Race Result

Racer:	Steve Smith
Race:	Reston Triathlon
Date:	Sunday, September 11, 2005
Location:	Reston, VA
Race Type:	Triathlon - International Distance
Age Group:	Male 35 - 39
Time:	1:55:43
Overall Place:	1
Comment:	s: 22:20 b: 54:05 r: 37:50 ... First OA, and first time I didn't PR

Race Report:

Coming into Reston this year, everyone expected another close race between myself and Mike Orton, but those in the know (or so they thought) figured it was over as soon as I hit the bike course a mere 1:45 after Mike Orton. In 2002, 2003, and 2004 Mike outswam me by 5 minutes, 3 minutes, and 3 minutes. In two of those years, the smallest of margins separated us: 8 seconds between my third and his second in 2002 and 4 seconds between my first and his second in 2004. So, as I came out of the water, zipped through transition, and found myself the second cyclist on the race course, I may have been forgiven a sense of, shall we say, comfort. Indeed, I wasn't terribly worried about the race, but not for any obvious reasons.

Most of my training buddies knew something Mike may or may have not known; I was in a funk. Not a mental funk, which often attaches itself to athletes that train 4 or more hours a day for months on end, but a physical funk. I hinted at this funk in my brief Timberman report. In that race, for the first time ever, I got on the bike and simply had no power. I've arrived at races with maybe a day's rest after weeks of voluminous training, and I've arrived at races with little training; these are things I'm familiar with, the tired, heavy legs of too much training and good-but-slow legs of too little training. But Timberman was new; I was in the midst of some of the best cycling volume in my four-year career. I'd race well at my sprint tune-up the week before, at Lum's Pond Sprint, pushing 26 mph on a fairly flat course. I'd rested well the week before Timberman. I'd gotten out of the water before many of the pros in my elite wave. In short, this is what I'd trained for the last four years: a swim fast enough such that I could bike with the pros. So, when the first trickle of cyclists passed me at Timberman, I knew something was up. I willed my legs to turn faster. I could feel the energy loaded in my quads, my hamstrings, waiting to be unleashed on the competition just ahead of me. But all that training, all that energy, was stuck.

Two weeks later, at Ratman, the same thing happened. No energy. No pluck. Last year's Ratman was perhaps the single best day I've ever had on the bike; it was one of the key moments that lead me to reduce my work schedule this year so I could focus almost entirely on training. This year, it was one of my lowest moments. In the weeks between Timberman and Ratman, I'd mostly rested. I wanted to train; I wasn't burnt out, but physically something was amiss. A few days later, I unplugged emotionally, from my season. I had high hopes for a fall Ironman. I let those hopes go. I wanted to race hard and well at Reston ... and, as much as I doubted my ability to do so, I still wanted to. For unlike my fall ironman, Reston is a more personal race. I imagine that Mike wants to win this race as much as I do. What I want, and what I suspect Mike and most other dedicated athletes want, is to race with (not against, but with) my peers at their best. Granted, when your peers are athletes in contention for the win there's an additional spice to the day, but I believe this desire to compete with our peers holds true along the spectrum of athletes.

So I arrived at Reston with no expectations, no emotional investment in the race's outcome. With that in mind, my biggest fear before Reston was not failing myself, but failing my peers. I was ready for Mike to win Reston, but I wanted to put up a good fight so, if Mike did win, there would be no doubt in our minds that the best athlete won.

Now, less than two minutes behind Mike and with no one between us, I pushed the pedals to answer the day's big question: do I have the energy?

Maybe. At this point, in the first of our three-loop cycling journey, it's hard to tell. The weather is beautiful: calm winds, cool but sunny day, Colorado-esque humidity in the 20-percent range. Clear roads ahead of me. Life is full of uncertainty and sport is a slice of life. What is so compelling about sport, both in participation and in spectation? Possibly it is that sport focuses so incredibly on uncertainty (who will win? what will happen before the clock runs out? do I have legs today?) yet gives the illusion of certainty (Tiger wins! Tech wins, in double overtime! Maybe I have legs, today ...).

As I come around the corner for the beginning of the second loop, reality makes its first announcement. "One minute!" my father yells. I gain forty-five seconds in the first loop. That's not bad. But my heart is pounding, my legs are grinding up the small hill of Twin Branches road. Math is difficult. Forty-five seconds in one loop. One-thirty in two loops. Is this good? Good enough? Multiples of three are too difficult. As I merge into the cyclists just exiting their swim, I realize that the more crowded second and third loops may go more slowly.

It'll be close, I think. Eerily, this is the same thought I had last year, but much later in the race, at mile five on the run. It'll be close.

