2019 IRONMAN 70.3 World Championship Race Report - Nice, France

My legs were burning and my neck was starting to hurt. Being aero while cycling uphill for an extended period isn’t great for the spine. I was thirsty and my water was getting low.

“Look at this guy,” I joked, loud enough so that ‘this guy’ could clearly hear me talking behind his back.

“He’s just taking this mountain like it’s a normal Sunday ride!”

“Yeah, mate,” my new Aussie friend replied, with a simultaneous chuckle. “How do they do it?”

“I live at 1,500m in the Andes,” the guy said, voice dwindling off in the distance. He was on a road bike steadily pulling ahead and he made it look effortless.

Near the top of Col de Vence

We were about 2km from the summit of Col de Vence which comprised the bulk of the 2019 IRONMAN 70.3 World Championship bike segment. Anybody that was passing us was in our age group because our age group was the last into the water.

It was the same as the world champs last year in South Africa: M45-49 always seemed to start last, and it’s kind of demoralizing.

But by the same token, each guy you pass means you move up one placing. But not a lot of that was going to be happening for me in the World Championship. Especially not on Col de Vence.

When you hear that Col de Vence is only 962 meters in elevation it doesn’t really sound high. But when you realize that’s 962 meters of climbing that you have to do with pretty much no rest you realize it’s going to be tough.

After all, coming from Singapore, our biggest cycling hill is just a tenth of that. I’m talking about Mt. Faber, and it’s a whopping 94m. 😐

Two days prior, I drove Col de Vence with my wife, kids, parents, and fellow COS Coaching disciple Andy. We were pretty intimidated by the relentlessness of the slope, hardly ever easing into flats.

Going down, I was always wondering what was around each corner

And going down wasn’t much better. It wound back and forth, making the descent tricky and scary. It would be easy to underestimate a corner and come around one too fast, or to not slow down in time for any of the many villages. It was raining. And if it rained on race day, the descent would be downright dangerous.

To be honest I was worried.

But I felt great at 4:30am on Sunday morning, race day for the men. I woke up with no alarm. 15 minutes later I was lugging my only-worn-once wetsuit over the cobbled streets of Nice toward T1.

Reminder on the door from my wife to not forget my nutrition. It's happened before!

I also had my single bottle of nutrition: 4 scoops of Hammer Perpetuem and 4 sachets of Precision Hydration 1500. I had grown to like the intense, rich, almost burning taste of this calorie-laden sodium cocktail, and this exact formula had proven to prevent cramps and stave off hunger in many 70.3s in the past. For me, at least. Do what works for you, right?

The city was dark but the thumping of loud music and an announcer’s voice could be heard from the door of our apartment. I was wearing my trisuit and was holding the big street gear bag full of my stuff when I saw a large bearded man, probably in his late 30s, stumble almost right into me.
He was obviously totally inebriated and looked homeless. He was filthy.

There were about 3-4 other triathletes who looked a lot like me marching in the same direction. Basically, lots of skinny guys in tight-fitting suits; a strange sight for a lone drunkard in the dark.

He mumbled something, to himself, and the only thing I could understand was a slurred, << Qu'est-ce que c'est…?>> or “What is this…?”

I jumped out of his way, realizing it was quite a privilege to be here at this event, or even doing this sport at all.
 

The front door of our apartment. Looks like I left the lights on (top right unit)!

I entered T1 and found my bike. Andrew Messick, the CEO of IRONMAN was walking by. I was going to introduce myself and say hi, but what for? We both had more important things to do.

So I did the usual: Put my nutrition bottle in the cage, topped up the water in the front hydration, locked my ELEMNT into the mount, and borrowed a pump from a guy and inflated my tires.

“The swim will be a no-wetsuit swim,” a voice blared over the speakers. Turned out the water had warmed up since the women raced the day before and wetsuits were therefore not allowed.

Look how inviting that water is. Notice the yellow buoys out in the distance.

On one hand, I was disappointed, as I need all the help I can get in the water, and a wetsuit-swim would have meant I’d easily go sub-2 minutes per 100m. On the other hand, I was happy, as I hated fiddling with that giant neoprene mess, and wasn’t used to wearing it at all.

Down on the rocky beach, the pros were already lined up to swim. I walked over there and watched them set off, realizing that I was in for a long wait. My swim didn’t start until 9:01. No sense hanging around here now that my bike was ready. Plus, I was freezing.

I walked back to the apartment and my wife and my mom were awake. My wife gave me a second breakfast, which was great, and I nervously ate it before walking back over to the swim start with my mom.

Nothing like a second breakfast

She was probably just as excited as I was to take in the atmosphere – the feeling was electric. I showed her where my bike was in T1, in case she wanted to watch the first transition, before we made our way to the swim start. After some nervous talk and waiting, I handed her my shoes and proceeded into the pen, barefoot.

I started the swim close to the very back. I didn’t want to get in the way of the faster swimmers and despite my nice recent swimming improvements, was under no illusions of my ability. Especially against the the best amateurs in the world.

It was great to finally get off those painful rocks and into that inviting water. The temperature was really comfortable – very close to what I was used to in my pool back home in Singapore. Almost immediately I saw some fish. The clarity was incredible.

I settled into a rhythm and was feeling good. At the halfway mark I glanced down at my watch – mid-stroke, underwater – and it read 19 minutes. This was about on target for my 38-min goal, wet suit or not.

I latched onto a shirtless guy whose pace seemed a bit faster than mine. I was careful not to touch his feet or let him know I was there lest he drop me. He was a good help, and he dragged me probably a good 500m before I lost him.

