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.

Lost Anxiety--Duathlon #2

 Where the f#@k am I?

Lost means many things. It’s the fear of I don’t know where I am, where to go, or what to do next. If I can’t figure the route, it’s going nowhere and being left with a sense of emptiness, disappointment and failure.
 Without a map, it’s unlikely that I know where to go unless the route is familiar. Landmarks can help, but in not in the desert.  One mountain looks like another. Paths curve around and end up anywhere. The sun can indicate direction, but not on a cloudy day.

The way should have been be easy to find in this race. Most events have signs and arrows, so that the route was less a mystery. This one had flimsy ribbons that didn’t indicate much and were easy to miss..

 The tough duathlon the weekend before should have been enough. But I had signed up for this one last year and it had been cancelled due to torrential rain the day before. My spot was transferred to this year. So was the bad luck.

 The sense of confusion started in the first run. Logical thinking was difficult, since  running diverts blood from the brain. I was mostly alone on the trail with another person ahead of me. The rolling terrain took effort to run, but was manageable.

 At an intersection, a u-turn was marked with hot pink plastic ribbon. The incorrect path was not blocked off. The other runner took off on it and I yelled to her she was going the wrong way. Would this bring me good karma? I hoped so. The billowing pink ribbon tied to plants was a half-hearted direction to go the other way, like a lazy hand wave. I proceeded, uncertain. Since everyone else had gone ahead, I had no one to follow.

I ran, wondering if I was doomed to do endless miles, meandering into the wilderness. The empty desert stretched to the horizon, though I would have found the road eventually. Would they search for me at some point? I was relieved to get back to the aid station, which was an indication of the right path.

My energy level was good when I got into transition to get on the bike. Unlike last week’s duathlon, I didn’t dread this portion. I ran the bike out and hopped on. The website had vague, unmarked satellite maps that indicated that the mountain bike would go up what I assumed was the paved road somewhere, then intersect at an unknown distance with the trail at a spot marked with a flag. Announcer Guy had said it would be after the first flag about two miles up. He didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.

Riding a paved road on a mountain bike was pointless and I didn’t enjoy it. The heavy and cumbersome machines were meant for dirt and the pavement was boring.

 I rode two miles up to a trail crossing, but it wasn’t marked at all. No name and no flag. I went up the trail for a while, doubted myself and came back. I went up farther up the paved road, but still saw no flagged intersection. I couldn’t remember if or where the trail crossed the park road.  I thought I was near the end of it. I went back to where I was, unsure. Farther up the trail, I encountered riders going the opposite way. Something was seriously wrong.

The trail I needed to be on is a loop through the park. I don’t get circles, only grids. If a path isn’t straight and the direction is unknown, it’s hopeless to figure out. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I needed to be on the upper part of the curve, not the lower.

 I asked the riders as they flew by if I was going the right way, but they ignored me or didn’t hear. One almost crashed into me and she probably cursed me under her breath. One guy finally slowed down and I asked him how far he was and where he had entered. The real entrance was farther up the road, but by this time I had ridden seven miles and he had done fifteen.

 The race was basically ruined. I could ride fifteen more miles, but that assumed that I could figure out where to go. I decided to fake it, since I couldn’t fix it. I cursed the race organizers. A racer had to know the route, but some of these roads weren’t even on the park map. Did it have to be this hard? Especially for the directionally challenged?  Down the trail again, I went to the road to add more mileage to simulate reality. They wouldn’t be correct, or even remotely fun, but at least it would be something.

 I passed the turn-off to go back to transition four miles down, which I would go back to once I did the make-believe route. This was also feebly marked with the ribbons. I saw four riders pass it by. Three of them grumbled about missing it. At least I wasn’t the only one that was confused.

I felt stupid and was utterly disappointed not to find the right way. This race had gone wrong to a monumental degree of screw up. I rode back down the trail for the umpteenth time and made the turn for the actual trail to take me back.

