Fortunately, the races in foreign countries don’t sell out so quickly.
No one has called and invited me to Hawaii. I’d better start looking for my own IRONMAN race.
BEFORE HEADING to IRONMAN® country, I need to be sure I’ve got this triathlon business down cold. I’ve done a few short races, but I need to learn all the ins and outs of how triathlons work.
I start hanging around with the Big Guys, the triathlon veterans, and I start asking probing, intelligent questions, like, “What do you do when you feel like you’re drowning?” “Is it okay to stop pedaling so you can catch your breath?” “Should you be worried when you have chest pain every time you run?”
Everyone tells me that the rules of the triathlon world are sharp and simple. If I pay attention to what they say, there’s no way I can get lost. I listen carefully.
Pretty soon everything is clear as a bell.
Today’s triathlons come in a variety of distances. The most common by far is the sprint triathlon. There are hundreds of these races staged in communities all around the country. If it’s warm enough to bike and swim, there’s probably a sprint triathlon close by.
The exact race distance varies—a half mile swim, 15 to 20 mile bike and three mile run might be typical—but some races are a little longer and some are a little shorter. Often the distance depends on what roads are available for use by the race organizer. A 15 mile bike course might be easy to lay out and block off, while a 20 mile route would be impossible. The logistics of hosting a triathlon are much more difficult than those of staging a running event.
A sprint triathlon is a real challenge, but it’s within the reach of most people. If you run regularly, you can add a few outings on the bike and some time in the pool and consider yourself in training for a sprint triathlon. It’s a reasonable goal for reasonable people.
Practically everyone starts with a sprint triathlon before progressing to a longer event and many of the sprint triathlons have a beginners’ division to encourage new participants. There are plenty of opportunities to compete in these shorter races and, before you know it, you’re hooked on triathlons. Once you’ve done a sprint triathlon, it’s natural to begin thinking of a longer event. For most of us, life’s accomplishments come in short steps and small bites.
The next step up is an Olympic distance triathlon, a standard 0.93 mile swim, 24.8 mile bike, and 6.2 mile run. A men’s and women’s triathlon have been a part of the Olympics since the 2000 Games in Sydney, Australia, and most of the World Cup races staged for professionals are run over this same distance. Nowadays, every major city hosts a triathlon as well as a marathon, and most of the popular big city triathlons such as New York, Chicago, Washington, and Philadelphia feature an Olympic distance race. These events draw thousands of competitors.
World Triathlon Corporation (WTC), IRONMAN®’s parent corporation, has recently entered the Olympic distance game. They’ve linked several of the most prestigious Olympic distance events in the United States and abroad into a 5150 Triathlon Series.
This isn’t surprising, the WTC tentacles are everywhere in the triathlon world. A few years back they introduced the popular IRONMAN® 70.3® Triathlon. These races involve a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike and 13.1 mile run—exactly one-half of the distance of a full distance triathlon. Races of this distance have been around almost as long as the original IRONMAN race, but the IRONMAN 70.3 Triathlon is the new giant in town. Athletes can get a taste of the full experience with just half the work needed for a full distance triathlon.
Finally, if you struggle through all these lesser distances and your mind and body remain intact, another challenge remains: the IRONMAN Triathlon, the ultimate goal of many triathletes. It is a 2.4 mile open water swim, followed by a 112 mile bike, and a full 26.2 mile marathon.
There are only around thirty of these races held each year around the world. With around 50,000 people competing worldwide each year and just thirty official triathlons, it can sometimes get crowded.
There are many different types of triathletes. Some are men and women on the go, living in the fast lane, while others, like me, struggle to beat the cutoff time.
