Ironman 70.3 Oceanside Race Report→

Kobe Face

Going into Ironman 70.3 Oceanside, I decided that my inner mantra would be, "Expect Greatness." This was a step beyond my earlier approach in the season to being "open to the possibility of greatness." As I wind down the pre-baby phase of my endurance racing, there's no more time to be simply open to it. Now, greatness is an edict. It only took 3,000-plus hours of training and mistake-making to grasp that insight. There were no shortcuts, but there never have been for me.

Did I meet my expectations? No. Saturday's race was a solid all-in effort with a very similar result to last year. That equals good, not great. However, it would have been much slower had I not committed to a "great-worthy"performance. 

As my race years tick by, I learn that you perform as you will yourself to perform. Excuses clutter the truth. "But I had cramps!" "I lost my nutrition!" "It got so hot!" "I didn't taper in my normal way." These things happen to all of us. It's how we respond that determines the outcome. How bad do you want it? What are you willing to endure to get it? How much will you pay for the glory?

Going into Saturday, all I could think of were the myriad reasons why I was going to suck at the race. I was a mental and physical mess at packet pick-up, having rushed down from LA minutes before the cutoff time (thanks to Alex for putting up with me!). In true "The Californians" fashion, I took TEN freeways to make the nearly three hour trek! I felt equally scatterbrained race morning in the corral. I had to move bikes and gear to make room for my own and a kind-hearted new friend, Jayson, helped me pump my rear disc wheel with about 15 minutes to spare before we were kicked out of transition. 

The only thing that helped me focus was remembering my only plan. Be great. Yet, coming out of the water two minutes slower than I expected shook my self-belief. I felt strong in the swim, so the clock shocked me. Further, I put added pressure on myself pre-race to prevent my good friend Jason from beating me. It would be the last time we'd race each other pre-baby and in peak condition. I knew he was gunning for me. Jason's swim has improved significantly, and his run is next-level. The only way I'd be able to hold him off is with a strong swim and bike combo. Instead, Jason matched me stroke for stroke in the final few hundred yards and we left T1 together. It was going to be a dogfight between the two of us! The only thing I would have done different in the swim is not to sight so soon off the jetty after the first turnaround heading back into the sun. I'm sure I veered needlessly off-course, losing precious time.

Jason is in the yellow swim cap rounding the corner. That's me at the far left of the pic just behind him. gearing up for a showdown!

Out of the water, I didn't lose patience or focus though. I just got angry. "Be great" turned into, "Ride your ass off." I endeavored to ignore my watch data and just go for it. I committed to taking a risk. Being great translated to being bold. As you can see from my Strava data, I pushed harder on the first half of the course than either of the last two times I've raced Oceanside, or any training ride I've participated in on-base at Camp Pendleton. Surprisingly, it felt good. Really good. I was riding in my 50x11 gear and still pedaling 80 rpm. The few times I glanced down at my watch on flats, I was riding 10-20 watts over my intended goal. I didn't know where Jason was on the course, but I knew he'd need to ride hard to keep up.

Very sadly, I learned after the race that Jason got a flat tire early on, thwarting our duel. He's worked harder than at any point in his prior training to improve and I truly feel his frustration. We're both convinced it would have been a much closer finish between us. Of course, I didn't have that knowledge in the moment and mashed onward. My nutrition plan was spot on, allowing me to ride hard without any tinge of cramps. In fact, the ride couldn't have gone better...except for the three times I thought I was belching and instead barfed up some Bonk Breaker. I laughed and smiled to myself. I thought of my friend Gary, who's always begging me to embrace pain and welcome it. Well, Gary, I laughed at barfing thrice so I'm on the right path. I also had to briefly exit my bike to remove some electrical tape peeling away from my disc wheel valve port. The tape was flapping on my derailier.

The ultimate compliment for my bike performance came from a fellow competitor post-race, who limped over to shake my hand and tell me how much he respected my effort. We had yo-yo'd back and forth with each other for the last 30 miles of the ride. He was a prototypical "specimen" triathlete: 6"2, 160 pounds, chiseled. When guys like that tell me I earned their respect, I always think back to that line in the movie "Rudy," "If I could put your heart in the rest of this team's bodies..." I ultimately jumped more than 20 places in my age group from swim to bike, shaving off almost eight minutes from last year's ride.

