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.

As of May 2, 2015, I've spent early May weekends at Lake San Antonio for three consecutive years, drinking in the Wildflower Koolaid. And it has aged well, like a fine, sugary wine. The combination of elite professional athletes, talented age-groupers (see Beast Wife), energetic college athletes and volunteers (see my alma mater, UC Berkeley and the ubiquitous Cal Poly San Luis Obispo), and the average-to-below-average first-timers and veterans that have heard of its lore or that have been suckered into signing up for it is unique and inspiring. Each of these diverse participants can recall a distinct Wildflower narrative. Here is mine so far (apologies to Charles Dickens):

A Wildflower Carol

{"Marley's Ghost" by John Leech. Image courtesy of John Holbo via Flickr

The Ghosts of Wildflowers Past

I went into Wildflower 2015 with experience. Wildflowers Past were my first Olympic and Half Ironman distance races. So the day before 2015's long course, I naturally felt more comfortable, more focused, and more cocky (more on that later). I also reveled in hearing the nervous questions and ridiculously conservative predictions from folks I was with that were doing the races for the first time. People kept asking me, the seasoned Wildflower veteran, for advice on race strategy, what kind of fuel to take in, how often to drink water, etc. (Little did they know, I have no idea what I'm talking about). Pokey, ever the sand-bagger, made sure to let everyone know that his only goal was to finish before the 9 hour race cutoff time. I chuckled to myself at their anxiety, their self-deprecation, their posturing. Humbug.

As the sun set Friday night and we gathered in a circle at the campsite, eating pre-cooked spaghetti and meat sauce, I realized that if there was anyone posturing, it was me. I'm not Beast Wife. I'm the Most Average Triathlete. I too had the same doubts, overly-conservative predictions, and sheer terror about the course that my friends at camp were sheepishly sharing with me. In fact, I had my own fair share of anxiety about THIS year's race hiding beneath my All-Knowing Veteran facade. Wildflower is a perfect place for newbies to sample not just Wildflower Koolaid, but Triathlon Koolaid. And the people stirring that drink are the veterans, no matter how average they still are. In fact, I think the average vets, like me, are essential for building a more accurate perception of the sport. Triathlons, even the Wildflower triathlons, are accessible to anyone. Everyone at Wildflower may seem like they're intense, well-trained, Beast-Wife-esque athletes due to the sheer challenge of the course. But, in reality, most people at Wildflower are just trying to live a Life in Zone 2, and happen to run headlong into the most challenging and gratifying triathlon experience out there. To ease the nerves of my compatriots, I took them back on my journey of comic imperfection that shaped my own preparation and perception of 2015's race. Around the dim glow of a Coleman lantern, I hoped to show them, and to remind myself, that conquering Wildflower is an always onerous yet (im)perfectly achievable goal.

The Swim

Intimidating display of athleticism at the boat launch. Also, stomach stretching is necessary when there are jelly beans to digest.

Race fueling and digestion is a recurring theme in my triathlon narrative. So it's fitting that the first leg of Wildflower is where that theme makes its first appearance. At the Olympic race, I was paranoid about hitting The Wall. I had never actually exercised for the length of time it would take me to finish an Olympic-distance race, let alone Wildflower. Visions of Julie Moss at the Kona finish line haunted me. Would I be able to take in enough calories and electrolytes to last me through a long race? Unsure, I decided to just eat as much as possible. Some might call this "nervous eating." I call it "fueling with margin." After a hearty breakfast of tortillas, peanut butter, honey, gatorade, and coffee, I topped it off with a Honey Stinger while setting up transition. But, with my stomach still feeling good, and my mind starting to question whether I had enough calories to survive a 0.9 mile swim, I frantically rummaged through my transition bag for more sustenance. Energy Jelly Beans. I crushed them just a few minutes before my swim start, satisfied that I would have no lack of energy before I could return to transition and start eating again.

The starting buzzer sounded and I dove headlong into the back of the pack (where I belonged). Splashing and sloshing through a sea of flailing arms and legs, I tried to establish a rhythm. After about 200 yards I settled in: slow, easy strokes, breathing to the left every other stroke, exhaling steadily underwater, trying to slow my heart so it would stop pulsing against the neoprene cage constricting my chest. I could feel my stomach starting to gurgle, and the voice of a thousand mothers echoed in my head: "after you eat, wait at least 30 minutes before you go swimming...." Away from the pack and settled in, I figured my upset stomach would subside with time. It did. But it only took an instant. After a breath, I unexpectedly exhaled a Lucky Charms rainbow of partially digested jelly beans into the depths of Lake San Antonio. I was momentarily relieved. But soon, dread sunk in: MY ENERGY!!!!! GONE!!!! Feeding the fishes, who didn't have to bike or run that day (what a waste!). Would I even survive the turn-around point without those precious calories?