For this year I'm pretty sure that I will not be running almost minute faster than Mike. While it may be common knowledge that I'm in a funk, what is not generally known is that my running has suffered in the last few months. Lots of 30 mile weeks when I should have been running 50 mile weeks. Why this is I cannot really say. Just bad scheduling on my part. Unforgivable, I think cornering into Glade Rd, careful of the first-loopers, unforgivable that I should have so much time available to train and waste it away.

I think back to my quick interview with Mike Gillette, yesterday at packet pick-up. What are my expectations for the race? I laugh. To have fun. I laugh because I'm nervous. How can I explain, in a sound byte, that what I really want to do race strongly enough so that I can lose with pride, so that Mike can win with pride? I stammer something about arriving in an empty T2, the racks clear of bikes. If I can do that, beat Mike off the bike course, maybe I can hold him off. If not, at least I will have put up a solid fight, something we can both be proud of.

It'll be close.

As I move through the second loop, I come into my legs. I think back to last week's ride, a cruise with The Guys. A send-off for the towering Mike Guzek, Le Grand Chaval, Big Horse. On a similarly beautiful day we left the Old Dominion Brew Pub, eight of us, and headed into the horse country of Virginia. It's an impressive collection of local cycling talent with myself, Brady, Dave, James, Frosty, Guzek, Crandall, and Doug. After the first hour or so, I decide I need to test my legs. I go into race mode. I fall back from the cyclists ahead me, three bike lengths, and I remain draft-legal for the rest of the ride. I push the pace some and eventually Frosty & I find ourselves alone. Frosty hammered me at Ratman the previous week, would have hammered just about anyone that presented themselves. We stay away for a spell and finally stop for liquids. And wait. After several minutes we regroup and push on.

As we approach the monster hills of Stumptown I realize that the Big Question is about to get answered. In funk? or out of funk? Ever since I started pushing the pace, my heart rate raced higher than it usually would. Why? Because I was rested, and could push myself unlike most days? Or because I was over-trained? and needlessly exerting myself. If I was rested then I would continue to get faster. If I was overtrained, I would get slower.

It'll be close.

I'm gaining on Orton. I've trained and raced enough in the last four years to understand one thing: one workout does not a season make. Last week was last week and today isn't. The second loop passes by; I'm not in the zone, I'm not moving effortlessly and quickly. I'm pushing, pushing, pushing. Out of the saddle to crest the hill onto South Lakes. Focus, push, don't let up on the fast, false downhill past the high school. Thirty-nine miles per hour. Don't let up. It'll still be close.

My father comes into view. Forty-five seconds. So what's that I wonder? Forty-five in the first loop and fifteen in the second loop. I'm confused. The math doesn't seem right. Whatever, I'm going as hard as I can. Maybe, I think, just maybe I can out-run him by 20 seconds.

Back onto Glade and back onto Lawyers, onto my favorite stretch of this race course: the stair-steps from Steeplechase to Lawyers. They look like small hills, but there's a slight downhill in each step. The visible hill and the 28 mph on my speedometer always bring a smile to my face. The rush of pure speed buoys my spirit and preps me to focus on pushing the soon-to-come downhill stretch of Colt's Neck and the last climb before South Lakes.

Cruising, flying down South Lakes, I try and convince myself: Twenty seconds. You can take back 20 seconds from his run. Do I really believe this? I never get the chance to find out, for as I'm approaching the last turn, onto Ridge Heights, I see the motorcycle.

Wow, I think, there's a motorcycle with the leader. Cool.

I'd never seen the motorcycle at this race before. And now here it was, just ahead of me, coming closer, not pulling away. Then I see Mike, crouched over his bike in a fluid pedaling stroke unlike everyone else around him. The motorcycle comes closer, falls into my wake. So does Mike. For the first time ever, after posting the fastest bike split for the three previous years, I am leading the race while on the bike. Hell, for the fist time ever, I'm leading the race more than 100m from the finish-line. I have no idea how Mike responded to my pass. Out of habit I had yelled, "Passing" as I went by. I've got about 45 seconds of cycling left.

Earlier in the morning, when I was racking my bike, Mike & his older brother, Dave, wheeled their bikes into T2. Mike racked just to the side of me, and his brother split us. I had purposefully chosen a rack of no particular location because I was fairly certain that I would be the first or second athlete into transition. I was a little surprised to see Mike rack right next to me. Why? I have no idea. But it unsettled me a bit. Now, bent over, with one shoe on and the other shoe slipping onto my foot, Mike hit the racks. Oh lord, I thought, here we go again.

