Desert Classic Duathlon Race Report

Before the rain REALLY started.

In the desert, the assumption is that rain is not likely to occur. That assumption is wrong, at least in February, which likes to pretend it’s winter. Since the Desert Duathlon in McDowell Mountain Park usually occurs in February, every few years the weather is bad. Gully-washing, road flooding, sweep-the-car-away-in-a-rushing-torrent-of-water bad. The days before the race, the prediction was 100% to rain. The question was when and how hard.

Being a weather nerd, I looked at the hourly prediction. The best chance of maybe not raining hard was during the hours of 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. A possibility of hope existed. I brought what passed for rain gear–a jacket that repelled water, but wouldn’t keep me dry. As a rule, I usually try to avoid riding a bike in rain. It’s unpleasant and cold. Water from the wheels soaks my butt in a freezing, unpleasant stream of mud and road dirt gets on my legs.

Driving in the rain feeds my anxiety. The roads are slippery and my wheels spin if I accelerate too fast. When I first moved here, a heavy rain storm flooded my back yard. The pouring rain stopped, so I thought it was safe and in minutes a rushing wall of water came over my fence. Welcome to the desert! So, I was nervous about encountering large pools of water and getting trapped in a river. The race might be cancelled, or even worse, I might have to ride the road bike route with my mountain bike. The road in the park made me want to stab my eyes out with it’s unrelenting climb and rough pavement.

I got there early because I thought it would take longer to drive there. The roads weren’t flooded. The rain had mercifully held off and the trails were still fairly dry. Maybe this thing could actually happen. I debated what to wear on the run. The light rain was intermittent, but not too bad. The rain gods were still kind, so far.

The first 5k run started for the mountain bikers. The road bikers started later, so they had a half hour more to worry about the weather. Of course everyone got ahead of me right at the start. I was going to end up last, so it didn’t matter anyway. Trail running was a lot of effort. Instead of shuffling, I had to pick my feet up to avoid tripping on rocks. The trail undulated, gradually went up halfway, then down, so attempting a “fast” pace was strenuous. It sprinkled lightly at times. I did it in 34:58. I was at the right speed for me. I got back to transition and was disappointed to not see a timing mat, so my run time would include preparing to bike.

I took my jacket and arm warmers on the bike, even though I didn’t need them yet, since I was sweaty from the run. I would be out for a long time. I climbed the road, then turned right onto Pemberton Trail. About four miles into the ride, it turned from light drizzle to raining steadily. The conditions were about to get tougher. I stopped to put on a jacket, but left the arm warmers off, thinking they would be too warm. I was following someone for a while. We were the only two people out there. Then she got away and I was alone.

Puddles formed on the trail. I tried to avoid them, but couldn’t every time. Thankfully, the washes weren’t filled with water. Mud splashed me and my yellow jacket was dotted with brown spots. I got colder, but I didn’t want to stop. My jacket was wet, but it was warmer with it on. I rode more cautiously than if the trail was dry because it was slippery. The wind picked up and increased the sensation of being wet and cold.

Some parts of the trail had sticky mud. My bike made noises from all the gunk caked in the chain. Hopefully, the bike wouldn’t have a mechanical failure because help was a long distance away. The trail was now downhill and had rocky and clay sections. I stopped before the road and put my arm warmers on because going fast down the road would be even colder. I was on the edge of hypothermia, but not shivering yet. My hands and feet felt numb. The bike flew down the road.

I finally hit transition after about two hours. I was the last mountain biker off the course. This was a fate that I had learned to resign myself to. Mostly the hardcore competitors do the mountain bike races and they are fast and have fancy bikes. They have SKILLS. I don’t, not being able to descend nor climb well. My bike is old. Plus, I am a touch lazy. I value self-preservation over speed.

I was still cold and left my jacket and arm warmers on for the run; something I would never do otherwise. The desert isn’t supposed to be this way. The sun is supposed to come out and heat me up. I remember another rainy duathlon I did where I made the mistake of thinking that I would warm up right away and I didn’t and paid the price.