Magically delicious, going both ways!

I did. But I was very upset.

Bike (Wildflower Long Course, 2014)

Wildflower is historically hot, hilly, and humbling. Forecasts promised 95 degree temperatures in 2014. My body needed to learn, quickly, to adapt to that environment. With fueling concerns from 2013's race morning still fresh in my mind, I decided to prepare a day early. I carefully set out my in-race fueling implements (liquid carbs, honey stingers, gu's). I carefully planned my pre-race breakfast. I drank water and Gatorade throughout the day. Everything seemed to be setting up nicely. But then I ate an entire Costco-sized bag of Kettle brand potato chips with sea salt. Paranoid about electrolytes, my mind focused on the saltiest snack I could see. Paranoid in general about the long course, I just kept eating.

Fast forward to race morning. After a decent swim and a comfortable Run 1A, I settled into a steady, zone 2 pace so I could survive impending doom at Nasty Grade around mile 40. But midway through the bike, I began to feel a familiar gurgling in the stomach, transforming into uncomfortable pressure on my abdomen.

I had to fart.

Hopefully just fart. Traveling at about 16 mph, stopping was not an option. I whizzed past several port-a-potties while in my state of gastrointestinal distress. Wildflower's early segments are generally flat, so I was reluctant to cost myself those precious minutes of coasting time sitting on a toilet. At the next descent, I decided to let it rip, accepting the risk that I might end up with a kit full of doo doo.

I'm going to need some help.... {Bullet Bill courtesy of Mario Wiki}

What resulted was the most satisfying, invigorating,and disturbing moment of my long course race. I stood up on the pedals for my descent, slumped aggressively over my aerobars, legs straightened, tailbone pointed towards the relentless stare of the sun.

A tremendous and prolonged explosion of gas (and thankfully, just gas) relieved the pressure. I started picking up speed, gastrointestinal combustion seemingly propelling me faster and faster. I had picked up Mario Kart's Bullet Bill, bestowed upon those far behind the pack so they could effortlessly return to contention. Either that, or I was going downhill. Whoa to all competitors lying in my gaseous wake....

Lesson learned: pre-race fueling with potato chips is an effective method for increasing sodium intake. Side effects may include bloating, stomach cramps, and rocket propulsion.

Run (Wildflower Olympic 2013 & Wildflower Long Course 2014)

The Ghosts of Wildflowers Past, having barfed and passed gas, finally reached the run leg to finish my story with an exclamation point. Regardless of the length of the race, I have a 2-year track record of needing to take a giant dump just past T2. The incessant calorie ingestion throughout the race could be a cause. I like to think the position you take on the bike squeezes your intestines in such a way that all fecal matter migrates south over the course of several hours, like slowly, methodically pressing the middle of a toothpaste tube for 3 hours straight. As soon as you start running, gravity takes control and those Kettle chips start to shake themselves downward until they have nowhere else to go. In a race like Wildflower, passing a porta-potty while you have a turtle head poking out could lead to grave consequences. I've proven you can throw up during the race without stopping. I've proven you can pass gas during the race without stopping (and it could actually give you a Power-Up). I have not yet proven, and I don't plan to prove, that you can drop a deuce while in motion.

At Transition 2 both years, I was tired. So tired. It takes at least a mile or two to start getting your legs under you and to start feeling normal during the run. At around mile 1 both years, I was still in Survival Mode: keep moving forward, no matter how slowly you're moving, because you will finish eventually. That's about when the rumbling in my gut started drifting lower. The pressure started transforming into pain. And my mind started doubting whether my skin-tight tri shorts could sufficiently hide a pile of human excrement. I trudged through the volunteer campground, searching for cover. And there it stood: a line of Andy Gumps like blue sentinels pointing the way to a poop-free finish line. I darted off the trail and took a seat. Let me also say that taking a bathroom break during the run is a fantastic way to steal some quality rest. If I was to sit down on my transition towel at T2 to just take a break, I would feel lazy (plus Beast Wife's dad would definitely see me there and ridicule me for life). But, if you're forced to sit down due to nature's call? Different story. I shot out of those thick plastic doors with new life, rested, lighter, and ready to run down whoever passed me while I was hiding in Delta T2.

Delta T2

So what happened in 2015???

