The Long Road to Nutrition Self-discovery

I have until next May to come up with an Ironman race nutrition plan that will work for me. I guess it's not the whole Ironman that I have to come up with a plan for. Just the run part. Or maybe just the heat part. Oh heck, I guess I have to rethink the whole race.

In rethinking "the whole race," I have to start by analyzing exactly what went wrong nutritionally during the run at Ironman Lake Placid five weeks ago. All my fueling up UNTIL the run seemed to be working great. Even up until the SECOND HALF of the run. There were no obvious warning signs -- no extreme fatigue, thirst, or lightheadedness -- until it was too late. Even the vomiting I did around mile 15 did not give me the sense there was a larger problem. But in analyzing the data, I've narrowed it down to two causes: hyponatremia and an overly-aggressive run pace. They were probably co-conspirators in my take-down.

I didn't just pull these two things out of thin air. I read. A LOT. I thought about my nutrition issues. A LOT. And I had help. My friend Jo-Lynn is a nurse and an honorary member of the J-Team. She took the scientific approach and explained what was going on with my stomach when it "shut down." I also have a friend who told me where to take a second look -- at my "run splits." After a 100-mile ride in 90-degree temperatures, Julie (J3) is convinced it was "the heat." I took all these things into consideration, looked back at my training and racing nutrition in the recent past and started to draw conclusions.

Starting with when things began to look "not quite right" in Lake Placid -- I guess it was that mile 15 or 16 of the marathon. I think I misdiagnosed my first bout of nausea and vomiting as caused by eating/drinking too much (a.k.a. the dreaded "sloshy stomach"). It was more likely the beginning of my stomach shutting down. Vomiting appeared to solve the problem because I already had enough hydration in me to last several more miles. But everything I drank after that never got into my system. Thus, when I had my seemingly unending "vomit-fest" at mile 20 and when I was diagnosed with "dehydration," the underlying cause was probably hyponatremia. I didn't just need more fluid, I needed more salt to help me absorb the fluid and balance the electrolytes in my system.

I've been aware of this thing called hyponatremia since 2008 when I was training for the Philadelphia Marathon. During that time, I would vomit during most of my runs over 2.5 hours, and I usually vomited at the top of the last hill (after fatiguing my legs the most). I was baffled. I never had this problem when I trained for marathons in the 1990s (in my 30s). I did some reading, learned about the condition, added electrolytes to my training runs and the problem went away. I concluded my body chemistry had changed over time, and I was sweating out more salt now that I was "old."

Of course, the hotter the weather, the more we sweat, the more we need to replace fluids, and therefore the more salt I need. Not everyone will have this problem. Jo-Lynn wrote in her assessment: "All people's body chemistries are different and Ph's slightly different, sweat rate, and sweat composition." It's not my sweat rate I'm worried about, it's the saltiness of my sweat. How do you measure that? You can measure how much fluid you lose in a run by weighing yourself before and after, but how does one determine how much salt is needed? Is it just trial and error? Is there some kind of salt litmus paper?

The kicker came in a half-iron triathlon race I did last weekend. I got off the bike in relatively cool temperatures and then the sun came out and turned the heat index up to about 84 degrees F. I had forgotten my Hammer Endurolytes, so I replaced them with the brand "Salt Stick" which we were told had five times the amount of sodium. I took one near the beginning of the run, but about half way through, I started to feel nauseous again. I slowed my pace, drank only sports drink and took an Endurolyte at an aid station -- that pretty much cleared up the problem.

So, then, why do I also think an overly aggressive run pace added to my problem in Lake Placid? Because in looking at my splits, I was out way faster than I had planned. I was attributing it to the downhills, but near the beginning of the second loop, I did start feeling a little pain in my quads that might suggest I was running too fast. This also messes with your fluid absorption rate -- blood is shunted away from your stomach for use in other muscles. I think it was a contributing factor in the early part of the marathon.

What do I do now? Many have suggested I stick with short races (like I'm going to listen to THAT). Jim still has plans to get me a nutritionist. I started by buying a book. It's called Sports Nutrition for Endurance Athletes by Monique Ryan. It covers so many different aspects of nutrition that I figure, even if I still need help with the actual race nutrition plan, this book can help me work through other nutrition aspects of my life. Like that supplementation issue that I can't quite figure out and often spend entire days on the computer looking for the perfect dietary supplement to get me through a long day at work and two long training sessions that include speedwork. If you know of that drug, and its legal, please contact me... but don't tell everyone else about it. I need SOME kind of edge. But make sure it also contains salt.

Of Lists and Triathlon Basics: Great Buckeye Challenge Half-Iron Race Report

The black cloud appears to be lifting. I say this not because I just celebrated my second triathlon win this year, but because I won despite everything I did to sabotage my own race. And as the Disaster Magnet, I always pay for my mistakes, no matter how small they are.

The race was the Great Buckeye Challenge Half-Iron in Springfield, Ohio, and I decided to race it just six days ago. And oh, did I make mistakes. I made easy mistakes that other people also made. I made stupid mistakes that were all mine. And I made those "you-should-never-show-your-face-on-the-triathlon-circuit-again" mistakes. But despite all of them, for the first time ever, I led the women's race out of the water to the finish line. The only explanation I have for it is that something must be amiss in the galaxy.

