Well, this sure took a while....

My Wildflower "hangover" lasted about a month. My race report apparently needed yet another month... and a half. A few notes:
1) I finished
2) I beat my time from 2014 (by a lot)
3) I did NOT beat Beast Wife (who also beat her 2014 time by a lot)
4) I did NOT bet Beast Wife that I would beat her (no more blogs for me)

Wildflower is a memory factory. So many brain cells die during the heat,exhaustion, and psychological demands of a 6+ hour race (for me, at least), memories seem to blur into a phantasmagorical scene of dust, sweat, and tears.

Enter the Ghost of Wildflowers Present....

Cheers to the Present. Beast Wife in background, also cheers-ing. Note: this is not the order in which we finished.

I woke Saturday morning rested, confident, and happy. This made me uneasy. I cheerfully downed a banana/coffee/wheat bread/peanut butter/honey/Limon Pepino Gatorade slurry. I spouted hubris about my upcoming day. I was excited. I was looking forward to the race. A grueling, never-ending, 6+hour (for me,at least), mentally-defeating, inopportune-poop-inducing race.

What is wrong with me?

The Swim

Pre-race stretch. Relaxed. Confident. Too confident...

Staring down the boat ramp, I again felt great. I had a pre-race poop. I slugged some more Limon Pepino. I sat and enjoyed the view. I climbed into the bushes to pee off a cliff. I felt like the Man. Even as I splashed through a few warm-up strokes in the cloudy water just before the starting gun, my body felt fresh. Was I actually prepared for this race? Had I suddenly become a triathlete? How was this my comfort zone now, when only two years prior I was nervously eating everything in sight and trying to avoid eye contact with everyone lest they sense my fear?

The gun fired and I plunged into Lake San Antonio, my old friend, and settled in easily to a nice rhythm. I didn't feel fast, but I didn't feel like I was going to die either, which was nice. I didn't barf. Also nice. It was a non-eventful swim, which probably means it was good. I paced myself with a guy in an orange wetsuit after the turn-around. I had settled into my swim so comfortably that my mind started wandering.

Black wetsuits make you look like a seal. Sharks eat seals. Sharks don't eat oranges. I want an orange wetsuit. Thank you, orange wetsuit guy.

The swim was soon over and, packing up my belongings, I turned to start trudging up the crushingly steep boat ramp at a healthy, hiking, heart-rate-controlling pace. That's when I heard it.

"Better move, Clown."

It was Beast Wife. And my race was about to change.

Run A

Her wave had started 10 minutes later than mine. Yet there she was, exiting the swim just as I was leaving T1A. Although I had half-expected her to pass me during the swim, my cocky, veteran self had aspirations of maintaining my 10-minute head start throughout the race so I wouldn't feel the shame of being tracked down and passed by my wife like so many of her hapless competitors. Now she had the musty scent of my rodeo clown kit, and the chase was on.

I took off frantically up the boat ramp, my heart racing into max territory. I could NOT let Beast Wife pass me during the 2 mile Run A. I had to reach the bikes first.

I never go into a race with a competitive mindset. But in each race, something happens that boosts me into the next gear. Either I adopt a stranger as my new rival, or I see Beast Wife inching towards me on the course, or I catch the glimmer of disappointment in Beast Wife's dad's eyes as I pass by much too slowly. My intentions to enjoy the race, my increased fitness, and the gas left in the tank at the end inevitably fly out the window at some moment during the race. "Better move, Clown" was that moment at Wildflower.

Unfortunately, my pre-race strategies never take into account the mid-race competitive flip-flop. So I strategized on the fly. Hurtling myself down the 2 miles of trail to T1B, I threw form, heart rate, and all advice to take the course easy at the beginning into Lake San Antonio's dusty landscape. My new race plan quickly came into focus:

Previous Plan

Run A: Run slightly above planned race pace. Maintain heart rate in Zone 3.
Bike: Take early flats easy, insisting on Zone 2 heart rate. Concentrate on fueling. Use saved energy to negative split and increase pace during the hills at the end.
Run B: Survive. Walk early hills. Negative split the run like a Boss.

New Plan

Run A: Run like hell, because Beast Wife is beasting right behind you. Forget heart rate, just go as fast as you can maintain for 2 miles. If you walk a hill here, you suck. She's right behind you, pick it up!!!!
Bike: Start off easy, but slowly increase the gap on Beast Wife. You're going to need more than a 10 minute lead to hold her off on the run. If you feel good, keep pressing because you need the minutes. Crush Nasty Grade and later hills because you're awesome at riding hills, even if they happen in the middle of a 70.3 when it's 85 degrees outside. Consult heart rate at times for reference.
Run B: Survive. Your increased fitness and knowledge of the course will surely give you the tools necessary to keep Beast Wife at bay in the rear-view mirror. Walk when necessary to prevent flat-lining. Negative split the run like a Boss. Cross finish line triumphantly.

