Ironman 70.3 California Race Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old people were WAY in back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DESERT CLASSIC DUATHLON RACE REPORT

Courtesy One Mulisport

The Desert Classic Duathlon in McDowell Mountain Park is a misbehaving, unwanted child. Race directors take it on, then decide they don’t want it anymore. Originally started by the Phoenix Triathlon Club, it was abandoned when no one wanted to take on the full time job of putting on the event. This year, it was on its fourth race organization, Haka Multisport. Hopefully, they will give it some love and keep it.

I also hoped that I would finally finish without some disaster. One year, I decided to get my bike tuned before the race and the bike shop managed to thoroughly screw it up. The chain kept slipping and grinding against the gears, making for a really unpleasant and difficult ride. Plus a horse rider showed up on the trail and I had to wait for it to pass.

In the middle of a race. I hated that horse.

The following year, it rained heavily and the next organizer didn’t want to deal with it and cancelled. Last year, the same person put on the event, but didn’t mark the course well, so I got lost and made up my own course out of desperation. I don’t think they really cared.

This year the fourth organization bravely took it on. I hoped that they would do a decent job running the event. Strangely, the race director had a West Lafayette, Indiana address. This was where I grew up, so maybe this was a good sign.

Run course

Race morning, the chilliness of the desert breeze surprised me. The sun lightened  the sky and Saguaros stood tall against the dark mountains. I warmed up after doing an easy run. This was necessary, because my old engine won’t tolerate the nonsense of starting cold. I took some photos during the run of the scenery. The usual pre-race performance anxiety nagged me. Could I have decent runs? Would my tire go flat? Would I get lost again? 

This first run starts cruelly uphill, but I felt okay. My preference is to start downhill with the illusion of speed. Everyone dashed ahead of me, of course. The race was long and hard anyway, so running too fast in the beginning makes a slower and more painful end. I might pass some of these rabbits on the second run.

It was marked better than last year. A large muscular dude guarded the turn off by blocking it off, so that we wouldn’t go in the wrong direction. He didn’t say much. At least a human pointer was better than the flimsy pink ribbons last year. They added a bit of color, like an ugly birthday decoration, but they were inadequate for route marking.

The trail was smooth and easier to run than Trail 100 that I had been training on–no danger of tripping on numerous rocks, which do their best to catch my feet. The trail undulated, but generally climbed for half of the route, then descended. I mostly ran alone. Total time was faster than last year. Maybe all the trail run/avoiding rocks training misery had paid off.

The first run of a duathlon was the “easy” part. Then the bike and the pain started. Legs don’t like running, then biking. 

The mountain bike course started out on the paved road and went mostly uphill for four miles. This was rather tedious with a headwind as well. I wished they used a trail alternative. At least I knew the route, no thanks to the race website map, which was indecipherable. By the time I got to the actual dirt trail, my legs were fried and wanted a nap. Why was it so much effort? The same trail was a lot a lot easier last weekend, when my legs weren’t trashed by a hard run. I questioned the wisdom of using a new thorn-resistant inner tube that was a lot heavier than the regular ones. It was probably not a good move, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I think it slowed me down.

Strangely, I was not the only one still on the bike course at this point. A guy came up behind me and passed. I didn’t care because I had resigned myself to my fate. But when I came to the ramada that marks where Pemberton turns south, he was sitting at a picnic table and he started riding behind me. I thought for a while that he was a sweeper for the last rider, but he turned out to be a 70+ years old competitor. He didn’t look that old and could have easily passed me. This was a little disturbing because no one could be as slow as I. Maybe he wanted company or was worried about me getting lost or injured. 

Thankfully, the trail then descended for the most part. This was the best part–flying down the path and not using a lot of effort. The terrain was rockier, which was annoying with all the bouncing, but I managed to stay upright.

I kept worrying about being dead last and having someone stop me from doing the last run. I tried to speed up on the downhills.  No one really cared, as it turned out. Being last is a bit embarrassing, even if I put in my best effort. It shouldn’t be, but it is.

I was afraid of missing the turn off, but made it correctly. It was marked with pink ribbons. I knew it from last year, but no one can use the service roads ahead of time, so it could easily be missed. Other people missed it and went the wrong way, so it needed to have a sign “turn here.”

.

