Ironman 70.3 2006 World Championship

How often does a man get to compete in a race that will decide on the best in the world? For me, it was going to be the first time. On November 8, 2006, I was on a plane on my way to participate to Ironman 70.3 world championship (1.2 miles swim+56 miles bike ride+13.1 miles run=70.3). Granted, it was the first time a world championship had been organized for this distance. Granted, the selection process based on a dozen or so qualifying races was US centric and, granted, Clearwater Florida, the venue selected for the race, did not have the prestige of its older sister the Ironman 140.6 world championship of Hawaii. Yet the fact remains that if one wanted to battle for the title of overall or age group Ironman 70.3 world champ, Clearwater was the place it was going to happen.

Once landed, I soon discovered that the importance of the events was not lost on the Clearwater residents. Reminders of the event were everywhere. Large panels welcomed the athletes at the airport. Local news channels regularly talked of the event and showed commercials emphasizing the toughness of the race and the merits of the athletes. People in the street were smiling, waving and questioning soldiers of this unfamiliar sub-10% body fat army. For those who may have missed all of that, they could not fail to notice the ubiquitous road signs announcing traffic disruptions due to the Ironman 70.3 world championship. In the cab taking me to the hotel, I felt the pressure mounting on me. The state of the art time trial bikes zipping all around town did not help me stay calm. I could not wait to get to the hotel to start running, biking or swimming. Anything that would help me feel like I was doing what I was supposed to.

I should not have felt the pressure though. I was not going to Clearwater with the ambition to win the race or to win my age group. I was painfully aware of the gap between me and the best athletes and I did not believe in miracles in racing. But let it be no mistake either, I never agreed one bit with the Baron Pierre de Coubertin, Father of the modern Olympic Games, when he said that “the important is to participate”. Heck no, I love to compete and while I could not dream of a place on the podium, I would give all I got to come as close as possible. In addition the race was supposed to be fast so why not try to break 4h30. My best so far was a 4h39. I knew I would need a perfect race to clock 4h30 but why not dream a little?

OK, now that the testosterone loaded talks are out the way, I have to confess that my preparation had been pretty weak. The decline of the warm days in conjunction with a heavy work schedule took an unusually heavy toll on my training schedule. Lately, even my week-end practices had suffered. I just could not find the motivation and energy to go to the pool or even to go to the gym. My training log indicated an appalling average of 8 hours a week for the 2 months going into the race. It may still look substantial but it was worrisomely low for someone who intended to compete in the 3 sports.

The couple of days before the race were rather uneventful. I did the usual pre-race check-in process. It did not feel any different than any major triathlons. I biked around the area to both check the functioning of my bike and to visit Clearwater. I concluded that it was pretty but probably not a place for me. It is way too flat. In fact, if it wasn’t for their exaggeratingly high bridges, one could bike all day without changing gears once. I also went for a swim in the Gulf of Mexico. I must admit that this part was a bit of an adventure for me. First, I had to cross the 300yd wide beach to get to the water. Let me tell you, you don’t want to forget your goggles in your hotel room. During what felt like crossing the desert, I was stricken by how large the Pelicans flying over my head were. These things are truly huge. I found out later that their wingspan reaches more than 10 feet. In flight, with their oversize beak, these birds look like they escaped from Jurassic Park. When I finally reached the shore, I was greeted by a sign I had never seen before. It read “Shuffle your feet when entering the water, stingrays”. I wasn’t sure how to react to that. I found it really odd but after crossing that beach I was more committed than ever to swim. I put on my wet suit and made my way to the water. As I walked in shuffling my feet, sure enough, there was a stingray playing with the surf. I had never seen that before. It was fascinating. The stingray was playing with the waves with the ease of a bird playing with the wind. From time to time, the stingray would fly out the water, flap its wings and plunge back in the blue sea. This is the kind of spectacle I can watch all day. In my state of fascination, my mind drifted to the story of the Australian Crocodile hunter who got stabbed in the heart by a stingray while diving on the Great Barrier Reef. And, also the man in Florida who also got stabbed in the chest by a stingray, and this time the man was, believe it or not, on his boat. Freak accidents or vicious killers? As a matter of fact, I was getting more worried about the black fin that kept on appearing and disappearing further out. I was wandering if it was a dolphin or if it was a shark? A helicopter hovering close enough to the water to flatten the waves into concentric circles did not contribute to my inner peace. What are these guys looking for, a killer shark? In any case, sharks don’t eat humans, right? And, the odds of being attacked by a shark are slimmer than being stricken by lighting, correct? I knew watching the discovery channel would come in handy one day. On this, I dived in the water and I am still here to tell the tale.