My new plan was foolproof. Time to execute.

New race plan in execution mode. Spirits are high.

Bike

I stormed into T1B with no sign of Beast Wife nipping at my heels. My new plan was working perfectly. However, her dad was there to inform me that I had a 1 minute lead. Crap.

Beast Wife has picked up fresh Clown scent. Target in sight.

Regardless, I still felt great and supremely confident that I could at least make that 1 minute stand up throughout the ride. I hopped on the bike, pedaled steadily up Lynch Hill, and settled into a nice Zone 2 rhythm. Long road ahead.

At mile 3, Beast Wife passed me.

I was incredulous. Crushed. Tired. She started to creep away into the distance. My plan was ruined! Mental defeat crept in with every pedal stroke as I tried to keep her in sight. Each mile of effort and fatigue would surely make that task so much harder later in the race.

During an early descent, I was heartened to see an opening. My superior girth propelled me downhill towards her, making up some of the gap. With another slight downhill, I noticed that I was getting dangerously close to the draft zone behind her. The Moment of Truth. Do I hit the gas and pass her now, potentially tiring myself only to be passed again moments later? Or do I drop back, lose my momentum, and find a slower, fatter rival for the rest of my race?

I shifted up, crouched into aero, snarled a little, and dropped the hammer. If I was going to pass Beast Wife here, at mile 5, I was going to pass her for good. I hammered away and stole a glance at Beast Wife's face. Half pride, half incredulity, and half laughter at what certainly would be a soon-to-be-bonking Clown. The descent turned into a flat, and I kept pressing. Other times in life could be reserved for Zone 2, but not this one. Soon, Beast Wife was nowhere to be seen.

As I continued to pass others on the course, my confidence swelled. The Jesse Thomas finish line song played triumphantly in my head. Every so often, I would look back at a long stretch of road behind me, searching for Beast Wife's neon yellow helmet. Nowhere to be found. I oddly started cursing, loudly. I don't cuss much, but for some reason this felt like the right time. I berated myself at every thought to slow down, using words that made the cows in the surrounding pastures blush. I was the Samuel L. Jackson of triathletes, and it was working splendidly. I became my own foul-mouthed coach barking orders at a weary body. I was powering ahead, surely ticking precious minutes off my bike split. Beast Wife loves to feed off her victims' pain and doubt during the run, so those minutes were critical. The bike leg was mine. Wildflower was mine. Dare I say.... Beast Wife was mine?

When I hit mile 38, I realized this was all a terrible idea.

Nasty Grade is the most famous climb at Wildflower. It is spoken of with reverence and mystique. Her Nastiness hits you just past mile 40 of 56; a nearly 900 foot wall over 4 miles right when you're starting to hit some real fatigue and right when you're starting to think about that gnarly run and how little your legs are looking forward to it. Last year, I was paranoid about Nasty Grade. I trained heavily in the Malibu mountains with climb after brutal climb. I adhered to traditional wisdom about Wildflower and I saved some energy during the flat segments (an easy task since I didn't know whether or not I'd finish). I used a rocket boost fart to help me along the way). When I hit Nasty Grade last year, I was not impressed. Her Nastiness was overhyped by flatlander, aero-loving, Ironman types. I like climbing (mostly because when you're climbing, you're not going very fast, so it's less scary....). And Nasty Grade was just not nasty enough for me.

That was my mindset as I started pressing on the bike early. It didn't matter if I wasted myself on the flats. Nasty Grade isn't so bad. But at mile 38, I got tired. Very tired. So tired. Riders started passing me. And they all had one thing to say.

"Nasty Grade! You ready?!"

I hit a wall 2 miles before I hit Nasty Grade. Terrified, I tried spinning out my legs, taking in calories, drinking water, anything to prepare me for Her Nastiness. The ascent started and I feigned excitement, hootin' and hollerin' like all the other tri freaks that suddenly surrounded me. Much too soon, I hit my lowest gear. I settled into survival mode. Keep spinning, find comfortable positions, rest head on aerobars if necessary. Forget the pain. Find a happy place. None of it really worked. Nasty Grade was teaching me a nasty lesson. Birds chirped happily, the soundtrack of a satisfied Nasty Grade and her last laugh. I made the right-hand turn that denotes the famously false apex and glanced up ever so briefly at a "Deer Crossing" sign. Just a day before, spewing hubris, I had seen that sign on the drive to the campsites. I pointed it out to Beast wife and chortled, "When I see that sign tomorrow, I'm going to feel just like that bounding deer." Instead, it felt like the bounding deer was kicking me in the face.

