Josh Billings Triathlon: Ups and Downs

As one of the oldest multisport events in the country, the Josh Billings Triathlon has achieved legendary status in New England.  Cyclists, paddlers, and runners have been joining one another since 1976 to compete in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts in mid-September.  While most people race as part of a 2, 3, or 4 person team, a growing percentage compete in the "iron" category as solo racers.  The Josh had been on my radar for years, as some paddling friends race every year.  I long had a secret desire to compete as an iron, but was able to use a scheduling conflict with a long-standing paddling race to avoid confronting this masochistic urge.  The cancellation of the paddling race, combined with prodding from my friend, Janda Ricci-Munn, finally convinced me to take the plunge.  A former national-caliber triathlete, Janda won the Josh iron race in 2021, establishing a new solo course record in the process.  If he thought I could do the race, despite having no multisport experience and knowing nothing about cycling, who was I to argue?

The 27 mile cycling route starts in Great Barrington and ends at Stockbridge Bowl boat launch via a circuitous hilly route that includes around 1,900 feet of ascent in five significant climbs.  Unlike most triathlons, drafting is allowed (and, in fact, essential) on the bike leg.  The 5 mile paddling course takes you 1.75 times around the circumference of the small lake, ending at the Camp Mah-Kee-Nac beach.  And the 6.4 mile run loops around the lake back to the Camp entrance, with around 500 feet of climbing.  Both the ride and run include net ascents, which is just plain mean-spirited.  I suppose we should be thankful the organizers couldn't find any rapids for us to paddle up.  Most of the 300 or so teams (and individuals) finish somewhere between 2.5 and 4.5 hours, although there are outliers on either end.  My goal was to wrap things up in under 3 hours, which would likely put me comfortably in the top 50.

Under Janda's patient tutelage, I started multisport training in the spring.  Lots of easy volume across disciplines (which I was fairly conscientious about) combined with much briefer gut-busting high intensity workouts (which I'd seize upon the lamest excuses to avoid).  Despite spending drastically fewer hours paddling than in past years, under this new regimen I was still performing comparably in my surfski races.  In the spirit of preparedness, I crashed my bike in June so I'd have the appropriate sense of dread of the riding leg come race day.  I didn't think that through fully, however, as the resulting sore hip sidelined me from run training for a couple of weeks.  Even with this setback, I was feeling pretty good about my fitness level.

In early August, I dipped a toe in the water via a short run-ride-paddle triathlon in central New York.  I discovered that rubbery legs weren't conducive to stability in my skinny boat, but performed well enough overall.  At roughly half the distance of the Josh, my misery level at this race fell just below the threshold that would have contractually permitted me to abandon plans for the longer race.  There would be no escape from the suffering.

If you were prone to understatement, you might describe the logistics of the Josh as "challenging".  With different sites for the start, both transitions, the finish, and parking - not to mention closures on roads linking them - your planning requirements make the Apollo program and the D-Day landing seem like child's play.  Without a helper, you finish the race with equipment strewn across the Berkshires and must then embark on a tedious treasure hunt to find and retrieve it.  Of course, it's difficult to find such a dupe locally since the helper role is widely known to be more exhausting than the triathlon itself.  I had to reach well out-of-state to find a chump - my old college housemate and former business partner, Bryan.  After weeks of unsuccessful cajoling, I suspect what finally convinced him to make the 4.5 hour drive were the 1989 house party photos that I innocently reminded him weren't yet posted on Instagram.  If all went as planned, he'd leave home pre-dawn to arrive in time to meet me at the bike-to-boat transition.  I should note that Mary Beth probably would have agreed to help, purely out of brand loyalty, but was out of town.

Bryan was so proud of his bib, he's taken to wearing it around town.  (Photo courtesy of Helper)

I arrived in the Berkshires a day earlier.  I picked up my race packet at the Arcadian (a sporting goods store in Lenox), where I ran into several paddling buddies who were members of canoe or kayak teams.  I was also surprised by a somewhat less familiar face - Michigander endurance athlete, Denny Paull - along with his daughter, Mandy.  Denny and I met at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race, where we finished within a minute of each other in 2016 and 2017.  The pair had driven 1,000 miles to race as iron competitors.  As fellow neophytes to group bike racing, we eagerly shared tips garnered from various sources.  Later, I checked into a hotel in nearby Lee, where Janda and his family would also be staying.

