Antelope Canyon Race Report

Seeing a slot canyon had been something that I always wanted to do. Social media is full of photos of these remarkable geologic formations. I am lucky enough to live in a state that has them. But like many of my goals, I think about them, but don’t act on them. Then depression sets in because I am bored. Signing up for a trail half marathon would  break me out of my inertia.

New places are great to see, but the planning, expense, and getting there is not. Travel is stressful and sometimes doesn’t seem worth it. Endless hours are required to figure out what to do with the cat, how to get there, where to eat, where to stay and what to bring. Packing takes forever. I lack someone to travel with and I drive alone, eat alone and deal with unplanned obstacles alone. Usually, I am happy afterwards, when the memory of all the hassle fades.

I had never had the urge to run a trail half marathon before, because training would entail running on trails for two hours or more. It’s exhausting with the hills, irregular terrain and the rocks waiting to trip me. My pace is slow as hell, my legs get tired and a tiny rock can catch my toe and violently send me slamming into the ground. The bruises take weeks or even months to heal. Two falls in the past had required stitches in my knees. Yet I still do this foolishness.

The finish time cut off was a concerned. We had five hours to be done. When I signed up a year ahead of time, I was injured and hobbling through my runs. Gradually, it seemed possible after some long runs. My joints still hurt, but the ache was manageable. The prospect of accomplishing a trail run of this distance was an intriguing challenge.

The race information claimed that the terrain was smooth singletrack with rolling hills and about 900 feet of elevation gain. That amount of climbing was more than the usual pavement half marathon, but I had done it before. The other distances of 100 miles, 50 miles and 55k had “sandy doubletrack.” I hoped that the half marathon didn’t have sand, but this hope would be dashed. The area was a sand farm, with wind and water breeding deep pockets of it from the rocks.

The half marathon route didn’t include the scenic features of the other routes like slot canyons, but it did have views of the Colorado River and Lake Powell. Canyons are best viewed at a leisurely pace, anyway.  Any distance other than thirteen miles was impossible to me, because suffering that much was not appealing.

The drive north was about four and a half hours, made more boring because my phone would quit playing music or play the same song over and over in the remote regions of the reservation. Why doesn’t anyone use MP3 players anymore? I longed for one because this stupid phone failed to entertain me. The local Navajo radio stations were not likely to offer alternative rock music.

 I worried about and felt guilty about leaving my needy cat with a new sitter. She would meow piteously and no one would serve her every want. She would have no ice in her water, be alone and hate it. She couldn’t go outside and drink water out of the dirty plastic container that I leave for the birds. She had to cuddle.

My usual fear of my old car breaking down on a road trip wasn’t an issue because I had just invested lots of money replacing the struts, whatever they were.  The weather was good and the traffic light with few annoying drivers. Late in the afternoon, the clouds took on colors of the rocky sandstone.

When I arrived in Page, my hotel looked like it was built recently. It was more upscale than the usual cheap Flagstaff hotels that I stay in. The room had a microwave and refrigerator, as advertised. It even had a real coffee maker. I didn’t need mine, although I still needed real coffee grounds because hotel coffee everywhere is unacceptably watery and weak.

As a bonus, the hotel was a quarter mile from a scenic view, oddly enough called “Scenic View”. The gleaming ribbon of the river could be seen hundreds of feet below and the Lake Powell Dam was to the north. I walked down and took pictures in the waning light. The rocks had a golden glow.

Going out to find a restaurant, I got lost and was headed on the way to Utah. I turned around and went out to a tavern. I had a real nice dark beer that seemed stronger than the five percent alcohol they said it was. This small town maybe wasn’t so bad if it had decent beer.

The next morning was the Lower Antelope slot canyon tour starting from a nondescript building south of town. The entrance was a short walking distance to the canyon, and required a climb down a steep ladder. The flowing rock formations were mesmerizing, catching the light with different flowing shapes. My phone camera wasn’t capturing the light well, but Photoshop would make up for its failings. The guide noted areas that were frequently photographed and would hold our phone cameras in the same spot. He pointed out formations that looked like animals or people. It was fascinating.

Looks like an eagle.

Occasionally, the wind would blow sand down the canyon. Sand rain was unexpected. The guide said that animals sometimes fall into the canyon as well. Hopefully, it wouldn’t rain random creatures as well. Fishing a cow out of this hole must be a feat.

