Esprit de She Race Report

Some people hate duathlons, but I think getting an rare opportunity to do one was a bonus. I liked duathlons and was used to the discomfort. With no swim, I was not left way behind by everyone else when the race has barely started. I wish more existed, but few people want to do them for reasons that are incomprehensible to me.

Esprit de She is usually a triathlon, but Tempe Town Lake had been drained to put in a new dam. Covering all the junk on the bottom with water again had taken too long to have a swim portion. The event was turned into a duathlon (run, bike, run), which suited me fine. The paralyzing terror of getting in the dirty Tempe Town Lake water in the awful early morning was avoided. Not having swim gear was a lot less crap to carry. It was disconcerting, though, somehow. I didn’t miss swimming in the murky lake, but I felt a little unsettled because it wasn’t the same routine as for a triathlon. It was less time to get ready and more time to worry about what I had forgotten. I failed to get an insulated water bottle for the bike. It was always something. I racked my foggy brain on what to do. I had a regular one, but the water would get warm. The bike ride was short, so I could get away with it and just suck it up.

Nope. Not getting in that water.

My memory also failed to recall how much a sprint race hurt, especially a duathlon. Pain, more pain, please kill me. I was soon reminded.

The start of the 1.6 mile run was a time trial with five people starting at a time on the pathway. It went quicker than I thought it would. I didn’t feel particularly energetic and couldn’t get my engine going. It was too early in the morning and my body wanted to go back to bed, not do something strenuous that required a lot of heavy breathing. I don’t know if I have ever started a duathlon this early at 6:30 a.m. I had some gel-- a sticky, drippy liquid nutrition sugar product-- beforehand, and it was probably a mistake because I had heartburn even though I had warmed up. Heartburn was a constant companion on runs and the stabbing chest sensation didn’t help my speed. My stomach was a bitch. After ten minutes of pain, it eased up.

The twelve mile bike ride hurt my legs. With all the beginners, I had to pass a lot of people, which was more effort than I wanted to make. I hummed along, then encountered a lumbering rider that forced me to speed up to go around. As usual, some of them had no concept of “blocking”. Two riders were blatantly riding two abreast, in the way of everyone. They were having a conversation of some sort, like this was a social outing. I guess the rules didn’t apply to them. I was glad I didn’t have to do the tedious route twice. The route through Tempe was rolling hills, but mostly flat with a freeway overpass thrown in. I must have done it before at least fifty times.

I was more awake for the second 1.69 mile run. As I was starting it, I encountered the 5k walkers across the path. What the f#@k?  It took me a minute to comprehend what the hell they were doing there. A 5k race was associated with the duathlon, but the herd was in no hurry and I was. Strolling along slowly in my way was rude, when I wanted to go hard and fast. Stay to the right you idiots! I passed someone in my age group, but I wasn’t sure. The secret to a duathlon is to not to die in the second run. A lot of people didn’t realize this and I used it to my advantage. They also didn’t know how excruciating the last run was, an experience I was all too familiar with. I was happy with the time result in spite of the walker blockade.

I felt like I usually do after a sprint–like I had been hit by a bus. Running and biking as hard as I can is  always a shock when I finally stopped. At least the weather was cool, so fainting from heat exhaustion could be avoided. The Mimosa I had made me feel a little light-headed, though. 

Incredibly, I was first in my age group, but I wasn’t sure how many were in it. It turned out that there were eleven and that I beat second place by six seconds. Shocking. I would have never done that if it had been a triathlon. 

Duathlons rule.

                                                                   

Powerman Duathlon Race Report

 I don't know why these people seem to be sinking into the metal.

I am a sucker for any multisport event that doesn’t involve a swim, because I suck at swimming. Off road is even better because it’s an excuse to be slow, which is natural for me. McDowell

Mountain Park has some of the best mountain biking around with the challenging trails and the beautiful scenery. Still, the premise of this race is that a racer would want to ride the Long Trail twice. I always thought that once was bad enough, so committing to this duathlon made me nervous. Throw in running and it was even more implausible.

The Long Trail is a trail engineered for racing, assuming that a rider would have this ability on a mountain bike. I don’t. I rode it many times, but never had been able to ever avoid walking in certain parts. To dismount in mountain biking was to give up, a lack of ability to ride a difficult feature, a choice of safety rather than risk bodily injury.

The trail designers put in cute little wooden signs to name the features. When I came upon one, I knew something bad was coming up. “Red Dot Hill” has a tough climb, then a terrifying rugged stone drop off. “Cactus Corner” is lined with vicious Cholla cactus to impale anyone who slipped off into their spiny embrace. “The Step” meant get off the bike to go around the stupid rock ledge or go to the by-pass.

 My fastest time was an hour, a blazing eight miles an hour. It’s one-way single track, so once a person is on it, they are committed to the insanity. Twice would be a long haul. I questioned the wisdom of this. Still, it would be kind of bad-ass, especially since I would probably be the oldest person to attempt it in this race.

 Mountain biking is a young person’s sport, if young is defined as under fifty. The normal sparseness of my age group is even greater. People must worry about broken bones or worse, dying. I still like the sport because it is more mentally engaging than road biking. Every feature on the trail has to be analyzed right before it’s ridden. The path undulates and curves, climbs and dips. 