 The situation was like one of the dreams where I am lost and trapped in an endless, futile loop. This race was a metaphor for my real life, where every one but me knows the way, and I just pretend to be competent. Life doesn’t come a map, so I either blunder around until I figure it out or go off the cliff.

Slinking embarrassed into transition, after a creative seventeen miles, I came in when most people were about to finish. Being alone was an advantage, since no one knew my mistakes. This was another duathlon where the road portion was much easier to ride and find than the mountain bike. But I had no energy to hate the road bikers this time. I ran out to finish the pretend race.  At least I knew the way.

 Unlike last week, the second run wasn’t a death march. I was alone, but felt strong. That was one good thing about this fiasco.  I just wanted it to end. I tried to be nice to the only volunteers out there and thanked them. If they had been a race organizers, they would have elicited a different reaction from me, like “what the f#@k were you thinking, idiot?”

A rock tried to trip me a half mile from the finish, but I stumbled and managed to end the race without physical injury.

 I was happy to finish, but not for the right reasons. Instead of a sense of accomplishment, I  was relieved that the experience could now be forgotten as soon as possible. A bad memory, tucked away in a forgotten, hidden place. Hopefully, the pink ribbons will not haunt my dreams.

Powerman Duathlon Race Report

 I don't know why these people seem to be sinking into the metal.

I am a sucker for any multisport event that doesn’t involve a swim, because I suck at swimming. Off road is even better because it’s an excuse to be slow, which is natural for me. McDowell

Mountain Park has some of the best mountain biking around with the challenging trails and the beautiful scenery. Still, the premise of this race is that a racer would want to ride the Long Trail twice. I always thought that once was bad enough, so committing to this duathlon made me nervous. Throw in running and it was even more implausible.

The Long Trail is a trail engineered for racing, assuming that a rider would have this ability on a mountain bike. I don’t. I rode it many times, but never had been able to ever avoid walking in certain parts. To dismount in mountain biking was to give up, a lack of ability to ride a difficult feature, a choice of safety rather than risk bodily injury.

The trail designers put in cute little wooden signs to name the features. When I came upon one, I knew something bad was coming up. “Red Dot Hill” has a tough climb, then a terrifying rugged stone drop off. “Cactus Corner” is lined with vicious Cholla cactus to impale anyone who slipped off into their spiny embrace. “The Step” meant get off the bike to go around the stupid rock ledge or go to the by-pass.

 My fastest time was an hour, a blazing eight miles an hour. It’s one-way single track, so once a person is on it, they are committed to the insanity. Twice would be a long haul. I questioned the wisdom of this. Still, it would be kind of bad-ass, especially since I would probably be the oldest person to attempt it in this race.

 Mountain biking is a young person’s sport, if young is defined as under fifty. The normal sparseness of my age group is even greater. People must worry about broken bones or worse, dying. I still like the sport because it is more mentally engaging than road biking. Every feature on the trail has to be analyzed right before it’s ridden. The path undulates and curves, climbs and dips. 

 The variety of this ride also made it more strenuous. Down-hills meant sliding the butt back and controlling the speed. Up-hills meant sudden bursts of power and a lot of pressure on the pedals to not lose momentum. Sixteen miles of this is exhausting and daunting. 

Beside the physical strain, my mind fights the terrain. Even to start it to resist the dread of what’s coming. Tension drains the body, so being relaxed increases endurance or at least makes jarring ride more bearable. Besides if I thought about how difficult the trail was, I would go insane.

Race day, I got to the park and racked my bike. Unfortunately, my finger was in the way. I didn’t notice until later that night that it was purple and swollen. I did notice that it hurt like hell right after I did it.

Mountain bikers are generally more friendly than regular triathletes, so I chatted with the person next to me. Everyone had a better bike than me—carbon fiber, dual suspension, smaller cranks. At least it was a good excuse to be slower.

My strategy for the first run was take it easy to save my energy for the strenuous bike ride. The air horn sounded and we took off. I was soon alone on the undulating trail. The cool air turned hot. My heart rate went way up even though I held back. Far away were blue mountains. Poppies dotted the ground in sparse patches.