The competitors in a triathlon are divided into two broad groups: professionals and amateurs. The pros compete for prize money and represent only a small fraction of the athletes participating in a triathlon. The vast majority of entrants are amateurs, and they compete in five-year age groups; for example, males 25–29, females 30–34, males 50–54, and so on. These amateurs are known as “age-groupers” and an “age-up” rule is used for determining the specific age group in which each triathlete competes. Your age on December 31 is the age used for determining your age group for the entire year. If a triathlete is 25 on December 10, for example, he competes the entire year in the 25–29 age group.
No matter what the race distance, triathlons work pretty much the same. At registration you pick up a race chip and a race number. The chip is worn on a Velcro band, usually around your left ankle, for the entire race. On the left side it’s unlikely to rub the chain ring of your bicycle. When you cross strategically placed timing mats, your time is recorded electronically. There’s always a mat when you exit the swim and when you enter and leave the transition area, as well as at the finish line. In most of the longer races, timing mats are also placed at bike and at run turnarounds to make sure that no one cuts the course. With all the kicking and thrashing involved in an open water swim, it’s surprising that these chips are rarely lost. The race director’s favorite lament is “no chip, no time.” They seem to spend much of their time obsessing over the timing chips.
Each athlete is assigned a race number that is worn on the bike and on the run, either attached to clothing or to an elastic race belt worn around the waist. Sometimes a similar race number is also affixed to the bike and to the bike helmet. In most triathlons, the race number is marked on the arms or legs (or both) with a black felt marker. Often the age of the athlete will also be marked on the calf. This allows athletes to spot age group competitors along the race route. If you catch up with someone on the bike or on the run in your age group, you can attempt to look fresh and relaxed as you try to motor past your rival.
With electronic timing being the norm in today’s triathlons, I’m not sure body marking is all that critical. These chips are accurate to a fraction of a second. Yet, there’s an almost mythical, ritualistic aspect to the body marking process. For some, it’s like an Indian brave putting on war paint before a battle. For a few hours, the ordinary man facing the common stresses of modern life—credit card debt, car repairs, angry spouse—is able to enter a different world. He, along with a bunch of attractive women, gets to strip himself half-naked and cover himself with paint. What could be better than that? These body marks are a badge of honor that tell the outside world that this man can swim, bike, and run. He is not simply a middle-aged accountant or a banker, he is an athlete.
Sometimes these body marks can last longer than you would expect. Take my friend Frank, for example. He’s single and in his late thirties, a man doing his best to stave off middle-age, trying to halt the march of time. I ran into Frank one Sunday morning at a group bike ride. He had finished a triathlon the previous day and I could still see a few faint body marks on his arms and legs. Frank is no fool, he did well at the triathlon and he wants everyone to know it. Later that same day, I saw him at the track with his girlfriend, a very attractive graduate student in her mid-twenties. To my surprise, Frank was strutting about with bold, sharp body markings. He had re-marked himself before meeting up with his girlfriend. Frank is a real alpha male, a man on the prowl, trying to stay atop the herd.
After body marking, it’s time to check your bike and other gear into the transition area. This area is carefully cordoned off with only participants allowed inside. Helmet, water bottles, biking shoes, running shoes, race number, towel—you need a lot more gear than you do for a running event, and it’s very easy to forget something. With no biking s
hoes or running shoes the race is impossible. Forget your bike helmet and you won’t even get out of the transition area. Everything must be arranged and put in a special place in order to facilitate a fast transition from one discipline to another.
Before a triathlon, there are lots of things to check, and you have to have all preparations done well before the starting gun. If you cut it close and have a problem, like a flat tire or a missing shoe, you’re in trouble. So you start early and invariably you end up with a lot of time to kill before the starting gun. An idle mind gives rise to a lot of self-doubt and anxiety. This is one of the worst parts of doing a triathlon, waiting and worrying, questioning your judgment and sanity.
As starting time approaches, the anxious herd lingers near the swim start. It’s a time for meaningless talk, surviving the interminable minutes until the body’s motor begins running and all nervousness disappears. Invariably the race announcer is chirpy, talkative, and a little annoying. “Six minutes to start; it’s a great day; thanks to our many sponsors; everyone must have a chip,” and on and on and on. Race announcers are like television weathermen, they both speak with an inane breeziness that sometimes makes you want to press the mute button.
