Amy Reinink

I foreshadowed this unbelievable finish-line photo in my Great Chesapeake Bay Swim race report yesterday. Still, I’m pretty sure you weren’t expecting *this.* My only consolation: Unlike the poor dude behind me, I was, in fact, able to stand up.

Caption contest, anyone?

(Editor’s note: I know this is long, but I wanted to offer as comprehensive a report as possible for people prepping for the race next year, since others’ post-race reports were such a help to me this year. If you don’t plan to do the swim yourself, feel free to skim.)

Crossing the finish line of any race is a jubilant experience. No matter how hard the race itself was, the idea that it’s done, and the visual representation of what you just accomplished, is usually enough to inspire one last rally to finish strong. That’s especially true of open-water swims, with their added drama of rising from the water and running onto land again. That makes for one awesome finish-line photo (throw in a wetsuit and you look and feel like a superhero).

Me finishing the 1-Mile Chesapeake Bay Bridge Challenge in 2009. I did *not* look like this on Sunday.

The finish line of the 4.4-mile Great Chesapeake Bay Swim—and the swim itself—was different from any other event I’ve participated in. In the final yards of the race, I kept waiting for the surge of adrenalin that would power my exhausted body across the finish line. It never came. Instead, I stumbled onto shore, with my only goal being not falling flat on my face. “Take your time,” a volunteer said cheerfully as I tried to steady my wobbly legs. My timing chip was removed. My wetsuit was unzipped. My bib, tucked beneath my cap, was taken. When I finally looked around, I noticed that I was in good company, with several other wetsuit-clad zombies shuffling away from the shoreline—this is not a race that leaves you with the energy to run.

My preparation started the day before, when I spent the morning kneading and baking homemade pita bread and pizza dough, and the afternoon and evening hosting a movie-marathon/pizza party (a ploy to get a bunch of friends to come over and help keep me sane).

Taper crazies=homemade pita bread=delicious lunch.

The next morning, Steve and I arrived at Sandy Point State Park at about 9:30 a.m., leaving me plenty of time to apply Bullfrog sunblock, BodyGlide and PAM cooking spray to prevent sunburn and chafing.

Two dear friends from my running group came to the race to support me, for which I’ll be eternally grateful. In return, I entertained them with the PAM application and strange dance that comes with putting on a wetsuit.

At the pre-race meeting, race director Chuck Nabit told us the rules: No straying beyond the two spans of the bridge. No removing your cap. Feel free to grab the side of one of the “snack boats,” or boats equipped with water and munchies like Nilla Wafers. If you feel like you want to quit, just ring the bell three times. Oh, wait—wrong movie. If you want to quit, let a support boat know, and the boat will take you to the DNF pier. No joke—there’s a DNF pier. During this meeting, Nabit described the ebb tide we’d feel at the beginning of the race as “gentle.”

After the first wave—slower swimmers and rookies donning yellow caps, to include me—was called to the starting corral, we waited what seemed like forever on the hot sand in our hot wetsuits, stewing in the hot air and complaining about being—well, hot. Seeing the guy who was born without arms and legs start the race moments before we did made us quit our complaining. And then it began.

The “Cuisinart start” (known as such because it feels like you’re getting chopped up by a mass of churning arms and legs) wasn’t too intense. But as I noted on Monday, it lasted the entire first mile, as the lead pack in my (slower) wave stayed in a tight clump until we crossed beneath the northern span of the bridge. I’m still amazed at how talented and well-trained this group of swimmers were, and totally understand why U.S.A. Swimming named the Great Chesapeake Bay Swim among the world’s most competitive open-water swims. A few impressions from throughout the course:

Mile marker 1: I feel fantastic, and am relishing the familiar rhythm of the open-water swim, taking long, smooth strokes through the brackish water. I’m exactly the right temperature in my wetsuit. Nothing is chafing. Nothing is sore. I flip on my back and glance at my watch when I spot the first mile marker: 23 minutes. I am going to SMOKE this thing. Screw finishing below two and a half hours—I can crank this baby out in an hour and a half! Happily, I don’t feel a bit of the gentle ebb tide Nabit mentioned.

Shortly after mile marker 1: Here’s the thing about that tide: You don’t feel a pull so much as you suddenly find yourself just a few meters away from the concrete base of the southern span. Which is a really, really unpleasant realization.