After an hour, we came out. The ordinary surface concealed the fairy land of rock below.  

The next day, I got up early to get to the race.  Finding the entrance in the dark was a concern because it was hard to find in the daytime, but they had police cars and a guy with a light. It was a chilly 43 degrees. At least it wasn’t windy. When the sun rose, the distant plateau turned pink. I jogged to warm up to be able to function and stave off the cold. Once the sun came out, it would be much warmer, so I had to decide what to wear to avoid having to carry for thirteen miles. Since it was going to be a sunny day, I erred on the side of having less on.

The first 2.2 miles were a shock, edging on despair. The soul sucking loose sand was like running on a beach, but without the joy. The route culminated in a steep uphill to the first aid station. Once on the plateau, the path was firmer, which was good because thirteen miles of sand was intolerable. The high desert  plain stretched a long ways below. I took off my over shirt, then my bike arm sleeves. Just the beginning, and already I thought this is really hard. The rolling terrain took a hard effort to run on.

The path narrowed and runners clogged the way. I had to slow down even more, if that was even possible. Most of the miles were about 14-15 minutes. Not exactly blazing, but  my expectations were low. The breeze was cold and I put back on my over shirt. It stayed on the rest of the race.

At mile 5.5 the path narrowed more. It was little defense against a sheer, bare, enormous drop off. The slope had little to stop a person who stumbled or slipped. A women in front of me freaked out. A nice guy guided her forward. I nervously stepped carefully as it looked like 500-1000 feet to the bottom.

The path finally didn’t look like imminent death and I had to stop and quickly take pictures. Time was relentlessly passing. The blue ribbon of the river was below.

The numerous selfie-takers were irritating, though they stayed out of my way. They would pass me, then slow down to take pictures. Stopping and starting for thirteen miles was idiotic. It was a struggle just to go at a slow, steady pace.

My energy flagged until the 7.2 mile aid station. I refilled my water bottle and ate one of my last remaining Powerbar gels. They aren’t made anymore, and Gu gels just doesn’t seem as energizing. Running out of water worried me, since a twelve ounce bottle only lasted me about an hour, but the day was cool enough not require constantly sucking down water.

Down a hill, and then a four lane street had to be crossed with no light or crosswalk. We were on our own. The cars stopped, but I wondered if they ever didn’t.

At some point, I realized that my shoes were full of sand. Taking them off and dumping the sand out was too much effort. My toenails would pay for it later turning colorful shades of purple and red..

I got a second wind. This part of the course was suburban boring, passing by a golf course. This  was exciting new territory after nine miles–the longest ever trail run, training or racing. So far, I was surviving and didn’t feel terrible.

I chatted with a guy who followed me. This was his first race at this distance, trail or pavement. This was ill-advised , but I can’t judge, having done stupid things as well. Most of the population thought any running was crazy, but a small portion of us thought doing physically hard stuff was “fun.” Trail running, though, was a whole new level of insanity.

The terrain reminded me of Clay Pits in McDowell Mountain Park. The ground was sun-baked, hard-packed bare dirt and fairly smooth, which was fine. The evil sand awaited again.

We had to cross the same street again. It was un-nerving.

The last aid station was at mile 12.6. The guy following me passed, but it didn’t matter since this race was mere survival and not a competition. With more water, I faced my doom.

 

Running down the hill was fun, like a giant sand dune from my Midwestern childhood.  Tripping wouldn’t matter because the sand was so soft. The fun soon turned into misery, with rolling hills of hell. Running turned into mostly walking because I had nothing left. 

The final section to the finish line had a metal ramp, which required a climb up a rocky hill to get to. Are you kidding me? Around the big rock was the finish line. What a relief. I had made it. Total time was 3:41, though that includes stopping at aid stations and taking pictures. I probably actually ran about 3:25.  The Wildflower half iron run was about a thousand feet, but none of my other half marathons have  come close to that amount of climbing.

Though a trail half marathon is relatively short for ultras, it was a whole different animal than shorter trail runs. It was mostly endurance and not speed. The distance was not easy, but the difficulty still surprised me. The 4,000 feet elevation and the very dry climate might have had  an effect. The weather was cool enough not to over heat, but strangely chilled me for the rest of the day. This is unusual for a pure running race, especially in Phoenix.

