Prologue and for those of you just looking for the race facts / course
report
The Lifetime Fitness Epic 250 in Bend, OR takes place in
late September and offers a 250k version and a 150k version of the race at the
same time. The weather is volatile
and can be in the 90s, or 30s & wet.
Bend is a great town to visit with plenty of lodging, food &
entertainment. It’s also an
outdoor sports Mecca with tons of sports on offer late summer.
The 250k course consists of a 5k swim (longer than the 4k IM
swim), 138 mile bike (longer than the 112-mile IM bike), and 14-mile run
(shorter than the 26-mile IM run).
The swim is 60 degrees in a beautiful, clear mountain
lake. It’s a two-loop swim with a
run out between laps. The start is
in waves and chest deep at the start, but gets very deep about 300m into the
course. The swim start is very
relaxed and you don’t have to worry about jockeying for position or getting
kicked in the jaw.
The bike is two times up Mt. Bachelor and conditions can
vary greatly. It is a climbers’
course, although the flats & downhills demand a TT bike over a road
bike. The average gradient of the
climbing is only around 4%, but there are some brutal sections that the overall
climb rating obscures.
The run is on paved trails and a one-mile section of dirt
trail. It is only moderately hilly
and not at all technical.
LOGISTICS ARE KEY!!!
Portland is a largest nearby airport, but is four hours by
car to Bend. Redmond is the
nearest airport 18 miles away, but pricey to get to and usually requires
multiple stops & plane changes.
T1 is 45 miles from T2. If you fly in, you MUST have a rental car to
get your bike to T1. Tri Bike
Transport only gets your bike to T2 and is at the finish; you are on your own
to get it to T1.
The official race hotel, the Hilton Garden Inn is nice, but
a fifteen-minute drive from the bus pickup. Spectators are not allowed at the swim or out on the bike
course. Technically, they offer a
few swim spectator slots on the busses, but they are stuck there for five hours
until the last rider leaves T1 and they reopen the park road. The best place for spectators to watch
from is T2, 1/8 mile from the finish line. There are plenty of restaurants at the finish and near the
hotel.
Race Recap
I had a great run-up training for this race and can’t thank
Jamie Cleveland & Andrea
Fisher enough for their great coaching and the never-ending wellspring of
support at the Texas Iron workouts.
A big thanks to my
Texas Iron &
Big Pistachio team mates for
keeping it fun and competitive.
As
always, a big kiss to my patient and supportive wife who puts up with months of
lonely weekends while her husband is out training.
The water was a nice 61 degrees, but the 32 degree air
temperature wasn’t going to make for a fun morning. Fog poured off the water, partially obscuring the first
buoy. The ground was wet, but it
wasn’t raining and the wind wasn’t blowing, as we feared it might. As a result, the water was glassy
smooth and clear.
I dropped my special needs gear bag at the start, added
gloves and arm warmers to my T1 bag, and went immediately to the warming tent
opposite the start. It was a really
nice thing to provide to the racers and I managed to stretch out and wait until
about twenty minutes prior to start to begin putting on my wetsuit. It felt good to get the extra layer on,
but the ground was unbearably cold under bare feet. I recognized from late season high school swim meets that my
feet would feel like they were on fire when they hit the water.
It was a long pre-race briefing and people were shivering in
the run-up to the start. I got
straight into the water when they told us we could enter, and started getting
used to the water. It was about
200 meters from the ramp to the start.
The lake is really shallow at that end, and we were actually standing in
chest deep water at the start line.
It was a decidedly less stressful start than a typical Ironman, with
only about 40 people in my wave at the line. People were cracking jokes and letting people move around
them freely, instead of jealously guarding position, as is usually the case.
The horn blew and we were underway. The field quickly sorted out, and a few
swimmers shot straight off the front.
I was under no illusion that I could hold on to their feet, so I
switched around a bit trying to find a comfortable pair of feet to hold. The fog obscured all but the next buoy
in the line, so it was a shock when we got to the turnaround buoy, but kayaker
assured us we were at the right spot.
The pace was feeling good as we headed back to the ramp. It was a two-looper for the 250k
participants, so we had to come up the ramp, circle the aid table, and then
head back down the other ramp into the water.
The 125k group started 30 minutes after the first 250k waves,
so I heard the horn for the first wave go as I started up the ramp. I heard the announcer declare that I
was the fifth swimmer out and I ran smack into the back of the next wave of 125k
racers and had to pick my way through them as they casually made for the start
line and tried to acclimate to the cold water. Fortunately I made it to the turn before the second wave
started and don’t think I got caught by many of them.
