OK, Ruth convinced me. Here's my report from Lake Placid:
There's only one word for this one - brutal. The weather conditions were terrible. Rain all day and
into the night, constant, strong gusty winds, a high of 66. You were cold and wet the whole day and
it just beat you up mentally as well as physically.
The direction of the wind was the worst possible for the bike leg. The last 12 miles of the 2 loop
course is a constant climb, with only a couple of short flats. The wind was dead in your face the
whole climb. It took me 1 1/2 hours to make the last agonizing 12 miles of each loop. Some vets who
have done Hawaii say the winds Sunday were every bit as bad as at the legendary winds at Kona.
That's how bad it was.
Race synopsis:
The two days before the race were gorgeous, except for the winds, which everyone kept hoping would
die down. It was fun having my wife, Toni, along for a change and we did some touristy things. She
got in some nice training runs, too.
Among the former RST'ers I saw were Bob Mina and Eric Weiss. Unfortunately, I never hooked up with
Tricia Richter, who was also there.
As race day approached, the weather forecast kept getting gloomier and gloomier. We awoke Sunday to
dark, ominous overcast skies, some rain, and strong gusty winds. Nobody looked very happy.
The swim was uneventful, as it usually is for me. I was a few minutes slower than usual, but I
think the wind and chop on the lake came into play. It's funny that for most non-triathletes (and
even some triathletes) the 2.4 mile swim is the most intimidating leg, yet it's usually the easiest
and least eventful part of the day. The only thing you really remember about it is encounters with
other swimmers.
If you know "the rope secret" at LP, swimming a straight line is easy. Mirror Lake is used for a
number of water events and they have rope courses permanently installed below the surface. All you
have to do is get next to the rope the buoys are attached to and follow it like the line at the
bottom of a pool. Piece of cake. As you become more tired, it really helps because that's when your
strong side tends to pull you off line. Towards the end of the race, there was this one guy near me
that was zig-zaging like crazy, wasting time and energy.
As I said earlier, the wind was from the worse possible direction for the course. It's an elongated
oval that is predominately on an east-west axis and the last, hardest climb is towards the west. The
wind would help on the early climbs and the flat middle sections, though, and I imagine that I
wasn't alone in my game plan of using the tail wind where possible to get some minutes in hand
before the last
climb. Those downwind sections were fun and the minutes I gained there did make a difference.
But it all came down to that last 12 mile climb each loop. I can't describe how brutal it was. It's
a series of constant "steps," some longer than others, but constantly upwards. There's no relief
except for two short stretches. You'd beat yourself up climbing one hill, fighting the wind and
gravity every inch, and all you'd have facing you is another hill. The first time through was bad
enough, when my legs were still relatively fresh after 45 miles, but the second time was agony.
It was 3:55 pm as I approached the last climb, which meant I had 1:35 until the 5:30 pm bike cut
off. (If you don't make that, you're out of the race.) It had taken 1 1/2 hours to do the climb the
first time, but now my legs were really dead. You do the math.
The second loop had been tough mentally for me. I found myself doubting why I was doing it and what
I was trying to prove. The thought of that last climb was weighing me down, hanging over me. I knew
what it was going to be like, that it was going to be a case of the mind willing the body to do
what it doesn't think it can do. I've done it before, but I was doubting if I could do it again.
Was it worth it?
That climb was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Every second I was on the verge of
quitting. Every agonizing turn of the crank I thought that I could just stop, get off the bike, and
end the pain. It would be so easy. The hurting would stop. I've done 6 of these things. I've proven
I can do them, that I can will my body to do what it doesn't want to do. Why am I doing it again?
What's the point?
I don't know what the answer was, but I kept going. Each time I almost stopped, I'd think about
someone who was pulling for me, who expected me to finish, and that would help. I also hate to lose.
The thought of slinking back to the car while others were still out there - while I SHOULD still be
out there, was not acceptable. So I kept going. Finally, the last hill was behind me and I made it
to the Transition with about 6 minutes to spare.
OK, I've just spent the last 1 1/2 hours in agony, and you know what? I'm happy. I KNOW I can do
the marathon. I know how to do it in 6 hours. I've got 6 1/2 hours until the midnight cut-off.
Piece of cake.
Well, except for the deluge....
The weather gods were having fun. I had been soaked during most of the bike, but I had missed the
real deluge in town, where the transition area and most of the spectators were. All day, the skies
had periodically opened up with rainfall of biblical proportions. No-one was spared: participants,
volunteers, spectators - everyone got it equally. There's a steep hill in town and folks say it
looked like a river - complete with white water rapids. Many of the faster bikers had to contend
with inch deep water in the very tight turns there. There was standing water in the transition
tents. There was water everywhere.
It wasn't raining when I finally made my way out onto the run course, but the gods had saved the
best for last. Just as the majority of people were out on the run course, just as it was turning
cooler at sundown, the skies opened up with one final deluge. I was about 6 miles in when it hit.
I had put a long sleeve jersey in my Special Needs bag which I would have access to at 13 miles, so
I knew I'd be OK once I got there, but other folks weren't so lucky (or as well prepared.)
Hypothermia became an issue, compounded by the low energy reserves of everyone, and quite a few
runners saw the medical tent rather than the finish line. Or both.
I slogged it out, staying with my pattern of walking 10-15 seconds and then jogging 45-60 seconds,
an endless repetition that carried me onward at a steady, sustainable pace. The bike had taken more
out of me than other races and in the second half, I found myself tempted to walk more. Time wasn't
a factor, I'd finish even if I prolonged the walks, but it didn't seem right. It's still a race and
the goal is to finish as fast as you can. The competitor in me wouldn't let me do less. So I slogged
onward, eventually improving my overall standing by about 90 places. I did the 'thon in 5:58 -
almost even splits, and crossed the line at 16:30.
After I finished, I told Toni that was it. No more. I wasn't going to put myself through that much
pain again. It didn't make sense. What was I proving?
The next day? Well, I mellowed a bit. I don't think I'll do Lake Placid again. I've wrestled it to a
draw two years in a row, but it's going to beat me before I beat it. I'm just not strong enough on
the bike, nor can I do the kind of bike training I need.
I want to get to 10 Ironmans before I give it up. I'll stick to flatter courses like the Great
Floridian - maybe do Ironman Florida, and be satisfied. At one a year, that'll take me to 60. then
we'll see.
One last word - the race was hard enough for the competitors, but I can't give enough praise to the
volunteers and families that were out there all day and into the night, cold and wet, supporting us.
They don't get the glory of crossing the finish line, but the competitors couldn't do it without
them. Toni did both - catching me at different points through the day, and then working the Run
Special Needs area from 5:30- 8:30 - during the deluge. And she was there at the end with warm
clothes and a hug. She'd spent the whole day cold and wet, like all the thousands of others, to help
us get through.
They're the heroes.
Mike Tennent
"IronPenguin"