Blog #5 for EndurancePlanet.com - originally posted on 8/18/2009
Having grown up in the great state of Kansas (I now call California home) I have a healthy appreciation for severe thunderstorms and the havoc that they can wreak. Indoors is always better than outdoors; the lower to the ground you are the better; and always avoid being in any large bodies of water or near anything made of metal.
Enter the Utah Half-Ironman on Saturday in Provo.
The morning started perfectly. Nice and cool with a beautiful sunrise peeking out over the Wasatch Mountains. But as we made our way down to Utah Lake for our 6:45am swim start the heavens opened up and the storms rolled in. It began to howl something fierce. The temperature noticeably dropped 5 to 10 degrees. And the buoy that was supposed to be our turnaround point for the second lap of the 1.2-mile swim began to blow away.
So there was a delay. Followed by another delay. Followed by a "we're checking the weather radars and hoping to find a window without crazy winds and lightning."
At 45 minutes past our scheduled start -- and 45 minutes of standing around in wetsuits -- a small window was found and we were off. And the chaos of the moment, at least for me, cannot be overstated. To go from standing still for the better part of an hour, shivering, to "we're off and running the biggest race of your life" in a split second was not exactly in my pre-race plan.
Nevertheless, I got out of the water not too worse for the wear, but certainly off my game a little. I was behind the 8-ball on my nutrition plan (plenty hydrated, however, thanks to the timing of my breathing and the wind driven waves of the lake) and mentally I was pretty screwed up from the very auspicious beginning to what was supposed to be a terrific day.
On the bike, ready to roll, and the winds began to really kick up and more lightning could be seen in many of the directions that our 56-mile ride would take us. As I took a deep breath and thought to myself, What the hell am I about do?, my wife Carrie came up to me and said, "Just keep going. Don't stop unless they pull you off the course. I love you."
She got me started on my ride. I needed her to say something. She said the right thing. 56 miles would be done, come hell or high water, which was becoming more and more a real possibility.
The winds were rough. There were times when I was noticeably listing into the wind to avoid getting blown over. The rains came in buckets, and I swear in the distance I could hear the hammering of an arc being built. And the lighting and hail came; turning one of the most beautiful settings for a race I've ever seen into a scary scene of survival.
But through it all it was oddly exhilarating as well. As hail began to ping off my helmet and leave the occasional mark on my exposed face I actually started to smile. I was in the middle of nowhere, 29 miles into the bike leg and separated from safety and civilization by some of the angriest clouds I've ever seen, and I was thrilled. My energy and stamina all picked up and it was at that moment, when the conditions were the worst that I knew that I would finish.
I negative splitted my bike time -- something I never do -- and my final hour on the bike was by far my strongest and fastest. I had an absolutely terrific second 28 on the bike and it was largely due to the added challenge of riding in a thunderstorm that no sane person would want to drive in.
I pulled into T2 soaked and muddy but feeling great. I was hoping to change into some dry socks before heading out on the 13.1-mile run as a way to refresh my chilled feet, but to no avail. The storm had blown through transition and everything that I had there, from shoes and socks to towels and a clean shirt, was wet and muddy. Oh well. I would finish regardless.
Thanks to the soaking wet feet I got some pretty decent blisters in the early goings of the run, but I knew I would finish. My legs got tired, of course, and the ache in my feet got worse. But I knew I would finish. And even though the strength and energy that I felt at the end of the bike was largely gone by mile 10 on the run, I knew I would finish.
And I did. And it was great. My first half-Ironman was complete.
I can't say enough good things about the people who organized this race. Despite some horrific conditions they kept the race running smoothly and as safely as possible. I am eternally grateful to them and I'm looking forward to doing their event next year, when I can focus on the lake setting and surrounding mountains, instead of hail and raindrops the size of shot blocks.
And of course my wife, Carrie, who also did the race -- her third half-Iron distance. And the half-dozen or so friends who either did the race or traveled to Utah to cheer us on. It was a special day having you all there.
