Journal Entry
September 28, 2010
I'm writing this in case I do not make it. My family and the world need to know how our last days were spent trapped on the freeway trying desperately to reach the new Toll Lane in Sunol. We were promised a faster commute, but have been stuck in a level of hell only surpassed by those waiting in line to audition for American Idol.
Like many others, I joined the long line of cars creeping along 680 south at the Bernal entrance. We crept along listening to reports on the radio of congestion extending north to the Oregon border. We measured our commute not in miles, but in inches. By day 2, I had made it as far as the Sunol Blvd exit. I toyed with the idea of getting off the freeway and returning home to my family. But my job beckoned and promises of commute nirvana up ahead in the new toll lane kept me queued in the long line of frustrated drivers.
By day three, all the food and water I could scrounge from my car and along the side of the freeway were gone. Other commuters and I started talking about sending a scouting party ahead on foot to see if there was an overland route we could take. 4 brave souls struck out in their wingtips and ties, but they returned 1 short later in the evening. The details of their harrowing trek will be the stuff of legend if this journal survives. The lost member of their party will be remembered as a hero due to his actions to save the others. We are still not clear as to what occurred, but the survivors seem to imply commuters further south had turned to cannibalism due to the lack of food and coffee. The three remaining members did manage to bring back his Bally wingtips and leather belt. We may try to eat those later.
By day 5, the smell along the freeway was fetid and rank. Most cars had run out of fuel, so the drivers were pushing their vehicles anytime the long string of cars inched forward. Only those driving hybrids seemed to still have power, but none of them were as well armed as the many SUV drivers, so they were easily overrun and their fuel supplies taken. Armed gangs began terrorizing the weakened commuters. Barter systems were setup, people trading bags of airplane peanuts for a few ounces of fuel. I tried a desperate attempt to hike back up the freeway to home, but was forced back into my car by a roving band of Caltrans workers threatening anyone who dared to leave their car and not experience the glory of the Express Lane.
Day 7 dawned over the Eastern hills. I was delirious from the lack of sleep, hunger, and Starbuck's withdrawal. I was awake most of the night fending off a horde of what my little community of commuters called "tollbies" - similar to zombies, but without the insatiable appetite for human flesh. Tollbies had lost their sense of humanity and reason, seeking only to experience the FasTrack enabled rush of Express Lane joy. These poor lost souls wandered down the freeway in small groups between the camps of stranded motorists, waving their FasTrack transponders in the air hoping beyond all hope for that reassuring "beep" signaling they had reached the Promised Lane. My encampment used our laptops and spare tires to create crude barriers to keep the Tollbies from overrunning us. Our latest plan for rescue involves tying a note to a dead cell phone and seeing if we can throw it at a passing ACE train, but we hold little hope any rescue is on it way.
A few of our group have scouted the Northbound lanes for any sign of rescue, but were met with resistance from those stuck in the miles long backup from the evening commute. Small wars are now occurring between the North and South bound commuters as the Northies try to claim the southbound HOV/Toll Lane. The Northies feel they are justified in their seizure since their commute has been horrendous for many more years than the Southies and they have never benefited from a HOV lane. All hope of reconciliation, rescue or free flowing traffic appear to be abandoned.
If anyone reads this, please tell my family I love them. My Blackberry is almost out of battery power, so this will be my last entry. I only hope they have FasTrack in heaven.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Camarillo Marathon 2010
Oh the Horror!
Nestled just north of the Santa Monica mountains and caressing the Pacific ocean, Ventura is a picturesque burg offering many delights for residents and tourists alike. Unfortunately, our journey to run a new Boston qualifier marathon did not take us to this idyllic setting, rather to its black sheep step cousin next door, the aptly named town of “Camarillo” which in Portuguese means “why does anyone live here let alone want to run a marathon here”. I realize the word count does not quite matchup, but Google Translator does not lie.
