave. He rolls to his right to breath, I to my left. We're locked in an awkward synchronized motion of facing each other each time we both take a breathe. "I'm sure happy my goggles are tinted so he can't see my eyes," I think to myself. "That would be creepy, having to look and see each others' eyes every stroke for the next 20 minutes." We both take turns slightly pulling in front of the other, drafting off each other. But as we near the end, just past the bridge, I'm hit with the wall of cold water. It's a bit of a shock, especially since I opted for a sleeveless wetsuit. 

Stroke for stroke with a fellow under-29 age group. (I'm in the sleeveless wetsuit)

 
Climbing onto the dock at the swim exit I look up to spot my familiar and encouraging face of my wife. She always picks out the best spots to see me, providing a jolt of energy every time I need one. I glance at my watch and what I see both surprises me and energizes me: 29 minutes. Before the race my wife told me she had a good feeling about this race. Maybe she's right.

Coming out of the water (Pink cap, sleeveless wetsuit)

Swim: 29:53

****

On my way out of transition I see my brother, "Good job, man!" I hear him yell. I felt grateful he could see me race. Living in North Carolina, I don't see him, his wife and 1-year old son too often, so having him at a race is special. (I won't go too much into the fact that having him at the race was also part of a plot to get him out of the house so guys could arrive for his surprise 30th birthday party. Yes, he was surprised!) I mount my bike amongst a slight bottleneck of five or so other athletes at the mount/dismount line. But, I manage to make it off without a hitch. 

Start of the bike course.

My bare feet still pedaling on top of my cycling shoes, I climb a short, punchy hill just a couple hundred meters into the ride on the same access road where I nervously sat in my car almost two hours before. I reach down and smoothly slide my right foot into my shoe and fasten the strap. My attempt with the left isn't as successful. I few more attempts and I finally succeed. "Finally got it," a fellow athlete shouts, who must've been watching my fumble with my shoe for a few seconds. I give a brief chuckle, acknowledging him, but then drop down onto my aero bars, attack the first downhill, and pull away.

The first couple miles are exhilarating. There's nothing like smooth pavement, a slightly downhill gradient and big gears. It's the perfect combination! The elevation profile of the 52-mile bike course looks like a "U" with the first half being a net downhill, followed by the second half of about the same in net ascent. There are several shorter climbs as well throughout, but also features some fast, flat sections through the valleys between the mountains. 

My nutrition strategy on the bike is the same as what I successfully used at Rev3 Williamsburg: one bottle of Superstarch, one with plain water, and two packets of Justin's almond butter. Both bottles I sip throughout the first 35 miles or so of the bike leg.

Like the swim, the first few miles of the bike are about getting into a good position. Packs are generally more common early on and sometimes thin out as the race progresses. Going into the race I expected this even more so with the second half of the bike featuring the bulk of the climbing. I find myself in a small group during the first 10 miles, each of us jockeying for position. We each take turns leading the group before being taken over by a fellow rider.

Many of the descents are quite technical. I take most of them fairly aggressively. But, after one sharp turn, I notice an athlete off to the side of the road just beyond he train tracks. He's frantically trying to change his tire. "Maybe he took it too fast," I think to myself. It's an image of caution. At the same time I don't dwell on it. Upon hitting the next descent I click into a bigger gear and power forward. I know the second half will be slightly slower with all the climbing, so I want to bank all the time I can where I can.

About 20 miles in I blow through the first water bottle exchange. I have plenty on board and don't feel I need another. I bite open my first nut butter packet, squeeze its contents into my mouth, and wash it down with a sip of water. Using nut butter has taken some getting used to. Imagine the feeling of trying to swallow a big tablespoon of peanut butter while exercising. It's definitely an acquired thing.

I hit the halfway point. A glance down at my watch shows I'm pushing a good pace (1 hour 15 minutes), close to my goal. Things are playing out just like I hoped they would. A few miles later I know I've hit the second half: climbs start coming more frequently. Most are pretty manageable. Some I don't event have to shift out of the big ring. But, then I come to a familiar road. I drove it the previous day and the morning of the race. Though it isn't long, a 15% or so grade is a major challenge regardless. I pass a fellow athlete on the way up. Since conquering 300 kilometers and almost 11,000 feet of climbing in 16 hours earlier this year, my confidence in my climbing ability has been through the roof. A few years ago I used to dread the site of a steep hill. Now, I look forward to the next one because I know it's another opportunity to track someone down. 

I pass through the final bottle exchange and again forgo taking one. Both of my bottles still have a little water left. And because the air temperature is still relatively cool with almost no humidity, I don't think I need the extra water. I feel solid.

The final big climb comes around mile 40 or so. It's by far the largest and longest of the day, ascending almost 500 feet. "Now this is what I'm talking about," I think. I spot a few riders up in the distance ahead of me. It's not too long before I swallow them up. 

The half bike course joins up with the Olympic race just a few miles before the finish. It's noticeably more congested. I easily pass many, but have to give a stern "on your left" when I come up on one athlete whose hanging out on the left side of the course instead of the right. 

The final few hundred meters includes a quick, steep descent (the same I went up two and half hours before while struggling to get my feet in my shoes). I resist the temptation to take it too quickly. Undoing my cycling shoes, I slip my feet out. I gradually brake as I approach the dismount line and notice my brother just off to the left. He yells some more words of encouragement as I dismount and run my bike into transition. Socks, running shoes, and hat all go on, then I grab my bib and water flask. Out to the run course.