Finished, I ran into an empty transition to start the dreaded bike. My energy level was good, but I knew what was coming and it was scary. Right away, the bike path had a sudden, steep drop off, immediately followed by a climb. I had learned to stay in a low gear to make it back up that hill. Then, a fairly easy patch accented with a nasty climb with loose rocks. I often walked this due toe the boulders that threw me off the right line for ascending. A mistake could land me into the thorny desert flora lining the path. 

I was mostly alone, with people passing me on their second lap. I was last to start the course and all I could do is press on and not think about it.

Once at the top of the lung-busting climb, it was smooth for a while. The fun of a BMX type set of bumps was lost on me, being too slow to get much “air.” Then rocks and more rocks. I don’t have the dual suspension that would make bumpy ground bearable and negotiating them involved standing on the pedals and generating enough momentum to go forward without falling over. Sharp pain pierced my knees.  The multitude of stony obstacles were impossible to avoid, so they just had to be accepted. The zen of rocks. I still hated them, though. 

A variation after that was rocky steps. Bump, bump, bump, bump! Repeat two more times. After that it was less strenuous, but by that point, even the small hills were an effort. By this time, I noticed the effect of the run beforehand. My legs rebelled and wouldn’t exert enough force on the pedals to get up a hill. Fatigue had come to stay. Two more hair-raising steep drop- offs, a struggle uphill and one lap was done. My athletic inadequacies haunted me.

The second lap was just me and the EMT guy parked at the service road. If I was going to get injured, I guess it had better be at these junctures because it would take a while to find my body. My mental state went downhill with my physical one. Not only was the terrain difficult, I was dead last and the worst at riding it. My mind had to focus at the task at hand. No time for whining. At least the stabbing pain in my knees wasn’t as bad as last week’s ride. The legs were gelatinous, though.

 Finally, the second lap was done. I came into transition and saw most people had finished and I hated them. Most of them had done the road portion. It wasn’t easy, but it was faster and they didn’t have to worry about riding rocks, running into cacti or riding off a ledge. 

Wussies. I wondered if I would be alone on the last run. 

Kind of what I felt like on the last run.

 The first mile was bearable and slow, then a deep misery set in. My normal nutrition didn’t perk me up and I couldn’t go any faster. I passed an aid station and remembered that they have coke. Sometimes its magic properties of sugar and caffeine will save a race or at least make me want to live. I drank the elixir and immediately felt better. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? The last mile was bearable.

After three hours, forty-three minutes, I was done. I was totally dead last in my division, but had done one of the most difficult duathlons in my life. The accomplishment was both depressing and gratifying at the same time. The implausible was less so. Bad ass would have to do.

Ironman, The Thrill is Gone

     

The thrill is gone. It’s gone away for good. Like the B.B. King song, the Ironman love affair is over.

At one time, I worshiped at the Ironman altar, giving sacrifices of the exorbitant registration fees, immense amounts of energy and time, travel costs and expensive equipment. The long training hours and exhaustion served a purpose. Redemption through self-flagellation. The reward was the finish line with cheering people and the feeling of invincibility. The goal kept me going six hours into a ride in ninety degrees. Preparation was exciting and something to look forward to. Thoughts of it consumed my waking hours.

For seven years I chased this obsession. Could I do an ironman? Could a slow, mediocre athlete beat the odds and finish? Was the stupid catchphrase “Anything is Possible” true? I used to be optimistic as much as a pessimist could be and believed it.  The answer I ultimately discovered was “sometimes.” If the weather was perfect; if my bike didn’t break down; if I wasn’t injured, yes.

If I wasn’t training for an ironman, I was volunteering for one. Since Arizona is nearby in Tempe, it was easy to do it every year. I could vicariously soak up the joy of the racers without the pain of doing the race. The energy of the crowd was contagious. I had to be there.