My wife and I along with 10 of our team mates from the Forward Motion Race Club jumped at the chance to run in a new Boston qualifier billed as a flat, fast course with stunning views, music/bands at every mile, and a post-event party to rival Burning Man. The bonus was that the location, Camarillo, was only 400 miles away, so 5 hours by plane with check-in, security and a 1 hour flight time or a 16 hour drive through some of the worst traffic known to man (other than that 60 mile traffic jam in China). We opted to fly knowing my patience with traffic (I have none) and my desire for my wife to stay married to me once we encountered said traffic.
We landed in Burbank, the nearest airport capable of accommodating aircraft larger than my sons’ Fisher Price toy planes, hopped in our Nissan Versa rental car (the butt ugliest pregnant rollerskate I’ve ever driven, but hey, it got like 42 miles per gallon, 50 mpg when my wife got out and pushed), and headed onto the freeway. Then we stopped, and stopped some more, and for variety, stopped some more. We had encountered Friday night Southern California rush hour traffic (insert image of Munch’s The Scream here). One of the seven levels of Hell, reserved for those who refuse to vote and fund public transportation, uninformed tourists like us, and Prius drivers. We battled our way through the traffic, me gripping the wheel in a stressed fueled road rage and my wife frantically trying to find a radio station playing anything other than Spanish language music or the latest Katy Perry song. Our little trek took us through the beautiful towns of Studio City (porn capital of the US), Thousand Oaks (I only counted 994), and Oxnard (Nard’s of the Ox). Fortunately, my wife agreed to remain married to me upon our arrival at the Ventura Beach Marriot. We met up with some friends who had decided traveling by car the entire way was just as stressful as our path. Copious amounts of liquid stress relief quieted the inner demons and capped off the day.
Saturday morning we headed out to a nice path along the beach to shake out the legs, test the GPS watch, and take in some fresh ocean air. We found the bike path/trail/boardwalk headed north for many miles passing the Ventura pier, local surfing spots, nicely landscaped parks, and plenty of public facilities like restrooms and water fountains. Please take note of this last sentence and file it away for later reference. My wife commented we would be really fortunate if the marathon the next day followed a coastal route since the cool air and scenic vistas would really help push us to personal bests. In the afternoon, we attended packet pickup at a local strip mall Sports Authority suffering through the crush of the tens of participants. Our first hint that something was horribly wrong should have been the lack of any Expo, actual participants, or the constant reminders to “memorize the course map”.
Our race club gathered in downtown Ventura for a pre-race ritual of pasta, a little red wine, and good conversation with good friends. Race strategies were discussed, predictions were made, and PRPE’s (post race performance excuses) were formulated. We adjourned to our hotels wary of the of the early morning start time of our “flat, fast, scenic views with bands every mile” marathon looming closer.
Race morning we carpooled over to the start of the race heeding the Race Director’s advice that parking would be difficult due to the thousands of participants signed up for the race (actual count for the marathon was 280). Because we arrived before even the bars were closed, parking was a breeze. We stood around in the dark until there was enough light to find the porta-johns and navigate the essential pre-race bowel cleansing. Having successfully cleansed the bowels, I wandered over to the start line, looking hopelessly for a balloon arch, one of those inflatable Wildflower style canopies, or any other sign of an actual start line. What I found was the word “START” scrawled in the middle of the street with chalk. Around 7AM, most participants began to congregate in the middle of the street. All the Forward Motion folks pushed, well not really pushed since there were so few people, we “gathered” at the front of the pack next to no one that looked like a world class marathoner. Three Kenyans, an Ethiopian, and two Russian marathoners I believe read about the Camarillo marathon, but had the good sense to stay away. An air horn sounded and we started running assuming that was the starting gun.