The mistakes began the day before the race with "the list." "The list" is my pre-race equipment checklist. Every race trip begins with printing out "the list." I learned the value of keeping such a checklist when I was a little girl. My father put me in charge of the checklist for our family camping trips, and I would proudly read it off once the car was packed -- checking off the "essentials" (tents, stakes, fishing poles, sleeping bags, flashlights, propane tanks, etc.) and the "non-essentials" (my teddy bear). One year, after I announced "everything is CHECKED!" we drove about a half-mile down the road only to realize we had left my mother in the driveway. The next year, as expected, "mom" was placed on the checklist. We never forgot her again. Because we used the checklist. Properly.

This weekend, I failed to use "the list" properly -- you could say I failed to use "the list" at all. It started when we pulled out of the driveway Saturday afternoon without my bike helmet (I noticed it was not attached to my transition bag). The first thing out of my husband Jim's mouth: "Isn't it on the list??" My reply: "Yes! But.. but.. I assumed we HAD all the bike stuff" (this was me trying unfairly to displace blame). We turned around, not without Jim's eye-roll, and went back to get it.

• Listmaking for dummies, tip 1: make a list to eliminate "assumptions"

I soon paid the price for trying to blame Jim for the helmet. After arriving at the race site, Buck Creek State Park, checking in and seeing the [sandy] beach, I realized I also forgot my water bin for washing off my feet in transition. Jim: "Isn't it on the list???" Me: "Yes, but I meant to grab it on the way out."

• Listmaking for dummies, tip 2: check things off the list only AFTER they are accounted for

We would have to find a store and get another water bin. We went to the hotel. After checking in and getting settled, I uncovered my third "list failure." This one was perhaps the most devastating of all. I had packed all my nutrition requirements except one: my electrolyte capsules. I made this mistake after four weeks of analysis concluding that not enough electrolytes was one of the major causes of my dropout at Ironman Lake Placid. Unbelievable.

• Listmaking for dummies, tip 3: highlight the most important things to make sure you don't forget them (also known as the "common sense corollary")

Forward to race morning. I should have known something was seriously wrong when I got more than five hours of sleep and woke up refreshed. This "something" is what my husband later described as my "lackadaisical attitude" about the race. We drove to the race site, I picked up my timing chip, got body-marked and then set up my transition. Meanwhile, Jim bought two small packs of electrolytes capsules and everything was good to go. One odd thing about this particular race was we had no bibb numbers, and in setting up my equipment, it was weird to not lay out my race belt.

The 1.2-mile swim was a two-loop long rectangle course parallel to the shore in a beautiful man-made reservoir. The weather started overcast and foggy, the air was cool, and athletes were staying in the water to keep warm. According to race officials, the water temperature was "wet-suit legal." During warm-up, I heard another athlete exclaim: "I don't care how warm the water is, at least my legs will be floating." I kept my wetsuit on thinking the temperature "out on the course" would be cooler. It wasn't. It was warmer. And rough. By the time I finished, my biggest surprise wasn't that I was leading the women's race, but that I hadn't vaporized from boiling in my wetsuit.

• Listmaking Triathlon for dummies, tip 1: if the water is [too] warm, don't wear a wetsuit, even if you do need it to "float" your legs

At over 33 minutes, my swim time was much slower than anticipated. (Many athletes would later commiserate about swim times up to 10 minutes slower than expected.) The swim was followed by a long uphill run from the beach and into the transition zone. After getting my wetsuit off in record time, I made my first stupid mistake at the bike rack. I unracked my bike before putting on my helmet and sunglasses. Note: if you place your helmet and sunglasses on your aerobars and unrack your bike, you will throw your helmet and sunglasses across the transition zone. What was I THINKING? Answer: I WASN'T thinking. I tried to blame it on not having a race belt to grab, but the problem was that I was not focused on what I was doing. I stopped, took the time to curse at myself, give Jim "the look" (something I didn't realize I did until he told me afterward), then picked up my helmet and sunglasses, put them on and made like Usain Bolt for the transition exit.

The 56-mile bike course was two-loops on rolling country roads with traffic. There were two other triathlon distances using parts of the same course. Intersection traffic was controlled by state troopers, but intersections were not always marked or manned, and directions were sometimes on the road and sometimes on A-frame signs. I fell victim to one of those unmanned intersections. Following the 40K instead of the 56-mile bike course I followed the state troopers' directions when they pointed left. I was supposed to go straight. I asked a 40K biker who informed me of the mistake. I lost about two minutes for the blunder. And yes, it was MY mistake. I glanced at but didn't study the course map before the race, and I could have paid closer attention to the arrows on the road. After the race, I was relieved to learn I wasn't the only one who made that error.

• Triathlon for dummies, tip 2: read and understand the course maps before the race

At the bike turnaround, I was surprised to see I was still leading the women's race, especially since I'm a weak biker who went off course. But the next women were less than a minute behind me. Expecting to be passed in the second loop, I started asking myself the hard questions: Should I hold back and save my legs for the run? Should I try to maintain the lead and hammer?

I held my pace (around 20 mph) and waited. After a turnaround with about 10 miles to go, I saw the gap had shortened and the women were closing in. I made a decision. This might be the only chance I ever get to lead a race from start to finish, and that's what I wanted to do. I hammered the last 10 miles and pulled into the transition zone with my second fastest half-ironman bike time ever and only about five seconds in front of the second woman.

My bike-to-run transition went better than usual, but it still wasn't fast. I gave the second woman the slip when she sat down to put on her running shoes.

