Desert Classic Duathlon, or "The Vultures Were Circling"
“I hate this race.”
I cracked at the 16 mile mark of the bike portion of the Desert Classic Duathlon. But I fought the good fight. I worked my way through all the normal mantras, “One more hill, keep going,” “It’s OK, a little further,” “You can do one more mile,” “Try to stay with that guy,” “Ooooh what a beautiful day/view/bike/ girl,” “Come on J, turn the pedals.” But once I got to, “This must be the last hill, come on!” and it wasn’t the last hill, I was toast, and I officially hated that bike course.
But let’s backtrack a bit. I drove to Phoenix from Aspen along with my boy (who was entering his first duathlon-same as me), my girlfriend (who was attempting to qualify for worlds), our three bikes, gear and my dog Scout (who was there because she had no choice) to escape the snow and race in the desert. Here’s a little memo, Phoenix is very far from Aspen. Keep this little fact in mind if you ever decide to pull the Beverly Hillbillies routine and load up the truck and move to Phoenix-y. Anyway, we left on Friday after school, well, actually after taking the inevitable trip back to the house because of things we forgot, and hit the road to Phoenix. Four hours later we stopped in Moab after finding the dog friendly Hotel 6, whereupon my boy declared that Motel 6 was his favorite hotel in the world, and that he “just feels welcomed here.” I was most pleased with this declaration because Motel 6 is most easy on the wallet. Awaking the next day to comfort of our Motel 6 room (editor’s note, they don’t give you shampoo at the Motel 6-so I was not looking my Sunday best that Saturday morning), we pushed on to Phoenix.
By the time we showed up in Phoenix, we missed the packet pick-up, which isn’t the best news when you drive two days with an excited 9 year old, and a hopeful world championship qualifier. So we called the Race Director and he said to show up the event by 5:30 am and we could get our numbers. Whew. Then we head to the race site where we ride a few miles of the course in the dark, grab our prerace dinner, head to the hotel, smuggle Scout in (shhhhh) and tuck in for some quick z’s in our respective rooms.
Boy does 4:30 am come early. There’s just something unnatural about waking up before Apollo hitches up his chariot. My preference is to wave to Apollo when he’s waaaaaaay up there, sometimes even when he’s right overhead. But what can you do? So we head to the race site, and as a prime example of how nutz (yup with a “z”-that’s the level of crazy we’re talking here) multi-sport athletes are, we were told that we were the 100th car. WHAT? Seriously? I’m sorry, but that’s just weird. The race didn’t start until 8:00. I wouldn’t show up three hrs early as an innocent man at my own murder trial, much less a duathlon. I come at this from the world of running. I show up 30-40 mins before the race, warm-up, run, go home. The way I see it, if anything goes so catastrophically wrong with my set-up that it takes three hours to fix, well, it’s probably out of my league anyway. Really, what could it be? Outside of my pregnant bike going into labor and forcing me to deliver a little tricycle on the spot, there’s not much that takes three hours to do. Go, rack the bike, set your helmet on it, warm-up, and race, then go home. I just couldn’t get past everyone there in headlamps.
Anyway, we get our numbers, set up, warm-up, and get ready for our respective waves (see, I practice what I preach). Looking around I discover that duathletes are not the most intimidating looking bunch. No offense, but the only time tight spandex looks tough is when it’s being worn by 300 pound professional wrestlers with names like Deathbox, and Dr. KillYouWhereYouStand. But spindly 145 pound adult men? Not so much. And I’ve got ignorance on my side. I have no idea what to expect, how to pace myself, how to transition, even where to go since I’ve never seen this course before in my life. Katie (my afore mentioned girlfriend) has done everything she could to prepare me for the race. She walked me through how to set up my transition area, reminded me several times that I have to have my helmet buckled before I leave the transition area, had me tell her (while she was standing right next to me looking at my bike) where my bike was, filled up my water bottle with Gatorade, and found out my wave’s start time. Honestly, she all but pinned my mittens to my jersey. Right before I start, she comes over and gives me little pep-talk, “Just try your best, you’ll be fine, you’re very fast, just use this for the experience, if any big kids bother you tell the teacher, and remember, no matter what, I’m proud of you.” I felt like I should get on the bus for school, which was somewhat appropriate because I was about to get schooled (how was that for a transition?).