A Wildflower veteran's competition: The Ghost of Wildflowers Past.
{"Boo" courtesy of Super Mario Wiki}

If my Ghosts of Wildflowers Past don't make you feel better about your chances, I don't know what will. Somehow those stories made me a relaxed, confident, even cocky (more on that later) Wildflower veteran. It's a tough race, but it's not only for the elites. It's a race that reaches everyone with a unique and special experience, one which they can build upon and pass on to future generations of competitors. Triathletes eat, sleep, poop, fart, and put their spandex shorts on one leg at a time. So if you're thinking about giving triathlon a try, just do it. And do it at Wildflower so you can have your own ghost stories to talk about around a Coleman lantern someday. I'd love to hear them.

With my ghosts fresh in my mind, I polished off my last gulp of Limon Pepino Gatorade, turned off the lantern, and slipped gently into my sleeping bag. Experience, even when it's riddled with discomfort and misfortune, does wonders for your confidence. I stared at the roof of my tent, slowly drifting to sleep amidst the silent buzz of the wilderness. The Ghost of Wildflower Present hovered outside, preparing for a new chapter rife with imperfection, mid-race maladies, and unanticipated glory.

To be continued....

As happy as Andy Williams looks singing this song, I can assure you that I am happier right now. Is there a more wonderful series of days in the life of a triathlete than Taper Week? "Tapering" refers to the time preceding an athletic event when one dials back the training volume and intensity in order to allow the body to fully recover so you're fresh and primed for an optimal performance on race day. From a pure, athletic achievement standpoint, tapering is essential. From a pure enjoyment standpoint, tapering is divine.

Whether you're a couch potato or a professional athlete, an average triathlete or a Beast Wife, there's always something more you can strive for, regardless of how much effort, how many hours, or how many sacrifices you make to achieve your fitness goals. You always could have ridden 61 miles instead of 60. You could have knocked out just one more hill repeat. You could have actually made it to the pool rather than taking your 3rd "recovery" day in a row. No matter your level as an athlete, you could always do more. But not during Taper Week. During Taper Week, you can always do less (right Kunu?).

It's the Bizarro World of health and fitness. Long run today? Terrible choice. The torn muscle fibers in your legs will betray you during that first hill. Hill repeats on the bike? Good luck flushing that lactic acid away before the starting gun goes off. Long, hard swim workout to shock your system into suddenly being good at swimming? Guess what, Michael Phelps? You just turned yourself into Old Yeller crossing the crick (and we all know how that ends). During Taper Week, you are not only justified in working out less. You are REQUIRED to work out less.

A life lived in moderation should have a healthy dose of taper weeks. Incidentally, my problem is NOT a lack of taper weeks. Rather it's that I take too many taper weeks. That means I'm very experienced. If you're tapering for Wildflower this week, I suggest you follow my lead:

Spend 1-2 days NOT exercising

A good, relaxing stretch is nice. But be careful to stop if your heart rate starts to creep above Zone 0.5. If it does, quickly return to the couch and do 4 sets of 5 deep breaths.
Eat heartily, (mostly) healthfully, and happily. Gotta feed that engine, after all. With all that Zone 2 racing on the agenda, you're going to need some (more) fat to burn. Plus, you've been training for 16 weeks now. You deserve this. Most importantly... choose NOT to run.

Relaxedly prepare for the race

Race day and associated travel is stressful. Take some time to pack early, make lists, take trips to the market, and develop your race plan. I like to make a list early and then procrastinate and stay up until ungodly hours the night before I leave trying to find everything on my list. That approach doesn't work for everyone, but procrastination sure makes the other days luxurious.

Visualize race day

Visualizing success is an important part of any athlete's preparation. From an early age I was taught to close my eyes and picture success, hoping my subconscious would help to propel me past my physical barriers and promote actual athletic achievement. As a triathlete, my favorite exercise is to visualize the finish line, because once I pass it I don't have to race anymore. Also, it's at that time that I can eat and have a beer. It's almost like there's a 2nd Taper Week waiting for you just beyond the volunteers valiantly removing your timing chip and dodging globs of sweat, phlegm, and bile! Since I finished Wildflower's long course last year, I have a key advantage for the visualization stage of Taper Week that I'm happy to share with you: an image of me, at the finish line.

While Taper Week feels great right now, there's even more to look forward to (at least if I can fend off that ridiculous temptation to workout more than I should this week). Enjoy this week, Wildflower comrades! You've earned it. You deserve it. And you're going to need it. Rest assured, though, that it definitely feels like Christmas to be this guy right here: