Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon 1.5 mile swim 1 mile run 18 mile bike 10 mile run Saturday, August 5 San Francisco, CA Friday afternoon found me packing up my gear, checking and double-checking everything to be *sure* I hadn't forgotten anything. With three separate transition areas, Alcatraz promised to be the most logistically complicated race I had ever done. My last preparation involved checking the derailleur adjustment on my bike. I had borrowed a friend's wheel to test it out, and we hadn't fully adjusted the derailleurs afterward. Well, now all my adjusting only seemed to be making matters worse! Yikes! In desperation, I called my bike shop mechanic, Paul: "Paul, I know you guys are probably really swamped this afternoon, but could you spare 10 minutes to fiddle with my derailleur? Please!" Paul being the good-natured sort that he is, said "Sure, no problem, bring it in." Whew! I rush down to the shop. Well, look at that--- my new Shamal rear wheel had arrived, and Paul was just putting a nice new Conti tire on it when I walked in. However, being the sober, cautious type, I sagely insisted, "No, no; I can't use it for tomorrow; you know what they say, 'Never try out anything new on race day.'" I hung around while Paul installed my new wheel and adjusted the derailleur. I took it out for a test ride and was pleasantly surprised--- this Campy cluster worked better with my Shimano Ultegra derailleur than did my Shimano. OK, I thought, maybe I'll regret it, but let's live dangerously: I'm racing on this puppy. Accompanied by my ever-faithful crew, Skippy, the fearless Escapee heads for the City and check-in at Fort Mason. Now, HOW many bags do we need? What goes in which bag? Where do we drop off the bike to run transition bag? How about a barf bag? The two coolest things about check-in: 1) getting to meet a couple of folks from RST (Ken Shelton and Ed King), and 2) being right there with some of the biggest names in triathlon. I turned around at one point and there was Greg Welch stepping around me. Right over there, Paula Newby-Fraser was talking with Sian Welch; behind her stood her fiancee, Paul Huddle. There's Mike Pigg fiddling with a friend's derailleur, and over there is Scott Tinley. And look, that's Simon Lessing talking with Michellie Jones! In a word: Wow. I mixed up my Cytomax and filled my JetStream with water, hoping that nothing would taste too gross after sitting in the bottles over night. That's really the biggest gripe I had with leaving my bike overnight, that and maybe not being totally sure that my tires would remain pumped up hard for the morning. Taped some GU to my aero bars, and a few PowerBar pieces, and I'm all set. For a few minutes I was trying to figure out how I could compactly carry a spare tube; I felt the strangest certainty that I was going to have a flat. Finally, I said to hell with it and figured, "I've got my patch kit, that'll do me." After the pre-race meeting we took off for our hotel. Had a fantastic dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in the City, Caffe Freddy's in North Beach. I highly recommend the place---try the calzone, you will never regret it. On Columbus at Lombard. Yum! Anyway, then headed back to the hotel for a marginal pre-race night's sleep. Race Morning! Where the hell is the parking valet? It's 6:15 a.m., we need to get across the City and find a parking space at Aquatic Park by 6:30, and there's no *(&^# parking valet in sight! Aaargh! Oh, there he is! Whew. "OK, your car is in the other garage, it'll be about 5 minutes." Groan. OK, relax, use the time to eat your pasta and banana, drink some water, don't worry. OK, here's the car. Zip outta the garage. Who ever thought there could be so much traffic downtown at 6:25 a.m. on a Saturday? Finally, over the hill and down to Aquatic Park. And look--- my god, it's a parking space right in front of the Maritime Museum---I don't believe it, maybe the gods haven't abandoned us after all. Setup was short and sweet. I only just had time to check in, yank on my wetsuit, and stake out a place to put my running shoes, transition bag, towel and water basin before they were calling us off for the "parade" of athletes to the Red & White ferry. After, that is, we all sang the National Anthem, which I think is kind of cool for a triathlon. Hey, if they do it for baseball and football, why not for us? RSTer Ken Shelton joins me for the walk to the ferry boat and the ride out to the Rock. He tells me some great stories about tris and about doing the Ironman. I am, needless to say, very impressed. Ask him to tell you about his mother's response to watching the Ironman for the first time, it's priceless. We board the ferry and find ourselves sitting beside Pete Kain and Jon Christiansen--- pretty cool. Pete heard Ken and me talking about race reports on RST, and he says, "You're Tricia, aren't you?" Wow, I'm known! Or maybe I should be worried--- maybe I'm "notorious"... hmmm. So, we dock at the Rock. Everyone shuffles off the boat. Race director Dave Horning leads us all in a brief chorus of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!", and the boat backs away a couple hundred yards off the east end of the island. Now things get complicated: "The Way It's Supposed to Work" Starting with the pros, the rest of us following after in no particular order, the racers jump from the dock in twos and threes, then swim to their right roughly 100 yards or so to the in-water starting point. When everyone is there, the race director will remove his red shirt, jump from the top deck of the boat into the Bay, the horn will sound, and we'll all be off! "How It Happened" I found myself roughly 3/4 of the way back in the crowd filing toward the end of the dock. My turn came, in I jumped, and quickly began stroking east around the island and toward the start area. I'd started to do a little backstroke to keep my face out of the cold water for a few minutes, and this gave me a chance to see that there were still a lot of racers waiting to jump from the dock. I turned back around to freestyle; just as I did so, I saw