The first mile was slow because I was so cold I could barely move. My feet were still numb and felt like blocks. Slick mud made the steep downhills sketchy. The second mile was better and by the third mile my feet were thawed out and I finally felt warm again. I took off my jacket. The last mile went through the Clay Pit, which had gooey, slippery mud patches. It was well named. Any large mammals would have sunk into the muck. I passed someone who stopped to try to get the mud off her shoes. I knew the effort would be futile, but I also quickly tried to scrape off the mud on the rocks while running because it weighed my shoes down  Final run was 39:35.

After about three and a half hours, I finished. I was only next to dead last. As the only one in my age group, I got first.

Too disgusting even for my car.

I felt dazed from the cold and the exhaustion. A normal person would have stayed home and been warm and dry, but where’s the fun in that? Riding in the rain sucks, though. My bike was so disgusting that I made a feeble attempt to clean off the slimy mud before putting it in the car. My rock-bottom car cleanliness standards weren’t that low.

 It was badass to defy the elements, but badassery has its price. Maybe by next week, I will have warmed up.

DESERT CLASSIC DUATHLON RACE REPORT

Courtesy One Mulisport

The Desert Classic Duathlon in McDowell Mountain Park is a misbehaving, unwanted child. Race directors take it on, then decide they don’t want it anymore. Originally started by the Phoenix Triathlon Club, it was abandoned when no one wanted to take on the full time job of putting on the event. This year, it was on its fourth race organization, Haka Multisport. Hopefully, they will give it some love and keep it.

I also hoped that I would finally finish without some disaster. One year, I decided to get my bike tuned before the race and the bike shop managed to thoroughly screw it up. The chain kept slipping and grinding against the gears, making for a really unpleasant and difficult ride. Plus a horse rider showed up on the trail and I had to wait for it to pass.

In the middle of a race. I hated that horse.

The following year, it rained heavily and the next organizer didn’t want to deal with it and cancelled. Last year, the same person put on the event, but didn’t mark the course well, so I got lost and made up my own course out of desperation. I don’t think they really cared.

This year the fourth organization bravely took it on. I hoped that they would do a decent job running the event. Strangely, the race director had a West Lafayette, Indiana address. This was where I grew up, so maybe this was a good sign.

Run course

Race morning, the chilliness of the desert breeze surprised me. The sun lightened  the sky and Saguaros stood tall against the dark mountains. I warmed up after doing an easy run. This was necessary, because my old engine won’t tolerate the nonsense of starting cold. I took some photos during the run of the scenery. The usual pre-race performance anxiety nagged me. Could I have decent runs? Would my tire go flat? Would I get lost again? 

This first run starts cruelly uphill, but I felt okay. My preference is to start downhill with the illusion of speed. Everyone dashed ahead of me, of course. The race was long and hard anyway, so running too fast in the beginning makes a slower and more painful end. I might pass some of these rabbits on the second run.

It was marked better than last year. A large muscular dude guarded the turn off by blocking it off, so that we wouldn’t go in the wrong direction. He didn’t say much. At least a human pointer was better than the flimsy pink ribbons last year. They added a bit of color, like an ugly birthday decoration, but they were inadequate for route marking.

The trail was smooth and easier to run than Trail 100 that I had been training on–no danger of tripping on numerous rocks, which do their best to catch my feet. The trail undulated, but generally climbed for half of the route, then descended. I mostly ran alone. Total time was faster than last year. Maybe all the trail run/avoiding rocks training misery had paid off.

The first run of a duathlon was the “easy” part. Then the bike and the pain started. Legs don’t like running, then biking. 

The mountain bike course started out on the paved road and went mostly uphill for four miles. This was rather tedious with a headwind as well. I wished they used a trail alternative. At least I knew the route, no thanks to the race website map, which was indecipherable. By the time I got to the actual dirt trail, my legs were fried and wanted a nap. Why was it so much effort? The same trail was a lot a lot easier last weekend, when my legs weren’t trashed by a hard run. I questioned the wisdom of using a new thorn-resistant inner tube that was a lot heavier than the regular ones. It was probably not a good move, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I think it slowed me down.

Strangely, I was not the only one still on the bike course at this point. A guy came up behind me and passed. I didn’t care because I had resigned myself to my fate. But when I came to the ramada that marks where Pemberton turns south, he was sitting at a picnic table and he started riding behind me. I thought for a while that he was a sweeper for the last rider, but he turned out to be a 70+ years old competitor. He didn’t look that old and could have easily passed me. This was a little disturbing because no one could be as slow as I. Maybe he wanted company or was worried about me getting lost or injured. 