This did put me in the thick of the first wave of 125k’ers
on my second lap, but it wasn’t too bad finding my way through. There were a handful of folks who
couldn’t swim a straight line and I had to hop over one guy. As I pulled over his hip, I had an
instant of panic as I remembered what was ultimately the race-ending cramp for
me at IM Arizona. I was doing
exactly the same thing then; trying to go over another swimmer’s hips and must
have kicked a little extra hard or something else out of the ordinary and a
cramp locked up my right calf to the point that I had to stop swimming, and
later judged it not worth running on for 26 miles. I didn’t want the same outcome here, but I found myself in
the same situation, and I’d gotten here all too easily.
I stopped kicking, I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing for a
bit, and every nerve ending seemed to tingle as I waited for a report from my
calf. No shooting pain; foot
wasn’t locked straight out with cramp. We’re good!
Nothing knotted; I got back to it.
The swim seemed to pass very quickly, and ultimately I
believe the course was a little short.
I came out of the water at 1:02 for the 5k. In comparison, my last IM AZ 4k swim was a 0:58. Either I had an inspired swim, or the
course was a little short. Then
again, maybe a little of both.
Jamie had told me in the week prior to the race to exaggerate my swim
turnover to what seemed to me like comical speeds. I kept after the turnover and think it was a big contributor
to a good split. I was convinced
that I’d tire myself out at that cadence, but I was able to hold what I thought
was a good turnover throughout the swim, and was certainly much faster than the
preceding weeks.
Fortunately, the race organizers had heat blowing into the
changing tents and it was really nice to step into a steamy environment after
the swim and short run to the gear bags.
It was a little weird to step into the tent and not be able to see
anything at first for all the steam.
Shapes started to emerge, and soon I could make out guys standing,
sitting, or falling over as they peeled wetsuits off, putting on cold weather
bike gear, and loading pockets with nutrition. My feet were numb from the swim, so it took ages to get the
wetsuit off. I was similarly
ham-fisted trying to open the Ziploc bags with my nutrition in them and stuff
the contents into my jersey pocket.
Nutrition for the next nine hours (according to my plan) was going to be
really important, so it seemed important to get it all, less so to worry about
a good transition time.
Everyone was really polite and guys were wishing everyone else
good luck on their way out of the tents as they sought their bikes. What seemed like a long time later, I
emerged from the tent and headed for my bike. There were a lot of rides there, still racked; a good
sign. The roads were wet from the
overnight rains and it’s never a good feeling to me to have wet sock feet,
especially at the start of the ride.
A clear path out of transition and I was off on the bike. There’s a little twisty section to get
out of the lake and onto the main highway that warranted a little care on wet
roads while getting shoes in pedals.
Once out on the main road, I started to dial up the effort
and immediately started knocking back gels. I could hear a brake pad rubbing, and the idea of giving
away any watts on the 138-mile bike ride didn’t sound good, so I stopped and
resituated the calipers on both wheels.
Moving again, and now the chain was skipping a little at the top end of
the cassette. Since that’s where I
planned to spend most of the day, I stopped again a bit down the road to give
the cable a half-twist and get moving again. This seemed to do the trick and the chain was locked in and
silent. I sometimes forget to mess
with the derailleur adjustment when I switch between training & race
wheels. I’d shortened the pre-ride
the day before because it was so late by the time we got to the lake with the bike. Probably should have paid more
attention…
The first little uphill was a shock to the system. My legs felt loaded and my hamstrings
were already uncomfortably tight.
I’ve got a new bike ailment this season: my inner hamstrings way up high
on my legs tighten up during races.
This never happens in training, even on tempo rides, and is really hard
to stretch out once it starts.
This pretty much ruined the bike on my season opener at Gatorman. To a follow vehicle, this must also
look pretty funny as well: about the only thing I can think of to work on it is
the nose of my saddle. So, to the
innocent follow vehicle, it would look a lot like I’m trying to shove the nose
of my saddle up my ass. Anyhow,
the early hills weren’t fun.
At the same time, I’m still hearing what sounds like a brake
dragging and I alternately open and close the quick releases on both brakes
trying to isolate it. I can’t
figure out which is doing it, and I’m thinking that having a half-effective
brake on some of these wet downhills isn’t going to be a great thing
either. So I stopped yet again on
a hill to get the calipers centered.
All this, and I’m still in the first five miles of the race. I tell myself not to panic; that it’s
not a big problem and I have a long way to go. Good idea… tell yourself you’re nowhere near the end…
The courses for the 125k and the 250k diverged after just
about 10 miles, with the 250k riders heading out for an out-and-back section. This was a good opportunity for me to
get a look at the riders in front of me.