My run start was the scene of yet another bizarre blunder. The sun had come out and the temperature was rapidly approaching the 80s. I popped an electrolyte capsule in my mouth assuming there would be a water stop on the way out of transition. I mean, come on, what half-ironman race doesn't provide water on the way out of transition? The answer: this one. Upon the realization, I went to spit out the capsule but it was a nano-second too late. It dissolved and my mouth instantly turned into a salt mine.

• Triathlon for dummies, tip 3: don't put anything in your mouth that requires water unless you actually have the water-stop in sight

The 13.1-mile run was a two-loop course on a paved multi-purpose path. My run started out a little fast -- I clocked mile 2 at 6:20 but then slowed to a 6:45-7:00 pace. By the second loop, the miles were no longer marked, and I stopped caring about how fast I was running when I saw I had a substantial lead. My run time was about 1:35, my total time around 4:52, and I was seventh overall and first woman.

It was obvious that everyone was struggling with the the heat on the run. There were aid stations with water, Hammer HEED, Hammergel and fruit, but there was a severe lack of man-power. The last aid station before the 3.2-mile turn-around was completely unmanned, and therefore, self-serve. I have never seen anything like it. The supplies were there but had not been unpacked. Cups and ice were still in plastic bags and the water and HEED jugs were not marked. It was a disaster with people desperately searching for what they needed. If you, like me, had planned on running through the water-stops, it all ended there. I just hope they didn't run out of supplies before the last runner went through.

I enjoyed hanging around after the race for a bit and met some of the other athletes. I especially enjoyed talking with two of the top men, Jason from Hudson, OH and Jun from Columbus. Sometimes, being able to celebrate and/or commiserate ends up being the best part of a race. It's when you realize, as athletes, we're all pretty much the same.

The Springfield, OH, Chamber of Commerce made a little video of the race containing interviews with the men's winner and yours truly:

Disaster Recovery Part 2: Figuring Out the Dehydration

It's been three weeks since I crashed and burned at Ironman Lake Placid. The crash: with six miles to go in the best race of my life, I lost all my cookies (read: fluids) at an aid station, then stumbled one more mile to collapse from severe dehydration at the next aid station. The biggest questions in my mind are still there: Why was there no obvious warning? and why did I seemingly have no chance for recovery?

I've been analyzing what happened over and over in my head since the moment I arrived at the finish line in the ambulance. I asked the medical staff there -- the only answer they gave me for the vomiting and dehydration was that my stomach just "shut down." Why? "It just happens sometimes." Not good enough. I need a reason. This absolutely cannot happen again.

I came up with three causes of stomach shut-down: I ate (or drank) too much, I ate (or drank) too little. I ran too hard. Ok, that's really five causes. And there was a sixth: I didn't get any sleep the night before the race (as I've said many times, no sleep almost always translates to GI issues on race day). Then there were seven: too much water, not enough electrolytes. Eight: not enough water, too much electrolytes. Cause number nine? Anyone?

Basically, there are so many possibilities, it seems impossible to narrow it down. What if it were a combination of things? Now I want to tear my hair out. Am I the only one who has these problems? How could I have trained for it? All my long bike-run sessions went just fine with the nutrition I chose. No vomiting, no dehydration. I even ran a marathon in May to test myself. Will it now be necessary to do a full Ironman in training to test my nutrition and hydration plan?

I guess I have to start somewhere. The search for a nutrition reference has commenced. The first thing I did was Google "stomach shut down ironman" and the first reference that turned up was this: Competitive Ironman Nutrition Planning. There it was, in black and white:

If your stomach “shuts down” during the race you either 1) went out too fast - poor pacing strategy/control, 2) ate too much solid food, 3) did not take in enough water, or 4) are becoming hyponatremic (low blood sodium level).

In all honesty, I don't think I ran too hard. That's the one thing I'm relatively sure of. Well.. maybe 90% sure. So I'm going with it being a nutrition issue. Another reference online suggested, for another athlete's similar situation, that signs point to "dehydration or electrolyte imbalance." I guess I'll start there. In 2008, at age 43, I started experiencing regular vomiting during my long runs while training for the Philadelphia Marathon. I had never had that problem before. Research concluded it was caused by hyponatremia -- increasing my electrolyte intake during long runs took care of the problem. My electrolyte requirements had somehow changed with age, and I could no longer do a 20-miler with only water as I did in my 30s. Perhaps the electrolyte issues continue to increase with age -- I wonder, when I'm 50, will I need to add Marmite to my diet and put soy sauce on everything I eat?

My husband is pushing for me to find a sports nutritionist. I guess that wouldn't hurt either. And maybe I should find a sports psychiatrist while I'm at it.

Victory and Shoe Karma: Sylvania Triathlon Race Report

Two weeks after my epic fail at Ironman Lake Placid, I found myself back in the saddle racing an Olympic distance triathlon in Sylvania, Ohio. This was as much of a surprise to me as anyone. If I must blame it on someone, it was husband Jim's idea. He saw it work in 2008 when, after an embarrassing performance at the Whirlpool Steelhead 70.3, I came back eight days later to take the women's field at the Greater Cleveland Half by running a 1:26 half-marathon leg. It's not something I would advocate -- two half-Ironmans in two weekends -- and I don't know any coaches who would advise an athlete to race two weeks after an Ironman. But I rationalized by noting I didn't actually DO an Ironman. I just "attempted" an Ironman. I'm calling it an I-5 -- an "Ironman minus five miles."

