Ironman Arizona Race Report

Photo courtesy of Camelback Coaching

Racing an Ironman more than once is an exercise in denial. It took me five years to forget the trauma of Ironman Arizona in 2014 when the howling wind on the Beeline had made the 112 mile bike an exhausting, desperate exercise  to finish in time. I got into transition with six seconds to spare, but had been so depleted that avoiding the run limits was impossible. The memory of riding down the Beeline as hard as I could as the sun was setting was burned into my brain. And yet I signed up again with the hope that this time would be different.

Four years later, I knew the difficulty of the event, but had the hope that the end result would be better. The  odds weren’t in my favor, being a slow swimmer and biker. Making the time cut offs was always a concern. This has been my dilemma forever.. Because of my lack of fast genes, training took longer and was more affected by wind, cold and hilly terrain. I had two Ironman finishes in the past, but more non-finishes. Yet I persisted in pursuing this folly over and over again.

This time, just getting to the start line required overcoming obstacles, most of which were generated by my bike. A spoke broke, and the wheel went out of round and was ruined. My disintegrating bike seat had to be replaced and adjusting to the new one was difficult. If it wasn’t placed just right, my butt felt like it was sitting on rocks. The chafing was painful with the longer rides. Then the free hub body, a part which up until this point I didn’t know existed, decided to break down. This part allows the back wheel to coast. I chose the wrong bike shops to try to fix it. I nagged and nagged and finally they ordered the part after ignoring the bike for a week. This frustrating process of taking the bike to bike shops, only to not be fixed, took a month.

A further obstacle was that I was diagnosed with breast cancer a month before the race. It is slow growing, small, and limited to one area, but it is still the big, scary “C”. It added to the stress of preparing for the race. I had to give up replacement hormones, which made me feel more tired and depressed. The evil specter of hot flashes came back with a vengeance. Theoretically, hormones are a banned substance in Ironman, but for a person in the back of the back of the pack, it didn’t seem like it should matter.

Doubts assailed me. Would I be as strong or fast without drugs? Would the disease in my body cause me to fail somehow? Would I collapse or drown? It was hard enough to even finish under normal circumstances. When Ironman decided to shorten the swim/bike cut off two weeks before the race to ten hours/ten minutes, it was another blow. How the hell was that possible unless it was a very good day?

With the commitment of all the time, money and effort put into preparing for this race, the only thing to do was to suck it up and try, with no assurance of success. Not starting was never an option.

Race morning did not start well, with a late start because of the long half hour wait to get into the free parking garage. This left only had an hour to prepare. All my meticulous lists meant nothing.  Equipment organized into bags required planning and endlessly obsessing about what to put in them and when to do so. I failed to put salt tablets and my more appealing food in the bike bag. I also didn’t get body marked. Rushing around is not conducive to clear thinking or memory.

Due to my disorganization, I cut into the line of people to get into the water as late as 6:58 a.m.. Easing into the cold, murky water, the goal was to not to be swam over, since the faster swimmers  started then. Being early gave me some leeway on the bike cut offs, which didn’t change no matter the actual start time.

The temperature of choppy water was almost bearable and the body contact was minimal. My chest felt tight and it was hard to catch my breath for a half hour. Resting a lot was needed, which made me wonder about making the swim cut off. Since the water was never smooth, I swallowed more of Tempe Town Lake water, which was never good in any amount.  I never panicked, but the experience made me anxious and uncomfortable.

I blocked out the thought of the length of the swim. The chest tightness disappeared and I kept moving. The buildings on the south shore drifted by. It was surreal at times. The north shore marina looked like it was below the edge of the water, which was disorienting. The north shore tall electrical towers and grass hills came into sight. The sight of the last red turn buoy in the distance was a relief.

Towards the end, my foot/calf cramped intermittently, which is unpleasant when trying to avoid drowning. Inconveniently, the muscle locked exiting the lake, which caught the attention of medical volunteers. People on either side supported me as my numb feet weren’t working. They made me sit and drink broth for a while, which probably killed my chance for meeting the swim/bike cut off. My mind was dazed and my body  cold, but I was not shivering. My swim time was about two hours.

A volunteer helped me dress in the transition tent. I changed my wet top and struggled to put on arm warmers and a jacket, still in a mental fog. I hobbled to the mount line and got on my bike.