After the turnoff, the service road seemed to go on forever. If I hit the paved road outside the park, I would have known that I had gone too far. The end of it had some evil steep upgrades, which I couldn’t make on tired legs. I didn’t remember them from last year. The seventy-year-old guy that had been following me finally passed by at some point, but I didn’t notice. The fatigue confused me and I missed the pink-ribboned turn in for transition. I went under the tape, because someone told me to. 

Total time for the nineteen mile bike was over two hours.    

The second run felt better than I thought it would. It wasn’t as fast as the first run, but at least I didn’t feel terrible. I was dehydrated and thirsty at this point. It was warm and they had no aid stations. Too bad if I ran out of water. I carried a bottle, but it was getting low and I was anxious about it. My time was faster than last year.

Total time was 3:33. I thought I would be dead last, but I was only almost dead last, even among the road people.

Transition

As for the unwanted child, it remains to be seen if it sticks around. The event was better organized than last year. I didn’t have to remind them that old people like me finished the race and should get the award for being first in their age group of one person. Food was still left when I finished, which was a good sign. Running out of race food is a cardinal sin and I will hate forever whomever commits this sin. The race staff was enthusiastic about being there. I can only hope that the kinks get worked out and the parent shows up next year. And maybe ditches the pink ribbons.

Frozen Fingers Half Marathon Race Report

The Fiesta Bowl Half Marathon runs through downtown Scottsdale, which is a pleasant enough place, but not very exciting. The flatness of the course is an attraction because hills slow down my pace. I had my fastest time in a half marathon ever in this race. I thought that it would be a good idea to sign up for it, but I had not done an open half marathon in two years. This lapse of time had dulled the memory of how tedious it was to run 13.1 miles of flat terrain.

Normally, December is chilly in the Arizona deserts, but it warms up during the day. This year, it had suddenly gone from hot to miserably cold, with nothing in between. The usual intense warmth of the sun, which would always vanquish the cold, had turned into a blithering weakling. It couldn’t be counted on to do much at all. I hated even stepping outside because the nastiness of the air made me shudder.

Race day was no exception. It was 37 degrees. This was not a nice temperature. The cold was aggressive. People who live in cold climates might think it’s mild, but sweating through 110 degree summers destroys cold tolerance. Waiting around outside to start was difficult. They had a bag check for warm up clothes, but the tiny bag did not hold winter coats.

Normally, I get hot when I am running, so I don’t wear much. A short sleeved running shirt with arm warmers and shorts or capris is enough. The arm warmers come off as the run progresses.

If desperate enough, I will add cheap gloves to keep my hands warm. Most of the time my hands warm up quickly in a run.

Miles one to three: The temperature was a blazing 39 degrees at the start of the race. I ran conservatively for the first three miles on the theory that I could build speed. My core warmed up, but my hands did not, like they were disconnected from the rest of my body. I had gloves, but I did not want to wear them. The gels I fed myself for energy dripped on everything. Sticky fingers could be wiped off; my gloves would get crusted with it. As a result my painful fingers felt even colder with the gooey coating.

Should have worn these.

I half-hoped that since I had a personal best on this course, maybe it could happen again. The possibility was unlikely, since all year I had been coming back from a 2014 hamstring injury.   I wanted to run what I considered a good pace.

Miles three to ten: After three miles,  I tried to increase my effort, but I wasn’t going much faster, with fatigue setting in. My hands still hurt. I ran past a field basin that was covered in frost, a testament to the absurdity of the weather. The thought of running hard for more miles was daunting. 

The problem with a flat course is it’s boring. Some races break up the tedium with bands every mile. I wish I had music now. Or maybe guys in women’s clothing for a laugh. Suburban Scottsdale was not visually stimulating. A half marathon was a long way to run hard with nothing to distract me. I wasn’t going to sign up for another one anytime soon. The pace was a struggle to maintain. My hoped-for time goals vanished until just the last ditch ones were left. 

Miles eleven to finish: Please kill me now. A magical burst of energy at the end was not happening. The last few miles on the bike path had short hills that went up and down and even that was a lot of effort. They would have been nothing in an ordinary run, but now they were mountains. My hands still hurt. This flat course had become more difficult than five years ago. Old age is unforgiving and maybe I am falling apart. Still, my pace was faster per mile than the 5k I did in January of this year, which was a grudging sort of progress.

The finish line was a welcome sight. I could stop the pain. No matter how a race goes, at least I could say I completed the event, even if I couldn’t feel my fingers.

