Cactus Man Olympic Race Report

Cactus Man Olympic Triathlon was invented by Four Peaks with six weeks notice because all of usual race organizations didn’t feel like putting on any events this spring at Tempe Town Lake. One in particular, that shall remain nameless, gave lame excuses as to why the plug was pulled, but I suspect the issue was money.  The spring triathlon season is short in the desert. Too soon and the water is too cold. Too late, and the sun fries the participants. This only leaves April and May.

Race morning, I awoke after a bad night of sleep and questioned why I was doing this while driving to Tempe at O’ Dark Thirty. I felt less than terrible, though. I will survive.

Two weeks previously, I had broken my toe. A rock got in the way of my foot while I waded into a lake to swim. I realized something was wrong when I tried running and it hurt. A lot. The top of my middle toe was an angry looking purple. But it wasn’t a bad break and the pain went away. I could still swim, bike and run and no treatment was required. The toe only ached a little. The injury played with my mind, though. I would think oh my god, my toe’s broken! Then I would forget about it.

We lined up at the swim start to get into the water. A ramp led into the lake. What was just beyond the ramp was a mystery because the water was so murky. I gingerly walked down the ramp. I feared stubbing my toe again. Rocks were lurking in the soup, so I stepped cautiously and swam to the start line. My toe had survived.

The swim went better than expected, which shocked me. Most of the time it’s an ordeal that ranges from uncomfortable to terrifying. I get over run by faster swimmers who don’t care if I am in their way. I run out of energy and it takes me everything to finish. Most of the time, I am just miserable in the water and hate every minute of it. I hoped to be a little less mediocre this time and was actually a little faster. I didn’t stop much, except for trying to sight buoys while blinded by the sun. I got off route because I couldn’t see them and had to veer left to get back on course. It would have helped to have kayakers for guidance.  I felt fairly comfortable and didn’t panic. The water temperature was 68 degrees and the surface was pretty calm. The lack of swimmers helped. My goal was to not expend excess energy thrashing around in panic while sighting. It seemed to help.

I got out of the water without harm to my toe and ran through transition. I put my bike stuff on in a daze and rode off. The bike ride was tedious, but relatively uncrowded with cyclists. Every race in Tempe has about the same route and it gets old. Up Rio Salado to Priest, down the freeway ramp; blah, blah, blah. The trouble with an olympic distance was that this boring route is done twice. I amused myself by admiring a flock of white Egrets in the Salt River bed, which was visible from a bridge. I also picked off slower riders. My toe was behaving itself.

I kept passing a guy wearing a tee shirt, running shoes and running shorts, who would then pass me again. Most experienced triathletes wouldn’t be caught dead riding the bike in running shoes. This may sound elitist, but running shoes are difficult to pedal in. The mushy soles lose energy. Bike shoes soles are stiff. It also violated the mandatory “must look cool on the bike” code. He was obviously a newbie and would have probably have been faster with better equipment. I passed him one last time and finally dropped him. At least I beat someone. Total time was about what I was aiming for. My plan was to ride conservatively the first lap, harder on the second. They ended up being even.

The weather remained fairly cool by the time I hit the run. The lake banks usually create a heat bowl and the sun showed a welcome modicum of mercy. I didn’t have high expectations of a great time, but I got gradually faster every mile. The discomfort was manageable. At minimum, that is all I can hope for–not to slow down. A run where I don’t suffer too much was good. The course was empty on the second lap, since the rest of world had finished already. At least I wasn’t last. And my toe survived unscathed.

Total time was 3:38. I was third in my age group, but the person ahead of me had a 31 minute split for a 10k, which I doubted was a valid run. This was bullshit. Even the overall winners didn’t have that fast a run split. Did she cheat? Did she not do the second lap and not tell anyone? Was it an innocent mistake? A timing issue? Oddly, though, she got her medal at age group awards.

I debated questioning it. Still, it didn’t seem right that the overall winners’ run splits ranked behind hers. When I emailed the race director and pointed out that the second place person in the 60-64 age group probably didn’t have a 31 minute 10k, he deleted her immediately. I was now second.

Age group placing is mostly meaningless for me, since the number of people in my age group can be sparse. To be second sounds good, but in some races, it is the prize for showing up. Still, being there counts.

I don’t do these races to for time compared to everyone else, anyway, because being faster than most of the field is impossible. I would have quit a long time ago if I hadn’t accepted that. Even exceeding my previous times would be a rare event at this point. I can’t even beat myself anymore.

But at my age, I can still punish myself, get out of breath and train endless hours just to be able to pass Gym Shoe Guy on the bike. As long as the toe bones stay intact.

Ironman 70.3 California Race Report

California is big. It outdoes itself in scenery, population, traffic and beaches. It’s desert, mountains, ocean. It’s extreme, and the land goes on forever. I always felt lucky to live a day’s drive away.

But the drive was a pain in the ass, especially if I was doing all the driving. The barren stretches of the Mohave desert made me want to scream with the monotony. The windmills outside of Palm Springs and absurd skeletal stumps of dead palm trees in Desert Center were scant relief from the boredom. The gas prices made me cringe. Seven hours later, the torture was over.

I have done Ironman 70.3 California in Oceanside twice. The ocean swim is in a relatively calm harbor and the bike route goes past the coastal shore into Camp Pendleton. The military base has a lot of undeveloped land so they are free to shoot and blow things up. It is always sporting green hills with wildflowers. It’s a kick ass bike ride with hefty hills.

The race is well organized, the people are friendly and best of all, the run isn’t in ninety degree heat. I was tired of racing with heat exhaustion.