The usual evil Beeline wind tunnel wasn’t too bad, but it seemed to pick up as the afternoon wore on. The cool breeze that slowed me down also probably kept me from being overheated. The lack of salt tablets weighed on me. A few were in my bento box, but not enough. Bananas  made up for potassium. The aid station gels supplemented my merger supply of nutrition, but the strawberry-kiwi flavor tasted vile after a while. Even those were gone as the afternoon wore on.

On one of my loops, riding uphill, I saw a guy with a t-shirt that read “May I pray for you?” I am not religious, but thought, yes. Yes, you may pray for me, because the way this race and my life in general was going, I needed all the prayers, luck, good karma and anything else that I could get.

In that vein, this highway was a purgatory with the monotony of the scenery, the stinky garbage dump and the stress of trying to go fast enough. It was a lot of effort to even go slow up the hill. My legs turned as fast as they could and the loss of energy from not having enough salt tablets or palatable nutrition was a worry. I longed for fig bars and peanut butter Uncrustables sandwiches.

My heart rate couldn’t be tracked, because my watch decided it had a low battery. I used perceived effort the whole race, which was basically a vague guess as to what my heart rate was. Normally, heart rate would tell me how much energy was being expended, which was necessary over a long distance. 

I made the seventy-four mile, 3:10 p.m. cut off at Mill Avenue by 20 minutes by pedaling furiously down the road the second time.  Small triumphs. At least I had that.

By the third loop, the sun was low and the shadows long in the golden light. This was the dreaded near the end, try to beat the odds time. I had enough leeway to beat the 92 mile cut off, but it was close. I appreciated the presence of the cheering volunteers, but didn’t stop at the aid stations. They only had crap to offer anyway. I rounded the turn off and hustled down the Beeline with a close seven minutes to spare. The time crunch was manageable, but riding fast was necessary. Riders passed by going uphill. They were screwed and sadly, they were going to be stopped. A number of Ironman vehicles headed to the aid station to pick up the stragglers. I had eluded them.

A few of us, who had gotten past the 92 mile turn around, were still trying to finish. A number of them asked me what the final bike cut off was. Like they didn’t know? The limits were certainly burned in my brain. The group of us became comrades in arms, trying to get our slow asses back into transition, so that we could face the even more difficult feat of hauling our exhausted selves around the run course by midnight. I hope some of them made it. Unfortunately, someone crashed her bike and lay in an unmoving heap on the ground. The police were nearby and called an ambulance. She was only four miles from the end. This race can be cruel.

The sun was setting and it was almost dark by the finish of my ride about 5:31 p.m. Official time was eight hours, five minutes, but my Garmin said seven hours, fifty-two minutes. It didn’t matter because I should have finished earlier.  Getting my compression socks on was time consuming. My nose was pouring snot. My body probably didn’t smell good.  Mentally, I berated myself for moving slow, but part of me thought who the hell cares and how was I going to be able to run?

The 10 hour 10 minute swim/bike cut off was exceeded, especially with a 21 minute T1. They hadn’t stopped me, so maybe an unofficial finish was possible. 

Less than six and half hours wasn’t a lot of time to get in the whole marathon. My goal all day was to get to this point, but the pain in my legs was excruciating and I was exhausted. Resorting to a walk/run  forced  me to run, but it wasn’t fast enough. My hopes of even finishing unofficially faded and  my motivation was lacking at this point. I just wanted to stop, but kept moving with no attention to time. The mental toughness just wasn’t there. Even if I survived the 9:10 cut off, surviving the 20 mile one was unlikely. Running that far just to stop was unfathomable. .

I passed someone leaning on a pole and sobbing. I could relate to what she was feeling. Everyone was in their own private struggle.

People that I knew asked me how I was doing when I passed by. Encouragement from people I know or even random strangers is always good and appreciated, but my answer was “not so good”. Being cheerful took too much energy. I did try to thank the volunteers.

I encountered a man who said he was also on his first loop. He wasn’t moving much faster than I. We both had hope for a miracle that probably wouldn’t come.

My feet hurt so bad with every step, that I stopped, took my shoe off and rubbed my toe. It actually felt better, but getting the shoe back on was difficult. It was impossibly tight and my calf threatened to cramp.

On I moved in the dark with the undead. The broth and coke from the aid stations weren’t the usual magic elixirs. Can’t they have decent food? Potatoes would be good. This stuff was unappetizing. I swallowed salt tablets and forced myself to eat some of my gels, which by this point were disgusting.