The better runners probably blasted through the sand, but to me it very difficult. It was 3.3 total grinding miles, with the start being 2.2 and the end being 1.2.  It was incomprehensible to face that after doing a longer distance. I would cry. 

In the end, despite the stress and hassle, it was unique to run in this strange, austere landscape of rocks, sand, plateaus and river. Discomfort can bring happiness. I saw a slot canyon, Horseshoe Bend and ran a trail marathon. My legs hurt but my usual fog of depression lifted. 

 I might even do another half trail marathon, though not if it has a lot of rocks. Or sand. Or hills.

 

Estrella Mountain 8k XterraTrail Race Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

I got a medal and medical bills.

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

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

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

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

Damn rocks.

Rockhopper Xterra Race Report

A Rocky Hell

Rockhopper Xterra Triathlon is a low key event on the north shore of Tempe Town Lake. The 1000 meter swim, the thirteen mile bike and the 3.5 mile trail run weren’t necessarily long, but they aren’t fast or easy, either. The terrain in Papago Park is hilly and bone-jarring.

I was nervous about this race because mountain biking always inspires a bit of fear. Will I crash or otherwise inflict bodily injury upon myself? My wounded knee hadn’t healed up for the past three weeks, because I kept crashing on it. Pain bred caution. I was slow, and cutoffs were also a concern. I met them last year, but it was tight. Last year’s journal entry mentioned how difficult the race was. I didn’t need the reminder.  Amnesia was bliss.

Am I too old for this stuff? It is exhausting and scary. The lack of any females in my age group sometimes makes me wonder if mountain biking and trail running is a good idea. But in a strange way it is fun.

Race day didn’t start out well. I was sitting in the car, ready to leave and wondered what did I forget? Too late I realized what it was.  I forgot my Camelbak. Camelbaks are not cool in road cycling, but it’s hard to drink from a bottle while mountain biking. Too much coordination was required to grab a bottle and stay upright. 

It also had my flat repair equipment in it. I hoped that the tire gods would be kind and not let me get a flat. Lately, I had been finding inch-long Cholla Cactus stickers in my tires. The desert is not a good place for tires. 

I also forgot my required USAT card for packet pick up, since I rarely do this on a race day. Luckily the race director let me off, since he knew me. I was impressed that he actually remembered my name. I must have done enough of his races to achieve notoriety.

Photo courtesy of Wannatri

The start of the race was in choppy water. This wasn’t an issue, since I had an old, beat up wetsuit that kept me from drowning. The seventy-five degree water temperature was almost chilly at first in my sleeveless wetsuit, but it felt warm later.  

The swim was crowded with swimmers doing only the 1000 and 2000 meter swim.  Undoubtedly, a few lapped me on the 2000 meter swim, since I was only doing the 1000 meter very slowly. Hazards like the dangerous breast stroker and over-enthusiastic fast swimmers had to be avoided. Breast-strokers can randomly kick me. Fast swimmers didn’t care if I was in their way and would swim over me if they can get away with it. They also churned up the water, adding the unpleasantness of being out in the murky lake. I was the last woman swimmer, but my time was better than last year. For once, the swim was the easiest part of the race.

The dreaded bike was next. Papago park is unforgiving terrain with loose rock and dirt that was difficult to climb and ascend. It wanted me to die. Pre-riding the course to practice was ineffective, because the right route was not obvious, despite doing the race last year. I managed to find some of it, but not all because the trails veer off in so many directions. 

The first loop I felt incompetent.  Frequently, I had almost made it up a hill when my wheel skidded on an errant rock. I cussed in frustration and had to jump off the bike when it lost traction, to avoid falling over. A particularly big hill was impossible for me to ascend. Climbing a steep hill isn’t worth it if I am bent over gasping for breath for five minutes, so I gave up. Walking was about as fast as riding anyway, but I hated it because it meant that the dirt and rocks won. I was tired from the swim and had to ride much harder to avoid the cut offs. The sun blazed hot. 