In the lead pack, we had a host of unique characters. There was Black Compression Socks Guy, Booberella (whose store bought body modifications defied the laws of physics), Good Hair guy, and one lonely looking South American dude who looked like he really did not want to be there (the eventual race winner). The FoMo Gang of Five, Chris, Simon, Andy, Jeff M., and Chuck set a blistering pace from the start, so I elected to hold back in order to preserve their egos and run with Jesus (no, not that Jesus, the other Jesus. I don’t think that Jesus was much of a runner, but if he was, I bet he was totally into that whole minimalist shoe thing). I ran comfortably for about 5 miles entering the most scenic part of the entire course, the business park loop, with its stunning views of loading docks, mediocre corporate landscaping, cracked pavement parking lots, and a lonely night watchman snoozing in his photo hut guard shack. It was breathtaking in its beauty and grandeur. I can honestly say I have never seen such “stunning views” since the Big Sur marathon in 1998. I remember thinking “why is this marathon in Camarillo and not in Ventura along the ocean path?” It would be something I would think about for the next 18 mind-numbing miles of soul crushing boredom.
By mile 9, the Gang of Five had dropped me, Jesus had deserted me to lead others down the righteous path, so I was left only with the voices in my head. They were screaming at me to give them some form of visual stimuli other than rows upon of rows of tomato and green pepper fields, broken down tractors, and a seemingly endless stretch of asphalt disappearing into the fog ahead. Although the temperature was only in the low 70’s the humidity was high probably due to the crop irrigation surrounding us. We were well inland on most of the course, far enough from the ocean where only the most navigationally challenged seagulls ventured. I was sweating more than normal so was looking forward to the electrolyte replenishment drink said to be on the course. We had received at least 60 emails prior to the race advertising the race drink of choice would be a brand called “Gleukos”. No one had heard of this mythical drink, but since it was to be provided on the course, many of chose to forego carrying our own.
I started to pass aid stations where the besieged volunteers were faced with delivering the daunting news to incoming runners that they did not have any water cups, only gallon jugs of water. I was handed a partially full jug and told to just put it down along the road when I was done. Does anyone know how hard it is to bend down and place a jug of water on the ground with tired and cramping legs while trying to maintain pace? Well, it was not something I planned to test, so I handed my jug to a confused looking farm laborer who happened to be standing alongside the road. Then I spent the next 3 miles thinking about all the people who had drunk from that jug before me…shivers. Not only were the aid stations without cups, but the mythical Gleukos sports drink was nowhere to be found. When I asked one volunteer at mile 15, I got a “huh?” in return. I started to cramp pretty bad at this point so went into survival mode. I veered off course to the nearest field and grabbed a couple tomatoes remembering from my high school Botany class that tomatoes contained sodium. The two green tomatoes did not solve the cramping so I ran through a farmer’s pasture and happened upon a cow salt lick. Not wanting to lose my pace, I picked up the block of salt and continued on down the road licking frantically with about a dozen heifers in hot pursuit. Having satiated my salt craving I left the salt block on the side of the road for any fellow travelers behind me.
Around mile 20, the aid stations not only lacked cups, Gleukos, and Gu, but even volunteers. Mile markers were non-existent at this point in the race, so I relied on my Garmin and asking the handful of spectators milling around along the course how far from the finish I was. The Race Director toyed with our sanity by making us run past the finish line at mile 23 to do an out-n-back through the Camarillo International Airport (departures to Oxnard and Bakersfield every third Tuesday). I was able to see the Gang of Five looking strong with Chris leading the charge. My goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon loomed near as I watched my race time inch towards 3:20, the qualifying time for my age group. I summoned all my reserves and pushed through the finish line posting a 3:20:17 (Boston gives you the extra 0:59 seconds), so I met my goal along with most of my compatriots.
Our team took home three podium spots, a few blisters, and some great memories. The post-event party, the one billed as being bigger than Burning Man, well, that was actually some guy making pancakes on a rusty BBQ grill. Oh, and those bands at every mile, they must have all be practicing for the National Mime Tour since I failed to see or hear a single one. I am really proud of my teammates for persevering through what can only be described as a very organizationally challenged marathon. Everyone finished with a smile or grimace on their faces, most of us qualified for Boston, and those that did not will be running again soon to meet their goals.
