A Day for Camels

The MetRX half ironman triathlon was The FeMan’s big tri blow out for the year. He selected it for the challenge of heat, terrain, and the expected competition.

But, oh was he to be surprised. There were numerous premonitions of disaster, and all were ignored or minimized by The FeMan.

Where to begin?

Because this race was an Ironman qualifier and because it was only a 2 hour drive from the tri capital of the world, San Diego, The FeMan expected a great group of competition to show up. What a way to test one’s mettle! Nothing better than a strong field to bring out the best.

As the day drew near, no word from the race. What was going on? Previous Ironman sanctioned races had sent out their informational packets weeks in advance. Finally, the precious mailing arrived, 5 days before the event. Not an auspicious start.

At the pre-race meeting (held in an air-conditioned tent, no less!) the speaker corrected a number of incorrect facts in the mailing. Two bad signs and counting: late packet with bad information and a lot of money spent on a tent.

The FeMan still wasn’t putting it all together. The rush of adrenaline for the upcoming competition overshadowed these subtle signs.

On race morning, The FeMan spent time talking with the Iowa Ironman who had journeyed all the way to California to compete in the MetRX fiasco. In the same age group as The FeMan , he seemed to be awfully level headed to be competing in this sport.

The parade of bad signs continued right up to race start. No body markers were present as athletes checked in to the transition area. The first wave of athletes was held up 15 minutes because the life guards weren’t in position. A serious sign of disorganization, with the worst still to come.

One by one, the waves were sent off. Finally, it was time for The FeMan’s wave to go. With no wetsuit as a crutch, The FeMan looked on this as a test of survival. Always a slow swimmer, without his rubber flotation, The FeMan felt like a rock. After the first turn, another big shock. The first half of the swim was directly into the sun.

The FeMan looked up occasionally to try and see some splashes, hoping he was headed in the right direction. After what seemed an eternity he peered about and saw a large buoy. Someone in a boat was yelling to the swimmers. Probably telling all those who were off course to go around the buoy in the right direction. Who knows? Since it’s practically impossible to hear while in the water, one can only surmise.

Around the turn, try to see the return leg buoys, then out of the water.

In the transition area, there were still bikes in The FeMan’s rack! That meant that there were swimmers even slower than him. There must be justice in the universe.

The FeMan donned his shoes and shirt, strapped on his fanny pack full of tires, clipped his helmet in place and was off. The first couple of miles were generally uphill in order to climb out of the valley holding Lake Perris. A little wind, but nothing serious.

Then a downhill, some rollers, and long straight stretch heading out into the countryside. This section was straight into a strong headwind.

After a turn to the south the course became more rolling with twists and turns and rough pavement.

Then the first aid station was in sight. The FeMan pitched his water bottles and slowed for the exchange. This was strange: there were about 6 cub scouts and 1 man working the station. The Iowa Ironman had just passed The FeMan and he rolled in to the aid station just ahead of The FeMan. He was handed a single water bottle and the volunteers shouted out "We’re out of water!"

Out of water! How could this be? This is out in the desert. It’s windy and hot and all the athletes are working hard. Out of water! "People are gonna die out here," thought The FeMan. The was supposed to be an opportunity to get water or electrolyte drink and there’s nothing!

Oh, if only the warning signs had been heeded!

With no water bottles on board, The FeMan backed off on his effort to try to conserve precious moisture. The next aid station was 12 or 15 miles away and the sun was really beginning to burn.

Aid station #2 was located on a wide shoulder in the middle of a long, flat straightaway. From a distance, it looked like a normal aid station, but as The FeMan rolled in it was quite clear that the hydration adventures were to continue. This aid station was crewed by about 6 young people and 1 adult. The only water was from a hose located by a fence about 30 feet from the road. The volunteers were filling a bottle at a time from the hose and running out to the roadside.

It was rapidly becoming clear that getting sufficient fluids was going to be a challenge. The FeMan and several other athletes stopped, got off their bikes, and ensured that they had 2 full bottles before continuing. No electrolyte drink, just water from a hose. Needless to say, a number of athletes were quite pissed off and were yelling at the volunteers.

After getting some water down The FeMan felt quite frisky and sailed along with help from a stiff tailwind.