Racing this past weekend also involved a big choice. There were three local options, all with Olympic-distance courses: the Cleveland Triathlon, the Greater Cleveland Triathlon and Sylvania. My choice was Sylvania for several reasons: it got me out of town (Cleveland), I had done it twice (and won it once) before, the bike and run courses are flat, and it's a very well-organized and well-run event. Oh, and the lunch provided after the race was amazing in years past.

Going into the race, my biggest fear was that I would have NO speed. After long-distance training for many months, I had no idea what my legs would be capable of when faced with the "shortness" of a 40K bike ride and a 10K run. The swim was the only thing I wasn't worried about. As a swimmer since age 14, I have a good grip on how to pace myself at most distances (i.e., NOT sprints).

We arrived in Sylvania the day before to see things almost completely set up for the race. These people KNOW what they're doing. Familiarity with the race site gave me a comfort level I've not had in years, but I still had some sleeping issues the night before. I tossed and turned until 1:45 a.m. then managed to get a few hours before the alarm went off at 4. I always say that one cycle of dreaming is all I need to get through a race -- and that's pretty much all I got.

We got to the site at 5:15 for a 7:30 a.m. start. My bike was the third bike racked that morning. We were there SO early that I served as a "guinea pig" for the girls who volunteered to do body marking. My young body-marking apprentice was chastised no fewer than three times while writing the number on my arm. Her "master" finally took the marker and did it himself. Apparently, he was an intolerant body-marking perfectionist. After enduring his wrath, I picked up my timing chip by moonlight and began the long wait for the swim start. My all-women wave would start around 8 a.m. (there was also a sprint race and a duathlon). I guess I could have used that extra half-hour -- or HOUR -- of sleep.

The weather at the start was perfect: sunny and dry. At 84 degrees F, the water was actually warmer than the air and many of us stood in it to keep warm. During this time, one of my female cohorts declared "the wind is kicking up," to which I replied "it doesn't look that bad." I would soon find out that she knew more about the wind in Sylvania than I did.

The swim was a clockwise loop in the calm waters of Olander Lake. The loop pretty much covers the entire lake, causing many triathletes to exclaim things such as: "we have to swim clear over to the other side of the lake?!?" and "it seems REALLY FAR!" Hopefully the swim went by as fast for them as it did for me, my only mishap coming from swimming wide and having my hand hit the bottom several times at the far end of the lake. By the time I reached the shore, I had fallen only about a minute behind the fastest woman. Out of the water, my time was around 21:30.

The swim is followed by a not-so-short run on beach sand then across the road to the transition zone. When I hit transition, I was well over 22 minutes. But my swim-to-bike transition went faster than usual because I actually focused on speed this time, and I was up on my bike just over a minute after crossing the first transition mat.

The bike course was a clockwise loop as flat as you could ever hope for in a race. The first two miles of MY bike course were marked by classic Disaster Magnet behavior: I struggled for more than a few minutes getting my feet into my shoes (clipped onto the bike), I forgot to hit the split on my watch, and I left my bike computer in "sleep" mode. We went out directly into the wind which was now substantial at about 10 mph. My legs felt like cement (Ironman fatigue, perhaps?), and I could barely break 19 mph on the outbound leg. As usual, one woman passed me like I was standing still before the first right turn. It was disheartening, especially because I was trying to "hammer" the bike leg. I didn't actually start to feel good until it was 3/4 over. By that point, I was able to reach speeds of 24-25 mph -- but don't kid yourself, that was WITH the wind. My average speed for the 40K ride was just under 22 mph.

By the time I finished the bike leg, I wasn't sure my legs were up to a 10K. WHAT? Two weeks ago, I ran 21 miles after a 112-mile bike ride after a 2.4-mile swim. It's ONLY 6.2 MILES, for cryin' out loud! I wanted to smack myself for the very thought. Upon dismounting my bike, I managed to knock my shoe off the pedal and had go back to retrieve it. What was this? Some kind of bad SHOE Karma?

And it continued... While racking my bike, Jim gave the news: there were two women about a minute in front of me (only a minute?), and he told me to relax and go out easy. My brain said: "How the heck am I supposed to relax when I can't get my running shoes on?!" I struggled for what seemed like hours with my running shoes despite using Body Glide on them and fixing the laces before the race. Frustrated, I had to settle for the tongue of my right shoe acting like an accordion on top of my foot, and I took off on the run with my hat in hand. (Yet another tip from Jim-the-efficient: "Don't put your hat on IN transition, just grab it and do it on the run!" DUH!) My bike-to-run transition was atypically, and disparagingly, slow.

I started the 10K run in my default Ironman "shuffle" mode. Yes, I KNEW I was doing it. Yes, I am well aware that this is NOT the way to run a 10K. I kept telling myself that my 10K stride would eventually kick in. So shuffle I did, past the first woman (the one who blew by me on the bike), past the second woman (the female leader in the collegiate division, whose wave started eight minutes in front of me), and into the lead before mile 2. I looked but saw no mile markers until mile 3, about the same time my 10K stride DID kick in. My watch said "19:24." I had a 6:30/mile pace with a shuffle? I'll take it. With only three miles to go, I opened up my stride. Mile 4? 6:27. Wha? Hmm.. I picked up the pace. Mile 5? 6:31. Apparently, this was as fast as I could run. Although I can't say I was pushing myself. In fact, I know I was not. Without anyone to chase, I just reeled in the miles and settled for a short sprint to the finish line. My 10K was a dismal 40:38 for a course on which I had once gone 37:42. Was it age? Maybe. Was it time for some speedwork? Probably.

