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.

 

Estrella Mountain 8k XterraTrail Race Report

This race was a replacement for Black Canyon Xterra, which got flooded out. In Arizona, where it rarely rained. The local news showed a raging wall of water in what normally is a timid creek. The massive rain storm made the requisite stream crossings hazardous, so the race organizer probably didn’t want to have to do water rescues. I had the option of transferring to another race, so I picked Estrella Mountain. It was the wrong choice.

I had done trail races in this park before. At the last one, I fell and my lacerated knee required six stitches to repair. This weighed on my mind because I was nervous about it happening again. Trail running always had this danger of self-inflicted injury. It was fun when I was relaxed and not worried about bodily injury. It was not fun when I belly-flopped against the stony, unyielding ground and bled all over my leg. I would pick up my knees and run with small steps and still sometimes trip on a rock. I ran slower than I would on pavement out of fear. Sooner or later, though, my clumsiness caught up with me.

This area had many rocks; so many rocks. I hate rocks. I did training runs on rugged trails, but not like this. This park had it in for me, just waiting to catch me off guard. I knew it was coming at some point.

The race started with the typical lack of fanfare. Xterra is usually pretty laid back. Most times, I am left by myself, as much faster runners bolt away, but for some reason, I always had people around me. I couldn’t believe they were as slow as I was. I ran cautiously, tripping a few times, but always caught myself. The hills were a lot of effort, but not extreme to the point that I thought I was dying. I felt tired, though. I was 1.5 miles in and thought, how the hell am I going to finish? This was not a good feeling when I had some three miles to go. I kept climbing.

 On the last mile and a quarter I passed someone I knew and said “Hopefully, I won’t trip,” and promptly did so. Four whole miles I had made it without harm, but the downhill waited to snare me. Out of nowhere, I caught my foot and suddenly hit the ground, with no chance to slow my  momentum. My first thought was I hope I don’t need stitches. My second thought was I am stupid. Oh my god my knee really hurts! It was bleeding profusely. I got up gingerly and brushed the dust off my leg. I tried to wash the wound off with some water, but it was hopelessly dirty with mushy tissue. People stopped to ask how I was doing. How the hell should I know? The blood was dripping down my leg, but all I could do was keep going, limping like a lame pirate. I was alert, but not happy about my crippled state.  I tried to “run” because I was about .75 miles from the end. 

I hobbled towards the finish line, passed a photographer and managed to trip again. Now I had two wounded knees. Trying to run in pain didn’t make for a fast time. Undoubtedly, my two bloody, dripping knees were a spectacle as people cheered at the sight of my finish. Total time was 64:27 for 4.79 miles. 

I got a medal and medical bills.

The first aid guy tried to clean the dirt out of the raw flesh. He lifted a big flap of loose flesh and predicted fifteen stitches. Great! He suggested I go to an ER, rather than urgent care because the wound was deep. Medics at Xterra races can’t do much because they lack the equipment. This was depressing. I dreaded huge medical bills and a long wait. I usually go to urgent care to have my wounds cleaned, but they can be hit or miss. Some don’t have x-ray machines. Some have doctors who don’t know what they are doing. Sometimes, the wait is still not short. 

I had the foresight to bring my insurance card with me, because what could have possibly gone wrong running on a rocky trail? I stopped at an ER on the way home. They cleaned up the wound, washing out still more dirt. They numbed the knee, sewed eleven stitches and put on vast amounts of dressing. An x-ray showed no broken bones. They wanted to do an MRI, because some radiologist who probably wasn’t on my insurance plan thought the knee might have a tear. I was tired, dirty and hungry after being there for four hours and I didn’t want to wait  indefinitely to have a procedure that I may not even need. I refused the crutches they gave me. Why do I have to battle with these people? I broke down and wore the knee immobilizer only to the car. I couldn’t get my leg in the car with it on, so I ripped it off and tossed it on the seat. Who knows what I will end up paying for this device that I had on for five minutes?

I didn’t bother mentioning my banged up elbow at the ER, but I noticed it was painfully swollen when I got home. It still hurts two weeks later, but I will ignore it. I never got the MRI. The swelling was in the front and not in the knee, anyway, and was fine once most of the skin grew back.

