Tjalling Ypma - 9/21/04

You'd better like bananas if you do the iron-distance race in Almere, because that is the only food you get on the bike course. In a strange Dutch variation on Henry Ford ('you can have any color you want so long as it's black') you can take your pick of the bananas offered at armslength at the aid stations - I always went for the one offered by the prettiest girl - but it's bananas or nothing. And when I say banana, I mean the whole thing; either you rapidly acquire the fine art of peeling a banana while riding your bike, or you starve. Having chosen survival, you then have to decide what to do with the limp peel left dangling from your hand; dare one risk a littering offence ?

The challenges of doing an overseas race are many. They begin with the hassle of getting your bike there, involving much schlepping of outsize baggage through airport labyrinths, delicate negotiations to avoid paying excess luggage fees, and wondering where to find your trusty ride once you arrive since the bike box obviously doesn't fit on the luggage carousel. Then you face the problem of acquiring new CO2 cylinders, which are forbidden aboard flights. There is also the question of what nutrition is provided on the course, typically featuring local drinks and gels of mysterious composition. Even knowing the product brand names in Almere was not very helpful, since the relevant product websites are strong on hype but devoid of useful data. Having brought along plenty of my own gels provided me with welcome relief from the unexpected banana diet, but I never did find out what was in the drink we were served on the Almere course, in terms of calories or electrolytes. And how many calories are there in a banana anyway?

This was my fifth iron-distance race, the previous four all being Ironman North America productions. The Almere race was run under Dutch rules, which differ in at least two major respects from the USAT rules: the draft zone is 10 meters behind the rear wheel (you get 30 seconds to clear it), and you are not allowed to crawl during the marathon - no Julie Moss dramas here ! The time limit is 15 hours, and the entry fee is only E 125. The race drew about 350 competitors, of whom around 275 finished; it was disappointing to see how few women (at most 25) participated. Maybe the tighter time limit constrains the variation in levels of ability and hence the wider participation one sees at US events. One advantage of the small number of entrants is that things are generally low-key, with personal attention from friendly volunteers and officials for every athlete. On the other hand some of the organizational detail and information necessary for big international-level races was missing, and making incorrect assumptions left me to discover several important things (like the banana diet) the hard way. By virtue of a US home address I was treated as a foreign entry; your humble scribe (classified as Japanese by the US INS) is a citizen of the Netherlands, speaks the language fluently and has a name instantly identifiable as Fries, but has never had the pleasure of living in his native country.

Almere is a very new town, featuring some interesting modern architecture and planning concepts. It is situated on the southern shore of the pancake-flat Flevoland polder, which was the bottom of the Zuiderzee until drained midway through the last century. Much of the course is accordingly below sea level, there are no hills and few trees. Nor is there any shelter from the wind, whose omnipresence is attested to by the long line of wind turbines running the length of the dike. That wind put on an awesome display on the day prior to the race, churning the sea into froth and whipping the rain horizontally across the grassy transition area where we were racking our bikes. At the pre-race meeting, hosted by Dutch triathlon legend Rob Barel, there was no mention of canceling the swim if conditions were too rough; apparently we would swim regardless of the weather. We were however told that if we saw lightning while on the bike we should immediately lie down flat at least 10 meters from the bike and wait until the danger had passed. Failure to do so would result in getting fried or DQed; quite possibly both. Time penalties were to be served in the sin bin, prominently located in front of the bleachers and very much in the public and TV eye; the disgraced offenders would not be permitted to do anything whilst incarcerated except possibly, if they asked very nicely, go take a pee.

Race day brought the first sunny windstill morning of the whole week I had been in the Netherlands; I was relieved at the sight of the calm seas. I discovered at the last minute that I could transition at either the bike racks or in the change tent, resulting in hurried adjustments to my transition bags so I could do most of the changeovers using gear left beside my bike. Then I was into my ancient wetsuit, over the timing mats and out onto the wooden jetty jutting out into the harbor where our swim would start and end. This jetty juts out from the inner quay of the harbor, a wide promenade lined with shops and apartments in front of which the race bleachers look out over the start and finish area. The harbor is more of a recreational marina than a commercial harbor, and many of the pleasure craft were packed with spectators for the race. We stumbled down steep stairs to the chilly water and swam to the start line on the other side of the jetty, with the pro's getting only a five meter head-start on the age-groupers. Without further ceremony the starting gun was fired and the familiar thrashing commenced.