Thankfully, the trail then descended for the most part. This was the best part–flying down the path and not using a lot of effort. The terrain was rockier, which was annoying with all the bouncing, but I managed to stay upright.

I kept worrying about being dead last and having someone stop me from doing the last run. I tried to speed up on the downhills.  No one really cared, as it turned out. Being last is a bit embarrassing, even if I put in my best effort. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

I was afraid of missing the turn off, but made it correctly. It was marked with pink ribbons. I knew it from last year, but no one can use the service roads ahead of time, so it could easily be missed. Other people missed it and went the wrong way, so it needed to have a sign “turn here.”

.

After the turnoff, the service road seemed to go on forever. If I hit the paved road outside the park, I would have known that I had gone too far. The end of it had some evil steep upgrades, which I couldn’t make on tired legs. I didn’t remember them from last year. The seventy-year-old guy that had been following me finally passed by at some point, but I didn’t notice. The fatigue confused me and I missed the pink-ribboned turn in for transition. I went under the tape, because someone told me to. 

Total time for the nineteen mile bike was over two hours.    

The second run felt better than I thought it would. It wasn’t as fast as the first run, but at least I didn’t feel terrible. I was dehydrated and thirsty at this point. It was warm and they had no aid stations. Too bad if I ran out of water. I carried a bottle, but it was getting low and I was anxious about it. My time was faster than last year.

Total time was 3:33. I thought I would be dead last, but I was only almost dead last, even among the road people.

Transition

As for the unwanted child, it remains to be seen if it sticks around. The event was better organized than last year. I didn’t have to remind them that old people like me finished the race and should get the award for being first in their age group of one person. Food was still left when I finished, which was a good sign. Running out of race food is a cardinal sin and I will hate forever whomever commits this sin. The race staff was enthusiastic about being there. I can only hope that the kinks get worked out and the parent shows up next year. And maybe ditches the pink ribbons.

Lost Anxiety--Duathlon #2

 Where the f#@k am I?

Lost means many things. It’s the fear of I don’t know where I am, where to go, or what to do next. If I can’t figure the route, it’s going nowhere and being left with a sense of emptiness, disappointment and failure.
 Without a map, it’s unlikely that I know where to go unless the route is familiar. Landmarks can help, but in not in the desert.  One mountain looks like another. Paths curve around and end up anywhere. The sun can indicate direction, but not on a cloudy day.

The way should have been be easy to find in this race. Most events have signs and arrows, so that the route was less a mystery. This one had flimsy ribbons that didn’t indicate much and were easy to miss..

 The tough duathlon the weekend before should have been enough. But I had signed up for this one last year and it had been cancelled due to torrential rain the day before. My spot was transferred to this year. So was the bad luck.

 The sense of confusion started in the first run. Logical thinking was difficult, since  running diverts blood from the brain. I was mostly alone on the trail with another person ahead of me. The rolling terrain took effort to run, but was manageable.

 At an intersection, a u-turn was marked with hot pink plastic ribbon. The incorrect path was not blocked off. The other runner took off on it and I yelled to her she was going the wrong way. Would this bring me good karma? I hoped so. The billowing pink ribbon tied to plants was a half-hearted direction to go the other way, like a lazy hand wave. I proceeded, uncertain. Since everyone else had gone ahead, I had no one to follow.

I ran, wondering if I was doomed to do endless miles, meandering into the wilderness. The empty desert stretched to the horizon, though I would have found the road eventually. Would they search for me at some point? I was relieved to get back to the aid station, which was an indication of the right path.

My energy level was good when I got into transition to get on the bike. Unlike last week’s duathlon, I didn’t dread this portion. I ran the bike out and hopped on. The website had vague, unmarked satellite maps that indicated that the mountain bike would go up what I assumed was the paved road somewhere, then intersect at an unknown distance with the trail at a spot marked with a flag. Announcer Guy had said it would be after the first flag about two miles up. He didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.