“Merci, merci!” I shouted as two volunteers, standing on the steep pebble slope extended their hands and pulled me out. The thin carpet offered only a little bit of relief from the stony ground. About 10 seconds later, I was in T1.

Those rocks hurt

As much as I like to complain about being in the last wave, it does have its advantages. When the other 3,000 athletes are already on their bikes it’s not that hard to find yours – especially when you’re at the back of your pack.

But it’s not that reassuring when you’re just mounting your bike and you see runners already out there pounding pavement. To think that they’ve already finished the swim and the bike!

It kind of blew my mind. The thought of the impending mountain ascent loomed large.

The beginning of the bike and run course, looking away from T1.

“Go Javier!” I yelled, encouraging Gomez on, as he chased down other pros I didn’t recognize. I looked for Brownlee but didn’t see him. But I did see a steady stream of other cyclists coming my way, 89.8 km through the ride. These must have been the top age-groupers, hot on the heels of the pros.

These must be the guys that win first in their local 70.3s and don’t go pro.

I was pretty much riding solo for the first 5-7 km out to the airport. The course exited the main road and into a light industrial area.

“I thought this was supposed to be hilly,” I said to a random guy next to me, on a green bike.

“You’ll get them soon,” he answered, seriously, as if I didn’t know the joke was on me. He didn’t really get that I knew my statement was so hubristic. I laughed to myself, half at my own lame, self-deprecating joke and half at his seriousness.

A second later I had a flashback to riding the course on my trainer at home using the Wahoo Climb, when it elevated the front of my frame to a brutal 19%, nearly pinning me to my ceiling. Lucky I didn’t have a ceiling fan.

Crrrunnchhh. He and I both dropped all our gears and started mashing up the precipitous slope. From studying the course, I knew this one was the steepest but also the one of the shortest.

Soon, it eased off and we were leaving the outskirts of Nice. From time to time we could see picturesque villages and towns dotting the hills in front of us.

And then there was this cliff.

"We have to go above that."

“See that thing?” I gestured with my chin towards the sheer rock face. I was talking to a super friendly guy from Sydney. We were about 20km into the bike.

“Don’t tell me we have to go up that,” the Aussie objected.

We were talking about Baou de Saint-Jeannet, a giant rock butte that appears to top Col de Vance.
“Worse. We have to go above that,” I replied.

It was true. The hill proceeded behind this massive cliff, so much so that you could actually look down on the top of it, from behind. That’s about where that Peruvian guy sped past us.

But it wasn’t really that bad. Sure, it was steep, but it was totally doable. Before I knew it, I was at the summit, at an even 45km into the ride. It was all downhill from there.

There was a French guy next to me, also on a Canyon Speedmax, who lived in Thailand. I figured I’d try to beat him on the downhill. I’m pretty comfortable descending. It's more fun than it is scary. Anyway, who doesn’t like free speed in a race?

But corner after corner this guy kept pulling away from me. On the straights I’d catch him, but I simply had to brake at each corner. What’s behind each corner? A speed bump? A village? A pot hole? There was no way of knowing. And I wasn’t just going to blindly descend.

It seemed like others would though. Around a near-90-degree corner protected by a stone wall there were a few cars parked and a few cyclists stopped. Something must have happened.

I rounded the corner and then the following hairpin turn, quickly losing elevation. I had to be 8-10 storeys lower than that wall when I looped back under it and looked up. There was a huge v-shaped scree-covered cliff below that wall. A neon figure slowly descended the broken rock fragments towards a white bike dozens of meters below him.

“At least he’s alive and moving,” I thought to myself. At that point I decided to let the fast guy on the Speedmax go. Not long after, I saw a helicopter. I was hoping it was to rescue the guy who went over the wall.

You know that feeling you get at the end of a really fun roller coaster or carnival ride? The ending of exhilaration? You wish the ride wasn’t over, but you are still left with a residual bit of euphoria? That’s exactly how I felt after all the descents, struck with the realization that easy street was over.

But also aware that the hard part was over, too: The climb.

The long descent let my legs recover, and I was eager to do the run. I love the run. It’s where I’m most comfortable, most in control, and most able to push my body.

My mom said she’d be waiting just outside the T2 area, which meant that I’d see her and the rest of my family at about km 89 or so. I rolled through, past all the runners, but didn’t spot them.

Into T2. Red line. Dismount. Jog with the bike towards the rack. Unbuckle helmet. When suddenly…

“Penalty!” a race official shouted, aggressively and to my face. He raised his right hand with a yellow card.

“For what? I’m over the line!” I objected.

“You can’t unbuckle your helmet until your bike is racked,” he explained, in perfect English, but with a French accent. “What’s your number?”

I was mad so I didn’t answer. I felt that this was a bit overbearing: Giving out penalties to the bottom-half of the last age-groupers to come in to T2. At the time I thought he was just standing there, trying to catch people like a bored state cop. But now I don’t believe that would have been the case.

I let him see my number on my arm and heard him repeat it. I moved on without another word, and racked my bike.

Was I supposed to sit in the penalty tent? Or would they just add the time to my official result? I had no idea.

T2

So out of T2 I went, and just forgot it ever happened. 30 seconds later I saw my parents, wife, and kids screaming for me. Can you believe these guys were on both sides of the chute so I had to zig-zag from left to right just to high-five them all? 😊

The run was a simple out-and-back, twice, about 5km each way. The first aid station came quickly.

