I begin the run with a smile and an easy, methodical lope. I have no expectation of starting out fast, knowing that my legs won't cooperate with such a plan anyway, so I settle in for a warm-up jog for the first mile.Runners hurry by in both directions as I trot back out to Airport Boulevard, cross the street and head west. Athletes steam purposefully past, but I pay no attention, aside from being careful to stay out of their way. I feel reasonably good, and know that once my legs adjust I'll be able to pick up my pace a bit, so why push it now? My only concern is making sure none of the women passing me bears the dreaded "Z" on her calf, and, as none do, I relax and put myself on cruise control.
The day has heated up, but a playful breeze out of the west tickles our faces. I make the left turn just before aid station #1, grateful to leave the relatively busy Airport Boulevard behind, and head out toward the hot, tranquil vineyards south of the airstrip.
Guzzle some water at the aid station and squeeze down a packet of Gu just afterward. I spend the next half mile fumbling with the zipper on my torso pack, fishing out my tube of Vaseline, and applying gobs of the stuff to an irritable patch of skin having a disagreement with my new RST singlet. Ah! There are few things in life as satisfying as knowing that a little thing like bothering to carry a tube o' lube has just saved your entire race!
The first three miles are familiar to me from last year's International Vineman, but beyond that will be an adventure. After the first mile and a half of mostly flat with a slight but perceptible upward bent, the run course feeds us a steady diet of roller after roller after roller that would probably make you giddy and sick if you were actually *rolling* over it rather than running (or, as in my case, jogging). Actually, it could make you sick either way, as several hundred triathletes would willingly attest!
The entire course is on paved roads, which isn't too bad except for the places where there's a distinct "crown" in the asphalt and you can practically hear your right IT band screaming at you in indignation. Like the bike course, the run meanders through vineyards, pastures, and open fields, with only one short stretch that could legitimately be called "shady" 1 or 2 miles from the turnaround. Aside from that brief respite, we trot for 13 miles completely exposed to the merciless sun glaring down upon us and baking the pavement beneath our feet. Fortunately, the TriGods have shown us pity, floating a protective layer of high clouds between that angry sun and our poor struggling bodies. The temperature hovers in the mid-80s, and I find myself once again mentally thanking every one of my friends who sent "cool" thoughts Santa Rosa-way this day.
The miles aren't consistently marked, but I know when I've passed three because the course takes a right turn up a hill and ventures, for me, into unknown territory. I'm just as happy not to know where I'm going; it probably would only hurt more, and, in retrospect, might have scared the hell outta me! Not that any of this stuff was particularly long or steep---it just never stopped *rolling*. Up and down, up and down, left turn, right turn, around the curve, down the hill. Mile after unmarked mile, aid stations at irregular intervals, guessing how far I've gone by checking my watch. I see RSTers David Baldwin, Tim Iverson, and Janet Fawl and other tri-friends along the way and exchange shouts of encouragement, high-fives, and weak jokes and laughs. Other than these punctuations, I experience the run as a blur of ups, downs, curves, and heat.
Contemplating the runners around me, I wonder which of these lunatics are doing the Full Vineman, and which lap they're on. Personally, I cannot imagine slogging my way around this run course twice; once is sufficiently brutal for TriBaby! Focussing on keeping my heart rate reasonable, I slow on the uphill sections to a ludicrously poky plod, but it keeps me feeling good, and I cruise on the downhills. I cram down GU on the odd miles and keep drinking constantly, gratefully refilling my bottle at the aid stations.
Haven't seen any Clydes on their way back in yet, and I gotta be close to the 6 mile point; I wonder---is it possible that there aren't any ahead of me, or have I just missed them? I don't dare entertain the thought that I might actually be in front. Don't think about it! Don't think about it! Just keep up that steady trot! But the turnaround had better come soon, it's got to be somewhere just ahead. Cresting yet another hill, a beautiful horse ranch spreads on our right, and the road stretches out a ways ahead. The scary thing, however, is that in the distance I can see a parade of runners looking like so many ants traveling perpendicular to the road down which I'm currently trotting. Yipes! Obviously, the turnaround isn't on *this* road. *gulp*
Okay, take a deep breath and keep on going. I pass a few athletes who are walking and offer words of praise and encouragement, guessing that they're probably Full Vinemen. I can't begin to express my admiration for these people! The mental challenge of doing a full IM on a looped course intimidates the hell outta me, and the toughness of these guys and gals transcends anything I can imagine. Just incredible!
Toodling down this gentle slope, my gut makes itself a nuisance, informing me that I would be wise to find a portapotty soon. Ugh, not a very comfortable sensation. Not intolerable, just uncomfortable. Hang on, hang on, the turnaround can't be too much farther up that perpendicular road, there's sure to be one of those blessed little teal boxes there. Enjoy this descent while you can, anyway, 'cause all too soon you'll be going the other way here.