Early the next morning, Janda and I ran our surfskis over to the boat launch, laid out our paddling gear in the transition zone, and dropped off my car at the finish area parking lot.  We'd be carrying our running paraphernalia in dry bags on our boats, so there was no need to also visit the second transition area.  We returned to the hotel for a breakfast that I hoped wouldn't be making a showy reappearance later in the day.  I had kept my pre-race jitters under control thus far, but while subsequently shuttling down to the start with Janda and his family, I struggled to refrain from diving out of the moving car to safety.  Once we arrived at the staging area, at least I had the mechanical distraction of gear prep and warm-up to keep apprehension from suffocating me.  I soon found myself perched expectantly at the starting line on Route 7 with 275 other riders.

Janda's a true pro.  Prepared for any eventuality on race day, he wore his headlamp in case of an unexpected eclipse.

As a nervous Josh greenhorn, I had asked a number of veteran racers for advice on cycling strategy.  They were happy to comply.  And then, to calm my anxieties, they'd invariably show me their crash scars or tell me about some guy who hit a pothole in Stockbridge and was thrown under a steamroller.  In any event, the two things everyone agreed on was that I should (a) go out fast with the field on the flat stretch through town and then kill myself on the initial climb to establish myself in a fast pack and (b) watch out for yahoos who went out too fast and were now making a nuisance of themselves by dying on the initial climb.  They apparently failed to see the irony.

Pre-race picture included for contrast with photo at end of report.

Starting amongst a pack of several hundred riders along the flat village roads, I'd been told that I'd be sucked along at a breakneck pace with scarcely any effort.  It took a moment for the field to get moving as cyclists clipped in and found their rhythm, but soon enough we were flying along.  With the exhilarating whir of the multitude echoing in my ears, I enjoyed the sensation of flowing with the current.  Perhaps a little too much.  As the riders ahead encountered a small incline, I could finally see the sheer number of bikes in front of me.  I was mid-field at best.  Despite concerns about soon becoming an object lesson in yahoo-hood, I ramped up my effort to improve my position prior to hitting the first climb.  Working conservatively to avoid being Rider Zero of a cascading twenty bike pile-up, I managed to get into the first third of the field by the foot of the hill.

To experienced cyclists the climbs of the Josh are doubtless humdrum, but to a novice rider from an area with no significant hills to train on, they are imposing.  As advised, I attacked the first ascent with more vigor than seemed wise.  The painful effort paid off, however, as I moved past many competitors and, at the top, found myself riding with what I estimated (based on an embarrassing amount of time spent analyzing past Strava results and YouTube race videos) to be the pack that would finish between 1:10 and 1:15.  I got my first real taste of cooperative cycling as a dozen of us absorbed smaller groups up ahead.  Our group stabilized at around 25 people, including Denny and a couple of extroverts who enthusiastically narrated their upcoming tactical moves to one another.

I felt uncomfortable riding in such a large group, worried that out of ignorance or incompetence, I'd cause an accident.  I had expected there to be more structure with the pack - a line of riders in an orderly rotation from front to back.  While that occasionally happened, we'd quickly revert to an unpredictable and amorphous blob.  This felt more inefficient than it did dangerous, though.  Hills were particularly vexing, as there was such variation in climbing style.  I invariably found myself moving to the front of the pack at the start of an incline, then falling back as riders with a more measured approach caught me.  At around mile 12, this would prove disastrous.  Frustrated by the pace starting up a gentle hill, I accelerated and took the pull.  The grade steepened slightly, but I foolishly kept the power going, much as I would during a solo ride.  As I tired, the pack inevitably began to pass me.  I tried fruitlessly to slot in, but couldn't find an opening until the end.  Falling a few lengths behind the last rider, I didn't panic until it was too late.  Having lost the benefits of the draft, I now lacked the power to catch up.

My erstwhile companions in the pack ahead would ultimately finish 4+ minutes before me, meaning that by the end they were well over a mile ahead.  But it took only a few moments for them to disappear from view on the winding course.  I had been told that if you lose your pack, the smart move is to pedal easy until the next gravy train comes along.  You're going to get caught anyway - why waste the effort by pushing when solo?  That's fine in theory, but it felt like a ridiculous option in practice.  I was in a race, dammit!  Maybe I could stay ahead of this hypothetical chase pack.