Around 8:30 p.m., I made a half-hearted effort to move faster to beat the 9:10 p.m.cut off. Cruelly, the turn off to the finish line beckoned, which was now out of reach. I wanted the pain to end and it was a battle not to quit. A guy on a bike encouraged me to run harder. Then another man by an aid station also told me to get moving. He was at the last race that I didn’t finish. I ran without walking, but it was too late. The rest of the way was blocked with a fence. The race was over. Could  mile 20 have been possible with a harder push? The thought will haunt me until the next race, if it ever comes.

This race has turned into seeing how far I can go rather than finishing. In a way, that’s okay, but not as fun and it leaves me with an empty feeling. I kept thinking that I am never doing this again during the swim, but who knows?

Things that learned from doing this race:

I can still train and “race” the swim and the bike even at my age and manage to escape injury. The times for both haven’t changed that much since 2014. The run was another matter. I wasn’t injured, like in 2014, but it still crushed me.

The distances for the swim, bike and run are still absolutely awful to train and race.

The rolling start sucks. In the past to it was possible to hang out in the back with the mass start and actually get a warm up swimming to the start line. This time, I had to jump into line way before the time that I would seeded myself for, in order to beat the bike cut offs. No warm up was possible. The water was choppy the entire swim because everyone in the world was passing me. However, a lot physical contact could still be avoided.

Cold water is still difficult to tolerate. The temperature was 61-63 degrees. The result was foot/calf cramps and not being able to catch my breath for the first 1000 yards. Getting out of the water was like being in shock, with a mental haze and lack of coordination. The swim probably affected the whole race.

The bike is still a struggle to finish in time, howling wind or not. 

The pain of the run sapped my motivation and it was as much a mental failure as a physical one. Ten years ago, it wasn’t so difficult, but the assumption that it would be that way again this time was wrong.

I am still stupid enough to do this again, despite my failings. The process of training is horrible, but I like the feeling of being stronger and conquering the distance. The hope of finishing down a brightly lit chute, high fiving, is still there, even if getting there is unlikely. Sharing the bond of running in the dark with a community of fellow sufferers is still a draw, though I don’t know why. The experience was interesting in an excruciating sort of way. Maybe it’s the attempt to  meet the physical and mental challenge of doing something difficult. 

Results-wise, the race was a failure if success is measured by finishing. Process-wise, even if I fell short, I did the best I could with my physical limitations and mechanical problems. 

All I know is that this race is easy compared to what I am facing next, fighting cancer and facing the god awful treatments. It is like being on the edge of a cliff wondering If I am going to fall into a dark hole. 

Courtesy of One Mulisport. I am NOT having fun.

Chula Vista Half Ironman Race Report

Since I had foolishly signed up for Ironman Arizona, I thought half ironman would be a good  reminder why it was a bad idea to do long course. I don’t know what came over me to punish myself this year other than an urge to see if I could actually still do it. The rational side of my brain had no part in this bad decision.

My long course experience has not gone well the past few years. My most recent half ironman was incomplete due to a run injury. Two years before, one was cancelled because of a forest fire. The next had a run in ninety degree heat, whic  resulted in heat exhaustion. I celebrated the “finish” with a session in the med tent hooked up to an I.V. The longer the race, the more of a crap shoot it is. My days of having good  races seemed to be over. Maybe my luck would improve.

The Ironman branded halfs didn’t appeal to me, being expensive, too hard or far away, so I chose an independent one in San Diego. It had calm sea water, which made for a faster swim and the bike and run seemed flat. Southern California races are usually well organized, scenic, have good weather and food, and usually a nice body of water to swim in.

As it turned out, this race was aptly named, with the challenge being just getting to the starting line.

Gremlins have taken over my bike this year. They made me run into a fence for no apparent reason while riding, thereby breaking the front wheel spoke. That I had a momentary brain freeze had nothing to do with it. The wheel was bent out of round, which was bad for a normally round object. I  replaced it, which was not an easy task, because  the manufacturer relegated a wheel more than five years old to the trash heap. Luckily E-bay had it.

Then on the Wednesday before the race, while riding my bike slowly uphill, the derailleur snapped off, lodged in the wheel and locked it up.  At a fast speed, it could have been a serious crash. What the hell. I thought, I am f##ked.  I stared at it in disbelief. This race might not happen. Luckily, a kind soul, who was an ultrarunner of course, drove me back to my car. Walking three miles in my bike shoes would have been unpleasant.

