Ironman Lake Tahoe--the Race that Wasn't

Squaw Valley

Last year, I met my match with Ironman Lake Tahoe. The hills, the altitude and weather all conspired to make it too difficult. The race day dawned with snow-capped mountain at twenty-nine degrees. After two hours of swimming in the cold lake water, hypothermia made it too difficult to dress myself, let alone have much speed on the bike course. I shivered for twenty miles, got as far as sixty-two miles, and then was pulled off the bike course by officials, along with a group of other forlorn racers. I had given up on ever finishing this race in the future.

Still, the Lake Tahoe area was beautiful, if temperamental. The weather changed almost from hour to hour. The sapphire blue lake, and the deep, dark green pine trees that dropped giant pine cones enticed me. I was obsessed with the guava-sized things. They were the king of pine cones and much larger than any I have ever seen.

Lake Tahoe Pine Cone next to a normal one

 

When they added a half ironman distance in April of this year, I jumped at the chance because it was doable. One of the big hills had been taken out, which made it a faster course. Maybe the weather gods would co-operate and I wouldn’t be frozen.  I wanted another crack at the monster bike climbs. To actually finish this race would be an accomplishment.

I trained on hills in Arizona in intense heat all summer, which was so miserable, that I took to counting dead snakes in the road to distract myself. Ice was my friend. I despaired at my slow speed, because ninety degree heat was not motivation to pedal faster. To find enough bike climbing elevation required strategic planning. Phoenix has big hills in the outskirts of town, but they are nothing like the Sierras in California. I couldn’t ride enough last year to get in a necessary eight thousand feet of climbing in one session, but four thousand was doable. I thought I was ready to tackle the race.

For months I worried about the swim at altitude, the weather in Tahoe, what to wear and how to train. I reserved a hotel room, bike transportation, a rental car and made flight plans, being too lazy to drive. The challenge of riding up the evil Brockway road at a glacial four miles per hour awaited.

What I didn’t count on was the California propensity for disaster. It was always burning, flooding, having rock slides or earthquakes. Forest fire smoke from last year was an concern, but it went away. This year it didn’t. A nutcase set a fire just west the lake. 

I arrived on the Wednesday before the race and at the hotel, and immediately picked up some pine cones. The hotel was older and was unoccupied except for some service vehicles. One driver had unwound the reels of cable from his truck and had spread it across the parking lot. Maybe this wasn’t the classiest of hotels.

My room had a heart-shaped Jacuzzi with a shower in the middle of the room. Guests who shared the room would have had to be really friendly and be prepared to see each other naked. The romance was wasted on me.

The hint of something wrong was the Thursday before the race. At registration, at the politically incorrectly named  Squaw Valley ski resort, a murky haze covered the ski mountains. Surely this smoke would go away. The air was thick, hard to breath and stunk of burned wood. Occasionally, I thought I could see floating ash.

30,000 foot smoke plume

The vivid Lake Tahoe blue and greens had turned into a faded gray in the polluted air. Still, the weather wonks had predicted the wind would shift the smoke away and the race would go on.

Race morning, I headed to Squaw Valley to take the shuttle buses to King’s Beach, which was the start. Tahoe is a point to point race, which added to the hassle. I noticed the haze in the headlights as I was driving in the dark. Maybe it would blow away or be better at King’s Beach. 

The air was better there, but the distant mountains were still shrouded in haze as the horizon grew lighter at 6:30. I got ready and had time to kill. In contrast to last year, it was fifty-five degrees out. How strange this place was. 

King's Beach

Then it happened. Or didn’t happen. I wasn’t on the beach to hear the announcement that the race was cancelled, due to unhealthy air. Some people were already in the water. An ironman race was a big deal to not go on. I couldn’t remember one that didn’t continue in some form. Organizers took days to set up, and months of planning was involved.  Registration was a year in advance. Training took almost as much time. Plus racers incurred airfare, hotel, equipment, bike transport, nutrition, car rental and other expenses. Some competitors travel from other countries.

I can’t remember who told me the race was cancelled, but I refused to believe it until confirmation from an official. I was stunned and felt lost. The news was a shock even though the air had been bad all week. The race went on last year, despite snow the day before, so surely it wouldn’t be cancelled because of smoke. What would I do now? It was only early morning and the only thing to do was to gather my stuff and my bike.

Truckee River Bike Path and run course for the 140.6

An event that I had anticipated for months had suddenly vanished. All the hours grinding 

up steep hills in ninety degree heat, all the planning, the travel expense, the worry about not measuring up, the possibility of redemption for not finishing last year. Then nothing, but an empty feeling. No chance to triumph nor fail.