So, not only did I incur medical bills, I lost the entry fee for another triathlon race the following weekend. Immersing a stitched wound in dirty Tempe Town Lake water at that race wasn’t recommended. I would have probably end up banging it again, anyway, and it hurt to even walk. I couldn’t bend my leg enough to ride a bike.

Damn rocks.

SKULL VALLEY LOOP CHALLENGE

Sometimes, I get a stupid notion that I want to do something. Organized bike rides are usually fun or at least a chance to ride somewhere different. Biking new places is interesting and makes me happy. This ride was one that I had always wanted to try. With an event name, “Skull Valley”, it had to be cool. It would be hilly, but I could deal with that. Or so I thought. This “challenge” would turn out to be in the “I thought it was a good idea at the time” category.

Since I had been training for the hilly Santa Barbara Triathlon in August, I would supposedly be in somewhat good shape for this ride. The summer heat sucks out my energy, though, and most of the rides, I was miserable and tired and didn’t average more than twelve miles per hour. I optimistically thought I could finish in four and half hours based on my mediocre training speed, but the climbing elevation was estimated from 2900 to 5000, so completion time was uncertain.

These events always attract the demented cyclists who usually finish in half the time that I do. I never see these people after the start. If I was lucky, a few stragglers would accompany me to the bitter end. My plan was not to mosey too long at the aid stations, but not to kill myself either. Fifty some miles was a long way, since I hadn’t ridden that many miles in training.

The morning of the ride, I drove up in the dark. This was stressful, but I was too cheap to get a hotel. Living in Phoenix, I forget that this state has a whole lot of nothing once past the urban areas. I drove past empty country side. The roads were deserted, which was great because other drivers irritate me.

Prescott Courthouse

I blundered around Prescott, which isn’t all that big anyway, parked and got ready. The cold shocked me. What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t know how to dress and debated whether to wear a jacket on the ride. Phoenix had been in the high sixties to low seventies in the morning. Fifties was just strange after driving only an hour and a half. The ride started by the Prescott Courthouse. This part of town reminded me of the Midwest, with the tall trees that graced the square.

The ride started and of course I was in the rear. We had a police escort through town, which made me feel like I had to hurry. I didn’t want to keep the cops waiting. Usually, I don’t like to start out hard because I pay for it later on. 

We climbed for eight miles. Was this hill ever going to end? I noticed a fair number of roadside memorials of crosses with flowers. I wondered how hazardous this two-lane country road was.

After the hill was a long descent for nineteen miles. I could live with that. The countryside was bleaker, like a high altitude chaparral with few trees.  About mile twenty was Skull Valley. The town looked like it had a water source because it was so green. Tall, lovely cottonwood trees lined the road. Skull Valley was named for all the Indian skeletons white settlers found. A massive battle between two tribes resulted in numerous unburied bodies. Then the settlers had to deal with the Yavapai Indians who remained. Ultimately, another massacre occurred. Maybe the place is haunted with ghosts seeking revenge against the present inhabitants. 

At mile twenty-six was an aid station. I got off the bike to use the porta potty. It was on a trailer, which meant I had to walk up a ramp. My legs were shaky. This did not bode well as I was only halfway through the ride and I needed functioning legs. 

The aid station had boiled potatoes, which I liked, and sliced cucumber, which mystified me. Whose idea was that? Cucumbers have few calories, no carbohydrates and no salt. Basically, it was a useless food, especially for strenuous physical activity. Maybe it would be good if it was hot out, which it wasn’t.

The first half had taken me less than two hours. Maybe I would make the second half in about the same time and finish under four hours. Unfortunately, what goes down, must go up.      

  

Someone told me that the rest of the course went downhill for six miles, then uphill for fifteen. This was utter bullshit. Maybe her version of up and down was different from mine. The climb started right after the aid station. The wind was picking up by this point and not to my advantage. After the turning point, when the route went north again at Highway 89, it really started to suck. The road was straight and monotonous. It looked level, but I was only going eight miles per hour. This was what cyclists refer to as a false flat, a particular evil phenomenon that played tricks on the mind. This was a discouraging affront to my ego and made me despair. At this rate, it was going to take three more hours to finish. I stopped at mile thirty-six to recover from my mental funk at the aid station. A bar was located in the back part of the lot. How tempting to just chuck it all and have a beer.

