Overdue July 4 God Bless America Race Report

My appreciation of the absurd is as strong as my sense of adventure, and when the two start chatting, they exhort me toward eccentric excursions into unfamiliar terrain. Replete with the promise of cultural curiosities *and* a very short and well-supported swim, the God Bless America Super Sprint Triathlon seemed designed to satisfy my sense of humor as well as my coach, who has been urging me to find out what swimming with/near/behind the pack is all about. Plus, I loved it that these guys posted a video tour of the bike leg of the race. It didn’t quite do justice to the handful of hills on the course, but I liked the queasy feeling I got from the perception of riding the bike course at 40 mph. as I watched the video. Ironman.com, take a cue from Wautoma. God Bless America, indeed.

GBAT begins and ends at the Silvercryst Supper Club and Motel, situated on a small rise over pristine Silver Lake on the outskirts of Wautoma. When I call to reserve a room, the woman on the phone is apologetic: “There’s only one room left and it’s non-smoking. Will that be okay for you?” Already, we’re not in Madison anymore…

The Plan is to arrive in Wautoma Tuesday afternoon, check out the lake, take a swim, and ride the bike course a couple of times. A lightning storm, intermittent rain, and darkness falling early require us to revise The Plan. We arrive in Wautoma, find the Silvercryst, check into our room (with an old-fashioned, honest-to-god motel room key), and discover it serviceable and graced by a fabulous view of the lake. There’s plenty of room for two bikes and assorted tri gear. We unload, walk in the rain down to the beach, wonder if and when there will be evidence of a triathlon happening, and drive the bike course twice, just like in the video, except now we find the handful of little hills. We talk strategy. “Here,” Mo says, “at this corner into this hill, shift down a bit, keep your cadence high, don’t stop pedaling as you take the corner, then hammer up.” You betcha.

We find a good dinner in town at a pizza place, and as we drive back to the Silvercryst we spot one of those vintage 50’s drive-in restaurants, this one called The Milty Wilty. “After the race,” announces Mo, “we’re going to The Milty Wilty.” There’s some motivation! Back at the motel, the supper crowd has begun to clear out and there are people setting up bike racks in the dark, damp parking lot. We walk down to the lake and see that a couple of buoys have appeared…far, far out into the lake. Hmmm. The 200 meter super sprint swim appears to involve a 100 meter grand entrance, a 200 meter swim in the lake, and a 200 meter long-angle grand exit. I try not to think about the math, nor about the organizers’ promise that one can “stand to rest” or “hold onto a buoy” if one gets tired, since the buoys are not connected by a line, nor is the swim between them in water shallow enough that would allow me to touch bottom w/o drowning. Apparently the reassurances apply only to the first and last 100 feet of the swim course. Wetsuit or no wetsuit? “Dude, if you wear a wetsuit for a 200 meter swim, I’ll laugh my a** off,” Mo said when we registered. I had packed it anyway; now, I prepared to see body parts disappear in the morning. We leave the soaked beachfront and retire to our room. Mo practices transitions. I watch, hoping that Bandura’s social learning theory holds true---you can pick up behaviors by watching others perform them. Apparently, Bandura never studied triathletes in transition.

We wake early. We look out. The rain has stopped. The place has been transformed. These organizers have worked all night. The beach is decorated with red, white, and blue balloons. A pathway cordoned off with red, white, and blue fringe now begins at the swim exit on the beach and travels up the hill between the supper club and the motel and through the parking lot into the transition area. We throw on some clothes and walk out into the registration area in front of the Silvercryst. Athletes are arriving, and the registration table is festooned with---you guessed it-- red, white, and blue bunting. What I think must be Christian rock is blaring from the loudspeakers. Okay, this is the cultural excursion you signed up for. We check in, go through body marking, and collect goody bags and race numbers. Back in the room, we discover firecrackers and coupons to The Milty Wilty in the goody bags (how did they know?!). We begin taking things out to our transition areas. I’m liking being lodged 100 paces from the bike racks, especially as I begin to see the lines form at the Porta-janes in the parking lot. Down at the water’s edge, an impressive crowd of spectators has gathered, parking chairs on the hill above the beach, milling about, being canvassed by volunteers who are passing out handouts about “how to support triathletes.” For those who are more auditory than visual, there’s a “spectator meeting” on the beach scheduled for ten minutes before the start. Kids are passing red, white, and blue pompons among the crowd. The mood is festive. We head out on a little warm-up ride, return, and make a thousand more trips to the room. I decide to wear the wetsuit—hey, I paid for it, I might as well wear it!—after several anxious forays into and out of the water, across the sand, tracking it up the hill and into the motel.

