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.