 But like a hangover after a great party, reality sets in. My first Ironman Arizona try had strong winds and ninety degree heat. I missed a bike cut-off and got pulled at mile seventy-four. I  failed to give the ironman gods enough offerings, as well as the other bodies inhabiting the med tent with heat exhaustion.

I was devastated. My best wasn’t good enough.

This water can be freaking cold.

The next year, I came back and finished the race. I got hypothermia during the swim and was led, violently shivering to the med tent. After twenty minutes, I started the bike and promptly crashed. I shuffled through the run. Finally a finish after almost seventeen hours. I felt vindicated and the experience was worth the suffering.

I vowed never to be that miserable again and not to do another ironman.

The next race, Ironman Canada, was wonderful. The scenery was spectacular, the water warm, and the course was interesting. I actually had moments where I was not worried about cut-offs and managed to just enjoy the experience. Time flowed even with muscle cramps, heat and exhaustion. The high lasted for months. 

Unfortunately, no ironman since has been that good.

The fourth attempt and second DNF(Did Not Finish) was Tahoe. I was doomed before I even started. The race was epic, (another word for horribly difficult). Race morning was about twenty-eight degrees. The water was thirty degrees warmer, so fog obscured the buoys. I swam and hoped it was the right direction. I got out, hypothermic, and couldn’t dress myself. On the bike, I shivered and longed for hills in order to warm up. I went up hills and more hills and wished to be put out of my misery. 

Snow in the mountain the day before Ironman Tahoe

To finish before the cut offs was near impossible, and they stopped me at mile sixty-two. I had a lot of company at this point, with a group of other riders, but I was still depressed.

To forget Tahoe, I signed up for Arizona again, with the thought that I had a good chance to finish. I struggled with a run injury all year. The wind decided to howl on race day when good conditions had been predicted. I had no run strength to fall back on after fighting the conditions for 112 miles and I couldn’t make the run cut off. At least I finished the bike for the first time in my DNF history, a small consolation. 

The evil Beeline.

Maybe the rest of the triathlon world could overcome these difficulties, but I couldn’t. I was slow, so I chased time cut-offs and when things went wrong with no time cushion, the race couldn’t be saved.. Disasters were always possible. The wind will blow, the sun will blaze, nutrition will fail, bikes will crash. 

Average athletes have enough time to absorb these follies and finish. I didn’t.  Signing up for a future race with a possibility of not finishing is unappealing. Five attempts with two finishes does not seem like good odds. I have no more optimistic pessimism. 

Not all the DNF’s were totally bad experiences. Tahoe brought out my love for hill climbing on a bike. If I hadn’t been frozen, the course would have been fun without the pressure to finish in time. Unlike previous times, the third Arizona swim involved no hypothermia nor panic and I found out I had more bike fitness than I thought possible. Ironman training brought amazing surprises. Under pressure to finish before a time cut-off, I suddenly found the strength to fly when I had plodded in training for months. 

I did things I never thought I could. I discovered things about myself, made friends and went places I wouldn’t have otherwise. I have to be philosophical after all the failure. It’s about the freaking journey, after all.

The butt-ugly Beeline dump.

I lost the joy of racing an ironman, though. I resented the time demands of training, worried about the cost and longed for less structured training. I got injured and didn’t recover. I discovered that I totally despised the monotony of the Arizona course. Three times up and down the ugly, evil Beeline Highway with it’s stinky dump and inopportune wind. The miles of cement on the run course that ate up a runner’s feet.

I still want to swim, bike and run, but with not as much volume. Racing needs to be fun again, not a death march, a near drowning, nor a futile fight against time. After all these years of obsession,  an ironman is not in my future. I may change my mind, and probably will, but for now I am done. This certainty of this feeling surprised me. I didn’t think I would get there. 

The DNF’s were soul-crushing. Something once good went bad. I can’t even stand the Ironman M-Dot logo. Some triathletes  wear it, put it on their cars, and even tattoo it on their calves. I hate it and want to scream and throw things when I see it.  

Luckily, I never got the tattoo. The car stickers can stay.