I start the run off slow, one because I have no idea what to leave in the tank for the bike, and two because the course itself is sandy and hilly. I loved the run course. Running off-road is my absolute favorite, so much so that I fall into “enjoy the scenery” mode, and not “race, dumb-ass” mode. I cover the first mile well below what I expected and it shocks me into the proper gear. I pick up the pace for the next mile, and actually start passing some people, which feels good, so I pick it up a little more for the last mile-and-a-half. I don’t race as much as I’d like and I forget how fun it is (for those of you keeping track at home, it is now time to cue up the foreboding foreshadowing music…)
I hit the transition area in 12th place, feeling really good about myself and definitely in a groove. I find my bike on the first try (Katie would be so proud), put my shoes on (Katie felt the “leave your shoes on the pedals” move was too advanced for me-she feels the same way about chopsticks), and buckled my helmet (“I’m two for two Katie,” I think), and go to get on my bike and absolutely, positively cannot clip in. I’m weaving all over the road and my stupid shoes just won’t “click.” At one point I convince myself that as part of some sort of hazing, they put magnets on the shoes and pedals in reverse polarity, but as I’m racking my shin on the pedal for the 7th time, I get one to click, and I guess he told his friend on the other side that the game was over, because the other one clicked in right after that.
Now it’s time for my confession. The first time I rode my shiny new aerobike was for 30 minutes in the dark the night we arrived in Phoenix. Sure I had it fit at the shop, but me and my bike have never really been in the wild together. Here’s the thing about aerobikes, you feel like you’re going to fall over the front of the handlebars just sitting there. That and you steer with your elbows. This makes you feel like a Tyrannosaurus Rex on a bike, not because you’re a killing machine, but because you have little teeny useless arms that don’t really steer the bike because there are no joints between your shoulder and your elbow. Seriously, check for yourself. I’m not 100% on why T-Rex went extinct, but I’m pretty sure it had to do with having little teeny arms. Why duathlete’s feel this makes sense is beyond me. So I can’t click in, I’m swerving all over the road because I can’t steer, and my body, including my legs, is not used to this position at all. I think I’d be OK, if this were a flat course, but who knew that the Himalaya’s ran through Phoenix? I hit the first hilly section thinking, “OK, I’m sure we climb out of the park and then it flattens out” (It doesn’t). Then there’s a climb out of the park, THEN it goes downhill, fast. I was passed by about 7 people on the climb out, and passed a few on the hill down. Now, the thing about downhill’s on a circular course is that you know you have to climb that same hill to get back (Jo-Jo). I’m flying at this point, but the hopeful denialist in me is thinking, “Maybe this isn’t a steep downhill, maybe it’s because you’re all tucked up on your new fast aerobike!” (It wasn’t). Anyway, on my way to the turnaround point I was passed by what seemed like 56 people and here’s where my fatigue rattled brain began to malfunction. As each person passed, I checked to see if it was someone I passed on the run. At first I was comforted by the fact that I didn’t recognize them, but then it dawned on me that the guys passing me were from the wave that left after me, and they were now passing me like I was stuck in molasses. Then I lost track of who was who as the never ending “People Passing Jason Train” blew by. If you’ve ever been stuck at a railroad crossing where the cars just keep on coming, you know the feeling. But I managed to peddle my way ‘round the turn’round, and began the trek back.