My first thought was I would ride the course anyway until I saw how bad the thick air was by Truckee, where the hard climbing would begin. I didn’t want to be out in it, let alone do strenuous exercise. Particulates were way over unhealthy levels. It couldn’t be good to breathe. So, no big hill for me to climb this year. They gave us our finisher’s shirts, hats and medals, but the gear was meaningless without an actual finish.

Commons Beach in Tahoe City 

Life has really unexpected turns. Tahoe tempted me, but I am done with it for now. I don’t have the energy to deal with the weather, altitude, fire and whatever other obstacles California has in store. The finish of this race will have to wait for another day. I am still keeping the giant pine cones that I picked up, though.

 Weird slightly phallic stature to honor an old tree
in Tahoe City

POST IRONMAN BLUES

Snow at Northstar, the day before the race.

Ironman recovery is a  physical process that takes time. Tahoe took even longer than usual. Maybe it was the combination of the travel, the cold, the altitude and the exertion. I didn’t even get to the run, but it felt like it, even to the point of losing a toenail.  For a month, I was very tired, needed a lot of sleep and had no stamina. Not finishing Ironman Arizona in 2008 was a similar experience, but not with the degree of fatigue that resulted from Tahoe. A nagging knee injury from a bike accident in August didn’t help.

Even worse is the mental recovery. Every time I thought of the experience, it made me sad.  My mind kept running loops of negativity. The world was blah and the stupid chores of life took too much effort. I googled post-ironman depression, but most of it assumed that you actually finished. The low comes as a result of being focused on a big project, and when it was done, the sense of purpose was gone At least a finisher would have their high first. I did find one piece that suggested taking the negative statements you are telling yourself and making them positive. I tried that and it helped some. Still, the experience was always a sense of something  left undone.

Tahoe was so difficult that it countered any shame of not finishing. Twenty-seven degrees at the start, 6,000 feet of altitude, cold water and over 7,500 feet of bike climbing was an exceptionally challenging race. I failed, but at least I failed big. It wasn’t for lack of trying and I didn’t quit.

The key to get out of it is to move on, plan a new race, catch up on undone chores, find something fun to do. I wrote a short story. I volunteered at a butterfly pavilion. The idea of doing a long race right away didn’t appeal to me, but the season couldn’t end on Tahoe. Even a 5k or a short open water swim wasn’t feasible for a while. I probably had the fitness, but not the desire.

Duathlon Nationals took place in Tucson in late October. It was a qualifier for Worlds in Spain. This race was well-organized, with friendly people, and a fast course that had enough hills to be interesting, but not too difficult. I raced hard and didn’t worry about fading later. People were happy to be there and weren’t dreading some Herculean physical task. It was a good antidote to Tahoe. I had found my joy again and could go to Spain. That was kind of a mood lifter in itself.

I debated signing up for another ironman. Usually one every other year is enough, but I needed redemption. The idea of training again made me hesitate. Three hour runs and six hour bike rides in the summer? The memory of last summer’s misery of biking and running in the heat hadn’t left me.

The only race that appealed to me was Ironman Arizona. Did I want to repeat my worst swim experience ever in the cold, murky waters of Tempe Town Lake? Suffer the boredom of the bike and run course? But the experience was known and the event doable.  It was a chance to beat my previous time.  I had already volunteered for it, so all that was needed was stand around passing out water at a run aid station for hours on end, then show up at registration.

The race atmosphere wasn’t the usual joy for me because Tahoe had jaded me. My knees ached standing for six hours. A run aid station wasn’t as much fun as the finish line, but I got to see people I knew who were racing as the parade of zombie-like racers passed by.  People were in their own world of pain. I said “hi” to an acquaintance who didn’t recognize me. I needed more breaks than usual and was really tired driving home. I had to get up early to register and didn’t get enough sleep.

I got to Tempe about six a.m. Already an huge line had formed, some with sleeping bags and chairs. This race had gotten absurdly difficult to get into, much more than it used to be. I ran into some people I knew and we spent the next 3.5 hours talking, which helped to pass the time. I wasn’t that worried about getting in-either I did or didn’t. I finally got registered about 9:30 a.m. Despite the hassle, I was excited about a race again.

The fatigue has eased, but is not gone. Inane chores are tolerable again. I did a 10k in a fairly decent, but not great time, with not enough power nor energy to run fast. The magic wasn’t there. The dark hole receded, but hadn’t disappeared.