At the race director’s talk on the beach, we learn that there will be no public indecency and no use of profanity during the race for those who wish not to be DQ’ed. God Bless America! The race will start with a firecracker instead of a starter’s pistol, and waves will be timed three minutes apart. Mo and I are both in the over-40 women’s wave, the last to go. “That’s good,” says Mo, “you’ll have lots more people to pass on the bike.” I’m surprised and relieved we don’t sing the Star Spangled Banner, but a minister on the beach prays over us, and I realize that swim starts are a lot like flying in planes: they make almost everyone religious. “Amen” the tri-athletes holler. The firecracker goes off, and soon so do we. At some point in the swim, I realize that while it’s all training, it would probably be good to get some training in open water swimming in non-racing conditions. Where are the lines in the bottom of the lake? How did that lake weed get wrapped around my neck? What am I doing here? Oh, yeah, paddling to where my bike is parked. Keep going.

Somehow, I find my way back to the beach, get my footing, and start up the hill in the red-white-and-blue tunnel. The well-trained spectators urge me on. I get to the crest of the hill and see Mo just about to run her bike out of T1. I duck under the red, white, and blue cordon lines. “No, this way!” says a church lady volunteer, with a sense of urgency. “One moment,” I say, dodging another earnest tunnel-minder stepping in front of me. I step up to the restraining line next to the parking lot, yell at Mo as she passes over the timing mat, get a thumbs up, and get back on course, much to the relief of the volunteers, who have now recognized that I am a better cheerleader than an athlete. The tunnel takes me past the registration table. “You did it!” says the woman who registered me. I give her a high five. I turn out of the chute and into the transition area, heading toward my bike with all of the joy of a woman meeting her beloved after a long separation. I am eager for this reunion! But-God Bless America!—where is my beloved bike? I know tri-athletes are supposed to be prepared for anything, but I don’t know the rule for Situation 4892 in the Things That Could Go Awry in A Tri Handbook: a bike missing from T1. Will I be walking the ride? Borrowing a bike? As I start to work through the implications, I spot my bike---displaced to the pavement in the commotion created by 159 other cyclists getting on the road. Okay, the reunion is back on. In my relief, I take my time, much to Bandura’s disappointment. Off with the wetsuit, on with the helmet and shoes, re-load the water bottles scattered in the bike fall, and onto the timing mat. Finally, I am on the bike! The well-rehearsed volunteers cheer me on as I become the last person out of T1. “No worries,” I say, “I’ll catch ‘em on the bike.” Today, I am in a race, not just on a ride.

I start down the access road to the first turn, and get the all clear from the corner guards. I think of Karen talking to me about going at a high cadence in an easy gear and then shifting into the harder gears once the cadence is established. No need to start out pushing the big gears. I look down at my computer. 16 miles an hour. 3 miles an hour. 16 miles an hour. 3 miles an hour. Uh-oh—computer has been knocked silly in the rack crash. I reach down, reseat the computer. No improvement. I hear Mo’s voice saying, “No stopping! Do not get off that bike no matter what!” Okay, let’s not get distracted; let’s ride like we’ve never seen a computer on a bike. Far ahead, I see a lone woman rider. Just behind, I hear a motorcycle. The motorcycle doesn’t pass me. I realize that these race organizers have sent out an escort vehicle to take up the last position. God Bless America! I don’t need a motorcycle drafting off my wheel! I’m sorry to pass this off to the woman ahead of me, but this is a race, right? No place for the tender-hearted. I pass woman # 1 and leave her with the motorcycle escort. Up the road a bit is the second turn, into an out-and-back: onto a country lane, down a quarter mile, then a quick turn-around, and back to the highway. On the way out, I drop two more riders. At the turn around, I envision Damon at the cornering clinic, going full tilt down the block and making a sharp turn around a water bottle. “Anybody want to try it?,” he had asked. I had, but was too shy, and have not practiced this as much as I should have on my own. No matter. I take the turn and start to feel a little warmed up. There are two more riders on the lane before the turn back onto the highway. I pass them, make the turn, and start the ascent up the longest hill on the course. I ride up to the only woman in sight and am on her wheel but reluctant to pass because of the highway traffic and our position on the hill. I realize I am drafting. Ooops, wrong kind of race! I worry about the motorcycle guy busting me for drafting uphill at 13 miles an hour. I fall back three bike lengths, as required, and wait ‘til the top of the hill. All clear on the other side, and all clear at the turn at the bottom. I pass the woman on the descent, visualize the wide line around the corner, and pick up speed.