Note: I have to contrast my post-race recovery ritual with one of my teammates “Carrie”, a world class athlete who is one half of an uber couple in our race club. She took an ice bath, ate a nutritious lunch low in calories, and used an electrical stimulation recovery system on her drive home. I meanwhile, soaked in the hot tub, dined on In-and-Out Burger, and washed down 4 Advils with a beer.
Nestled just north of the Santa Monica mountains and caressing the Pacific ocean, Ventura is a picturesque burg offering many delights for residents and tourists alike. Unfortunately, our journey to run a new Boston qualifier marathon did not take us to this idyllic setting, rather to its black sheep step cousin next door, the aptly named town of “Camarillo” which in Portuguese means “why does anyone live here let alone want to run a marathon here”. I realize the word count does not quite matchup, but Google Translator does not lie.
My wife and I along with 10 of our team mates from the Forward Motion Race Club jumped at the chance to run in a new Boston qualifier billed as a flat, fast course with stunning views, music/bands at every mile, and a post-event party to rival Burning Man. The bonus was that the location, Camarillo, was only 400 miles away, so 5 hours by plane with check-in, security and a 1 hour flight time or a 16 hour drive through some of the worst traffic known to man (other than that 60 mile traffic jam in China). We opted to fly knowing my patience with traffic (I have none) and my desire for my wife to stay married to me once we encountered said traffic.
We landed in Burbank, the nearest airport capable of accommodating aircraft larger than my sons’ Fisher Price toy planes, hopped in our Nissan Versa rental car (the butt ugliest pregnant rollerskate I’ve ever driven, but hey, it got like 42 miles per gallon, 50 mpg when my wife got out and pushed), and headed onto the freeway. Then we stopped, and stopped some more, and for variety, stopped some more. We had encountered Friday night Southern California rush hour traffic (insert image of Munch’s The Scream here). One of the seven levels of Hell, reserved for those who refuse to vote and fund public transportation, uninformed tourists like us, and Prius drivers. We battled our way through the traffic, me gripping the wheel in a stressed fueled road rage and my wife frantically trying to find a radio station playing anything other than Spanish language music or the latest Katy Perry song. Our little trek took us through the beautiful towns of Studio City (porn capital of the US), Thousand Oaks (I only counted 994), and Oxnard (Nard’s of the Ox). Fortunately, my wife agreed to remain married to me upon our arrival at the Ventura Beach Marriot. We met up with some friends who had decided traveling by car the entire way was just as stressful as our path. Copious amounts of liquid stress relief quieted the inner demons and capped off the day.
Saturday morning we headed out to a nice path along the beach to shake out the legs, test the GPS watch, and take in some fresh ocean air. We found the bike path/trail/boardwalk headed north for many miles passing the Ventura pier, local surfing spots, nicely landscaped parks, and plenty of public facilities like restrooms and water fountains. Please take note of this last sentence and file it away for later reference. My wife commented we would be really fortunate if the marathon the next day followed a coastal route since the cool air and scenic vistas would really help push us to personal bests. In the afternoon, we attended packet pickup at a local strip mall Sports Authority suffering through the crush of the tens of participants. Our first hint that something was horribly wrong should have been the lack of any Expo, actual participants, or the constant reminders to “memorize the course map”.
Our race club gathered in downtown Ventura for a pre-race ritual of pasta, a little red wine, and good conversation with good friends. Race strategies were discussed, predictions were made, and PRPE’s (post race performance excuses) were formulated. We adjourned to our hotels wary of the of the early morning start time of our “flat, fast, scenic views with bands every mile” marathon looming closer.
Race morning we carpooled over to the start of the race heeding the Race Director’s advice that parking would be difficult due to the thousands of participants signed up for the race (actual count for the marathon was 280). Because we arrived before even the bars were closed, parking was a breeze. We stood around in the dark until there was enough light to find the porta-johns and navigate the essential pre-race bowel cleansing. Having successfully cleansed the bowels, I wandered over to the start line, looking hopelessly for a balloon arch, one of those inflatable Wildflower style canopies, or any other sign of an actual start line. What I found was the word “START” scrawled in the middle of the street with chalk. Around 7AM, most participants began to congregate in the middle of the street. All the Forward Motion folks pushed, well not really pushed since there were so few people, we “gathered” at the front of the pack next to no one that looked like a world class marathoner. Three Kenyans, an Ethiopian, and two Russian marathoners I believe read about the Camarillo marathon, but had the good sense to stay away. An air horn sounded and we started running assuming that was the starting gun.
