Duathlon Worlds Race Report

The Duathlon World Championships were in Gijon, Spain. Normally, I wouldn’t have any business doing a World Championship because in theory, you are supposed to be the best in the world. In my age bracket, though, competitors are fewer in number. The top eighteen were qualified to go to this race, but there were only eighteen in my age group. I am not competitive and just participate for the experience. The disparity in the number of competitors in a particular age group leads to a Duathlon World Championship either having racers that are either very fast or older. A group of sixty to eighty year olds race in the World Championships every year in different countries. They wear jackets with numerous patches collected for every race they do over the years. Everyone knows each other and are friendly and it’s a big social event. Some of them are even fast and could actually beat me.

Duathlon is the orphan child of multisport. Fewer people do them as opposed to triathlons. There aren’t as many races available and most are shunned by triathletes. . A duathlon is a run, bike, run, which is harder than a swim, bike, run. Duathlon has it adherents, however, which are people who are great at running and/or hate swimming. I run better than I swim, therefore I like it. I feel less inadequate not being sucked down by a slow swim time.

It was a difficult, grueling 6,000 mile, twenty-three hour trip to get there by plane, another plane and an interminable bus ride. I had to wheel a forty pound bike box around airports. I don’t speak Spanish and most of the citizens didn’t speak English. The customs were different, like eating dinner late at night when I normally wanted to go to bed. I was uncomfortable even walking into a restaurant. Eating out was an adventure because I wasn’t quite sure what I was ordering. I also found out that all the good restaurants are closed between four and eight o’clock. I felt like a fish out of water most of the time because I couldn’t communicate with people or read the signs.

I had been to Europe before, but with my father, who was fluent in the particular language of the country we were going to. Knowing the language is definitely an advantage. My father got into an disagreement with a hotel clerk and won the dispute because he could argue in Italian. He would sneer at people that went on tours and never ventured into local shops or restaurants. I now understood that herd mentality. It was frightening for me being alone in a strange country.

Initially I hesitated to go to Spain. I had never heard of Gijon and the only information I found on the internet about it was that it was an industrial town on the northern coast of Spain. This did not appeal to me much. Plus there was the expense of the trip, the fact that it was a month after an ironman and I would be traveling alone in a foreign country. Gijon was about 250 miles from Madrid and required either a long train or bus ride after ten hours of flying. However, some instinct in me made me take a chance and venture on the trip. It seemed a chance for a great experience.

My first glimpse of Spain from a bus window wasn’t all that impressive. From Madrid to the coast, the land was arid and desolate. It looked like eastern Washington state on steroids. Nothing but a few ruined buildings and dried up fields with dead crops. After seven hours on the bus to travel two hundred miles, the area changed into green hills shrouded in mist.

Gijon turned out to be a charming city. My hotel was across from a large beach named the Playa de San Lorenzo. I could watch the waves come in. A marine layer kept the air cool in the sixties and seventies, but once in a while, the sun broke through. The beach had a walkway that always had pedestrians strolling on it. You could look to the west and see a stretch of old buildings and a church. It had narrow streets with lots of shop, restaurants and bars. People were always out exercising-walking, surfing, rollerblading, running, or biking. I don’t think they spent hours in front of a computer. The town has a large park with an aviary and a playground. It has numerous museums like the Pueblo de Asturias, an aquarium, gardens(Atlantic Botanical) and some ancient ruins(Roman baths), none of which I got around to seeing.

I never really got used to the nine hour time difference between Spain and Phoenix. Other than the first night, when I was exhausted and slept for twelve hours, I didn’t sleep well. The sun doesn’t rise until after eight, which didn’t make early rising easy. I ended up walking a lot because the city is interesting to walk around in and because the race venue is two miles from my hotel.

The language barrier was difficult even for the race. Most of the people in Gijon did not know English, including the race volunteers. I almost got bodymarked in a different age group. I had to rely on asking racers who knew English if I had a question.

The difficulties of being in a foreign country were eased by having team mates to talk to. We were fellow comrades in a sense, sharing the difficulties of traveling and finding a decent restaurant. You get to know people when you are stuck on an eight hour bus ride. We have to chat just to keep our sanity. I also thought it interesting to casually talk to someone from Britain or South Africa. Standing in line, I noticed a Brit that was trying to soak up some sunshine. I told him we avoid it in Arizona because we have three hundred days of sunshine a year. He said he gets maybe one day.

Race day, we had to be in our corral twenty minutes before starting. The five kilometer run started on the stadium track. Prior to the start, people ran around in the small track area like rats in a cage to warm up. The course then winds through the streets and through a park over a small cobblestone section past a duck pond and back into the stadium for the second 2.5 kilometer lap. My group started and of course everyone got way ahead of me. All the racers hated the cobblestone section in the park. I was glad I didn’t have to do it six times, like the standard race. The run has a slight hill, but it wasn’t really noticeable in the sprint race. I finished in 28:57, which seemed unimpressive for me since most people ran a twenty minute five kilometers, but not too bad for me.

