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June 21, 2008

Escaping From Alcatraz, Day 3 - Race!

At precisely 4:20 AM on Sunday, my iPhone's alarm went off (the first 20 seconds of "Clocks", if you're curious), and, despite being unable to get much sleep the night before, I sat bolt-upright in bed, 80% awake and climbing.

Race day.

Glancing across the room, Jeff is already up and climbing out of his bed. I stand up, grab a DoubleShot from the mini fridge, and manage to fire down a banana and a CLIF bar before my stomach nerves decide to get the better of me. (Better not push it.)

Jeff and I need to be at Marina Green by 5 AM, so we start pulling on clothes, zipping up our duffel bags, and basically getting ready to move out. Elaine, bless her heart, rouses herself to slather me in waterproof sunscreen; I pull on my swimsuit, warmup pants, t-shirt, reflective jacket, and bike helmet, meet Jeff at the door, and pose for photographs,

We're gone by a quarter to 5, heading down Van Ness on our bikes, duffel bags strapped to our backs and race numbers on our helmets.

Turns out that a quickie, two-mile ride at five in the morning is the perfect thing to do before a race. In my case, it gets my blood flowing, some cool wind in my face, and helps me feel comfortable and psyched for the race. We also aren't alone - we see a bunch of other cyclists on streets across the city, all converging on the race site. (Too cool.)

Marina Green is black black black, the only illumination being stretlights and the flashlights of hundreds of volunteers, all barking orders at racers and keeping us corralled and moving. Our mission is simple: find our designated slots in the transition area, park our bikes there, lay out our transition clothes and supplies, drop our post-swim bag at the truck, and then head for the bus that takes us to the boat.

I find the "682" slot on the bike rack, get my bike on the rack, and then proceed to flatten out my duffel on the wet grass underneath. I laid out everything I'd want before the ride segment - bike jersey, helmet, roadside repair stuff, water bottle, food. After gettting it arranged just so, we drop our post-swim bags at the loading truck, and board the shuttle bus to the boat. Once safely on the bus, Jeff and I turn, look at each other, and spontaneously start grinning.

(Dude, I can't believe we're doing this!)

The bus fills with triathletes and eventualy we're under way, heading north into the city and out to the piers just east of Coit Tower. Dawn is breaking, so there's daylight, and as the bus drops us off we're met by more volunteers, each of whom directs us to head toward the moored San Francisco Belle.

The pier is full of racers, with more are arriving as the morning progresses and additional buses arrive. Jeff and I wait in line to get bodymarked - our numbers written in black Sharpie on our biceps/thighs/hands, our ages written on our left calves - and then head over and grab seats on empty stretches of concrete pier. It's all waiting at this point - waiting to board the boat, waiting for the boat to get under way, waiting to travel out to Alcatraz, waiting to jump in the water.

We're both a bit jittery. Jeff tells corny jokes (the "Smell Mop" knock-knock makes an appearance); I practice my terrible Sean Connery impression ("Losers always whine about their best...").

I begin singing snippets of catchy, annoying songs - precisely the type that will stick in your head during an atheletic event - and Jeff threatens me with bodily harm if I continue.

Around 6:30, we board the Belle, and secure seats on the floor. The boat fills quickly, and the temperature begins rising with all the body heat.

At 7:05 AM, the boat engines roar to life, and everyone on board gives a cheer. Finally under way, we head out to the Bay.

The weather is astounding. The sun is out (but not warm), the fog is burning off, the water in the bay is gloriously calm. The city is bathed in this unbelievable warm orange light, and I am reminded of something that one of the race directors said during orientation the day before:

"No matter what God you believe in, the experience you're going to have tomorrow is life-changing. Chances are good that you're not one of the elites, so as long as you've already kissed the possibility of finishing first goodbye, I encourage you to pause a moment during your swim, turn over, float on your back, and just drink in the majesty of this beautiful city and this beautiful place, and really just give thanks for being fortunate enough to be alive."

I think about this - think about it a lot, actually - and my nerves leave me. Completely.

At 7:40, we're getting close to Alcatraz and are just 20 minutes from start. Jeff and I strip down to our swimsuits, strap our timing chips on to our left ankles, and wriggle in to our wetsuits. We keep our wetsuit hoods, official (lime-green!) Alcatraz swim caps, and goggles; all our other stuff (shoes, socks, t-shirt, etc.) goes in to a race bag with our respective numbers on them. (We'll leave them on the boat and get them after the race is all over.)