Why a mere race should matter that much was incomprehensible. When I felt bad , bike riding for six hours in ninety degree heat, I got through it thinking that it would pay off. Big risks have huge rewards, but one has to be ready to face the consequences if it doesn’t work out. To finish a race as difficult as Tahoe would have been a great accomplishment. The question of whether the expense, tough training and time invested was worth it still eludes me. But it’s time to move on.

Ironman Lake Tahoe Race Report

 Tessie, the lake monster was angry that day.

You enticed me with your promise–“IRONMAN LAKE TAHOE is a can’t miss destination for triathletes”. Like lemmings to the cliff, everyone rushed to sign up for the first time race. Never mind the 6,200 foot altitude and steep bike climbs falsely advertised as 5,200 feet of climbing.  The average historical low was thirty-eight degrees, a temperature which wasn’t reached until well into the morning on race day.

 This is the same area where the Donner party was stranded in the wilderness, and had to eat each other to not starve to death. “Renowned for its spectacular mountain vistas and crystal clear lake, Lake Tahoe’s pristine setting is primed to become as coveted a destination for IRONMAN athletes ...”As long as they aren’t slow athletes, who don’t stand a chance. It’s evil beauty. The Sierra mountains, tall pine trees and clear, deep, blue lake was stunning, but the terrain was still rugged, waiting to devour hapless bike riders. The lake showed its angry nature with rain, foaming white caps and howling winds the day before the event.

Race morning, the tempestuous Tahoe temper tantrum was gone, but instead it chose to spew mist, to confound swimmers sighting on the invisible buoys. The air temperature was about thirty-two degrees, the water temperature, fifty-seven to sixty-two degrees. The snow capped mountains at the swim start were particularly gorgeous against the fog of the lake, but it did not bode a warm swim nor bike. The frost on my bike seat confirmed this.  

I swam there earlier in the week, when it was warmer. Since I wasn’t a polar bear, forcing myself into frigid water in freezing weather challenged me even with a wetsuit, hood, booties and ear plugs. I hate swimming in a cold lake. It has forced me into med tents where I violently shiver until my body functioned again. The secret to entering and exiting Lake Tahoe without hypothermia was to spend as little time as possible on the sand, which absorbed cold and radiated it back. The beach was crunchy with frost on race morning. So of course, we had to stand on it a long time it in order to enter the water, like cattle to the slaughter.

These people do not seem warm.

I waded in and within ten minutes, knew that this race was not going to go well. A good swim was necessary to have a chance of making the bike cut offs and the cold air, water and the lack of oxygen sapped my energy. Hanging on the kayaks to rest too often is sign of a long, bad swim. The guide buoys were lost in the mist.  I stayed calm, which is a feat in itself, but was uncomfortable in  the cold, choppy lake. Turning into the sun, many arms moved on the surface in the distance, splashing droplets into the light.

My bike ready for its ill-fated journey.

As the end of the first lap, a crowd of people passed me, finishing their swim.  They churned up the water and I had to avoid getting hit by the bodies. A one lap swim is much preferable to swim alone in my misery. At the turn to start again, my watch read one hour, which was not good. Someone said “ready for the next one?’ At least I wasn’t totally alone. I tried to speed up, would get a steady rhythm, then suddenly would have to rest. The last turn was the worst--swimming with tired, weak, mechanical arm motion, half dead and very cold. I kept telling myself that I am going to make it and wondered if I would get too tired and drown. At least no one heard my groans.

A zombie, I staggered out of the water and looked at my watch-two hours, twelve minutes. My longest ironman swim ever, but not my most terrible swim experience. The Ironman Arizona swim takes the prize for that. Volunteers guided a me to the change tent and took off my wetsuit and dressed me because the part of my brain that told me how to move was frozen. I barely noticed my surroundings in my daze, which was worse that after my car accident. I was led to the useless med tent, which wasn’t warm, then left after a few minutes. I ran on numb feet to my far away bike and started pedaling. 

I had not had time to pee in transition, so I stopped at a port-a-potty, not being able to do it on a bike. It took so long, the volunteers outside wondered if I fallen in. How does a bladder even hold that much pee? Miserable and cold, I pressed on. Too much time had been lost in the swim and in the change tent, so I had to hurry.

The route went downhill, and wind added to my discomfort. I stopped once, just to feel warm again. My brain was still fogged, so I didn’t trust myself to steer in the aero bars. Twenty-five miles later, I thawed out.

