As I sit too long on this flight, I can feel my soreness starting to set in. My hair still has salt from the Dublin Bay in it. But it feels like I finished the Dun Laoghaire 70.3 a week ago. Maybe it’s because I’m flying at 500 mph away from the great, green island. Maybe it’s because yesterday was a blur, a culmination of thousands of microdecisions during 5 hours that are nearly indistinguishable now, but so vital in the moment.
FEELING AT HOME(STAY) IN IRELAND
Races don’t happen in a vacuum, and a key to my performance at the Dun Laoghaire 70.3 lies in the days leading up to the race. First, Bec secured us the most amazing homestay with Conal and Ailish. In addition to aeropressing freshly ground coffee every morning, our hosts explained the course to us, stocked the kitchen with bagels and local strawberries, and cooked all of the meals we ate at home! The morning after we arrived, Conal secured us appointments at his tri shop, Base 2 Race, so they could look at the bikes that Bec and I dismantled and reassembled for travel. It was my first time disassembling my bike to put it in a bike box and on a plane (I usually use Tribike Transport for domestic flights!), and I have just enough mechanical skills to make my bike look rideable, but not enough to be rideable. Having confidence in our bikes was an absolute must for what we were told was a very technical course. Conal secured free passes to the University of Dublin pool, where we got in a solid swim. A fun quirk of lap swim in European pools is that the lanes alternated the direction in which they circle swim, so lane 1 would be clockwise, lane 2 counter-clockwise (or “anti-clockwise!”), lane 3 clockwise, etc. With the limited swim etiquette I’ve experienced in the U.S., I cannot imagine what it’d be like if we threw another variable into the mix!
The day before the race, we drove the bike course, which had 4100 feet of elevation gain, technical, S-turn descents, and bumpy, slippery-when-wet roads. As intimidating as driving bike courses is (they always feel way too long in the car!), it later proved to be incredibly helpful; this was not a course I’d want to do blind, like I did in Boulder. In addition to getting accustomed to driving and riding on the left side of the road, most of the climbs were kinked enough that you couldn’t see the top or had false plateaus. It wasn’t until later that I grasped how helpful previewing the course would prove to be.
The night before the race, our hosts, Bec, and I had a pasta and chicken dinner. We discussed our pre-race fears. Mine included getting a flat and not being recovered just two weeks after Boulder, my quickest 70.3 turnaround ever. Bec was concerned about racing just 10 months after giving birth to her 3rd(!) child and feeling her scar. “Maybe that’s just your body reminding you how strong you are,” I told her. Bec is a supermom and super athlete, and while her fears were different, they were relatable.
WAKING UP BEFORE MIDNIGHT
It’s bizarre to think about how I woke up before midnight east coast time (4:50am in Ireland) to eat breakfast and enjoy yet another coffee pressed by Conal. Seriously, the man probably had blisters after aeropressing four coffees each of the four mornings! Bec and I loaded our gear into our Nissan Qashqai rental, drove to the course, and accessorized our bikes with nutrition, air, and timing devices. I did a short run warmup as they announced each pro’s name on the loudspeaker. I know it’s schmaltzy but hearing “Falcaro, from the United States” was more special than Prom Night (easy to say – my prom date who I invited from another school expressed jealousy when I danced with other girls!).
Bec and I jogged to the swim start, ready to dance with 8 other ladies. Imagine the jealousy my prom date would have! The water was a “ice cream headache-inducing” (Bec’s words!) 59 degrees, but it was the most luminous blue-green I’ve ever seen, the color of Smokey Robinson’s eyes with #nofilter. A moment of admiration for the color and frigid temperature of the water was interrupted by a flurry of effort when me and Amber, the third female American competing, helped zipper Bec’s unyielding, corset-like wetsuit.
At 7:02am, the horn for the women’s race blared into the Irish sea. Immediately, we were thrown into the spin cycle of a washing machine. We split into two groups early on. I swam parallel to three other women for a few minutes, no one wanting to take the lead. I decided that formation was stupid and dropped back behind the group to draft. Part of me thought “ugh, I’m technically DFL right now” and part of me knew that taking off and going alone would take immense energy. I looked at the three-foot swells and continued to draft, because taking the lead would get me served more chops than a customer at a buffet on lamb night.
