> Race report: Whisky Dick Triathlon 2004
>
> Sometimes my car reminds me of a Microsoft product. That> '> s not just
because it> '> s a bit unreliable, but also because it is replete with features
for which I have no use. One such item is the external thermometer. I didn> '> t
really need that thermometer to figure out that it was hot when I arrived at the
Columbia River, though there was a certain sick pleasure in watching the readout
rise from the mid-90s to 101 degrees as I drove the winding road from the
plateau down to the river at Vantage. When you race in Eastern Washington you
can usually be sure that it is going to be hot, but this was ridiculous.
>
> Whisky Dick is a notoriously tough race. That> '> s why we do it. The one year
that they changed the course to be more humane nobody showed up; why do yet
another cookie-cutter triathlon? So it was back to the trusty and testing
formula: swim a mile in the Columbia River, ride your bike 26 miles out of the
gorge to Kittitas, climbing some 1900 feet in the first 12 miles, and then run
about 9 miles on the road into Ellensburg. And of course schedule this for late
July, when the temperature is highest and headwinds are fiercest. You can see
why this race used to be a Hawaii Qualifier in days of yore.
>
> I had done this race in 2002, so my trip down to the starting point in Vantage
on the day before the race was primarily a matter of getting reacquainted. I was
also attracted by the pre-race pasta dinner held on the deck at Blustery> '> s
in Vantage; for a princely $5 each we stuffed ourselves full of spaghetti and
salads while watching the spectacular sunset over the gorge. It was good to meet
some fellow competitors while the friendly management plied us with excellent
food and took pictures of its first ever outdoors dining party. The heat had no
obvious effect on the generous appetites displayed, though as behooves
triathletes everybody turned down the proffered ice-cream in favor of more iced
water.
>
> As a tough race, Whisky Dick attracts a tough clientele. All four of the
Bellingham representatives (Mark Loreen, Kelly Molaski, Lisa Wayerski, and yours
truly) had completed Ironman CdA just four weeks before, and there were many
other Ironman veterans there. I am pleased to report that despite this
competition every Bellinghamster came home with an award, Kelly outshining
everybody else as overall female winner.
>
> Race morning starts with the athletes and their gear being bussed from
Ellensburg down to Vantage. Two years ago this entailed squeezing yourself onto
a school bus with the bikes piled on top of the passengers, but this year there
was a separate bike truck. In some ways it wasn> '> t quite as much fun, since
there are few things that break the ice like finding somebody else> '> s bike
falling on your head. Still, we shared the customary small-talk of race
experiences and major wipe-outs. I especially enjoyed hearing that the swanky
Coeur d> '> Alene Resort had been upset by the recent Ironman race because so
many of its clients had barfed on the expensive carpets on their return from the
finish line.
>
> The bike racks were set out on the shadeless tarmac at the boat ramp in
Vantage. Though we got there at 7:30 it was already hot enough to begin sweating
heavily as we waited to be body-marked. I slapped on a few gallons of sunscreen
and decided to go with the extra waterbottle on the bike. There was no question
of putting on wetsuits until we were right on the water> '> s edge and just
minutes from the start. I relished jumping into the cool clear water, which was
surprisingly calm. When the wind blows here the surface can get very choppy and
many swimmers have needed rescue, but today the fish would go hungry.
>
> We started in the water, in line abreast facing upstream at the base of a
levee. The sparse group of spectators joined in the countdown from ten to zero,
a buckskin clad volunteer fired a musket into the air, and we splashed off
northwards like a particularly unschooled group of salmon. It took a few moments
for the > mob to get itself sorted out, and I fended off a few bodies and feet,
but it was infinitely more civilized than the Coeur d> '> Alene crunch had been.
The current seemed fairly mild and I found myself making steady progress up the
line of buoys. There was quite a lot of weed floating on the water and just
below the surface, and at one point I put my hand on what seemed to be a whole
ball of the stuff, but other than dangling off my goggles and nose this did not
impede me. You could see about one meter through the pale green water, so I
caught a few glimpses of other swimmers around me, but I was never crowded or
forced to break my rhythm.