How awkward is the day before a race? Well, it is. There is really little to do that day. The athletes have to put together their bags. Basically it means putting a helmet in the Swim-to-Bike bag and a pair of running shoes in the Bike-To-Run bag. How long can this take? Then, the athletes check their bike one last time. Nothing is ever wrong with their bike as they have checked it a thousand times and often had it checked by professionals too. Then, they have to take their bike and bags to the transition areas. Some loosen up a little and that’s it. As far as I am concerned, by noon, I am usually all done with nothing else to do for the rest of the day but stay off my legs. This is a great opportunity to catch up on reading and, in my case, to write a little. I had actually planned to finish my Brazil and Monaco race reports. (These two are long overdue and I wonder if they will ever be completed.) But, the thing is that I am usually too excited to focus on anything. This time was no exception and once again I wasted most of my day watching TV. Thanks god, I had HBO. After an overdose of movies I went to bed. The next day was to be the day.

November 11, 2006. The date of the inaugural Ironman 70.3 world championship had arrived. It was 6:30 AM. The splendid Clearwater beach was packed with athletes, supporters, officials, TV crews and journalists. I was in my wet suit squeezed in the middle of an army of guys just like me. We were packed right behind the start line, all looking straight ahead. A canon released a small cloud of smoke and a loud boom. We ran a few steps in the white sand and rushed in the warm water of the Gulf of Mexico. Nobody shuffled its feet. As I was fighting my way through, I was wondering why they insist in making us swim clockwise? Don’t they understand that as I breeze on the left side I can’t see the buoys on my right? Well, you guessed it, another bad swim. I relived one more time the same nightmare. I got pushed and pulled but I pushed and pulled too. I tried to follow better swimmers but always lost them in the chaos. I went off course but also managed to swim right into a buoy. As I exited the sea dragging my feet in the shallow water, I glanced at my watch. The digital numbers showed 35’. I needed a 30’ to keep my dream of breaking 4h30 alive. One leg in and the dream was already gone. I did not feel too disappointed though. Maybe it was because my swim time had been disappointing so many times before that I was accustomed to it. Or may be it was because I did not really believe I could break 4h30. In any case I was the 903rd participant out of the water. As we were about 1500 to compete, well, I am not proud to say that I did not make it to the first half.

I ran up the beach. I got extracted from my wetsuit by a couple of agile peelers. Found my swim-to-run bag. Put on my bike gear. Ran through the rows of bikes to find mine. I grabbed it off the ramp and made my way out of the transition area.

I was looking forward to the bike. After my performance in Montauk early October, I wanted to see if I could build on it. Unfortunately, the race turned into some sort of a stage race. The race officials did not foresee that too many people would hit at about the same time a road not wide enough to accommodate the crowd. As a result, when the road narrowed, the slower bikers would basically clog the traffic, creating large groups of cyclists riding shoulder to shoulder. As soon as the road would open up, the faster riders previously stuck behind would spring forward in an effort to pass as many people as possible. In the process there was a lot of drafting going on. Although clearly illegal in triathlon, the organization is to be blamed for it, not the participants. There was absolutely no way to avoid it. There were clearly too many people for the amount of real estate available. The race officials were overwhelmed by the problem and distributed few penalties. It was very surprising that such experienced organizers did not anticipate the problem. Not only did it affect the overall result but it was also very dangerous. I learned after the race that several large groups of bikers went down. I don’t know if any serious injuries resulted from these accidents. The official website is silent on the matter.