Swimmers wear a colored swim cap that serves primarily as a safety feature; out in the lake or in the ocean, swimmers’ heads are easier to see when bobbing in and out of the waves. Sometimes different swim cap colors distinguish women from men, pros from amateurs, or different age groups.
If the water is cold enough, athletes are allowed to wear wetsuits. These neoprene rubber suits fit very snugly and keep the swimmer not only warm but, more important, buoyant. Special models are produced for the triathlete with thick layers over the chest and abdomen for better flotation and flexible layers at the arm pits for easier arm movements.
My first experience with a wetsuit occurred a few years ago. I was headed to New York to visit my daughter and compete in the New York City Triathlon. It’s an Olympic distance event and was my very first “big time” triathlon. “Wetsuits allowed,” proclaimed the race website. I knew that I needed to borrow one to take along for my race, so I visited my good friend, Mike. He is approximately my height and weight, but there the similarities end. He’s young, I’m old. He’s got a lot of lean muscle, I’ve got a lot of flab. He’s a great swimmer, I’m a horrible swimmer. He’s done the IRONMAN® World Championship; this is the longest triathlon I’ve ever tried.
On race morning I am on the bank of the Hudson River, scheduled to start with the first wave of swimmers. I get another competitor to help zip me into the wetsuit. It feels like it must have shrunk on the flight up; I can barely breathe. A couple of cups of coffee that morning, a lot of pre-race anxiety, and a long wait at the start create a big problem. I need relief but there’s nowhere to go.
A man does what he has to do.
The race goes well, I finish early, and my daughter thinks I’m a great athlete. She doesn’t realize I started in the first wave of swimmers, well ahead of most competitors.
A few weeks later our local biking group had finished riding and we were telling tales, discussing race strategies. The subject of how best to stay hydrated came up. Everyone had their favorite tip, but we were all in general agreement: drink plenty of sports drink the day before and the morning of the triathlon. Be careful, don’t get caught at the start of the race with a full bladder, you’ll be uncomfortable and you’ll lose time.
“That’s no problem with me,” I proclaimed. “I take a leak in my wetsuit right before the gun goes off.” Everyone chuckled. Mike looked at me with a jaundiced eye.
Maybe I need my own wetsuit. I know I need a new friend.
Many triathlons start swimmers in different groups or “waves.” For instance, men under 40 might start in one wave, followed five minutes or so later by men over 40, then women under 40 in another five minutes. This staggered start helps keep congestion to a minimum. Since everyone wears a timing chip, the computer sorts out the final times.
At an IRONMAN® event it’s different; there’s usually a mass start with all 1,500 to 2,500 swimmers going at the sound of a gun. It’s much like swimming in a giant washing machine, especially at the start. Large, unpredictable waves crash about, other swimmers knock into you. Arms, legs, and elbows poke you from every conceivable angle. You feel shaken and stirred. Your brain tells you everything is fine, you’re not drowning, but your body doesn’t believe it. On occasion, swim goggles can be knocked off. My friend Ed is very nearsighted; he is so concerned about losing his goggles and his contact lenses that he keeps an extra pair of goggles around his neck, ready to snap into place should the need arise.
Swimmers follow a series of marked buoys and exit the water at the end of the course. There are usually water safety personnel in kayaks and other boats patrolling the waters to keep you from straying too far off course. Some IRONMAN® races actually have two or more laps on the swim; it’s much easier to mark and monitor a 1.2 mile lap course than a 2.4 mile straight route. GPS technology makes today’s swim courses more accurate than previously. Still, they are less than exact and must be re-marked each year, plus the waves and currents can change. As a result, your swim time in the same race can vary greatly from year to year.
