Speedo Trauma

I don't want to look, but I have to.

I inhabit a world of lycra. In the triathlon world, lycra doesn't hide much, especially when wet. Speedos are an extreme example of this phenomena, being basically a fancy form of men's briefs. Hence the trauma:






Hey you!
Muscular, tan, slim,
god..
In a Speedo swimsuit--
with that Bulge.

I want to look away, but can’t.
I don’t want to see.
The odd body ornament.
Hanging left.

The Speedo reveals all.
Every little outline.

I never used to notice
men in tight Speedos,
until my husband ran off
with a masseuse.

I don’t date.
No romance.
I have a crisis of faith--
in myself.

Exposed genitalia
is a distant memory.

I am penis deprived.                                    

 Really Speedo?

But I don’t want to see yours.

I am not attracted to you,
an immature youth.
Pretty, but insubstantial.
I am old.

And yet I look.
There it is.
Repulsive, yet
fascinating.
Intrusive.

Please go and
take your Bulge with you.  
Before I go Blind.

Tempe Tri Race Report

 Photo courtesy of  Bob Pane, One Multisport

I normally go out of my way to avoid the Tempe Tri race, even to the point of leaving the country. It’s hot and not wetsuit legal. The air temperature can climb into the nineties. September may be mild in other parts of the country, but in the desert, it makes a mockery of fall. Fall doesn’t exist here anyway. Summer heat loses its intensity, but still awaits to punish the unwary.

SWIM ANXIETY IN TEMPE TOWN MOAT AND IT’S NOT THE STUFF THAT FLOATS IN IT

To swim in Tempe Town lake even with a wetsuit, is not fun. Things float in it that I don’t want to know about. Not that floating objects could be seen, because the water is so murky, I never even see my hands. Occasionally, a body is found in it. The surface is well below the walls that contain it, like a castle moat filled with  monsters. Massive bridges loom overhead, blocking the sun. Lack of a wetsuit makes it exponentially more unpleasant.

But I wanted to race and was too cheap and lazy to go elsewhere. The swim would be a challenge to take on. It was a mere 750 meters or 810 yards, but that can seem forever with the possibility of death. Even in a nice lake, swimming away from shore without a wetsuit makes me panicky. Physically, I can swim the distance, but mentally is much more difficult. Fear is a strong opponent, resistant to change. The brain gets in a rut, spewing out over and over that I won’t make it to shore.

The moat

Mine tells me I am in danger in deep water, making me tense, then tired, then more fearful. A fish I am not. Convincing my thoughts to go in a positive direction takes some effort. I tried a self-administered aversion therapy by swimming in open water prior to the race with some success. I stayed near the shore, where I felt comfortable, then ventured short distances farther away. I told myself constantly that I would be okay. 

I couldn’t totally avoid fear. Swimming along calmly, I would suddenly encounter a swell or a wind created chop and my composure would break down. My retreat was to swim back to shore or to a rock I could stand on. If shore wasn’t close, I flipped to my back.

The other problem was lack of speed, being much slower than if I had a wetsuit. The buoyancy of a wetsuit lifted my legs, which was less drag. I could go faster when I wasn’t worried about sinking. The combination of uncomfortable and slower was a real curse.

Another worry I had about this race was the anxiety-inducing washing machine effect of moving bodies churning up the water in Tempe Town Lake. But since I was in some of the last waves, the water might be smoother. I already had the baggage of some really bad swims in that lake over the years. But I had somehow gotten through them, cursing and moaning.

Despite the thought of all these unpleasantness, the swim was something to conquer. I hoped to fight the fear in spite of myself. It is frustrating to be controlled by anxiety.

RACE DAY INFERNO OR WHY THE F@#K IS SEPTEMBER STILL SO HOT?

Race day dawned hot in the eighties and “humid”. Nervous and sweaty, I wondered why I was even doing this race. I must be out of my mind.

Waiting around for the start was the worse part. I had nothing to do but dread what might happen. I tried to block out the thoughts of doom and envision calm. 

