If you speak to anyone about Wildflower, there is an awe and reverence about it unmatched in the triathlon world. There is something different and special about that race that inspires people to consider it apart. Even someone like two-time Ironman World Champion (and 4-time Wildflower Long Course Champion) Chris McCormack sets the race on a pedestal. Some of my readers noted that I dedicated two posts to Boney Mountain. If any race deserves two posts, it's Wildflower. So bear with me, this may not end today....

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....