I considered my options. Maybe use my old road bike? But only three of the fifteen gears worked. Maybe it could be used to hobble through a shorter race, but riding it 56 miles was unfathomable.

I took the damaged bike to a shop, but they couldn’t get it repaired in time. Nor could they repair the road bike. Rental was a possibility, though the prospect of getting one right before a race seemed remote.  The three speed was brought on the trip as back up. At least it had wheels.

The problem with doing a race in California is the drive there. I usually take I-10, but this trip required I-8, a more southerly route that grazed the northern border of Mexico. Both roads rival each other in sheer monotony. I don’t mind driving through the remote deserts of Arizona, but the monotonous soul sucking California deserts induce desperation to be ANYWHERE ELSE, but this desolate, heat-blasted nothingness. Why do people even live here? The 112 degree temperature didn’t help.

The sand dunes turned into flat vistas of hell. It was like Midwest landscape tedium without the corn fields. The miles rolled on, and my brain felt like it was melting. I passed turn offs to Mexico and couldn’t imagine using them. Was there more of this, only Mexico? Finally, I left the barren landscape  and climbed into the mountains. The air turned blissfully cooler.

Driving south towards Chula Vista involved the gauntlet of jammed freeway traffic. This was inevitable, since no drive in southern California on a weekday could avoid the millions of cars trying to be in the same road all at once. After forever, I got to my hotel.

As soon as I got settled, I called a bike shop. They had a bike and the race was possibly saved, but I had to drive up to San Diego tomorrow. Another hoop to jump through.

As I unpacked, I discovered that I didn’t bring the filter basket for my coffee maker. This was ghastly. The room didn’t have a coffee maker and I doubted that the hotel would have coffee available race morning at O’dark thirty. Arghhh! Another problem.

The water in this picture looks deceptively clean.

Before I left to go to get the bike the next day, I found out that the swim was cancelled. I didn’t know if I was disappointed, because at the race site, the water looked scuzzy with some unidentifiable white foamy substance at the shore. I hate swimming, but a duathlon that length would hurt.

I drove up the spaghetti of freeways and got my bike. It kind of fit me. The seat  pinched my nether region, the wheels weren’t as light as my own bike’s and it had no bottle holder. It would do, though, since I had no viable alternatives.

The bike shop guy had said that this race was more likely to have the swim be cancelled due to high bacteria count, since it wasn’t near the bay inlet. Ships also spew toxic substances into the water. This is nice to knowl. And I thought our local Tempe Town Lake was bad.

Instead of a swim, the first run would be a 5k. Previous half iron duathlon experience showed how painful they could be. Near the end my feet would scream in agony to stop. My longest training run had been nine miles and this would be sixteen total. I wasn't really trained for this.

Race morning arrived and my goal was survival, so I planned to run much slower than a stand alone 5k. When I had signed up, a wisp of faint hope was there of actually doing well. Now the goal was just finishing and that in itself seemed difficult.

We had a time trial start, with staggered start times. I positioned myself near the back. This was going to be a long day. As I ran, I chatted with someone who was moving as slowly as I was. At mile two I tripped on the uneven pavement and fell hard. My knee was scraped and bloody with throbbing pain, with seventy more miles to go. My palms, trying to break the fall were also abraded. 

I cursed my clumsiness and hobbled on, embarrassed. I finished, and in transition wiped my knee off with a tiny alcohol swab useless to handle the large wound. It didn’t look like it needed stitches, at least. The blood continued to drip down my leg. 

How the bike portion on a rental bike would be was unknown. The route was a fourteen mile loop done four times with fifteen turn-arounds. This sounded tedious. The race website’s “Map My Ride” graph lied that the first seven miles had a gain of 197 feet. On this basis, I thought it would be flat.

For such a compact bike course, it wasn’t too crowded, and a USAT official actually monitored illegal drafting. My time on each loop was consistently an hour which was good enough to avoid cut offs. The ride was steady and not particularly fast.

For a state that worships freeways, this city had some truly awful roads. One section was so rough that race organizers had put pads over it, with a guy stationed at the spot to tell riders to be careful. As if a rider wouldn’t notice the asphalt moguls. It wouldn’t do if a rider was violently thrown off their bike. Between the bumpy road jarring my scraped hands on the handlebars and my uncomfortable seat jabbing into me, this section was excruciating.

