Tjalling Ypma - 9/12/06

The Black Hills Triathlon is regarded as something of a classic on the Washington State triathlon scene. This may simply be due to its longevity, as a result of which just about everybody who has been active for a few years has done it, or it may be because it occurs fairly late in the season and is thus probably the last race of the year for many people. It is unlikely to be thanks to the course, which features an only moderately attractive lake and a bike ride through relatively uninspiring, fairly flat countryside. The run is rather more fun, on a narrow winding trail that weaves it complex, serpentine way through the woods of Millersylvania State Park just south of Olympia. I had done this race before, in 2005, with a badly sprained ankle and in atrociously cold wet weather, and I felt a need to do it again under better conditions to see if it would leave a more favorable impression on me.

Waking up at 4am to the sound of pouring rain was not encouraging, but the skies cleared and the roads dried as I drove south, and the day had turned pleasantly warm by the time I reached the park and got my gear laid out. Registration was friendly and efficient (all these folk recognize my distinctive name by now) and there were plenty of `Hamsters to socialize with before the 9:30 start. There were four starting waves – the 20’s, 30’s and 40’s were followed by us old-timers – and the start was in the same mucky ditch hacked into the weeds as last year. Putting your face into that murky mess dotted with floaters was not appealing, especially after the three previous waves had really stirred things up; visibility for the first 50 meters or so was absolutely zero. Things improved further into the swim, and I soon found myself in clearer water catching a nice draft off a set of big thrashing feet just ahead of me. I got a good straight line to the first buoy and then lost the ability to navigate as my goggles fogged up. Fortunately we were already catching stragglers from the wave ahead, and they were wearing bright yellow swim caps, so from there I just steered from one yellow dot to the next. One of the nice things about wave starts is that they offer me the rare opportunity to actually pass somebody in the water. Things went smoothly, with only a few brief pauses to check that my navigational aides were actually heading in the right direction; some stragglers do strange things. My only swim in the last month had been a two-way salt-water crossing of Kealakekua Bay in Hawaii, a somewhat unnerving open ocean swim, and this felt a lot more comfortable.

Transition from the swim to the bike at Black Hills involves a long run on a rocky trail; I followed last year’s plan of exiting the wetsuit at the water’s edge and donning sandals for the run. It was not the most efficient transition I have done, but I did pass a few folk on the run and dropped a few more at the racks so I was feeling satisfied as I set off on the bike. That satisfaction soon faded as I found myself stuck behind a couple of slow movers on the mile-long no-passing zone to the park entrance. Here was a downside of the wave starts, and I confess that I snuck by a few folk on the wider straight sections. Finally I hit the road and began the real race, tucked into the aerobars to duck the strong headwind and rapidly cutting my way through the tail-enders of the waves ahead.

Most of those I passed initially were in their 40’s, but it didn’t take too long before some in their 30’s fell to my wheels. I was just beginning to feel smug about this when I found somebody passing me. I don’t like people passing me on the bike, especially not when they are in my age group and have big knotty calf muscles like this guy, racer number 77. This was definitely not part of my script, so the chase was on and I followed his wheel. He wasn’t moving too fast, and I soon had a choice between hovering just outside his draft zone or retaking the lead, so I went back in front. Thus commenced a ding-dong battle, with him more often in the lead until his focus relaxed and I shook him out of his complacency with another swift pass that stirred him back into action. I watched him carefully; he was grinding a much bigger gear at a lower cadence than I was and I hoped that this relatively inefficient mode would cost him dearly when it came to the run. We wound our way through large numbers of the younger groups, many of them riding in packs in clear disregard for the non-drafting rules. It felt good to pass the young studs, especially those riding fancy disk wheels (I’m just envious, I know); I recall at one point thinking ‘good grief, I’m flying past a guy less than half my age ! ’ It is a very fast bike course, with just a few appreciable hills, but the wind made things a bit tougher. On the last climb I saw number 77 stand on the pedals and grind the gears while I spun up in my aerobars; he looked to be tiring and my killer instincts told me I could probably take him.

He gained a bit of ground on me as we returned to the park when I slowed to take in some nourishment, but by the time we had both dealt with the frustrations of another slow ride through the no-pass zone and whipped through the second transition onto the run he was just a few meters ahead of me. He was laboring painfully up the first hill and I knew this was my opportunity; I had to ensure he felt he had no hope and would resign himself to defeat, so I stepped on the gas and bolted past at a completely unsustainable speed. The convoluted nature of the run course was very much in my favor here; a lead of more than 100 meters would generally keep me out of sight and break the psychological link of the pursuit. I did know that there is an out-and-back halfway through the run, so I had to be sure that if he saw me there he would find I had an insurmountable lead. So I pushed it hard, running on the heels of a pig-tailed blonde girl and carving through slower runners as we pounded through the woods. I could feel a cramp creeping into my left calf but this was no time for caution; I just hung in there until we got through the out-and-back and it was obvious that I had a lead of several hundred meters. I felt pretty confident that I had broken him at that point, and relaxed a bit. The cramp in my calf steadily grew, and I had to be careful to avoid the muscle locking up completely; any slight jar from a misstep or excessively long stride sent warning spasms up my leg. Those last few miles stretched endlessly long as I sought the best compromise between damage limitation and speed. It was a relief to top out on the last painful hill and head downhill to the finish with nobody in close pursuit. He crossed the line about 30 seconds after me; I shook his hand and thanked him for pushing me very much harder than I would otherwise have gone.

Despite getting only 4th place in my division (these guys are tough!) I was very happy with my race; I went hard, fought though the pain, and won our little man-to-man battle. It was harder to cope with the leg cramps; even half an hour of treatment on the free massage tables couldn’t stop the violent and involuntary spasms in my calves. Racing the Mt. Baker Hillclimb on the following day eventually proved to be the appropriate cure.

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