The swim starts by following the twisting entrance channel between the breakwaters out to the freshwater sea. Finding your way down this channel when your eyes are at water-level and you are in the midst of hundreds of flailing arms and legs is something of a challenge. I did the usual thing: head in the direction of the majority of the heads and splashes ahead and hope somebody up there knows what he is doing. I found myself scraping over the rocks of the breakwater at one point, hearing the warning shouts of onlookers on the shore above too late, but fortunately came to no harm. Soon I was at the outside buoy where we turned eastward to swim a mile directly into the rising sun, once again rendering me navigationally clueless apart from following the bobbing yellow swim caps ahead. The small field dispersed quite rapidly once we got out of the channel, so there was relatively little body contact and not much opportunity to draft. The water, while very clean, only offered about one meter of visibility underwater.

The Almere race is apparently treated as a training exercise by the Netherlands military. Rumor had it that there were 80 frogmen deployed in the water, and every rescue Zodiac in the country seemed to be lining the swim course. Every time I breathed I found myself staring into the faces of burly men clad in bright orange survival suits, eagerly looking for a sign of weakness so they could drag me out of the water to practice their resuscitation techniques. I was glad they were there, not least because they helped define the course. For most of the swim I had very little idea of where I was, mostly because the shore is so flat and featureless. The only useful landmark is a strangely isolated apartment tower located at the entrance to the harbor; I was pleased to see it come steadily closer on the return leg because I began to get very cold in the chilly water. I regretted not bringing my neoprene hood; in bad conditions things could have become very unpleasant. Blindly following the splashes ahead round the big yellow buoys I miraculously found myself back in the harbor channel, with hordes of rowdy spectators urging the athletes on to the end of the swim at the steep wooden steps leading back up to the jetty.

Standing up and then climbing those steep stairs was not easy; I felt very dizzy and was thankful for the volunteers who helped me up and kept me from tripping over my own feet. The time displayed on the race clock was disappointing (1:13) but probably reflected navigational befuddlement adding mileage to my swim. I stumbled to the warm showers rigged over the jetty, then tottered over to the tent to get out of my wetsuit and don an extra pair of bike shorts - no wetsuit peelers here! Feeling by then on slightly more even keel, I trotted over to the bike racks in bare feet to get the rest of my riding gear on. A quick dash to the mount line, a slow, unsteady trip over the cobbles and speed-bumps in front of the bleachers as I struggled to readjust to the bike, and we were off again.

The bike course consists of three 60km laps. The route primarily follows minor country roads and bike paths; there are several very sharp corners, some twisty sections with limited visibility and some abrupt surface changes that keep speeds lower than one might expect on a flat course. The only elevation changes occur when you go up or down the dike or cross a bridge over one of the canals draining the polder. The big challenge here is the wind, almost always a westerly off the North Sea that strengthens in the course of the day. Since the return part of each loop is primarily westwards you are almost certain to be fighting a headwind for the last part of each lap, with the worst being saved for the final stretch back to transition. There is much incentive to cover the first two laps fast, in hopes of getting through them before the wind really picks up. That strategy, I was to discover, results in tired legs fighting into the wind in the closing stages of the ride.

The first part of the ride is along a bike path on the seaward side of the dike, with the end of the return trip being on top of that same dike. There were lots of spectators sitting on the grassy bank, enjoying the sun, the passing parade of bikers, a race of traditional Dutch flat-bottom boats taking place just off-shore, and the music and race announcements booming from a succession of speakers strung down the length of the dike. Most of the spectators were armed with an information sheet identifying each racer by name and number, so we got personalized vocal support. I had the unusual experience of hearing my name pronounced correctly numerous times; US race announcers usually lapse into uncomfortable silence when facing that particular challenge. Once off the dike we wound our way through the polder, the surroundings alternating between farmlands and natural areas but always intensely green, sprawling under a vast blue sky, with the flat horizon broken only by the odd church spire, wind turbine, or dark green line of trees. It was a peaceful pastoral scene, dotted with a few cows and drainage ditches and pungent with the smell of manure and hay, making me feel deeply nostalgic for my homeland.

The field was sparse enough that drafting was scarcely an issue; the motorbike referees had little to do. For a while I feared that I might become a mechanical casualty, since my bike produced some ominous creaks and my left foot seemed to have difficulty retaining contact with the pedal. Fortunately nothing untoward happened; perhaps I had just set my saddle height incorrectly, or fatigue caused my foot to twist in the Speedplays. In fact I did not see any mechanical problems at all, not even a flat tire, all day; the course had been meticulously swept. All the sharp corners and intersections were carefully guarded, often by military personnel, and there was plenty of advance warning of obstacles and aid stations. The latter were much simpler than on the IMNA courses, often with just one person holding out a waterbottle and another wielding the inevitable banana.

Just before returning to the dike I encountered another unique aspect of the Almere race: there is a designated 'coach area' at which you can stop to get any assistance you want from anybody you have arranged to meet there. This spot just marked the onset of the last few kilometers for me, heralding a short climb onto the dike, a return to the wide open sea views, and the fast ride through the noisy supportive crowds and frenzy of the race announcer to that strange apartment tower at the harbor and the start of the next lap.