Photo courtesy of RobAquatics.com.

About 1.5 miles: I veer to the left to get back on track, and keep my body angled slightly to my left to counteract the southward pull of the tide—no luck. I’d have to swim at a 45-degree angle to swim straight—that can’t be right. I crane my neck to spot a landmark to “sight,” and notice two other women swimming with short, choppy strokes, like they’ve been caught in a rip tide. Crap. I adjust a little farther to the left, and console myself by noting that this is hard for everyone, not just me. I ponder adjusting even farther to the left, but convince myself that I’m imagining how extreme the tide is. I don’t readjust until the first of the faster, second-wave swimmers, who are wearing red caps, pass me, and I notice that their bodies are perpendicular to the spans of the bridge, swimming at a 45-degree angle to travel straight. I follow suit, keeping my eye on short-term markers to prove that I am, in fact, moving forward, and not just swimming in place. I instantly regret wasting so much time not trusting my instinct.

Mile marker 2: The coveted snack boat is directly in front of me. I didn’t train with any mid-swim nutrition, so I don’t take any of the food, just a Dixie cup of water. My main reason for stopping is not to eat, but to confirm that I’m not making up the insanity of this tide. I sputter some probably-unintelligible words to the other swimmers clinging to the boat for dear life. They concur. I keep swimming, maniacally singing “Three Little Birds” to myself to calm my panicked mind.

Shortly after mile marker 2: The tide calms as quickly as it started. I wonder again if I’ve made up its intensity. I feel euphoric as I settle in to the smooth, even strokes I’ve been practicing during long swims for the past several months. I pass at least three or four other swimmers, and congratulate myself on plowing through the chop—swells that looked to be about two or three feet. I repeat the mantra that got me through those long swims—stronger every stroke.

Photo courtesy of RobAquatics.com.

Somewhere between mile 2 and 3: Things are getting kinda weird out here. Awe fills my heart when I realize I’m in one of the main shipping channels for the Bay. I am in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay! Amazing! All my other open-water swims (loop courses, or courses along the shore) suddenly feel silly and pointless, the way running on a treadmill feels in comparison to trail-running. At the same time, my arms are completely wiped from that horrid second mile. There’s something weird going on between the end of my cap and the beginning of my wetsuit on the back of my neck. My back and neck ache from all the sighting during that second mile, and I wonder if it’s possible to break your back swimming. I recoil when my hand touches something squishy—a jellyfish? No. A dead fish. Ew. Ew. Ew. My body shudders involuntarily as I think about all the different reasons fish die in the Bay.

Still somewhere in the abyss between mile 2 and 3: I see the turkey buzzards Al Gruber, an experienced Bay swimmer who issues an annual pre-race report, said to look for in the lattice work near the second shipping channel. The second shipping channel! I’m in the second shipping channel!

Around the second span: I passed mile 3, right? Right? I’m not panicked anymore, just kind of curious, like the race is happening to someone else. “Stronger every stroke” doesn’t work when you feel like your back is broken, and my mantras take a turn for the random and nonsensical. I recently worked on a story about disordered eating among women runners for which I interviewed two experts in women’s sports medicine and dietetics, Dr. Carol Otis and Dr. Suzanne Girard Eberle, respectively. I found myself repeating mantras they use to encourage healthy eating habits for women athletes: Otis’ “too fit to quit” sounds great to the tune of “2 Legit 2 Quit.” (I’m too fit! I’m too fit to quit! He-ey-hey!) Eberle’s “strong body, strong mind” carried me most of the rest of the race, though I can find no reference to her saying that exact phrase now. I highly recommend it as a mantra, though, wherever it came from.

Mile 3: Everyone warned me not to get too excited about passing the second shipping channel, as there’s still more than a mile before the final stretch to the finish line. And that final stretch is still 700 yards, which is not nothing. Still, it’s hard not to get excited, and I try to pick up the pace a few times. I cue the mental Nicki Minaj soundtrack, and sing: “You play the back, (expletive)—I’m in the front” to myself as I try to pass a red-capped swimmer. He pulls away from me easily. OK, fine—I’ll take the back.