All in all, I was still ecstatic to celebrate an overall victory in any race, especially at my age when it's becoming an ever-rarer occurrence. And I was also very happy to do it in Sylvania where I have great memories of well-fought battles to the finish line in years past. The icing on the cake? They had beer at the finish line.

Putting the Disaster Back in "Disaster Magnet": IM Lake Placid Race Report

The Ironman Lake Placid (IMLP) race report blog... I considered not writing it. I considered curling up in a ball and hiding for a few years until I could face my reflection again. Then along came an angel named Ruth. Ruth is my husband's cousin's wife. She is also my friend and, oftentimes, she is the singular voice of reason and perspective on Facebook. Ruth made me realize there's more to a race than the end result, and helped me pinpoint meaning behind my IMLP debacle. This could be it: the Disaster Magnet blog NEEDS the disaster stories. I mean, where would I be if it were another "look how wonderful I am" athlete blog? Ruth also said that I might inspire others to look at things differently through my own mishaps. That's all I ever could hope for as a legacy.

So, then, how do tell this story? It didn't really start out a disaster-in-the-making. It started out a smart race strategy playing out exactly as planned, an almost-perfect execution backed up by strong fitness and brain-work. I did not enter IMLP to "finish" -- I entered with the goal to qualify for the Ironman World Championship in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii.

Upon arriving in Lake Placid on July 21, the J-Team (my husband Jim, my amazing friend Julie and I) had a plan. The plan was to stay calm and relaxed and scope out the area, transition zone and course logistics to ensure no surprises on race day. The rest of the time would be spent sightseeing in the little Adirondack village that had the distinction of hosting the Olympic Winter Games not once, but twice, in 1932 and in 1980. My parents-in-law, who also wanted to see the Adirondack region (and the race, bless them), would meet us there.

The plan worked well. By the end of the next day we had taken care of the vitals:

• the race registration
• the "scope out"
• the "course drive" (viewing the bike course)
  
• the yearly tradition of eating (and drinking) at a local brewpub -- this time we hit two: Lake Placid Pub & Brewery and the Great Adirondack Brewing Co.
  
• the grocery shopping at the local Price Chopper (in college, it was affectionately known as a "Chopper Run")

In the following two days came sightseeing at the former Olympic venues:

• the Olympic Museum -- which displayed such things as medals from different games, Sonia Hennie memorabila, and bobsleds throughout time
• the ice rinks -- including Herb Brooks Arena, the legendary place where a bunch of USA college kids shocked the world by beating the Soviets and winning the Gold Medal in 1980
• the massive towering ski jumps
  
• the ski-slopes of Whiteface Mountain (via gondola)
  

It was a memorable three days, but race morning finally arrived on July 25. We awoke -- well, I "arose" after a sleepless night -- at 3:30 a.m. The pre-race preparations went smoothly: shower, drive to start, body marking, bike prep, final transition bag check and dropping off of special needs bags. The swim started at 7 a.m.

The 2.4-mile IMLP swim is a two-loop counter-clockwise course in Mirror Lake with a deep-water mass-start. Jim - the engineer - had already determined that the geometry of the course -- a very narrow rectangle -- provided just a small distance penalty for swimmers starting wide to the right. Using my husband's geekiness to my advantage, I started on the front line and my swim went perfectly. I stayed relaxed, found a set of feet to draft off and experienced none of the usual crowded Ironman swim clobbering, despite warnings from other athletes about this particular swim. The result was my fastest time -- just under an hour.

The swim-to-bike transition at IMLP is a long run from the lake, but it went very quickly, and I was on my bike in a flash. It did help that I had my bike racked at the very end of the bar, adjacent to the run path. (That was luck, not skill.)

The 112-mile bike course is also two loops. It starts with a very short steep downhill followed by a left turn. Here's where the fun began. In classic Disaster Magnet style, I hit a bump in the road at the bottom of the hill and launched both my nutrition bottles -- this, after SPECIFICALLY replacing my bottle cages with new "no launch" models a few days before. I had to stop and retrieve them for two reasons: littering is prohibited on the course and all my race calories were in them.

The bike course leaves Lake Placid via the road past the Olympic ski jumps -- another steep, short downhill. At the bottom? You guessed it -- another bump in the road. My bottles became projectiles a second time. Retrieving them took a few moments longer this time because a state trooper decided to help out by tossing a bottle back to me. Doesn't he KNOW I can't catch? The rest of my ride would be characterized by constant bottle checks. In fact, I got so paranoid about bottle catapulting that I almost didn't notice when my gel flask was ejected out of the pocket of my bike shorts. I am NOT making this up. It was a comedy of errors. At one point, I even collided with someone else's bottle left in the road. Fortunately for anyone behind me, the impact with my front wheel gave it a perfect spiral and sent it into the grass.

So yeah, the IMLP bike course. The difficulty of this course is matched only by its beauty. It follows scenic hills, rivers, gorges and even takes in the slopes of Whiteface Mountain. Stunned by the scenery, you may reach a point of bliss during which you happily forget the 13 miles of hills coming in the latter part of each loop. The best part of the IMLP bike course is the aptly-named "screaming descent" into the town of Keene. Except, I was the one screaming -- from fear of spontaneous combustion upon reaching speeds I'd never seen before. The descent comes just after the climb out of Lake Placid.