 Freaking snow on Northstar the day before

The race course had two consecutive enormous hills. The local residents didn’t want spandex clad bike riders invading their tony neighborhood in Martis Camp, so not everyone could sneak in to pre-ride the hill. The secret came out-this hill was a monster. It would dip, look like it ended, then steeply ascend again, and mentally it pummeled a rider.

A short death-defying, twisting, steep descent and the next demon awaited–a 2.5 mile seven percent grade climb of agony. I  averaged about 4.27 miles per hour on it. I couldn’t walk up it that fast, but some people tried to. If I did, all hope was gone to finish the race. Time stretched out uphill, but moved relentlessly ahead. Reaching the top, I knew I would have to hustle to make the 2:00 pm. cut off. My legs felt like they had been whacked with a hammer. Could I do these hills again?

 I rode hard and for my efforts, got an  hamstring cramp so excruciating that I had to stop  on Dollar Hill for a little while. I don’t know why they call it Dollar Hill, but I had decided to call it Si, after the bearded red-neck geezer in the reality show Duck Dynasty. Si is so stupid that he is funny and the thought of this had made me smile. Maybe “Si” would be less annoying than “Dollar Hill.” Whatever it’s called this hill still shouldn’t exist. 

 I still had hopes that I had enough time until  in despair I saw that it was 2:07 and I wasn’t at the Squaw Valley cut off  yet. I had only averaged 13.1 mph, so this bike ride wasn’t going to be 112 miles this time. I came upon the unlucky race official in the road stuck with the lousy job of pulling unhappy people off the course.  A bunch of bike riders were also by the side of the road looking dazed and shocked, including people I knew, which only made me feel a little better. The dream was dead. All the training hours in searing heat and altitude had come to nothing.

I signed up for this ironman in hopes of exceeding what seemed impossible. I wanted that high and missed suffering through the rest of the bike course, the run, the satisfaction of finishing and the bright lights, high fives and noise of the finishing chute. Initially, this ironman was viable for me. After the reports came out that the elevation gain on the bike was much higher by thousands of feet than originally stated , it was a long shot because while I can climb hills, I can’t do it fast enough. Not trying it was not an option, because I didn’t want to wonder if I could have ever done it. 

It feels like a failure, even though I trained hard and fought the entire race. It’s easy to get emotionally invested in a race, but much harder to detach when it doesn’t go well. A bad result isn’t as personal to me as it once was. A person isn’t the outcome of their race, as Chrissie Wellington has said.  Still, it’s a huge disappointment with all the time, energy and money put into the race.

Big risks result in big rewards-sometimes. Anything is possible-- except when it is not. Teddy Roosevelt exalted the man in the arena “who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”  It still hurts. It may not be the destination, but the journey was tough and sometimes awful and a reward would have been nice. The Sierras got  the best of me. At least, I didn’t have to eat anyone.

I Pulled the Trigger

I thought long and hard about this race, but in the end I lost my common sense and registered for the race that is on September 22, 2013. The biggest problem is the six thousand foot altitude. I have never done any race longer than an olympic at this altitude and I am not sure how it will affect me.

The biggest challenge at altitude will be the swim. When I bike and run, I can just breath harder It's more difficult to get enough oxygen when I have to exhale under water.  I have had swims in other high altitude races where I try to speed up and a vise tightens around my chest, making me feel panicky. Sometimes this happens right at the start of the swim. It requires a firm mental grip on my fear and swimming even slower than my normal piddling speed.

The website lists the average water temperature in September as 65-68. I doubt this range because it is a cold mountain lake and the air temperature is 38-68 degrees. So I could  face a swim in cold water, which I hate, as well as altitude. My worst swim ever was at Ironman Arizona in sixty degree water. I thought I would drown and I started shivering before the halfway point.

But the water will also be very clear, conditions that I don't experience most of the time. It could be extraordinary water to swim in.

The bike will also be challenging with a 5200 foot elevation gain. But this is also what intrigues me. Can I finish it within the bike cut off? It's not even a question of doing well, but a matter of survival. Will it be like when I did Ironman Canada, with the exhilaration of finding out that I did what I thought was near impossible? I miss that feeling. It's like an addiction and I need a fix.

Despite the daunting difficulties of this event, I signed up anyway. I can accept the possibility of failure if the risk is worth it. I may not finish the swim or I may miss the bike cut off, but I will fight as hard as I can. Sometimes you have to say "what the hell" and take a leap of faith.