Mountain Man Olympic Race Report

Every year, I do the Mountain Man Olympic triathlon in Flagstaff. The memory of how painful it is always forgotten, only to be realized again when it is too late. The cool weather, tall pines and mountains enticed me. Fields of sunflowers lined the lake. This year, puffy cumulus cotton ball clouds mesmerized me, since they rarely appear in Phoenix, other than the monsoon.

Race morning always had an obscenely early start. The day had a particularly inauspicious incident at 3:30 a.m. when the  toilet got clogged. And of course, I had to poop a second time. I felt bad leaving a poop filled toilet, but what could I do? This cheap hotel has a front desk manager that sleeps by his post. He would not have appreciated being woken up to be told about the toilet at an awful hour. The poor maid would have a sight when she got to the room. I was in a hurry anyway, and had to pack due to their ungenerous check out time of 11 a.m.

The morning was colder  than usual for Flagstaff. I was used to eighty-eight degree mornings in the Phoenix hell hole. The car thermometer read forty-five at one point, but mostly fifty. This race was on the road, so racers have to find a spot to park off the pavement in soft dirt that wouldn’t require extraction by a tow truck. Luckily, I found a spot.

Lake Mary

I struggled into my wetsuit and got in the sludgy brown Lake Mary. At least it was warm seventy-one degree dirt water. The air was colder, so I decided just to stay in it until my wave started. I swam to warm up and tried to avoid cutting my feet on the treacherous shore rocks.

The buoys were arranged differently from previous races. More of them were placed so I could see them, which was a novelty. The previous race owner only had a bare minimum of buoys that he spaced as far apart as possible. Distance was an approximate measurement, plus or minus a hundred yards. A swimmer needed binoculars to see the last turn buoy. The new owner had visible buoys and had an accurately measured distance. 

I always dreaded this swim, since it was hard to breathe and swim at the same time at 7,000 feet altitude. The swim could be terrifying with the prospect of hyperventilating due to lack of oxygen. Strangely, this time didn’t feel as terrible as usual. Instead of fighting off panic the whole time, I just disliked it and wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. I stopped less and didn’t feel as tired. The water was smooth with little wind. Being dazed when emerging, I couldn’t run up the ramp quickly, though. The time was two minutes faster than last year. Strangely, people were still in the lake. Could there really be worse swimmers than I?

I ran into an empty transition, then to the port-a-potty. How much can one pee, anyway? I started the bike still cold from the swim. My feet were numb for quite a while. My objective was to try to beat last year’s time, but I had no illusion of speed on the hilly course. Altitude will always win. The route went past the lake and to the hills. My heart rate monitor didn’t work because the watch strap had broken and couldn’t be replaced in time. I just tried to go hard or what felt as hard. Judging from the pain in my legs, the effort was sufficient. The hills didn’t seem too steep, but I didn’t go up them very fast. Lots of nice wildflowers along with the numerous sunflowers were on the side of the road. Occasionally, I would see some tiny blue ones. Oh look, pretty! Puffy clouds contrasted with the deep blue sky. Sometimes, a goldfinch would warble and I would try to answer back. Anything to distract from the discomfort.

I was thirsty most of the time. I tried to keep up with nutrition, despite not being very hungry. The sun was hot when climbing hills, but the shade felt cool.

On the way back, I wasn’t sure if last year’s time could be beaten. The hills were fun to descend. Two miles to go after ninety minutes of riding. Maybe? Final time was a little better than last year’s. 

I negotiated the traffic of people who had already finished in transition and were drinking beer. Screw you all. At the start of the run, my legs felt dead. This point in the race was always awful. The road was fairly flat and seemed like it should go faster, but it didn’t. 

At the bottom of  the dreaded Hill, I notice that they had the magic elixir, Coke. Maybe not a good choice for a strenuous climb, but Coke can revive the dead. My gut was a little backed up and I had side stitches. The Hill was a nasty, steep 1.5 mile climb. I ran up the entire hill when walking was highly tempting. This involved a bargain with myself. Go this far and I can walk. But I never did because it was just more time to be miserable. Running up that hill hurt. At the top was a dirt trail to the turn around. It was flatter, but not easier. 

Running down was fun, because it was halfway fast and I could see the poor saps still running up. All too soon the black hole of the last two miles awaited; the worst part of the race. Instead of being cranky and miserable, I had long ago learned to toss away my expectations and just try to survive. Still, I was tired and wanted to be done. Usually mile four of a 10k is difficult, but this race was especially so. My heart rate felt like 160's. Total time was  thirty seconds better than last year. A small victory.

When I finished, they were giving out awards already. Not being very hungry, I waited around, since my age group is so small that I often place. When they finally got to my age bracket, they said they didn’t have any finishers, so I had to point out that error. The guy corrected and gave my first place because no one else was in my age group. This seemed to happen often in races. The old and slow get forgotten. At least he cared and was a little embarrassed.