Riding a paved road on a mountain bike was pointless and I didn’t enjoy it. The heavy and cumbersome machines were meant for dirt and the pavement was boring.

 I rode two miles up to a trail crossing, but it wasn’t marked at all. No name and no flag. I went up the trail for a while, doubted myself and came back. I went up farther up the paved road, but still saw no flagged intersection. I couldn’t remember if or where the trail crossed the park road.  I thought I was near the end of it. I went back to where I was, unsure. Farther up the trail, I encountered riders going the opposite way. Something was seriously wrong.

The trail I needed to be on is a loop through the park. I don’t get circles, only grids. If a path isn’t straight and the direction is unknown, it’s hopeless to figure out. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I needed to be on the upper part of the curve, not the lower.

 I asked the riders as they flew by if I was going the right way, but they ignored me or didn’t hear. One almost crashed into me and she probably cursed me under her breath. One guy finally slowed down and I asked him how far he was and where he had entered. The real entrance was farther up the road, but by this time I had ridden seven miles and he had done fifteen.

 The race was basically ruined. I could ride fifteen more miles, but that assumed that I could figure out where to go. I decided to fake it, since I couldn’t fix it. I cursed the race organizers. A racer had to know the route, but some of these roads weren’t even on the park map. Did it have to be this hard? Especially for the directionally challenged?  Down the trail again, I went to the road to add more mileage to simulate reality. They wouldn’t be correct, or even remotely fun, but at least it would be something.

 I passed the turn-off to go back to transition four miles down, which I would go back to once I did the make-believe route. This was also feebly marked with the ribbons. I saw four riders pass it by. Three of them grumbled about missing it. At least I wasn’t the only one that was confused.

I felt stupid and was utterly disappointed not to find the right way. This race had gone wrong to a monumental degree of screw up. I rode back down the trail for the umpteenth time and made the turn for the actual trail to take me back.

 The situation was like one of the dreams where I am lost and trapped in an endless, futile loop. This race was a metaphor for my real life, where every one but me knows the way, and I just pretend to be competent. Life doesn’t come a map, so I either blunder around until I figure it out or go off the cliff.

Slinking embarrassed into transition, after a creative seventeen miles, I came in when most people were about to finish. Being alone was an advantage, since no one knew my mistakes. This was another duathlon where the road portion was much easier to ride and find than the mountain bike. But I had no energy to hate the road bikers this time. I ran out to finish the pretend race.  At least I knew the way.

 Unlike last week, the second run wasn’t a death march. I was alone, but felt strong. That was one good thing about this fiasco.  I just wanted it to end. I tried to be nice to the only volunteers out there and thanked them. If they had been a race organizers, they would have elicited a different reaction from me, like “what the f#@k were you thinking, idiot?”

A rock tried to trip me a half mile from the finish, but I stumbled and managed to end the race without physical injury.

 I was happy to finish, but not for the right reasons. Instead of a sense of accomplishment, I  was relieved that the experience could now be forgotten as soon as possible. A bad memory, tucked away in a forgotten, hidden place. Hopefully, the pink ribbons will not haunt my dreams.

Desert Classic Duathlon Race Report

This race was originally created by the Phoenix Triathlon Club, of which I am a member. I knew a lot of the people racing, so I always have someone to commiserate with about the race. It’s a social event, like a lot of local triathlon races. The problem is that it also attracts some really talented people. Not only does the terrain make my run and bike times slow, the contrast to other people’s time makes me feel even more inadequate. I have gotten truly depressed in past races knowing I was sinking into suckdom of mediocrity during a bike portion. This event is not great for my ego. I accept this.

A duathlon is by nature a snarling beast of pain. It doesn’t let you go easily and is more likely to eat you alive. The Desert Classic Duathlon is in McDowell Mountain Park. It is a 3.65 mile trail run, a thirty mile road or nineteen mile mountain bike and another 3.75 mile trail run. This is my fifth year doing the race. The five times I have done it, only one race has gone well. I have learned to lower my expectations. Two last years in a row, the weather was horrible. I froze to death, got pounded with rain and ran through four inches of mud. This year I chose the option of mountain bike rather than a road bike. I suck at mountain biking, but the park is primo for mountain bike trails. The road bike course is just a sufferfest of hills. As long as I suffer, I might as well have fun.