I was running next to a tall Italian guy who had an over-eager pacer (which incidentally, is worth a red card if I'm not wrong), running just outside the fence. He was cheering him on with such enthusiasm it looked like they thought this guy was about to win first place.

I grabbed the first cup of water the volunteers thrust at me and threw it back like it was cheap college beer.

<<Cavoli! Fa schifo!>> I uttered in Italian, expressing my disdain for the warm, mildly-effervescent saline-solution-tasting ‘water.’

The focused Italian guy next to me ignored me.

Just then, it occurred to me that this had to be the official drink, Saint Yorre, which supposedly has 1,708mg of sodium per liter. That’s a lot of sodium and it’s something I lose a lot of, so it was a welcome drink, despite its unusual taste.

Part of the run course included a tunnel to Monaco

But my stomach started turning. That was the one and only triathlon superpower that I thought I had: A steel stomach. I had never had GI issues in my life, no matter what I ate or drank. I had eaten greasy pizza on the indoor trainer and never felt anything.

A quarter in, and I was happy to be passing quite a lot of guys. At the U-turn, a local volunteer gave me a strong high-five and yelled, “You’re the best!” thick French accent and all. Right after that there was a homeless guy pushing a huge shopping cart full of dirty plastic bags.

Again, I felt lucky. And a bit ashamed, too. What the costs of all our gear and travel could do for this guy…

The din of the finish line cheers and announcer’s voice increased as the first half of the run neared. Another round of high-fives to my wife, kids, and parents, ensued, and my stomach hurt even more.

Thanks for the video, Charlene!

Not because of them, no, I know that’s how it sounds, but because…something had to give. Could I tough it out to the end? Only 10.5k more to go. That’s not so long.

But it just hurt so much, it was slowing me down. I won’t get too graphic here about what I felt and what emergency action I could take (something about the bushes). It even crossed my mind that if I happened to have an accident I would still finish, right?

Down the chute, seconds from finishing.

But right then a lone port-a-potty appeared, and I promptly made full use of it. That took me 90 precious seconds, which resulted in me missing my run goal of sub-1:40. But I felt so much better, especially knowing I wasn’t going to make a mess of the massage table later. 😆

Obligatory medal pic

I certainly didn’t put in a personal best – nobody did with those hills – in fact it was one of my slowest races ever, but the beauty of the sea, mountains, and city more than made up for it.

How every race should end.

70.3 Run Analysis Chart

I was pretty happy to set a personal best for the run at the 70.3 World Champs in South Africa.

Previously, my standalone-half marathon personal best was 1:43. This was done in the tropical heat of Singapore. I had tried to beat it a few times in similar conditions but both times only achieved 1:44s.

So how did I hit a 1:38 after the swim and ride? The obvious answer was that I benefited from the cooler weather and of course more training.

But to be sure, I did an analysis of my past five 70.3 runs.

Objective:
Determine why my WC run was so much faster than my previous personal best.

Hypothesis
The run was fast due to the cool weather and my bigger base of training, which included speed work.

Items to look for

1. Do the VIs from the bike leg prior have any affect on the run?
2. Was there any correlation with heart rate?
3. How did the CTL, ATL, and TSB affect the run, if at all?
4. Did nutrition play a role?

In the chart above (broken up into two for easier reading) it is clear that the variable contributing most to the faster run, is indeed the weather.

I can't find any correlation between other items (see list above).



Definitions
RPE: Rate of Perceived Exertion, on a scale of 1-20. 20 = being so hard that you leave nothing in the tank. Basically, you are in a world of hurt.

HR: Heart rate

VI: Variability Index. This shows the smoothness of your power output on the bike. It is calculated by dividing Normalized Power by Average Power. A VI of 1.05 is considered the highest acceptable for the ride segment of a triathlon. Anything higher shows that you 'burned too many matches' or made too many power spikes, which will detract from your run.

CTL: Cumulative training efforts over the last 42 days. The higher this is, the more trained you are.

ATL: Fatigue over the past week.

TSB: Form. TSB = yesterday's fitness - yesterday's fatigue. The higher this is, the more rested you are.

2018 IRONMAN 70.3 World Championship Race Report - Port Elizabeth, South Africa

Back in May 2018 I inadvertently qualified for the IRONMAN World Championship. I raced hard but I really wasn't expecting to be able to qualify. So when it happened, I jumped on the opportunity. Fast forward 13 weeks, and after a lot of training and planning I was ready to race.

After having just raced Bintan two weeks earlier, setting a PB, and then seriously reflecting about the ingredients that make a fun or not-so-fun race (see my post on pressure vs performance), I went into the World Champs pretty relaxed. As my friend Andrew S. put it, consider this a celebration of all the training and racing you've done over the year, and don't stress it.

There's not a lot more we can achieve - no World Champs spots to take (except for the first finisher in each age group - they automatically get one for Nice in 2019 - but I'd be very far off from that level - anyway I had already earned one for 2019!), no special ranking we can expect to earn as we're up against the best in the world, and no real reason to be uptight.

We were excited to race alongside Jan Frodeno, Javier Gomez, Alistair Brownlee, and Daniela Ryf - world champions and Olympic gold medalists.

Friday, Andrew S. and I did a short ride around the area, just to get a feel for the roads and the conditions. We were impressed with the scenery and knew we'd have a scenic ride.

Impressive scenery

Saturday, 1 September the women raced. I went down to the beach and watch them start. They fired a big cannon Kona-style, which was cool. I met Arturo there whom I ran with in Danang. Watching the women the first day gave us a chance to see them on the course a bit and get a feel for what to expect. The sky was clear and by the time the women were into the bike it had started to warm up. They may have had a bit of wind on the course, but overall, it was great weather.