The transition flow from run to bike to run was kind of complex and confusing to most people even with a walk through. We ran down a track to some hedge opening, turned and ran north then down the racks and then through another hedge opening or south to the bike exit. It was a lot of U turns and involved a lot of running on dewy grass.

The bike was the best part of the course. It started out flat and then climbed a narrow two lane road with a lot of twisting and turning through semi rural country side. It climbed for about five kilometers averaging a four percent grade, but some of it was about a much steeper eight percent for short sections. I could see the surrounding town on the hills sometimes. There were nice views of a building that looked like a French Chateau, a building that looked liked an English parliament structure and the surrounding city on the hills. The road was two lanes and narrow with blind turns.

By the time I got to the top and started the descent, everyone was ahead of me and I didn’t have to deal with too many riders. It was the one advantage of being slow. It was a blast going through all the turns at 24-30 mph without worrying about cars. The whole road was closed to traffic. After the hill descent, the route goes past the beach on the main city ocean side thoroughfare, then turns around back to go to transition. Having a city street mostly to myself on a bike was a novelty. I eased off the last two kilometers to save energy for the last run. I also didn’t want to bother to pass the heavyset Canadian guy in front of me. My bike speed was disappointing to me, but it wasn’t a fast course.

The last 2.5 kilometer run, which was the same as the first run laps was painful because I ran as hard as I could. The whole point of a short race for me is to push past my pain barrier to see how far my legs would take me. I was surprised that it took 13:19(8:35 minute miles) after that hard bike. I was happy that I could run that fast.

It was fun to race hard and short. Despite the difficulties of traveling and being in Spain, I was glad I resisted all the reasons for not going. Sometimes, I have to ignore the cautionary voices in my head that tell me that I shouldn’t do something and go with my gut instinct. This trip took me out of my comfort zone and into a different world. I didn’t fit into that world, but it was fascinating to observe.

Ironman Canada Race Report

The journey to this race was as long as the god awful two lane roads that I drove to get here. Penticton, B.C. is a five hour drive from Spokane, Washington. Frequently, like the drive, I was not sure if I was following the right direction. From the time I signed up, I was worried about how to train, where to train, what to train with. I picked this race because I wanted to see if I could do the challenging bike route and because people said the bike wasn’t that bad. I was convinced that they were lying. I rode the hilliest bike course in training that I could, but I was always slow. I couldn’t train as hard as I thought I should because I biked and ran in intense heat. I would get up before dawn to catch the hour or two before the sun and the heat drained the life out of me. I climbed hills on the bike and wondered if I was going to succumb to heat exhaustion in the middle of no where. I doubted that I could make the bike cut off. The bike route has two huge climbs and I didn’t know if I could make up for the slowness of my ascents on the rest of the course.

But standing on the beach of Okanagan Lake at the starting line, a weird sense of calm invaded my brain. The water was a deep blue, surrounded by the rugged, rocky, tree strewn hills. I decided my mental strategy was to take everything as it was happening and not worry about what was going to happen. Otherwise, the whole event was overwhelming. I just couldn’t picture myself being able to do the swim and the bike. I was about to start a huge race, but I was not thinking about it.

I went over to the left part of the starting line, hoping that the swim would be less crowded. A lot a people decided to do the same thing. Supposedly, 2830 people started. I found a friend who was attempting his first ironman race. He was going to pace off of me. The blind leading the blind. The gun went off and the water churned with the masses ahead of me. I waded into the water. When it was clear, I started swimming. I only thought about getting from buoy to buoy and I tried to stay calm. I hate the ironman 2.4 mile length swim and I didn’t want to think about how long it would take. The water was 70 degrees, but it was choppy and had swells. It was worse the farther out you got. Oddly enough, some swimmers were as slow as I and I could draft off of them briefly. I am usually alone in the swim with everyone ahead of me. I had to avoid the hazards of the flailing arms and legs of backstrokers and breast strokers who were having trouble with the swim.

At the swim turn they didn’t have the traditional house boat, just a lame white Subaru buoy that was hard to see. A fair number of swimmers were still with me at this point. My calf kept cramping. I had to hang onto a kayak at one point to stretch it. It wasn’t bad, but it was unnerving. I never really got cold.

I finally got to the end, spotted a volunteer in the water and bee-lined for him so that I could use him to help me stand up. I promptly got another calf cramp. I walked over the rocks and sand and I finished in about 1:56, a record for me. What the hell? Somewhere in cyberspace people were noting my time online. I thought about that every time I went over a timing mat. Friends not here in person were out there in spirit. So far, this was going to be a good day.

I went through transition to gear up for the bike. My next 112 mile test was coming.

The bike actually felt good on the rolling hills. I went through the town past the vineyards and small towns and farms selling peaches, tomatoes and other fruit. I was actually happy and having fun. It was a joy to be riding a bike in a beautiful setting. I averaged about 16.8 mph. I was trying to conserve energy because I knew what was coming. The evil Richter pass. The 11k climb was hard and long and it started to get hot. The crest of the first section, you are greeted by an announcer, music and people cheering. It made me smile. The incline isn’t continuous, but has dips, so I was not sure where exactly the summit was. I pass by “Spotted Lake”, a weird lake with large circles of something on the surface. Then it was a steep climb to the summit. The surrounding views were spectacular with mountains sweeping past the road. After that there were a series of hills to climb. My legs were starting getting tired. I was hot and thirsty. I had to stop at almost every aid station for ice and water. I couldn’t seem to get enough salt tablets and water to avoid feeling dehydrated. I didn’t think it was going to be in the nineties here. Isn’t Canada supposed to be cool?