The climbs on the IMLP course are deceiving, and I believe a five- to ten-minute deficit in the two loops is almost inevitable, irrespective of your ease of effort or biking prowess. I stayed in an aerobic state and finished the second loop about seven minutes slower than the first even though my bottles stayed put. I arrived at the bike-to-run transition feeling relatively relaxed and exactly where I wanted to be time-wise. OK, maybe not exactly. I had hoped to be a little faster, but I refused to panic. My bike nutrition had been flawless -- no nausea, no light-headedness, no dehydration.

The bike-to-run transition seemed like a maze, but all I had to do was follow the finger-pointing of the volunteers. They sent us right by a wall of porta-johns. This is a good thing if you have to "go." This is also a good thing if you DON'T have to "go" but want to give other competitors the slip because they DO have to "go." When I got to the change tent, I had yet another projectile awareness. As I grabbed my socks, shoes, hat, Gu Roctane and Endurolytes, I noticed I had lost one more thing on the bike course: my asthma inhaler. I started repeating the revelation: "my inhaler? my inhaler is gone!" The poor volunteer helping me dove desperately into my transition bag to find it. "No, no! I LOST my inhaler on the bike!" She was not amused, but, as I can say about all the volunteers, she is a saint.

The 26.2-mile run starts on a downhill, rolls a bit, then continues on a downhill -- the same downhill that the bikes follow past the ski jumps and out of Lake Placid. It would have been easy to hammer that hill, but I held back and listened to the voice of reason, the one that studied those "how to race Ironman" books, blogs and articles for six months. Jim and Julie informed me I was 12th in my age group and the leader was only 15 minutes ahead. I went out relaxed, took in water, sports drink, and Gu exactly as I trained. My pace was around 7:15-7:30 per mile on the downhills but then settled around 7:35-7:45. The run course is also very scenic, but eventually it's an uphill battle back into town. My pace dropped to 8:30 on the uphills.

Heading into the second loop, Jim and Julie yelled to me that I was now running in fourth place in my age group. After the downhills, I started to feel a bit bloated so I interspersed electrolyte tablets in my feeding regime. I had to walk a bit from the bloating, and noticing my distress, another athlete asked if I was ok. I said "I just need to throw up." His response? "Just GIT'R DONE!" Some people apparently have a much better grip on these things than I do -- that was NOT my first thought. Around mile 17, it got itSELF done. My stomach distress vanished instantly, and I was back on pace, feeling good aerobically but beginning to feel some fatigue in my legs. I continued to drink well and managed to pass two more women in my age group. The leader was all that was left. I was at 19 miles.

Little did I know that my race was about to come apart. The nausea came back, and at the next water stop, I was bent over vomiting many times. Out came the entire contents of my stomach -- basically, a LOT of liquid. The volunteers at the aid station sat me down and tried to work through it with me. They surmised I was severely dehydrated. They also noticed I was shivering. They gave me sports drink, pretzels, a wind-breaker jacket and a mylar blanket. I got up and tried to start running again. I managed to walk-jog to the next water stop, but I was losing focus and I decided to seek medical help. That was the end of my race.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground wrapped in blankets with tremors in my body and begging the medical volunteers to help me finish. Instead, they stuck me with an I-V and put me in an ambulance to the finish line. At my request, one of them called Jim to tell him what happened and to meet me at the medical tent.

This was NOT how it was supposed to end. I was supposed to hear my name as I crossed the finish line. I was supposed to get my Kona slot. I was supposed to get my Ironman P.R. How did this happen?

At this point, I'm lost in analysis, determining where to go from here, what signal I obviously missed, and what I might do to avoid having the same thing happen next time. Did I say next time? Oh yes. There will be a NEXT time.

No Miracles Left for me in Lake Placid

Here's a quick update for anyone curious about how my Ironman race went in Lake Placid yesterday (or wondering why I DNFed). I had my fastest IM swim, a good bike time, and was having the run of my life when my stomach shut down sometime in the late miles of the marathon. After an epic vomiting session around mile 20, I was hit with severe dehydration and collapsed after seeking medical assistance at the aid station around mile 21. For most of the run, I was feeling strong, and when I dropped out, I was in second place in my age group, on pace for a sub-11:00 Ironman and a likely Kona slot.

I haven't quite recovered from the disappointment and sense of complete and utter failure. People say it will get better with time and distance, but today, my eyes are too filled with tears to see that far. I had such high hopes, long training hours and money invested in this race and now I have nothing to show for it.

I spent many hours lying awake last night analyzing what might have gone wrong: too aggressive a pace, a sleepless night before, nutrition errors, etc. But the thing that most frustrates me is how rapidly and decisively my race fell apart with no opportunity to regroup. I begged the medical volunteers to help me find a way to finish, but they said my race was over and put me in an ambulance to the finish line.

I had expected to arrive there in a completely different state (and state of mind).


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Once and Future Goals

Seven days to Ironman Lake Placid and I'm well into my taper. I've been sounding like a broken record complaining about how sluggish and heavy I've been feeling (the usual taper doldrums) and how worried I am about all the little aches and pains that are creeping up. Jim says I'm "saying exactly the same thing you always do during a taper." I'll have to trust him on this one.