Jingle Blahs

No. Just no.

Christmas depression
isn’t just an expression.
All the damn cheer
drives me to drink beer.

The torture started in October.
Christmas decorations lurk.
Plastic Santas smirk
behind Halloween skeleton dogs.

The autumn slaughter of pine trees had already begun.
Happily green; growing, unaware of their impeding death.
Their fate to be displayed in an ugly mall.
Only to be dumped once holiday fun
was done.

Christmas carols make me want to heave.
Jingle Bells
ring in holiday hell.
A White Christmas. . .
I’m dreaming
of never hearing it again.
Deck the Halls. . .
I avoid the malls.

I dread
to go to parties
and pretend to be hearty.
When I secretly
long to go home
and crawl into bed
Crowds are too loud.
Nothing of interest is said

The yard lights are pretty.
But not for myself.
Thanksgiving is way too soon
to see the giant blow-up elf.
It makes me swoon
with its moronity.

So Christmas,
please leave.
And with you take
dreadful New Year’s Eve.

Heart of Arizona Bike Ride

Yarnell Hill

This ride starts in Congress, Arizona. The website describes the location as “37 miles Southwest of Nowhere, AZ; 39 miles Southeast of Nothing, AZ; 89 miles East of Somewhere, AZ and 69 miles Beyond Hope, AZ.” They would be right. I have never had occasion to visit Congress, AZ. I doubt most people have. It’s an old ghost mining town that now has retirees and is a bedroom community–meaning no one works there or couldn’t even if they wanted to. The location is remote; northwest of Wickenburg and off the main highway to Las Vegas.

The climate is also in between desert and woodlands, and is a sparse, arid grassland. The landscape is one that I pass on the highway on the way to somewhere else and admire the valleys plunging through the mountains.

When I considered this ride, I briefly thought of riding the 104 mile version with 6,000 feet of climbing. Then I thought about training long miles in the summer heat and wisely reconsidered. The forty-four mile route has 3,100 feet of climbing, which seemed plausible, though probably a little painful. Bullshifters, the bike club that ran this ride, has sag stops throughout and lunch afterwards. Food is a bonus of an organized ride and is the whole point of participating.

The starting point in Congress is the Sierra Vista Motel. It claims to be the smallest motel in Arizona, because it only has four rooms. Somehow, I was expecting a larger structure. It had a wooden fence in front, with a garden patio behind it, but not much area to park. A few riders were milling about, but nobody was lined up for the start, so I just began the ride after signing in.

Fish Rock

The empty road briefly descended, then the ascent began. I saw the mountain in front of me in the distance. It’s named Yarnell Hill, but I failed to see the “hill” aspect. This sucker was tall. I wondered if the road went through a pass or up the whole thing. I passed a rock painted as a green fish on the side of the highway. This place was just weird. I felt out of breath already.

The wind blew the opposite direction that I was headed. The route headed sharply upward and wound around the side of the mountain. Wind and a climb. I thought that this might get ugly. I noted my time as I passed the mile markers–ten minutes. I was going a blazing six miles per hour. Technically, I could run that fast, but not on this incline. Hopefully, the whole twenty-two miles to the turn around isn’t like this.

The view from the road was stunning, with miles of the desert plain visible 1000-1500 feet below. A small white grid was Congress, with mountains south of the town. I stopped to take photos.

Oddly, I was passing people, including one person wearing a tri kit from a triathlon club known for its speedy members. Take that, Mr. Hot Stuff! Not that I cared how fast I was going. This was a ride, not a race, which suited me fine. I had no delusions that I was going to ride forty-four miles with 3,100 feet of climbing in any thing other than a snail’s pace. 

Some bigger bike events in Phoenix and Tucson are races, which is a turn off. Some don’t allow tri bikes, which is offensive because the organizers assume that the people riding them can’t do it without crashing. If I crash, it’s a driver’s fault or the road’s. They also assume slow riders are inexperienced or out of shape. I have worked hard for a long time to go nowhere fast.

This event was laid back, so far. I didn’t run into the century and 125 mile people the whole ride. Presumably, they were serious about what they were doing, or just crazy. The first seven miles were difficult for me. I couldn’t imagine 104 or more.

