Lifetime Tri Bend 250k

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 51^st 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.