Musselman Half-Iron Triathlon - Triathlon1/2 Ironman

The swim started ankle deep, so many people in my wave were talking about the wave ahead of us, which was 50/50 walkers to dolphin divers/swimmers. After 100 yards, it was deep enough to swim comfortably, and after 200 yards the chop and waves started nailing us, rolling bodies and gulping water every other breath. I actually enjoyed the adventure of it, mostly because of the assurance that a wetsuit provides in such gnarly conditions. Sighting in these waves and into the sun sucked ass, but it did for everyone. I caught some white caps from the wave before and generally felt good, knowing that my time would be slow because of the crazy chop.

After the 2nd turn, we went into the canal, and again it was a blast. Really had a good time out there. However, it would be end times for the fun.

Getting into T1, I could feel the pain broiling below my ribcage all the way down, just like yesterday in the Sprint. This time there was no nausea, but a feeling like I should lie down and apply massive pressure to my guts.

The first 30 minutes on the bike I vacillated between feeling decent and feeling sluggish. That was not a good sign. Usually I’m all amped up, ready to kill it for 2 hours before feeling like death. This race it was right from the start. I picked off some people, which lifted the spirits, until the stomach ache pronounced its intentions to suck hard around the hour mark. Mostly I wanted to ride myself into form and bury this racing ennui. But I just couldn’t get up the will to care with all the incessant gut pain.

After the steep climb away from Cayuga Lake around mile 30, when my speed dropped from 22mph to 21mph average I really lost it. The roads were crappy, the farms boring, my mood tanking fast. I took in 2 bottles of Heed and 2 of water, along with salt sticks every 45 minutes and 3 gels throughout this ride but nothing sat well. Everything that went into the gullet was pain exploding in my guts, like I was an overstuffed pillow spewing feathers out the seams.

My power had been quickly dropping from 215 watts average -- an effort I can hold steadily on almost every one of my long training rides -- going down well into the 180s. Pathetic. I got so down on myself about what a shitty ride this was turning out to be, and the bottom fell out. My stomach ached for relief, panging whenever I tried to go harder. A headache came on and it turned into waves of nausea. I was consuming the same stuff I’ve been taking for months of training, but it was all going wrong. No one else was around me and it was damn lonely. I wanted to pull a David Millar and throw my bike off a bridge.

Then came Sampson Park, a barely paved 3 mile stretch of park trail that sapped the last vestige of my will to go on. Visions of driving my bike into a wall overwhelmed me. I motivated myself with the promise of quitting after the bike ride. I looked for the sag wagon to pick me up. I played out every scenario of DNF and was completely satisfied by it, with no regrets at all, except for having to wait for someone to come get me. I didn’t want to wait. So I toodled through the course, unmotivated to go any harder than the bare minimum. White flag. Towel thrown to the floor. Count to ten. Death warmed over.

Eventually I was at mile 50 and said ‘Fuck it. I’m going to finish this bike, but there is no sense in going on after that. This is THE WORST RACE I'VE EVER HAD. My stomach is aching so bad now that any breath is a screaming pain in my abdomen. This is not fun. This is not worth it.’ And it wasn’t.

At T2 the guy ahead of me handed over his chip to a volunteer saying he was injured and couldn’t run. And that should’ve been it for me too. Why didn’t I just turn my chip in and end this stupid race? But I slowly walked to my rack and put on my run gear. I figured that I paid the money, and running is my favorite part, so I might as well get a few miles in before ending it all.

Coming out of the chute I saw Alaina’s parents and gave tried to smile for the camera. Heh, that should be a good one. Then I saw my aunt, whom I’d wanted to catch up with before the race. I stopped and gave her a hug and told her how happy I was to see her. Explaining how I felt horrendous and my stomach was a wrecking ball, I said I just wanted to get in a couple more miles before DNFing. Then I settled into an EZ pace hoping that the cadence of running would push the pain out of my GI tract and let me enjoy myself. It didn’t.

I walked every single aid station and chatted with the volunteers. I put all my trash neatly in the bins. I took every goody item they had in their hands. Sponges, water on the head, coke in the gullet, salt tabs, water to wash it down. High fives to the kids. I was determined to have fun and appreciate the people who make all this happen.

I told myself, ‘just go one more mile to make it worth it.’ And when I got there, I said, ‘Ok ok, just go one more, this isn’t too bad if I just keep it super EZ.’ This scheme got me all the way up to mile 6, when it was like, ‘uhhhhh, why don’t you just finish for shits and giggles? I walked every hill. Thanked everyone on the course. Tried to chat with people coming by, though there weren’t many. It was lonely out there.

The community came out with water hoses and I asked them to get me in the face and on the back, which was heavenly. Slogging along, I realized I was going to make it, but only if I went slowly. I’d tried numerous times to pick it up, but every time I pushed it, my stomach revolted with terrible pain. At mile 11 the tenderness and aching was so bad that I was forced into a hunched walk, pushing downward on my guts again for a few minutes. A guy from my AG passed me and I didn’t care. A guy I’d passed a while back was coming up again. I mustered on.

At mile 12, I saw my cousin heading out on the run course and gave her as much courage as I could. After all, I was about to finish and it was into the 90s and she was just going out. Her race was going to be way harder than mine. Ahead, I could see the AG guy who passed me, so I made it my only mission of the race to catch him. And I did, with 1/2 mile to go. After that I cruised it in, and hit up the ice bath to nurse my broken ego and curse a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad race that was totally on me. Nothing against Musselman, they put on a great show.

Sat in the inflatable pools again and tried to wash away my horrendous race. My stomach was painful to the touch and I went to the med tent after I nearly puked and passed out.

Finshed 10/100 in the Double Mussel category.


Gut reaction to the weekend: I’m sick and tired of triathlon racing. This isn’t fun any more.


Musselman lives up to its reputation as a top notch race.