So, with the Utah Half safely in the books, only one more chapter is left to be written: Kona.
Enter the Utah Half-Ironman on Saturday in Provo.
The morning started perfectly. Nice and cool with a beautiful sunrise peeking out over the Wasatch Mountains. But as we made our way down to Utah Lake for our 6:45am swim start the heavens opened up and the storms rolled in. It began to howl something fierce. The temperature noticeably dropped 5 to 10 degrees. And the buoy that was supposed to be our turnaround point for the second lap of the 1.2-mile swim began to blow away.
So there was a delay. Followed by another delay. Followed by a "we're checking the weather radars and hoping to find a window without crazy winds and lightning."
At 45 minutes past our scheduled start -- and 45 minutes of standing around in wetsuits -- a small window was found and we were off. And the chaos of the moment, at least for me, cannot be overstated. To go from standing still for the better part of an hour, shivering, to "we're off and running the biggest race of your life" in a split second was not exactly in my pre-race plan.
Nevertheless, I got out of the water not too worse for the wear, but certainly off my game a little. I was behind the 8-ball on my nutrition plan (plenty hydrated, however, thanks to the timing of my breathing and the wind driven waves of the lake) and mentally I was pretty screwed up from the very auspicious beginning to what was supposed to be a terrific day.
On the bike, ready to roll, and the winds began to really kick up and more lightning could be seen in many of the directions that our 56-mile ride would take us. As I took a deep breath and thought to myself, What the hell am I about do?, my wife Carrie came up to me and said, "Just keep going. Don't stop unless they pull you off the course. I love you."
She got me started on my ride. I needed her to say something. She said the right thing. 56 miles would be done, come hell or high water, which was becoming more and more a real possibility.
The winds were rough. There were times when I was noticeably listing into the wind to avoid getting blown over. The rains came in buckets, and I swear in the distance I could hear the hammering of an arc being built. And the lighting and hail came; turning one of the most beautiful settings for a race I've ever seen into a scary scene of survival.
But through it all it was oddly exhilarating as well. As hail began to ping off my helmet and leave the occasional mark on my exposed face I actually started to smile. I was in the middle of nowhere, 29 miles into the bike leg and separated from safety and civilization by some of the angriest clouds I've ever seen, and I was thrilled. My energy and stamina all picked up and it was at that moment, when the conditions were the worst that I knew that I would finish.
I negative splitted my bike time -- something I never do -- and my final hour on the bike was by far my strongest and fastest. I had an absolutely terrific second 28 on the bike and it was largely due to the added challenge of riding in a thunderstorm that no sane person would want to drive in.
I pulled into T2 soaked and muddy but feeling great. I was hoping to change into some dry socks before heading out on the 13.1-mile run as a way to refresh my chilled feet, but to no avail. The storm had blown through transition and everything that I had there, from shoes and socks to towels and a clean shirt, was wet and muddy. Oh well. I would finish regardless.
Thanks to the soaking wet feet I got some pretty decent blisters in the early goings of the run, but I knew I would finish. My legs got tired, of course, and the ache in my feet got worse. But I knew I would finish. And even though the strength and energy that I felt at the end of the bike was largely gone by mile 10 on the run, I knew I would finish.
And I did. And it was great. My first half-Ironman was complete.
I can't say enough good things about the people who organized this race. Despite some horrific conditions they kept the race running smoothly and as safely as possible. I am eternally grateful to them and I'm looking forward to doing their event next year, when I can focus on the lake setting and surrounding mountains, instead of hail and raindrops the size of shot blocks.
And of course my wife, Carrie, who also did the race -- her third half-Iron distance. And the half-dozen or so friends who either did the race or traveled to Utah to cheer us on. It was a special day having you all there.
So, with the Utah Half safely in the books, only one more chapter is left to be written: Kona.
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