The last time I was in Lake Placid, I didn't even know Jim. The most, and only, significant thing about Lake Placid was its Olympic history as the site of the "Miracle on Ice." It was a place to which you could never really "go" because the only way to "go" there would be to do it in a time-machine set to February 1980. And at my age, the excitement of seeing Mike Eruzione's goal in person would probably kill me.

But, in 1984, I did "go" to Lake Placid. Not in a time machine, but in a car. AND it was during the summer, when there was no snow -- and no hockey. I was with my college boyfriend and his brother and another guy who had some insane idea that he was going to hike to Mount Marcy, the highest peak in the Adirondacks, carrying nothing but a book of descriptions of "edible plants." We were such a bunch of hippies that we thought it was a brilliant idea. We dropped him at a trailhead, nine miles from his destination, and headed for Lake Placid.

Driving through Lake Placid was not what I expected. Lake Placid was not the "great city in the clouds." It was a little Adirondack village. There was one main road and the Olympic ski jumps rose above it like the towers of a great European cathedral. And just like that, it was gone. A tiny little mountain town that captivated the world by being the site of the ultimate underdog story. As a hockey fanatic, that U.S. Olympic moment was such a huge part of my formative years that I still use it as one of my "I remember exactly what I was doing when" stories. Going there the first time should have been a pilgrimage, but instead, it was just a "drive-by." Besides the ski jumps, the only other thing I remember was a hot dog stand called "Custard, Mustard and Brew."

Going back will be the pilgrimage. This time, I'm looking for my own miracle, my own underdog story. Physically, I'm in the best shape since my 2003 bike accident. But Ironman is mostly a mental race, and I want to do it right, with a good race strategy. Miracles rarely happen without some help from the weather, equipment and smart planning. But at the end of the day, I just want to know I did the best I could.

As most of my friends know, I'm notorious for setting goals based on passion, way above what's achievable, that usually end in failure. This time, I wanted realistic goals, based on logic, that don't depend on anyone else's race. I started out with some goals that were 99.9% reachable and worked downward from there. So without further delay, here are my Ironman Lake Placid Goals:

• Stop at "Custard, Mustard and Brew" (I Googled it, and it still exists. Failure rate: 0.1%)
• Make the pilgrimage to the Olympic ice hockey rink. (I didn't Google it, but it MUST exist. Failure rate: 0.1%)
• Pack clothes for all conditions (even snow) and PUT THEM IN MY SPECIAL NEEDS BAGS. (After hypothermia in June in Coeur d'Alene, I think I've learned my lesson, nonetheless, it's not failsafe, so failure rate: 5%)
• Go to sleep early, the goal request from J-Team member Jim. (Knowing my history, failure rate: 30%)
• Smile at least once on the run. (Feasible if I do it at the beginning of the run, failure rate: 32%)
• Stay focused and go out easy on the bike and run. (Knowing my history, but remembering success at the Pittsburgh Marathon, failure rate: 35%)
• Enjoy the experience, no matter what happens. (I've been getting better at this, failure rate: 37%)
• Get a decent finish line photo -- i.e., one where I'm mostly conscious, standing up straight, and my eyes point in the same directions. If possible, raise my arms and attempt to smile if my facial muscles still work. (I've partially succeeded in this in the past, failure rate 42%)
• Stay out of the medical tent! another J-Team goal (As the Disaster Magnet, I've never successfully done this in an Ironman, failure rate: 70% ... i.e., not impossible)

Uncomfortably Numb

There are eleven days to Ironman. I have two race simulation workouts left. I should have done one today, but the J-Team stayed out too late learning all about wine, so today has been declared a day off.

But now I'm dealing with the most uncomfortable thing about the Ironman taper -- the sluggishness and lethargy. Sitting in front of the TV, my legs feel like two balloons. What causes it? How does cutting back to 50% of my training make me feel like I've gained 50 pounds of water weight? No matter how many times I experience it, it's still disorienting and panic-inducing. It's hard to do nothing when you're used to training an average of 2-3 hours per day. During a taper, all sorts of things start to creep in:

• Depression, anxiety -- for many of us, training is the "drug" -- it's how we self-medicate for daily stress, but nothing is more stressful than a big important race looming on the horizon
• The so-called "phantom" pains -- strange pains just pop out of nowhere in places that never hurt before
• Heavy legs -- this could be a real effect of holding onto water and carbs or it could be the effect of drinking too much wine last night (there's no way to be completely sure but I'm going with the former)
• Sleep issues -- the body isn't working as hard, so it has much more energy and not as tired as usual

Here's where athletes sometimes make mistakes. I made the "big one" before the Philadelphia Marathon in November 2008. With all the extra energy and no long run, I spent the weekend before the race cleaning the walls of and painting my kitchen. Who knew painting was such a strenuous activity? I woke up the next day with severe hip pain that translated into an excruciating last ten miles of the marathon. Lesson learned. When they say "don't use the extra energy during your taper to do spring cleaning," that INCLUDES housework of any sort (except, perhaps, sitting down and folding laundry).

The other mistakes I don't want to make this time is gaining or losing weight. It's quite easy to gain weight during a taper when you're used to eating huge amounts of food to keep up with the huge amount of calories you're burning. But losing weight is something I never thought about until I dropped more than five pounds in two weeks going into the 1999 Cleveland Marathon. I still don't know how it happened, but it resulted in my starting the race in such a state of fatigue that I had to drop out of at mile 15.