In the lead pack, we had a host of unique characters. There was Black Compression Socks Guy, Booberella (whose store bought body modifications defied the laws of physics), Good Hair guy, and one lonely looking South American dude who looked like he really did not want to be there (the eventual race winner). The FoMo Gang of Five, Chris, Simon, Andy, Jeff M., and Chuck set a blistering pace from the start, so I elected to hold back in order to preserve their egos and run with Jesus (no, not that Jesus, the other Jesus. I don’t think that Jesus was much of a runner, but if he was, I bet he was totally into that whole minimalist shoe thing). I ran comfortably for about 5 miles entering the most scenic part of the entire course, the business park loop, with its stunning views of loading docks, mediocre corporate landscaping, cracked pavement parking lots, and a lonely night watchman snoozing in his photo hut guard shack. It was breathtaking in its beauty and grandeur. I can honestly say I have never seen such “stunning views” since the Big Sur marathon in 1998. I remember thinking “why is this marathon in Camarillo and not in Ventura along the ocean path?” It would be something I would think about for the next 18 mind-numbing miles of soul crushing boredom.
By mile 9, the Gang of Five had dropped me, Jesus had deserted me to lead others down the righteous path, so I was left only with the voices in my head. They were screaming at me to give them some form of visual stimuli other than rows upon of rows of tomato and green pepper fields, broken down tractors, and a seemingly endless stretch of asphalt disappearing into the fog ahead. Although the temperature was only in the low 70’s the humidity was high probably due to the crop irrigation surrounding us. We were well inland on most of the course, far enough from the ocean where only the most navigationally challenged seagulls ventured. I was sweating more than normal so was looking forward to the electrolyte replenishment drink said to be on the course. We had received at least 60 emails prior to the race advertising the race drink of choice would be a brand called “Gleukos”. No one had heard of this mythical drink, but since it was to be provided on the course, many of chose to forego carrying our own.
I started to pass aid stations where the besieged volunteers were faced with delivering the daunting news to incoming runners that they did not have any water cups, only gallon jugs of water. I was handed a partially full jug and told to just put it down along the road when I was done. Does anyone know how hard it is to bend down and place a jug of water on the ground with tired and cramping legs while trying to maintain pace? Well, it was not something I planned to test, so I handed my jug to a confused looking farm laborer who happened to be standing alongside the road. Then I spent the next 3 miles thinking about all the people who had drunk from that jug before me…shivers. Not only were the aid stations without cups, but the mythical Gleukos sports drink was nowhere to be found. When I asked one volunteer at mile 15, I got a “huh?” in return. I started to cramp pretty bad at this point so went into survival mode. I veered off course to the nearest field and grabbed a couple tomatoes remembering from my high school Botany class that tomatoes contained sodium. The two green tomatoes did not solve the cramping so I ran through a farmer’s pasture and happened upon a cow salt lick. Not wanting to lose my pace, I picked up the block of salt and continued on down the road licking frantically with about a dozen heifers in hot pursuit. Having satiated my salt craving I left the salt block on the side of the road for any fellow travelers behind me.
Around mile 20, the aid stations not only lacked cups, Gleukos, and Gu, but even volunteers. Mile markers were non-existent at this point in the race, so I relied on my Garmin and asking the handful of spectators milling around along the course how far from the finish I was. The Race Director toyed with our sanity by making us run past the finish line at mile 23 to do an out-n-back through the Camarillo International Airport (departures to Oxnard and Bakersfield every third Tuesday). I was able to see the Gang of Five looking strong with Chris leading the charge. My goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon loomed near as I watched my race time inch towards 3:20, the qualifying time for my age group. I summoned all my reserves and pushed through the finish line posting a 3:20:17 (Boston gives you the extra 0:59 seconds), so I met my goal along with most of my compatriots.
