Deirdre Hassett - Tauranga Half Ironman

Race Report Port of Tauranga Half Ironman

Deirdre Hassett
Port of Tauranga/ Mount Manganui Half Ironman (New Zealand)
Jan 05th 2008
2km/ 90km/ 21km

Swim: 00:43:42
T1:      00:03:32
Bike: 03:14:19
T2:      00:03:41
Run    01:54:39
Total 05:59:53

I’ll admit it – I might be relatively clean living, but I’m fond of a good chemical high. I like to eat. A lot. I spent my childhood years wild eyed with sugar, and have been on a maintenance dose (topped up with caffeine) ever since. Red wine good, white wine better, champagne with a straw. I’m glad I never took up smoking; like the late, great Bill Hicks, I’d probably have had a tracheotomy so I could smoke two at once. So in the last few years, as I’ve cranked up the training from a tentative first Olympic distance triathlon to full seasons of racing, I’ve become addicted to the endorphin high of training and racing. Training becomes as much a way of life (and as much of a pick me up) as that first cup of coffee in the morning. Runner’s high? You betcha. So as time goes on, while I’m not quite yet metaphorically hiding the bottle of sherry in the toilet cistern, inevitably the schemes for bigger and better races are starting to creep in.

It all seemed like a good idea when I dreamed up the plan of travelling out to New Zealand at Christmas for a once-in-a-lifetime three week holiday, taking in a half Ironman on the way. I just needed someone who was equally persuadable on a hare-brained plan. It only took me minutes to persuade Helen, my partner in crime (who in 2007 alone had two half-Ironmen, one Ironman, three marathons and a 50 mile run under her belt but unfortunately for training is based in the States) to sign up for the trip. So far, so easy. The pain only really started when I faced into a bleak winter of training after a busy summer season racing and only a short break; as everyone settled down to hibernate, I faced into long cold training sessions. The nadir came around mid-November. With pressure mounting at work, a family member in hospital and a raging head cold, I snivelled my way around the Inis Meain 10km in a lousy time and with doubts about my sanity. After that, I took a dose of vitamins, and for some reason started to cheer up. The last few weeks training before I left for New Zealand were tough, particularly the dreaded Friday afternoon brick sessions, building up to four hours at race pace, but I settled into it and even, dare I say it, started to enjoy the sessions, battling with the elements and enjoying feeling strong running off a long cycle.

My taper up to the race wasn’t textbook - stupefying jet lag travelling to the other side of the world; kayaking, glacier hikes and a few cheeky glasses of sauvignon blanc, not to mention the two hour power yoga session in Queenstown (I didn’t regain the use of my arms for several days). The week before, we rested up, enjoying some easy runs and several beautiful lake swims. Arriving in Tauranga two days before the race, the temperature was soaring along with my nerves. We got a hearty reception from our new buddy Tim in Avanti Bikes, who I’d been communicating with by e-mail on a new bike purchase. One hour later, with a melting credit card and a brand new Specialized Ruby, I was ready to race. Although the gear ratio was different, the frame size was identical to my old bike so I crossed my fingers and hoped that the risk of cycling 90km on a brand new bike wouldn’t backfire.

The day before the race I was racked with nerves. While I felt mentally confident that I had prepared enough to at least finish comfortably, the sight of squads of skinny elite athletes powering up and down the Ocean Road on souped-up time trial bikes was not comforting. That night, as I tried to doze with the alarm clock set for 4am, my heart pounded, my dinner churned, and I dreamt wild dreams of running hundreds of miles and missing the race start by hours….

Miss the race start? Moi? Ms. Organised, I had been clutching the race briefing since the Northern Hemisphere and had checked out the race course but somehow failed to note the change to the swim start so that the women and men started at the same time instead of the originally planned wave start, with the women now having to swim out in front of the men to reach their start. Five minutes before race start I was still queuing for the Portaloo. With a lot of hollering from the MC I finally realised I had two minutes to get to my start position. As I started to swim across in front of the seething mass of the men’s wave I realised I wasn’t going to make the (relatively) safe haven of red hatted women on the other side of the pier before the race start. The horn went and 500 blue hats surged towards me. It was like a battle scene from “The Last of the Mohicans” and I was pretty keen to escape the approaching Indians. Only one thing for it – I started to swim. The swim was a giant game of “Where’s Waldo”, with a red Waldo amidst a few hundred blue men. I popped my head up after a few strokes, and spotted another gormless Waldo from the women’s wave splashing along; well, if I had company I was good to go.