Cheering for Charlene on Saturday

By the time they were running it was actually pretty warm. We sat at a restaurant and cheered them on from our table. Ideal spectator conditions! The weather for the next day, however, wasn't supposed to be so good. So when I was down at the beach on Sunday with Andrew S., and the announcer stated that the water had warmed up so much that wet suits were optional, it was a bit of a surprise.

The day before, when we had done a short swim, the water was freezing. My cheeks, fingers, and toes were numb. But suddenly today it's warmer? Odd, because the weather wasn't. It was drizzling and windy, and considerably cooler than 24 hours beforehand.

Swim to the beat

The energy at the start was electric. Andrew S. and I stood around and watched the other age-groupers set off while we nervously waited until 9:30. At least we have some cool African drumming to keep the energy up.

And to my left: The Swim Reaper.

A 9:30 am swim? I had never started so late, and had never started in the last wave. The only good thing about this I could think of was that it would be easy to find our bikes in T1 as most of the others would already be gone. The thing is, I'm not quite the fastest swimmer, and I really didn't want to be last out of the water...

That's me, yelling and cheering to nobody

Going in was fine. The temperature today was so much warmer than yesterday. Absolutely zero discomfort. I was looking forward to this. Still, I was glad to have the neoprene swim cap for warmth, given to me by fellow-Oregonian Bryce. He had just used it in British Columbia, full IRONMAN.

The water was clean, despite the large port nearby. I could sometimes see the sandy bottom. But it was overcast and visibility was low.

Once past a few big waves, I tried to find my rhythm. I wanted to hit sub-40. That's good for me, but in the very bottom of the pack, I expected, at the World Championships. Still, I was living my dream, and how I finished really didn't matter.

“We live as we dream - alone...”
― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

As I swam, it seemed to get more and more lonely. No packs of faster guys coming up from behind. Nobody nipping at my heels or cramming me against the rope. In fact, there was no rope. Just buoys.

Being in the ocean alone is bad enough to begin with. But was I really alone?

I started imagining I was the last one. Indeed, I did go out towards the back of my wave, which was the last wave, so there was hardly anybody behind me. I wanted to stop and look behind to see if there was anybody there, but I knew that was pointless. And it would be really demoralizing if it were true.

But then I passed a guy. And a few others. I even found a breast-stroker. Maybe I wasn't as slow as I thought. Anyway, it was OK. I just had to press on to the best of my ability.

The swim went out 800m, to the left for 300, and back another 800m. At the first corner I started smelling exhaust. There was what looked like a rescue boat with red flashing lights. I wondered if anybody quit during the swim. It happens all the time in normal 70.3 races. But at the World Champs?

At the end of the race, the announcer said we had a 97% finish rate. I checked online and found that 30 of the DNFs were in the swim. That's surprising to me.

Feeling great coming out of the water. The guy behind me has two swim caps (for warmth).

Like two weeks prior, coming out of the water, I glanced down at my watch to see a reading of 39 minutes and some seconds. Cool. Segment 1 complete...if I could only get this wet suit off.

There were pairs of guys lined up along the exit. One told me to lie down on my back in front of him. I had already unzipped my wet suit and pulled the arms out and shoulders off. These guys grabbed the suit and in one swift yank stripped it off of me.

I stood up, jogging towards transition. Another local guy cheered for me, and I yelled back. As I got closer to him he leaned in to me and hugged me! It was totally appropriate and aligned with how I felt: I was grateful for his support and volunteer work, and he was feeding off my and the other athletes' energy.

This transition was different than others. More like the full IRONMAN in Busselton. We had our blue (bike) bags hanging up in a giant rack. It was easy to find mine, as most of the others were gone. I pulled it down, and started clawing open the drawstring. It had rained overnight and it was a good thing I tied it tightly or else my shoes and helmet would have been wet. I came back before the swim start to loosen the knot.

I sat on one of the many dozen plastic white chairs. A woman practically did my transition for me: She took my shoes out while I put my helmet on. She gathered my wet suit, swim caps, and googles, and put them in the bag. This was real race support!

Trotting to my bike, I was reassured to see there were a few dozen other bikes still racked. I pulled mine out and rolled it to the mount line, pushed start on my Garmin, and was off.

Remember before how it just felt lonely? Now I was cold and lonely. My toes were ice. Nevertheless, the race officials, police, and volunteers lined the curbs, blocking all traffic and side streets. I thanked almost all of them. And many of them cheered, equally alone, in the rain.

Coming out of a very quiet T1.      Photo: Marianne

And to rub the loneliness in, I even saw the pros running. Yes, that's right, some of the pros were even off their bikes and had started the run. And I wasn't even 100m into my ride.

The first 10k of the ride took us through the city of Port Elizabeth. The road was good, smooth and straight, with no potholes. There were plenty of newly-repaired sections that had been patched up just for us. I was still cold, and mostly alone.

After we made it past the robots (that's 'traffic light' for you non-locals) and towards the outskirts of town, the roads turned into rolling hills. This was very pleasant riding, as the ascents were easy, and the descents were a nice break. It didn't cause any power fluctuations that would throw off my numbers. I was trying to maintain a Normalized Power average of 215 watts and an Average Power of 205. So far so good.

At the 15th kilometer, we met oncoming cyclists who had started much earlier than we did. They were at their 60th. I wanted to keep my eyes peeled for friends or any of the few others I knew, but was way too captivated by the scenery. And way too focused on my numbers.