My strategy for the first run was not to got out very hard and to conserve energy for the rest of the race. It started on the road going uphill, then wound through the lush desert terrain of Saguaros, Creosote and Cholla cactus. It was a lot of up and down and twisting and turning, but nothing drastically difficult. I did a 10:07-10:17 minute per mile pace. It was just enough to hurt my legs.

Mountain biking was next. I was nervous about this, not knowing what to expect. Mountain biking takes a lot of strength and finesse. Climbing a hill involves muscle power; trying to keep your pedals moving fast enough to kept your balance to avoid falling over. Sometimes going up a hill involves maneuvering around or over rocks that shift around. Turning a wheel too quickly in loose gravel or sand can result in the rider slamming into the ground. Still, it is engaging, because it involves thinking about what I am doing and where I am going. But an element of uneasiness sometimes plagues me.

I started to ride my bike and immediately noticed that the gearing was bad. The chain had been slipping shortly before the race, so I took it to a bike shop. It still wasn’t fixed. I was faced with riding the mountain bike nineteen miles with a slipping chain that was grinding on the gears. It was a distressing realization and the ride wasn’t fun anymore.

The trail started out going backwards on the Long Loop, which is an eight mile challenging route. The Long Loop was built to go the opposite way. It was wrong to go against the natural order of it. It had steep straight drop offs that were very difficult to ascend, especially now that my bike wasn’t working well and I had already done a trail run. I ended up walking at least three times. I hate walking on a mountain bike trail because it seems like a failure to give up to my weakness.

I got to the service road, which was boring, then to the Pemberton trail, which was a gradual ascent for another seven miles. I watched my heart rate climb higher than I wanted it. It didn’t bother me. I actually passed two people, otherwise, I was alone. I ate energy bars to keep up the effort, but I stopped entirely too many times. My chain kept slipping and grinding on the gears. Climb a hill, hear the chain skip and grind, curse. Repeat many times. The last part of ride went downhill, so that would hopefully save my legs for the run.

The back side of the trail was pretty. It was like a wilderness because the mountains on the horizon blocked the view of any homes. Lots of boulders and wild flowers lined the trail. The weather was cool and sunny, perfect for hurting myself. I finally started seeing other riders going the opposite way.

I saw some horse riders coming down the trail. F##k! Really? I had to stop and let them by. Horses and horse riders are unpredictable so they own the trail. I finally hit the paved road. This was boring especially when the road went uphill. Finally I went downhill again and my heart rate finally dropped. I ended up riding for almost two hours with sixteen minutes of stopping and/or walking. Too bad all the stopping and walking counts. I actually didn’t feel too tired for all the strenuous effort. Maybe I was fueled by irritation with the damn bike shop.

I got into transition and people were milling about since they were already done because they were faster than me. This made me cranky. Luckily for them, they didn’t get in my way or I might have knocked them over.

The second run of a duathlon is where the pain really starts and the legs beg for mercy. It was supposed to be 3.75 miles, but I measured it at 3.89. I felt okay until I hit the first aid station, when fatigue hit me. I ate part of my double latte gel, which helped. It tasted vile, but it has caffeine. This trail was much hillier than the first and the carnage was evident. It wasn’t going to stop me. I passed at least six people walking. I walked on the ascent of the steepest part of the trail. It was a vertical wall of dirt and rocks which was part of the Expert trail. I couldn’t see descending it on a mountain bike. I had thought about riding it before, but now I knew what it was like. It was dangerous. It was evil.

Finally, the trail got easier and I could do something actually resembling running to the finish line. My total run time was 43:19. Not a great time, but okay.

The process of training for this race was interesting in that I could actually see the results of struggling through the terrain on foot and by bike. I was surprised that I could make it up hills on the mountain bike that I never could before. My heart rate would soar, but it was tolerable. I got beat up and exhausted running trails, and I would fall and hurt myself, but the trails got easier to run. Speed didn’t matter as much as conquering the hills, sand, rocks and dirt. It was a fine line between fear of hurting myself, and the exhilaration of swooping over undulating earth.