For some reason, I had a difficult time upon arrival discerning which way was north or south and when I missed the hotel entrance, I drove aimlessly around until I finally found it. I could have looked it up on my phone, but it was too much bother. I had stumbled into the fourth leg of triathlon–getting around a strange town. In some ways, it was the most difficult and stressful.

My navigation skills were put to the test the next day, when I had to pick up my packet and drop my bike off. I blundered around until I found parking. In beach towns, parking can be problematic, because in addition to all the athletes and their families, the rest of California also descends like vultures to take up space. The town became of mixture of confused drivers, dudes with surf boards, families carrying beach crap and dragging small children, and bike riders. My plan was to pick up my packet, maybe attend an athlete meeting and go back for my bike later. This was a bad move.

This might have been a hint of things to come the day before.

Ideally, the day before a difficult, long race should be restful, but race organizers deviously make you stand in line to register, make you walk around to get your race goodies and then walk a long way to drop off your bike. The nervous energy of all the type A athletes was draining. I had to beg a volunteer for a parking pass for race morning because my hotel was more than 1.5 miles from transition. Seriously, she wanted me to walk 3.2 miles to race 70.3 miles? Then I had to go back to my hotel to get my bike, find another parking spot and drop my bike off at transition. The walk back was twenty-three minutes. The whole thing was exhausting and I hadn’t even raced yet.

Old people were WAY in back.

Race morning, I got up at a horrible, dark hour and went to my car. It was covered with dew. This was baffling. Living in a desert, I don’t get dew on the car and didn’t know what to do. Turn on the A.C.? The heat? That button with the weird squiggly graphic? It would have been nice to be able to see, but the windows kept fogging up again. I desperately wiped them with my hand.

I got to town and found out I didn’t know where my parking lot was. The streets were one way going against where I wanted to go. Finally I got to it. I caught a shuttle bus, then walked.

The air was chilly. I got my wetsuit on, then put a jacket over it. The goal was to stay warm as long as possible. The water temperature was sixty-two degrees, which was bearable with a full wetsuit, booties, two caps and a hood and ear plugs. After standing in line for twenty minutes, I got to jump in. The cold shocked me, but at least my face wasn’t numb. I started swimming, but didn’t get to the start line marked by buoys before the gun went off.

The cold water sapped my energy. I swam some, then rested, then swam. I tried to stay out of the way of the water churning faster swimmers. As I approached the mouth of the harbor, the water got choppier. My repeated mantra to myself was that I was going to be okay. The salt water slapped my face and dried my throat. I didn’t want to panic, because that would be ugly. The swells obscured the buoys at times. The water would be rough until I turned around and got further back into the harbor. I cussed a lot. Usually this section was calmer and the swells barely noticeable. Yesterday, the beach was closed due to riptides and high surf. The sea was still writhing. This swim really sucked.

I reached calmer water, but then the next ordeal awaited. All the incoming swimmers are funneled into a narrow area. In past years, they ran into me and I shrugged it off. This year, they were obnoxious, pushing on my feet, banging into my sides. More cussing. I finally got into a rhythm, but time stretched out. The sun was in my eyes, so I couldn’t see the end. It should have been close, but it wasn’t. After I long time, I staggered out of the water. Sixty-four minutes. It was the worse swim ever at this race.

I struggled out of my wetsuit and got my bike gear on. I was cold, so I put on a vest and arm warmers. I had a long run to get to the start because they had put the old people far away from the entrance. Running in bike shoes was awkward. I had to pee, but I didn’t want to stop.

Almost all of the bike route was on Camp Pentleton. Riding on a military base was novel. Right away, I rode past soldiers with an armored humvee with a mounted machine gun. The first part of the bike was fairly flat with rollers. I felt happy to be on the bike. I glimpsed views of the blue ocean. Poppies, sea thrift and ganzanias grew on the grassy hillsides. I looked at pretty birds. It was distracting. I didn’t seem to be going as fast as usual on the “easy” part and that worried me.

The first hill was a monster and the steepness was humbling. People got off and walked and I was tempted to do as well, but I didn’t have the time. They must have had a low pain tolerance. Wussies. It was a short hill anyway. The second hill wasn’t bad and seemed like the hills that I had trained on.

I made an effort to keep taking salt tablets, water and nutrition. I still felt thirsty. The air was cool on the descents, but hot on the climbs. The dry air sucked the water out of me.

A speed/no pass zone at mile forty-two actually had timing mats on it, unlike past years, so I tried not to go too fast. The section had a speed limit because someone had crashed and died on it and spoiled it for everybody. Some idiot passed me. I wished him bad karma. He was probably disqualified.

I passed hidden soldiers shooting things. I heard a loud boom and saw billowing black smoke off in the hills. They weren’t worried about setting the grass on fire. I stopped to remove my vest and arm warmers, because climbing the hills made me hot. I was constantly worried about the tight time cut off. The stupid swim screwed everything up.

The areas with building always had soldiers watching us. I guess they wanted to keep the spandex clad bike riders from committing nefarious acts on their base. I passed a sign that said “artillery firing overhead at any time.” Hopefully, not today.

After grinding through the hills to the flat part at mile forty-four, the wind picked up. I couldn’t go more than twelve miles an hour. My anxiety increased. I hoped turning south would help and it did. I was in full “beat the cut off” mode, which meant going as hard as possible, despite the possibility of trashing the run.

I exited the base, going past a soldier with a huge machine gun. This seemed like it would not be a fun way to pass the time--guarding the base from triathlete trouble-makers.