The next stretch of road is a nice long low slight ascent. I pass a couple other riders, including the first man. I aim to pass 20 before the finish. Ahead, I start to see not individual riders, but small groups, one a quarter mile ahead and taking the next turn at the bottom of a series of small rollers. A good sign. I realize that I am passing beautiful countryside and that it isn’t registering. How do I feel about that? Race now, philosophize later! I know what this upcoming corner is like and I am ready for it…sharp, sudden, and at the base of a hill. I move to the center of the lane, still picking up speed. I take the corner, and start up the hill, one of those classic Wisconsin short power climbs. Out of the saddle, just as Sam teaches. I remember Tori cautioning us about groups on hills, “it’s imperative, when on a hill,” she says, to be mindful of the car traffic, seen and unseen. I pass a couple of 19 year olds---hey, that’s the previous wave!--taking care to stay much closer to them than to the center line as I climb, and fell sorry I’d hesitated to pass the rider on that first hill. How much time did I lose back there? The group that was ahead of me is now behind. There’s a woman with a mechanical issue on the side of the road, but she’s receiving assistance. Stay on the bike! I keep going. I ride the momentum of the downhill into the next climb, then up and down again, then take that sharp left up another hill. I love these corner guards! I shift down into the turn, keep pedaling, start the climb, and drop a woman from my wave who looks stunned to see me as I go by. No worries—she’ll drop me on the run! I am at the 20 rider drop quota. Time to set the bar higher. I occupy myself with the pavement in front of me, the next rider, and the feel of the bike. What’s possible? I keep going, trying to find the sweet space between pushing gears so hard that I lose too much in rpms and shifting so low that I lose speed, the spot between being comfortably uncomfortable and pushing up against some wall that I won’t be able to pass through. I look forward to knowing enough about this that it’s not totally experimental all the time. For now, it’s all training and it’s all good! Half a mile from the finish, I am still passing riders. Mr. 32. Ms. 33. Ms. 34. The computer says 28 mph/ 13 mph. Who knows? Keep riding! I pass Ms. 38 100 feet from the mat. Why is this ride over so soon? Number 39 tempts me, but caution prevails; I hold back and we arrive at the mat in a civilized manner.

I proceed to my transition area, feeling good and feeling hot. I take off the helmet, drink water, pour the rest of a bottle over my head, put on my running shoes, and march off, hearing the announcer report that the “second lady finisher” is just coming in. I start down the access road, turn out onto the highway, and see Monique coming up the road. “You go!” I say, as she cruises past. I’m thinking she’s on her way to a medal. I walk most of the first mile, cheering people who actually are running, turn around, then decide to get back with The Plan, which had been to walk a minute, run a minute, in deference to my ever-complaining ankle. Half a mile from the finish, Monique reappears, having finished her race and come back to cheer me on and observe life at the back of the pack. We run/walk the last half mile together, and she sprints in with me. I cross the mat, hearing those well-trained spectators cheering again. A woman puts a medal around my neck and asks me if I’m okay (well, it was a long walk, but I think I’m alright!), while someone else takes the timing chip from my ankle and a third person hands me a finisher’s t-shirt. Quite a hero’s welcome! Mo and I go to check the splits; she’s finished 12th over all, and my times aren’t even posted yet! We go down to the beach, and at the awards ceremony Mo collects a lifetime entrance to GBAT and a certificate to stay at the AmericInn in Wautoma, along with a couple of margarita glasses and a bottle of Heed. We check out the feed at the Silvercryst, but pass it up in favor of bananas in the motel room and, eventually, a stop at The Milty Wilty, where I eat beans and vegetables, Mo refuels with a malted and a pizza, and we start our training plans for next year’s God Bless America triathlon.