Our team took home three podium spots, a few blisters, and some great memories. The post-event party, the one billed as being bigger than Burning Man, well, that was actually some guy making pancakes on a rusty BBQ grill. Oh, and those bands at every mile, they must have all be practicing for the National Mime Tour since I failed to see or hear a single one. I am really proud of my teammates for persevering through what can only be described as a very organizationally challenged marathon. Everyone finished with a smile or grimace on their faces, most of us qualified for Boston, and those that did not will be running again soon to meet their goals.
Note: I have to contrast my post-race recovery ritual with one of my teammates “Carrie”, a world class athlete who is one half of an uber couple in our race club. She took an ice bath, ate a nutritious lunch low in calories, and used an electrical stimulation recovery system on her drive home. I meanwhile, soaked in the hot tub, dined on In-and-Out Burger, and washed down 4 Advils with a beer.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Xterra Del Valle Long Course 5/8/10
Someone needs to invent a machine that allows the user to slap themselves upside the head when they feel the desire to do something potentially stupid. Often, there is not a spouse, mother, family pet, or complete stranger willing to perform this service, so a machine with easy to read directions would be extremely beneficial to those of us prone to poor decision making.
Case in point would have been the decision to sign up for this past Saturday’s Xterra Long Course Triathlon. I sure could have used that Head Slapper 2000 to smack some sense into me. What was I thinking? Yes, I have been on the bike quite a bit over the past few months, but not on the one with the knobby tires and big brakes to enable it to scream down rock strewn dirt cow paths at sphincter tightening speeds. Yes, I owned a Mt. Bike with said attributes, but had hardly even glanced at it for the past three years other than a cobweb shakeout ride last Wednesday. I’m sure my Mt. Bike felt like the old girlfriend who got dumped in favor of the hot new French exchange student, not hearing from me for years, only to be called up one night in a drunken stupor and asked what she was doing Saturday morning. And I will leave that analogy right there. You can fill in the rest.
Race morning was fairly uneventful with the rather civilized 9AM race start. I loaded up old Betsy, all shiny with a new coat of lube, onto the bike rack and headed out to Del Valle Reservoir. The event drew relatively small numbers, probably due to the high death consequences associated with the bike leg of the race. I ran into Lee Cannon while registering and later saw Monica Zucker, Chris McCrary, Dave Stark, and Scott Bergman setting up their gear. As I was laying out my stuff, I noticed a rather large, moderately battered gentleman racked near me. I tuned into the conversation around me and found out the guy was a UFC fighter from the Sacramento area. He competed in many of the Xterra events on the circuit. I made a mental note to be very careful whose feet I tapped in the swim or who I challenged on the bike for the good line. I also quietly moved my gear over to give him a tad more space. Hey, all in the name of good sportsmanship (and self preservation), right?
The swim was unremarkable other than the fact it was two loops bookending a painful pebble laced jog down the beach. The other notable aspect of the swim was the water temp. Compared to the shrinkage inducing temperature of Shadowcliffs and from what I heard, the glacial runoff temps of IM Saint George, the water temperature at Del Valle was positively tropical. The mass start of 120 racers was pretty tame compared to some races, I only took one elbow into the ribs, a foot into the kidneys, and an unidentifiable body part into back of my head (maybe that was a tardy head slap?). I kept a weary eye out for Mister UFC, but either he swam with the fishes up front or he had some poor age grouper in a reverse straight arm choke-out back on the beach.