Merry Mushroom Christmas

I usually write a snarky Christmas poem, but this year I decided to write a snarky Christmas story instead...

Santa had a headache. He was hung over from last night’s party and had little memory of what had happened. Most of a bottle of scotch was gone and perhaps a incident involving a stripper and a pole might have occurred. He had not had a bath in quite a while and his not so white beard had the remnants of this morning’s breakfast. His protruding belly hung over his threatened to burst out of his pajama top. Mrs Claus was out for the evening and was not happy to find empty bottles, candy wrappers and a stray panty strewn about when she got home. She did not speak to him all day, and glared at him if he dared to apologize.

Santa knew behind Mrs. Claus’ kind, grandmother exterior lurked an evil witch if crossed. A vague sense of unease him haunted him when he thought about what she might do for revenge.

As a result, he was not in a good mood. The elves showed more interest in playing video games than in making toys and caring for the reindeer. One of them, Prancer, had a strange reaction to whatever he had eaten and as a result produced prodigious amounts of flatus. Feeding the reindeer was not Santa’s job. He didn’t even like reindeer because they were moody and tended to bite without provocation.

He biggest concern was a lack of coal to put in nasty childrens’ stockings. An epidemic of foul-mouthed, badly-behaving brats, along with a coal shortage had left him to ponder other options. He had a surplus of 1990's flip phones in his warehouse. That would have to do.

He mulled this option when his head elf, Bombadeer, burst in. Bombadeer had possibly the bushiest unibrow in existence. He also had a high-pitched voice that sounded more chipmunk than elfish. “Santa, Santa! All the reindeer are sick!”

Stabbing pain filled Santa’s head. “What the hell is wrong with them?” Bombadeer’s fluorescent red-striped elf outfit made Santa’s head feel worse. 

“Somehow they got into some psychedelic mushrooms and got high. Then they farted so much in their enclosed barn that they all passed out from the gas. We aired out the place, but they are still weak and lethargic.”

“Where the hell did the mushrooms come from?” Santa groaned and rubbed his forehead. Christmas is tomorrow night.

The elf scratched his head. “I don’t know. There aren’t any growing right now.” 

I bet I know. “How am I supposed the deliver all the damn presents?” Santa roared.

“There is one possibility. Sleigh goats.” The elf stared at Santa’s bloodshot eyes.

“Sleigh goats? They cost a fortune and eat everything in sight. What do they want as payment?”

“Sir, they have to be paid double overtime and demand a hundred pounds of the finest alfalfa.” Bombadeer tried not to look at the hole in Santa’s pajamas exposed through the gap of the dirty robe.

“Thieves! Any other possibility, preferably cheaper?”

“There are sleigh gnomes. But they will want to be paid in reindeer urine.”

“Reindeer pee? Disgusting. Why on earth?” Santa asked.

“They heard that the reindeer ate the mushrooms and they want to get high off the urine.” Bombadeer hoped Santa wouldn’t go this route. In the barely averted  disaster of ‘09, the gnomes were given psychedelic urine in advance for a delivery of women’s hats. They were so stoned that instead of delivering the hats, they donned them and had ran singing through the streets, wearing nothing else.  

“Go collect it then. But don’t give it to them beforehand.”

“Sir, the elves will be unhappy about this.”

“I don’t want hear about it. Just get it done.” Santa sighed.

*************************************

Santa walked out into the crisp, clean starry night, his boots crunching on the snow. The sled was ready to go, but the gnomes were not. They sprawled on the ground, drinking a suspicious yellow liquid from cups.

“Wassup?” one drawled. 

“Wassup? I’m flying! Look at the pretty stars. I can touch them!” Another gnome chimed in as he reached for an imaginary object. 

Santa looked at the ugly, squat gnomes, who were in no shape to guide the sleigh. “Who gave the gnomes the urine? They were supposed to get it AFTER the job!” he screamed. Damn elves! Now what am I going to do?