I jumped in the water when it was my turn and swam to the start line.  I wasn’t quite there when the wave started. So far, I was unafraid. I kept moving and when I felt out of breath, turned on my back. Luckily, there weren’t a lot of people to run into me. People swimming over me is not restful.

I felt thirsty the whole swim. Maybe it was because the water was so hot; about 84 degrees. To drink the green lake water would be deadly, a prescription for illness. I was not having fun. I wasn’t very fast, but my fear was under control. With nothing to rest my feet on, and nothing to stop me from going to the bottom, it was just under the surface, ready to rise again. 

The water was choppy with all the swimmers that preceded me. It didn’t bother me too much, though I wasn’t happy about it. I didn’t sight as much as with a wetsuit to save energy. Lifting my head made my legs sink, which made me tired.  Sinking legs are bad, a precursor to panic.  Panic leads to flailing arms and legs, going nowhere, not getting enough air and more fatigue. I finally reached the first turn buoy. People were hanging onto the kayak, so I got past them in order to rest. Losers. Hanging onto kayaks is to be avoided as it’s an act of desperation.

I preceded to the next one and turned back. I could see the last turn buoy in the distance, through the bridges. The end of the ordeal drew near. So far, no panic with the swim more than halfway done. I was going to live.

I was relieved to reach the last turn buoy, only 100 yards to the exit steps. I was going to make it. Few people were in my way. Undoubtedly, I was probably one of the last people out of the water, a testament to my swimming ability.

Total swim time was more than I thought it would be, and a very slow time for the rest of the world, but I didn’t care. The ordeal was over and wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. 

DIDN’T DROWN, NOW HEAT EXHAUSTION?

I got on the bike and immediately felt hot. Instead of drowning, now I had to worry about heat exhaustion. I wish they had an aid station so that I could throw water on myself. The course was crowded with newbies, but that didn’t faze me. They were a target to pass. Their determination was admirable, with their gym shoes and mountain bikes. The course didn’t have any real hills.  My heart rate started climbing, though, as I rode, due to heat and dehydration. The  Olympic, was much worse, with two tedious loops. Twelve miles was not too taxing, but not as fast as if it had been cooler. 

I felt good starting the 5k run, but the air was a nasty blast furnace. By the second mile, I was ready to be done. The Tempe Town heat bowl cooked the cement path. I didn’t expect a fast time and didn’t get it, being overheated and dehydrated.  Why the hell do they put on this event in September, the month that pretends to be fall, but isn’t? I couldn’t imagine running the 10k. It was brutal.

I look like I feel--wasted. Photo courtesy
Camelback Coaching 

I got done, felt ill and immediately went for any ice I could find to cool off. A volunteer felt sorry for me and scooped some ice to put in my cap. It took a while for me to be hungry.

I STILL HATE SWIMMING WITHOUT A WETSUIT

I accomplished what I set out to do–get through the swim without losing my mind. Fear is still waiting out there in the water, but is a little less persistent. Now instead of saying to myself “I can’t do a non-wetsuit” swim, it will be “I can do a non-wetsuit swim, but I don’t want to.”

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.

I AM SICK OF SUMMER

This is the worst part of summer in the desert. The earth is heated up from baking in the sun for months. The air is dry enough to heat up past 110 degrees, but it's not dry enough to cool off at night. August has that special combination that makes the heat more miserable than at other times in the summer. A week ago the temperature reached 117 degrees. I live in a desert and know it gets hot, but enough is enough.

                      I AM SICK OF SUMMER

Sweat. 

June denial. It’s not so bad. Cool mornings. Deluded reality. Thermometers gleefully bursts past 115 degrees, in a fit of spite. Dragon’s morning breath.

Plants shrivel in the outdoor oven and reach; plaintive arms to the sky. Desperate for relief.

The parched earth sighs.

White, blinding light sears the skin. Dogs pant, their heads droop.

Dripping sweat.

July despair. Heavy, stifling,  never ending suffocation. A.C. runs nonstop and swallows money.

Luscious, fat moisture of bloated cotton puff clouds entice; then vanish.