I got to transition with a few minutes to spare on the five and a half hour cut off. I was crusty with salt and dehydrated. I really wasn’t sure why the bike was so much slower than previous years. I hadn’t peed in hours and had no need to do so now.

On the run, the first miles, the aid stations didn’t have coke, so I resorted to Red Bull. Coke would bring me back to life, but I didn’t know if Red Bull would. I was leery of using it,  but I was desperately tired. I didn’t know how healthy it was, but I didn’t care. I had read stories about bad effects like stomach upset, anxiety and constipation. It wasn’t bad cold, but warm it tasted like cough syrup. I felt good for five minutes, then reverted to my funk.

Part of the run course done 3x's. Ugh!

The run went south along the beach, went up and down the pier; then into the neighborhood and turned around back to the pier. The ocean provided a cool breeze, but the residential area was closed in and hot. A few kind residents were hosing the runners. Someone had music going and another group had an impromptu aid station. The miles went by slowly and I felt dead and was depressed about the mediocre time. I still wanted to have an official finish under eight and a half hours. I thought I would have enough time, but I wasn’t sure.

After drinking coke and Red Bull at various aid stations, I revived about mile five. I still couldn’t go fast, but at least the movement felt more like actual running than plodding.

My mood lifted and I ran a little faster. I was getting excited about finishing. I had finally found my joy. The last two miles were the fastest. A quarter mile from the finish, I noticed someone in my age group ahead of me. I didn’t think I could catch her, but she slowed down to walk and I passed her. At least I wouldn’t be last in my age group. I ran the second half of the run faster than the first by eight minutes. The overall time sucked, but it was still an official finish.

California can do what it will to me, but with garbage drinks, I will prevail.

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.

Mountain Man Olympic Race Report

This race came at the right time. Two days before, it was 117 degrees in Phoenix. It’s the butt end of summer with a particularly nasty combination of extreme heat and humidity. Flagstaff was a lovely 80 degrees when I drove up from Phoenix. The pine-scented, cool air was a relief after the roasting hell hole I had just came from.

Usually this is a training race, but this year I didn’t have a big event. I had no urge to do any half ironman or ironman triathlons right now. As I wrote in my first blog post of this year, The Thrill is Gone. It’s Still Gone. Not having a big race was a little depressing, but strangely liberating because I don’t have to train long hours. I can do what I want. This was my last olympic of the year. I had to make it count or at least put in a decent effort.

The 7,000-foot altitude and the hills make this race challenging. I have learned over the years to have low expectations. Time goals are useless. The terrain and lack of oxygen humbles everyone. Some more than others, like me. I try to stay positive and to not worry about my mediocre splits.

The swim is the most difficult of all because I can’t pant underwater. The warm water is a murky brown, which doesn’t bother me, but it is rather gross looking, like a soupy mud hole. The shore is rocky and it’s easy to stub a toe or to scrape skin off a foot. The race organizer uses as few buoys as possible, so the last turn requires a sharp eye to see it in the far distance. My eye-sight is bad, so I swim where everyone else seems to be going.

Race morning, I got into the water to warm up. The start was scheduled at 6:34 in the morning, which was awful enough, but my wave suddenly went off ten minutes early. What??
I swam slowly to the first turn buoy. This was the most difficult part since the body was not in the mode yet of swimming without oxygen. Frequent resting and dog-paddling was an inefficient method of locomotion. I reached the turn and set out for the next invisible buoy. Once in a while, I enjoyed myself, but the brief moments passed and I just wanted to get the swim over with. Panic attacks were avoided, but my mood was not happy. After an eternity, I reached the turn and headed back to the finish. This made me feel better, because the ordeal was almost over.

Photo courtesy of Beth Kozura

I ran up the ramp into transition. My bike was easy to find with the empty racks around it. I struggled out of my wetsuit, got into my bike gear and ran off to the porta-potty. I can’t pee in my wetsuit and this race has few porta-potties, so I had to waste time in this manner. Cycling with a full bladder is painful. I finally got onto the bike.

The bike route was an out and back with hills. Big hills. I had climbed much worse, but usually, I had more air to breath. As I rode out, I was reminded of how slow I was by all the people riding back. I passed a few people, but the road was mostly empty on my side. The route followed the dried up lake and fields of sunflowers. The air was cool, but the sun felt warm. The temperature was pleasant compared to the Phoenix inferno. Mountains were in the distance. My knees hurt, but otherwise I wasn’t tired.

I always had to remind myself while slogging up the hills, that it was harder going out than coming back. My goal was at least to go faster than last year, which was all that could hoped for at this point. I was cautiously optimistic.

Finally, I reached the turn around.  Downhill was a welcome change. A few stragglers were still going out, but most people were ahead of me. The big hill I had crawled up was now a thirty-nine mile per hour descent. This was nerve-wracking, but at least no howling side wind made it worse. Feeling fairly energetic, I reached transition.

 I racked my bike, changed into run gear and ran out. People who had already finished kept out of my way, which was good because I can be rude if my path is blocked. At best, the person will receive a curt “excuse me, coming through”; at worst a push out of my way. I ran out, up a ramp. Usually, this was the spot where I felt the folly of a swim and bike race at altitude. My legs were usually heavy and exhaustion settled in. Today, I wasn’t as tired, but my back and hips hurt. A brief walk helped ease the pain.

Photo courtesy of  WannaTri

A mile and a half down the road was the Hill. The Hill was humbling. It ascended nonstop for a mile and a half. Technically it was only a four percent average grade, but it felt much worse at 7,000 feet of altitude. I slogged up at a blistering fourteen minute per mile pace. Some people could probably walk faster. The views of the lake and the green forest plain below eased the pain.