The hills were rolling, almost like a combination of the California and Western Australia coasts. Low, dry scrub, but also lots of green. At a latitude of -33.9, Pt. Elizabeth is very close to Busselton, which is -33.6. For reference, Los Angeles is at a latitude of 33.9.

Those are robots behind me (traffic lights)

A few guys rolled past me, clearly stronger cyclists that I. One was French, but lived in Malaysia. He said he'd be at Langkawi. I would always seem to catch him on the downhills, but he'd pass me on the ups. There were others that I passed multiple times, too. A Japanese guy, some Americans (there were 500 Americans), and others. But I never really fell into a pace alongside anybody else that I could ride with for more than a few minutes, due to the hills.

It was slow going and the only thing that looked good was my power. That, and the wind. Or lack of it! This was a notoriously windy place and it was pretty much guaranteed that we'd have strong gusts from any or all directions, but nope. That was good news. But my average speed was just not cutting it. I was holding right at 30, sometimes 29, when I should have been doing closer to 34.

All that went out the window when I approached one of the longest ascents ever. That's not saying much, with me coming from Singapore, where the longest hill is like 300m. What was scary was less the uphill and more the downhill. There were guys four-deep barreling down at breakneck speed. When one guy is trying to overtake another, and the front guy doesn't see the guy behind, you have the recipe for disaster. On top of that the roads were kind of rough.

Almost all were in aero positions, hands away from brakes, necks craned. One was even doing the Froome. On a tri bike. Pure insanity.

Don't do this on a tri bike in a group, please. Even if you're Froome.

There were water bottles all over the place. I even saw a guy stop his bike on a downhill section to pick up a bottle cage. Well, it was the $100 X-Lab cage that never launches bottles. But if it's not fastened down properly, the whole thing will go.

A Garmin mount in the middle of the road. Weird bits of plastic. Various aero hydration systems, in pieces, strewn across the road. Basically, whatever is not bolted down is flying off.

Suddenly a strange phrase popped into my mind:

CDGW: Carnage from Descents Gone Wrong

This was not really a welcome thought, for I would be hitting that very same downhill soon after. After I went up it the other way, of course.

As I crested the summit, I was greeted with a stunning sight. In front of me, a vast expanse of sand dunes unfolded. The end of the beach and the beginning of the dunes was indistinguishable - they were one and the same. But how this bleached white sand - powder really - was so plentiful and powerful that it could overrun all vegetation and even the land until it WAS the land, was astonishing.

And not a scrap of garbage of man-made eyesore to tarnish the view.

This is very close to the view that greeted us on the ride (actual location is Sardinia Bay)

The sheer striking beauty of it distracted me from the concentrated focus I was trying to dedicate to my ride: watts, speed, heart rate, time. In that moment of visual shock I very well may have stopped pedaling, and taken my eyes off the road, awestruck.

But equally welcome was the stretch of road (downhill I may add) that suddenly revealed itself to me. Out of granny, I shifted the front chain ring, and into a smaller gear in the rear, ready to pick up speed. One or two guys coming from the other direction neared the summit, probably relieved to be finishing a long climb, too.

Spray painted on the ground were three white capital letters: KOM.

"KING OF THE MOUNTAIN!" I screamed, with a bit too much enthusiasm. Nobody heard me.

There was one guy 100 or 150m ahead of me, enjoying the downhill.

"OK," I thought, "Enough screwing around. Let's make some time back."

I love downhills. And as much as it's fun to fly down them, I know I can never make up time lost on the ascents, in the descents. This is a lesson I learned while mountain bike racing in Malaysia. I'd always get dropped on the uphills, and despite being a faster downhiller, could never catch them.

If a 500m long uphill takes you 6 minutes (22.5 km/h), and your planned pace is 30 km/h, you will lose two minutes. To gain those two minutes back on the downhill, assuming it's the same distance, you have to do it in two minutes flat, or at an average of 60 km/h. Not impossible, but certainly a challenge.

Still, I tried to do it, without creating too much of a power spike or burning a match. Ironic, isn't it? Imagine you save all your energy ascending a steep hill, in granny, heart rate low, power nice and flat, only to blow it all up going down, in an attempt to make up time...

As I got on the pedals and felt the cadence increase, the bike started vibrating. The road surface was weathered and rough, battered and worn by shifting dunes and ocean salt and spray. The gap between me and the guy in front started closing. I was really picking up speed. The road was curving to the right, vanishing behind the corner, yet still descending.

I looked down at my Garmin to check my speed but everything was vibrating so violently it was all a blur. It reminded me of Chuck Yeager in The Right Stuff when he broke the sound barrier. He was going so fast and his plane was vibrating so much that one of the gauges just shattered under pressure.

Remember this scene?

I had just had my bike serviced at the shop next to my hotel (Wayne Phieffer) and I had to trust they had tightened anything that might have been loose. All I could do was hope.

I briefly imagined my front skewer rattling open and losing the entire wheel at speed. My fork would shatter into the rough chipseal tarmac, splintering into a million pieces, my aero body and weight, directly above it, pushing down in the armrests. The wheel would probably trundle down the road at full speed, peacefully and silently ignorant of the 80kg of carbon and corporeity it had just disconnected from. The road a cheese grater, my body street-meat. Perish the thought.

CDGW.

I passed the guy in the downhill with enough momentum to carry me almost all the way up the next ridge. Two or three more of these and I had reached a turnaround point. Volunteers with a pick-up - sorry, I mean a bakkie - were stationed at then end, directing our u-turns. It appeared that the road had been just recently paved extra-wide to accommodate u-turns.