In contrast, the section with three turn-arounds had blissfully smooth pavement. Normally, all the turning would be annoying. The hills were work, but better than being jolted around on a rough road.

Since, the bike didn’t quite fit me, my right knee, without the wound, hurt while climbing. The other knee throbbed a little and dripped blood, but was otherwise fine. The only way to finish this ride and end the discomfort was to keep moving forward.

After three hours, I had to stop for some more water before the last lap. The riders were mostly gone and the loops seemed to last forever. The familiar “last rider” anxiety crept in with few people to follow. Was I ever going to finish? Was I lost? The route was well marked, but I slowly got nowhere and felt off course. Finally, a bunch of kids passed me in their race, which indicated that the end was near.

The bike was much hillier than the website suggested. My three speed would have been inadequate. My Garmin came out with a total gain of 1542 feet. This isn’t terrible for a half, with nice rolling hills, but it was unexpected climbing. Map My Ride lied.

Pulling off this leg seemed like a miracle with all the bike issues. I had survived without crashing, a mechanical problem or injury. It was a relief to finish.

I changed into my running shoes and ignored my knee with the dried red stripes of blood running down my leg. The start of the first loop felt like hell because of lack of energy and dead muscles that didn’t want to move. I paid to do this, right? 

The weather was a bit warm, even with low seventies, but nothing like Arizona, where the heat would have melted me into a smoking puddle of flesh. I poured water on myself. A refreshing cool sea breeze blew. My legs were leaden and I dreaded the thought of 13.1 mile run. Then I told my mind to shut up in order to keep my sanity At previous long races, my mental state at this point in a long race was a black hole of fatigue and despair. My old friend self-doubt had come to visit. Would I ever finish? Would I make the cut offs? Would this ever end?

The remedy to stifle the mental demons was stuffing gels and salt tablets  down my mouth, though I wasn’t hungry, in hopes that they would revive me. Luckily, the aid stations had coke and ice, which are magical elixirs. The sugar in coke is an energy boost. Ice water is the only thing that helps with dehydration in a long, hard race. One aid station was out, which made me cranky, a dangerous mood for anyone that gets in my way.

A fast run was unlikely on the three loop half marathon death march. The route went through the park and followed the edge of the marina. The bike path portion out and back had an industrial feel and closed in space, even though the adjoining cement walls were graced with murals. Missing the proper turn around was a worry, since more than one race had different ones, but I managed not to screw up the directions. The last two loops felt a little better than the first.  The last loop had a 2:00 p.m. cut off for starting it, so it was motivation to push through. Time was the enemy.

My bloody knee probably attracted attention because people kept asking me if I was alright. One volunteer asked about needing medical attention and I said “later.” She said “of course”, probably thinking what a crazy person. Random strangers would cheer me, maybe out of sympathy. I never get this much attention at Arizona races with an intact knee. My new friend  asked “no more falls?" The back of the pack has a camaraderie. It can get lonely when most people have finished, so friendly words of encouragement from anybody helps.

Finally after almost eight hours, I finished in 7:49. Not quite dead last, but an actual official finish, which had eluded me last year. On a rental bike with a bloody knee. Overcoming fatigue, pain, dehydration, despair, anxiety and equipment failure is rewarding in its own strange way. It’s a way of shaking my fist at the universe that insists on throwing obstacles in my way.

I had escaped failure, despite the bike gremlins and lack of coffee. Maybe my luck had changed. Now if my bike would only stop falling apart.

Antelope Canyon Race Report

Seeing a slot canyon had been something that I always wanted to do. Social media is full of photos of these remarkable geologic formations. I am lucky enough to live in a state that has them. But like many of my goals, I think about them, but don’t act on them. Then depression sets in because I am bored. Signing up for a trail half marathon would  break me out of my inertia.

New places are great to see, but the planning, expense, and getting there is not. Travel is stressful and sometimes doesn’t seem worth it. Endless hours are required to figure out what to do with the cat, how to get there, where to eat, where to stay and what to bring. Packing takes forever. I lack someone to travel with and I drive alone, eat alone and deal with unplanned obstacles alone. Usually, I am happy afterwards, when the memory of all the hassle fades.