The turn around was at a dirt path in the woods. For once, my gut was behaving itself. The forest didn’t offer much in the way of a place to privately poop.

Running down the hill was a relief, though tiresome after a certain point because my thighs wanted to take a nap. I was surprised that so many people made encouraging comments. It helped in a painful race like this.

The last mile and a half were the most difficult, mentally. The road was fairly flat, but had a slight uphill incline. The bad physical fatigue by this time made me think dark thoughts; about how bad my run was, how slow my time was going to be or how this ordeal was never going to end. 

This time I decided to be positive and to try to speed up. My slowness might as well be embraced and I should just be in the moment. Surprisingly, I could actually speed up. The crabby thoughts weren’t in my mind; just the ones about how uncomfortable I was.

At the finish line, I felt like I had been hit by a bus, which was strangely satisfying. The humility that this race imposed hadn’t gotten me down. I had finished under four hours and had done better than last year. I was near last, but didn’t care. The Thrill is Gone, but I can still have fun. Just not in an ironman.

Deuces Olympic Race Report

This year's "metals." This picture doesn't show it, but, I have a
giant blister on my third toe for my race effort.

I had done so many triathlons that I assumed that they would all be predictable. This turned out not to be the case with Deuces, except for the weather, which was always hot. The unexpected was not always good.

Deuces had evolved over the years, but not always for the better. It had a half iron, Olympic, Xterra and sometimes a sprint. A huge raffle used to occur on Saturday evening along with a dinner. The raffle and dinner disappeared. The Xterra this year was cancelled due to forest fire danger. I never wanted to stay late anyway, so it didn’t matter to me. The less time in Show Low the better. I couldn’t really explain why the town makes me want to leave as fast as possible.

Last year's metal.

I was nervous before the race because high altitude makes breathing difficult. The swim had  the danger of panic attacks. I usually felt alone on the bike course because it’s remote and everyone was ahead of me. The run, which was half trail was an ordeal.

The temperature was warmer than I expected at dawn. This did not bode well. I struggled into my wetsuit and tested the water. It felt chilly at first, but tolerable. The lake level was down nine feet, due to the water being used for fire-fighting. The channel out to the start was much narrower than usual.

The swim start was the typical struggle due to the lack of oxygen at altitude. My chest felt tight. I couldn’t see the far buoy because it was partially deflated. I had to ask the kayakers where it was. I turned the corner, went across to the next one, then started down the lake. I aimed toward the next yellow buoy, but the kayaker said I had to go around the orange ball buoy. 

This confused me. The race organizers had said all we had to do was right turns, but nothing about navigating randomly placed balls. At times, I actually saw the bottom of the lake through the murk. Time dragged on and I contemplated my inadequacy in this event. At least the water was smooth and I could breath. As I was going back past the start, I heard the announcer say “three minutes” for the sprint race. Great. I was taking forever and was soon going to be run over by sprint swimmers.

 I rounded the last far buoy, then the final one to come in and hit a thick jungle of weeds. The patch was enormous, the largest I had ever seen, and it extended all the way to the shore. The long plant tendrils clung to me, trying to drape themselves over my arms. I panicked, flailing my arms to escape their grasp and groaned. The only way I was going to get away was to keep moving. The swim exit was beckoning. The sprint racers had caught up, but passed by without slamming into me.  

I staggered out of the water through six inch deep muck and walked up to steep hill to be stripped of my wetsuit. I ran into transition, which of course was empty. I was last or near last out of the water, which was depressing. At least my bike was easy to find.

On the bike, it was hot already. Tall pines trees that lined the road did not provide much shade. The white sun seared my skin and sucked the moisture out of my body. Sweat salt crusted my face. Once off the main highway, Lone Pine Dam Road was empty past the sprint course racers. An out and back had been on the route last year, but none was marked this time. I worried that I had missed it, but all I could do was go on. No volunteers were out in the remote area to guide us. The sign I had gone past said “Olympic straight”, but I still felt lost on the lonely route that stretched on and on and seemed to go nowhere.  

The run was a reminder of race misery past; almost ironman level of deep despair. I knew it would be problematic since my hamstring was injured, but to run through soft sand resulted in sharp hip pain with every step. It eased off  to a bearable stabbing when I got to firmer ground. The path wound through the campground, then entered an out and back road. The slight uphill made it mentally a dark place. My legs were dead and merely plodded through the uneven ground. An unwelcome hill marked the turn around. I grabbed some gummy bears for quick energy. The sticky layer adhered to my teeth.  

On the back half of the run, the aid stations were out of water. I had my own bottle, but it was low and lukewarm. The threat of heat exhaustion worried me with three aid stations in a row lacking water and cups. I grabbed some vile-tasting Heed-laced ice, which made my water foamy, but cooler. The run ended up being 6.78 miles instead of 6.2.  

They managed to even run out of water at the finish line. I lurked around the water containers and poured some in my bottle whenever they re-filled it. Some athletes, unhappy with the situation, berated the volunteers, but they had no control over the ineptitude of the race organization. 

 I was hot and considered the kiddie pools that they had set up, but the water was dubiously cloudy. God knows what was floating around in that water with the many sweaty butts that had sat in it. I saw surprised to see some one actually wash her face with it. She might regret that later. I  jumped in the lake instead, and pushed aside the weeds. At least the bacteria would be diluted. The coolness of the water refreshed me, despite the hot furnace air.

I chose this race, not because I liked it, but mostly because it was good training for a half iron at altitude that I was doing later in the fall. I didn't  expect to do well, so I didn’t worry about it.  I had merely survived the lack of oxygen and water, the weeds, the running injury and the desolate bike course. 