Chris, Lee, and I came out of the swim together, but they had their act together in transition while I sat and tried to remember if the socks were suppose to go on my feet before my shoes. Once I had that puzzle solved, I tried putting gloves on wet hands without much success so I stuffed them in my jersey pockets and headed out. The bike course started out with a fairly flat section paralleling the shoreline, then took a hard right onto singletrack. Not having spent much time on 12 inch wide trails in many years, I freaked out a bit until I realized I was in front of about 6-8 riders and did not have many options other than to suck it up and ride the singletrack with some purpose. Exiting the single track we encountered the first of many, many, MANY hills requiring gearing so low that 5 pedal strokes got you only 1 wheel rotation. I quickly learned I needed to “ride the nose” of my saddle in order to keep enough weight on the rear tire, but also enough weight on the front tire so I did not go ass over teakettle back down the hill. The remainder of the course followed a similar pattern; a section of single track followed by an insanely steep climbing section, then a knuckle whitening descent, rinse, repeat. Just to keep it interesting, the race organizers tried to conserve resources by placing the minimum number of directional signs on the course leading to a comedy of sorts where no two race finishers probably rode the exact same race.
Towards the end of the bike leg, I found myself riding with Chris and Monica, Lee was off the front probably finished with the run and enjoying the post race BBQ. I followed my teammates down the final hills, but they gapped me due to their utter disregard for their own mortality and my healthy respect for my skin, unbroken bones, and continued ability to feed myself. On one rather steep section, somewhere between “steep” and “vertical”, I thought I had a good smooth line to the bottom of the hill so I let off the brakes and put a little trust in old Betsy to get me to the bottom intact. But, then I saw coming up in front of me, parallel ruts in the trail. At this point I had sort of an out of body experience. I was looking down on myself thinking, “wow, that dude down there is really going to eat sh*t, that’s going to really hurt”, but then I was down the hill and still breathing. Old Betsy had pulled me through it.
Fatigued from the bike, I spent longer in T2 than I should trying to remember which foot was my left one so I could put on my running shoes, in the end playing the odds and jamming a shoe on each foot. I exited transition somewhere between a crawl and a shuffle, but was able to crank it up to a jog when I saw a couple of cute spectators cheering me on. I ran by Sharon McCrary working the aid station at mile 3 and she was kind enough to lie to me and tell me Chris was “just up ahead” and “go get him”. If only my legs were still connected to some part of my conscious brain, I might have tried to close the gap, by every vital system including forward propulsion were on autopilot at that point. The race organizers believed hills were good for the soul, so they served up two rather meaty ones for us on the run. I truly believe they would have had us swim up a waterfall if they had had the choice.
By the end of the run, I had ramped up my pace to somewhere between Simon jogging barefoot over broken glass and Steve Chavez running backwards pulling Carrie in a bobsled. I crossed the finish line under the three hour mark, happy that I was still standing, had all of my skin intact and most of my pride, and a sense of satisfaction of finishing without taking a roundhouse to the head from Mr. UFC.
Case in point would have been the decision to sign up for this past Saturday’s Xterra Long Course Triathlon. I sure could have used that Head Slapper 2000 to smack some sense into me. What was I thinking? Yes, I have been on the bike quite a bit over the past few months, but not on the one with the knobby tires and big brakes to enable it to scream down rock strewn dirt cow paths at sphincter tightening speeds. Yes, I owned a Mt. Bike with said attributes, but had hardly even glanced at it for the past three years other than a cobweb shakeout ride last Wednesday. I’m sure my Mt. Bike felt like the old girlfriend who got dumped in favor of the hot new French exchange student, not hearing from me for years, only to be called up one night in a drunken stupor and asked what she was doing Saturday morning. And I will leave that analogy right there. You can fill in the rest.
Race morning was fairly uneventful with the rather civilized 9AM race start. I loaded up old Betsy, all shiny with a new coat of lube, onto the bike rack and headed out to Del Valle Reservoir. The event drew relatively small numbers, probably due to the high death consequences associated with the bike leg of the race. I ran into Lee Cannon while registering and later saw Monica Zucker, Chris McCrary, Dave Stark, and Scott Bergman setting up their gear. As I was laying out my stuff, I noticed a rather large, moderately battered gentleman racked near me. I tuned into the conversation around me and found out the guy was a UFC fighter from the Sacramento area. He competed in many of the Xterra events on the circuit. I made a mental note to be very careful whose feet I tapped in the swim or who I challenged on the bike for the good line. I also quietly moved my gear over to give him a tad more space. Hey, all in the name of good sportsmanship (and self preservation), right?