In the middle of mile 3: I wish desperately I’d forced myself to eat the banana I brought for pre-race fuel. At the same time, I feel a little nauseous, and taste the oatmeal and blueberries that have served me well throughout training. Something really bad is happening on the back of my neck.

Getting close to mile 4: I feel little pangs of pain throughout my body. As I shake out my legs to work out the cramps shooting through my calves, I feel a stinging sensation in my bad knee, and I convince myself I have screwed up my still-new ACL graft. My manta becomes the voice of my doctor sighing, rolling his eyes at me and and saying: “Yes, I *promise* you won’t hurt yourself kicking freestyle.”

The last 700 yards: The shore is ahead of me. I have traveled from one side of the Bay to the other. I am going to do this. I am going to get to that finish line. Could I have swam smarter and gone faster at mile 2? Yes. No. Doesn’t matter. Dig deep here. If there’s anything left, use it up here. I grunt audibly as I sprint for 10 or 20 strokes in a row, after which I audibly whimper in exhaustion, then repeat. The race isn’t finished, but I keep saying to myself: This was harder than I thought it would be. This would normally be what my friend Sarah calls the “guts and glory” portion of the race, during which I try to pass everyone in sight. I couldn’t care less about passing anyone, but am terrified of finishing with something left in the tank, of having come here and attempted this incredible race without giving it everything I had.

Last 50 yards: I am swimming alongside a woman who looks to be my age, and I decide I do care about passing. I pour my everything into the last 50 yards and stumble to the finish line ahead of her.

Post-race snack table: I can’t pull myself away from the orange wedges. To the amusement of the snack-table volunteers, I’ve repeatedly apologized for the number of orange wedges I’ve eaten (20? 30?), and yet I still can’t stop. I need to sit down. Would it be weird to sit on the table next to the oranges? I see my friends, and tell them to hold on, then stuff a few more orange wedges in my mouth. The sight and/or thought of all other food makes me want to vomit. I feel the back of my neck, and realize my cap and wetsuit have been playing tug-of-war with a tiny section of hair, leaving me with the most painful and most random chafing I’ve ever experienced.

I tear myself away from the oranges. I hug my friends. I kiss my Steve. I sit down on the grass. I realize sitting on the grass will not get me closer to food, or home, and I say something angry about needing food (that nausea passed reeeally quickly). My friends go ahead to Hemingway’s and order chicken flatbread so food is waiting for me. I order the best crab soup I have ever tasted, and crab nachos. I’m aware that I’m not talking quite right.

Once I’ve stuffed my face and start acting like a human again, my friends present me with the traveling trophy pictured below, named the Golden Pig of Awesomeness. A swimmer at a nearby table asks why he didn’t get one at the finish line. I tell him he’ll have to get friends like mine to snag one.

One friend asks if I’d do it again. The short answer: Yes.

STATS:

My time: 2:22:05, good for 13th out of 26 in my age group, 74th among the 180 women, 237 out of 542 overall.

620 swimmers entered the water at Sandy Point State Park.
78  swimmers did not finish
Of the 78 swimmers who did not finish:
16 were pulled prior to event interruption
62 were pulled thanks to the U.S. Coast Guard’s decision to halt the event based on the threat of an impending storm.

I did it!

I finished the 4.4-mile Great Chesapeake Bay Swim in 2:22:05, good for 13th out of 26 in my age group, 74th among the 180 women, 237 out of 542 overall. I’ve done the 1-mile version twice, and placed in my age group each time. But in so many ways, for so many reasons, this was NOTHING like the 1-miler.

Watch for the full race report later this week. For now, a few observations, and some photos:

• This was the hardest athletic event I’ve ever participated in. That includes several other open-water swims of distances up to 5K, and my two marathons, including one in which I suffered severe digestive difficulties. That means mentally and physically, since you had to adjust to changing conditions and expectations every few strokes, alternating between the euphoria of swimming long, smooth strokes beneath a monolithic feat of engineering and the frustration of spending an entire mile swimming at a 45-degree angle to go in a straight line against what was described by the race director as a “gentle” ebb tide. I never, ever want to experience a tide that is NOT gentle.
• The people who sign up for this race are talented, well-trained swimmers. At the risk of sounding cocky, I’m used to being able to get out ahead of the “Cuisinart start” pretty quickly. Not the case yesterday. The lead pack of my wave (the slower of the two) stayed together for the entire first mile (which was a 23-minute breeze, by the way). So cool, and so humbling.
• I’ve never done an open-water swim with such a sense of adventure. For most of the race, I’d lift up my head to sight, and realize my next marker was a shipping channel of the Chesapeake Bay, for goodness sake!
• I’ve never felt LESS isolation during an open-water swim. Usually, there are long stretches when I’m all alone in the water. I was never farther than a few strokes away from another swimmer on Sunday. After that terrible second mile (did I mention how strong the tide was? And that I had to swim at a 45-degree angle to avoid getting sucked off the course? And that it took me 45 minutes? I did? Oh, OK), I stopped at a “snack boat” to get a Dixie cup of water and to commiserate with fellow swimmers—i.e., “That tide! 45 degrees! AmIright?AmIright?”

Now, a few photos:

Steve assists with my wetsuit.

Donna and I are smiling because we still believe that bit about the "gentle" tide.

This wetsuit felt fabulous on dry land in 80-plus-degree weather. (Or not).

Post-swim meal of crab bisque at Hemingway's. Post-race-meal photos are usually jokey and smiley. I look like I might weep in this one.

It’s all over but the shouting. Erm, planning. And, technically, swimming. Whatever: The 4.4-mile Chesapeake Bay Bridge Swim is finally here!

I first seriously thought about signing up for the race back in October (see The Contemplation Phase), but I wasn’t sure I really wanted to do it until I realized I stood the chance of not getting chosen in the lottery in November (see Gunning for a BQ). So I pinned a printout of my favorite A. Aubrey Bodine photo of the bridge to my motivation board, and started training.

This gorgeous A. Aubrey Bodine photo has hung on my motivation board all winter.

Over the past several months, I’ve resisted training, thanks to my long-standing roller-coaster relationship with swimming (see How Swimming and I are like Ross and Rachel). But I’ve also embraced long swims of up to 7,000 meters, and have kind of fallen in love with swimming again, having realized that meditation and inner stillness are somehow easier for me while immersed in chlorinated water.

I’ve taken your great advice and planned what seems like the perfect race-day-eve on Saturday: Bake and/or knead a bunch of stuff in the morning, to include pizza dough; host a movie marathon that afternoon and evening, during which the pizza dough will be baked and eaten. Go to bed early-ish to prep for Sunday …

Sunday schedule

7:30 a.m.: Oatmeal at home

8:30 a.m.: Leave home!

9:30 a.m.: Get to Sandy Point State Park for the start. Eat banana and some almonds for “second breakfast.”

10 a.m.: Packet pickup ends

10:30 a.m.: Pre-race meeting starts.

11 a.m.: My wave starts

I’ll be posting updates to my Twitter page before and after the race. Until then … wish me luck!

The ultimate open-water swim mantra:

Also, a call for advice: What’s a girl to DO the day before she swims across the Bay? I know I’m supposed to avoid frolicking in the sun, tiring myself out and eating a bunch of weird stuff. But without college football on television (my go-to race-day-eve activity before autumn distance runs), I’m not sure what I *should* do. Is a barbecue OK if I avoid unfamiliar foods and find a shady spot? Or should I hit up a triple-feature at the movies? Thoughts?

The 4.4-mile Chesapeake Bay Bridge Swim is timed to take place during slack tide, the period of stillness between high and low tide in the Bay. In the same way, my taper is timed to take place between a period of heightened activity to train for the feat of crossing the Bay and the feat itself. My muscles are repairing. My brain is preparing. My heart is swelling to encompass the new idea that yes, I will be able to do this. 

I’ve been distance-running and open-water swimming for more than four years, and I’ve been running and swimming competitively for more of my life than I haven’t been. This means I’ve tapered for lots of stuff, with varying degrees of success. I know from my high-school swimming days that truly tapering—training less, sleeping more, mentally preparing—is pretty much essential to good performance. I know from my more recent marathons and half-marathons that a girl can go a little nuts when she can’t use swimming and running and lifting as coping mechanisms. So I’m just accepting the fact that I’ll alternate between peaceful rest (see above comparison to the tide itself) and complete insanity (see my pre-Marine Corps Marathon taper tantrum).