Just when I thought the turn around was hours more to get to, I reached Yarnell and the road flattened out. I saw police cars and orange cones and thought all this wasn’t for the ride, because they probably didn’t know about it or care. Then, in the middle of the road was an antique car show. No one stopped me as I rode through. People were mindlessly walking across the road as if they didn’t see me, so I slowed down. More weirdness, that I hadn’t expected.

Yarnell is the site of a fire that killed 19 fire fighters. I saw little evidence of this, other than some sign medallions and a museum, but I didn’t know what the town looked like before. A sign on a side road said “No access to incident site.” The rugged terrain looked like it would be a bad place for a fire, with the open grassy plains and stunted trees. It was sad to think about.

I moved quickly through the tiny town and finally picked up speed, past vast ranch land. The trees were taller, though sparse. The descent meant I had to climb it on the way back, but it was a nice break.

Reaching the sag station was a relief. A cheerful volunteer asked me if I wanted soup, hot chocolate or a root beer float. My befuddled mind was dazed at the range of choice, so I opted for soup. The float might have been better, but I wasn’t very hungry from the exertion and it was a bit chilly with the wind once I stopped. Most people seemed tired and not in a hurry to move.  

I dragged myself out of the aid station. Going back required climbing the hill that I had descended. I took some pictures of the cottonwood trees that I saw. I was now really tired. I wasn’t hungry, but ate anyway to keep my energy up. It was warmer by this time. 

I passed through Yarnell again with the auto show still going on. I noticed a life-sized metal elephant on the roadside. A white elephant was also painted on a rocky hill. This town has a thing for these animals. Finally, I  hit the descent of the Yarnell Hill. I kept feathering my brakes because of the steepness and curves. I saw an overlook and stopped and took some pictures. The severity of the descent eased off as I got closer to town. When I was finished, I ate a grilled hamburger

The ride from Nowhere, Arizona to Nothing, Arizona had been fun. I appreciated the quirkiness of the small, rural towns. They were much more “western” than Scottsdale, which claims to be the most western, but bulldozes any evidence of character in the name of development. 

Maybe next year I will go to Beyond Hope.

Rockhopper Xterra Race Report

Three kinds of people sign up for an Xterra triathlon–the fast, the clueless and slow people like me. Fast people power through the terrain like it doesn’t exist. I have never figured out how they do this, but I suspect that their fancy bikes help. The clueless have no idea what they are in for, but soon find out that they made a bad decision. An Xterra can quickly become overwhelming, and require a lot of physical effort and skill. I wonder what a person doing a triathlon for the first time would think of his experience. Maybe “never again?” Slow people like me struggle to climb the hills and often fail, resulting in more of a walk/bike or a walk/run. I do these events anyway, despite my incompetence, because I like the challenge.

These races  are mostly populated by younger, male participants. The mean age for this race was 35-39. Only twenty-five percent were female. For some reason older females shy away. I was the only one above age of 53 and I felt like an oddball. Maybe they fear injury, that they aren’t strong enough or maybe they are just smart. I am an outlier. I have been riding badly in multisport mountain bike races for years. I am slower, more cautious and less skilled than most. If a section scares me, I don’t ride it. Bodily injury isn’t worth it.

Mountain biking is more mentally engaging than road biking, which can be excruciatingly boring. I  have to constantly look where I am going and pick the best line through obstacles to avoid smashing into rocks, running into cactus and running off the trail. Climbing up slopes requires leg strength, finesse and sudden bursts of leg turnover to avoid falling over when pedaling. Even arm muscles get a workout. It can be physically exhausting in a short amount of time.

Still, it’s fun when it isn’t terrifying. I prefer the trail hazards of horses, other people and sometimes snakes, to cars killing me or stoplights. The tires usually don’t flat because they are so rugged. The scenery is better. Most snakes leave me alone.

Papago Park isn’t my favorite place to ride. The trails are rocky, rutted from storm damage and poorly marked. I am spoiled by the smoother, engineered ones in North Scottsdale, McDowell Mountain Park and even the Phoenix Mountain Preserve. Papago Park is difficult to ride and even harder to figure out where to go in the spaghetti maze of random routes.

I stupidly signed up for the Rockhopper Xterra, anyway. Another “I couldn’t think of anything better to do” event. I hadn’t done this event since 2008, so maybe it would be an easier experience than in the past. It wasn’t.