“Santa, Santa! The reindeer have recovered!” Bombadeer, shouted as he ran. His unibrow waggled.

“Well, get them hooked up and get these bums out of here! How did they get well so fast?” Santa took a flask out of his pocket and swigged on it.

“We gave them gallons of Pepto-bismol, charcoal and Metamucil and fed them the flowers that you were going to use for your party. Perked them right up. The barn smells pretty bad, though.” Bombadeer crinkled his nose as an elf led the reindeer out.

“Pretty horses,” a gnome remarked. The snow was yellow around him. The reindeer, now hitched to the sleigh, sniffed the air and tried to inch closer to him.

Santa yanked them away with the reins.“Now Dasher!, now Dancer!, now Prancer and Vixen! On Comet!...oh, screw it. Phew, you guys stink!” Santa held his nose. The gas problem wasn’t solved. It was going to be a long night.

Then Santa and the sleigh were gone in an explosion of sparkles. The gnomes “ahhed.”

“Did one of those reindeer have a red nose? Or am I high?” one gnome giggled, rolling on the ground into a pile of reindeer poo.

“Bombadeer, want to party?” A burly gnome dressed in a pink tutu offered the elf a cup. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Bombadeer sipped, grimacing at the acrid taste.

“Where did my flowers go?” screamed Mrs. Claus from the house. Her usually perfectly coiffed white hair was in disarray and her glasses were crooked. She held a glass of vodka. Her hands were stained with mushroom debris.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas.” squeaked Bombadeer as he waved and then took another sip.

“Oh, shut up!” cried Mrs. Claus. But she smirked, and wiped her hands on her apron.

Ironman Arizona Race Report

I have a love/hate relationship with this race. The run course is flat, and at times creepy in the dark, remote areas in the wee hours of the evening. Some parts of it smells like sewer gas. The miles of concrete destroy my feet. The three loop bike course is ugly, boring and times evil when the wind comes howling out of the same exact diagonal as the Beeline highway. Past memories of the exhaustion from futilely fighting the wind were indelibly etched in my brain. Countless hours of mind-numbing training on this road made it difficult to tolerate its existence.

Still, Arizona was the one race I thought I could do, since I had finished it before. After being forced off the Ironman Lake Tahoe bike course last year, it seemed like a good idea to sign up for Arizona. Maybe, I would finally get the finisher’s high or I could be faster than the last time I raced it. It might make up for the rest of my crappy race season this year. I was wrong.

The line last year for registration. Bring your own chair.

The rest of the world had the same delusion. This race gets more crowded every year and sells out when registration opens online. Hopefuls think that the swim, bike and run will be kind to them.

The day started with traffic gridlock getting to the race site in the morning. I tried not to get stressed as time slipped away while the line of cars in front of me barely moved. A half an hour later, I reached the parking area. Half dazed from lack of coffee and sleep, I walked in the dark to the transition area.

I felt irritable negotiating the crowds in transition, and wished they had left their strollers, significant others and small children behind. The time before a race was filled with dread of the unknown and innumerable tasks to do. I had to drop off bags, get my bike tires pumped up, get body marked and stand in a long porta-potty line. Why can’t these people poop faster? I wondered if I would be able to start on time.

The ducks seem happy

I usually dread the swim. Fear intensified the unpleasantness of immersing myself in cold water in the chilly dawn morning. I was herded into the lake with the other masses. To get in involved climbing down a set of stairs, jumping off into the green, murky water and hoping that an unseen obstacle didn’t lurk under the surface. Plus, not hitting the other bodies already in the water. The process was so slow that the start was delayed five minutes to 7:05 a.m. I went in and was immediately was hit by the chilliness of the water, but it wasn’t the face-stinging cold that I have encountered before. 

The start line required a swim under a bridge, but usually what I thought about was not where I was, but being pummeled by all the other swimmers. In other races I had felt an almost mystical calm before the swim, but now I only thought about the task at hand. The usual emotional drama of the mass start wasn’t there for me. Spectators think it’s great, but they weren’t in the midst of the flailing arms and legs, which can cause injury.