I had never had the urge to run a trail half marathon before, because training would entail running on trails for two hours or more. It’s exhausting with the hills, irregular terrain and the rocks waiting to trip me. My pace is slow as hell, my legs get tired and a tiny rock can catch my toe and violently send me slamming into the ground. The bruises take weeks or even months to heal. Two falls in the past had required stitches in my knees. Yet I still do this foolishness.

The finish time cut off was a concerned. We had five hours to be done. When I signed up a year ahead of time, I was injured and hobbling through my runs. Gradually, it seemed possible after some long runs. My joints still hurt, but the ache was manageable. The prospect of accomplishing a trail run of this distance was an intriguing challenge.

The race information claimed that the terrain was smooth singletrack with rolling hills and about 900 feet of elevation gain. That amount of climbing was more than the usual pavement half marathon, but I had done it before. The other distances of 100 miles, 50 miles and 55k had “sandy doubletrack.” I hoped that the half marathon didn’t have sand, but this hope would be dashed. The area was a sand farm, with wind and water breeding deep pockets of it from the rocks.

The half marathon route didn’t include the scenic features of the other routes like slot canyons, but it did have views of the Colorado River and Lake Powell. Canyons are best viewed at a leisurely pace, anyway.  Any distance other than thirteen miles was impossible to me, because suffering that much was not appealing.

The drive north was about four and a half hours, made more boring because my phone would quit playing music or play the same song over and over in the remote regions of the reservation. Why doesn’t anyone use MP3 players anymore? I longed for one because this stupid phone failed to entertain me. The local Navajo radio stations were not likely to offer alternative rock music.

 I worried about and felt guilty about leaving my needy cat with a new sitter. She would meow piteously and no one would serve her every want. She would have no ice in her water, be alone and hate it. She couldn’t go outside and drink water out of the dirty plastic container that I leave for the birds. She had to cuddle.

My usual fear of my old car breaking down on a road trip wasn’t an issue because I had just invested lots of money replacing the struts, whatever they were.  The weather was good and the traffic light with few annoying drivers. Late in the afternoon, the clouds took on colors of the rocky sandstone.

When I arrived in Page, my hotel looked like it was built recently. It was more upscale than the usual cheap Flagstaff hotels that I stay in. The room had a microwave and refrigerator, as advertised. It even had a real coffee maker. I didn’t need mine, although I still needed real coffee grounds because hotel coffee everywhere is unacceptably watery and weak.

As a bonus, the hotel was a quarter mile from a scenic view, oddly enough called “Scenic View”. The gleaming ribbon of the river could be seen hundreds of feet below and the Lake Powell Dam was to the north. I walked down and took pictures in the waning light. The rocks had a golden glow.

Going out to find a restaurant, I got lost and was headed on the way to Utah. I turned around and went out to a tavern. I had a real nice dark beer that seemed stronger than the five percent alcohol they said it was. This small town maybe wasn’t so bad if it had decent beer.

The next morning was the Lower Antelope slot canyon tour starting from a nondescript building south of town. The entrance was a short walking distance to the canyon, and required a climb down a steep ladder. The flowing rock formations were mesmerizing, catching the light with different flowing shapes. My phone camera wasn’t capturing the light well, but Photoshop would make up for its failings. The guide noted areas that were frequently photographed and would hold our phone cameras in the same spot. He pointed out formations that looked like animals or people. It was fascinating.

Looks like an eagle.

Occasionally, the wind would blow sand down the canyon. Sand rain was unexpected. The guide said that animals sometimes fall into the canyon as well. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain random creatures as well. Fishing a cow out of this hole must be a feat.

After an hour, we came out. The ordinary surface concealed the fairy land of rock below.  

The next day, I got up early to get to the race.  Finding the entrance in the dark was a concern because it was hard to find in the daytime, but they had police cars and a guy with a light. It was a chilly 43 degrees. At least it wasn’t windy. When the sun rose, the distant plateau turned pink. I jogged to warm up to be able to function and stave off the cold. Once the sun came out, it would be much warmer, so I had to decide what to wear to avoid having to carry for thirteen miles. Since it was going to be a sunny day, I erred on the side of having less on.

The first 2.2 miles were a shock, edging on despair. The soul sucking loose sand was like running on a beach, but without the joy. The route culminated in a steep uphill to the first aid station. Once on the plateau, the path was firmer, which was good because thirteen miles of sand was intolerable. The high desert  plain stretched a long ways below. I took off my over shirt, then my bike arm sleeves. Just the beginning, and already I thought this is really hard. The rolling terrain took a hard effort to run on.