One of the volunteers yelled, "Good work, you're halfway!"

A glance down at my Garmin and it read 1:17. This mean that if I was halfway, I'd do the ride in 2:34. Wow, I was making good time. I knew I had a good swim, and I was sure my run would be a PB in this cool weather, and now I see that my bike will be ahead of schedule? Would this be a sub-5 race?

Couldn't be...my pace was only 29.x km/h. I checked the numbers again, only to find I had only just done 40 km.

Never believe the spectators.

They probably don't know that to us "half" means exactly 45 km. To them, since this is the turnaround point, it's half.

Oh well, I was fine with it.

A few hundred meters down, the waves were crashing against the rocky shore to my right. They were pounding against dark brown rock which protruded from the sand in hundreds of parallel lines angled at 45-degree angles. Each wave break chipping away at the rock, creating sand. Millions of them ceaselessly eroding the hard stone, over millennia.

The water seems so weak against the stone, but in the end it prevails. Not too different than our pedal strokes. One stroke is so minute, so small, across 90 kilometers, but collectively, they beat the hills, they push through the weather, they make sand of this course. All 15,000 of them. But like the waves, they must be consistent and concentrated.

Like the waves beside me, stay consistent and concentrated

I counted myself lucky to be able to do that scary downhill where four guys were aero-ing abreast alone. Far safer this way. I hit 75.5 km/h here, probably the fastest I've ever gone on a bike, and it felt fine. No wind, no other cyclists, no rough road, and no hazards. Again, this quick descent would not make up for the slow spin up it.

It was a largely uneventful ride back to the town. I did see one guy that had crashed out who was being loaded into an ambulance, and another sitting on the grass with some locals who were cheering, presumably down with a mechanical issue. Three to four others had flat tires - quite a lot I'd say - and others were just spinning very slowly, taking their time.

Some of the locals were cheering with tin boxes full of rocks. They sure beat those cowbells! I waved at every single one of them.

I was looking for Andrew S. I knew he was at least 12-13 minutes ahead of me coming out of the swim, so it would be hard to catch him on the bike. I would probably see him on the run.

Rolling in to T2 made me anxious as our course overlapped with some of the run. Hundreds of athletes were already off the bike - thousands really - and many were already crossing the finish line.

Bike catchers grabbed my bars as I hopped off before the red line. They'd take care of the bike from there. The red run bags were hanging, this time more of them than when I had come out of the swim. A swap of the shoes and start of the other Garmin and I was out of there.

A 2:51 was really pretty far from what I was shooting for, but it would have to do. I was happy knowing that I stuck to my watt plan perfectly, something that's always been hard for me to achieve with such precision.


Coming into the run I felt fantastic. I was hoping to break my standalone half marathon PB of 1:43. I ran the first kilometer by feel, not really aware of my pace. I just wanted to see what a baseline pace that would feel comfortable would be like. It was 4:50.

Before the rain really started. Notice the cyclists on the left and the runners on the right.

I had my watch's Virtual Partner set at 4:55 which would give me a 1:43:43. But when the next few splits came around and I was doing them in the 4:40s and even 4:30s at times, and I still felt good, I knew I'd blow that 1:43 away. Forget about my 70.3 run PB of 1:46:22, set just two weeks prior.

I had a lot going for me:

1. A flat course (mostly)
2. Cool weather (ok, rain)
3. No plantar fascists pain
4. A heart rate that while high, didn't bother me one bit (it didn't feel high)
5. Good nutrition on the bike and no signs of cramping
6. A ride with a VI of only 1.03 (meaning I didn't burn any matches)

I was not about to let up. On the other hand, I wasn't going to kill myself obliterating that 1:43. Somewhere in the middle sounded right - no need to get greedy.

Cool = fast

As I approached the restaurant where we had been cheering the day before, I scanned the crowd for my wife and kids. I saw them, loyally out in the middle of the road, braving the rain and cold. Andrew S's girlfriend was there, too, taking pictures.

Great picture, Mariane

And then I saw Andrew. He had done the first of two u-turns on the run already, and was easily 20 minutes ahead of me. He must have had a good bike segment after what would have certainly been a fast swim.

I like out-and-back courses because you can see your friends and competitors when you double-back. And add to that, this was two loops.

Lap two couldn't come soon enough for me. The streets were lined with fans, flags of all nations waving, cheers of various languages erupting from the sides. Flags from Chile, Costa Rica, Argentina, Brazil, and Taiwan stuck out.

"Chile! Chile es el mas fuerte!" I screamed, while passing some wildly energized Chilean fans.

"I want one of those beers," I announced to a few guys sitting under a tent, drinking Castle Lager. They laughed and told me I could have one, but of course I kept running. I gave kids 5. I gave old men 5. I acknowledged all volunteers.

Then there was a Red Bull truck, with a counter of that sugary drink. It looked like they set up up guerilla-style, on their own. They just invited themselves. I didn't take any. I didn't want any. Nobody took any. Kind of sad. In fact, I didn't want to drink anything.

I kind of wanted to run faster - I could - but what for? I was already set for a big run PB. Why tread too deep beyond PB territory into uncharted land? What dangers lay in that wild frontier? What would happen?

It usually hurts a lot worse than this

I started calculating my likely finish time. "Let's see..." I thought to myself. "I started at 9:30 and now it's somewhere around 2:15 pm, so I must be 4 hours and 45 minutes in. Can I finish in another 15 minutes? Depends on what time it is."