Meanwhile, the first turn buoy didn’t seem to get any closer. Every time I lifted my head to sight, a wave smacked me in the face instead. Somehow, we made it to the first, second, and final turn buoys, onto the pontoon, and into T1.
After grabbing my bike gear, I click-clocked in my bike cleats, grabbed my bike from the rack, and set off for the 54 mile ride. I hit the first real climb of the lollipop-shaped course at mile 12, “Old Long Hill,” a 2.8 mile climb at 6%. I made a conscious effort to front-load on calories, knowing I’d burn more sugar for the climbs and be forced to coast the descents on the way back home. For fluids, I had nuun performance in one bottle for extra calories and water in the other, since we started with temperatures in the low- to mid-60s.
I dialed into half ironman effort and glanced at the first beautiful view as we entered the countryside. Even on an overcast day, the green fields, narrow bridges, and windy turns looked quaint and unassuming.
It was then that I got my first taste of racing in Ireland.
A white blob darted across the road as I was on a gradual descent. It started running alongside me on the right side of the road. A sheep! I saw it with enough notice that feathering my brakes was enough to avoid both the sheep and too much slowdown. I completed “Luggala Climb,” or what I call “Viking Mountain,” because they film “Vikings” there. It’s 1.3 miles at 8%, with stunning panoramic views of Guinness Lake at the top.
Except not then.
All I could see was a blur of green with a thick veil over it, like a Monet painting. Droplets began to form on my visor as I hit the second half of the climb – a kicker of another mile at 5%. In my 50/34 chainring, I was in the smallest gear, standing in order to not fall over. I rocked my bike back and forth as I pedaled at 60 RPM, the saddle a pendulum between my legs. My biceps began to burn, reminding me of my previous effort in the thrashing sea. It was then that I saw Bec – who won the swim prime by two minutes! – and she told me that I could get 5th. I took her words as motivation as I reached the highest point in the course and entered the windy descent, white-knuckled, not able to see more than 50 meters in front of me as rain pelted my visor. It became nearly impossible to decipher between where the road ended and the shoulder began. The road blurred into the burm which blurred into the surrounding fields. I hoped for someone to pass me so I’d at least have something to follow.
Then, an age group male passed me. He didn’t have the time to move back to the left side of the road before he was suddenly tumbling on the ground, his bike flying the same speed and trajectory in front of him. I saw a moto seconds later and yelled what I had just witnessed. I was very spooked and grateful just to be upright at that moment. I took the next S-turn descent very conservatively while a pro woman I had passed on the previous climb shot past me. You know what’s slower than braking on an S-turn descent? Crashing, I thought.
LONELY AT THE TOP
I reached Sally Gap, where we had a mile’s worth of flat road before the main descent. What was a relief in terrain was a curse for weather – this was the most exposed part of the course. Rain kept spitting as crosswinds whipped my bike left and right. I had barely enough control to wipe my visor clear of fog, an effort that was futile since my visor immediately fogged up again. I tried to stay left, should any daredevil pass me, and steer with my body rather than my bars. It was almost an optical illusion that I’d lean and turn left as a gust blew me right. I pondered if it made more sense to A. brake and slow down in case I fell or B. accelerate to maintain momentum. I wavered between each and kept my hands in the drops for more stability. This was no time to be aero.
Between standing to climb and aggressively handling my bike to navigate the cross-windy flats and technical descents, a good 10-15 miles transpired where I was too busy to eat or drink. I finally descended into town for the final 20K, and I was like Dorothy finding herself in Kansas again. The sun was out, the roads were dry, and I wondered if I had just woken up from a crazy dream. With just over a half hour left, I was like a college student returning home and eating everything in sight. I had two gels and a half bottle in 15 minutes. I ended up only drinking 1.5 bottles total, which is nuts, but with the last aid station five miles behind me, there was not much I could do at that point than to plan to frontload on water once I started the run!