As it turned out, this was the only time I’d see most of them for the
rest of the day. I started
counting riders headed back my way after they made the turn to see where I was
in the overall. Eighth at the
turnaround. Still too early to get
a read on how those guys were feeling, but they looked really damn strong. Also, quite a few riders not far behind
me looking strong as well. I’m
betting I didn’t look all that intimidating to the riders behind me. It’s hard to race my own race at this
point, but I tell myself that it’s a really long day and I definitely can’t
spend it all here in the first 10 percent of the race.
At the turn, we’re about 18 miles into the race and headed
back up the main highway that would take us up Mt. Bachelor and into Bend. It seems so close. Unfortunately, we’re not headed that
way yet, and even when we make the first trip over Mt. Bachelor, we turn away
from Bend and head back down to do the same stretch again later in the
day.
I’m only at mile 30 when I realize I have made a big
mistake. I am in my 39x23, the
smallest gear I have, panting and straining over a climb. This isn’t even Mt. Bachelor, yet. The first rider of the day passes me
and I mentally notch myself back to ninth place on the road. Not to worry, long day, I’ll ride into
it I tell myself.
Back out to the main highway and headed up Mt. Bachelor the
first time, at about mile 42 and it started to feel a little easier. The grades aren’t nearly as severe and
most of the climbs are big ring. I
get passed by a couple more riders and am sitting around fifteenth a few miles
from the ski lodge at Mt. Bachelor.
I tell myself I’ll start reeling these guys back in on the long descent
and the race will start next time up the climb. At around mile 65, the climbs get really nasty and I’m out
of the saddle again. I stop
counting where the hell I am in the field. A number of riders have passed me and I start worrying about
how I’m going to do this climb a second time later today.
My nutrition has been spot on throughout the day and I’m
properly fueled and hydrated.
Because the temps have been in the thirties & fifties throughout the
day, I’ve been able to back off on the salt tabs a lot, but I’ve still tried to
keep to a water bottle every 30 minutes.
I’ve been mixing a few solids in with the gels to keep from feeling too
hungry or getting sick. This still
feels like a good strategy, just not one I was able to practice much in Texas
during my training. The summer
heat made each long ride / run a race against dehydration. I sweat a lot, and I lose tons of salt
to sweat, so the training was always a race against dehydration, and the bike
rides a logistical puzzle planning periodic stops to fill four water
bottles. Not so today. The two bottles on the bike I refill
whenever they start to get a little low and just a handful of salt tabs every
hour.
Back to the climb.
The sting is really in the tail, with the last 10 miles really being the
toughest ones. It’s been
completely overcast all day, which has really helped with the temperatures and
sunburn. A few drops of rain
bounce off my helmet on the climb, although they sound like golf balls inside
an aero helmet. The temperature is
probably in the forties as I near the top of the climb, which is really
comfortable. I’d rolled my arm
warmers down earlier in the climb, but it felt good to roll them back up now.
As I reached the top of the climb at about 65 miles, it’s
now raining in earnest and the wind is blowing pretty hard. I pat myself on the back for not racing
a disk wheel and wonder how those who’ve passed me on one are faring. This is where I think things really
started to go bad. For me, the
point where things go from wet to miserable is when my socks soak through and I
can feel the wind coming through the vents in the cycling shoes. I’m there now. My arm warmers and windstopper gloves
are now soaked through. The gloves
were a last-minute purchase at REI on the walk to dinner and they seemed
laughably excessive at the time.
Now wet, the wind seems to pass right through the gloves, and through me.
My folks are at the top of the climb at the aid station
before the turn at mile 68. I’m
now 45 minutes behind my anticipated pace at this point, and I feel bad for
keeping them out there in this weather.
Darlene is apparently there as well, but instantly went to work handing
out bottles at the aid station when they arrived. I never saw her.
I picked my way carefully around the corner, worried about tumbling on
the wet roads. The road surface at
the top of the climb is really fantastic, smooth asphalt, but in the wet, more
like ice, and the painted lines seemingly certain to cost you a collarbone.
Good news is that I’m now headed downhill and I know it’s a
long descent for at least 10 miles.
Time to get the average speed back up, maybe make up some ground on the
guys who passed me on the climb.
The bad news is that now wet, the wind chill is bad, and I’m shivering
my way down the climb. 75 miles
in, I’m shaking so badly I am starting to worry that I’m going to fall off the
bike.
