Christine, you have just escaped! (Pt 2)

Back to Part 1

After managing the swim, what later turned out to be in an incredible 33 min (I officially love the current), I was dashing along the yacht harbour, people lining the streets cheering, laughing, clapping. I was high on adrenaline and everything coming now was nothing to what I had just achieved, in my book anyways. Immediately, I noticed the benefits of having my name printed on my trisuit. Random people just shouted out my name. I smiled, I waved and carried on, passing lots and lots of people on that short stretch into transition already. All the time, I repeated: the modern grey house, 683, the modern grey house, 683. I found the house, the bike rack and my bike (no. 683). Shades on, helmet on, bike off. I got to the mount line, on the bike and just had a little more fiddle than necessary to get my feet in my shoes – maybe a bit of claw. Doh! Eventually, I was all strapped in and ready to roll for this: 

The first mile and a half to Fort Point is flat, but I decided to be smart and did not put on the big gear straight away. Instead I kept the cadence high and gradually increased resistance, had a few swigs of my drink and settled in. It was lovely out, no wind, the sun beaming, ideal temperatures. I knew that a mile or so in there was a sharp left hand turn with an immediate steep increase (ring a bell from the Etape Caledonia?). I made sure I was in an easy enough gear and started climbing up towards the Golden Gate Bridge all the while passing people who got the gear wrong, or who were riding their time trial set-ups with ridiculous gear ratios. Once you were up, the hill did not stop. Lincoln Boulevard just keeps going up and up although at a much kinder gradient, but if you’ve got the wrong gears, you are cooked half way up and there was a lot of cooking left, right and centre. During the climb, there was not much to see and so my main activity consisted of shouting “On your left!” and keeping the pedals turning. I smiled, this was my thing.

A fast little descend that was good to ride (even by my chicken standards) and then you started climbing again, a long slow drag with occasional changes in gradient, but with some nice views along the way. Near the top, motorcycles were coming towards me – the first Pro. I was delighted, I was 6 miles in, so he was just 12 miles ahead. Though the speed at which he shot down the hill made my stomach squirm. Another wee descend with a few sharp corners and then climb up to the Legion of Honour which provided the most amazing view! Then immediately plunging down again a bit of flat and then a very short steep downhill with a tight left corner at the bottom. I looked at it closely because we needed to come back up this way. Then it was down, down, down to the beach and into Golden Gate Park. Up MLK Drive (although you hardly felt the up), across the Traverse and down JFK. This was a good time to have a gel and a drink, swishing along nicely on good roads.

We were on the way back and there was the long climb up away from the beach, a left turn and at the end of the street the sharp right with the hill hidden from view. I dropped my gears to the lowest I had which was a 30/28 for those in the know. Round the corner and boom! Wall of concrete! You could hear all sorts of swear words in many languages. I just started talking to myself to take the mind off the hill. It felt like I flew up it and on top I quickly went back up through the gears to pick up the pace. Back up to the Legion of Honour and then it was a loooooong downhill. I was quite amazed to find myself clicking through the gears and pushing on even passing people on the downhill, unheard of before. If the roads had not been dry, this course would have been a whole different story, but I felt secure and the  2011 Fuji SL 2.0 I rode was a stable but responsive little bike and so I went for it. 

Climbing back up Lincoln Boulevard just past the sand ladder, the first Pro came pelting down the hill. Excellent! That’s twice! From the top it was all downhill and flat to the finish. I enjoyed the view of the Golden Gate, zipping down the hill, seeing Alcatraz in the distance. Zooming along the flat, enjoying the speed and the wind around my nose. With a mile to go, I started to ease off, increased cadence. The density of people increased, the noise grew bigger and bigger, the last few hundred yards on the bike was through a shoot of people, it almost had a Tour de France feeling. I got smoothly off the bike at the dismount line. Modern, grey house, modern grey house. 683. Bike racked, socks on, shoes on, helmet off. Off I trotted where I came from, until a kind spectator shouted “Wrong way” and waved his hands in the opposite direction. Darn, my head had clearly been on a different planet this morning. Usually, I am very conscientious about transitions, I walk them, make sure where I am going. Not today. I said “Thank you!” and waved, turned around and trotted off in the opposite direction. 