Swimming in a straight line isn’t easy, especially if the waves are high. Sighting is critical, and you may only get an occasional glance at the buoys from the top of a wave. Plus, your neighbor’s straight line may not be the same as yours and he or she may come plowing across your bow. Sometimes it’s uncontrolled mayhem, frantic pushing and shoving.
Once you exit the swim, gasping and staggering up the inevitable steep incline out of the water, you’re into the first transition, or T1 as it is commonly known. The clock is running so you try to get to your bike and get out of transition as quickly as possible.
In most triathlons, once you’re out of the swim you put on your helmet and biking shoes and head out of the transition area. It’s a little different with the IRONMAN Triathlon. In these events, your bike gear is in a bag, and you have to retrieve the bag and take it into a changing tent. There is one for men and one for women. These tents are filled with panting athletes trying to change as quickly as possible. There are chairs provided to sit on while changing, but these chairs usually already have someone occupying them. Towels, wetsuits, bags, and other gear are strewn about.
In most cases there’s very little changing in the changing tent. Athletes usually wear a one-piece triathlon suit or biking shorts under their wetsuit. Not many triathlons other than the IRONMAN series bother with these bags and changing tents. The bags do help you keep up with your gear and they do help keep down clutter. Since triathlon is a sport where people run around in the barest of clothing, the concern with public nudity is a little strange. I think the tents and the bags are part of the IRONMAN® experience, an attempt to create order out of race day chaos.
After the change, it’s out of T1 and onto the roads. Time-wise the bike is almost always the longest leg of the race. Sometimes the roads are closed to vehicular traffic, sometimes not. Law enforcement officials are usually stationed at intersections for traffic control. Since many motorists absolutely detest spending their Saturday or Sunday morning stopped, waiting for cyclists to pass, this is an easy place for accidents to happen.
If the bike leg is long there will usually be aid stations with drinks and food. Cyclists toss their empty water bottles and pick up fresh ones or grab a banana or an energy gel. The trick is to grab the drink without stopping. It seems simple enough, but I’ve seen major bike crashes at aid stations, so I make it a point to always slow down.
Drafting on the bike is prohibited in practically all triathlons, including at IRONMAN races. The rare exceptions are the Olympic triathlon and the World Cup races. These draft legal events are for professionals only. Amateurs are required to stay roughly three bike lengths behind the bike in front. If you decide to pass the rider ahead of you, you must do so in 15 seconds, otherwise you ma
y be penalized.
Once the bike is over it’s back into the transition area for a second time (T2). A quick change into running shoes and it’s on to the run course.
Switching from swimming to biking is effortless. The legs adapt quickly, and if you’re tired, you simply quit pedaling and coast a bit. Since you settle in easily, you rarely need to practice this first transition. On the other hand, going from biking to running is torture. It’s hard to even stand upright after leaning over the bike for such a long time. Coming out of T2 my back always feels like that of a man well into his sixties, I move like Frankenstein, and I feel like a fool for even trying to run.
When you begin running, your legs feel like Jell-O. The quadriceps feel as if someone has beaten them with a hammer. Every time I make the switch from biking to running, I think, “This is it, I can’t run.” It is a mental challenge to keep going. After a half mile or so things often get a little better, but it’s never fun.
Since triathlons almost always start early in the morning, it’s usually hot by the time the run comes up. Life is reduced to the basics—struggling from one aid station to the next, looking for a bit of shade, dreading the hills, counting down the miles, surviving to the finish line. With old age, running performance is the first thing to drop dramatically, well ahead of swimming or biking. There’s no floating on the run, there’s no coasting on the run, it’s a constant, unrelenting effort.
In many ways, a triathlon is like a play with a badly written third act, a disaster to endure. The final curtain is the finish line; it’s always good to be done.
NOTHING BEATS the IRONMAN experience. World Triathlon Corporation has created a great brand, one that they’ve nursed, protected, and promoted; a veritable golden goose that thrives in good times and in bad times.
Against the Odds Page 3