 The variety of this ride also made it more strenuous. Down-hills meant sliding the butt back and controlling the speed. Up-hills meant sudden bursts of power and a lot of pressure on the pedals to not lose momentum. Sixteen miles of this is exhausting and daunting. 

Beside the physical strain, my mind fights the terrain. Even to start it to resist the dread of what’s coming. Tension drains the body, so being relaxed increases endurance or at least makes jarring ride more bearable. Besides if I thought about how difficult the trail was, I would go insane.

Race day, I got to the park and racked my bike. Unfortunately, my finger was in the way. I didn’t notice until later that night that it was purple and swollen. I did notice that it hurt like hell right after I did it.

Mountain bikers are generally more friendly than regular triathletes, so I chatted with the person next to me. Everyone had a better bike than me—carbon fiber, dual suspension, smaller cranks. At least it was a good excuse to be slower.

My strategy for the first run was take it easy to save my energy for the strenuous bike ride. The air horn sounded and we took off. I was soon alone on the undulating trail. The cool air turned hot. My heart rate went way up even though I held back. Far away were blue mountains. Poppies dotted the ground in sparse patches.

Finished, I ran into an empty transition to start the dreaded bike. My energy level was good, but I knew what was coming and it was scary. Right away, the bike path had a sudden, steep drop off, immediately followed by a climb. I had learned to stay in a low gear to make it back up that hill. Then, a fairly easy patch accented with a nasty climb with loose rocks. I often walked this due toe the boulders that threw me off the right line for ascending. A mistake could land me into the thorny desert flora lining the path. 

I was mostly alone, with people passing me on their second lap. I was last to start the course and all I could do is press on and not think about it.

Once at the top of the lung-busting climb, it was smooth for a while. The fun of a BMX type set of bumps was lost on me, being too slow to get much “air.” Then rocks and more rocks. I don’t have the dual suspension that would make bumpy ground bearable and negotiating them involved standing on the pedals and generating enough momentum to go forward without falling over. Sharp pain pierced my knees.  The multitude of stony obstacles were impossible to avoid, so they just had to be accepted. The zen of rocks. I still hated them, though. 

A variation after that was rocky steps. Bump, bump, bump, bump! Repeat two more times. After that it was less strenuous, but by that point, even the small hills were an effort. By this time, I noticed the effect of the run beforehand. My legs rebelled and wouldn’t exert enough force on the pedals to get up a hill. Fatigue had come to stay. Two more hair-raising steep drop- offs, a struggle uphill and one lap was done. My athletic inadequacies haunted me.

The second lap was just me and the EMT guy parked at the service road. If I was going to get injured, I guess it had better be at these junctures because it would take a while to find my body. My mental state went downhill with my physical one. Not only was the terrain difficult, I was dead last and the worst at riding it. My mind had to focus at the task at hand. No time for whining. At least the stabbing pain in my knees wasn’t as bad as last week’s ride. The legs were gelatinous, though.

 Finally, the second lap was done. I came into transition and saw most people had finished and I hated them. Most of them had done the road portion. It wasn’t easy, but it was faster and they didn’t have to worry about riding rocks, running into cacti or riding off a ledge. 

Wussies. I wondered if I would be alone on the last run. 

Kind of what I felt like on the last run.

 The first mile was bearable and slow, then a deep misery set in. My normal nutrition didn’t perk me up and I couldn’t go any faster. I passed an aid station and remembered that they have coke. Sometimes its magic properties of sugar and caffeine will save a race or at least make me want to live. I drank the elixir and immediately felt better. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? The last mile was bearable.

After three hours, forty-three minutes, I was done. I was totally dead last in my division, but had done one of the most difficult duathlons in my life. The accomplishment was both depressing and gratifying at the same time. The implausible was less so. Bad ass would have to do.

Switching training modes

I am temporarily switching from ironman training with lots of volume but less intensity(uncomfortable for a long time), to shorter and more intense workouts(shorter and more agonizing) to get ready for the World Duathlon Championships in two weeks. Gulp! It's a weird switch to do in the middle of ironman training and a little disturbing because I am losing time for building volume. But I can't very well pass up a chance to be in a WORLD Championship.

I am not ordinarily big on duathlons. I suck at swimming, but it is easier than running. But chances are that if a qualifier involved swimming I would never qualify. I like mountain bike duathlons but they are hard to come by. I raced in the World qualifier as a training race because it was local. I placed sixth in my age group, but three people dropped out and there I was. It sounds cool at any rate and you get to wear a uniform with your name on your butt like the pros do.

It's a 10k run, 40k bike and a 5k run on a race track in Concord, N.C. It's like a reverse olympic triathlon but instead of swimming, you are running a 5k. A true painfest. When I raced the qualifier in February, the switch from the 3.1 first mile run to the bike felt like someone had wacked my legs with a stick. When I got done with the race I felt incoherent from the exertion. Duathlon are HARD!

At least it gives me a break from ironman training. Instead of riding a bike six hours on the Bee Line Highway, I will be running and riding my ass off in North Carolina. I don't expect to win anything, but it sounds like a fun thing to experience. Maybe I will see some cute guy in tight spandex flying by me. Maybe it will be something great to remember when I am back to spending numerous hours biking and when my feet are tired from three hours of running.