The path narrowed and runners clogged the way. I had to slow down even more, if that was even possible. Most of the miles were about 14-15 minutes. Not exactly blazing, but  my expectations were low. The breeze was cold and I put back on my over shirt. It stayed on the rest of the race.

At mile 5.5 the path narrowed more. It was little defense against a sheer, bare, enormous drop off. The slope had little to stop a person who stumbled or slipped. A women in front of me freaked out. A nice guy guided her forward. I nervously stepped carefully as it looked like 500-1000 feet to the bottom.

The path finally didn’t look like imminent death and I had to stop and quickly take pictures. Time was relentlessly passing. The blue ribbon of the river was below.

The numerous selfie-takers were irritating, though they stayed out of my way. They would pass me, then slow down to take pictures. Stopping and starting for thirteen miles was idiotic. It was a struggle just to go at a slow, steady pace.

My energy flagged until the 7.2 mile aid station. I refilled my water bottle and ate one of my last remaining Powerbar gels. They aren’t made anymore, and Gu gels just doesn’t seem as energizing. Running out of water worried me, since a twelve ounce bottle only lasted me about an hour, but the day was cool enough not require constantly sucking down water.

Down a hill, and then a four lane street had to be crossed with no light or crosswalk. We were on our own. The cars stopped, but I wondered if they ever didn’t.

At some point, I realized that my shoes were full of sand. Taking them off and dumping the sand out was too much effort. My toenails would pay for it later turning colorful shades of purple and red..

I got a second wind. This part of the course was suburban boring, passing by a golf course. This  was exciting new territory after nine miles–the longest ever trail run, training or racing. So far, I was surviving and didn’t feel terrible.

I chatted with a guy who followed me. This was his first race at this distance, trail or pavement. This was ill-advised , but I can’t judge, having done stupid things as well. Most of the population thought any running was crazy, but a small portion of us thought doing physically hard stuff was “fun.” Trail running, though, was a whole new level of insanity.

The terrain reminded me of Clay Pits in McDowell Mountain Park. The ground was sun-baked, hard-packed bare dirt and fairly smooth, which was fine. The evil sand awaited again.

We had to cross the same street again. It was un-nerving.

The last aid station was at mile 12.6. The guy following me passed, but it didn’t matter since this race was mere survival and not a competition. With more water, I faced my doom.

 

Running down the hill was fun, like a giant sand dune from my Midwestern childhood.  Tripping wouldn’t matter because the sand was so soft. The fun soon turned into misery, with rolling hills of hell. Running turned into mostly walking because I had nothing left. 

The final section to the finish line had a metal ramp, which required a climb up a rocky hill to get to. Are you kidding me? Around the big rock was the finish line. What a relief. I had made it. Total time was 3:41, though that includes stopping at aid stations and taking pictures. I probably actually ran about 3:25.  The Wildflower half iron run was about a thousand feet, but none of my other half marathons have  come close to that amount of climbing.

Though a trail half marathon is relatively short for ultras, it was a whole different animal than shorter trail runs. It was mostly endurance and not speed. The distance was not easy, but the difficulty still surprised me. The 4,000 feet elevation and the very dry climate might have had  an effect. The weather was cool enough not to over heat, but strangely chilled me for the rest of the day. This is unusual for a pure running race, especially in Phoenix.

The better runners probably blasted through the sand, but to me it very difficult. It was 3.3 total grinding miles, with the start being 2.2 and the end being 1.2.  It was incomprehensible to face that after doing a longer distance. I would cry. 

In the end, despite the stress and hassle, it was unique to run in this strange, austere landscape of rocks, sand, plateaus and river. Discomfort can bring happiness. I saw a slot canyon, Horseshoe Bend and ran a trail marathon. My legs hurt but my usual fog of depression lifted. 

 I might even do another half trail marathon, though not if it has a lot of rocks. Or sand. Or hills.

 

Rockhopper Xterra Race Report

No swim for us. Just as well.

Mountain biking is fun, but it’s difficult; a strenuous exercise in avoiding bodily injury. An off road triathlon with swimming and trail running added in is even more intimidating. All those rocks waiting to trip me or crash my bike. I signed up for an Xterra in Papago Park, but Mother Nature decided to run amuck in October and open the spigots. Torrential rain had come last Sunday with a few monumental pours during the week.