The race had a 10 a.m. cut off for the bike. I was concerned about it, because my normal glacial pace on the swim and a mountain bike, I would be close to that time. I usually don’t have this issue, but maybe the race organizer had someplace better to be or they didn’t want to have to transport people who had keeled over in the rough terrain. Theoretically, October starts to cool down even in Phoenix, but the month had stubbornly clung to “hot” and “more hot.”

Race morning, I walked down the boat ramp and cautiously waded into the water. Sharp rocks await the unwary, then it drops off suddenly. My ratty, old sleeveless wetsuit kept me buoyant, so I wasn’t worried about drowning, unlike the last race. The water felt cold on my arms at first.

The horn sounded and everyone took off. No waves were needed because of the small amount of people. Open water swimmers, not doing the bike and run, started behind us. I expected to be lapped by some or all of them. They made the water more crowded. As I rounded the last turn buoy, I was shocked to find swimmers as slow as I was. This was a rare opportunity to draft off of them, which would make my efforts faster and easier. They were in my way, so I used them. The trick was not to run into them, because I couldn’t see past my elbow in the murky green water. An occasional bubble hinted at where they were.  I finished faster than I expected, which was good because I don’t like swimming and was short on time.

Staggering up the ramp, I got my bike gear on and debated going to the port-a-potty, which for once, was in transition. The urge was not that great, so I moved on to the bike course.

The bike course had a flat section that followed a canal, then crossed a bridge onto rocky hell. Right away, I fumbled the climbing and had to walk. I thought: I am not very good at this. The ride did not get much better the next three miles. Some hills I didn’t have enough power to get up. I was still tired from the swim and hadn’t recovered. Some I misjudged the best route and got stuck. Some had rutted, loose soil, and I couldn’t get enough traction to climb. Some sections were just too scary to ride like the sudden steep drop offs with loose, rocky dirt. I had trouble with my bike shoes. Sometimes, they were difficult to clip in when I had to I get back on the bike. Each of the two loops had three mandatory dismounts in addition to the hills I couldn’t ride. I almost tripped on a rock a few times walking the bike through the dark tunnel.

I began to despair of making the cut off, but all I could do is keep going. A portion near the three mile mark was flat, so I went as fast as I could to make up time.

Coming back on the first loop, I crashed on a technical section named “The Steps.” It consisted of evil, steep stone ledges in a wash that scared me. I thought to myself that I could get through this. I got down the ledges, landing hard, but climbing out, I couldn’t pedal hard enough to make it back up the wash and unceremoniously fell over. A volunteer asked me if I was alright. My leg was scraped and my butt hurt, but I was able to get up. I didn’t lose too much blood, just my dignity, since I had landed in the dirt.

I finished the first loop and hoped for a better outcome. It didn’t happen. I didn’t stumble as much and went faster, but I still couldn’t get up some of the steep hills.  The volunteers that had been stationed by the potential crash sites had left before I finished the second loop. I was on my own. My high heart rate was high and it was hot. I fought exhaustion. For some reason, I kept hopscotching the same guy. I  passed him on the climbs, then he  passed me on the flats. Did heI  know how old I was? He was probably 35-40 and not doing much better than I.

 At the finish of the second loop, someone called out that the cut off was in ten minutes. Miraculously, I could go on to the run.

The start of the run was hot–about 85 degrees. I just wanted to survive and make the cut offs. Only the canal portion was shaded. The trails were rocky, bleak and steep. The difficult ascents had to be climbed twice, plus constant up and downs. A young kid flew by me as I hobbled up. I hated his youth. My legs were fried by then. Tripping was a concern because it happens when I am tired, but I avoided falling. I passed an older man, about seventy and I wondered if he was on his first or second loop. At least he tried.  The last mercifully flat 1.3 miles were a lot faster.

Total time for the whole thing was 3:03:59, a little better than I expected. This was one of the hardest races I have done this year. I hadn’t expected much out of it, knowing the difficulty, but I had wanted to finish it.

Most people were leaving as I got done. As I picked up my gear, people told me to get a mug, since I was the only one in my age group. A man who had gotten one gave me his. He was the same one that I had seen on the run and was in the 70+ range. He was miffed that everyone had gone home, the race was packing up and awards had been given out already. I could relate to that. It’s basically most of my race experiences, especially Xterra. I didn’t really care, being wasted. The rest of the world might have finished early, but old, slow people can still do the damn thing too.

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.