Some nasty soul had put tacks in the road, but I managed to avoid the them because the race people had found out about it and were steering people away. One of the fears that had dogged me was getting a flat. A flat tire could have meant that I didn’t finish the bike course because of the extra time to fix it.

I reached the start of an out and back in the course and promptly got a bad leg cramp just as I reached a photographer. I am sure that was going to be a great picture. I think I was O.K. on time at this point, but I didn’t want to fall behind. I know people who hate this section, but I just wanted to get the hell out of it. A volunteer yelled that I was running out of time, although I was still had enough. It make me nervous and I picked up speed a little. I got another cramp and grabbed my leg to relieve it. The heat continued to nag at me.

I started the long climb to Yellow Lake and I made the mistake of throwing my bottle away, thinking that this was an aid station with all the discarded bottles. It wasn’t and I had to climb the rest of the way without water. I kept telling myself that I will get through this section. Times like this in the race was where I was testing myself. I was desperately thirsty by the time I got to the next aid station. I enjoyed passing people with fancy race wheels. I didn’t have any and thought Really? You have fancy wheels and are twenty years younger than me and I am passing you?

After the summit, I expected it to get easier at about mile ninety two, but it seemed to take a long time to get a good descent. I heard that a head wind was making gaining speed more difficult. I had more leg cramps. Seven miles to go out of 112. I was still concerned about the bike cut off, but I thought I had enough time. I started thinking about running 26.2 miles and told my mind to shut up. One mile at a time. I got into transition a little after five. I quietly whooped in triumph. I had made it. I will finish. The 7:53 hour time was only ten minutes slower than Arizona Ironman on a much harder course. Another time probably noted somewhere by someone watching me.

I didn’t feel all that great, but I was functional. The volunteer thought I was disoriented, but I thought I was just tired and dehydrated. Sweat stung my eyes. I struggled to put on my socks and steel myself for the next leg.

It was still hot when I started the out and back run. I could see all the people in town having dinner and I envied them. Then again, they couldn’t call themselves ironmen. They wouldn’t have what I was about to have. I had a goal of doing at least fifteen minute miles so that I could at least finish. I was going to walk up the hills and then run down them. It was going to take longer to come back than to go out. I saw people coming in who were about to end their day. I saw bike riders going past that weren’t going to make the cut off. I felt bad for them.
I slogged along. The miles passed slowly. I ate Pepsi, soup, oranges, pretzels, gels and bananas. None of the food I ate gave me any energy that I could tell. The second wind never came. I didn’t have any digestive issues, but I got tired of the food after a while. I was just exhausted. Local citizens had put out sprinklers for us to run through to brave the heat. I liked how they sat on their lawn chairs and made a social event out of spectating. They brought an energy to the race. They kept us going.

I ran/walked the course. I gave up running up the hills. Each mile was an painful effort. At least it was less hot when the sun started going down. I almost cried with relief when I got to the turn around at 13.1 miles. It had the requisite ironman drunk race watchers. It was getting dark and I wondered how the road would be with no light.

It turned out to be pitch black. No streetlights and no moon provided illumination, so the road was very difficult to see. It would have been nice to have a headlight. Every time my eyes adjusted to the dark, a car would come along and blind me. It was irritating. It was strange being out in the woods with the tall pine trees, dark brilliantly starry sky and the light reflecting off the lake. I could see a surreal line of glow circles where people a head of me were trudging. I kept looking for mile markers to count down the miles.

It was a relief to get to where there were street lights. I just wanted to be done. A deserted back commercial stretch on with hotels and malls on Main Street was tedious because there weren’t many people and it went uphill. I was mostly walking by this point. My legs were toast. The last three miles seemed to take forever. The final stretch on Lakeshore Drive was better because I had people cheering me on. One pudgy guy was dressed in a bra and a grass skirt cheering for us. It made me smile. I smelled ice cream and said “ice cream” and a guy said “not yet”. I laughed. More than once I saw the sign “Pain is temporary, pride is forever.” Isn’t it the truth?

I tried to get motivated to at least run to the brightly lit finish line, the goal I had been chasing all day. I made sure to high five people. It seemed almost anticlimactic. Maybe it just takes a while for the accomplishment to sink in. I missed the accustomed United States announcer because he gets off of his podium, revs up the crowd and says “you ARE an ironman”. The Canadian announcer read your name off, but it was low key and kind of a snooze. At least it’s the end of the torture. Total run time was 6:15, which was sadly the fastest for any marathon I have done, even with all the walking.