Gargantuan brown swirls of dust tentacles howl in. Lightning flares. Thunder rumbles. Trees blow over. A tornado of dead leaves. No rain.

Giant bugs stumble; meander aimlessly, confused.

Snakes hide. Lizards flee.

Dripping, sweaty sweat.

August disgust. Dispirited souls. Time stops in purgatory. Life is pointless. Outside tasks are too much effort. Monster heat feeds on human energy.

The sky rumbles and urinates.
The air cools, briefly bearable. Toads emerge from their holes.
A vicious sun re-asserts control.

Less sweat.

September hope. Summer loosens its grip, but still holds on. The glare wanes. Air softens. Summer birds leave, flying off to gentler climes.

Two months more and summer’s gone.

I can’t wait.

Graduation

Graduation is a life passage that is at once mundane and stunning. Schools have graduations for everything, including grade school, which is absurd. Everyone, everywhere, has to have some stupid ceremony. However, when my child is graduating from high school or college, it is special. A short time ago, she was in high school. Now she is a college graduate and an adult. Time flashed by. One year she was a baby toddling around, then suddenly she was a confident, independent young lady.

My daughter’s school wasn’t just any college, but the expensive and private American University, in the District of Columbia. I had poured enormous amounts of tuition into it and to end this money drain was a relief. My hope was that this education would pay off with a good job. The classes were hard and required a lot of effort. She worked a part time job and a few internships while earning a double major. A degree at American University was an impressive accomplishment, let alone cum laude.

I am a sucker for a good graduation ceremony, especially my child’s. The more “Pomp and Circumstance”, the better. Throw in a choir, an orchestra or band, it’s even better. An inspiring speech adds to the atmosphere of joy of when a few hundred students celebrate their release from the tedium of academic life. The boredom of real life is not yet realized.

I am not a person to get emotional or cry, but a graduation is a wonderful mishmash of emotions. Hope, fear, relief, pride, happiness, excitement joy; all mingle. I feel a tug when I see pictures of graduates. I love seeing the NBC news segment on graduations every year. Of course, they edit out the boring parts.

 

I didn’t know what to expect for this one, but I hoped they would put on a show. In a gym, a stage was set up with a row of fifty international flags and a podium. A large university logo hung in the center.  Rows of chairs lined the gym floor. 

Something good was about to happen. To arrive at this moment of  was exciting. All the sacrifice was about to be rewarded.  The room was filled with the anticipation and happiness of graduates and their families.

I sat in the handicapped section with my ex and his mother. She couldn’t get around well, but she made it a point to attend all of her grandchildren’s graduations. I appreciated her presence, since she was kind to me after the divorce. My own mother passed away seven years ago; too bad she wasn’t around to see this.

My ex’s presence was more disconcerting. I only communicated by e-mail to him in the last two years, so seeing him was surreal. I was married to him for thirty some years, then not. I didn’t really feel anything after being divorced for five years, but putting on a polite facade felt artificial. I had to pretend it didn’t matter that this person had completely up-ended my life. I had to shut off that part of my past and put it away in a compartment.

The graduates entered the room in their robes. I had no idea where Melissa was. They all looked alike except some wore colored sashes for honors or their nationality. Caps were also decorated with messages. My daughter wore a gold rope on her neck for honors. 

A wonderfully loud bagpipe and drum corps paraded into the gym. The rich vibrato shook the air. Bagpipes make everything better. 

The speeches began. They were so-so. The robed school president had a mace, a symbol of authority, which looked  like a severed table leg. I thought, Gandalf the Wizard!  Could he wave his magic mace and make the ceremony go faster?

Gandalf?

One student talked about going out of one’s comfort zone. I was impressed that he had learned this at an early age, because mental discomfort was something that had been forced on me when I had desperately tried to avoid it. Sometimes, the universe has other ideas what I should do.  The dignitaries made veiled references about giving money to the school. Like the tuition I had paid over four years wasn’t enough. 