The road tilts up again around mile 85 for some rolling
hills and a couple short out-of-the-saddle climbs. The special needs aid station at about mile 93 is a
wonderful thing. I’ve stashed a
tire and some of the sweeter bits of nutrition. Fortunately I don’t need the spare and have been fortunate
on the wet roads not to have flatted.
I went about 10 psi light in the tires in anticipation of wet weather
and that seems like a good call that didn’t cost too much in rolling
resistance. Carrying my lead ass
up the climbs is more of a concern than a little more squish in the tires…
We turn back onto the Cascade Lakes Scenic Byway (the main
road back to Bend) at about mile 94 and it feels good to be headed for the barn
now. No additional, contrived
detours to add mileage.
Unfortunately, I know in excruciating detail what the climb is going to
be like. It’s definitely not as
much fun this trip up the climb and the 100-mile marker, which is usually a
good sign in a bike race, feels hollow.
The worst part of the climbs still to come and another 40 miles before
the bike’s in a rack.
At mile 110, the wheels have come off. It is pouring rain and the climbs are insufferably
steep the second time through. The
raindrops are pounding off my helmet.
The temperature is now in the high thirties and everything I own is
soaked through. My hands and feet
stopped hurting late in the descent but are well and truly numb now. By mile 110, I’m shaking so badly that
I can hardly keep the bike pointed uphill and when I get out of the saddle to
climb, I can’t feel the handlebars.
My hands still close, but the prospect of a 40- to 50-mile-per-hour
descent isn’t something I think I can handle if called upon to squeeze a brake
lever.
My Garmin beeps at me as I stand to keep the bike
moving. What? Why the hell is it doing that? It can’t be losing contact with the
wheel sensor because it doesn’t have one.
It’s not making sense; the clock stopped running, but it’s still reading
a ridiculously slow, single-digit speed.
Then I put it together: In what can only be described as cock-sure
arrogance, I made the executive decision when I first set up my Garmin months
ago that it would stop the clock when my speed dipped below 8 mph. Surely the only time I’d go that slow,
was when I stopped for a red light on a training ride… Unfortunately my speed’s dipped below
where the Garmin thinks I’m still moving.
Shit.
I pull in to the aid station at mile 112 and dive in under
the tent, convinced I’ve gotten off the bike for the day. I can hardly form the words between
shivers to ask the volunteers if they have spare trash bags. I’m thinking of some sort of wind and
rain barrier, and if I can get a little more warmth out of it, so much the
better. No trash bags… I’m fucked; I can’t finish this race.
There’s another rider there who’s given up for the day and
he’s waiting for his ride. It
sounds like a good idea as it inexplicably continues to rain even harder than it
was just moments before. They have
hot chocolate and I gratefully slug it down, as I look over anything they have
to eat on the table. Nothing looks
remotely appetizing. I’ve almost
stopped shuddering as the hot chocolate does its work. I start calculating how long it will
take for my parents to get to this location with the car after I borrow a cell
phone and they hopefully answer the call.
I realize I don’t know my parents cell phone numbers, just where they
are in my favorites… If Darlene
answers, they’re still thirty miles away.
40 minutes at best that I’m still here, wet, and shivering.
I glance down at my feet, and although I’m wearing cycling
shoes with cleats on, the water running down the street is still rolling over THE TOPS of my shoes. Deciding that I’m as warm as I can be
over the next 40 minutes, and despite everything inside me that is shouting at
me to stop, I swing my leg over the bike, roll back out into the rain and get
moving again.
About a mile up the hill I realize my glasses are sitting on
the table at the aid station. I
ain’t going back! I’m not adding
one more foot to the climb! The
grind up the remaining miles of the climb I can’t remember. I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t
feel much, and I was so cold I don’t think I thought of anything beyond the
next pedal stroke and how I’m not really going to freeze to death; that I can
think my way to being warmer.
There was an aid station at the top of the climb, mile 120,
before the descent into Bend. The
valley looked so damn far away, but the sun was shining down there. The roads ahead were dry. I stopped at the aid station for some
more hot chocolate and to see if they had spare trash bags. No dice, but the guy at the aid
station, who I’m sure is the Patron Saint of Cyclists, hung his rain jacket
over my shoulders. Knowing that I
wasn’t going to dry off in the next few minutes, I thanked him, gave the jacket
back after a quick cup of lukewarm hot chocolate, and started down the hill.
It was every bit as cold as I feared and I was shaking so
hard I had to get off the aero bars and onto the brakes to hold on and keep
things pointed downhill. I
couldn’t push myself to full speed on the descent and gave back several miles
per hour on that section where I’d originally planned to be flying at this
point on the course. More time
behind goal pace.