I had my doubts about finishing this race. One of the reasons I signed up for this race was to see if I could do it. Training was difficult and the mental preparation was even worse because all of the fears of the unknowns of the terrain, the weather and the logistics. Even worse than the physical training was managing the prospect of failure. When I actually saw the course, I couldn’t picture finishing it. The undulating hills seemed to promise disaster. It looked impossible. I blocked out the fear, took a leap of faith and moved forward. The body will follow the mind and the mind is powerful.

Jordan Rapp, the men’s winner, said “ You do an Ironman because you want to reach the stars. And you want to do it the hard way, because that is what makes it special.” I don’t know about reaching the stars, but I was definitely flying.

Road Trip

Four Corners

Eighteen years ago, in April, I, my three month old daughter Melissa and her father traveled by car from Illinois to Arizona to make a new home. Her father left Arizona two years ago, and she stayed with me. Recently, I drove with Melissa to Kansas City, Missouri, so that she could drive to Virginia with her father to attend college in Washington, D.C. He flew in to met her and I flew back to Phoenix by myself. It was like we had come full circle, but in a different way that I had anticipated.


I initially dreaded this trip. It was 1,400 miles. The S.U.V. had 100,000 miles on it and had been in two accidents. My daughter had wanted to do it in two days, but I refused. It made me tired just to think about it. I didn’t know how well she would drive or if I would end up driving mostly myself. I was in my heaviest volume of ironman training and I had to fit in a six hour bike ride the day before and a three hour run the day after. It was also hot everywhere, since the rest of the United States decided to imitate Phoenix and be ungodly unbearable in the summer.

The first day, I had planned to drive to Cortez, Colorado in the southwest part of the state. It was a good thing that we took a S.U.V., because Melissa decided to bring her clothes, anime costumes, wigs on wig heads, most of her books, DVD’s, a ratty comforter, a sewing machine and a sewing dress form. I could barely fit my one suitcase in. At least we could see out the back, at my insistence. We both had MP3 players that we could use in the car instead of the radio, so that we could drive each other crazy with the other’s music.

I had the first leg, driving up to Flagstaff. I was kind of cranky and found driving up and down mountains on I-17 really annoying. I wanted it to be flat and clear of traffic and it wasn’t. I had just done this drive last weekend and I was tired of it. Where the hell did all these slow trucks and campers come from anyway? Why were they in my way? We stopped in Flagstaff for some lunch. I futilely tried to find somewhere decent to eat near the highway, but gave up and ate fast food instead. The joys of road traveling.

We went north through Indian country. Melissa admired the beauty of the mesas and rock formations. The afternoon light cast shadows in various faint rainbow hues on the distant ancient land. We had driven through this area in the winter for ski trips, but she was usually sullen and not engaged in the trip. She liked looking at the cows. She liked looking at the ruined buildings that inexplicably had large Indian heads painted on them. She had seen all this before why was she just noticing it now? It was like she was seeing with new eyes. I pointed out a verdant canyon with sheep grazing in it. She was delighted. She marveled that people living out here would go many miles just to get basic supplies when she was too lazy to sometimes drive three blocks to go to the bank. When you live in a large urban area, you forget that driving away places you in large empty areas that people actually live in.

I had a different take on the scenery. Despite the beauty, the landscape was empty in an oppressive way. It stretched for miles with little human habitations to interrupt the horizon. If we broke down, help was long way off, if we even had cell reception. I felt a little anxious.

We stopped in Kayenta for gas. Kayenta seemed like it had seen better days, if it ever had better days. It is the place where there is a Code Talkers exhibit at a Burger King. Tourist stop there on their way to Monument Valley. It had a dusty, desolate air, but it had a McDonald’s where my daughter could get a Café Mocha.

My daughter took a turn driving and I got to listen to her strange music. Korean pop, which I hated, Finnish rock, which I didn’t understand and oddly music from the Broadway play The Book of Mormon. Shocking to me, she actually had a few songs that I had.

She wanted to stop at the Four Corners monument, so I let her. I think this tourist trap is lame. It where Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico and Utah meet, but it actually slightly off. It’s three dollars a pop, but at least it benefits the Indians. We took a few pictures, then continued on to Cortez. It was late afternoon and the light was orange on the mountains. The rocks reminded of ancient temples. It seemed unusual to see the Durango ski resort without snow.

We found our hotel and had food at a bad Mexican restaurant because we could walk to it. The first day of driving was done and we had survived. I had forgotten the rewards of road trips, which was seeing new places and getting away from my ordinary life. It seemed like a long time since a road trip wasn’t totally tedious. Traveling with my daughter was actually fun.

The next day’s trip was to Denver to stop at my niece’s house. Melissa wanted to stay south and head east, then head north. I assumed that the roads in southern Colorado were mostly flat. I was wrong. The road started weaving past rushing rivers and heading over mountains. River running must be a big industry here with all the river rapids. A section of the road went through Pagosa Springs. It looked like a touristy town with all the cutesy shops and people clogging the streets. I think there’s a brewery here. Too bad we didn’t have time to stop and explore the place. It looked interesting. Maybe road trips should be more leisurely once in a while.