Bike: 2:32:28

****

My quads immediately feel tight. On both legs, my vastus medialis, or the one quad muscle (you have 4, hence the "quad") on the inside part of my thigh, is extremely tight. The first thought that comes to mind is I went too hard on the bike. I simply taxed the muscle too much. (This may have been the case, but nutrition could've played a role as well. The day after the race I washed my water bottles only to find that one had a huge clump of superstarch stuck to the bottom. I must not have shaken the bottle enough, allowing some to simply settle to the bottom rather than suspending in the liquid.)

Whatever the cause of the tightness, which is verging on a cramp at this point. I have a choice to make. Do I stick with my original run nutrition protocol, consisting of superstarch in my run flask and taking additional water from aid stations spaced along the run course about every mile? Or, do I abandon that and go for a simpler fuel source that will be more rapidly use by my now aching quads (and other muscles). 

I take a big drink of my flask and attempt the first mile. I think to myself, "I'll see what the first mile is like and reassess at the first aid station." That first mile is pure agony. Not only is the course a gradual incline, my quads are getting worse. 

The run course is a double out and back, but it's along a road with a gradual 1-2 percent gradient. Meaning, on the "out" 3 miles, its all uphill, then all downhill on the subsequent 3 miles. Then, repeat a second time. The uphill portion doesn't worry me as much as the downhill at this point. Lessons from the Boston Marathon are still fresh in my mind - the significant squad damage that downhill running can cause.

I hit the first aid station. "Coke!" I yell to the race volunteers, who always look so happy and willing to help. I'm sure to thank them whenever I have a chance. Relief isn't immediate, but it feels that way. Not too long after guzzling the half-filled white paper cup with "liquid gold" I notice the tightness begins to subside. I immediately feel a mental boost. "Maybe I have a shot at a half-way decent run after all."

As I pass the "Mile 2" sign, I glance at my watch. I half expect a relatively modest pace, 20-30 seconds slower than my goal. But, that isn't the case. To my surprise, I'm hitting about 7 minute miles, and that's on the uphill. 

Hitting the turnaround brings a sense of relief. "Yes, downhill," I think to myself. My stride lengthens slightly, quickening my pace. With clearly defined "uphill" and "downhill" sections, I had two goal paces in mind, one for each segment. I knew the uphill would be a little slower, but ideally the faster downhill would make up for it. My goal pace of 7 minute miles would be somewhere in between. 

My legs feel much fresher. The heavy, post-bike leg feeling has worn off. I'm sure the Coke had a little something to do with it as well. I continue to grab a Coke at the next two aid stations while falling into a solid rhythm. My mind's finally allowed to drift slightly away from the fatigue in my legs. The site of parked cars near transition and spectators finally comes into view. I scan the sides of the road for my wife and brother. I need the encouragement.

"Go, Craig!" I hear. I immediately feel a bounce in my step. As I'm about to pass them I toss my half-drank flask with superstarch left over. No need for that anymore. Once switching to Coke there's really no use for it.

Mile 5 of the run, ditching my water flask.

 

The turnaround feels like quicksand. Runners entering the second loop bypass the finish line and circle a large field. It's thick, heavy grass weights my feet down, making each step twice as hard.

Heading out for lap 2 on the run course.

 

I turn left after the gravel path and head back onto the road for my second out and back. I pass my wife and brother again. More energy. My brother and I both extend our arms for a high-five. The force of his arm nearly spins me around.

A half mile into the second uphill and I'm playing a serious mental game with myself. I pull out all the stops to keep myself in a positive place. More than once the thought of "man, I want to walk" creeps into my mind. I beat it back with images of being on the podium for my age group.

I feel a runner wiz by me. "Nice job, man!" I yell. "He must be running a good 30 seconds per mile faster than me," I think to myself. "I'm just a relay," he responds. I see the black "R" on his left calf. "Well, that makes me feel better."

I hit the last aid station before the turnaround. "Almost there," I think. "Then it's all downhill." It takes every ounce of mental and physical endurance to hold pace up that hill. I feel I've slowed a bit, but that doesn't bother me too much. My thoughts drive to what I felt late in the race in Boston - the shear agony in my quads. "This isn't worse than that, right?"

Rounding the turnaround point feels like a huge mental boulder is lifted off of me. I know I still have 3 miles left, but it's manageable. 

During those last few miles my thoughts remain solely on crossing the finish line and seeing my wife and brother (okay, and a few thoughts about food). I see my brother in roughly the same spot he was before, about a third of a mile from the finish. Again he gives me a high-five. And again, I almost spin around. I round the final corner and it's an all-out push to the finish. I spot my wife and give her a high-five as well. Instantly my grimace transforms into a smile. I know I'm there. 

Crossing the finish line I feel proud. Last race I had regrets after the race that I left something on the course. Today is a much different scenario. With my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, I know I gave it everything. 

Run: 1:32:25

Finish: 4:39:38

 

****

 

My first triathlon podium!! 2nd place in my age group (25-29) and 29th overall.

And this was only my second half Ironman distance triathlon! Things are looking up. I'm excited to see where they go.

PODIUM! 2nd Place: 25-29 age group.