A 10% Grade

A ten percent grade.

Somewhat like a hard climb is where it gets its name. Enter a keyframe at the start, choose your distance and add another keyframe. Zero is flat and anything over 20% usually indicates pain of one sort or another. Ten percent is an honest grade. It separates a lot of folks, fast. Ten percent is why there are triples. It is why carbon-fiber is so popular. It is where the big lessons are learned. The University of 10.

I look at every race as an opportunity to learn something about myself. As complete disclosure, it is why I started to do Ironman events fifteen years ago; I had to know if I could do it. And then do it better. Faster. Make it easier. Race in Hawaii. It has taken me down a most interesting, challenging, enjoyable and relentless path. Still, the lessons come at you fast. Sunday's race down in Bend was no exception to the rule. I learned a lot about a lot. It seems that the lessons have changed a little, more subtle perhaps, more introspective, esoteric, odd. They seemed to create a gradient on Sunday and as I swam, biked and ran under the high desert sun, I had a chance to somewhat sort them out. The gradient:

Start: (enter keyframe) I haven't been in the pool in almost two years. Sorry but I just find it boring. I also detest the fact that I have to pay $4 a visit to the pool that my taxes paid to have built and that I repeatedly pay property taxes to maintain each and every year. Talk about getting soaked. I also can't stand the manager, or the attitudes of the staff, so I just don't go. I'll get in another CompuTrainer session, a spin, long ride or a run, thank you very much. So I stand on the boat ramp at the Wikiup Reseviour at 0900 Sunday morning facing a 1500 meter swim to start the day. Am I apprehensive, nervous, frightened? Not at all. I am so calm I start to wonder if Dad made decaf this morning. My strategy is this: I am going to take it so easy and relaxed and smooth that to the untrained eye it might appear as if I am actually having fun. A water leg first for me. I am going to practice technique and try to slip through the warm green water like a happy brown trout, expending as little energy as possible. I am going to rotate my neoprene hips like never before and breathe deep and reciprocally, my arms will reach way out in front, grab bucketfuls of water and finish with a curt little triceps squeeze. I will glide as if I am coated with WD-40. And all this comes to pass. I couldn't believe how easy it was. I was passing others in age groups that had started ten minutes before our blue caped geezer class. Before I knew it I had rounded the last buoy and was stroking towards the red carpet of the finish. WOW, maybe this is the way it's supposed to be, actually self propelling forward with quasi-gusto.

LESSON: Relax.

The Bike: I see Dad in T1 and he is snapping photos with a Rite-Aide disposable camera and smiling so I figure all is well. I have a terrible transition as the X-Terra wetsuit that I am frantically peeling off is one size too small and I am only wearing it because my good DeSoto T2 suit is lost somewhere. I tell Dad as I leave the pen that the race starts now. He smiles and says "Go get 'em." I will.

LESSON: Be present.

28 miles. The Olympic Distance bike course is a 40K, or 24.8 miles. This course just works out to be 28 miles, a little long, but everybody has to do it so who cares? I am feeling good, surprisingly good and it is quickly apparent that today I have some mojo. Major Mojo. As I pass the first thirty people who are better swimmers than I, the thought hits that maybe today is the withdrawal day paying the dividend on all that HIT spinning we've done over the years, and especially the last one. Yah? Two ways to find out mate, and the one you can control is to DO IT.

LESSON: Manage your day.

If it feels good, push, it it doesn't, well, push anyway. And I start the push. And immediately pass another thirty. And then come across my pal Lynn who I didn't know was racing here, so I brake down and chat for a few, bid her adieu, and return to the task at hand, namely, finding a powerful sweet spot and holding it for another 20 miles. I can't believe how fast the miles markers are coming on. I am flying. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful and have a GU. Please remember to hydrate and work the axis from the core. Keep pushing. You can go harder, the run is only a flat 10K. Seek and destroy. As I hear this voice crackle over the headphones I hear a rattle from what seems like the front wheel, God, I have broken a spoke? Just when everything was going along so smooth. I check the brakes on a 30-mph decent and can't locate the noise. Shit, why today? As I try to locate the source of the irritating rattle, now getting louder, a skinny guy passes me on a Trek Madone. Hum-mm, first time that has happened today, guy looks very fit, probably a good runner, and I see he is wearing my age on his right calf. OK, fine, we got us a race here, let's go. But this rattle is now loud and starting to concern me. Should I stop and try to fix it and allow Mr. Skinny to get a mile ahead, or hope that it will hold up for another 15 miles? Remembering that I have been comped to the event and that race day insurance could be an issue, I think about what would happen if I have a mechanical failure at 35-mph, my current speed on the downhill, where I decide to pass Mr. Skinny because I now have a weight advantage. It is more important to me right now that I put some doubt into his brain that he might not be able to counter such a powerful move, and one coming from a competitor who looks to be a touch "focused". I slam the hammer down with a surge of endorphins and sweat and keep an impossible pace for five lung-burning, leg-turning, fire breathing minutes. When I take a peek behind he is nowhere to be seen.

LESSON: Never underestimate the power of power.

I cruise through the remainder of the course, passing everything that isn't nailed down or dead. My question is now, at what price? Will I even be able to keep a 10 minute/mile pace up for the 6.2? Has my race wad been shot into space? Is the tank on E? Have I learned nothing in twenty years of racing?

LESSON: Endurance is the result of power, speed, efficiency and repetition.

The run: Why do I feel so good? I have no reason to feel like I can catch an antelope at this stage of the race. I drink some water at the first aid station and look around. Everywhere are signs of carnage. I have seen this all before, many, many times. Lot's of fans out today, sitting in lawn chairs, sipping lemonade. I smile, and wave and talk to a few runners and say thanks to all the traffic control volunteers as I snake my way through the field. I see a guy with a 55 on his calf and blow by him so fast he probably lost his cap. I look at my watch and start doing some math. The mileage makers are coming on faster than they were on the bike. Mile 3, 4, 5 and then I start to hear the PA announcer and the crowd. I have less than 500 meters to go. Already? I push. The crowd is growing and clapping and kids are holding out their little hands for low fives. I get 'em all as I do my little airplane approach to the landing strip. There is just a trace of lactic acid in my legs as I hit the timing mat. I take one deep breath and I am recovered. That's it?

LESSON: If you spend all your time training for an Ironman, this is just another workout, you may go hard, race well, and go fast.

MORE LESSONS: Not everybody wants to do it this way. Competition isn't everything. But it is something. And the lessons learned here today were all good. With even a few big ones. This, to me, is the fun.

Footnote: The final results were somehow scrambled with the official times showing the winner of our age group at 2:53.12. My time was 2:50:10. An honest, albeit ironic, grade.

Enjoy the video.