Finally out on the run course, I settled into a pace that I felt I could maintain for 8 miles and possibly push on the last bit. I checked out the runners around me. Another woman just ahead and it said 36 on her calf – she was in my age group. I latched on to her, but then briefly reconsidered and decided I was not going to cook myself on the first 2 miles, when a massive uphill, a set of stairs, the beach and the sand ladder were waiting for me. So, I settled back into my own pace, passing people, waving at supporters shouting my name, enjoying the view of the Golden Gate Bridge that grew bigger and bigger with every step I made.

A mile and bit into the run, a bike came towards me and right behind the first Pro. Ha! That’s three times! I felt like shouting: ‘You owe me a drink now, Andy Potts! We’ve met three times within 90 min!’ Instead I shouted encouragement, smiled and carried on… after all, he was only 7 miles ahead of me, that’s what, 45 min? The first set of stairs is looming, I feel full of energy and so I jog up.

At the top, you are not done climbing so I carried on and the game from the bike started repeating – “on your right”! To get to the path that goes underneath the Golden Gate Bridge you go through a tunnel. When you go in, it’s tall enough for me, but at the other end, it only about reaches to my chest. Lots of shouts coming to watch your head, and also to watch oncoming traffic from the Pros and first age groupers. After navigating that little obstacle, you get onto the coastal path which makes running a bit difficult, because at its best, the path fits one person, but if you’ve got two-way traffic and people wanting to pass each other, it gets a bit crowded. So this was a phase of the race where you needed to be smart, watch your footing, jump a few puddles, check the oncoming traffic, give a warning shout and throw in a strategic, energy sapping burst to get past people. All the while, you are steadily climbing back up to Lincoln Boulevard and ever closer to the beach section. I look at people around me, a blue top with a French club name printed on it… We traded places a few times, essentially going at the same pace. Then it’s a dive bomb down the hill to Baker Beach.

What I had not expected was that we would be led through the deep sand section, but that’s what the line of single file runners indicated. I changed my running style, from the longish strides that I usually make to very short, high frequency ones, so that I don’t have to push off the sand too much, which would lead nowhere because it would absorb all energy. Half a mile this section lasted and if the hill had not zapped your energy, certainly this part did. You turned around at the aid station and then it was along the water line with waves splashing playfully onto the beach. I had to watch where I was going and was nearly caught out by a few waves. During this section you have the most amazing view of the Golden Gate Bridge and I just enjoyed it and smiled with people along the way cheering you on.

A sharp right pull through a bit of deep sand and there it was, the dreaded sand ladder. The swirring of the beeping time mats for the "King of the Sand Ladder" competition, was the first thing that greeted you and the density of runners that had previously been unnoticeable increased suddenly. Everyone tried to find a space on the ladder, some along the hand rail, some up the middle. Initially, I went for the handrail, but got quickly annoyed having to settle into the rhythm of the person ahead of me. So I went for the middle of the ladder where there was more open space. After all, this is what I had practiced in the last couple of weeks before coming here, climbing all those stairs in the London Underground Stations and at work (I work on the 6^th floor). A steady rhythm was important, I even chatted to a few people on the way up. When it flattened out, I broke into a run again, along with everyone else. That wasn’t so bad, but I guess the adrenaline that is flowing through you and the buzz around you is just making things so much easier.

There was about another 500 m left to climb back up to the top of the hill and running on the road now made this so much easier… from there it was flat and downhill. Imperceptibly, the French vest had pulled up next to me and on my back I could hear another runner breathing heavily. Once we arrived at the top of the hill, the guy behind shouted “Come on, Christine! Under 3 hours, I’ll try to hang on to you!” Uh, under 3 hours, really? All righty then! Let’s go! I lengthened my stride, this felt like good running. Though having to turn back onto the coastal path made things a bit more difficult with large numbers of runners still making their way up the hill. Somewhere along there, I spotted Alison. I shouted her name and we waved, both with big smiles on our faces.

The downhill and down the stairs are difficult sections for me. I do not like downhills in any shape or form (running or cycling), due to various injuries they had inflicted on me. However, somehow in races, I manage to put that in the back most part of my brain and pull out a half decent descent, although I will never be a good fell runner. And so by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was reasonably pleased with myself. The French guy was slightly ahead. I clung to his back and found some shelter from the wind behind him. It wasn’t a strong wind, but it was still nice not to have to deal with it. He cruised through at a nice pace. We turned into Crissy Field, with it’s long seemingly never ending straight.

