In the hellhole otherwise known as Phoenix, by the time August has come around, life has lost its meaning and existence takes too much effort. I signed up for this Flagstaff triathlon race to get out of Phoenix and to break up the unbearableness of summer. I needed a reason to get off my ass and train in ninety degree heat. The distraction would keep me from thinking dark thoughts about what life would be like without air conditioning in humid, hundred plus degree temperature.
I had done this race eight times, so I knew the suffering that was involved. At 7,000 feet, the body lacked oxygen. More effort was required to move; and the movement was slower. The hills that would have been merely rolling at sea level became the Swiss Alps at altitude. It’s still arid and just being outside sucks the moisture out of my body. But the pine trees, lake, sunflowers and mountains were nice scenery and a change from rocks, dust and cacti.
I chose the Olympic length because the half iron distance was unfathomable. Nobody but the crazy, fast people or clueless did it. Running the half marathon run alone along the road while seeing everyone drive by, who had already finished, would suck. Running up and down a steep hill, then running another seven miles would be torture. Also, who the hell would want to swim another five hundred yards in the brown sludge of Lake Mary? And bike 56 miles? The Olympic was enough pain for one day.
I drove up to Flagstaff, turning onto Lake Mary Road. Near the race site, I passed by a bunch of people looking at deer or elk. This amused me because I was sure the animals had no clue why they were being gawked at. They probably thought why are all these weird humans looking at me?
Just as I got the packet pickup location, a large black cloud appeared. Then it started pouring and lightning flashed. It was wiser to stay in the car until the prospect of electrocution and getting drenched was over with.
I like Flagstaff, but it is a pain to drive in with the hordes of tourists. I got dinner, then walked around and sat at Heritage Square for a while. There weren’t musicians playing yet, but people were hanging around and games were set up for children. I like the vibe of this town, like an Arizona hippie version of San Francisco in the sixties. Even the homeless are laid back. One dude tried to sell me a beach cruiser. He had just cleaned the bike and seemed relatively mentally stable. As if I had room in my Corolla for two bikes.
I got back to the hotel and did race prep. I hated stressing about a race. I had to get up at 3:30, so I was worried about getting everything ready. Plus I was concerned about my emotionally needy cat being alone. She expected to be waited on and no one was there. She was probably crying piteously. I realized I had forgotten to bring my race belt, which is something I had never forgot before. This was disturbing. What was wrong with my mind?
I went to bed, but kept waking up every hour. A distant train blew its horn. The A.C. made weird noises. The room was warm even with it on. Sleep does not come easily and altitude makes it worse. I must need actual oxygen.
At zero dark thirty, I got ready and stepped outside. The car didn’t have dew on it, which was a good sign, because I wasn’t sure how to get rid of it. Dew is an alien substance in the desert. I packed everything up and drove to the race site. When I got near the lake, the road had foggy patches. Some of them were quite dense, which made the road hard to see. It made me nervous. Go away fog, I don’t need you. I had to look for a parking spot in the dark and mist. I found the one I was looking for even though it was half a mile away. I couldn’t deal with the whole dark and not seeing and parking thing.
The sky lightened, revealing that Lake Mary had dense fog on it. I really didn’t want to swim in it, wandering aimlessly, with no idea where to go. I have visions of the Lake Tahoe swim, where the buoys were obscured by fog in the 32 degree air.
They made us go down to the dock at the scheduled time, then wait forty-five minutes. This was a first for me–a fog delay for an Arizona race. The long line of mist parallel to the shore slowly retreated. Hurry up, already!
I was supposed to start at 6:35, but didn’t begin until 7:20. At least by then we could see the buoys. I walked down the ramp and stepped through the muck to get to deeper water. The horn sounded and I swam cautiously. The possibility of a panic attack is always present, so I never rush when I start. Hyperventilating in the middle of a high altitude lake is best avoided because it is particularly unpleasant. I staved off breathlessness, but felt uncomfortable at times and stopped to rest occasionally.
Once in a while the smell of diesel gasoline and sewage was in the brown water. I tried to keep a steady pace. The water was fairly smooth but the surface in the last fifty yards was choppy. What a relief it was to get out. The swim took me 43:50. This was a little better time than two years ago. At least the swimming time didn’t change much over the years unlike the bike and run, which had gone to crap.
I had failed to take into account the location of the toilets when I set up my bike, so I had to run a little farther to use one. I really had to pee, unlike everyone else who had already urinated in the lake. The toilets were always inconveniently located outside of transition, which wasted more time.
On the ride start, I was extra hungry, since the to wait to swim was so long. The weather felt cool until the hill climbs. With the sun out, it was hot. The bike was hard work just to go slow. It always seems like it should be easier than it really is, leading to a feeling of inadequacy. Why can’t I go faster? The hills didn’t look all that steep until they were ridden. Once in a while a chickadee or goldfinches would call out. I liked to answer them. I didn’t know if they answered back, but it kept my mind off the pain. The scenery was pretty with the pine trees, blue sky and puffy white clouds, mountains and lakes. Not as many wildflowers were blooming, though, due to lack of rain.
On my last eight miles, I saw the first and second place male go by for the half iron. That was rather humbling, since it is twice the distance that I was doing. I passed three people, so at least I wasn’t dead last. This ride was painful by now and I wanted it to be over with so I could do an even more painful run. Bike time was 1:42.
By the time of the run, when everyone else was done, it was heating up and I was tired and thirsty. My water was lukewarm, and I craved ice to cool it down. The first 1.5 mile always appear to be downhill, but it never feels that way. My legs were tired after the bike. I stopped to walk.
The bottom of the hill was usually the low point of the run, physically and mentally. A whole mile of terrible awaits. Could I really do this? I had this thought, though I had done this race eight times before. Despair is not logical. I told myself I was out of shape and fat, but forged ahead slowly without further walking. Better to get it over with. The hill was evil.
I took a salt tablet and a gel because sometimes it made me feel less like the walking dead.
After a mile plus of the steep grade, I got to the top. Just before a dirt track, usually was an aid station, but not today. My water was running low, and I worried about running out. It was located at the turn around. Lovely ice, the magic elixir!
I felt much better and moved faster down the hill. The road that I just had ran up and the lake were far below. At the bottom and more level ground, I didn’t worry about how slow my time was because, in the past, beating myself up just made me unhappy. Running was enough self-flagellation. I sped up. The finish line was a welcome sight. Total time was 80 minutes.
I felt like I had just raced a four hour sprint. I went as hard as I could, but slowly, like moving through molasses. Output didn’t translate to speed. The wonders of high altitude exertion. I didn’t place in my age group, but didn’t care. Total time was 3:58, so at least I broke four hours.
I could bemoan that I was almost last in a difficult race like this one, and I usually do, but I would have quit this sport long ago if I worried about how much I sucked. I decided it was pointless to feel bad about it. It was fun to be physically challenged and persist despite discomfort and the annoying voice in my head that tells me that I am not good enough, am too slow, can’t breath, should give up, should swim back to shore and walk the hill. It just needs to shut the hell up.
Besides, suffering in cool Flagstaff was preferable to frying in Phoenix.
