Maravilla Marbella

The race portion of this piece is also found in the Aaptiv Magazine. To jump right there (also, their UI is much better!) visit here!!

“Wow, this is so beautiful.”
“Eyes on the road!”
“I should take in this moment I flew 3500 miles for!”
“But I’m flying down this mountain at 40+ mph!”

These were my battling thoughts during miles 40-50 of the bike leg of my half ironman in Marbella, Spain on April 27.

But I didn’t just wake up one morning in Spain and race.

Actually, I kind of did.

My super soigneur/mechanic/travel companion/ok ok my amazing boyfriend, Colin, and I took a Tuesday night redeye to Madrid. We woke up from disrupted airplane sleep at 1pm Spain time and took a wretched double transfer metro to our hotel. 

We set right back out to get cortados and a snack before the only workout of the day, a short five mile run with pickups every mile. It was 53 degrees, it was pouring, and it wasn’t projected to stop anytime soon. Our hotel was a half mile from El Parque Retiro, the Central Park of Madrid. Colin joined me for his quarterly run on the dirt path and it was kind of pleasant to have the park to ourselves. Our running shoes took two full days to recover.

Before dinner (tapas at 8:30pm, the soonest Madrid will let you eat dinner), we took a quick lap around El Prado, one of the best art museums in the world. 

We took a high speed train 2.5 hours to Malaga, where we rented a car and drove 50K to Marbella. (Gitchu a man who can drive stick!)

I was amazed by the beauty of Puerto Banus in Marbella. Just like the sparkling Mediterranean Sea was juxtaposed below the jagged mountains, large yachts and high-end stores were flanked by inebriated tourists in port-side bars celebrating Bachelorette parties and vacationers enjoying wine with lunch. 

We assembled our bikes and went to the race area to pick up my bib. I discovered the translation for “pump” by asking in Spanish for “the thing that fills the tires with air.” (It’s “bomba!”) 

I was surprised how difficult it was to get help at the race – not the mechanic, the two other bike companies there, nor the ironman officials had a pump they were allowed to lend. At the recommendation of an Ironman official, I eventually found a pump to borrow by waiting near registration and asking a guy walking in if I could use his pump in exchange for watching his bike. Just your average pro panhandling for pumps at the expo entrance. Anyway, my bike pump donor was thrown off by my Spanish. Turns out, he was from the U.K.
Back at the AirBnB, I applied my stickers and checked my equipment. I had the day off from workouts, yet the afternoon and evening flew by. 

Friday started with a high quality breakfast (basically a rare delicacy in Spain).

My usual pre-race day routine consists of a short bike, run, and swim, the latter two which I did while Colin rode the entire bike course! He returned with a scouting report, which was incredibly helpful. The first 5K of the course was all highway, so the pre-race ride was very stop-and-go. I took note of the hard-packed, coarse sand that covered 80% of the run and wished I’d brought a fresher pair of Fresh Foam Zantes for more traction. My swim was startling at first – the water was 59°F – but once I got moving, it was refreshing.

Above: a video I posted on the Aaptiv Instagram story. Watch until the end if you want a good sense of how bright it was.

We grabbed dinner at the same Italian restaurant we dined at the night before. The weather was a steady 70°, even in the evening, so we ate outside, just a few feet from the edge of the port. We could see the Rock of Gibraltar from our table and the sun setting behind it. It was stunning.

Our waiter noticed us from the night before and brought a small carafe of limoncello and two frosty shot glasses.
Now, I usually abstain from alcohol the week preceding a race. However, it felt rude not to accept this kind gesture. I took a few sips, and Colin took one for the team and drank enough that we only had a little left in the carafe.

My super soigneur/mechanic/travel companion/amazing boyfriend/limoncello mule!

An hour after going to bed, we heard explosions outside. The New York City dweller in me tried to ignore it, but my heart rate was increasing. Turns out, the partytown of Marbella had midnight fireworks! After 20 minutes, they were done, and I went to sleep.

We woke up, I applied Zealios (it’s been a long winter in the northeast, and my skin shows it!), and jogged to the race. I lined up at the start with 13 other ladies and one minute later, we ran into the water.

I found myself alone a few minutes in, but I knew I was swimming well! I kept pushing and felt great, so it was perplexing that I didn’t have anyone to swim with. Turns out, I swam an ocean 1.2 mile PR of 29:15, for 1:23/100 yd.

Fast forward, past the fumbling with the visor that fell off my helmet in T1, to the bike.