7:55. The Belle is in position, just off the Alcatraz shore. There are helicopters flying around, guys on jetskis, kayaks, police boats. Media is interviewing the top athletes, who are perched on the railings alongside the boat. It's controlled chaos, and the vibe among the hoi palloi on the Belle is approaching fever-pitch excitement. We're ready.

At 8:00 the gun goes off, and the elites are in the water, hauling ass for shore. The rest of us wait about two minutes and suddenly start moving for the thrown-open side doors of the Belle. The swim starts as simply as possibe - you jump in, and try not to land on the guy in front of you. At 8:05, I cross over the timing sensor, take two steps forward, and JERONIMO! into San Francisco Bay.

(Oh, so that's that 55-degree water feels like! Holy crap!)

The water is choppy with all the swimmers jumping in and thrashing around, and, for a brief while, we're all on top of each other like those poor crabs stacked three-high in the fishtank at the Chinese place down the street. People are bumping in to me, I'm bumping in to them; it's insane. Eventually, I find my stride (and a clear bit of water), and focus on getting to shore without killing myself. I settle in to a three-stroke-breathe pattern, and start to enjoy myself.

Swimming isn't a sport that's known for its great views, so if you want to simulate the experience of swimming in San Francisco Bay at home, here's what you do. First, get a bucket and fill it to the brim with chilled brownish saltwater. Second, get a desk lamp with a good 200-watt bulb in it. Set up the desk lamp to one side of the bucket. Now, put your face head-down in the bucket and blow bubbles for at least 15 seconds, and turn your head to the side when you need to breathe. Notice that every time you turn toward the desk lamp, your eyeballs are practically burned out of your skull (that's "the sun" in the real swim); notice, too, that the experience of putting your head in a bucket of cold, brownish saltwater is pretty monotonous after about, oh, 45 seconds.

(And if you want a really good simulation, have a friend or family member come bump you - hard - at random intervals, to simulate encounters with other swimmers. Trust me - you'll love it.)

Swimming in open water is a bit strange - your ability to gauge distance is all goofed up, because there are no landmarks that get recognizably closer. I pause after ten minutes or so, float on my back, drink in the view, give thanks, and suddenly wonder - am I actually going anywhere?. I mean, it looks like I am exactly where I was when I leaped off the boat, relative to the shore. I turn around, look at the Belle (yep, it's back there a fair bit), mentally shrug my shoulders, and get back to the swim.

The swim does have a compass, however, and it's called Sutro Tower. This tall, red radio tower is a stationary landmark that you can see from anywhere in the bay. If you're swimming from Alcatraz, keep Sutro at 12 o'clock and the strong bay currents will do the rest, sweeping you west as you swim north. My routine, then, is swim-swim-swim-swim-peek-adjust-swim-swim-swim-swim.

Suddenly, I'm at shore. And just as suddenly, I'm fighting with the surf to stand upright, unzipping my wetsuit, and trying to get to the swim transition area. I locate my bag, finish striping out of the wetsuit, towel off, pull on shoes and socks, stuff the suit back in the bag, and start jogging back to my bike in the transition area (roughly a mile away). I feel great - the swim was invigorating, I've got lots of energy, and the overwhelming feeling of doing this thing is carrying me forward.

(I don't learn this until later, but I finished the swim in 34 minutes - a fantastic time. I clearly caught some current, but, regardless I'm really proud of that number.)

It's about a quarter to nine at this point, and as I'm jogging back to my bike I'm shocked at how many people are lined up to cheer for us all. There are friends and families of athletes, of course, but there's a lot of local San Franciscans out with fair-trade, shade-grown morning coffee in hand, giving it up for the folks in the event. I will confess, freely, that it made me happy, and not just a little bit proud.

So I get to the transition area, run down the chute, find my bike, and am immediately trying to get geared up for my ride. I pull on my bike jersey (a Canadian-flag number that Elaine bought for me), strap on my helmet, switch in to the bike shoes, pop a handful of ClifShot into my mouth, and am gone, run/walking my bike toward the bike start line. I cross the line, throw a leg over, and am suddenly moving at 15 mph in the clear morning light, riding back against the stream of runners coming from the swim. I pass (and cheer to) Jeff, who has emerged from his swim and is heading for transition. We exchange white-guy high-fives.

The ride feels great. There's no wind, so I'm left to make my own as I pedal, getting in to the rhythm of the ride, letting my body get used to the idea of a new sport, a different kind of exertion.