The last time I rode harder than expected in a triathlon was Ironman 70.3 Boise two years ago. There I was recovering from my cyclist v car accident and wound up with the ever-popular "swim, overbike, walk" race. I thought about that a lot in the six miles of headwinds returning to T2. Would my risk-taking blow up in my face? I didn't care, because last year I paced the Oceanside race so well I felt like I could have run three more miles after the finish. That's not good enough anymore. When I crossed the finish line this year it was going to be after an all-out effort, or in a wheelbarrow because I fainted trying.

The first few miles of the run were twitchy. My right leg cramped up entirely when I exited the bike at T2 so I was working through the discomfort. Still I managed to run near my goal pace. Jason was two miles back and I figured with his potential he'd gain about 30 seconds on me per mile. All I could do was double-down on effort, channel out the new cramp in my left adductor and keep grinding. Miles 6-9 dropped off by about 10-20 seconds and then I was on the north side of 7:40 per mile the rest of the way. My heart heaved, and my legs dragged. I expected Jason to slap me on the ass and pass at any point. I was ready to concede, but I'm proud that I pushed through and never stopped. If he was going to pass, I wanted him to work extremely hard for it and to take it from me. I'd give nothing. The effort paid dividends -- I jumped again in the age-group standings from 41st to 29th, finishing top 7% in class. But I gave back five minutes from last year's run, 1:38 vs 1:33 in 2014. My new micro-goal: Train with harder runs off harder bike efforts.

That's some ugly run form right there!

The longest, most miserable part of a triathlon is the last mile of the run. You know the finish is near but you can't quite see it. Your body is absolutely crushed and yet your race means nothing until you have that finisher's medal hung around your neck. After all, a 70.2-mile race is still a DNF. The end couldn't come soon enough -- visions of Jason sprinting through the finish just ahead of me looking like Bevan Docherty were playing on repeat in my mind's theater. I had no energy to celebrate in the chute. No high-fiving or showboating like last year. It was hot, my feet were squishy from sweat and water and piss, my legs were on the brink of full lockdown and I was flat-out over this race. After shuffling through the finish, I slumped over the barrier to meet Stephanie and our friend Russ and just leaned there with my head down for minutes. Wondering...why I do this to myself. Wondering what I'd do better for Ironman 70.3 St. George in five weeks the next breath.

I wasn't great this weekend, but I committed to being great. No excuses. No mitigating factors. No woulda coulda shoulda. 

This is a way to live.

A Coffee Table Book Changed My Life

It's not often I get to raise the "we're number one!" finger.

First, a disclaimer: The Kick Off the New Year 5k/10k/15k/Half Marathon seems to be a small race geared towards encouraging newer athletes to complete a new challenge to start the year. It's a mom-and-pop-run race, similar to the Uncle Tren's TT at Lake Piru. There were probably around 100 runners total. Further, this particular race fell the morning after the Rock n' Roll Half Marathon in downtown LA, and the same morning as the Camarillo Half Marathon. In other words, I'm very aware that the top-flight competition was likely elsewhere...or sleeping in to avoid a 47-degree start.

But I showed up. Barely, as the alarm clock was clicked shut before 5 and the bed almost won the argument for doing a solo 10k at Griffith Park when it warmed up outside later in the morning.

I've offered all this context up front because I don't want what follows to feel like an "Oh my G-d I'm so awesome for winning this race let me tell you why I'm so awesome!" race report. Rather, this is a report about what it felt like to be in synch with my mind, body and emotions...and more important, why and how that occurred. It seemed like a mental breakthrough for me, so I wanted to share in case it's helpful for others.

Disclaimers complete. On to the real stuff.

Since Ironman Arizona this past November, I've been rethinking how I train and race. Physically, I didn't leave much on the course that day. But I didn't set a belief pattern in motion prior to the race to be brilliant. I vowed to be smart, which is very important. But it's not everything. My friend Sebastian proved that by smashing 30 minutes off his 2014 IMAZ time from the year before despite the much more windy conditions. How? He endeavored to race great. No matter what dark fortunes the weather report foretold.

That concept has captivated me. And finally, after years of reading books and blogs that helped me incrementally improve, I read something that gave me the mental "Aha!" moment I've been long seeking. 

And it's from a coffee table book.

The art in the art of competition is inspiring enough. the words take it to an entirely new level.