People don't understand why I put myself through this kind of ordeal  Sometimes, I don't know, either. Maybe, the discomfort makes me tough. A little less pain, however, would have been appreciated.

Ironman Lake Tahoe Race Report

 Tessie, the lake monster was angry that day.

You enticed me with your promise–“IRONMAN LAKE TAHOE is a can’t miss destination for triathletes”. Like lemmings to the cliff, everyone rushed to sign up for the first time race. Never mind the 6,200 foot altitude and steep bike climbs falsely advertised as 5,200 feet of climbing.  The average historical low was thirty-eight degrees, a temperature which wasn’t reached until well into the morning on race day.

 This is the same area where the Donner party was stranded in the wilderness, and had to eat each other to not starve to death. “Renowned for its spectacular mountain vistas and crystal clear lake, Lake Tahoe’s pristine setting is primed to become as coveted a destination for IRONMAN athletes ...”As long as they aren’t slow athletes, who don’t stand a chance. It’s evil beauty. The Sierra mountains, tall pine trees and clear, deep, blue lake was stunning, but the terrain was still rugged, waiting to devour hapless bike riders. The lake showed its angry nature with rain, foaming white caps and howling winds the day before the event.

Race morning, the tempestuous Tahoe temper tantrum was gone, but instead it chose to spew mist, to confound swimmers sighting on the invisible buoys. The air temperature was about thirty-two degrees, the water temperature, fifty-seven to sixty-two degrees. The snow capped mountains at the swim start were particularly gorgeous against the fog of the lake, but it did not bode a warm swim nor bike. The frost on my bike seat confirmed this.  

I swam there earlier in the week, when it was warmer. Since I wasn’t a polar bear, forcing myself into frigid water in freezing weather challenged me even with a wetsuit, hood, booties and ear plugs. I hate swimming in a cold lake. It has forced me into med tents where I violently shiver until my body functioned again. The secret to entering and exiting Lake Tahoe without hypothermia was to spend as little time as possible on the sand, which absorbed cold and radiated it back. The beach was crunchy with frost on race morning. So of course, we had to stand on it a long time it in order to enter the water, like cattle to the slaughter.

These people do not seem warm.

I waded in and within ten minutes, knew that this race was not going to go well. A good swim was necessary to have a chance of making the bike cut offs and the cold air, water and the lack of oxygen sapped my energy. Hanging on the kayaks to rest too often is sign of a long, bad swim. The guide buoys were lost in the mist.  I stayed calm, which is a feat in itself, but was uncomfortable in  the cold, choppy lake. Turning into the sun, many arms moved on the surface in the distance, splashing droplets into the light.

My bike ready for its ill-fated journey.

As the end of the first lap, a crowd of people passed me, finishing their swim.  They churned up the water and I had to avoid getting hit by the bodies. A one lap swim is much preferable to swim alone in my misery. At the turn to start again, my watch read one hour, which was not good. Someone said “ready for the next one?’ At least I wasn’t totally alone. I tried to speed up, would get a steady rhythm, then suddenly would have to rest. The last turn was the worst--swimming with tired, weak, mechanical arm motion, half dead and very cold. I kept telling myself that I am going to make it and wondered if I would get too tired and drown. At least no one heard my groans.

A zombie, I staggered out of the water and looked at my watch-two hours, twelve minutes. My longest ironman swim ever, but not my most terrible swim experience. The Ironman Arizona swim takes the prize for that. Volunteers guided a me to the change tent and took off my wetsuit and dressed me because the part of my brain that told me how to move was frozen. I barely noticed my surroundings in my daze, which was worse that after my car accident. I was led to the useless med tent, which wasn’t warm, then left after a few minutes. I ran on numb feet to my far away bike and started pedaling. 

I had not had time to pee in transition, so I stopped at a port-a-potty, not being able to do it on a bike. It took so long, the volunteers outside wondered if I fallen in. How does a bladder even hold that much pee? Miserable and cold, I pressed on. Too much time had been lost in the swim and in the change tent, so I had to hurry.

The route went downhill, and wind added to my discomfort. I stopped once, just to feel warm again. My brain was still fogged, so I didn’t trust myself to steer in the aero bars. Twenty-five miles later, I thawed out.

 Freaking snow on Northstar the day before

The race course had two consecutive enormous hills. The local residents didn’t want spandex clad bike riders invading their tony neighborhood in Martis Camp, so not everyone could sneak in to pre-ride the hill. The secret came out-this hill was a monster. It would dip, look like it ended, then steeply ascend again, and mentally it pummeled a rider.

A short death-defying, twisting, steep descent and the next demon awaited–a 2.5 mile seven percent grade climb of agony. I  averaged about 4.27 miles per hour on it. I couldn’t walk up it that fast, but some people tried to. If I did, all hope was gone to finish the race. Time stretched out uphill, but moved relentlessly ahead. Reaching the top, I knew I would have to hustle to make the 2:00 pm. cut off. My legs felt like they had been whacked with a hammer. Could I do these hills again?

 I rode hard and for my efforts, got an  hamstring cramp so excruciating that I had to stop  on Dollar Hill for a little while. I don’t know why they call it Dollar Hill, but I had decided to call it Si, after the bearded red-neck geezer in the reality show Duck Dynasty. Si is so stupid that he is funny and the thought of this had made me smile. Maybe “Si” would be less annoying than “Dollar Hill.” Whatever it’s called this hill still shouldn’t exist. 