Total overall time was 3:50:18. My first reaction was meh, but it was four minutes better than last year.

I went to get a beer and a hot dog, but the hot dogs had all been eaten. Curse you fast people! Quit eating all the food! Luckily, my tri club people had food. The light beer, which was still available, had a good flavor. I needed something more than cookies and fruit after a brutal race. 

It was hot when I slogged back to the car. This is the fourth leg of triathlon–dragging all my crap back to the car. The bike, bike helmet, a heavy bag with a wetsuit, and bike shoes all have to be moved from transition to my car a quarter mile away. I always fantasize about having to sherpa to help, preferably a cute one, but no one ever materializes. 

The prize when no one else shows up
your age group

This race doesn’t get any easier as I get older. I used to do it faster, but those days are gone. More effort yields the same or less speed. Puffy clouds and sunflowers don’t make my legs hurt any less. But who doesn’t need strenuous activity with less oxygen?

Pain? What pain?

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.

Comments on Chuckie V's Post

I liked the recent post of Chuckie V's blog(ChuckieV.blogspot.com) because I have found out the hard way that his comments on ironman training are true.

• "Train for your worst possible day, the one you hope to have". My first ironman attempt was the worst possible day. I wasn't prepared for a twenty five m.p.h. head wind nor ninety plus degree heat. Usually I can do much better in racing than training, but ironman is an exception. My long bike sessions weren't fast enough in training to beat the bike cut-offs and my bike speed was worse in the race. You can't fake quality of training in an ironman race.
• "Train to overcome self-doubt and to slay your inner demons." It takes a lot of faith to attempt an ironman-faith in yourself and confidence that events will work out. When you get to dark spots in your training or the race itself, the self-doubt creeps in and it tells you that you should quit, that the pain is too much or that you are not talented or trained enough to get through the race. If you mentally train yourself to resist the voice of self-doubt and weakness that you know will come in a race, you are better equiped to deal with it. You do what you mind tells you to.
• "Train for adversity, as adversity is omnipresent on Ironman day". Things go wrong on race day that you can't predict. Your tire goes flat, you get sick to your stomach. You get a 20 m.p.h. headwind on the bike. You get dehydrated and overheated. If you keep your cool have the will and stubborness to go on, you will.
• "Train to want to be done". Train to want to be done at the finish line, not in the middle of the bike or during the run. Resist the urge to quit.
• "Train to suffer". In shorter races you know that the pain won't last too long, even if you are slow. An ironman race has or seems to have vast amounts of time that you linger in pain especially if you are thinking about how long the race is instead of what you need to do at the moment. You have to tell yourself that the pain is temporary and deliberately focus on the moment.
• "Train for lock-up, as excessive eccentric loading is the name of the Ironman game". When your muscles seize up after racing for twelve hours, you have to know how to deal with it.
• "Train to gut it out". Ironman isn't for pussies. Your mind has to be in it for the long haul. You have to really want it.
• "Train the gut". You have to eat in training the way you will eat in the race or else you will get some unpleasant surprises. Even so a nutrition plan may fail anyway. You have a 30% chance of your nutrition going wrong. Not practicing nutrition will make that percentage higher.
• "Train to resist fatigue". Fatigue is a given. Proper training can help, but if you don't have the mental grit to resist it, you quit.
• "Train for pain". Pain is your friend. It teaches you to be strong. Pain is inevitable in a race. You get cold in the swim; your butt, legs and back hurt in the bike; your feet and legs hurt in the run; you get tired, thirsty and hungry.

I have become well acquainted with pain. In my two year journey to actually finish an ironman, the swim and the bike have been my obstacles. The swim is an obstacle because I am too slow and it doesn't leave enough cushion for my slow bike. The bike is a obstacle because it isn't fast enough to make up for the slow swim to beat the cut-offs. My coach's strategy to remedy this is training hard on the long bike sessions instead of staying in an aerobic zone most of the time, like most people. This strategy has resulted in me having some truly miserable bike training. Riding hard and "fast" is not my normal state on a bike. I have really fight to ride like this. My muscles do not like riding hard. They like moseying along. Hence pain has been my unwelcome companion. It appears on a god-forsaken barren ugly stretch of the Bee Line highway, which is the bike race route. It appears when I am fighting to maintain speed against a headwind. It appears in the fourth hour of a six hour bike ride. My legs scream to stop and my feet hurt and I can't find a bearable way to sit on the bike seat.

Yet I know this pain will be useful. The race may or may not as bad as the training. I remember the last race, where I fell behind on the bike time-wise and I knew that I wouldn't finish the race after the first of three laps. I remember the frustration of not having the power to maintain the speed that I needed to against the wind and the heat. If I train through the pain, at least I have a fighting chance against the elements and the time limits. I remember that frustration when pain comes to visit me. It gives me power or at least what I hope is power. Pain is temporary. Finishing is forever.