The day before the race was also stormy. The swim was cancelled due to fears that a swimmer would pick up some sort of disease in Tempe Town Lake from the bacteria floating downstream.

This was better than not having the race at all, but it was disruptive because I had trained for the swim and now wouldn’t get to do it. It was the last triathlon of the season and  no swim was disappointing even though I hate it. I never said I was logical.

I was stressed  and had my usual pre-race lethargy, not feeling up to exertion that it entailed. Papago Park is rocky and eroded with loose dirt and had a big hill that I could never climb on the bike.

We would do the run loop twice, which meant more trail running. I worried that all the rain might have eroded the routes and made them slippery.

I  visualized my bike covered in sticky mud and putting the dirty thing into my car afterwards. A rainy race is ugly. It takes forever to get slimy mud off of a bike, because wet desert dirt has a special greasy quality.

No. Please, no.

At the site, all the flooding on the banks of Tempe Town Lake surprised me. Water totally submerged the swim ramp.  Transition had a vast puddle in front of it, but luckily, had enough dry area to walk around it. The  sandy ground avoided the prospect of tromping through sticky mud.

I got my stuff organized and did a warm up run. Always on the lookout for birds, I spotted a big Harris’s Hawk that sat on a pole. The big guy was not impressed with me. There were also Great Blue Herons and Cormorants flying over the lake. The place was a virtual bird airport.

We started and of course everyone ran ahead of me. My legs didn’t want to move fast, weighted down with early morning fatigue. The hawk was still there, watching us fools.  

One section required scrambling up boulders. Where the hell did that come from? I had done this race before, but I didn’t remember that absurdity. 

The trails didn’t seem particularly wet or muddy, except in a few instances. The total distance was 2.56 miles. I was the last finisher at thirty-four minutes.

I had bike anxiety, doubting my ability to to deal with the terrain. Rocks. So many rocks. Though mountain biking is enjoyable, the fear of bodily injury is always there. The ground can shift under the wheels and requires finesse and strength to stay upright. Half a mile in, the bike slipped on a rough section of rocks and I fell hard on my butt. Ouch. Of course a volunteer watched. I got up, embarrassed, and continued. 

The hills were a challenge that I struggled to descend, lacking the nerve and skill. I walked my bike down the “Steps”, a series of death ledges on a steep slope. I have never figured how to descend it on the bike without killing myself.

I walked up more climbs, not having enough engine to ascend them. My legs couldn’t pedal hard enough not to tip over. It was discouraging, especially since I was last on the run and behind already. A number of faster cyclists lapped me. 

The weather was still fairly cool, but I drank a lot of water as my throat as dry as the desert air. My legs were tired from the run, and not swimming first made the bike a lot tougher. The first lap was about fifty minutes, which was about what it was the last time I did this race. 

The second lap went better. I biked up climbs that I had previously walked. Fewer people tried to pass me, so I didn’t have to stop for them. Fatigue made me less cautious. My mind tried to fight off being discouraged. At least I now knew the obstacles on the trail. Most people were done with the bike, but a few stragglers were out there. Maybe I would not be last on the bike.

I was almost done with the last loop when I miscalculated a line, slipped off the bike, and veered into a Creosote bush, which stopped my momentum. I scratched my ankle, but managed to stay upright. It could have been worse with all the prickly plants around. Cactus needles are not fun to dig out of flesh. My legs were pretty trashed and banged up. My mind continued to argue with me. How the hell was I going to run? Can I quit now? I was really thirsty.

I got near transition and of course everyone was milling around because they were done. This was irritating. I changed shoes, racked my bike and took off for the second run. Total bike time was 1:40 on my watch, which didn’t seem that bad even though it felt like forever. Xterra miles are longer than normal miles.

The hawk was gone from its perch. It was probably fed up with all this commotion and was off to catch some live, bloody prey. 

Just off the bike, the run felt bad--as in my legs cried to be put out of their misery. Gel and salt tablets staved off death. Late in a race, when most people are done, my mind devises strategies to salvage my ego. The  course still had some stragglers, so  I could pass them and not be last. Being last is a common occurrence for me in Xterra races.

The terrain wasn’t any easier the second time, but I made peace with it. No swim made the total run mileage longer than usual and harder physically.  In the last, flat part of the course, I picked up speed and managed to run a minute faster than the first run.  Time for the whole race was 3:04. 

A little more lake than we needed.