IN THE LOOP (x3)
I ran through T2, again horse-like, clopping on the pavement. I saw two women 200 meters ahead of me on the pier – a 1.7 miles out-and-back segment of a 4.4 mile loop course – and passed them both in the first mile. My watch rang: 6:18 for mile 1, about 20 seconds faster than realistic race pace. I didn’t care, I just moved to 4th place! Just when I wanted to feel content with my pace, I saw Bec going the opposite way and she said that 3rd place, which turned out to be Amber, the other American, was in sight! At each of the three out-and-backs of a T-shaped loop, I clocked our differential. 50 seconds. 1:02. 55 seconds. 52. I was making up a few seconds, then losing it. After 6:25 and 6:38 second and third miles, I felt energy-deficient, lightheaded, and knew I needed to settle into something more sustainable soon, even though it was more fun to be chasing. With the plan to keep plugging away and prioritize saving energy, I tried to tuck in behind every man possible on the windy pier, but it never lasted more than a few seconds before I slingshot past them, committed to keeping my pace between 6:30 and 6:40 per mile.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a nod to how amazing the spectators were. I heard my name 10x more than I did in Boulder with the same density of crowds. “Well done, well done!” “Good running!” “Smashing it!” An elderly man in a tam o’ shanter with a Scottish accent. Friends of Conal and Ailish. “Go Nicole!” Another gentleman and his partner clapping each lap. “Well done, good craic!” I smiled and nodded each time, so grateful, the 35% Irish in me feeling at home!
During my second loop, I continued to hover between 6:30 and 6:40 pace. I enjoyed Swedish house music each time on the pier and American pop music at each U-Turn, or “dead turn” in Irish English. I took four gels total on the run course, trying to make up for the calories I didn’t grab and the salt tablets I normally bring. The temperature rose to 65 degrees with 80% humidity.
On the final loop, I didn’t even see Amber go by on two dead turns. I was in maintenance mode. Maintenance mode doesn’t have peripheral vision. I grew desperate for sugar and took some flat coke and Enervit gels. I still clicked off 6:30s but the hope to make up any time and catch Amber was fading. I had the sobering thought “I don’t know how to open a champagne bottle anyway,” which was quickly folllowed by the thought, “fuck, I ran outside myself for the first third of the race to try to catch her. That was my last match, and all I can do is keep the flames burning.” There was comfort in knowing I went for it the first loop, maintained a pace and strategy on the second and third, and that, damn, Amber was the better athlete that day.
I made my ninth and final dead turn onto the red carpet finish, where I saw Amber run through the finishing arch. I was grateful for the fight, for Amber’s glimmer of hope to nearly make an Ironman podium in my first year as a pro. I started the race with the lofty goal of top 5 – winning some prize money – and I almost made a podium with Emma Pallant and Tine Deckers!
My final time for the run was 1:27:55 for 13.2 miles (I clocked a 1:26:47 half marathon en route!) and a 5:04 overall. It was my slowest, hardest, and yet, best performance ever! Amber was the first one to hug me at the finish and said that I made her work! Emma and Tine were the next to congratulate me, looking pretty recovered after finishing 16 and 15 minutes ahead of the rest of the field. They graciously admitted how tough they thought the bike course was.
Bec, who finished 7th(!), and I shopped, ate, and moseyed around town until awards began at 6pm, 5 hours after we finished. We had a full women’s podium appearance!
We went back to our homestay and were greeted with applause from our hosts and their 20 guests at a potluck BBQ. Did I mention how great our hosts were?! After sampling several varieties of potato salads and sides, Bec and I made a pro cheese board with all contents procured at the local market. We left the BBQ and took a quick detour through Dublin before joining fellow pro triathletes in town, the Guinness watering down our realization that we had to pack our bikes and ship out the following morning. We swapped stories in a random little Irish pub, listening most keenly to the ones from the venerable Andy Potts. Eight American triathletes enjoying the proximity far greater than we have in our home country.
Dun Laoghaire was just an idea when Bec suggested it back in June, one year after we had done a ride on an unseasonably cold, wet day in New Paltz. You could say it was foreshadowing. You could say it was training. Or, you could say it was a race really, really well Dun.