Granted, it's a coffee table book by legendary triathlete Mark Allen, with a forward from equally legendary business author Jim Collins (Good to Great). The book is called the Art of Competition, and I'm still making my way through it. But even reading and internalizing the first 50 pages last Saturday opened me to a new way of framing my race on Sunday.

The Art of Competition, so far, is about harnessing the connection between nature, your mind, and body. The link between them, when truly felt, can overrule any negative voices in your head, reducing everything else to "background noise", as Allen put it. Allen's words enabled me to meditate the night prior to the race on what I wanted to get out of my race experience.  Since the race was on the Santa Monica Pier beach path, this seemed as good a time as any to apply Allen's wisdom.  My original goal was to set a pace benchmark and see if my speed work on the track is having the desired effect heading into the Surf City Half Marathon next month.

After reading the Art of Competition, my goal felt small. Inconsequential. Instead, I made three new goals:

1) Be open to possibility. That could mean the possibility of a transcendent performance, the possibility of embracing a new tactic, channeling nature as an energy source, or many other options. 

2) Become the ocean, whether in the form of pounding waves or tranquil waters. However the ocean acted that morning, I would personify that emotion.

3) Approach "Fallure," a concept Collins popularized that I interpret to mean perform beyond your estimated best so as to disprove your preconceived limits. 

The race unfolded in such a way that I was naturally able to reach for each of these goals. And I'm convinced had I not meditated the night before I would have lost the top spot. As soon as the race began, I wound up in unfamiliar territory -- lead runner. I've been in that position once before, when I thought I was running a 10k and had started early with the 5k race. There's nothing like having a police escort for a race you're not really leading! Instead of being elated at leading this particular run, I was deeply concerned about missing a turn on the course and leading everyone else astray. I was worried about leading in general. Then, I simply accepted the possibility of winning and keeping the lead. That calmed me down, along with actively consuming the beautiful morning and pristinely calm, waveless Pacific Ocean. I was also able to call upon being a lane leader at Gerry Rodrigues' Tower 26 swims, which can be a stressful event as all the other swimmers in your lane are depending on you for pace, proper rest intervals and lap counting. Drawing on that experience of focusing under pressure was critical.

My plans for leading the race evaporated after the first turnaround near the two-mile mark. A lanky fellow had been gaining ground on me steadily after the first mile and swiftly made the pass.  I had felt him stalking me for half a mile at least, and congratulated him as he ran past (confirming he was a 10k participant first). This is where Fallure came in handy. I decided to cede the lead for now but keep this guy in my sights. Instead of getting frustrated or upset, I calculated where my kick would need to begin in the final part of the race to win.

We rounded the first lap turnaround almost shoulder-to-shoulder. His breathing was loud and distracting. Instead of focusing on the negative, I gazed forward to the ocean. It gave me all the inspiration I needed. My coach, Gerardo Barrios, has taught me to close my eyes while running for brief moments to focus on the pure beauty of the motion. The wind on my face. The slight chill tingling my cheeks and nose. The rhythmic footsteps. Breathing. I had never tried that tactic in a race until that instance. Everything inside of me eased up and soon I was smiling. 

I got ya where I want ya... (And yes, i can see the heel strike and that i'm bending at the waist a bit too much here.)

The rest of the race seemed to take care of itself. I gained ground on my competitor, passing him before the final out-and-back around mile 4.5. Then my competitive fire kicked in. As the second-place runner approached the turnaround I had just passed, I pretended like he wasn't even there, gazing straight to the ocean while ensuring my form looked impeccable. I wanted him to know I could do this shit all day long. (Later, as he and I jogged in a warm down together, he admitted that was the moment he cracked mentally.) His footsteps quickly grew much fainter, and the race was mine to win.

The day wasn't over for me. Not yet. Being open to possibility meant the possibility of Fallure. How hard and fast could I finish? I surged forward, and I'm proud to say my last mile was only two seconds slower than my first, with the final stretch of the race being the fastest portion. 

This small 10k proved to be extremely valuable in my training, racing, and life in general. Being open to possibility is a universally applicable concept. When it comes to triathlon, honors like rankings or podiums seem almost trivial. What matters more is the relentless pursuit of excellence. My new goal for the rest of the season is simply to be open to the possibility of greatness. Every workout. Every race. Every day.

This photo was taken towards the finish. i feel that it perfectly depicts the sense of calm and focus i was experiencing in the moment.

My nemesis turned out to be a really nice guy from sweden who greatly prefers ultra-marathons. We jogged together post-race and chatted.