Contrary to my Wildflower's Eve prediction, I did not feel like this bounding deer at the top of Nasty Grade.

For the last 12 miles of the bike, there are a series of small climbs, false flats, very short descents (maybe?). I can't really remember. All I could think about after Nasty Grade was how much I wished I could stop pedaling soon and when was Beast Wife going to catch me. For 8 agonizing miles, I was sure every person creeping up behind me was Beast Wife. When it wasn't, I would get a spike of energy, jump out of the saddle, and start pressing forward thinking maybe, just maybe, I had gapped her SO much that even my 18 mile trip through Sad Clown Town wouldn't be enough for her to make up in such a short amount of time. But at mile 52, during yet another short climb, I heard an all-too-familiar "snuffing" sound; the sound of a steadily exhaling Beast Wife mid-climb I had heard so many times during our training rides.

"What took you so long....."I muttered under my breath. She said something heartfelt and encouraging. And then she was gone...

Run B

Fully demoralized and spent by my bike battle with Beast Wife, I hit T2 exhausted. There was no way I was catching her now. Fortunately I hadn't changed my Run B plans much: just survive. I put on my shoes, cracked a Coke, noticed I put on the wrong shoes (the sandy, Run A shoes I used to run across Lake San Antonio's drought-stricken lake bed), took off my shoes, put on the fresh ones, sighed a heavy sigh, and trudged towards the stupid staircase that leads you into the run leg at Wildflower. I was both disappointed and relieved that I had to take a dump again at about mile 1. Disappointed because I felt my strategically-timed, relaxed, hubris-caked poo an hour before the swim felt like wasted effort. Relieved because I did need a few minutes sitting down to gather myself. It's a very comforting and satisfying tradition.

As planned, I walked the early hills. There are so many of them that I actually started feeling lazy with all the walking. Nevertheless, after so many of these ups and downs, Wildflower throws a wicked haymaker at you that I learned is aptly named the Trail of Tears. I walked up a very steep stretch of trail, jogged a downhill stretch for what seemed like the shortest 30 seconds of my life, and hoped that the climbing was over. Instead, a meandering single track trail pointed me straight up a mountain with no end in sight.

After the Trail of Tears, the run evens out a bit and you can find some kind of a rhythm. But I was beat. Pace, performance, and pride all became secondary to simply moving forward. I took some time along the way to enjoy some beautiful stretches of the course. Long course is great for giving you some isolation. There are portions of the race where you really feel like you're all alone with God, your thoughts, and with nature. One segment in particular snaked downhill through a meadow of dry grass. The wind picked up and filled the air with a sound like a whisper. I felt joy. I think the whisper said "you still have 8 more miles" though, so the joy was short-lived.

The latter part of the run strangely became an emotional experience for me. Perhaps the brain cells that monitor manliness all died on Nasty Grade. Perhaps seeing my wife on course so many times during the race got me all sentimental, since we share so much of the triathlon journey together. Or perhaps the Trail of Tears is named that way for a reason. When I finally crossed the finish line and saw Beast Wife waiting for me not triumphantly, but genuinely happy for me, I cried a few dehydrated tears, a great final memory from Wildflower's memory factory.

Then I sat down near the medical tent and tried my best not to throw up.

In Summary

• Battled Beast Wife
• Took ill-advised but awesome bike risk
• Gained a new respect for Her Nastiness, the Nasty Grade
• Filled my veins with a fresh dose of Wildflower Koolaid
• Confirmed my man-crush on 5-time Wildflower champion Jesse Thomas. He's just like me, only faster and from Stanford (seriously, read his race report on Wildflower, written in a much more timely manner than mine. He's just like you and me! He spends his whole race in Zone 2, has moments when he's completely miserable, and yet he's running 6:30 miles!!!!!)
• Cut 5 minutes off Beast Wife's lead from last years' race. At this rate, it will only take me 6-7 years to catch her! You hear that, Beast Wife? Plodding foot steps....

Ghost of Wildflowers Yet to Come

For me, competing in long course triathlons encourages regular consideration of retirement so I can go back to a comfortable life doing biceps curls and occasional squats. I'm not going to retire from triathlons yet. But, if I do, I will annually come out of retirement to race Wildflower. As long as it exists. Disturbing news recently came to my attention that Wildflower's future is in jeopardy. Lake San Antonio closed for the summer on July 1, 2015, and I've heard rumors of Wildflower's demise due to drought conditions and shrinking water levels. Faced with Wildflower's potential mortality, I can't miss another race. It could be the last one. And really, you shouldn't skip one either. The race has now made me barf, poop, and cry, sometimes all at once. You'll leave with a ghost, a memory, or at the very least a great story. See you in 2016, Nasty Grade.