The fact that I was having to expend much more energy than I would have in a pack was galling, to say the least, but it didn't keep me from appreciating the perks of cycling solo.  Most importantly, unless I went off-piste and took out a guy mowing his lawn, I no longer had to worry about my mistake ruining anyone else's day (or skeletal integrity).  Another benefit was that I could absorb 100% of the support from roadside spectators (and there were a surprising number of them) - those cheers weren't being diluted within a pool of riders.  And finally, there was the police motorcycle escort along the busier roads.  Presumably each officer was assigned a zone and would loop back to accompany successive packs.  As a pack of one, I was eligible for the same treatment.  For a few moments, I could imagine being a lone breakaway in the Tour de France.  Or the guest of honor at a funeral procession.

At the start of my solo journey, I didn't seriously expect to keep ahead of the next pack.  I anticipated their arrival at any moment.  But apparently my original group had been faster than I realized, giving me quite a substantial buffer.  Passing through Stockbridge and starting the penultimate climb, I began to wonder if I might just make it on my own.  On the subsequent flat, however, I started to notice how the fickle spectators would focus behind me immediately after I passed.  How much longer could I hold their allegiance as the plucky solo rider?  During the final climb, I could clearly hear shouts of encouragement directed at someone other than me.  Humph.  Fair-weather fans.  And then, just after the final turn, with less than a mile to go, I was caught.  This hurt my soul, but I took some solace in seeing a friendly face - Mandy - leading the charge.  Resigned to finishing as just another cog in the machinery of the 1:17 pack, I nestled into a mid-pack draft position for the final descent.

Following Mandy into T1.  Just one of the gang.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Pulling into the transition area, I was relieved to find that helper Bryan had indeed arrived.  As we had agreed upon, in exchange for the negatives (it was 1989, after all) he released my paddling equipment to me.  I had half-heartedly practiced some transitions earlier in the week, but these leisurely exercises had virtually nothing in common with the race-day experience.  All I had to do was exchange my helmet for a hat, cycling shoes for water shoes, and put on a PFD - tasks that wouldn't tax the facilities of, say, your average raccoon.  And yet I now stood motionless, at a complete loss as to how to proceed.  Remove helmet?  Maybe.  Shoes?  Could be.  But what if instead I put on my PFD like pants?  The combination of fatigue and stress had mentally incapacitated me.  Turns out that a more effective transition training program would have consisted of reducing myself to a state of exhaustion and then solving Wordle and some Sudokus.

Bryan was probably on the verge of calling over emergency personnel when I groggily emerged from my paralysis of indecision.  I got prepared for the paddle stage with clumsy inefficiency and waddled down to the water (because of cycling legs - I had the PFD on correctly).  My hands were so sweaty that I had trouble getting a grip on the boat, but I managed to launch it and get underway.  I was now theoretically in my element, prepared to chase down the fleet of watercraft with head starts provided by their bikers.

In anticipation of having fatigue-induced balance issues, I brought a wide enough surfski that I wouldn't have to worry about toppling over or sacrificing stroke power to instability.  Heading into a brisk headwind on the first lap around Stockbridge Bowl, I started to pick off slower paddlers.  In many cases, this was because they were in inherently slower boats - recreational plastic kayaks, heavy metal canoes, or stand-up paddleboards.  For the most part, these craft were helmed by competent paddlers, so passing them simply involved providing a little clearance.  The two-man crew of one particular canoe, however, had not only apparently never paddled a boat before, but appeared also to be suffering from a severe case of vertigo and/or inebriation.  They were moving vaguely in the direction of the course via a sequence of comically exaggerated zigzag corrections.  I calculated a safe lateral passing margin, doubled that after witnessing a couple of particularly erratic deviations, and they still managed to collide with me as I overtook them.  I suspect it was neither the first nor last such close encounter they had.