 I still had hopes that I had enough time until  in despair I saw that it was 2:07 and I wasn’t at the Squaw Valley cut off  yet. I had only averaged 13.1 mph, so this bike ride wasn’t going to be 112 miles this time. I came upon the unlucky race official in the road stuck with the lousy job of pulling unhappy people off the course.  A bunch of bike riders were also by the side of the road looking dazed and shocked, including people I knew, which only made me feel a little better. The dream was dead. All the training hours in searing heat and altitude had come to nothing.

I signed up for this ironman in hopes of exceeding what seemed impossible. I wanted that high and missed suffering through the rest of the bike course, the run, the satisfaction of finishing and the bright lights, high fives and noise of the finishing chute. Initially, this ironman was viable for me. After the reports came out that the elevation gain on the bike was much higher by thousands of feet than originally stated , it was a long shot because while I can climb hills, I can’t do it fast enough. Not trying it was not an option, because I didn’t want to wonder if I could have ever done it. 

It feels like a failure, even though I trained hard and fought the entire race. It’s easy to get emotionally invested in a race, but much harder to detach when it doesn’t go well. A bad result isn’t as personal to me as it once was. A person isn’t the outcome of their race, as Chrissie Wellington has said.  Still, it’s a huge disappointment with all the time, energy and money put into the race.

Big risks result in big rewards-sometimes. Anything is possible-- except when it is not. Teddy Roosevelt exalted the man in the arena “who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”  It still hurts. It may not be the destination, but the journey was tough and sometimes awful and a reward would have been nice. The Sierras got  the best of me. At least, I didn’t have to eat anyone.

Deuces Wild Olympic Race Report

I wish I could have summoned up enthusiasm for Deuces Olympic. I knew from previous experience doing this race in 2011, and the 2010 Xterra , not to expect much. People love it for whatever inexplicable reason. It’s a tough, and hilly ordeal , at 6,000 feet of altitude in the White Mountains of Arizona. Sometimes the wind howled. It was usually hot, always dry and I always felt miserable and tired at the end. But it was a training race for a high altitude ironman that I was doing in the fall, so I thought I should do it. Never mind that “should do” and “want to do” are two different things.

I also didn’t want to be in lovely Show Low. I am sure Show Low is fine town, but I couldn’t bring myself to like it. I don’t know why. Maybe because there wasn’t much there. It was a town you drive through on your way to somewhere else.

I didn’t have an auspicious start. The night before, I lost a contact and looked for it in my eyelid, poking my eyeball for hours. I wondered how I was going to get it out when it seemed imbedded in my eye. I didn’t know how I was going to swim blind in one eye, since I am extremely near-sighted. After a restless night, I finally found the contact on the counter. At least I could see where to swim.

I had to bundle up against the pre-dawn cold -forties until the orange sun lit up the Ponderosa Pine mountains. The air heated up quickly and the sun seared my skin. The wind was calm and the water temperature was sixty-four degrees, which was warmer than I expected. I waited around the dock a long seventy-five minutes to get into Fool Hollow Lake. I watched the half iron people swim and talked to people. The cold water made me recoil when I first got in, but I got used to it. I wasn’t happy with the temperature, but it was bearable.

I always dread the start of the swim, especially high altitude ones. The specter of a panic attack always loomed over me . It had happened to me in Flagstaff races at 7,000 feet and in this one in 2011. The sensation of no solid ground under my feet when I couldn’t get enough oxygen was very unpleasant. Thrashing around while hyperventilating just made it worse. I started easy in the swim and rested a lot in the first 750 meter lap. I concentrated on being calm and avoided this scenario. A current seemed to go north which helped, but the surface was choppy. The water conditions weren’t nearly as bad as the last time I did this race, when it had one foot waves that slapped me in the face with howling sixteen mph winds and twenty-five mph gusts. The second lap, the chest tightness usually associated with altitude eased up and I could swim steady without stopping. The end time wasn’t much worse a time for me than swimming at normal altitude. Changing the one-lap to a two-lap swim was a good move on the race organizer’s part because it is closer to shore and feels safer.

Starting out on the bike course, I was mostly alone because everyone else had swam and biked faster. I am by myself in races a lot and I hate it because it’s a reminder of my athletic inadequacy. This was a hazard of being slow and I was uneasy. I rode past woods and rolling hills and tried to stifle my anxiety. At times, I wondered if I was on the right road . Would anyone notice if I got lost? Did I miss the turn off and was on my way to the next town? Then I saw the leavings of previous racers-a wayward race number or a discarded gel pack and I knew I was not lost.

The bike was easier than last time I did this race in 2011, since the wind was only ten mph instead of the 17-22 mph I had to fight in the past. Except for a big hill near the end, it was otherwise a fairly fast course. The weather was cool, but I felt hot and a little dehydrated , despite drinking a lot of fluids and taking two salt tablets. I tried to keep up on nutrition as well because I didn’t want the experience that I had last time of being totally exhausted going into the run. Unfortunately, I had to waste three minutes in the port-a-potty peeing. Unlike most people, I don’t pee in the water. Even if I did, I would have needed to stop anyway because I can’t race fast enough to avoid this bodily function.

Off the bike, I felt better than I expected. but still tired. My legs had no life. The run is a mixture of trail and pavement. I appreciated the decorated fake skeleton that greeted me in the campground and the cheering volunteers. I was hot, though, and had to use sponges down my top to keep me cool. I imagined that my race photos were going to look stupid, with foam rubber sponges bulging in my top like a mutant Gumby. I didn’t care.