Here's the thing with the Alcatraz ride segment: it giveth, and then it taketh away. The entire 18 miles is an up-and-down, out-and-back monstrosity; you go from Marina Green to the Presidio, then up to the Legion of Honor, then out to the Cliff House, down the hill on the 101 to ride along the ocean, and, finally, up and in to Golden Gate Park, at which point you turn around and go back. At that point, every hill you fought your way up to get to the park is now a downhill, and the downhills that gave you relief/exhiliration on the way to the park (Cliff House Hill, I'm looking at you) are now laying in wait for you, like some loanshark that loaned you $10k when you needed it most and now wants the cash back, with interest.

The ride is incredible. The hills are hard, but manageable; my body feels great; the views of the Golden Gate, the ocean, and some of San Francisco's best real estate are beyond amazing. I have two small mechanical bike issues (a brake thingy, a chain lockup), but neither is a problem. As the ride goes on, I find my groove and quickly start seeing the same riders over and over again; we share camaraderie as we trade positions and pass one another.

Jeff, for his part, passes me (with another white-guy high-five) in the first quarter of the ride. But an hour and 20 later, I'm flying back in to transition, putting my bike on the rack, switching out into my running shoes, and heading back out for the final, 8-mile run. As I hit transition, I hear Elaine cheering for me; I steal a (wonderful) kiss, and head out.

At this point it's 10:30, and the sun is starting to make its presence known. I give mental thanks to Elaine for the sunscreen, and focus on finding my rhythm.

The course is reasonably flat for the first two miles of the run; we're heading from Marina Green toward the Golden Gate Bridge, past Crissey Field and out (ultimately) to Baker Beach. As I hit the two-mile mark, I round the corner next to some restrooms and suddenly see that the run course goes straight up some very, very steep steps. And it is at this point that my body - which has done so well all morning with keeping me moving and feeling great - tells me to take it easy.

It's not muscle fatigue, or my quads throwing in the towel, or my legs converting to Jell-O; rather, this is about my heart and lungs hitting their limits, pushing as much blood and O2 as they can, and my body recognizing, at some primal level, that those limits do not include Olympic-speed performance while gaining 800 feet of elevation on some packed-earth stairs.

So I walk. And then I run, and then I walk, and then I run, which turns in to the pattern for the whole segment. I run down hills, jog on flats, and make the valiant attempt on the elevation to build and keep momentum. My results are mezzo-mezzo, but I keep at it, always moving.

I marvel at the terrain - concrete, asphalt, bricks, wet sand, dry sand, dirt, pebbles, vegatation, wood chips. Just about everything except snow and ice. Unbelievable.

The views are, as with the ride, jaw-dropping.

Baker Beach is a cruel and nasty turnaound point - it's dry sand, uneven and pock-marked from the thousand atheletes that have come before me. Even walking, it's all I can do to keep focused on not twisting an ankle. I hit the turnaround, and start heading back; I'm perhaps a quarter mile in before the sand ladder, which I take as carefully as I can. 5,223 steps later (or whatever), I'm at the top of the ladder next to the CLIF guys, who have a DJ and are playing some serious dance music. I move on.

The final two miles are the hardest. It's flat again, which, mentally, means "I have no excuse not to run", but my system is pretty tapped out. I breathe, remember the 'float on your back and enjoy it' line, and push on. As I get closer to Marina Green, the crowd re-materializes, and everyone seems to be cheering and giving an encouraging word. It helps.

Once the finish line is within sight, it's like the starting gun going off all over again. Whatever's left in the tank is put front and center, and I'm moving, heading down the street, into the chute, and across the finish line and the readout says 3:55:14 and I'm done, like done done done in a big way, gasping for breath and smiling and hoping, for all my life, that the professional race photos of me running down the chute don't look too dorky. 'Cause I'm really proud of that last bit, and I want 'em.

(Later, I learn that they are, indeed, dorky. But there's one of my on my bike that I love.)

And that's it. My final race time was 3:53 and change, which is about 10 minutes slower than my time back in 2000. I'm OK with that - losing 10 minutes after 8 years is just fine - and then I found out that Jeff, stud triathlete that he is, did it in 3:05. Which makes my head explode, just a little. (The dude amazes me.)

Elaine and Barb help us back to our hotel, where we shower, change, and then head out for some more In-N-Out Burger. During the meal, we talk about doing it again next year, if we can get in.

And then we go back to the hotel.
And then we sleep.
Well.

Posted by Gavin Shearer at June 21, 2008 7:46 PM. Posted to Fitness | Travel.

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Posted by: netsirk at June 23, 2008 3:34 PM

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