Although I was passing people, I wasn't going very fast.  I initially attributed my disappointing speed to the headwind, but halfway through the first lap I could no longer maintain that useful fiction.  My downwind speed was roughly what I had targeted for the entire paddling leg, so I was clearly falling short of my goal.  Despite recognizing this, I lacked the mental fortitude to increase the intensity.  A growing malaise was soon compounded by minor leg cramps.  By the end of the first lap, I had begun the insidious psychic shift from race mode to survival mode.

I can't blame the boat assistants for holding back - I was emanating a lethal miasma by this point.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Since paddling is my specialty (and, let's remember, was in a fast boat), I managed to do fairly well on the leg in objective terms, even though I felt subjectively sluggish.  I was 66th after the bike leg, but emerged 22nd coming off the water.  Bryan was waiting on the beach, talking me through the most basic transition steps while watching warily for renewed signs of dementia.  After a lethargic T2 that couldn't have been any slower without also incorporating a nap (denied, unjustly I think, by my helper), I burst onto the running course with the zeal of the condemned heading to the gallows.

I had long since thrown any "plan" out the window, but to raise my spirits I reviewed the ludicrously optimistic running goals I had established.  With two second-half hills responsible for most of the climbing, I'd burn through the first 3 miles with a 7:15 to 7:30 pace, then try to hold on through the uphill sections to finish at an average pace of 7:30 to 7:45.  I chuckled grimly as my pace on the flat leg settled in at the upper end of the overall average target range.  Fortunately, my growing sense of apathy helped blunt the disappointment.  It wasn't really doing anything for the discomfort and fatigue, but at least it kept me from diving any deeper into suffering.

I was surprised at how lonely it was on the course.  I passed a couple of people early on, but then could see nobody else ahead.  I had expected to be overtaken by a continuous stream of faster runners, but as the miles slowly accumulated only a handful streaked past.  I made it through the flat portion maintaining my languid pace.  While struggling to find a lower gear that wasn't neutral during the first climb, I was caught by Ryan Smith - previously unknown to me, but now heir to half my estate and kidneys (should that eventuality prove necessary).  We hardly talked while running side-by-side over the next couple of undulating miles, but nevertheless established a lifelong pinned-down-in-a-foxhole kind of bond.  I'm pretty sure I would have slid backwards on a couple of hills without Ryan pacing me.  When we came to the final climb, however, I urged him to save himself.  I was a goner.  With tears in my eyes, Ryan finally moved ahead.  Shortly afterward, my right hamstring began cramping and I ignominiously had to revert to a limping walk. 

I rallied (to the extent that resuming a running gait in a race qualifies as rallying) before the summit of the hill and entered the final half-mile with renewed fervor.  Hmm.  "Renewed fervor" may be overstating it a bit.  Let's say instead that I now had "slightly less disinterest in racing".  This didn't translate to an accelerated pace, mind you, but I did start looking back to determine if my overall place was assured.  Nope.  A particularly spiteful runner was rapidly gaining ground, even though I had done absolutely nothing to provoke him.  You can probably figure out who he was from the official results, but I'll spare his family the shame of naming him here.  Turning into the steep downhill entrance to Camp Mah-Kee-Nac, I enjoyed a modest lead over the fleet-footed scoundrel.  By the final turn into the grass timing chute, my nemesis had pulled even.  The final sprint was a laugher.  The ne'er-do-well had cravenly held enough power in reserve to accomplish a genuine finishing kick, whereas I barely managed to stagger drunkenly across the line.

I don't remember being punched repeatedly in the face during the run, but I can't deny the photographic evidence.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Janda and Denny discuss their races while I try to imagine a time when everything no longer hurts.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

I had managed to finish in just under three hours (2:58:29).  Remarkably, I had only dropped 5 places during my anemic run, allowing me to finish 27th overall.  Among iron competitors, Janda finished first (4th overall at 2:31:45) and Denny second (13th overall at 2:44:14).  I was fourth.  Mandy was the first iron finisher among women (39th overall at 3:04:43).  You can find full results here, and official race photos here.

I'm extremely glad I competed in the Josh.  I genuinely enjoyed about 23 minutes of the 3 hours I was out there.  That's not a bad ratio, even for life in general, so it may be enough to lure me back for another shot 2023.  Thanks to Janda for the many weeks he spent guiding me through training and prepping me for the race.  And also, I suppose, to slacker Bryan for those few measly hours he also sacrificed for the cause.