"What's the time of day?" I barked, at a guy standing on the side of the road. "2pm!" he answered.

"Never believe the spectators." I reminded myself.

If it was really 2pm I'd easily finish within 5 hours, but as I did the math I didn't think it was possible. Anyway, I pressed on. Saw Andrew S. again, and he was coming in for his final stretch. Then I did the other u-turn, and a guy yelled out to me.

"Sorry, I got the time wrong. Now it's 2:30!" I thanked him, and realized Andrew would be in for a 5-hour finish. I still had about 3-4 km to go.

I managed to keep the pace up, and headed toward the finish chute. There was a guy about 50 meters in front of me. It looked like I'd have a nice, clean finish photo. But then I heard footsteps from behind. I should have crossed the timing mat and then just let this guy go. But I thought the timing mat was at the very end, so I increased the pace.

This is no place to sprint

Now I don't really think it's good etiquette to race in the chute. Let each guy have his own glory running down that coveted carpet, one by one. But I wasn't going to have this guy beat me at the last second or jump in front of me and ruin my picture.

I'm really not happy about what happened next. I ran up behind the guy in front of me, probably ruining HIS finish. He had opened the Kazakh flag and was set for a beautiful crossing. I ran around him on his right, and the guy behind me ran around him on his left.

We both crossed the line at the same time.

5:17:27

I felt terrible and I immediately apologized to the Kazakh guy. He seemed OK with it.

But I learned a lesson, and that is not to race in the chute. If anyone wants to pass you, let them do so, and you should take your own time. After all, we had already crossed the timing mat.

Shot from the TV finish

Nevertheless, we were presented with the biggest and heaviest medals I had ever seen. Then we were given a finisher hat, shirt, and towel, along with a space blanket.

By now, the rain was really coming down

Right there at the finish, but on the spectator side, were Andrew S. and Mariane. Andrew had done an awesome 5:01. I think he was a bit disappointed he didn't go sub-five, but that's just one more [very attainable] goal for him to shoot for at his next race.



I headed over to the massage tent - I never pass that up - and then went out to meet Eda and the kids who had hopefully found some shelter.

Post-race snack. I didn't eat it all though, only about 2/3 of it!

Overall, I'd say this was my most memorable race yet. We found South Africa to be a fascinating country with friendly people, incredible scenery, and great food. We are definitely going to come back to South Africa, not to race, but to see more of the country.

Not a PB in terms of time, but a PB in terms of fun

IRONMAN 70.3 Bintan 2018 Race Report

The Bintan 70.3 has always been good to me. Each of the three times I've raced it I've set personal bests. And while I did indeed set a PB this time, and win a spot at the 2019 World Championships in Nice, France, I also felt a bit ambivalent about my personal best. This has let me to think a lot about the ingredients and forces that create a fun (as opposed to stressed) race, which I wrote about here.


As usual, we took the ferry from Singapore's Tanah Merah to Bintan. We left at Noon on Saturday - too late for my liking as it left no time for a pre-race ride. As soon as we arrived, I had to check in and rack the bike.

At our room's pool, contemplating the pain that would come the next day

We stayed at Holiday Villas. This place was awesome. Each room has its own small pool. There's also a small (half) kitchen and a living room. Basically a small apartment. It was very clean and quiet. It seemed like were were the only ones there. And the best part is it's only 2.5km from the race start.

The Swim
My goal was to do a 40-min swim. Like last year, we were grouped by our ages, so once we got out into the water it wasn't too crowded, despite it being a mass start. Bintan has a very gradual sea bottom, so it included at least 50m of walking before it was deep enough to swim.

The usual Terai Melayu photos on the beach. But where's Masri?

 Once swimming, I fell into a nice rhythm behind a guy wearing a tri suit with his name and country on it. This guy was from Brazil and his pace was just right. I stuck with him for about the first 800m and then I lost him. But he helped guide me and may have provided a bit of a draft.

This year, the course was almost like an out-and-back instead of the more rectangular course of previous years. This reduced the amount of time we were swimming against the sun - which I actually liked as it gave me a perfect sighting reference.

Even with this new course, I couldn't see anything on the way back. Sighting was tough - looking up I'd just see blurs of random colors - maybe buoys, guys on kayaks, swimmers' heads, and things on the shore. The only thing I could see was some nice coral and fish about three meters below!

Soon enough the water was shallow enough to walk faster than I could swim. Up ahead I spotted the Brazilian, just making his way out of the beach. A glance down at my watch and it read 39:40. Could I make it to the beach in twenty seconds? Probably not, but I was happy with this time.


I pulled my swim cap and googles off, and unzipped my skin suit. It's easy to forget to remove the skin suit - I forgot last year in Cebu and my friend Delvin forgot earlier this month in Cebu. I pulled the shoulders off, and rolled it down to my waist.

The Bike
Then it was the usual routine at the bike. Boy, was I glad to be out of the water. Time to sit down in the nice aero position, start spinning, and grab a drink.

Before I knew it, I was out of transition and rolling. Just a km or two in, I heard, "Andrew!" and I looked over and saw Nick Glover. I pretty much see him at every race.

We had even met at breakfast at our hotel that morning. He was volunteering for the race and he took a picture of me. His wife was also racing, but in a relay I believe.

This year, the bike course was reversed. In 2017 the bike course was clockwise; 2018 counter-clockwise. This threw me off. There were many congested areas with sharp corners, traffic, and disruptions in the first 20km. During this time, I could not settle into any rhythm.

I kept telling myself, “Once I get past this village I’ll hit my correct power level and keep it there – but now I need to brake for the traffic and sharp corners.” But that kept happening early on and soon enough I realized it was too late.