With all the small towns, there was a surprising lack of gas stations and places to eat. The scenery was pretty with the forests and the mountains, but a pain to drive. Many campers got in my way. I was getting cranky wondering if there was any place to stop. The overloaded S.U.V. was sucking gas and moving like an overweight cow over the hills. Finally, we found a sandwich place and some overpriced gas.

Melissa took over driving. It was back to Korean pop. The drive was uneventful except for being forced off the freeway due to an accident. Luckily Denver is built on a grid and we could get back to where we wanted to go. We found my niece’s place after getting lost in a similarly named cul de sac. The streets circle around and you never seem to get where you want to go.

My niece is married and has a one year-old boy, a hyper dog and a neurotic cat. The boy likes to stack cans, then put them back again. He is mellow but changes mood instantly. I remember when Melissa was like that-changing moods, not stacking cans. We can’t understand his babble yet. He’s fun to watch, but I am glad I don’t have a small child anymore. They take all of your attention. I don’t have the energy anymore to deal with that.

The next day was six hundred miles, mostly in Kansas. We headed out of Denver, and it immediately looked like Kansas, even if it wasn’t. Maybe the Colorado border should have been at Denver so that Colorado could avoid all the monotony. The scenery was mostly empty rural land, with a slightly rolling fields. Few towns or even animals were to be seen on the highway. The first lunch stop was Limon at a McDonalds. Every little town seemed to have a McDonald’s. It’s was Sunday, so the little old ladies were dressed up like they just came from church. I tried to imagine life in a small rural town where your big social event was going to church, then McDonald’s. I can’t and I didn’t want to.

When we were leaving, my daughter told me that the church lady’s daughter made the most racist remark ever. A black man came into the place and church lady remarked that he had the blackest ever skin she had seen. Her daughter said “dark like a black monkey”. Melissa said she couldn’t believe that the lady would let her daughter talk like that. I wasn’t surprised, but the concept was new to her. I told her that my Kansas resident grandfather said when Martin Luther King was assassinated that “ the niggers were all going to rise up now”. That was over forty years ago, but prejudice still lingers in Limon, Colorado.

Why Black People May Seem Exotic in Limon

We hit Kansas. My cell phone magically lost another hour in the middle of no where. I have a bad attitude about Kansas. I don’t like flat and I don’t like wheat fields. My mother grew up in Kansas and she hated it, so I adopted some of that contempt. I think she found small town life boring and parochial. Usually I am traveling through Kansas to get to somewhere else. Maybe someday I will appreciate Kansas, but I doubt it.

Kansas was easy to drive in. One road , I-70, for 500 miles, with no turns. Clouds dogged us, but we didn’t get storms. Large expanses of green wheat fields were punctuated by the occasional group of trees and a house or two. Kansas seemed to think that Jesus needed to save us by the numerous signs stating so. I thought it was particularly funny that one was supplemented by “Pornography is evil” right next to what was probably the only adult store in Kansas. Also many signs proclaimed “Adoption, not Abortion”. Kansas seemed hard core conservative to me. Somehow my mother resisted this upbringing and became a fanatical Democrat to spite Kansas.

Kansas became more like Missouri after Topeka with rolling hills. Maybe this part of Kansas should be Missouri. I was hoping to see sunflowers fields, but I only saw the wild ones. I was getting really tired of feeding the S.U.V. gas, especially since it wasn’t my car. Melissa made the turn off for Kansas City and wondered if we were anywhere because it was just woods. We found the hotel, which was near the airport. The area had that airport air of desolation, where people spend the least amount of time to get somewhere else. The driving journey for me was done and I was happy. The cow had lumbered into town.

Unfortunately, I had to get up at 4:30, which was like 2:30 my time, to catch a flight back to Phoenix. Her father was going to meet her a little later. Getting up at an early time meant I couldn’t say goodbye to Melissa. I debated disturbing her, but figured I had better not since she likes sleeping and hates being woken up early. I felt a little guilty and sad. I wasn’t sure when I would see her again.

So while I was in the air going back to Phoenix, she was continuing the journey with her father to Virginia and her new life on the east coast. I don’t know if and when she will miss me. She starts college at the end of August. It’s inevitable that children will leave and forget about you. It just seems like a hole in my life with her gone.



Mountain Man Olympic Race Report

This was my third time for this race. It was a tune up for Ironman Canada. Since racing in Phoenix in the summer is impossible and possibly suicidal when it is ninety degrees before dawn, I am forced to go elsewhere in the summer to race. Flagstaff, which is a two hour drive from home is cool in the summer, if a person doesn't mind not having enough air to breath due to the seven thousand plus altitude. Lack of oxygen means I go slower at the same amount of effort at normal elevation. Higher elevation also means pine trees instead of cactus, which is a nice change.

It also makes the swim tricky.  I had a panic attack last year, so I had to hang onto a kayak gasping for air. The key is to keep the tight band around my chest from feeling like it's suffocating me. This means I have to start slow and maybe go faster if I don’t get into oxygen debt.


I stepped into the water to get warmed up. It felt a little chilly to me and dread crept into me. The water was a murky brown. The wind seemed to be picking up as I felt it on my face. The sunlight was soft and didn’t provide much warmth as yet.