The wind really picked up as the day progressed, making some of the very long straight sections of the course tiring on the last lap. I hunkered down on the aerobars and ground my way along, but my speed and strength declined and I found myself being passed by quite a few riders I had gone by earlier in the race. I still felt good but it was obvious that fatigue was beginning to accumulate, and the countryside lost much of its attraction as I just focused on making progress towards the finish. I was glad to get back onto the dike for the last time, thunder down the road through the crowds of pedestrians and booming sound system, bump my way back over the cobbles, and dismount at transition. I was again somewhat disappointed at my split; 5:51, but that was all my body could do.

My run bag was waiting for me beside my bike, so it took only a quick shoe swap to get me back on the road. There was a little out-and-back in front of the bleachers and then we set off for the first of the three 14km loops we were to run. I do very few training runs of more than 15 miles, since my 50-year-old knees (beat up by many years of back-packing) can't handle it, so the run is always the toughest part of the race for me. The plan was to shuffle along for as many miles as possible, while accepting that a walk was more than likely to feature in the program at some point. So I set off at an embarrassing 6 minutes per kilometer, giving me plenty of time to enjoy banter with the crowds basking in the sun and enjoying the passing scene from their vantage point on the dike. Much of the fun of this part of the journey was due to the commentary of these spectators, entertainingly blunt in their assessment of the passing athletes, particularly when they deemed the performance of their own family participant inadequate in some respect. Many of the good-natured and very colloquial comments were not only untranslatable but unprintable in a family publication; I had many occasions to break into laughter. Even somebody who does not understand the language could not fail to enjoy the supportive atmosphere.

The run goes down the dike for about 3km, then does a 6km loop through a wooded area before returning to the dike for the last 5km back to the harbor and the turn-around in front of the bleachers for the next lap. This naturally breaks the course into short sections, thus making things mentally easier - particularly useful since the aid stations are not as frequent as in IMNA races. A nice Dutch variation on the standard aid station fare was chunks of currant-buns (krentenbollen) which went down quite easily and helped fill the digestive void though perhaps not providing instant energy. I trotted along comfortably enough, being passed by many other participants as well as the winning pro's on their final laps. Looking at the race splits later was interesting; I had expected the Dutch to be particularly good swimmers and bikers, but in fact the run splits were more impressive than the swim and bike times. I was quite happy to complete my first lap in a very modest 1:30, beginning to tire but otherwise still feeling in good shape as I repeated the little out-and-back in front of the noisy bleachers where the winner had just finished his race.

Back down the sunny dike I went, with many of the spectators now recognizing me at my third passage past them, and off into the woods once more. As I approached the halfway mark of the run my legs really began to tire, and in a moment of mental weakness I made the fatal mistake of walking. Once in walking mode it is very hard to resume running, and so it was for me; most of the rest of the journey was in power-walking mode. I have no real regrets about this, though; walking made it a lot easier to appreciate the experience of being part of this event in my home country, enjoying the sunny day and the wide views over sea and farmland that come with walking on the top of a dike. You could see the finish area from any point on the dike, and the whole length of the dike was dotted with family groups having picnics and making encouraging remarks to the passing runners. It was really quite pleasant, and I happily ambled by the bleachers once more on my way to the final lap, telling my waiting family to get themselves dinner while I soldiered on.

Things definitely became a bit more painful on that last lap. Familiarity with the course helped, as the landmarks marking my progress slipped steadily by. Back onto the dike I finally had the finish in sight, promising welcome relief to those aching muscles and joints. I made my last passage by the hardy spectators who had stuck it out on the dike all day, exchanging salutes as I went, and passed under the arch marking the transition area, enjoying the backslaps of the bystanders. I made the final turn towards the bleachers and the finish line. Then total confusion, because suddenly I found myself on one side of the barriers, with the finish arch on the other side of the fence, and it looked like I was going to be sent off to walk yet another lap! My brain must have been fried by then, because I couldn't figure it out, but the one thing I knew for sure was that there was no way I was going to walk any further. I figured that somebody had misdirected me, and so I did the obvious thing: climb over the barrier. Officials scurried to correct me; it turned out that I was supposed to run past the end of the bleachers, then turn and run through the finish from the other end ! To the great amusement of the watching crowd I was ignominiously ordered back over the fence and sheepishly escorted down the proper channels.

My irritation at the lack of direction quickly dissipated when I saw my three boys waiting for me at the turn-around. As I passed them and turned towards the finish they ran out to join me. Holding hands we sped down those last few meters, up the ramp to the arch, and over the line together. The memories of that very unique day and crossing the finish line of the premier race in my native land together with my sons will always be priceless.

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