Some stuff I know about the swim: It will be hot, with water temperatures in the mid-70s and air temperatures in the 90s. It will be sunny, with an 11 a.m. start time (stay tuned for some awesome wetsuit-tan-line photos next week). And it will be fine.

A couple weeks ago, after a quick, mid-week swim in a Bay tributary with a few Bay-swim veterans, the two of them responded to my call for advice this way: Remember that you love to swim. And keep reminding yourself of how cool it is that you get to do this. So I’m not going to look at any more forecasted water temps. I’m just going to show up on Sunday, knowing I’m prepared for whatever the Bay throws at me. And in the meantime, I’m going to try to avoid any taper tantrums (really, I’m too old for those, anyway).

*EDITOR’S NOTE: If you read this earlier, you may have noticed a bunch of other notes about the swim crammed in the bottom of this post. My apologies. This blog is a great barometer for the state of my to-do list: When I’m overwhelmed, it’s often the first thing to go. Thanks for putting up with the sloppiness!

They were the best of race photos…

They were the worst of race photos ….

They are available to zoom in on, or to purchase for the price of your first-born child, by clicking here. Check them out, if you’ve got some time to procrastinate—there’s another really stunning finish-line photo in the upper-right corner (by “stunning,” I mean “grotesquely hilarious, and kind of fascinating, in that you weren’t previously aware the human face could contort that way”).

My favorite race photo is one taken by our dear friend Mike, who came to the race to support us. It was after we’d changed into dry clothes, as we were hanging out in the warm Boulder sunshine waiting for the elites to start. It shows that while neither of us were super-happy with our times, we’re insanely proud that we toed the (start) line together, and raised so much money for such a good cause (well over $3,000 for the American Cancer Society in Steve’s mom’s honor).

“I was pleased with (my race). The first mile felt really comfortable, and I knew it would. But the altitude … it’s just one of those things that it gets progressively harder. Those last 2 miles felt so long. I was like, ‘Just picture yourself at the Boston Marathon finish.’ But I was hurting worse than that.” — Ryan Hall, as quoted in Tuesday morning’s Denver Post

5:30 a.m. Monday: Wake up in the downtown Boulder apartment of my friend Sarah, who was kind enough to let us stay overnight so we could avoid traffic coming into Boulder from Denver. Heat up the oatmeal she lovingly prepared for us the night before, since her wave doesn’t leave until after 9 a.m. (more than 54,000 people ran the race). Chug coffee, and remind self that it ‘s 7:30 a.m. EST, so there’s really no reason to be tired.

6:15 a.m.: Greet our friend’s neighbor, an Irish Ironman triathlete who is full of the kind of energy I’d be lucky to have at noon, on our way out the door. He and his wife are running the race, too, and we all chat briefly about our expectations. “You know the (expletive) rule, right?” he says in a thick Irish brogue. “Go big or go home!” Steve and I hop in the car to drive the two miles to the start; he and his wife leave to run there. *So* Boulder.

7:15 a.m.: My wave inches toward the start line. Between the race’s CU-centric starters, athletic director Mike Bohn and mascot Chip, and the bongo drummers in the background, the scene oozes Boulder’s particular brand of college-town crunchy-granola.

7:17 a.m.: Am passed by seemingly my entire wave, including a speed-walker, as I realize the altitude is going to be a fiercer foe than I’d expected. Settle into an easy 9:30-minute-mile pace as I pass the first of several live bands, two dudes dressed like the Blues Brothers.

7:30 a.m.: Walk through my second water station before I even pass mile 3. I have never needed a water station so badly in my life. I have never felt so physically exhausted in my life. My right knee hurts. My left hip flexor hurts, probably because I’m running funny on my bad knee. My shoulders hurt, and are still tired and sore from my 7K swim late last week. There are supposed to be 31 bands on the course. At 7:30 a.m., there are maybe 10. Unfurl my iPod headphones and press “play” to cue Florence and the Machine’s “Dog Days are Over.” Breathe, and start to run again.

7:40 a.m.: I am made of cement. I would run up this hill much faster if I were not made of cement. My hip and knee are made of some terrible thing that’s worse than cement. Florence and the Machine isn’t doing the trick. Switch to Eminem.

7:45 a.m.: Make the mistake of looking at my Garmin while shuffling uphill. Nearly gasp when I see I’m running at an 11-minute-mile pace. Kiss my secret goal of 9-minute miles goodbye, and start wondering if I’m going to make it to the finish line in Folsom Field within an hour of my start.