These speakers weren’t nearly as good as at my own high school graduation. My class valedictorian set the standard for speeches. In front of a conservative community of Republicans, he  railed on the government’s handling of the Viet Nam War. No other graduation speeches I  heard since came close to that level of rabble rousing. Definitely out of the parents’ comfort zone. I wanted energy, spirit and inspiration in this ceremony. The speeches fell a little short. They weren’t NBC worthy. If I had to sit through a lengthy ceremony, I wanted to be entertained.  

 Then the students came up the stage to get their “diplomas.” I found out later that they just got a piece of paper and when they came up, they gave the reader a piece of paper with their name. The lady that read the names had occasional problems with pronunciation. They didn’t go in alphabetical order, which made me a little crazy, because I didn’t know when my it was my daughter’s turn nor how long I had to listen to the names of students I didn’t care about .  

Free at last!

As a student’s name was called, the ones with a large contingent of relatives would get loud cheers. It’s too bad Melissa’s many aunts, uncles and cousins weren’t there. They would have made a lot of noise. We were feeble.

After forever, they read her name. I caught a glimpse of her stepping off the stage. She looked happy; I was elated. I frantically tried to take a decent picture with my crappy camera. Another official gave her a business card holder as she stepped down. She walked away and disappeared into the crowd.

Once she left, the ceremony got tedious. Name after name was read of people I didn’t know. Then the bagpiper corp paraded back in and took the stage.All was good again; the end was near.

Awesome Bagpipers.

Beyond the boredom and the excitement is the realization that this is a passage from one phase to the next. School is over and real life is beginning. The future looms and is wide open. My hope is that Melissa will find her passion, and make her way through life’s obstacles without too much heartache. Part of my job as a parent is done, but it will never be over with. She will thrive in part because of me, or in spite of me. Her life is up to her, not me.

The child I raised is ready to fly.

 “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. YOU are the one who will decide where to go.” Dr. Seuss 

My Five Worst Races Ever

The worst of the worst are in a category by themselves. Suffering to reach a physical goal has a purpose, but unnecessary discomfort is not what I signed up for

 After doing triathlons for almost fifteen years, I can say most races are okay, some are outstanding and some are true stinkers. Stinkers are usually disorganized, have bad or no food, poorly marked routes or worst of all run out of water on a hot day. The worst of the worst treat the last finishers as unworthy nuisances.

My experience may vary from the front and middle-of-the-pack. Slow athletes get the brunt of poor planning. Faster types eat all of the food, when enough isn’t provided for them and me. They and their children that they drag along eat all the goodies. I didn’t pay a fee so that I could feed their children. I resent coming in near last and finding the table bare. It’s insult on top of injury and I take it personally.

Worse than bad or no food is to run out of water. This is absolutely inexcusable and dangerous. If a race director is under the illusion that the flimsy waiver they make participants sign is going to protect the organizer from their stupidity, they are sadly mistaken. They can be sued for any serious harm to a racer resulting from dehydration since it is gross negligence.

Some of my top worst are:

1. Any triathlon at Lake Pleasant. 

This used to be a popular spot before Tempe Town Lake was created. The lake tends to get shallow at times and if it’s windy, it gets rough. Submerged trees and logs will suddenly appear in the water. In one race, I could barely control my panic when the wind and other swimmers kicked up the waves in the lake. I was ready to bail at the first buoy. I had to keep my head down and  not sight to avoid water slapping in my face and into my mouth.
 
On the bike, the rough roads are hilly, with obnoxious climbs and descents. I usually can’t go very fast and I feel inadequate. The terrain sucks the joy out of me and I have to wonder why I would even race there.

One particular race put on by a local company was tops on the suckage factor. I was last or near last. The end of the run was along the road, so all the other cars were streaming out as I was coming in. I had to breathe car exhaust and everyone could witness my disgrace. Some people shouted encouragement, and I felt like telling them to shut up. They meant well, but I hated it.

The deserted finish line was being dismantled. I was tired, hungry and no food was left. This was a new low in triathlon experience.

I never did any race put on by this organization again...Ever.