Practice swim. The start line is beyond this bridge somewhere.

The swim was one loop, which was great because the fast swimmers were out of my way, but it went on forever. The buoys inexplicably zig-zagged, if they could even be seen in the glare of the rising sun. The lake curves, which I always found to be slightly disturbing. I appreciated having so many lifeguards in kayaks, but they were an obstacle sometimes.

After an eternity, I reached the turn buoy, went across the lake and turned back west. The sloshing water grew choppier and the surface rippled with the unwelcome wind that had picked up. Other swimmers were struggling and hanging onto kayaks. I felt strong and in control, but battling the chop took a lot of effort. The conditions would have been difficult for the unfit or inexperienced, but I had been in worse.  

At last the final turn red turn buoy appeared. The water was clogged with kayaks and people were cheering loudly. This probably indicated the swim cut-off was near, so I went as hard as possible. After being hauled up the stairs by a volunteer, I looked at my watch and inwardly groaned as it said 2:08. I wished I could have swam fast like anyone else. I still had time, but had to hustle.

Not being hypothermic after the swim for once, I got dressed fairly quickly with the help of a volunteer. Having sun screen slathered on my legs by volunteers felt nice. I could get used to that, like it was a spa. I had my bike handed to me and I got onto the course. 

No time to pee and I really needed to. I hated riding a bike with a full bladder and stopped at the first porta-potty. Some people pee on their bikes, which can be entertaining to watch, but it would have been treacherous to be downwind of in this weather. I didn’t have that particular skill set.

The bike route is considered by fools or the unwary to be fairly “easy”, but it can turn into a screaming harpy in the wind. And wind there was. A mind-numbing lap up, then down a hill three times. Descending was much faster than ascending. I really wanted to avoid the soul-crushing nightmare of not finishing in 2008, when the temperature was ninety degrees and the wind twenty-five miles per hour. 

The scenery was a unpleasant mix of industrial areas, ruined buildings, trash, and stark desert. A Sonoran Desert version of an Appalachian slum. Plus, the route passed a dump six times. If the wind was blowing the wrong way, it could be an olfactory assault. Today it was.

I was in a hurry, so I ignored the ugly surroundings and stared down at the road while other riders whizzed past me.

The first lap, I made my goal time in order to beat the cut-off, but I had to ride hard to do it. Like the swim, the rest of world biked faster with less effort. I turned around to ascend again past the cheering crowds in the Tempe streets.

Six miles into the second lap, I shifted gears and my chain fell off. I put it back on, but the shifter cable was loose. I stopped to have it fixed and went on. Around mile fifty-two, the wind had picked up to about twenty-five miles per hour and the uphill was slow. My aspirations for this race quickly vanished in the evil breeze. Doubt and despair dropped into my mind and constantly nagged at me. The fear of not being able to finish made me want to cry. I was losing the battle. Still, I desperately pedaled on, exerting a lot of energy to go slowly up. My leg muscles were threatening to cramp, with stabbing pain at random intervals.

My coaches were a welcome sight up at the top of the hill. I shouted that I didn’t think I could finish, and one said I have 3.5 hours and that I could do it. I doubted it, but decided to try. Flying downhill, one of my contacts fell out. Luckily, it was out of my weaker eye and I could still see fairly well. What else could go wrong? No time to stop and put in another one. I got down in a short fifty-five minutes with the violent tail wind.

On the way up again, making the 4:15 cut off at the top seemed unlikely. The sun was lower in the horizon. Other people climbing in the fading light slowed down and stopped on the road, as if they were giving up. At least I could get a ride at the aid station if officials took my timing chip. Near the top, a rider coming down said that they were changing the cut off to 4:30 and we had three minutes and could make it. Persistence might be rewarded. I pushed my screaming legs around faster, heart pounding and got to the ninety-three mile turn-around in time while the volunteers cheered. 