My wave started last and everyone took off. Being relaxed staved off the panic. Most of the people got ahead of me, but I actually passed people who couldn’t handle the thin air. Getting to the first buoy is always the most difficult because it takes that long to get into a rhythm and feel at ease. The next buoy, which is far away, is the same green color as the swim caps ahead of me. Who was the genius who thought of that? The only way to distinguish it was by its lack of motion.

I felt chilled and the water was choppy, but the tight band constricting my chest was manageable. After swimming for two hours straight in training, swimming 15 kilometers was not a big deal. It wasn’t all that much fun, but it was bearable. I got out in about forty five minutes, which was slower than ninety percent of the swimmers, but I was not last. It’s actually better than the fifty three minutes I spent in the water last year, thrashing around and hanging onto kayaks.

I walked, not ran into transition to get my bike gear. Sometimes I can actually speed through transition, but today, I just didn’t feel like it. Walking up the ramp barefoot hurt my feet. The bike racks are of course empty, because everyone else finished swimming before me. I struggle out of my wetsuit, and put my shoes and helmet on and take off feeling a intense need to pee. The toilets are inconveniently located outside of transition, so I press on.

The blue sky had puffy clouds. The bike route followed the lakes, so I glimpsed the sparkling expanse of water as I passed by. Masses of yellow wildflowers line the road. The road went downhill, then started to climb. With all of the hill training I have been doing, the terrain seemed easier than it had in the past. Lack of oxygen is less problematic on the bike. After nine miles, a giant hill looms to crush anyone attempting to ride it. It’s fun to descend at thirty five miles per hour or more, but I had to pay for it.

I get near the turn off for the half iron people. I feel sorry for anyone fool hardy enough to attempt that distance at this altitude. There isn’t much in the way of aid stations for them on the bike. A person is basically on their own to stew in their own suffering.

I found my pre-mixed nutrition drink too diluted and not helping my energy. I had nothing else to eat and I started getting really tired. After the fun of screaming down the hill, the way back seem longer and longer. On the way back, I was delighted to see a turkey near the road. I contemplated how I am going to handle the pit stop and decided to crawl under the fence when I got into transition. I don’t want to wait until I was a mile on the run because it sucks to run with a full bladder. I finished in about an hour and a half, which was decent for me.

I rolled into transition, changed shoes and dove under the fence and ran into a porta potty. What a relief. I dove back under the fence and started on the run. I found a gel in my fanny pack and sucked the vile tasting thing down, that has the consistency of mucus. I felt pretty bad. After a mile the run goes up an eight percent grade. I started a run/walk...run until I felt terrible, then walk until I could run again. Then I found a chocolate gel in my pack. It was nirvana. My energy came back again. I reached the top of the hill and finally it was time to run down the hill. It turned out it took me as much time to run/walk up the hill as it did to run it in a previous race. Plus I had energy to pick up speed at the end. With one mile to go, I got my feet to move just a little faster. That mile seemed really long. The finish line was a relief. I felt like I had been hit by a bus when I stopped running.

I can’t say that this is the worse or the best that I have done in this race. Two weeks out from an ironman, I wasn’t going to go all out, but I didn’t slack off either. It’s a tough, unpredictable event. I put aside my expectations on results and just did it. I didn’t place in my age group and I was back of the pack. It was fun, scenic and it hurt. Me versus the terrain and altitude. That’s all that mattered.

Ironman Training Blues

I am in the ass end of ironman training. It’s most volume of training, the most exhaustion, intensity, self-doubt and depression. It’s the howamIevergoingtodothis? stage. Top that off with the hottest, most energy-sapping heat to train in and hard, hilly(at least to me) terrain. It’s ninety degrees before dawn. Training is a matter of getting through it without heat exhaustion. Hills that would be no problem in cooler weather turn into mountains. I have to constantly monitor myself for signs of dizziness, headache or fatigue that can turn ugly. Fear creeps into my mind as I wonder how far I should go because it’s just that much longer to get home by myself if I am not feeling well.


My route takes me thirty three miles one way from home. It is suburban, but spread out and has stretches that do not have much in the way of water or ice if I get overheated. One section has nine miles of climbing without relief. It’s isn’t horribly steep, but it’s mentally challenging. Do I push myself and go a little harder? I usually err on the side of caution, which makes me wonder if I am training hard enough. Will I have enough speed to not DNF(do not finish) the race? How miserable should I make myself?

On a recent ride, I decided to start early at a pre-dawn five o’clock. I looked at the thermometer and it read ninety degrees. Really? Phoenix in June is dry, so in the early morning, it is actually cool or at least in the eighties. In July, the humidity rolls in and it never cools off at night. It’s utterly discouraging and makes me dream of a cool beach in California.

Riding pre-dawn is not too bad. The sun’s intensity is at bay and if I keep my sunglasses on, I can pretend that it’s still dark out. Not a lot of cars are out to annoy me. Rabbits run in front of me like they WANT to get hit. A family of quail with the little babies trailing behind the parents occasionally appears. This phase does not last long, however.