After that, the twisting road really climbed. At least it wasn’t so boring that I wanted to stab my eyes out. Normally, riding a bike up hills was fun, but this was more work than I wanted and it was exhausting. Just when I thought it eased off, it climbed some more, like some evil dream. It was almost humorous and certainly insane. At one point I saw the road in front of me steeply climbing the mountain and thought you have to be kidding! I kept waiting for a downhill to come that didn’t. I tried not to think about how much time I was taking. 

The hills had some stunning vistas to take my mind off the pain. The mountains were rocky, with tall pine tree forests. The green valleys were far below. The road cut through the side of the mountain and the terrain steeply dropped off below. 

At about mile fifty, the road finally descended towards Prescott. At a sharp descent, going thirty miles per hour, a side wind threatened to blow me over. I had to slow down. Even  downhill was difficult. I finally rolled into the courthouse square. OH MY GOD, THAT WAS SO HARD. I saw the time, with all the stops, I was at 4:55. Really? That time was disappointing. Moving time without all the stops was 4:35. The climbing elevation was “only” 3,700 feet, but it felt like 5,700 with all the undulations. The 5,000 foot altitude probably didn’t help. Altitude is sneaky and tiring. 

This ride was humbling and it kicked me in the butt. It was over my abilities and training. I couldn’t decide if it was a good idea in the end to do it, but it certainly was an “experience.” Experience as in I will never do that again. 

Until I forget how hard it was and foolishly sign up for another round of punishment.  

I AM SICK OF SUMMER

This is the worst part of summer in the desert. The earth is heated up from baking in the sun for months. The air is dry enough to heat up past 110 degrees, but it's not dry enough to cool off at night. August has that special combination that makes the heat more miserable than at other times in the summer. A week ago the temperature reached 117 degrees. I live in a desert and know it gets hot, but enough is enough.

                      I AM SICK OF SUMMER

Sweat. 

June denial. It’s not so bad. Cool mornings. Deluded reality. Thermometers gleefully bursts past 115 degrees, in a fit of spite. Dragon’s morning breath.

Plants shrivel in the outdoor oven and reach; plaintive arms to the sky. Desperate for relief.

The parched earth sighs.

White, blinding light sears the skin. Dogs pant, their heads droop.

Dripping sweat.

July despair. Heavy, stifling,  never ending suffocation. A.C. runs nonstop and swallows money.

Luscious, fat moisture of bloated cotton puff clouds entice; then vanish.

Gargantuan brown swirls of dust tentacles howl in. Lightning flares. Thunder rumbles. Trees blow over. A tornado of dead leaves. No rain.

Giant bugs stumble; meander aimlessly, confused.

Snakes hide. Lizards flee.

Dripping, sweaty sweat.

August disgust. Dispirited souls. Time stops in purgatory. Life is pointless. Outside tasks are too much effort. Monster heat feeds on human energy.

The sky rumbles and urinates.
The air cools, briefly bearable. Toads emerge from their holes.
A vicious sun re-asserts control.

Less sweat.

September hope. Summer loosens its grip, but still holds on. The glare wanes. Air softens. Summer birds leave, flying off to gentler climes.

Two months more and summer’s gone.

I can’t wait.

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.

Soma Half Iron Race Report

I hesitated to sign up for the Soma half ironman. A relatively flat race in October at Tempe, Arizona, should be “easy”, but it is not. I go back a long way with this race, starting with a sprint version in 2003. I had done Soma as my first half iron in 2004. In those days, they had the sense not to hold it before the last weekend in October. A week makes a big difference in the Phoenix area, the difference between mildly warm and hot as hell. I am slow and always end up running in mid-afternoon. A half marathon in temperatures of high eighties is not optimal for a run, but is optimal for heat exhaustion.


I got to Tempe in the usual dark of the night to get my stuff organized, pump up my bike tires, get body marked and stand in a long line for the porta potty. I was in a daze because I am not a morning person. Waking up at 3:45 doesn’t help. I always wonder how I am ever going to have the energy to race, but it always happens. People milled around to get ready. Since it is a local race, I chatted with people that I knew. I tried not to think about how long the day would be.