I felt as wrecked as I looked in this picture.

2. Wildflower. 

People rave about this race, probably because the aid stations used to be populated with topless female co-eds. But it is in the Middle of Nowhere, California and a ten hour drive from my home. If anything goes wrong few options are available. Of course, something did go wrong. I lost my car keys and I had no spare. To this day, I don’t know if I dropped them or if they were stolen. As if someone would want a ten year old Toyota Corolla. I had to call a tow truck to unlock the car.  

Camping and racing did not mix.  I didn’t sleep well, with people coming and going and the water trucks going down the road to keep down dust. A good night’s sleep would have been nice before my soul was crushed on this race course. Besides, camping sucks. 

The bike course has an infamous hill named Nasty Grade. It lives up to it’s name and gets steeper near the top. Traditionally, it has the Energizer Bunny at the summit, but I think he was off drinking.   

Nasty Grade was a long painful grind. I thought the worst was over, but the hills weren’t done. All my energy was gone. The lack of sleep, the stress of losing my car keys and the heat had finally gotten to me. I wondered how the hell I was going to run.  

The run was even more difficult than the bike. The so-called reputed cheering crowds that made the run from hell less agonizing were off drinking by the time I got to it. No one cared that I felt horrible. It was hot and dry and the only ice I could get was in the med tent at the finish line. Beer bongs at the aid stations were amusing, but not when I was dying of thirst. The only relief was the sight of a naked guy, offering hugs. I was startled when I first saw him on the trail. He was pale and I thought he had light pants on, but then I saw no pants and no pubic hair. I regretted passing up the hug. This was sadly the highlight of the race. 

The finish line wasn’t the end of the ordeal. Now I had to figure out how to leave. A call to my motor club was not helpful. Thank you Allstate for leaving me to fend for myself. The operator kept asking for the address like I was at a business. It’s a freaking park and I am at a campground. A race volunteer suggested a towing company who suggested a locksmith. Getting the car to the locksmith  required a tow to Salinas, the armpit of California.

Where the hell was Salinas? Wasn’t this town a setting for a John Steinbeck novel? I found out it was seventy-five miles north and the only place that I could get a locksmith on Sunday. It doesn’t pay to have car problems in the middle of nowhere. The absurdity boggled my mind. I threw my camping stuff in the car and the tow truck took me to this town. He was kind of chatty, telling me about the weird accidents and creepy people he sees at night. I was beyond tired. He dropped me and the car at a Motel 6 after I gave him $300. This trip was getting better and better.

 The motel was in a part of town that had the Monterey Pasta Factory and a Farm Products Processing Plant nearby. The pasta plant was spewing water(I hope) into the air and I didn’t want to think what the Processing Plant was emitting. It smelled vaguely like cow poo, like the odor of a dairy farm  when the wind blows the wrong direction.

The locksmith finally showed up and liberated me from this hell hole. For lack of a little piece of metal, I had to pay an extra $600 for the tow, the locksmith, the room that I couldn’t stay in and the room that I was forced to use. This was the trip from hell to the race of the damned. But I can say I survived this ordeal. The hills and the heat didn’t stop me. Plus, I got to see Naked Dude. But do this again?

No thanks, Wildflower.

This race was unkind to my toe.

3. Deuces. 

It’s another race that some people like, but I don’t. This takes place in Show Low, Arizona. Fools Hollow Park is pretty, but the town is unappealing and I don’t want to drive three hours to get there.

I use this race for training, not for enjoyment. The altitude is 6,000 feet, but it never feels very cool in the summer. The air heats up quickly and sucks out my energy like a feeding vampire.

Some people camp there for reasons I can’t fathom. I tried this once and was serenaded all night by my partying neighbors. Never again. I would rather stay in a cheap motel.

The swim at a altitude is always challenging because of the lack of oxygen. Sometimes the water is cold and choppy. Last year, it was smooth and fairly warm, but the finish was clogged with weeds that snagged my arms. To get out of the water involved wading through thick six inch mud.  