The rising ball of the sun gives me the evil eye. My route has hills because my ironman route does. Normally, in summer I would avoid them like the plague, but I need the training. I don’t see a lot of cyclists out. They are smarter than me. I start climbing upward and feel the heat stealing my strength. Having done the route before, I am accustomed to doing hills, but it seems more difficult now.

My route leaves town and I am out in a rural area. It’s treeless road. I suck down water, salt tablets, sports drink and sometimes pour water on myself. The air is pretty uncomfortable. I wonder if I should turn around rather than tackle the cruelty of Nine Mile Hill, which is exactly what it’s called, an unrelenting climb up. I push on, with the intention of ascending without getting heat exhaustion. It’s an intimidating prospect because there is very little out here besides a few houses.

I count off the street numbers from 178 to 114, at the blistering pace of ten miles per hour. I want to push harder, but it’s risky. I am hot and tired as it is. It’s probably 95 degrees by now. Other cyclists pass by me, but not too many. I wouldn’t be out here either, under other circumstances. My lack of speed torments me. If I can’t go fast here, how am I going to make the bike cut offs in the actual race? A decent bike rider wouldn’t have this problem, but I am slow. I signed up for this race to see if I could get through a hilly bike portion and I am still not convinced I can.

I finally crest the hill and now I am going downhill towards home. My plan is to re-stock with ice and cold water. The heat is pressing down now. I am still functioning. I wonder what people in their air-conditioned car think of a crazy bike rider out in the 100 degree heat. I just want to keep moving and not be stuck at intersections waiting for a light. It’s just that much hotter.

I make it home and get more ice and water to continue my ride. The sun is burning now. It’s a suffocating and oppressive blanket wanting to strangle me. I keep moving, but I am getting slower and slower. I survive. I endure.

Ironman training is hard, but this is ridiculous. Six hours biking on hilly terrain in 90-100 degrees. A mere 80 miles when the race will have 112. I am motivated by fear of not finishing and wanting to see what I am capable of. July’s hell will hopefully give way to triumph in August, but I have no illusions that it isn’t going to earned without a high price in pain, misery and every ounce of strength I have.

DEUCES WILD OLYMPIC TRIATHLON

Some races are snarling beasts, throwing wind, heat, hills at whomever dares to engage it. Sometimes the beast is your body betraying you, with the stomach that revolts, the legs that fail or the mind that becomes weak. Sometimes, it’s benevolent and leaves your alone. I assumed that it would not be an easy race with the altitude and cold water and I was right.


This event is a triathlon festival in Show Low, Arizona, which is in the White Mountain area of the state at 6,300 feet altitude. It consists of an olympic triathlon, a half iron triathlon and an Xterra triathlon, all centered in the Fool Hollow Lake Recreation Area, a pine forested lake.. I was doing the olympic. Despite the altitude, the sun can be intensely hot. I have found that high altitude races can be a crap shoot. You can’t assume that you will go as fast as you would at lower levels, and the lack of oxygen presents special challenges.

I was nervous about the swim. At this altitude and with cold water, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Supposedly, some spots in the lake were 57 degrees, but it felt more like about low sixties to me. The air was warm, however, which helped the perception of comfort. I kept telling myself the water wasn’t that cold. If I said it to myself often enough, I might believe it. I was NOT cold. My wave went off and I swam slow to the first buoy, just as the wind picked up. It was coming from the south, so it was hitting me sideways. Great. I was concentrating on being calm. I thought or hoped it would be better swimming north and it was. I felt like I was flying on top of the water. It was an actual tail wind on a swim. I always seemed to be with swimmers that were struggling. I wanted this eternal swim to be over with. Going around the last turn buoy, I was fine, then the 16 m.p.h. wind with gusts of 25 m.p.h. hit head on. I was getting tired and cold and my brain decided that I should have a panic attack. I wanted a kayak to stop and rest , but they were occupied with other swimmers hanging on. I got it together and went on. I had to doggy paddle quite a bit to get my breath. The water was slapping me hard in the face, making breathing difficult without inhaling Fool Hollow Lake. Someone was side stroking near me and it seemed like a good idea, at least to breath without getting water in my mouth. Finally, I was relieved to make it to the dock. in 52:48. It was slow, but I didn’t care.

The bike was easy at first for the first ten miles because it was downhill. This break was not going to last and I was going to pay for it. The hills started coming and so did the wind. I was alone on the course and it felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, wondering if I had gotten lost in some obscure part of town. This race seemed epic with the windy conditions and the altitude and hills. It wasn’t a race, more than it was survival. The inclines were hell to climb. The beast was giving me a hard time. The scenery was nice with the tall green pine trees and the mountains. I could even see the forest fire smoke to the east. It would be a fun bike ride if I was with someone else, was going at a leisurely pace and if it wasn’t windy. In short, if it was another day.

I finally caught and passed people at the aid station. The wind had increased from 17-22 m.p.h. with gusts of 28 m.p.h. and I was going straight into it. I had a hard time eating and drinking on while riding. The last four miles, the cross winds were bad and I had to sit up to stabilize the bike. Total time was 1:46, which seemed like forever. Another mediocre split, but it was the best that I could do.