I knew that averaging zero mph into the average speed didn’t
help, but I stopped once at the roadside to try in vain to warm up. I was panting now; I couldn’t breath
but for these shallow, ragged breaths in between shudders. I’ve never been so cold in my life and
never so happy to step out of the cycling shoes and put a foot on the
ground. My feet were blocks of
ice; truthfully they felt like there was a hockey puck under the ball of each
foot.
I racked the bike, and got into my T2 bag. I was so happy that I had put dry socks
in the bag. I couldn’t get my
helmet off though. My dead fingers
scrabbled uselessly at the clasp until I grabbed the strap and pulled the damn
thing over my chin, slamming the helmet to the ground. Dry socks, dry shoes! Wet arm warmers & gloves off. I can’t put the race belt on; my hands
won’t work. Stuff a mitt-full of
nutrition into my jersey pocket.
Wrap the race belt around my hand and head out. Another really long transition.
My family’s there at T2 exit. I’m at least moving on peg legs and the temperature is so much more tolerable. I feel like I’m settling in the first
mile. There are a couple other
guys starting the run with me and we shuffle past each other in turn, trying to
find a comfortable pace. But, there
is no comfortable pace. I’m also
fighting this panting breathing pattern I’ve fallen into and trying to replace
it with some normal deep breaths, but a few steps after I stop thinking about
it, and I’m right back to hyperventilating.
This race is still very doable. They give away big belt buckles to those who finish under
nine hours, which I never deluded myself into thinking I’d do. According to my pace calculations, 10:03
is my finish time. This gives me a
lot of buffer to make the 11-hour cutoff for the small buckle. 11 hours is the delineation between “I
kicked this sonofabitch around!” and “I finished”.
Now I have to refigure things.
I’m off the bike at 10:15 by my watch.
This leaves me 1:45 to cover fourteen
miles of run.
This means ten-minute-mile
pace.
I can do this.
I can see myself crossing the line at
10:58 and miming the
Aaron
Rodgers “discount double-check” belt thing.
I’m going to be a cheesy finish line poser.
I might even dance; and I’m not going
to feel the least bit embarrassed about it…
At mile 3.5, facing the climb to the high point of the run
course, I’m walking. I’m walking
and fucking panting! Panting while
I fucking walk…
I can start a run again and hobble over ankles that don’t
feel like they’re even bending any longer. I can get the stride back and get my breathing back to
normal, but this invariably evaporates within two or three hundred meters and
I’m walking again. Damn! I’m not going to finish this; I’m going
to retire after the first lap. I
can’t make 11 hours. No
buckle. No doubt in my mind.
I walk it into the transition area for lap two and see my
family again. I feel bad for
them. It’s cold. It’s boring. It’s been a long day and they can’t be the least bit
entertained. Once again, I’m
within a hair’s breadth of quitting and if their answer had been anything other
than, “you finish. You walk if you
have to,” I would have happily followed them straight to the car. Nevertheless, I find myself running
again. Not far, but stringing it
along as far as I can. Switching
to Coke at the aid stations, and it’s the best stuff I’ve ever tasted.
The end of this race will come. It won’t be 11 hours; hell it might not even be twelve. I watched the sun set; I finished my
first race ever in the dark. I
ended up running more the second lap than the first.
I ran into the finish and they’d already started the award
ceremony. The photographers had
already gone home. I know there
were people that finished behind me, but I thought I was the last runner on the
course.
Epilogue
Five weeks removed, feeling still hasn’t come back to my
fingers. I can feel pressure, but
no surface sensation. I hope it
will come back and suspect it will take a couple months, but there’s always
this uncomfortable nagging, “what if it never comes back?” It doesn’t feel like it could happen
outside of the Iditarod, but apparently it can.
I signed up for another race two weeks after, thinking that
I had some good fitness, and would just put a little speed on. Just a long Olympic, nothing epic, but
I just wasn’t ready to hang it up on the season. Unfortunately, both Darlene and I came down with a really
bad flu and I missed the race and added about two non-training weeks in that
seemingly at up what form and fitness I might have had.
About half of the 250k field abandoned the race, most from
the cold on the bike.
No one
finished under 9 hours this year.
The winner was at 9:10.
I
finished
51st
out of 97 finishers with a time of 12:11.
I swam a personal record 1:02 5k swim and set an unknown
best for the 4k swim en route.
My
bike was a really slow 7:52 or around 18 mph if my math is right.
My run (really a walk) was a painful
3:07 for 14 miles.
I’m not really happy with the race, but enormously happy
with my finish. Thanks to my
parents and my lovely wife! I
wouldn’t have finished it without you.