I am always alone on the bike course and without any markings, the ride feels like I am on the way to Totally Lost. If I am lucky, it won’t be windy. My anxiety won’t ease until I see some sign that others have passed before me–like a gel wrapper that litters the road.

 The miserable run is shadeless, on a crappy, boring, dirt road guaranteed to any normally good run mediocre, if I even care by that point. The out and back makes me want to poke sticks in my eyes. Last year, the aid stations ran out of water. I had my own, but it was little left.  Other racers doing the half iron weren’t so prepared and had none. They made their opinion of this very clear to the hapless volunteers. One skinny, young male screamed that he hadn’t had any water for hours. I guess he was too cool to carry his own or wrongly assumed that it would actually be at the aid stations.

They even ran out of water at the finish line.  I was hot and considered the kiddie pools that they had set up, but the water was looked dubiously cloudy. God knows what was floating around in that water with many people sitting in it. I saw some one actually wash her face with it. She might have regretted that later.  

Phoenix is too hot to race in during the summer, so this race is better than nothing. Maybe.  

The Finisher's Medal for the "finish." 

4. Silverman. 

My worst half iron ever. I assumed that Wildflower couldn’t be topped for suckage, or Soma half when it was ninety degrees, but I was wrong. 

Henderson, Nevada in early October was not a good time to have a difficult race. The bike course was great for endless hill climbing, but I could have done without the rest. I wasn’t sure if it would be wetsuit legal until race day and I would have drowned without my wetsuit.   

The swim start had us crammed into a tiny chute. I got a little claustrophobic standing around in the sun in a wetsuit jammed next to other people and pressed myself to the barrier to get some air. The water was not refreshing and the day had only just started.

The day had heated up by the time I started the bike. I wanted to wet myself down, but there wasn’t an aid station until mile twenty-two. I liked the bike ride-rolling hills the scenery was a cross between the Painted Desert and a moonscape. After 4100 feet of climbing on the bike, I had to scramble to make the cut off and I probably over-cooked myself.  

The run in the raging inferno was a train wreck. I was trying to get under three hours so that I could finish before the run cut-off, but it was ninety degrees by then. Sucking on ice constantly during the run kept me from collapsing.  At mile 11, it was uphill for a mile with no shade and I couldn’t run anymore. I got nauseated and felt bad.  At that point, I gave up. I finally got to the turnaround and tried to run, but my calves kept cramping. I finally could run about a quarter mile from the finish line.

It wasn’t an official finish, but I was the only person in my age group to do the whole race.  I was rewarded with a big fat DNF.

They were liberal about giving people with heat exhaustion I.V.s in the med tent, which was usually an Ironman “screw you.” I took advantage of this opportunity. 

The greatest sin was that race cut offs weren’t applied equally. I got a DNF for finishing in almost nine hours, and other people with the same time didn’t. If they don’t fix this, they will incur my hatred forever. “Anything is possible” Ironman, but this was unfair. 

This wasn't the way.

5. Desert Classic Duathlon 2015. 

Normally, I like this race. But for some reason, they reversed the mountain bike route direction, which made the start location from the road a mystery The website map was a joke, a satellite map with no markings. I assumed I could find the route, but I couldn’t, since I am not a satellite or Google. The markings consisted of occasional pink plastic tape that you might notice if you happened to be looking that direction. 

I couldn’t find the bike turn off from the road and by the time I realized my mistake, I couldn’t fix it. I wandered futilely around and then basically faked it. I got in seventeen miles, even if they weren’t the right ones.

In the runs, the route was confusing there as well. There was a u-turn at a juncture, but the wrong trail wasn’t blocked off. I yelled to one runner that she was going the wrong way.  

I wasn’t the only one with problems, though I don’t know if anyone else screwed up as badly. At least four mountain bikers missed the turn off to go back.  Some actual signs and arrows would have been nice. If the trail had gone the opposite direction, like in past years, I would have been able to find it. This is the same race outfit that screwed up Deuces last year by running out of water. People got lost there as well.

I felt really utterly stupid, but it wasn’t all my fault.