I came into T2 and tried to rack my bike on the bar, but the seat post came out. I stared at it befuddled for a second and someone came to help me. I dashed out to the run.

The run starts out on trails, then pavement, then an energy sucking uphill gravel road out and back in the middle of the run. I was totally exhausted at this point and had to walk in spots. I didn’t care about the run anymore. I was done and had resigned myself to the leisurely pace that results when I am totally wasted from the bike portion. I finally hit the turn around and speeded up going downhill. I stopped to use the restroom, not concerned about the lost time and continued on. Finally there was pavement again and another hill. I did a final dash to the finish line. Run was 1:15. Final result was a miserable 4:06.

I was surprised at how bad I felt afterwards physically. I didn’t hurt physically, but the wind and altitude sucked the life out of me. Fighting the conditions and not giving up seemed like an accomplishment to me. It’s great when everything goes right and I feel in control and I can go faster than I thought possible, but this day the beast was mean and made me work hard to earn the finish.

The Mastery of Fear

Fear can paralyze you or spur you to action. You can battle it or hold it back in an uneasy truce. I am afraid of many things. Anxiety is the cold knot in the stomach, the sudden jolt awake in the middle of the night, the heart pounding, the breathless heaviness. I am afraid of change. I am afraid of moving to another place. I am afraid of traveling. I am afraid of life in general. I am definitely afraid of swimming in open water.


Some people were born to swim. They take to the water like fish and love it. They naturally move efficiently and quickly. I, on the other hand do not. It took me years to even get a decent form and I am still not fast or even half fast. I am utterly without swim talent. The whole world seems to swim faster than I.

It took me a long time to even be able to swim in open water without a panic attack. I failed to finish the first couple of open water triathlons I tried because I would start swimming and once I got a little distance from the shore, the fear of drowning would overcome me. I would start hyperventilating, thrash around and feel even more out of breath. Maybe it was the primordial fear of suffocation and drowning. In deep water, I don’t like not being able to touch the bottom with my feet. If I get tired, I can’t rest by standing up.

Once I became more physically proficient at swimming, my mind was the thing I had to worry about. Getting through a swim required focusing at the task at hand, not thinking about the scariness of a vast body of water to travel through. The negative thoughts had to be pushed back. They had to be corralled until the swim was done, otherwise they would take over and paralyze me. This is true of fear in general. You grit your teeth and try to get through it, otherwise you are left with the depression of inaction and with a sense of failure for not having the courage to overcome the dread.

If I do something scary often enough, it becomes less frightening. Confidence comes from facing my fears and controlling my reaction. However, I don't always have control over what a swim will throw at me.

A lake or the ocean, as opposed to a pool, is a whole different animal. Pools are clear and clean with set boundaries. It isn’t far from one end to the other if I am tired. The ocean has currents, undertow and crashing waves. Weird things inhabit the natural bodies of water, which might have plant life, boat fuel, fish, ducks and jelly fish. Massive patches of weeds seem to want to ensnare a swimmer if they have the misfortune to pass through their tentacles. Lurking sunken trees, algae blooms, toe biting fish bite are other hazards. Human hazards are boaters and jet skiers that aren’t paying attention to where they are going. The water itself may be hot enough to give you heat exhaustion or so cold that your face stings and your face, hands and feet turn numb. Hypothermia is a possibility. Sometimes I have ended up in a med tent shivering violently after a bout in cold water.

Wind is another hazard. In a lake it churns up the water in random waves, unlike the ocean. The waves slap me around and hit me in the face when I are trying to breath. Choking on water does not add to my sense of ease. Stroking harder and faster is required. In a recent race, I had to swim against a 17 m.p.h. head wind in a high altitude lake. I couldn’t get enough oxygen and had a panic attack. The only way to get enough air was to hold my head above water, which is more tiring than swimming with it down. Fear overtook my mind and it had to be fought off. I actually shouted “help”, but the kayaker was occupied with other swimmers freaking out, who were hanging on to his boat. I stopped, calmed down and continued on. Fear has its place in self-preservation, but it is also dangerous if it prevents you from doing what you need to do to keep yourself safe.

I don’t always hate swimming in a lake or ocean. Gliding through the water at a relaxed pace is kind of peaceful as opposed to having to swim a set distance and having someone is timing you. Being near a shore reassures me and I feel safe. I can be as slow as I want and not worry about being the last one out of the water.

Even if I have a bad swim, I have a feeling of accomplishment when I finish. I controlled the fear, not the other way around. It’s a simple terror, unlike the rest of life. One outcome is death by suffocation, the other is getting to a fixed point eventually, which happens 99.9% of the time. The journey from one point to the other may be fraught with hazards and difficulties, but if I keep going, I will get there. Life is less certain and takes more faith that things will work out. More possibilities present themselves, good or bad, imagined or real, unexpected or not. Outcomes aren’t always known. Spouses may leave you, loved ones will die, the economy may tank and the safe, happy life you had will blow up. Still, fear can’t predominate one’s existence, because this stuff is going to happen anyway. It has to be beaten off and subdued so that occasionally joy and peace can inhabit the mind instead.