The French guy turned round and said: “Come on, Christine!” I pulled up along side him and thought this would be a good opportunity to practice my French. I asked if we were on course for under 3 hours, he said, he didn’t know because he didn’t carry a watch. I said ah well, me neither, but let’s keep pushing it (at least I hope that's what I said). And off we went, gradually increasing the pace. Somewhere in the distance, you could already make out the announcer from the finish line. I heard my name shouted from people along the road, I waved back at them (there is always time for a wave) and kept on the heels of the Frenchman. He turned round and shouted “Flamme rouge, Christine!” when we were back at the yacht club. The man had humour. I was in a strange state of focus on the finish while also waving at people, high-fiving them and just generally enjoying the huge buzz and frenzy that thousands of screaming and shouting people create. The Frenchman and I turned onto the grassy last 100 m of Marina Green and went for the line side by side, the red banner drawing nearer and the noise getting bigger. The big clock said: 2:51. WOW!! I dug in for the last couple of meters. BEEP! I crossed the timing mat. Somewhere out of the off, a voice said: “Congratulations, Christine, you have just escaped!” I raised my arms – YES, I had!

As you do when you cross the finish line, you start chatting to your running buddies, exchange race details. My French buddy is from Brittany and his name is Nicolas. At this point my foreign language brain centre did not function properly any longer and we continued in English. I was just happy he had dragged me along those last couple of miles. It's not that I would not have made it, but I probably would not have raced it and in the end been a bit grumpy about it. This way, I’d had it all. I had the enjoyment of the experience, the amazing scenery and crowd AND I had the feeling of achievement for giving the race my best shot. As it later turned out, I had given it quite a good shot, with pulling off the second fastest bike split and fourth fastest run split in my age group, finishing 7^th in an amazing 2:46:11.

For now, I just enjoyed being at the finish, chatting with other competitors and soaking up the noise and cheers. Nicolas’ friends finished, someone I’d met at the Etape Caledonia came up to me, he had escaped successfully, a friend from my club at home made it and Alison came home too, with a big bright grin on her face. Everyone was happy!

The rest disappeared in a blur. Finish line pictures, collect bags with warm clothes, get some food, go chat with the ZipVit people (they’d been fantastic offering help if there was anything on my bike that needed fixing or setting up, giving me stocks of race food and generally treating me like one of their sponsored athletes, even though I am just a little age grouper). Chat with the ladies from GoTRIbal, who had enthusiastically welcomed me the day before when I picked up my tri top and offered lots of encouragement and support. Eventually, I collected my bike, which sat lonely in transition, packed up all my stuff there and got on the way back to my friend’s flat, up the hill on Laguna. I didn’t feel like riding, so it was a long walk with my finisher medal bouncing against my chest with every step.

The way back up was more energy zapping than the whole triathlon, at least it felt like it. My friend was home. For the next hour or so, she had to listen to me with every single detail bubbling out of my mouth. I was still high on endorphins, but slowly I felt the energy flowing out of my body. A hot shower and I felt like having a little nap. Lying down closing my eyes, I heard the announcer say: “Congratulations, Christine, you have just escaped!”

Full results can be found here: http://onlineraceresults.com/race/view_race.php#racetop if you've paid attention you know what number to type in. ;-)
Interestingly, overall, my swim split (671 out of 1723) was better than my run split (739 of 1723). That's a whopping first. My bike was just brills at 356 of 1723.
Race pictures can be found at Brightroom including a very cheesy video of me crossing the finish line. 

Christine, you have just escaped! (Pt 1)

It’s June 5^th, 4 am. My alarm has just gone off after a less than restful night. My mind would not rest and went over every detail a million times. I'm not usually the type of person who gets stressed out over races. I’ve got one hour to get dressed have breakfast and get on my bike: it’s Escape time!

I realise I have not been very well organised. I forgot to stop at the grocery shop, which now means, my porridge is made with water and my coffee is without milk, instead of a banana I improvise with a jam sandwich for a snack an hour before the race – after all, jam sandwiches are the secret fuel weapons of cyclists, so why should it not work for me. A last check through my kit bag. One transition bag for the swim exit containing a pair of trainers with lock laces (in case of “the claw”), a small towel, a small bottle of water and a ZipVit gel. One transition bag to hold my stuff before boarding the ferry that now contains my wetsuit, two swim hats, my goggles, a bottle of baby oil, number belt, the jam sandwich and a pair of flip flops. My shoe bag with my trainers and socks for the run and baby powder. Lastly, I check my bike stuff: helmet – check, shades with orange lenses – check, bike shoes – check, a tube with Vaseline, my bento box with a gel. That sounds about right and should be all the kit I need. Time to leave.