This race at least, I held the beast at bay. I had energy most of the time. The pain of exertion was bearable. My legs didn’t scream at me. They didn’t cramp. My mind didn’t tell me how much I sucked, at least not too much. I didn’t trip or fall off of my bike, so no bodily injury. My mood was cranky, but it manageable. And I didn’t get eaten. I survived.

Desert Duathlon Race Report

I stand by the start line watching the pros getting ready to start. I like to look at the pros. The men are kind of pretty in their skin tight clothes with their perfect muscled bodies. The airhorn goes off and they dash away.

This race is fun in a hellish sort of way. It’s set in McDowell Mountain Park, which is lush Sonoran desert with a LOT of hills. The race site this year was at the competitive tracks, which are popular with trail runners and mountain bikers. The trails were specially designed to test your skills in these activities and they do. While not technically difficult, they are challenging and some spots scare the bejesus out of me if I am mountain biking. There are loop de loops, hairpin turns, steep drops off, rocks and LOTS of climbing. Running them isn’t a piece of cake, either.

The age groupers are next. In addition to pros, this race attracts athletically gifted age groupers. I am not in this category. The men go first so they supposedly won’t run down the women. Finally, I am off.

The first run goes up a hill on the road and then to a relentless series of hills. The day is cloudy and cool with a layer of white fog hugging the distant mountains. You are surrounded by desert populated with Palo Verde tree, teddy bear cholla cactus and various bushes. I struggle to run hard. The terrain demands a lot of my legs. The ground is sandy and rocky and the trail goes gradually uphill for the first half with constant ups and downs. Supposedly, the theory is that you don’t go all out on the first run of a duathlon, but it wasn’t working out that way. My heart rate was higher than I planned, but I wasn’t about to slow down.

As I was running, I was thinking about transition. I had to get through it without getting a lot of mud on my bike shoes. If I got too much mud on the cleat, I couldn’t clip into the pedal. This might be tricky. I had noticed the amount of mud surrounding my bike prior to starting the race. The mud has a sticky, greasy composition. Once it attaches itself to something, it clings like cement.

I finished the run and ran into transition. Most of the bikes were already gone, of course, so at least I had a little dry ground to work with. I usually end up riding mostly by myself towards the second half of the bike ride and also running by myself the second run. Everyone else finished early. I had a good half an hour after they are done to contemplate my athletic inadequacies while I was racing. I got on my bike shoes and negotiated the bumpy carpet to the road. I couldn’t clip in to my pedals at first, but I knocked mud off of my shoes until I could.

The road bike loop is a lot of hills, like the runs. The bike route descends to the park entrance, turns left onto a highway, then turns around and heads back to the park. It then ascends to the north end of the park and turns around again. The park road has a rough surface and sucks the energy out of you. The road entices you with false flats and climbs that seem like they should be easier, but they aren’t.

The first part of the bike course is not too bad. The rain was holding off and I was still warm. I got passed on a hill by someone who was 64. She must have been really fast, at least that’s what I told myself. All of the pros and the fast age groupers were gone. I turned around and headed back to the park.

The climb to the park entrance is where all the fun begins. It’s a long, slow slog up a hill. I didn’t mind it today as much as I had in the past. I went by mile marker twelve. Really? Is that all? This ride was not going very fast. By now the bike course was really deserted, with only a few stragglers. I was hoping that I wouldn’t be doing the last run by myself.

I finally got to the top of the hill and then went thankfully downhill. I hit the final turn around. Then the ride started to get ugly. I had to climb yet another hill. I wasn’t making much progress and this was turning into one of my slowest bikes I had ever done in this race. The wind started to pick up and it was raining. My thighs felt like someone was whacking them with an iron rod. It was definitely a low point in this race. Last year this point was at the beginning of the race and uncomfortable, but not as difficult as it felt now.

I finally got to the end and went into transition. There wasn’t enough room to re-rack my bike and I had to push one over to get mine racked. I almost fell over and banged my shin on the teeth of the bike gear. I changed shoes and hit the second run.

My legs felt like lead and it was hard to run. This trail was harder than the first, with steeper ups and downs. I passed someone I knew, then another. There weren’t many people on the course and everyone seemed to be struggling. I didn’t have much speed left in my legs. Then it started to rain again. Super. At least my multiple layers of clothing were keeping me warm.