I was gingerly descending a demon rocky hill, trying not to kill myself, when a rider flew by me like it was nothing. Really? It must have been his bike that allowed him to do this. Amazing, but irritating. I didn’t know how the fast and fearless did it. For me, self-preservation took precedence when descending a sketchy steep hill. Other riders were having almost as much difficulty as I was. The course has mandatory dismounts–three per loop; two loops total. This involved awkwardly walking with metal cleated mountain biking shoes on loose gravel through a tunnel. Not fun. By the second loop, I had accepted that this course was very difficult and I just had to get through it. It wasn’t my fault; it was the trail’s fault. I had about ten minutes total of walking. At least I didn’t have the hotshots the last loop. The total time was about the same as last year. A little extra length was added because a pedestrian bridge has been taken out at the turn around.

I got into transition and no one stopped me, so I must have made the cut off. In my hurry,  I forgot to take off my helmet and didn’t notice for a half mile. I left it on the side of the trail to pick up on my way back and felt really stupid. This had never happened to me. Only the totally clueless do this. Why didn’t anyone say something like “idiot, take off your helmet!”

The temperature by then was eighty-four degrees. It was hot, but not unbearable. A breeze helped. I had no hat as usual, because of failing to take off my helmet. The run course was a little more doable than the bike course, but it was still a lot of climbing and descending rocky hills. A volunteer dude kept asking me what loop I was on. I appreciated his concern, but I was well within the cut off. Go to hell.  I had to run with my helmet in my hand the last mile. I hoped no one noticed. Total time was 3:05:43. 

I was first in my age group because I was the only one. This usually has to be pointed out to race directors, especially when awards are given out before I even start the run. They must not expect older athletes to show up, though usually every race I do has a seventy-year-old male that can crush the bike, but not run as well. 

Another race, another beer glass

Being the only one made me feel like a bit of a misfit. But even if I am not good at it, I still mountain bike and do Xterras. Incompetence never stopped me before.

Mesquite Canyon Trail Run Race Report

I think I have gotten into trail running because I got tired of grinding endless miles on the pavement for ironman training last year. The scenery is way better than road running. It's also way tougher and harder on your body.

I found that out when I tripped over a tree root, checking out the trail for the Mesquite Canyon Trail run. The run wasn't as bad as the elevation map shows:

However, I found out that (a) you can run as fast and as hard as you can and you will never be as fast as you would on pavement; and (b) you have to work harder for less speed. Not only that, you have to pay attention to where you are putting your feet so that you don't end up sprawled on the ground with a bloody knee or worse.

The first time I checked out this trail, I was blithely unaware of the danger those little rocks on the trail could inflict. I ran a seemingly easy 2 1/2 miles and turned around and tripped on a little pebble in the trail. I got up with a bloody knee. I recovered and ran down a wash that had a lot of soft dirt that had washed down from a rain storm. Sitting in the dirt, waiting to snarl me was an evil root. I caught my foot in it and slammed down hard on my chest. I had the breath knocked out of me and felt rather battered at this point. I finished the run. It turned out that I had bruised my ribs, which meant that everything I did that involved moving including running, coughing, lifting and generally existing really hurt. The pain didn't really abate until the morning of the race.

I decided to run the race hard, but to be relatively cautious, because I really didn't want to fall. Racing this trail seemed a lot harder than training on it. It seemed the faster you go, the harder it was to avoid the rocks. I got a fairly good pace going, but a lot of people were passing me. I got up to my racing heart rate, which usually makes the right side of my chest hurt. My ribs hurt on the left side, so I had bilateral pain. Fun. I stumbled a few times, but I stayed upright. I had to shorten my gait and pick up my knees. It felt like I was dancing on the rocks.

The turn around passed an aid station. Volunteers checked out your number when to came through to keep track of the bodies. I guess they didn't want to leave anybody out in the desert. The trail goes steeply up for a short while, then you come back down.

Coming back, I spotted the evil tree root that I had tripped over the week before. It looked like they had put some dirt over it. By this time my legs were really getting tired and heavy. The last mile and half, there seemed to be only one person in front of me. There weren't any mile markers, so I couldn't tell how much I sucked time-wise, but I was doing the best I could. I stumbled some more, but I stayed upright.

I hit the finish line in 51:56 for the five miles. I wasn't thrilled about the time, but I was about mid-pack and 3/5 in my age group. Trail running isn't about setting personal records anyway. It's about you against yourself and the terrain. It almost seems more like pure running. Instead of spacing out and running as fast as you can, you test yourself as you struggle against the rocks and the dirt and the hills. And when you are getting weak, you can look at the scenery to distract yourself and know that it will hopefully always be there.