Trot, trot, trot. At last, the road takes a decisive leftward turn, and only about 300 meters beyond lies the Holy Grail, the turnaround! I quicken my plodding pace ever so slightly, eager to make the halfway point. Checking my watch, I note that I'm making good time and should be halfway done in just over an hour. Excellent! Rounding the turnaround marker, I gleefully call out "333!" and head for the food and water, downing a few fig newtons, some water, and Allsport. Then, it's straight to the little teal box and I emerge a new and improved TriBaby, ready to conquer the remaining miles.
"Almost there! Almost there!" I cry to those heading the other way. I practically feel bouncy, so happy am I to be on the final leg. The bounce sort of dissipates, though, once I round that curve and face the hill so recently descended. Oh, yeah, kinda forgot about that. Oh well, here we go! Cheerfully slogging my way upward, a gal passes me and complains good-naturedly, marvelling at the brutality of these incessant rollers. "Yeah, but you're doing great!" I tell her. "Go get 'em!" "Well, so are you, you look really strong," she calls over her shoulder. "Just doing my best," I reply. "Keep it up, good luck!"
Triathletes are so cool, no doubt about it. There's such a genuine warmth and camaraderie in this sport, where a woman who practically looks like a professional can trot on by a Clydesdale like TriBaby and sincerely hand her a compliment like that. Silly as it may seem, it really feels very special to be regarded as a peer, if not in terms of my athletic ability, at least in terms of my effort and output, by people whom I regard as *real* athletes.
This pleasant exchange keeps me rolling happily along, back past the enviable spread of the horse ranch, now on my left, back over the hot rollers before another descent and a curve to the left through the welcome shade of a stand of trees. Beginning the next climb coming out of this curve, I spy the woman whom I had passed so long ago in the early miles of the bike---the first Clydesdale I've seen on the run. Calculating quickly in my head, I figure that we're about a mile from the turnaround, which means I've got two miles on her, and 5.5 miles to hold it. I can do that, right? Say that I'm doing 10 minute miles, and she's doing 9 minute miles. That means it'll take me 55 minutes to reach the finish, and it'll take her... over an hour! Cool! Hopefully that means I'll at least place, 'cause I think there are only 4 or 5 Women Clydesdales racing today. Yes!
OK, OK, chill out, you've got a LONG way to go yet, and a lot can still happen. Stay focussed, don't get distracted, cram down another packet of GU. I spy my friend Michael from Berlin eating up ground with his long strides, heading for the turnaround on his first lap of the Full Vineman. "Go, Michael! You're an animal!" I cry joyfully. He grins and waves and speeds by. Sheesh, how can a person run like that after 2.4 miles of swimming, 112 miles of biking, and over 5 miles of running already? Incredible!
I enjoy the shady section of the course here between miles 7 and 8, and loudly admire the flaming shorts sported by a stylish volunteer around 8 miles. Then, it's that noxious climb around that curve heading for mile 9. This nasty little bugger vaguely reminds me of the 10-11 mile at Wildflower, just in terms of the pitch of the climb and where it occurs in the race. I try not to think too hard while I'm doing it, just put my head down and consider how nice that at least this cilmb's in the shade! I pass quite a few athletes on this hill, and breathe a heavy sigh of relief when I make it over the top. Whew! Starting to really feel it now, I'm definitely getting tired. Quick, rip out another GU.....suck that puppy down, and suddenly realize God! I am SO sick of this stuff! I can hardly make myself swallow it, but it's the only way, donŐt start being stupid now.
I perk up a bit after forcing down the GU, and pick up my faltering pace. Come on, hang in there, just 4 miles to go! You can do this, no problem. "Hey, Tricia!" "Hey, Michael! Geez, you are FAST!" The guy has hit the turnaround and made up three miles on me already, and boy do I feel slow! "Yeah, but I'm bailing out on the second lap," he explains. "Oh, how come? What's wrong?" "Oh, I'm just not having a good day, and I've got another big Ironman race coming up next month, so I figure I'll save myself for that. Keep it up, I'll see you at the finish!" and away he dashes. I half expect to hear a sonic boom upon his departure. Amazing.
Trot, trot, trot, on and on and on. Talk to the curious horses sticking their heads over the fence, joke with the aid station volunteers, drink water, eat GU, and keep running. Starting the last significant hill back to the 3/10 mile point, I flash a "Hang Loose" to the race photographer and crow "Hi, Mom!" Knowing that this is the last climb, and soon I'll be back on the part of the run that I know relatively well, my spirits rise. I pass a couple more people on the climb, and sigh gratefully down the gentle backside and around the curve at the bottom. The course really just hiccups from this point on. First hiccup down, a couple of curves, more hiccups, some flat stuff.
