Santa Barbara Long Triathlon Race Report

I like California beach towns. They have ambience, sand and surf and, best of all, cool weather. The environment is totally different from summer-hell-on-earth Phoenix. No heat exhaustion. I have lost interest in subjecting myself to that. Plus, after seventeen years of triathlons, I was bored with local races.

I had been thinking about doing this race for a long time, but hesitated to do so. The course is open, so cars and people are a problem. The swim is in the ocean, which can be unpredictable. The distances are weird: one mile ocean swim, 34 mile bike and a ten mile run. But southern California races tend to be well-run and worth the trip for the scenery alone. Plus, it was an excuse to see my cousin and her husband, who had moved to Ventura from New England a few years ago.

While beach towns are nice, driving to them is not. The drive is 460 miles and most of it is either boring, annoying, or both. The stretch from the Arizona border through the desert past Palm Springs is a test of an effort not to turn into a raving maniac from the tedium. While I like the Sonoran desert, this part of the Mohave is so butt-ugly, that it has the menacing power to render life meaningless enough to drive off a cliff. How do people live there and not go crazy? And why are there still palm tree stubs with no tops in Desert Center? Do they not have enough self-respect to tear down the monuments to their futile existence?

Once the ass-end interior of the desert is past, the endless suburbia begins and continues for hundreds of miles. I stopped several times to maintain my sanity. Driving is not my joy. Too long, alone in a car, and I want to tear my hair out. The road was clogged with trucks. Why the hell do they have to occupy ALL the lanes? Get the hell out of my way.

I hit an inexplicably clear patch and breezed through the Hollywood area on 210. Then I hit the 101. The 101 in California is cursed. Cars inexplicably slow down for no reason. This can go on multiple times for as long as a car is on this damned highway. I had sixty miles of stop and go and it tested my patience. California, you suck! How can anyone live here?

I finally reached my cousins’s house in Ventura.

The next day we drove to Santa Barbara in an RV. I could never drive these tanks–I can’t back up a Corolla, let alone this monster. It wasn’t that huge compared to other houses on wheels, but it was beyond my meager backing-up skills.

Surfers futilely waiting for waves.

The ocean in Santa Barbara was blessedly smooth. Surfers floated on their boards in the water waiting for waves that never came. Some of these races I have done required fighting surf and risking being pummeled with the force of waves. It could be the Xterra of swimming–a rough, exciting adventure that I never wanted to repeat. I could deal with smooth. Smooth salt water is good. Smooth salt water is fast. Rough salt water is death.

Race morning, I rode my bike to the site in the dark. I had a headlamp and hoped no one would run me over, though not much was stirring. The temperature was in the low sixties, but it was so damp that it didn’t feel cold. Fog hugged the coast.

I was in the next-to-last group to start. I was nervous and only wanted to get the swim over with. We wouldn’t venture very far from shore, but it was still too much for me. It was a beach start, so when it was time, I got past three small waves and started swimming. Really, that’s the best you can do, ocean? Weirdly, it was easy, like the current was pushing me out. This was unique. I got past the first buoy and swam the outside length. The water was a little choppy in the middle, but I had been in much worse. I tried to keep going and time dragged. I wanted to be done. At the turn around, the water was unnaturally smooth and unbelievably lake-like. At the final length into the shore, I swam faster just to get the swim over with. The sixty-five degree water made me feel cold by that point, even with a full wetsuit.

Finally, at the shore, I struggled through eight inches of loose sand and promptly did a face-plant. Really embarrassing. My watch said 49 minutes and the swim cutoff was 50 minutes. I could still race if I didn’t make it, but I wanted to reach the timing mat before the time expired. With sand all over me, I ran and beat the cutoff by six seconds.

Transition: not flow-through and of course I was at the far end.

I shed the grit and got on my bike. The fog still hung around and was in no hurry to leave. That was fine with me. The start of the bike was relatively flat, then climbs the first of three hills. The route goes past plant nurseries, avocado and citrus farms and large houses. I wasn’t sure if the houses were private or commercial, but they looked massive. Lots of rich people live in this area, so some of them might have been mansions for the landed gentry.

As I climbed the hill, the distant views were obscured by mist. Even my sunglasses were dewed up. This was an odd sensation when most of the time in the desert, the moisture is being sucked out of every pore in my body. I welcomed the coolness.

The bike course was a byzantine series of loops connected by straight road. Luckily, the route was well marked or I would have been hopelessly lost. My speed was in between lollygagging and killing myself. I rode past large trees overhanging the road. Shade is good. 

At about mile twenty-five, the last hill began. The first two hadn’t been that long or steep. This one climbed. And climbed. And climbed. For two miles. Just when I thought it was done, it wasn’t. It was enjoyable in a sick sort of way. Me against the hill. Just try to crush me. I actually passed weaker riders. Yes, you got dropped by an old lady.

The last part was flattish going back into town. I passed the park two miles from the end. The fog hadn’t burned off yet.

I rolled into transition and began the run. Of course most people were done. Hopefully, they wouldn’t eat all the food before I got to it.

I didn’t feel exhausted, but not peppy, either. The run course isn’t closed, so I had to watch for pedestrians, cars, pedicabs, skateboarders and whatnot. At least they had the sense to stay out of my way because I get really cranky at this point in a race. If you got in my way, I would just as soon run you over. Unfortunately, in the beach parking lots, cars would randomly cut in front of me, then stop for no reason. Come on, already! One lady cut in front of me, then was counting her money for the valet parking, all the while blocking my way. I fought the urge to bang on her expensive car.

The route was marked with chalk arrows on the road. Unlike the bike marking, these were ambiguous. Unknown to me, I missed a critical turn into a park that continued onto residential streets. I realized that I was lost when, after four miles, I came to a four lane intersection with no indication where to go. I was screwed. Where do I go? This is the worst feeling in a race, when after all the effort, it comes to nothing. I didn’t know what to do, so I started back, hoping that a jog in the road would make up the missing miles. At the mile nine marker, I knew I was two miles short. After all the effort to get to this point, I wasn’t going to have a short run. I did what I do when I was hopelessly lost; make up my own route. I doubled back to for the missing miles.  

Embarrassed, I hoped no one would notice my folly. I ran past a clip-board guy who said a rather unfriendly “hello.” It was less “hello” and more “what the fuck are you doing?” I ignored him and went on. Someone commented at an aid station that I had been past here several times. I told her I had screwed up the turnaround. No really, I just wanted to wander randomly around this race course.

I made up the miles and ran to the finish line. What a letdown. Somehow, it wasn’t as fun when I screwed up. I searched for race food and couldn’t find it. Most people were gone. I felt like crying. A kind volunteer took pity and steered me to what was left. The food was fruit and pasta salad, but it was better than nothing. Who knows what they had before everyone else ate it?

The run took me about two hours, which was what I figured in my low expectations. If I had known the proper route and had not stopped to wonder where the hell I was, it might have been a better run. Getting lost ruined my motivation to hurt myself and go harder.

 

Total time was five hours, thirty-seven minutes, which was better than the six hours I thought would be. I had survived the swim, and the bike course was worth the trip. The weather had been perfect. I didn’t have a great race, but the experience was unique. I don’t think I will be riding a bike in fog again anytime soon. But I will be back to race in a California beach town–as soon as I forget the awful drive.