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Getting it out of my system

One-lane bridge over the Russian River, part of the Vineman bike course.

I should have known something would happen. I stumble, tumble or fall a few weeks before every big race.

The day of my final 112-mile ride before Ironman Wisconsin coincided with the Vineman iron-distance triathlon. Vineman has an Aquabike option that lets you race just the swim and bike. My coach and I agreed that this would be a perfect training day and race simulation. Riding 112 miles on a well-supported race course would be way more fun than another 112-mile jaunt around the usual Marin County haunts. This is the same course where my friends and I nearly melted into the asphalt three weeks ago. I'm glad to report that it was about 20 degrees cooler this weekend.

My ride was not fun. It was one of the most defeating days I've ever had on the bike. On the bright side, it has helped me make some important decisions about my upcoming race.

I started the day badly by getting to the race site way too late, with only 35 minutes to set up my transition and get into my wetsuit. I panicked when I saw 200 people in line for the 10 porta-potties. I am one of those geeks who always arrives at a race with 2 hours to spare, but since this was just a training day for me, I decided to get more sleep and not freak out about getting there early.

I did make it to a porta-potty, but I had just barely gotten my wetsuit on and was just getting into the tepid Russian River water as the horn for my wave went off. OK, time to swim! The water in the river was so shallow that my fingers brushed the bottom at a few points. Several people stood up and walked for stretches.

My swim time was 1:18, almost exactly the same as it was in my past two IM races. At least I'm consistent if not blazing fast. I got on my bike and the bad attitude started right away. I didn't want to be there. I was not comfortable on my bike. And was my rear tire flat or what? It looked a little low. I stopped and pressed the rubber. It felt OK. Hmmm.

Near the end of the first of two laps, I was sure that my rear tire was flat. I looked down at the tire to check it again. And when I looked up, I was headed for the edge of the road. The dirt shoulder was an eight-inch drop below the pavement. It was too late to correct and recover. I was going 16-18mph and I went down hard into the packed dirt.

I lay in the dirt as riders passed me and shouted at me to see if I was OK. I'm sure I was only lying there for a few seconds, although it felt like an hour as I wondered if my race and my season were over. I sat up and took inventory. I felt OK. After a few more minutes I stood up. I felt no pain other than the sting of the scrapes on my left leg and elbow. I took my helmet off and examined it. It looked OK.

My bike was only a little bit banged up, and indeed the rear tire was mostly flat. I got out my tools to fix the tire. By now it felt like most of the race had passed me, including several friends who had shouted condolences at my bad luck in getting a flat in a race. Of course, they had no idea that I had also crashed.

There was a teeny, tiny thorn in my tire, embedded in the thickest part of the tread, and it had created a slow leak in the tube. When I was almost done replacing the tube, a man in an SUV drove up and asked, "Did you see someone crash around here?" He had been sent back by the racers who passed me. I assured him that I was the crasher, and that I was OK. Although I wish I had asked if he had a bike pump in his car.

It took me about 25 minutes to gather myself back together, fix the flat, and adjust all the bike parts that had been knocked out of whack. I realized that I had a perfect excuse to drop out of the race mid-way, where the bike course passed through the finish area before heading out for a second loop.

But then I remembered dropping out of my first 100-mile ride of the season early, when I cut the Sierra Century short and only rode 80 miles. And I thought to myself, dammit, there is no way I'm cutting my last 100-miler short. No way.

So I got back on the bike and started pedaling. I was covered with dirt, and I had no water since my aerobar bottle had emptied in the crash (and also gotten covered in dirt). I felt pretty good physically, but I was mad and disappointed. I was not looking forward to riding another 60 miles. But I knew I would be far more disappointed if I dropped out. And I felt like I owed it to Dave to do the absolute best I could do. He had skipped a race he wanted to do, driven all the way up to Sonoma with me, and put up with my crankiness and panic that morning.

I rolled through the finish area and grabbed lots of extra water. I heard several people cheering my name, which was a sweet sound to my ears. And I did not drop out. I finished the damn race. My bike time was over 8 hours. Sheesh. Amazingly, I was 11th out of 14 in my age group. I fully expected to be last.

As a result of this miserable day, I've decided to ride my road bike, not my triathlon bike, in Wisconsin. My tri bike is sweet and cool and fast and fun, but I'm just not comfortable riding it farther than about 60 miles. I have been in denial about this; I should have made this decision long ago. I will put aerobars on my road bike. I will be happier. I have one more long ride (90 miles) to test my theory. I am cutting it close. This is a yuppie problem, I know.

You know what else was a yuppie problem? Deciding which of the 120 Russian River wineries to visit on Sunday. We were in Sonoma County, after all. Good wine has a way of making things better.

August 15, 2006 7:57 AM