When leaving the house, it hits me that I’ve not got lights. It is pitch black in the streets, but they are empty and ghostly apart from the boy on the paper round who hops in and out of his mom’s car. While zipping down the hill, my thoughts wander… this is it! The culmination of 4 weeks of back-to-back racing. I let my thoughts pass through the last 3 months. For only 3 months, I have been training for triathlon specifically, and I have to admit to myself that I have come a long way and achieved an incredible amount, having qualified for the World Championships 2011 and the European Championships 2012. This is the icing on the cake, the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae. Drawing closer to Marina Green, it gets busy, with thousands of people checking in, racking their bikes, setting up their run shoes, squeezing themselves into their wetsuits and queuing for the bus to the San Francisco Belle – all in the eerie light of the just breaking day.

The words from the race briefing echo in my head: remember the house in front of which your bike rack is positioned. It’s the ultra-modern grey one. I set up, take my time with the baby power, Vaseline and all the other things. Check through my transition bags once again. Alison phones, she is done setting up. She’s from London too, is a first timer like me and we are both scared out of our wits with the swim and hence both learned bucket loads at the swim clinic on Friday. But as they say: Shared burdens are half the burdens and safety in numbers. It’s good to have someone you know around.

We drop off our swim transition bags and get in the queue for the bus, chatting, reminiscing and generally getting quite nervous about the trip out on the boat. There’s a buzz in the air that I have never felt at any other triathlon before. A sense of great anticipation. We climb onto the bus, I eat my sandwich and we chat to people around us. We are all a big family just now because all of us are literally going to be on the same boat. Off the bus and we glimpse the San Francisco Belle for the first time with her neon lights glowing brightly in the early morning. We look out onto the sea, the water is very calm, hardly any ripples. Somewhere it drifts around that it is as calm as it has never been since the event exists. The sky is blue with just a few clouds, no wind – all good news after the forecasts had been for thunderstorms and rain and rumours of a shortened swim and bike.

Everyone is engaged in last minute preparations. Constant announcements about timing chip pick up and getting on the boat. We try to delay that until the last minute, because getting on the boat means the inevitable – we have to jump and swim. Eventually, we make our way, being greeted individually by the crew. We follow the signs for the teenage to 40 age group to the lower deck. It is already rammed with people, everyone trying to find a little bit of space on the floor. We sit down near the entrance door, it’s quite fresh here, but we’ve learned that if you are a bit cold when you jump in the Bay, the shock of the cold water isn’t quite so bad. Besides this area is way more interesting, because just across the staircase, the Pro’s are getting ready. Quite interesting to see. You’d think that their warm-up routine is different, but it’s not. They loosen up their shoulders and arms, check nervously through their kit, fiddle with their wetsuits, some chat with the other athletes, others want isolation – just like us age groupers. Alison and I head out on the deck when we draw closer to the start point and the announcement has been made it’s 10 min to the Pro start. The sun is glistening on the water, you can clearly see the yellow dome shining in the sun, the San Francisco skyline in all its glory and Alcatraz prison sitting majestically in the Bay.

Athletes in their wetsuits cram on the deck like the sea lions on the pontoons at Pier39, all wanting a look at the Pro start which then means that our race is off within minutes too. Alison and I repeat the sighting points, chat about the weather and how lucky we are the water is calm. Next to us stands a tall, fit looking woman. She smiles at us and says, ‘You are going to be fine. The weather is perfect’. We ask her if she has done the race. ‘Many times.’ is the response. When we ask why she is not doing it this year, she explains that she has a stress fracture and would only be able to do the swim as she is not allowed to run or cycle. We wish her speedy recovery and she wishes us good luck and then disappears. Only after the race I found out that we’ve been chatting to Michellie Jones, it’s how small this boat is.

All of a sudden you can feel an increase in intensity. White swim caps line up along the gates of the boat. The Pros are getting ready. The hooter goes, they jump in and with open mouths Alison and I notice they are going in a straight line for the shore. Immediately, the chatter around us picks up and people discuss their swim line many aiming to just follow in the straight line of the pros, some asking us what we have been told about sighting. Clearly, I feel more confident for having done the swim clinic and I just repeat to myself that I won’t be doing anything stupid, I will follow the sighting points I’ve been told. I’m not a strong enough swimmer to go straight for the shore, all the while being nudged forward towards the start gate. I approach the door and I know from that door it is 5 steps and then I’ve got 3 seconds to get off the boat. My breathing deepens. Oh my God, this is it! A bit in trance, I step through the door, my hand goes to my goggles, my other arm stretches out, I reach the edge, a deep breath and without hesitation I jump in.