The long gravel road out and back was an energy suck. I hated it from the last time I had done it. It’s boring, long, no shade and hard to run. If I have to run on dirt, I want it to look like a trail, not some road I didn’t want to be on. I had just started to get a good pace when I got abdominal cramps. I could only ignore them at my own peril because they lead to bad things. No port-a-potties were in sight, of course, so I had to slow down. The pain eased off, but didn’t go away. I made it to a rest room, but that was more time wasted. I regretted the fried fish I had eaten the previous night. The rest of the run was better.

My objective for this event was to avoid feeling totally wasted at the end. Normally, I get tired, but altitude with exertion will drain me, like a life-sucking vampire. The wind didn’t help the last race, but I was probably low on nutrition and dehydrated as well. That time, I had no energy to go back to my car parked four miles away at a school and had to get a ride. This time I was drained and tired, but I could still function. I think the altitude and heat was a strain on my body and it took more effort to stem the energy loss. The thought of fighting this for an entire ironman is daunting. Final time was 3:48:54, which was disappointing, but better than the 4:06 from the last time.

My expectations for this race were met–because I didn’t have any. Just get through it and get it done. It was time to get the hell out of Show Low so that I could go home and nap.

California Half Ironman Race Report



Photo courtesy One Multisport


I was out for redemption this year. I had done this race before in 2009 and I knew how tough it could be. The 1.2 mile Pacific ocean swim in Oceanside Harbor had resulted in hypothermia for me. I came out of the water miserably cold, and was promptly whisked into the medical tent. I couldn’t warm up quickly and it added over thirty minutes to my race. Even if my time sucked, if I avoided the medical tent, it would be a win.

I never know what a race experience is going to be. Sometimes it is a body crushing sufferfest where the physical demands are so great that I can barely finish the race. Most of the time a race is fun test of my physical limits. Once in a while a race experience is extraordinary.

I didn’t sleep much because I dreaded the swim. As a slow swimmer, I always fear the swim a little, but a bad race experience such as hypothermia makes the second time psychologically harder. I was happy to find out when I got up at the god awful hour of 3:45 a.m. that it was fairly warm outside.

The race is so large, that people go off in many waves. I was in wave fourteen. People line up in their waves on the pier and can wait up to an hour to get in the water. I was reminded of a marathon chute where people line up like a herd cattle going to the slaughter. No warm up in the water is allowed. A racer jumps in the water and only has a few minutes to get to the start line.

Cold water makes me tired. I got into the water, which was bearable, but not really comfortable. I had a neoprene hood with another cap, swim booties and a two- piece wetsuit. The water was fairly smooth, but I had to rest a lot until I got into the last two thirds of the swim. The last part of the swim funnels into the harbor too many swimmer in too little space. I figured that it was their problem if I was in their way and I wasn’t bothered by the crowd that bumped into me. I think I got a draft off of all the people passing me. Total time was 56 minutes, which was 2.5 minutes faster than 2009.

Out of the water. I was dazed and uncoordinated, but not too cold.. The warmer air made a huge difference in how well I tolerated the chilly water. Due to the brain fog, transition took much too long, but it was better than being in a medical tent for thirty-eight minutes. I struggled to get my booties and wetsuit off; put on a vest, shoes, helmet and arm warmers. Then the swim gear had to be packed up and put in a bag to be transported to the finish area. Plus, the porta potty was a necessary stop.

California 70.3 has a beautiful bike route through Camp Pendleton, which is mostly undeveloped and looks like a nature preserve. The scenery was the typical California rolling grassy landscape dotted with yellow, orange and purple wildflowers. Not many events have bike routes that go through “tank crossings”. For good measure, some steep hills are thrown in.

The bike was much harder than I had remembered. I recalled the two steep hills and riding by the beach, but not all the rollers. I felt good until mile twenty. My bike computer was on kilometers because I had changed the battery. It was a good mental exercise in a way, trying to figure the speed. More terrain like this around Phoenix to train on would have been nice. Even at my slow pace, I passed a fair number of people, including the hapless people that walked their bikes up the steep parts. Even I could get up the damn hills on a bike.

Past all the climbs, I thought the flat road would be easy. Then a head wind picked up, coming from the west–just a little more pain to endure. The fifty-six mile bike split was a minute faster than 2009.

At the start of the run. I said something rude to a rider in my way who had finished and was wheeling out his bike out of transition. To be polite would have required too much energy. I was utterly exhausted, depressed. I mentally berated myself for being such an inadequate athlete. Thirteen miles seemed impossible to run.

I had planned to eat a Powerbar gel and a salt tablet every hour, but I passed on the gels. Maybe because they taste like spit. In desperation, I tried a Gu, Bonk Breakers and Coke. The Coke was magic and the run was miraculously resurrected. I suddenly felt human again and could run faster. The black hole receded and I continued to use Coke at almost every aid station. I wished for more salt tablets. I had six the whole race and was still craving salt on the run. I fantasized about pretzels.

The run was two laps along the beach, pier and streets of Oceanside with some short, steep inclines. A crowd watched and cheered the runners. I passed people I knew and it helped to see friendly faces.

No one was going to get in my way, even the volunteer that I shoved gently aside when I had the finish line in sight. The run is the heart of a triathlon and the most difficult to pull off well. In long course races, I am lucky to slog through it with tired legs because the bike sucks out all the energy out the muscles. To have some control over the fatigue felt powerful. I was tired and hot, even with the ocean breeze, but happy to run a little faster. I wanted this pain to be over with. I glared at anyone even thinking about crossing my path. The second lap was five and a half minutes faster than the first lap. Total time was 7:36.