I probably did not feel comfortable or in a groove until at least km 35. As a result, I was mentally thrown-off. And the ride stopped being fun when I realized I would not be able to claw my way back up the wattage average, to where I needed to be.

Nick, I have more to thank you for than just this picture - keep reading!

I followed a similar race plan to last year: Keep the heart rate and watt variability low by slowly spinning up the hills, and shooting for around 200 watts.

Data Observations

1. The 2018 ride took longer and used more work and power. This could be attributed to the slightly different course.
2. Heart rate in 2018 was more efficient – slightly lower figures yet more work generated. This is clearly due to better fitness, which would make sense. Note the Efficiency Factor (EF) of 1.43 vs 1.35.
3. Obviously, the average speed, pace, and duration in 2018 were inferior to 2017.
4. Like in 2017, I was quite mindful of my heart rate, and I used the granny gear to spin up a few hills. I made sure I kept my watts rather low and tried not to burn any matches (I certainly didn’t). This generated an acceptable VI of 1.05. I would not be afraid to try burning a few matches if it could get me up a few hills faster, which would save considerable time.
5. The Da Nang ride was far easier, totally flat, but is here just for reference.

The Run

It always feels good when you finish a leg of a race. Running into T2, I was thinking of what I needed to do next to get ready for the run. The usual routine, including sunscreen. A minute later I was out on the course cruising at 4:55 minutes per kilometer. I felt good.

Where is everybody?

Pretty much the same course as last year, except for a small, insignificant change. It was still flat. At around km 1 I heard some light but fast footsteps approaching from behind. I moved to my left. A second later, a woman crept up next to me, and slowly past me.

She was #23, Kate Bevilaqua. My mom had told me about her - that she met her at the Cottage Grove, Oregon triathlon a year or so ago. Later I would find out that she and her husband coach some of my fellow Oregonian friends living here in Singapore.

I think she was on her second loop. I stuck with her until about the 6th kilometer, and then she pulled away. A bit too fast for me!

Smile, despite the pain.

As I ran, I watched my pace. My goal was to finish the run in under 1:50. 1:45 even, but definitely below 1:50. I knew I could do that. And for those first 6 km I was able to keep my average below 5 minutes. But by km 7, I started slowing down a bit. I'd walk every other aid station, but I was still on track.

I was not in that much pain - not nearly as much as last year or my last race (Da Nang). I regulated that just to finish within my goal but I knew pushing it any harder would not do much for me. I'd never get sub-5 with that bad bike performance - but still wanted a PB.

Rounding the first loop, I heard cowbells. I knew it was none other than my awesome wife and kids cheering for me. A quick high-5 and in a flash I was gone.

Just as expected, the second loop was tough, but nothing I hadn't done before. Nothing unexpected. In fact, it was a bit less painful than most races. I was happy to have finished the run in an official time of 1:46:22.

10 seconds after finishing

As I ran down the finisher chute, I reflected on how good I felt compared to how hard I was pushing myself a few months ago in Da Nang. Clearly, I was fitter and in better shape.

Data Observations

1. The 3 minutes and 30 seconds difference in 2018 is considerable.
2. The temperatures in 2018 were a bit higher.
3. The course was a bit different, but was hardly noticeable.
4. While my heart rate ranges in 2018 were much bigger (range of 77 vs only 30 in 2017), the Pace:HR ratio in 2018 was lower, meaning the decoupling between the first half of the race and the second was less (less upward drift).
5. Though unproven, this was my first time racing with power (on the run). I tried to stick to 242 watts in the run. I had my watch set up to show the rolling average. This was quite easy to do.

The Finale
Since we were leaving that day, we had to go check out of the hotel. It's always an ordeal getting your bike out of transition and getting everybody back to the hotel. We managed to do so, pack our stuff, have a huge hamburger and rest, and make our way back to the venue for the roll-down.

I figured why not? Although I had only finished 7th in my age group, there was a chance I'd get a spot in the 2019 World Champs.

As we got off the bus, we saw Nick and his wife. "You going to the rolldown? Hurry up! They've already started!" With Nick's encouragement, I ran in the direction of the rolldown. I thought I had run enough for one day!

Thanks, Nick.

Just as we arrived, they were finishing calling the names for the age group right above mine. "I missed it!" I yelled. Then Eda told me that they were going from old to young, so I my age group was up next.

I don't even remember hearing him call any names. All I know was he said something like, "Anybody 45-49...?" I turned to Eda. She nodded. I ran towards the stage. "You don't have to run mate," he joked. "What's your name?" "Andrew," I replied, and I saw him circle my name in a list on a clipboard.

Four other guys came up to the base of the stage. "What place were you?" the first one asked. I hate to say this but I was pretty confident I had won it. "7," I replied. Two of the guys outstretched their hands, in formal congratulations and concession. We shook, and with that, they walked away.

I think my right hand is checking for my wallet.

"Didn't I just give you one of these medals?" the announced asked, over the mic. He was referring to Da Nang, where I won the 2018 entry to South Africa. "I guess so!" I answered, and I ran up to the stage. "And I'm back for more!"

Looks like our 2019 travel plans are kind of set...

I really want to thank Eda for agreeing to this 2019 trip, and for supporting me along the way! And thanks to my coach Colin O'Shea at COS Coaching. Without his training I wouldn't have been able to achieve this.

And while my bike split was not what I wanted, and my overall time was not what I wanted, I still set a PB and still earned one of these coveted WC spots.