Between 10 and 11 miles I spy Ironboy Mike Holm on his way out and shout encouragement. "All right Mike! You look great! You're an animal, go get 'em!" Yes, as far as I'm concerned, everyone doing the Full Vineman is an animal! He responds with a reasonably peppy "Go, TriBaby!" and soldiers on. Wow! He's gotta do this whole course, get back to the finish area, turn around and come out here all over again. YIPE! Brave, brave boy.
The aid station at mile 2/11 is one big party, and the volunteers are great. I stop for a moment to enjoy some cookies and de-fizzed coke, which restore a little bounce to my step. I check my watch, and realize I have a chance to finish in under 6 hours, if I can just keep up a steady 10 minute per mile pace for the last 2 miles! OK, OK, don't get excited, just stay focussed and keep those legs moving, turn 'em over, keep going. Plod, plod, plod. Shoot, it's warm. I oughta try to get down one more squirt of GU, but I simply cannot do it.
rrrrrrrrrRRRRROOOOOAAAARRRRRrrrrrrrrr....!!!
A plane takes off directly over my head----the runway runs perpendicular to and ends at this road, yow! The noise and vibration nearly blow my tired body right over like a house of cards, but it sure wakes me up. Anyway, I'm nearly back to the road that returns to Airport Boulevard, less than a mile and a half to go. Rounding the turn, I pass a walker bearing a "Z" on his calf. "Come on, Clyde, you can't quit now!" I cajole. "OK," he gamely replies and picks up a jog beside me. He hangs with me 'til the final aid station at 1/12 miles, then drops back as I push onward, back to Airport Boulevard, headed for home!That final mile seemed to take forever. The heat, the fatigue, the pounding, it was everything that had ever existed or ever would exist. How much farther could it be? In the distance I see where we make the turn into the Business Park, but it just isn't getting any closer, dammit! I decide to stop looking at it, and look everywhere but straight ahead. At last, I look ahead to see the intersection manned by police and volunteers and trot back across the street amid cheers and shouts of encouragement. I check my watch---5:55:something. It'll be close, but I can do it, I can make it!
I pick up the pace infinitesimally, determined NOT to miss the opportunity to break 6 hours. Remembering how deceptively long the final section within the Business Park was at last year's International, I ignore the claims of the volunteers that it's "only a couple hundred yards!" Nope, I ain't fallin' for that one this time. TriBaby doesn't crank it up 'til she SEES that finish line. The last hundred yards is more than enough of a sprint for these tired legs to contemplate right now.
And then, after an eternity of straining to see the final turn, there it is, O Beautiful Sight! I shift from a jog into something that might legitimately be called a run, responding to the cheers and clapping around me. The final right hand turn, and my legs begin to churn, I'm shifting into overdrive, I'm winding it up, my eyes fixed on that heavenly finish line, my arms swinging desperately, driving my body forward. "Break six! Break six! Break six!" screams my brain in time to my labored strides. I hear the announcer say something like, "Whoa, look at this! A strong finish for number 333."
Just...a...few...more...steps...and....YES!
Pantpantpantpantpantpant pantpant pantpant pant pant pant pant pant, pant, pant, pant; pant; pant; ..................
Ah!!!!! I can stop now! I can hit the Stop button on my watch----Oh, look at that, 5:58:49. Hey, I did it, I broke 6 hours. I'll be excited about that later, but for the moment all I can think is "Water" and "Shower". Skippy catches me and gives me a big hug, and, realizing how completely spent I am, guides me carefully first toward the water and then toward the showers.
Several hours later, we returned to the race site for the awards ceremony, TriBaby considerably refreshed by a REAL shower and a brief nap back at the hotel. I checked the posted results and sighed in frustration to find that a single page had been torn out of the listings, and guess which division was on that page? So we went up to an official at the announcer's stand to ask if they were aware that a page had been torn down, and she replied yes, there was a problem with some of the results on that page so they were investigating it. Great! Shades of Bass Lake in '95, sheesh. "Well, can you just check one result from that page for me?" "Sure, which division?" "Women's Clydesdale."
She pulls a page from the stack in her hand and shows it to me. There, Women's Clydesdale, and there, at the top, it says TRICIA RICHTER, 1 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I did it, I WON!!!! My official time was 5:58:44! Second place turned out to be RSTer Marian Hendricks, 7:12 behind me. There were three more Clydesdale Women after her, so I was the best of a division of 5, but it was good enough for me! I felt ridiculously proud, and amazed at my own performance.
Y'know, I like Triathlon.
:-)
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