>
> The upstream leg was supposedly 600m; at that point we turned right towards
the center of the river and across the current for 150m before turning
downstream again. The cross-current stretch was directly into the morning sun
and since I could not see the next buoy I simply followed the splashes and
yellow caps ahead in the hope that somebody up there knew what they were doing.
Sure enough I encountered another buoy, made the turn, and was soon watching the
cliffs and the rescue craft glide by as the current powered me back downstream.
A pair of feet materialized in front of me, and although I felt I could go
marginally faster I decided to just sit in and enjoy the draft. Every now and
then I tickled those toes, just to let the owner know how happy I was to be
there. His vicious kicks in response let me know that he did not share my
pleasure. When his navigation became a bit erratic I struck out on my own again,
cutting it fine around the last buoys and into the bay where the boat ramp took
us up into T1. It took me a while to interpret the RD> '> s shouted > '>
21-something> '> upon exit, but I eventually figured out that it was my swim
split.
>
> I didn> '> t feel I had had a particularly fast swim, but in retrospect those
bike racks were still pretty full when I took off up the road. I made an
inauspicious start by failing to connect with the pedals just as the local media
snapped my picture, but fortunately righted matters before the serious climbing
began with the first haul out of the launch area. Then it was onto the road,
into the aerobars, focus on that faded white line, and grind up the relentless
hill. I had probably been watching too much TdF, because I kept telling myself
to Think Lance. The general idea was to get into a nice low gear and
effortlessly fly up the hill by maintaining a high cadence. This was a splendid
idea, except that they don> '> t make gears low enough for me to do that. Nope,
I was going to have to revert to the survival grind.
>
> I did manage a fairly respectable clip for the first mile or two, spurred on
by the thought that as I got higher it ought to get cooler, and that it would
pay to get as much mileage out of the way before the wind really picked up.
There may even have been something to this fine theory, but not enough to save
me from the onslaught of the gods of weather and geography. They conspired to
make life a misery, vindictively arranging for violent blasts of hot air to blow
in my face just as I tackled the steeper sections of the climb. I tried not to
take it personally, though it was obvious they were out to get me. I mashed my
way up the hill, sometimes huddled on the bars in forlorn hope of dodging the
blast-furnace wind and otherwise standing on the pedals in a desperate attempt
to maintain forward motion. There was nothing elegant about my progress; this
called for sheer bloody-minded persistence. I probably sweated profusely, but
the wind and heat instantly dried my body. My parched skin and rasping throat
gave warning that I was on my way to becoming the world> '> s biggest chunk of
jerky, doomed like some kind of sagebrush Flying Dutchman to be forever grinding
the granny gears up the old Vantage Highway.>
>
> The steady creak emanating from my bike as I cranked the pedals and swayed the
frame began to annoy me. The fact that I was failing to catch any of the bikers
riding up the hill ahead of me began to annoy me. Then the fellow who had the
gall to actually pass me on the hill really annoyed me. Didn> '> t he know that
I> '> m supposed to be a good climber? I had been dissed; revenge was called
for. I got shaken out of my torpor, found some reserves of strength to bring to
the battle, and finally began to make some impact on the field. It didn> '> t
hurt that my resurgence coincided with a lessening of the gradient as we neared
the top of the climb, though the wind gusted ever harder as we left the confines
of the gorge.
>
> The aid station at the top provided a wondrously welcome chilled waterbottle.
I guzzled greedily as I began the winding descent towards Kittitas, enjoying the
wide view over the arid windswept plateau towards the distant Cascades dominated
by the looming white bulk of Mt. Rainier. And then I noticed something wrong:
why was I pedaling when this was supposed to be a descent? Having gone to all
that trouble to get up the hill, I should surely be rewarded by a nice downhill
cruise? Not on your life, sneered the hot headwind, as I once more settled into
the aerobars to bull my way westward. My one consolation was to pass Kelly,
though she immediately tucked in behind me and used me (legally, I hasten to
add) as the motor to pull her into Kittitas. I knew she was there, and a couple
of times I tested her by stomping on the pedals for a bit, but she hung tough;
she> '> s a fighter. The road straightened out as the sagebrush gave way to
irrigated farmlands. It was a relief to reach the corner two miles from
transition that finally turned us away from the wind. It was still blowing so
hard that I had to ride on my bullhorns instead of the aerobars for stability,
but my upright body served as a sail and we blew into transition at good speed
and with minimal effort at the end. They don> '> t give bike splits, but I think
I did 1:50 for the 26 miles. It was a very tough ride, and I was definitely
getting my money> '> s worth.