We lined up to jump in the warm seventy-four degree water. The rising sun pinked up the Mill Avenue bridge, the buildings lining the banks of Tempe Town Lake and the mountains. My wave, which was the last one, bobbed around in the water waiting for the start. I stayed to the back.

We started off, and swam into the sun. I waited for people to go off, because I couldn’t stay with them. People would kick me if I was in the way. It was hard to sight off the buoys in the glare of the light. I saw moving arms and splashing arcs of reflected water ahead of me.

I swam onward at a steady pace, not hating it, but not enjoying it. It was just work. I was hot in my wetsuit. After a while, a few souls were still in the water, but most had left. A kayaker paddling along side annoyed me. They were supposed to save us if we were drowning, but I didn’t need rescuing and I wanted to be left alone.

Finally, I reached the end. Fifty-nine minutes. That was slower than I wanted. Volunteers stripped my wetsuit off and I ran to my bike.

I started to ride and found out that my bike computer wasn’t working, so I had no idea how fast I was going. I wanted to be conservative anyway, because fifty-six miles is a long way to ride hard in the heat. It felt cool right now, but that wouldn’t last.

The bike course was still crowded with people on their second and third laps. I took note of where I was going because by the third lap, I would probably be alone. I didn’t want to have the disconcerting feeling of being unsure where I was going when no one was around to follow.

I wanted to have a personal best time on the bike section, but not to overdo it. I stopped to use the porta potty and to fix my bike computer. The sun was more intense by now.

I noticed half way through that I wasn’t feeling well; the nasty feeling I got on the edge of heat exhaustion. I thought to myself, this isn’t good. I poured water on myself to keep cool, but it would evaporate in ten minutes. I was tired and my legs and feet hurt.

By the third lap, the course was empty, with a few souls bravely plodding along. I didn’t like riding up an empty freeway ramp by myself. Creepy. I was relieved to see anyone. The tedium was occasionally broken by vehicles invading the bike course. I saw a semi crossing ahead of me, blowing through an intersection and somehow avoiding the orange cones. My pace was about what I wanted to do-sixteen miles per hour. I finished in about three and a half hours, a P.R..

The real fun is the two lap run. Now it was eighty-eight degrees. One year, I did the run in ninety plus degrees. My heart rate had soared, I had been dizzy and my fingers had tingled. I had to walk the second lap and the run took almost four hours. I had desperately wished at the time that someone would have pulled me off the course. I wanted to avoid that horror.

I accepted the mediocrity of running the first lap slow. This wasn’t good for my ego, but it was survival and I might as well not feel bad about it. I would rather run both laps, then walk one. I poured water on myself at every aid station and stuffed ice down my bra. It helped keep me going, but I was still fried. The walking dead accompanied me. Negativity entered my brain. I hated the people who had already finished. I thought how this race was dead to me and I would never do it again. People better not get in my way. I was fighting the heat, fatigue, pain and mental misery. I wondered who was on their last lap. Probably everyone but me. I kept running, but slower than I wanted to.

In the midst of my dark mood, I met up with a friend. We talked as we ran and I didn’t think as much how miserable I was. I could run faster with someone to pace me. The temperature rose to ninety degrees. It was me versus the heat and I was winning. The miles went by. The end was near.


Fellow sufferers, um
 racers. Courtesy Camelback Coaching

We ran together under the finish line in seven hours, seventeen minutes total time. I usually finish half irons alone with no one to cheer me at the end, so this was a bonus. This was my fastest overall and 2:37" run time ever in a half ironman. The race was harder and felt much worse than I thought it would. I had had a faint hope that I would feel great doing this distance. Reality beat me down, but not the heat. Some challenges make me pay dearly to overcome them.