Surprisingly I didn’t get too beaten up in the mêlée; I clearly hadn’t been crossing in front of the apex of the men’s wave, as I wasn’t submerged or thumped. I tucked myself into a nice draft and avoided confrontation (my main obsession in the swim being leaky goggles, I’ll do anything to avoid them being knocked off, including excessive politeness at the major scrum points such as buoy turns– where it involves my head. People out of range of my goggles are fair game for kicking, gouging and elbows).
The rest of the swim was pretty uneventful. The course was two laps, with confusingly, a shorter second lap which tucked inside the first, to facilitate the later starting relay wave, and a quick dash out around a buoy at the end of the first lap. The main field started to draw ahead of me as the swim went on but I was happy enough with my time. The upgrade from Olympic to half Ironman swim is trivial compared with the bike and run, but I had done some good pool work over the winter and I felt it had paid off, if not in speed, at least in efficiency.
After a bit of dawdling in transition getting myself together (I was there for a good time, not a fast time), I hopped on my brand new bike, hoping it wouldn’t take too high a toll on my legs.
The bike route was uninspiring, and rough road surfaces and high winds made the progress slow. I was dismayed as cyclists whizzed past me over the first few km. New Zealand is the home of great cyclists, and my cautious pace (as fast as I could go keeping my heart rate steady in lower to mid Zone 3) was not enough. I had deliberately decided to keep the bike training over the winter at the bare minimum to get me around the course and I was sorry now. As usual, I found a mantra going around my head during the bike ride, and as usual it picked me…after passing a nice older lady called Sherry, I spent three hours singing “Ooooooh Sherreeee bay-ay-be!” (in the appropriate falsetto). Damn. I eventually crawled in after 3 hours 15 on the bike, disappointed with my time but focussing on finishing out in style with a shot at breaking six hours.

As I started to run, I realised that my legs felt great. I was unwilling to start at too high a pace in case I collapsed into a lactic heap, but having played it conservatively on the bike; I trotted off at a steady pace, keeping my heart rate at around 80%. The run takes competitors on two loops of a flat 6km out-and-back route along the Pacific ocean, and then a spectacular undulating 4 km on a gravel track around the bottom of Mount Manganui, before rounding to the finish line and back out again. I had never run a half marathon in a race before, let alone in a half Ironman situation, so I decided to just worry about one 10.5km lap at a time. As I headed out along the ocean road, I started to really enjoy myself. I started picking off competitors, settling into my stride, chatting to people, high-fiving the other two Irish as I met them on the out-and-back, and generally making a party of it. I was a bit tentative as I got to the Mount, with the run of steps up to it, sneaky hills and rougher surface, but I bounded up the steps and away around with no problems. Starting lap two, apart from a bit of chafing and a slight blister, my legs still felt strong and glancing at the finishing clock as I rounded the half way cone, I reckoned I had a good chance at making it home in less than six hours. I picked up the pace slightly, and faced out onto the Ocean Road again. As I worked my way back towards the Mount, I felt great. I thought: This is amazing. I thought: this is how races should feel. I thought: I can do this. I thought: I’m high as a bloody kite. I could run another ten km. I hit the Mount. Glanced at my watch (which I’d reset by accident in transition) and thought: Should be on target. I bounced up the steps again, grinning at the steward. I pushed the pace up; my heart rate was nearly at 90% at this stage but I kept pushing on.

As I rounded onto the home straight, I squinted at the finishing clock in the distance. Just as I drew close enough to read the numbers, I heard the MC announce “….and everyone who had aimed for six hours is home safely now….” No! The clock read 5:59:30. I took off like a scalded cat, launching into the kind of sprint that wouldn’t put a 5km finisher to shame. As I pounded down the finishing straight, the spectators (who at this stage were limply encouraging the ‘back of packers’) started cheering me on to beat the clock. The last 100m slowed down in my head to a slow-motion Chariots of Fire moment, sprinting to beat the clock, with the crowd roaring encouragement, and my legs pumping, I thought: This is how the winners must feel. I crossed the two timing mats at the finishing line, and promptly burst into tears as the clock read 6:00:01 as I crossed under the arch. In my official race finishing photo, I am airborne as I cross the line, grasping to recoup those last seconds.
A few minutes later, after a quick massage, I checked the updated results printout (how organised is that?) and to my delight I discovered that my time was picked up on a mat just before the clock. 5:59:53.
I thought: Damn, that was fun. Then: I should have gone faster. Next time.