The swim was unremarkable other than the fact it was two loops bookending a painful pebble laced jog down the beach. The other notable aspect of the swim was the water temp. Compared to the shrinkage inducing temperature of Shadowcliffs and from what I heard, the glacial runoff temps of IM Saint George, the water temperature at Del Valle was positively tropical. The mass start of 120 racers was pretty tame compared to some races, I only took one elbow into the ribs, a foot into the kidneys, and an unidentifiable body part into back of my head (maybe that was a tardy head slap?). I kept a weary eye out for Mister UFC, but either he swam with the fishes up front or he had some poor age grouper in a reverse straight arm choke-out back on the beach.
Chris, Lee, and I came out of the swim together, but they had their act together in transition while I sat and tried to remember if the socks were suppose to go on my feet before my shoes. Once I had that puzzle solved, I tried putting gloves on wet hands without much success so I stuffed them in my jersey pockets and headed out. The bike course started out with a fairly flat section paralleling the shoreline, then took a hard right onto singletrack. Not having spent much time on 12 inch wide trails in many years, I freaked out a bit until I realized I was in front of about 6-8 riders and did not have many options other than to suck it up and ride the singletrack with some purpose. Exiting the single track we encountered the first of many, many, MANY hills requiring gearing so low that 5 pedal strokes got you only 1 wheel rotation. I quickly learned I needed to “ride the nose” of my saddle in order to keep enough weight on the rear tire, but also enough weight on the front tire so I did not go ass over teakettle back down the hill. The remainder of the course followed a similar pattern; a section of single track followed by an insanely steep climbing section, then a knuckle whitening descent, rinse, repeat. Just to keep it interesting, the race organizers tried to conserve resources by placing the minimum number of directional signs on the course leading to a comedy of sorts where no two race finishers probably rode the exact same race.
Towards the end of the bike leg, I found myself riding with Chris and Monica, Lee was off the front probably finished with the run and enjoying the post race BBQ. I followed my teammates down the final hills, but they gapped me due to their utter disregard for their own mortality and my healthy respect for my skin, unbroken bones, and continued ability to feed myself. On one rather steep section, somewhere between “steep” and “vertical”, I thought I had a good smooth line to the bottom of the hill so I let off the brakes and put a little trust in old Betsy to get me to the bottom intact. But, then I saw coming up in front of me, parallel ruts in the trail. At this point I had sort of an out of body experience. I was looking down on myself thinking, “wow, that dude down there is really going to eat sh*t, that’s going to really hurt”, but then I was down the hill and still breathing. Old Betsy had pulled me through it.
Fatigued from the bike, I spent longer in T2 than I should trying to remember which foot was my left one so I could put on my running shoes, in the end playing the odds and jamming a shoe on each foot. I exited transition somewhere between a crawl and a shuffle, but was able to crank it up to a jog when I saw a couple of cute spectators cheering me on. I ran by Sharon McCrary working the aid station at mile 3 and she was kind enough to lie to me and tell me Chris was “just up ahead” and “go get him”. If only my legs were still connected to some part of my conscious brain, I might have tried to close the gap, by every vital system including forward propulsion were on autopilot at that point. The race organizers believed hills were good for the soul, so they served up two rather meaty ones for us on the run. I truly believe they would have had us swim up a waterfall if they had had the choice.
By the end of the run, I had ramped up my pace to somewhere between Simon jogging barefoot over broken glass and Steve Chavez running backwards pulling Carrie in a bobsled. I crossed the finish line under the three hour mark, happy that I was still standing, had all of my skin intact and most of my pride, and a sense of satisfaction of finishing without taking a roundhouse to the head from Mr. UFC.
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