Where I Came From, Where I Live

Like many people born in the midwest, I have been attracted to places that are most unlike the midwest. I grew up in West Lafayette, Indiana, went to school in Bloomington, Indiana and resided in Illinois. The midwest has it charms if you look hard enough, I suppose, but I love mountains, scenic landscapes and sunny weather. Whenever I had the chance while living in the midwest, I would take long driving vacations with my now ex-husband. We would travel hundreds of miles to Colorado, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming and Montana to various national parks. The cornfields and flatlands would turn to the wheatfields of Kansas, then to the mountains of the Rockies. The midwest always seemed monotonously flat, green and closed in. The west looked wide-open with undulating land with a horizon that seemed to go on forever. I felt free and unfettered.

This attraction to the west and Arizona particularly started at an early age for me. My grandparents retired to Mesa, Arizona, like a lot of older folks and lived in a silver Airstream trailer. My uncle bought a lot in what was then the middle of nowhere around Scottsdale Road and Jomax Road and built his house himself brick by brick. My mother and visited him in 1968

in April when it was sunny and warm unlike the deary gray cold of spring of Indiana. We loved the unique plants and animals of Arizona in the desert-the quail, coyotes, roadrunner and javelinas that would come by his place. The turquoise in the ring that I got seemed like the sparkling blue skies of Arizona.

So when my then-husband and I got the chance to move to Arizona, we jumped on it. It meant dragging our three month baby across the country on a road trip and moving away from family, but it seemed worth it. At the time the local economy was booming, housing was cheap and the cost of living was a little less than in Illinois.

There were downsides. The summertime sucked. It was dreadfully hot and it didn't cool down at night in July and August. You get giant dust storms and violent storms in the summer. You have to drive everywhere because the city area is so spread out. More and more people moved here and the traffic got worse. Eventually the economy tanked and housing prices dropped drastically.

However, I developed an interest in astronomy and the skies are very clear if you drive 70 miles away from Phoenix. Being out in the desert at night looking at stars with the coyotes howling and occasional owls hooting is unbeatable. You can be outdoors most days or night of the year, though it may be uncomfortable in the summer. I can bike, swim or run outdoors almost any day. I have desert preserves to bike, hike and run in.

The winter to early spring days are superb. The days are warm without being too warm, it cools down at night and the sun doesn't burn your skin like it does the rest of the year. The humidity is low and it makes the sunlight seem crystal clear. Sometimes the smog clears and the mountains seem like they could be touched even though they are far away. Distant peaks sometimes have a covering of snow, a contrast to the blue grays of their rocky sides. When the sun is low, the mountains turn brilliant shades of purple and pink.

You get a weird assortment of creatures and plants. I have lizards and an occasional toad in my yard. Sometimes I nearly run over snakes on my bike. Quail run around my neighborhood and roost in my orange tree. Hawks are everywhere and hummingbirds come to my feeders. Sometimes I see coyotes and roadrunners. The cacti come in numerous and novel forms. The Saguaros seem like they have spirits with their giant size and their twisting arm shapes.

You learn to live with the searing summers. You always carry water, you seek shade wherever it is and if you exercise outdoors, you do it at ungodly early hours of the morning. You get so you can't tolerate cold and you don a sweater when it's under 80 degrees. You learn to be careful opening car doors and touching steering wheels when your car has been sitting in the sun. You only buy white cars because black cars get hotter in the sun. You sweat A LOT. If you exercise in the heat you learn how far you can push yourself before succumbing to heat exhaustion.

I guess you like whatever is different from where you grew up. Arizona seems very different from Indiana in some ways, the same in others. Indiana has cows and pigs. Arizona has dairy cows and cattle roaming on public lands, and pigs in the wild. Indiana has mostly conservative politicians, Arizona has mostly conservative politicians. People in Arizona like trucks(white of course) and guns. They also hate government and taxes. I don't remember hoosiers owning as many trucks, but then again maybe they don't have as many dirt roads to go down and animals to shoot. People in Indiana own horses, but I don't remember seeing them riding in the city streets.The big difference of course between Arizona and Indiana is that Indiana is flat and Arizona has mountains, desert and a big canyon.

I don't know if I will ever live anywhere else. Sometimes I miss bearable summers and having tall trees. But I am so dependent on sunshine that I go into a funk if I don't have it. I can't stand cold and I don't know how to drive on ice and snow anymore. The desert dirt has sunk its tentacles in me and I am stuck here.