On the way down, the tail wind had lessened, which annoyed me. It had punished me all day and now it was failing to provide a last push. The road was difficult to see riding into the sunset with my blurred vision. At the last aid station, someone said it was 5:21. Getting into transition by 5:30 was unlikely, but I pressed onward anyway. At the finishing chute, people were cheering loudly, so there might be a chance. I made the cut-off by five seconds. Five seconds! When I found this out later, it blew me away. It was the best part of the race. One small victory when all seemed lost.

A volunteer led me to the change tent. Somehow, they expected me to be able to walk when I could barely hobble. They helped me dress and I put another contact in my eye. I stepped out of the tent and the sky had turned pink. 

The folly of the effort of riding as hard as I could for 112 miles hit me. Moving was painful, let alone running. I walked in the dusk for a few minutes, hoping that the pain that came with every step would lessen. Eventually I could run, but it was feeble.

Since I had gotten in so late, I had less than six and a half hours to finish a marathon. In normal circumstances, this would have been doable. Unless I miraculously perked up, it was impossible. Sometimes it happens. A person keeps moving, gets a second wind and speeds up. That’s why giving up was unacceptable, if a chance existed to turn a bad race around.

The first part of the run course was an out and back along the south bank of Tempe Town Lake. High rise buildings were lit up in the night. Some participants were the walking dead like me, some were actually running. I couldn’t move fast enough. My legs went through the motion, but didn’t propel me. My feet felt like I had rocks in my shoes.  I passed the cheering crowd, then went into silent darkness. The aid stations had a variety of offerings, but I mostly drank coke and chicken broth, which was the food of the gods. One offered bacon, but at this point, it would have been a dubious choice. Beer, on the other hand...

Lovely view on the run course.

An hour down, and I hadn’t gone four miles. Like a dream where I am frantically try to get somewhere, but never do. To finish was hopeless at this point, but I didn’t want to stop until someone took my timing chip. The humiliation was less when someone else forced me to quit. I crossed a bridge and reached the creepy part of the course west of the lake illuminated by a sickly yellow light. Airplanes, landing at the nearby Sky Harbor Airport, roared overhead occasionally. Remnants of the choked off Salt River ran below the path. It was framed with an expressway to the north.  I thought I heard a scream in the dark, brush-filled hollow.  Hopefully, not an athlete. My feet felt worse with the endless concrete.  

People tried to be encouraging, but I couldn’t summon much cheer in my deep funk. I thanked them, but I didn’t smile. The worst were the ones who assumed that I was almost done. Just shut up! I longed for someone to put me out of my misery, but I didn’t see anyone with a gun. Which of the nine circles of hell was I in?

I was resigned to my fate now and felt like a loser. If only I could have biked or ran faster. I reached the part where the first lap splits off from the finish line. I could hear the announcer shouting “you are an ironman!” to the finishers. It wouldn’t be there for me. No cheering crowd, bright lights nor medal. Someone from my tri club walked up to me and mentioned something about being almost done. I said I was only on the first lap and wouldn’t finish. She hugged me and I was touched.

I asked a volunteer where the first lap went and he walked with me for a while. Then another one took over. Maybe I looked like death and he was worried my body would litter the course. I tried to run to get it over with. I finally met up with the chip-taker guy at the 13.1 mile mark and my race was officially over. I was sad and relieved.

I should be happy I got through the swim relatively unscathed and that I actually finished the bike in tough conditions. The rest of the world would find a 2.4 mile swim in Tempe Town Lake and a 112 mile bike incomprehensible, not to mention repulsive. In the unreality of the triathlete world, it is more probable, making it easy to lose perspective about the difficulty. Everyone else can do it, so why can’t I? 

The training was awful sometimes, but it forced me into a higher level of fitness. With a bad race, though, it seemed pointless. I missed the joy. No finish felt like failure.  

As hard as I tried, I just could not conquer this race with the howling wind on the butt ugly Beeline and the bleak banks of Tempe Town Lake. I am not up to going through this again, at least for a while. And if I do, the suffering had better be in a pretty place.