Heading out of transition, I marvel at the novelty of leading this race. Always in the past I've gone chasing after the swimmers. Now the swimmer was chasing the cyclist. One thing I learned about this race in the last few years was that distances are deceptive. Get out of sight by a mere 30 or 50 or 70 meters and you might as well be invisible. I know my running legs are adequate, but adequate may not suffice in this race.

I wonder about Mike. Last month, for the first time ... well, ever, I saw Mike on the W&OD trail. As he headed westbound I did a double take when I noticed his Cervelo, putting the face & the fit legs together. We ended up riding together for a few miles and chatting. I've always liked Mike; he seems to love the sport and I look up to him as someone who has more experience in this game than I do. Even though he's my junior by nearly a dozen years, he's got nearly twice as much experience as I do, having raced for nearly 10 years. Besides, he's an awesome swimmer (a fly, distance, and IMer at that) and I'm always inspired by those faster than myself. Our ride was the week before Timberman, so I was still in good spirits, anxious to test myself against my first primary goal of the year. In talking Mike told of his XTerra debacle, crashing his bike several times and severely hurting his ribs. I've been there, bruised and broken ribs, and I wish that on no man. As we parted ways, I thought to myself: I hope he heals fast, I want to race against his best.

Leaving T2 a mere 20 seconds ahead of Mike, all I can think of now is: get out of sight! Get out of SIGHT! I approach the first downhill and remember that I can run quickly downhill. I am not as skilled as the fabled downhill master Aaron Schwartzbard, but I've run with Aaron enough to see the beauty of his downhill skills and pick up a few pointers. I spin my legs down the short hill and then push myself as hard as possible to crest the sharp hill up to the elementary school. If I can just hold this speed, push the effort up the hill and across the short flat, I can spin down the second hill and possibly get out of sight early. That's my only hope.

I spin down the hill and continue along the course. I'm tense in my shoulders. The next mile is critical. If Mike moves in the next mile, if he catches my shoulder, I'm not sure if I can hold him off. The supremely difficult efforts in the hills are a feint, a bluff. I cannot possibly hold that effort. But if I can get into the flats far enough ahead maybe he will not notice the subtle slowing of pace. I'm running scared, for once, the hare.

And I'm running alone. It's quiet. Shaded. Beautiful. My breathing isn't too heavy, but my heart rate is too low. I do what I can. I push. No one to chase, no one to pull me along, only fear pushing me along. Maybe. It'll be close. If I don't slow down I will have at least put up a good fight.

The turn-around. He's coming at me, but how quickly? I don't even have time to estimate, he's here, about 30 seconds behind me. Maybe 20. Maybe 40. But he looks determined, strong. Don't give up. I tell myself; I tell him.

I push up the subtle hill, realizing he was cruising downhill. Little comfort. Now comes Cascio, running fast. Now ... oh my god. Margie. Holy crap! Margie, awesome job. Unbelievable. Inspiring and, for a moment, frightening. She's close to everyone but me and Mike. Course record, I plead, let her get the course record. More friends: Crandall, Frosty, Steve Giorgis, all racing well.

As I pass by the Hunters Wood water stop, I have settled into a pace I can maintain. I listen intently to the volunteers behind. They cheered for me as I came by and they will do the same for Mike. I make a series of turns across the bridges and hear a faint cheer. I am in my pace and I believe Mike is in his pace. Things should be stable until we approach the last tunnel. I smile. I relax a bit. 20 seconds I think, was all I really needed. More friends, more than I can count, the joys of a hometown race. But it's good to see Jo Ann back racing and better to see Julie, in her first race of the year, smiling from ear-to-ear. Such a lovely smile.

The last tunnel arrives and I steal a look back around the corners. Empty. For once, I approach That Damn Hill with a sense of accomplishment instead of a sense of urgency. Behind the stadium walls I gather my composure and, for the first time, ease the pace a bit. I try and high-five the kids hanging over the stadium walls. Just missed. I approach the track and a huge smile crosses my face when I see Mark Lambrides for the first time in what seems years. Ahh, the rides we used to do, he, Dave and I. Part of this win is his. And part of this win is Brady's, who ably filled in the spot of third musketeer. But a big part of this win is David who, over in transition, is giving back to this race. We've been training together for four years, soaking up each others confidence and doubts. Thanks guys.

Finally, the track. As I enter the last bend I see Mike hitting the track. I savor the last 100 meters, for the first time in years. Every year since 2002 I have struggled in the last quarter-mile for a handful of seconds that would separate the various podium spots. This year, I'm able to walk across the line, exhausted. It was close. Probably closer than Mike ever realized. But there's always next year.