Wait! Did I tell you about my cramps (I’m not a girl, so not those kinds of cramps-now THAT would be a blog entry)? About one mile into the bike leg, I started to get that particular rumble in my calves. You know the one. It starts out with a few little flitters, and then…BAM! The muscle just locks up. It reminds me of watching a thunderstorm come over the horizon. You see several flashes of light amid the darkening clouds. Then you notice the lights moving along the surface of clouds, and then…Ka-POW, a bolt hits the ground and somewhere a tree splinters. Well, that was me. Rumble, rumble. “Uh-oh” thinks I, “this isn’t good.” Then, “Bam,” my whole right calve seized up. I had to force my heel down with the weight of my body to get my foot to bend. The good news is that never got any better, and if you were one of the people who passed me on the bike (and if you were in the race at all, there was a good chance you were) I WAS NOT CRYING! I was racing in the desert and it was dusty, that’s all. Shut up.
So there I was, 16 hilly, crampy miles into the race, and I was spent. I saw a hill in the distance and convinced myself that it was the highest point of the course, and that surely it was all downhill from there. Only I hit the top, looked around the corner and saw another hill. And that was that. Mentally and physically I was done. I tried my best, used every trick I knew, but seeing that hill was my personal Alamo. We fought the good fight, but it was over.
Look I can descend with the best of them. Descending takes no cardio and no power. Descending requires either skill or ignorance, and as you can tell by now I’m long on the ignorance. Seriously, take two similarly skilled cyclists, one in prime physical shape and the other, an idiot. The idiot wins every time. Well, I’m proud to say that I’m that idiot. I just hold on and repeat, “Pleasedon’tfallpleasedon’tfallpleasedon’tfallpleasedont’fallpleasedon’tfallpleasedon’tfall” until the hill levels out. Sure I've broken both my arms from a prior endo where whatever god protects the idiots didn’t hear me say “pleas,” but I get down fast. So I was desperately looking forward to some downhill. Really, I needed that downhill like Davey Crockett needed Sam Houston.
But alas, by the time it finally came I was too fried to use it well. I limped into T2 and thought it would be judgment day (raise your hand if you caught that). I transitioned fairly well (I think it was the joy of being off the bike) and penguined out of the gate in 25th place (all places are for my age-group). The first quarter mile or so was terrible, legs were still cramping and my butt hurt (there’s an easy jail-soap analogy, but this is a family blog), but I was shocked to see other runners ahead of me. Let me rephrase that. I wasn’t at all surprised that there were runners ahead of me, EVERYONE was ahead of me at that point, but I was surprised that they were within striking distance. Seeing runners close to me gave me a second wind, and my legs started turning faster on their own. I’m not going to lie, passing runners in the last leg of a duathlon is better than any massage or balm for sore legs and a broken spirit. Every time I passed a runner, it gave me a boost and I picked off the last guy I could about 300 yards from the finish and settled into my eventual 18th place finish.
Overall, I was happy with taking the moral victory of fighting through the leg cramps and finishing a race I honestly thought I’d have to DNF. I understand what happened during my two run legs. The first one I just ran too timid, and the second, I was just shot. But the bike? I get that it was my first time in the aero position and it was a TT bike and that I’ve never been in the aero position or ridden a TT bike, but I’ve been going to PowerTap class since November, and sure, my wattage isn’t anything worth bragging about, but I know I can turn my legs better than I did that Sunday in the desert. The good news is that now I can set up my duathlon bike with the PowerTap and get a feel for what I can do and how it all works. I’m really looking forward to seeing how much different my watts are between my road and TT bike. The Tap don't lie.
Anyway, the way I figure it, you get exactly one “moral victory” (unless I need another one, then you get exactly two. I love being the guy who makes the rules, just ask my son). See, you never hear an Olympic Gold medalist, Superbowl winner or Heavyweight Boxing champ call their victory a “moral” one, they just call it a victory, no prefix. That’s the way to go.
The young master came from Colorado, where there's four feet of snow outside and he hasn't seen his bike in six months and finished 4th in his age group! But more importantly, he had a great time, and want's to do it again. Kudo's to the people who put on the race, they did an outstanding job with the kids.
As for keeping up with Katie? She finished 2nd in her age group, qualified for worlds and hit all her splits and, as per the usual, demolished me. See, a straight up victory. She knows how to roll.