The idea that I could do better than merely survive amazed me. A psychological barrier had fallen and now other feats might be possible, like a faster half ironman or ironman run. I didn’t care that some people would consider the 2:34 time to be mediocre. It was the best I had ever done in a half ironman. The last mile was the fastest, a difficult feat. To climb out of a dark physical and mental place and turn around a bad run felt incredible. That’s what I like about racing--every once in a while I exceed what I thought was possible. 

Courtesty One Multisort. Ramp we had to run up
and down twice

Ironman Canada Race Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEUCES WILD OLYMPIC TRIATHLON

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Amica Tri Race Report

This was another start in the dark race at Lake Pleasant again. You get up in what seem the middle of the night, drive in the dark and set up in the dark. A flashlight was quite useful. This race was set up different than the Prospector race, however. For one thing you had to hike up a hill to use the restroom. Would it have hurt to put one port a potty near the transition area?

Once it got lighter, I could see the lake was choppy. ARGHH! There must be something about this end of the lake that sucks in all the wind. The triathlons I have done in other parts of the lake were never this choppy. I knew this swim was going to be a lot of work. I was regretting my decision to do the olympic, rather than the sprint race. I was recovering from being sick and I really didn't feel enthusiastic or energized for racing.

I got in the water and it was like a tree exploded in the water. A ring of wood bits lapped the dock and the debris even went out to where we had to tread water at the start. I had to sweep it away with my arm to get beyond it. I felt calm, but I didn't think I was going to enjoy this swim. The water was mercifully warm.

We started the swim. I had to spit wood bits out my mouth and finally got beyond the wood debris. The water wasn't as bad as my October swim. I breathed and swallowed water from the slapping waves, but I wasn't getting thrown around as violently. The swim seemed to take forever. I think the course was mis-measured, as it often is in olympic triathlons and that it was long. It took me 51 minutes and I was really glad to get out of the water because that swim was NOT enjoyable. I was tired. At least I finished before the sprint race started. I went up the ramp to transition and of course everyone was gone. It's a depressing feeling to know your swim was so slow that everyone finished before you.

I stumbled through transition and rode my bike out unto the empty bike course. The first part was a series of short steep hills. I was beginning to wonder if I was lost. I was on the turn around when the sprint pros rode past me. It's always a sight to see someone rides a bike well. I always wonder what it would be like to be able to ride fast. It wasn't happening for me on this bike course.

I ride to the main road and there were more riders on that part of the course. I was waiting to feel enthusiastic about bike course and the surge of energy and joy just wasn't there. I think I left it in the swim. If you have a tough swim it affects the rest of the race. The climbs and descents were longer than the first part of the course. I was doing alright but I wasn't inspired to ride REALLY hard. It was a lot of effort just to climb the hills. There weren't a lot of people to pass to so I could put in a surge of speed to get by them.

I finish the relatively short 2o mile ride intending to fly through transition. Instead I had a clusterf**k of massive proportion. I run down to the end of the rack and search frantically for my stuff. After about five minutes of this consternation, I figure out that I'm searching the wrong rack and finally get to the right rack. I couldn't believe that I had made this rookie mistake. Maybe all the blood had gone from my brain to my legs. I felt really stupid. One of my longest T2's ever. I was going to stop at the restroom, but I decided to gut it out instead to make up some time.

The run I decided I would fight for. I was aiming to try and finish it in 62 minutes, which wasn't great, but it would be faster than I have done in an olympic tri run all year. The initial part goes downhill for about two miles, so you can gain speed on that part. I had decent miles descending. I saw the pained look on people's faces going uphill. I would be soon joining their pain. Unlike the bike course, the run course had more people on it to pass. Some of them were walking, some limping.

I got to the turnaround and started the ascent at about 29 minutes. I had to push harder to keep the minute per mile time down and I was doing decent for a while. It was getting warm and I had abdominal cramps. My heart rate was fairly high. I finally got to the top of the hill and started descending. I was trying to pick up speed. I was hoping it was downhill to the finish line and I could make up some time lost climbing the hill. One cop said "it's all downhill from here". He was cruelly mistaken. I got to about mile 5.5 when my heart rate was climbing and my legs tired and there was a enormous hill. It wasn't really all the big, but any hill would have been huge at this point. I was finally reduced to walking in discouragement. This course was beating me up.

Finally, it was downhill after negotiating a short stretch of unwelcome rocky trail. Final run time 63:50, which was better than the previous Lake Pleasant triathlon. This course was actually tougher because it had more hills and it was one of the toughest 10k's I have done. I had a sense of satisfaction from gutting out a tough run. The whole triathlon took about 3:34 with the T2 fumbling. I was wasted with the energy it took. It felt like a 3.5 hour sprint race without the speed.

I ate the cold pizza. I wasn't terribly hungry because the race was so strenuous. Last year, they had pancakes, which was awesome. I missed those pancakes. I was the only one in my age group, but they didn't call me or any of the women in the 50-54 age group either, for an award. An age group award is meaningless anyway, if you are the only one, but it was a little annoying.
The race organizers just didn't seem to be trying as hard this year. It was an O.K. race, but I miss FLAT. I wanted to P.R.(personal record) in a half iron and it didn't happen this year because the Tempe Town Lake burst and there are very few half irons as "easy" as Soma. Lake Pleasant just doesn't cut it as a race venue for going your fastest. It's all you can do to survive the humbling hills and the choppy lake and it's slow going. The sensible stay away and you are left competing with really fast people, so you end up near the bottom of the standings. You feel like you are inadequate, when really it takes a lot of strength and stamina just to finish the race.

So I just decided to be happy about the run. The triathlon season is over for me. Next year awaits.