But, to get away from the usual Disaster Magnet-type thinking (i.e., negative), there are things I plan to keep in mind during my taper: reduce mileage while keeping the intensity up, drink more water daily to hydrate well and keep my appetite in check, practice relaxation techniques, and get more sleep.

And maybe, think positively.

(For anyone struggling with the same taper doldrums, try putting your mind at ease with this article: Marathon Taper Traps)

Race Resolutions, Relaxation and The Real TB

Twelve days to race day. I wrote in an earlier blog that I'd set some goals for the J-Team (previously known as "Team J"). One third of the J-Team -- my husband Jim -- spoke up last night after reading the blog.

He gave me a sort of tell-tale smile: "Does one of these team goals involve sleeping the night before the race?" Ouch.

Good question. I vaguely remember "sleeping" was one of my early-season race resolutions. Have I done anything about it? Not really. Four months ago, I was supposed to start going to sleep early. I didn't even start going to sleep early THIS month.

I defend myself: "I'm getting energized for my race by watching the Tour de France."

Jim strikes back: "DVR." Damn. So much for that excuse.

I guess I'll be practicing nightly relaxation exercises for the next twelve days. And no caffeine after noon. And no.. um.. *sniff*.. no three-hour nightly Tour rebroadcast.

If that doesn't work, there's always my secret weapon. The British indie band Turin Brakes. When all else fails, it's the one thing I have going for me when it comes to sleeping at night: Turin Brakes' 2003 album "Ether Song." I rarely mention it. Why? you ask... Obviously, when mentioning your favorite band, the last thing you want to do is tell potential listeners that one of their amazing albums is the equivalent of counting sheep.

There's so much more to it. When I first heard "Ether Song," it wasn't the sonic version of a siesta. It was a constant companion in my waking hours -- a brilliant mix of stormy and calm that sent shivers down my spine no matter how many times I listened.

Then came the accident -- the closed-head trauma, the neck injuries, the neck brace, the stuck-in-one-position-staring-at-the-ceiling-sleepless nights, the I-might-as-well-be-taking-speed effect of the steroids. After I struggled for hours one night while watching the time tick away, Jim suggested I try the iPod (perhaps my whimpering was keeping him awake?) It was that moment I discovered the drug that was "Ether Song."

I drifted through the first three songs, and, the next thing I knew, it was five hours later and daylight. That's a pretty powerful drug. The next several days, I tried other albums with no luck (well, to be fair, I did have intermittent luck with Radiohead's "Kid A"). But as soon as I played "Ether Song," I was out like a light. So this was it.. my favorite band puts me in a coma.

Little did I know that shortly thereafter, I would actually have the opportunity to tell them that. How, or more importantly, WHY, would you ever tell musicians that their music puts you to sleep? And why would you make it one of the first things you ever said to them? I still don't know, but at least I got a chance to explain... and, oddly, Turin Brakes' singer, Olly Knights, was not at all surprised by my revelation. He was almost, dare I say, thrilled to hear it. Like it was planned that way. Maybe to him, "Ether Song" didn't induce sleep, it induced a state of complete euphoria.. that then translated to sleep. The perfect drift off...

And there it is. My secret weapon. Something I will have to call upon once more because I didn't work on my anxiety issues and race-week panic attacks. And what's wrong with that?

Swimming for my Life - and for Team J

T-minus 13 days to go to Ironman Lake Placid. This past weekend of workouts was the last opportunity to significantly effect my race (the age-old 14-day rule). Now it's taper, taper, taper, and rest up. We leave for Lake Placid in nine days. Tomorrow night is the first pre-race logistics meeting of Team J (Jim has suggested we change the name to "The J-Team").

I have several race concerns, but only one real fear -- the Ironman swim. It usually hits me before the race, and yesterday was the day, when I went for an open-water swim. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I will NEVER get used to the mass chaos of the Ironman swim. I don't know if I'm the only one who feels this way, but there's something really terrifying about being in the water with over 2000 people all swimming for the same point, like we're all one microsecond away from drowning. I am deathly afraid of getting clobbered by all those arms and legs, especially when it seems like most people around me are not very good swimmers.

Here's an idea: people who don't stand a chance of swimming between 50 minutes and 1:10, stay out of the front lines. You know who you are. My goggles don't stand a chance with your flailing arms and legs. Please don't force me to kick you in the face when your hand "accidentally" wraps itself around my ankle. And what's up with that? Why do you GRAB my ankle? I may have lost weight this year, but I am NOT a lane-line. (Besides, you shouldn't be grabbing the lane-lanes anyway!) Just the thought of the trouncing I'll suffer sends chills down my spine.

And yet, amazingly enough, nobody drowns.

Now that I've declared my swimming fear, I can say that I am looking forward to swimming in the pre-race warm-ups that week. It's where the reuniting of Team J really hits home. Julie and Jim take it upon themselves to babysit me and my stuff and work out registration details and logistics while all I have to do is get in the water and swim. And they do it all while both carrying cameras to catch all those Disaster Magnet moments. They're my lifeline. When I see them standing on the shore, they're like two great beacons or lighthouses keeping me safe (it helps that they're both tall). This year, in addition to surviving the swim, I'm setting some goals with Team J in mind. I'll write more about that in an upcoming blog.