A couple more turns, one bridge crossing and the 2-mile uphill "big climb" began. Bah, it was broken into 2 manageable pieces and was "big ring" all the way. In the middle section The FeMan was surprised to see a bike down in the road and 2 competitors stopped. He stopped as well to see if he could render any assistance.

It was the Iowa Ironman! His stem had broken off and he’d gone down hard. The 3 good samaritans stuck with the Iowa Ironman until professional assistance arrived, then they were back on the road.

After the 2-mile climb there was a downhill run, some flats, then another, harder climb back to the transition area.

The FeMan really wanted some electrolytes at this point, but none were to be found. He did get 2 full bottles and headed out for another loop of the cycling course.

The FeMan approached aid station #1 with great fear. Would there be water? A crowd of cyclists at the aid station indicated that there were fluids there. The cub scouts were filling water bottles handed over by the riders. However, they weren’t giving them back. Fill, hand to the closest outreached arm. The FeMan kept his arm out until he got 2 bottles back. Neither was clear full, but it was a whole lot better than nothing.

On to the hose stop where another big crowd was waiting. By this time the volunteers had extended the hose out to the edge of the pavement so the riders were all clustered at the side of the road. Somehow the volunteers had managed to remove the tops from a lot of bottles and were handing out water bottles without tops! A request made for a bottle with a top was greeted with the response "You guys want everything!". Yeah, water and MetRX.

It was awful. Riders were rolling in and literally begging for water. The FeMan slugged down most of topless bottle, poured water into his 2 bottles with tops and struggled away.

By this time the wonderful tailwind had turned and become a headwind. It was a lot more work getting back to transition than before. By this time The FeMan had come to the conclusion that this was a day to survive, not a day to race.

T2 went smoothly. The FeMan shed his cycling togs, changed shoes, strapped on his running fanny pack and jogged away. As he ran, he extracted his shirt, hat, and sweat band from the fanny pack and dressed while running. The fanny pack still contained nutrients.

It was blistering hot by this time and the first 2 miles of the run were mind numbing, stretching across a dam to "The Rock" on the opposite side of the lake. The FeMan could only manage an easy jog pace but still felt the run was manageable.

The FeMan negotiated the climb up and down the trail on "The Rock" and was back down to lake level. The run continued along a path through a picnic area where there was a very welcome cold towel, then on out through terrain cloaked in brush, all the while staying on the paved path.

By mile 4, however, it really hit The FeMan. He wanted to stop. It seemed like all the other runners were passing him. Especially tough were those male legs with the numbers 50, 51, 52, 53, or 54 on the calf. Jog, walk a little at the rest stops, guzzle down liquids, wish for the end.

‘The Rock’ came along. This time there was no jogging uphill. It took total effort to walk up. At the top, break into an easy jog down to the dam. The finish line was visible 2 miles away, not audible, but visible. The volunteers were already taking down the aid stations even though athletes were just starting out on the run. The FeMan began to get cramps in his legs and walked them out.

A truck drove by with people in the back handing out bottled water. The FeMan snagged one, twisted off the cap, and drank deeply. With each agonizing step the finish line came closer. The voice of the announcer grew louder and louder. A final turn off the end of the dam and onto a path to the finish line.

The crowd had thinned out and the announcer’s voice was filled with false enthusiasm. As The FeMan stumbled across the finish line a volunteer draped a towel across his shoulders. Head down, totally drained, The FeMan made his way to his meeting place with The Big J. He sat down in the shade, trying to keep his legs from cramping uncontrollably. His calves would be seized with cramps, then the entire side of his leg as his foot was pulled to the side.

The Big J and Sister B soon showed up and were kind enough to fetch fluids and food. The FeMan was still burning up after 45 minutes sitting so decided to submerge in the lake with The Big J. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. Wanting nothing more than to get away The FeMan brought his bike and possessions from the transition area and loaded them into the car. The 3 headed back to the motel for shower and food.

It was over.

The FeMan twitched and cramped and ate and drank trying to put his body back together again. A night’s rest, then back to Seattle and the real world again.

The FeMan had survived the worst tri experience of his life. He hoped nothing like this would happen ever again.

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