>
> There were probably no more than 10 bikes in T2 when we got there, which was a
pleasant surprise in view of my lackluster performance in the water and on the
bike. I did notice a disk wheel on one bike; it is hard to think of a course
less suited to riding a disk wheel but I can> '> t argue with the fact that its
owner got to T2 before I did. A volunteer passed me my shoes. Earlier that week
my knees had let me know that new shoes were called for, but I had not yet got
the laces properly adjusted, so I commenced an unseemly struggle to get my feet
into my new footwear. Kelly was well down the road before I got my act together,
poured some water over my head, and set off in fruitless pursuit.
>
> I had passed a couple of guys in my age-group while going up the hill, so I
was fairly confident that I had the lead; the challenge now was to hang onto
that lead to the finish. I> '> m not much of a runner, so I just had to hope
that I had enough of a cushion that my usual slow and steady slog to the line
would see me through. It was certainly far from being the best run of my life.
For the most part it was a matter of mindlessly putting one foot in front of the
other, covering ground from one aid station to the next with as little conscious
effort as possible. What a lifesaver those aid stations were, with their smiling
volunteers and cups of cold water. Only some of that water went down my throat,
the rest went over my head and back - the volunteers seemed happy to douse me
when given the opportunity. I would leave a station refreshed and feeling like
new, actually able to run at a respectable pace, but within half a mile I would
be dragging myself through the heat once more, motivated only by the fact that I
was getting closer to the next aid station. The roads are straight and flat,
baking in the heat and swept by the scorching wind, and the infamous blue
water-tower that marks the edge of town just didn> '> t seem to draw nearer.
>
> Miles 2 to 6 are the worst, alongside that wide main road with no shade or
shelter from the wind. I had to resort to all the mental tricks: enjoy the
moment, think positive, repeat those affirmations. The trouble was that I knew I
was trying to fool myself, and none of it was going to make those hot miles any
shorter. I developed a minor stitch at mile 4 and then spent some time doing the
Death March: pull cap over eyes so you can> '> t see how far you still have to
go, switch off the brain, and press on forwards. I wasn> '> t really suffering;
it was more a case of feeling enervated. Fortunately I was carrying some gels
that helped bring me back to life, and once I got to the edge of town at mile 6
my mental outlook improved too. I was actually able to break into a real run for
most of the remainder of the journey, passing a few people who had melted in the
heat and stemming the flow of sweat-encrusted competitors who had been passing
me. Things were looking up.
>
> Those last few miles through town were almost a pleasure. There was some
shade, there were a few sprinklers, there were corners to break the monotony and
people to cheer you up, and most importantly you knew the end was near. The
course is a bit cruel in sending you in a big extra loop through town, with a
little hill to kick your ass right at the end, but I had enough left in me to
sprint that minor obstacle. Down the other side, a few more shady blocks, the
last corner, and there was the finish line and the clock: I almost made the 3:35
mark. A far cry from the sub-3 hour time I still aim to do some day in this
race, but not bad on a trying day when the winning time was 3:01 plus change.
>
> There was a post-race picnic and awards ceremony in the city park, where we
lounged on the lawn in the shade of tall trees while a very acceptable R&B band
performed on stage. The usual suspects waltzed off with the loot, Kelly carrying
off a big bundle of cash as the overall female winner of this race and also
co-winner of the Cascades Edge award.
>
> This is a terrific event and amazing achievement for such a relatively small
and isolated community. It is a complex operation that is very well organized,
the plentiful volunteers and officials on duty are incredibly supportive, and
the atmosphere is very friendly. The tough course and conditions and the unique
point-to-point nature of the race combine to make it one of the best triathlons
in the Northwest. It deserves to be high on everybody> '> s list of challenges,
and should get much bigger entry fields than it does. After all, what other race
still presents athletes with long-sleeved t-shirts? Kudos to Ellensburg!
>