I finally saw the finish line and tried to speed up, but couldn’t. My final time was 2:43. It was one of those races I thought I survived, but did not conquer. Trying my best and finishing it should have been enough, but it wasn’t. I liked the challenge of pitting myself against the terrain, but it was the king and not me. It was so pretty and so mean.

Desert Classic Duathlon Race Report

The Sonoran desert is green. There is a reason for that. It occasionally gets rain. Sometimes it gets a LOT of rain.

The Desert Classic Duathlon is a competitive, fairly difficult race. It attracts some really talented pros. The difficulty of the race is increased when you are cold and wet and the trails have turned to mush from the rain.

I incorrectly assumed that the rain would stop and that I would warm up on the runs. I was sadly mistaken. The first run is on a relatively easy trail that goes uphill, then downhill. Last year I managed about nine minutes miles for the 3.5 mile trail. I was in the third wave of runners.

I had a hard time getting up to speed. The first two miles were about 10 minute miles if the sign was correct. The trail had loose wet gravel, but wasn't too muddy. I tried to speed up. The wave of male runners behind me starting passing me. I stayed to the right, but I had to avoid the Cholla cactus, which has nasty needles with hooks that cling to your flesh if you try to pull them out. I managed to pull out an average of 9:31 miles for a total time of 33:18.

I fumbled through transition. Since it was raining, I had put my shoes in a plastic bag, which slowed me down. I was warm from the run, so I assumed I would be warm enough on the bike. This turned out to be a mistake.

Coming out of transition, there is a climb on the bike, before you go downhill. The bike is an out and back for a total of 21 miles. Last year, my legs really hurt starting out on the bike. This year they didn't hurt. Maybe because they were numb from the cold. I didn't feel too bad at this point. After you hit the park entrance, there are rolling hills to the turn around. My speed was about the same as last year, judging from the mile markers. My bike computer wasn't working because of the rain. I hit the turn-around in about 42 minutes. It was raining, but it was a light rain. As I hit some of the downhills, I kept telling myself that I wasn't cold. I really was.

About five miles from the end of the bike route, the rain started coming down. HARD. It was blowing in my face and it hurt. I was totally miserable at this point and I just wanted to be done with the bike. I wanted to get to the second run and warm up. I saw a fair amount of people on the side of the road with flats or who had just given up. I thought about quitting, but standing in the rain freezing waiting for sag to pick me up wasn't an attractive option. About three miles in I noticed that I wasn't focusing very well. I had to remind myself to pay attention and not run off the road. My mind was getting foggy from the cold. At this point, I couldn't feel my feet. I finally got into transition in a time of 1:25:26. This time kind of sucked, but it was only about a minute more than last year when it was sunny and dry.

I fumbled around again. I had a hard time getting my helmet off, because my finger wouldn't do what my brain was telling them to do. My old friend hypothermia had come to visit. I got my wet running shoes on and finally got my chin strap undone. Another slow transition.

I started out the second run with numb feet. It was hard to know what they were doing. It seemed like I was turning over my legs, but it was hard to tell. At about mile two the quagmire started. The trail was three inch deep tracked up mud. Some people had bravely ran right down the middle. I chose to try and avoid the deepest mud, but it was impossible at times. I passed people struggling through it and finally hit the HILL. The HILL is a short steep hill about two miles from the start of the second run. Last year I managed to make it up the entire hill without walking, but last year was last year. I went up the hill in something resembling a run, but I had to walk a little when my legs decided they didn't want to run anymore. I made it to the top and then had to navigate a narrow muddy trail going steeply downhill. From there it was a fairly "easy" short run to the finish. Total time for the 2.7 mile run a disappointing 27:56. I don't know if anyone was lucky enough to run the trail before it turned into a quagmire, but if they did, they had a distinct advantage. Mud does not make for a fast run, at least for me.

Total time for the race was 2:32:20. I actually got first place in my age division because only one other person my age showed up. The faster people elected to stay home and be warm and dry. Wussies!

This race is kind of cool because USUALLY the weather is great, it's challenging, well run and people show up from all over the country and even Canada. It was a qualifier for the World Duathlon Championships in 2009. I will be back next year, hopefully, and maybe even not freeze my body parts off.