Lost in the middle of this chaos, I did like everybody else. After about 10 miles of normal conditions, I was in the thick of the traffic. When I did not have enough space to pass, I first tried to remain at a legal distance from the bikers ahead of me. But other riders would keep on coming from behind pushing me ever more back. Soon I changed strategy. I would maintain my ground and use any occasion to pass. Larger stretches of road, bridges and turnarounds provided the best opportunities. The riders who would pass would be the bolder ones and the ones with the best acceleration capability. It was a very dangerous game though. Often we were so close to each others that only a few inches separated our wheels. I was intensely focused. The stress I was under multiplied my abilities. I was paying attention to everything. My brain was processing all this information at high speed. I had to anticipate every move and every turn. A second of inattention would be sanctioned by a painful fall. After a frustrating beginning, I started to have fun doing it. It was like my early days of driving a car on the winding roads of my native Lorraine. I enjoyed pushing my car, speeding until I would catch up with another car. I would then stay right behind it, my eyes frantically switching from its rear to the road ahead. As soon as the road would clear, I would put a gear down and floor the gas pedal. Engine revving and tires screeching, I would pass the car of a usually upset driver. It was dangerous, inconsiderate and lots of fun. The bike leg of the race turned out to be very similar. One difference though, my legs not a car engine were providing the brutal accelerations. This kind of effort was not the kind I had trained for. At about 5 to 10 miles to the finish line the traffic became lighter and I was happy to resume a more consistent pace. It was also an opportunity to drink and eat. I had not had the chance to refuel for a long while as it would have been unwise to do it in the middle of traffic. A few last roundabouts and I could see the finish line. I dismounted my bike, gave it to a volunteer and glanced at my watch. I had to look twice as the time was so unexpected. It read 2h15. I needed a 2h30 for my dream race. I thought I could do 2h25 but 2h15! Clearly the drafting had helped tremendously. I just could not have done it in normal race conditions. The problem now was that the overall time would be completely meaningless.

I was running through the transition area when these thoughts crossed my mind. I still had a half marathon to run. The race was far from over. After the bike, I had moved to 443 or a gain of 460 positions. I found my bike-to-run bag. Put on my running shoes and put away my bike gear. I left the transition area and started my half marathon with time to spare. I had planned for a 1h25 run, an ambitious time but a time I had done before under tougher conditions. Now, I only needed a 1h32 to break the 4h30, a walk in the park.

Well, it surely did not feel like a walk in the park when I started to run. Apparently the repeated accelerations combined with my low training mileage and maybe not enough drinking during the bike leg resulted in a pair a wooden legs. They just refused to get going. My first 5K was slow, too slow. I loaded on coca cola at every station hoping to find my second winds. Half way in the run, it started to pay off or so I thought. I felt better and started to put some good miles. I was afraid it would be too little too late. I was faster but tired. The heat and hours of hard work were weighing on my body but also on my mind. I did not seem to be able to dig deeper and endure more pain. I was running at my pace but I was making no attempt to follow the runners who would sporadically pass me. I was instead attempting to empty my mind in order to make the mile go by faster. I finally reached the 12-mile marker. I looked at my watch. I did not like what I saw. I had less than 7’ left to cover 1.1 mile. It was certainly in the realm of the possible but did I have enough left? I threw the rest of my energy into the battle. I was moving but it did not feel fast enough. I focused on staying loose and on keeping my running form. The spectators feeling that something was going on were cheering me on. To my surprised, I was soon running by the transition area. I could now see the finish line. I checked my watch. I still had a minute left. Plenty of time I thought. Until I realized I still had to cover a back and forth along the beach. It looked like a quarter mile. A quarter mile in a minute, I did not stand a chance. With nobody right behind me and enough suffering for the day I released my effort and jogged to the finish. I passed the line in 4h31.

Close, so close but the fact remains that it would not have been worth much anyway. I will break the 4h30 but the right way, not like this. I did gain 136 positions during the run. I finished 307 overall and 56 of my age group.

What is the conclusion of all this? I am certainly upset that the race was not a clean one. On the other hand that was a good experience and I did have fun doing it. I also got to see first hand the gap between me and the best. I was 28’ behind the world champ of my age group and 46’ behind the overall winner. This is a benchmark for the future. While I will not be world champ of my age group anytime soon, if I live long enough, I’ll have plenty of opportunities to try again.

That’s it. Season 2006 is over. It was a pretty good one after all. This winter I will go back to my roots and do some serious running. I have been getting increasingly frustrated with my poor runs and I need to fix it. I also decided not to race any full Ironman in 2007 but only race a few shorts and may be a couple 70.3s. I might also try to do a fast fall marathon and try to break my 2h47 personal best.

As always, I hope you enjoyed my race report.
See you in 2007 for, I hope, a year full of a new achievements.

Pascal,