                                                                               ***

This lackadaisical effort to keep racers from getting lost shows they either didn’t care, or were incapable of an effort to create a good experience. Then again, they were the same people who ran out of water at Deuces on a hot day. Organization wasn’t their strong suit. I am not sure what was.

Though I am not a race director, I am sure it is a time consuming and thankless task to put on an event. This doesn’t excuse poor organization or treating participants, particularly the slowest, like they don’t matter. If I pay to race, I need food and water and at least some semblance of care about my well-being. If not, then these organizers should be punished by being consigned to do their own races, be denied water and food and be forced to come in last. 

And no topless female co-eds will be provided for distraction.

Marquee Race Report

To get up before four in the morning sucks. To get up that early to wait around to swim in Tempe Town Lake was even worse. The cloudy green water did not entice me. Invariably, it left flecks of green particles in my nose. But this was a sprint triathlon and I was doing it for “fun.”

I had to leave the house two and half hours ahead of time because transition closed at 6:15. I wasn’t supposed to start until 7:30. This left me lots of time to arrange my stuff, visit the toilet twice, get body marked and sit around and be bored. I could have walked around to find people to talk to, but that required too much energy. Some people get nervous, flit around and talk non-stop. I avoid them.

 I hoped my toe would not hurt since I had dropped a glass casserole lid on it the night before. I am at the age where I wonder if I had broken something every time I injure myself. My toe did not appreciate this abuse.

Finally, I jumped into the murky water. I had my wetsuit on, so I was calm. If I had to swim without it, I would have been very nervous with no neoprene to keep me from drowning. Besides, it was only a sprint with a mere 750 meters in length. I would be done in twenty-four minutes or less.

The clouds were kind enough to block the sun. To swim east into the glare on a clear day was difficult. I could actually see where I was going. I swam to the turn buoy in a short amount of time and was glad that I doing a sprint. The olympic race was twice as long.

Mill Avenue Bridge

I turned again and went under the bridges. The steps soon appeared and I got out of the nasty algae-infused water. I was surprised that my time was faster than usual. Maybe I could keep this trend going.

I got my helmet and bike shoes on and ran out of transition into the melee of the bike course. Put a bunch of bike riders riding at varied speeds in one street lane and it gets chaotic. The rules dictated that cyclists were supposed to be certain lengths apart, not pass on the right and not block one another from passing on the left. These rules weren’t always followed. Someone passed me on the right for no apparent reason. I kept getting stuck behind slower riders because waves of people behind me wanted to pass.

I passed when I could. Somehow, my average speed was higher than usual. Maybe the wind was favorable and the heavens had aligned. The weather was cool and I could work harder. The course was only twelve miles and saving energy wasn’t critical. The ride could be as hard as I wanted it to be and zipping around the streets was fun when no one was in my way.

I finished the ride and started the run. I needed to urinate badly, but I didn’t want to stop.
Then, the urge was gone. Did I pee myself? I wasn’t sure. I had doused myself with water and was wet anyway. Triathletes will sometimes pee anywhere but in a toilet to save time, but that wasn’t my practice.

I hate race photos if myself.

 Since last year, I had struggled with a hamstring injury. The injury had mostly healed, so  for a long time I had worked on reclaiming some run speed. Pain had not made a fast run possible and to return to normal had been an effort. My last 10k race had been somewhat mediocre, so my expectations were low for this event. A run after a swim and a bike was even slower.

The first mile was about ten minutes, which was close to what I expected. The second mile was 9:33. Where the hell did that come from? It wasn’t fast, but way better than I expected. Could I hold this pace? Would my energy flag? The pace was really uncomfortable, but I didn’t slow down. I tried to concentrate on form and not breathing like I was having a heart attack. The leg power was magically there, when it had been gone for so long.

I crossed the finish line and felt like I had been punched in the gut, the normal response to running like a maniac. For once, I was happy after a race. Most of my races are average, some are awful and a rare few like this one are awesome. After a greater than average share of truly horrible races last year, it was nice to have a good one, even though I could have smelled better.