7:55 a.m.: Downhill! Whee! Race is totally salvageable. I giggle out loud as I pass porches full of cowbell-ringing, mimosa-drinking spectators. One group of spectators is actually doing kegstands on the front porch of a house I may have once partied in as a college student. A light rain starts to fall, which is kind of perfect, as I’m feeling overheated despite the perfect 60-degree temperature.

8 a.m.: I recognize where we are, and realize how far it is from the stadium. I almost weep. Instead, I breathe, and repeat: “Run the mile you’re in,” an especially fitting mantra considering the fact that it was Ryan Hall who first said it (Hall would race with the elites at 11 a.m.)

8:15 a.m.: The hill up to Folsom wasn’t bad—sort of like the Iwo Jima hill at the end of the Marine Corps Marathon, in that it would be terrible if you weren’t expecting it, but totally manageable if you’re prepared for it. I try to pick up the pace to cross the finish line in less than an hour, and don’t waste much time mourning how slow of a time this will be for me when I realize my legs are moving their absolute fastest. I try to sprint once more I enter Folsom Field, imagining all the wonderful times I had in that stadium as a student. Sprinting, in this moment, means not walking.

8:20 a.m.: Meet Steve and our wonderful friend and support crew, Mike, in the stands, greeting both with sweaty, exhausted hugs. In telling them the story of the race, I decide to be proud of my race stats, which show that I was painfully slow but gutsy, as a race run in honor of someone fighting cancer should be. Plus, I feel weirdly proud of the fact that I managed to average sub-10-minute-mile pace, albeit by only two seconds. Most importantly, we raised $3,000 for the American Cancer Society in Steve’s mom’s honor—the ultimate success.

bib number:

DD341

overall place:

16688

division:

F31

division place:

227 out of 723

gender place:

6272 out of 26860

mile 1:

00:09:33.27

mile 2:

00:09:54.38

mile 3:

00:10:35.22

mile 4:

00:10:20.14

mile 5:

00:09:30.68

mile 6:

00:10:02.62

net time:

01:02:01.59

pace:

09:58 (based on net time)

50: Kilometers swam in the month of May, thanks to the terrific #50KinMay challenge (and the Great Chesapeake Bay Bridge Swim, which gave me a reason to attempt 50K in May).

10,5000: Meters swam in the past 24 hours to achieve #50KinMay before I leave for Colorado to run the Bolder Boulder 10K on Monday. Many thanks to the lovely and speedy Victoria at The District Chocoholic for shepherding me through the final meters. Hint: Finding a swim buddy who writes a blog about chocolate is a good idea. Your swim dates might involve macarons.

1: Flashback to 1998, courtesy of two swim workouts in one day to achieve #50KinMay

1: Number of times I wriggled into a wetsuit in front of strangers, before a group swim in a Chesapeake Bay tributary with friends of Ann at Ann’s Running Commentary. (Yes, it still fit—whew!)

1: Successful open-water swim trials. See above.

7,000: Meters swam without a pull buoy, which had been serving as a sort of security blanket for my knee since ACL-reconstruction surgery in late January

2: New mantras: Your heart is a weapon the size of a fist. And: Stronger every stroke. Read more about mantras, motivational screen-savers and other adventures in sports psychology in my guest post on Katie’s terrific blog, Run This Amazing Day.

2,500: Dollars raised through our American Cancer Society Bolder Boulder 10K fund-raising campaign, through both online and off-line donations. If you’ve donated, or if you’ve offered moral support toward our effort (as important as financial!), I can’t thank you enough. Your support and friendship means the world to me and Steve, and it will fuel us through the tough spots of the race on Monday morning. I’ll be posting updates on my Twitter page the day of the race, and will post briefly here once I can get to a computer. For now, send us your speediest thoughts Monday morning!

I’ve got a lot of brackish water, bridge spans and Boulder (Colo.) running through the slides of my mental imagery this week. A couple of my favorites:

Mid-Great Chesapeake Bay Bridge Swim photo courtesy of RobAquatics.com:

The Bolder Boulder 10K finish line in Folsom Field—the stadium of my alma mater. Look at those Flatirons in the background!