“Wow, this is so beautiful.”
“Eyes on the road!”
“I should take in this moment I flew 3500 miles for!”
“But I’m flying down this mountain at 40+ mph!”
I could see the northern coast of Africa in my peripheral view after a 7 mile climb up the mountain. I had just climbed 2000 vertical feet to the top and was descending the other side. It was unlike anything I’d ever rode, let alone raced, before.

*woosh woosh woosh* as a fellow athlete whizzed past me, his whirring disc wheel still audible over the sound of the wind that whipped in variable directions with every twist and turn of the mountain road.

My arms were exhausted from the swim. They seemed to have the rigidity of wet noodles during my white-knuckled, 3 miles of riding downhill, where I tried to use them to steer my bike by leaning into the bends and kinks of the road. I had another two miles of downhill to go, and my shoulders ached from the extra tension from tucking into aero position like a turtle retreating into its shell.

I had a flash of my last bike crash and freaked myself out as the descent got steeper for the last quarter mile. I sat up and gripped onto the brakes. My legs, which had been idle for the last 10 minutes, began to tremble, an unexpected sensation caused by catching up from a flood of nerves. I had 3 miles left on the flat highway, or autopista. I finished my nuun and took my final gel (of 6!), which I hadn’t had the balance to do during the descent.

I coasted into the transition area and freed my feet from the pedals. I was relieved my legs could move on solid ground as I ran toward my rack position. I deposited my bike, switched my bike shoes for running shoes, and set off on the concrete walkway for the 13.1 mile run.

Bike: 2:55 (to compare, my best on a flatter course is 2:30!)

It didn’t take long to shake off the heavy feeling from the bike. The rest my legs got from the final descent prepped them to run a hard tempo for the half marathon that lay before me. Or at least for the first mile.

6:44

Perfect, I thought. I had practiced this pace once a week during my tempo runs in Central Park. That is, until a funky hamstring limited me to recovery pace for the previous 3 weeks. Thanks to just 2 sessions of physical therapy (all I could squeeze in, but I’m still going!) from Luke at MotivNY, I wasn’t thinking about my hamstring at all as I ran along the southern coast of Spain with thousands of people and spectators cheering me on.

“Venga, venga!”

I ran to the turnaround around the lighthouse, where I could see the rock of Gibraltar.

“Venga, campeona!”

I ran past the party area and onto the plastic tiles that covered the beach. My pace dropped from 6:45 to over 7:00 as my feet slipped on every pushoff from the sandy tiles. I took the opportunity to grab water and pour it on myself and in my mouth. I continued to miles 3 and 4, and I was passed by a guy who was going just a tad faster than I was. It’s rare to have someone pass you in a race who is juuust barely faster than you. Either they’re flying by you or you’re flying by them. I took advantage of the company and ran with him for a mile.

6:34

I didn’t let the number on my watch dictate how I should feel. I’d run entire half marathons at that pace, but it’d been four weeks since I’d even touched that pace.

I kept pushing on and took a salt tablet and a gel at mile 5. Then I felt like a tourniquet wrapped around my left hamstring. My nutrition was on point, so I knew I was pushing just a bit too hard. I took a few half running, half trotting steps, and forced myself to back off a bit.

6:50.

Even with the mid-race trot, I was still running a pace that was respectable. Since the run course was a pair of out-and-backs, I could count every woman in front of me. When the number got to nine, I stopped counting.

I was in 10th with six miles to go, and I was a good four minutes from 9th. While it would’ve taken a herculean effort to catch anyone, I didn’t back off the pace so as to make it a solid training day. “This will make me stronger for the next race,” I thought. You also never know if any women in front of you will slow down drastically and bump you up a few places!

I made the final left, running straight toward the shoreline followed by a quick right onto the infamous ironman red carpet. The finish line was 50 meters away, and I smiled, mostly because I didn’t have to slip and slide on the plastic tiles on the beach again. The announcer said, “De Los Estados Unidos, New York City, Nicole Falcaro!” I was thrilled to represent my country and my incredible city.
Run: 1:28, 6:50 pace

I followed the red carpet into the tent, where Spanish sandwiches of jamón y queso awaited the finishers. I grabbed one and waited in a rapidly growing line for a massage.

I exited the tent, hugged Colin, and looked at the horizon. I was grateful for a moment of stillness. I wasn’t rocketing down a hill at 40+ mph. I wasn’t pounding the ground with my heart beating 170 beats per minute. I wasn’t navigating kicking legs and undulating waves of a clear sea.

Instead, I was looking at it.

“Wow, this is so beautiful.”
Eyes on the sky.