While underwater, I think 'This is it, I’m doing it!' At the same time, the back of my brain screams: ‘Swim, swim swim!’ I come up, swim a few strokes away from the boat and then orientate myself. Fontana Towers, straight ahead, pretty much right behind…err… all the safety vessels. To my right lots of people swim off the other way. A slight nag of doubt, but NO! I’m doing as I was told – Fontana Towers here I come! And so I set off finding a nice easy rhythm of breath, stroke, sight. I sight frequently to make sure I’m going the right way… Man, this looks far!

I am heading straight on, or at least what I think is straight all the time keeping the picture of the swim route in my head and repeating the sighting points. Fontana towers, trees of Fort Mason, piers of Fort Mason, Yellow Dome, red roof. The swim experience itself was rather peaceful. Despite 2000 people in the water, I felt alone. No one around me, except for the safety vessels in the distance. The only sound I was hearing was my breathing and my hands dipping in the water and pulling through, all in a regular calm rhythm. Occasionally, someone else caught up or crossed my path (quite literally) and then there was quiet again.

Now the picture above describes how the swim should work. Mine went a bit differently. I swam straight towards the Towers for what seemed like ages gradually coming nearer, but I still felt like I was miles away. Your perception of distance in the water is next to zero. I just kept at it waiting for the point when I would see Fort Mason in my peripheral vision. Five strokes swimming, sight, Towers. The next time I looked up, I looked straight at Fort Mason. UUuuuiiiii! How had this just happened? Oh dear… Swim across the river! So I headed straight on towards Fort Mason, after all this was still good and truth be told, I had to come out of the water a mile further down. The swim still felt good and in my head I was smiling, making sure I rotated properly to help my breathing (and avoiding swallowing water) and occasionally over rotating so I could have a look back at Alcatraz and how it got smaller and smaller. Still miles out from the shore and heading for Fort Mason, another batch of people popped up around me. I popped my head up because I had heard someone shout in the distance. It was one of the safety kayak people waving his arms and pointing towards the yellow dome. Just to give you an idea of the distance between Alcatraz and Fort Mason, see the picture below.

  

Personally, I felt I was still too far from the shore to turn in completely. But then again, if the safety person tells you, you do! I had also lost vision of the orange buoy that I wanted to be right of, but I turned, ever so slightly because I felt I needed to head for the shore. Keeping my rhythm, it all went very quickly from there, all of a sudden I was past Fort Mason, the dome grew bigger. I could make out the red roof of the yacht club, and still I was what seemed miles and miles from the shore. I started pulling a bit harder and tried to get closer to the shore, being dragged down further along the coast. It was all a big blur and I felt like I had lost orientation a bit. At some point, I thought I am not moving forward or getting any closer. A slight panic rose, I did not want to be dragged past the landing spot! I could see it and headed for it in a straight line. All of a sudden, the grip from the current released and I shot forward towards the shore. It was there! Right there! I have almost made it! 50m to go and I would land smack-bang in the middle of the shore! Furiously kicking, I made it. My hands touched the sand, my knees touched down.

For a second, I kneeled in the water on all fours and it dawned on me I had made it. My first impulse was to raise my hands to the sky like Robinson Crusoe would’ve done after he landed with his raft on the shore, but somewhere in the back of my head something said that would be a bit over-dramatic. Instead, I clambered to my feet, with a big smile and tears in my eyes feeling the emotions wallowing up, slowly walking across the beach with hundreds of people around screaming, shouting and ringing cow bells. I was here! I had made it! At this point automatism set in, I reached for the back of my wetsuit to open it. Another swimmer asked if I needed help and he opened the Velcro for me – Thank you! Getting nearer towards the stairs, my smile got bigger and I broke into a jog. My feet felt fine, not frozen despite not swimming with neoprene booties, my hands felt ok too. I reached my transition bag.

At this point the race was over, for about 3 min. I took my wetsuit off very slowly, and my emotions switched back and forth between smiling and crying at the speed of an electric current. Eventually, I reigned myself in. I had done the swim, now I would go and enjoy the rest, and I would rock it! Race on! Quickly I packed the wetsuit in the bag, washed the sand off my feet with the waterbottle, took a sip to wash the bay out of my mouth, trickled some over my face to wash the salt off, wiped through my face, put my shoes on (no claw!) and off I went on the 800 m run to my bike.

End of Part 1

Click here for Part 2