a figure plummet from the boat into the water, and heard a horn go off. Wait a minute; that can't be right--- there are still about 100 people on the dock, let alone those of us still a long way from the start area. In the cold, choppy water, it was impossible to figure out what was going on. After a minute or so of befuddlement, I decided, "OK, I guess that really was the start." I set my watch going and got down to business. The Swim The Alcatraz swim is the stuff of myth and legends: the frigid waters, treacherous currents, fearsome sea creatures, and the intangible dark forboding of the island itself and its past. Distance-wise, it's barely longer than the swim in a half IM at 1.5 miles. The sense of history and mystique, however, lend a cachet to this race that's hard to top. So what's it really like out there? First of all, the cold really wasn't too bad. This was a typical San Francisco summer morning with heavy overcast coloring the sky pale greyish white and the bay slate grey. In spite of this, the air temperature wasn't bad, perhaps 65 degrees. I'm not sure what the water temp was; however, after the initial plunge from the dock, you got comfortable pretty quickly--- at least you did with a fullsuit on. Once I figured out that the race was on, I settled into a nice steady rhythm, one that would hopefully take me to Aquatic Park in a respectable time without wearing me out. The water was pretty choppy, and occasionally we'd get bashed by swells as high as two feet (many of which were actually caused by the race support boats and jetskis). It was pretty rough in spots, but not unmanageable. It was also interesting to swim through currents of different temperatures; some spots really seemed about 5 degrees colder. We'd been told that the only current we'd really need to worry about was one channel about 50 yards wide that would be flowing toward the Golden Gate just outside the entrance to the breakwater at Aquatic Park. Therefore, the idea was to aim at a spot east of the entrance, then let that current give you "a free ride" into the cove. I took advantage of some excellent advice overheard from an experienced Alcatraz swimmer: Aim for the Transamerica Pyramid. This worked perfectly! Only trouble was, a number of those around me had not heard this advice, and they proceeded to criss-cross in my path over and over again. It's hard to blame them, this is not one of the easiest swims to navigate, but dang it's annoying to get swum into and over in a place as big as SF Bay! Other than that minor problem, the swim was a blast. It's unbelievably cool to look up as you're taking a breath and see the Golden Gate bridge looming in the distance. You get a truly unique perspective on the City itself as well. What a trip! Once inside the breakwater, the surface calmed considerably, and I made a beeline for the finish. Out of the water and there's a roaring crowd, pretty cool. I hear my brother call out my name and snap a picture of me with a silly, delirious grin on my face. I'd survived the swim! Glanced at my watch: 43 something. Wow! Even if you tack on one or two minutes for my befuddled confusion at the swim start, that still puts me at about 45 minutes, and I had allowed myself 50. So far so good! Rip off the wetsuit, rinse the feet, yank on socks and shoes. Although we'd been told we were responsible for stuffing our gear into our transition bags, I had a great race volunteer right there to take care of my swim stuff for me. Skippy snapped a shot of my transition, and off I went for the 1-mile "warm up" run out the Mason Street pier and over the hill to our bikes. The "Warm Up" Run Now this was one of those places where the race organization seemed to slip up a little bit. I always trust that if I just keep following all the people in front of me, I'll end up going the right way. Well, this run was weird; I can't even begin to explain it in words, you'd have to see a picture. The best I can say is that it appeared that some people ran out and back along the pier, and some people ran out to the opposite pier entrance and immediately turned up the hill to Fort Mason. Either way, it was confusing. There were tons of volunteers at most places on the bike and final run course, but they sure needed a couple on that first run. Well, ok, so I make it over that nasty little hill, then we get to descend a nasty little set of steep, tiny stairs to the warehouse-type building where our bikes await us. Again, I had a nice volunteer stuff my running shoes in my bag as I jammed on my cleats and helmet and ran my bike to the point where I could mount and take off. What had appeared to be a lousy transition spot yesterday now proved to be excellent--- it was immediately opposite the door where we entered the building. The Bike And I'm off! Now I'm in the event that's my strength, and I'm ready to make the most of it. The first two or three miles are flat and fast through the Marina and Chrissy Field. Then we start climbing in the Presidio, up past Fort Point and the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge. We ride under a bridge onramp as we continue to climb past old barracks and beautiful brick buildings that were once officers' quarters. Just past the tunnel created by the bridge on-ramp, a girl says to me, "Oh, god, can you believe that?" "What?" "Somebody said that someone threw tacks all over the road up here! That is so slimy!" "Oh, great," I say, "with my luck, I'm sure to pick one up." "Well, be careful. Geez, what kind of a jerk would do that?" An evil one, that's what kind. One minute later, just at the top of that first climb, I hear an ominous *thwit* *thwit* *thwit* as my tires go 'round. I look down with a sick feeling, then reach down to feel my front tire. Yep. A long series of expletives spews from my lips. The only good thing about a tack flat is that you can't miss the hole. I pulled the *&%#@ thing out and a vicious HISSSSSSSSSSSS filled the air. I flung the venomous device deep into the brush with a resounding "Damn!" Now, whip out the tire levers and patch kit. I was worried since I'd never yet flatted on the road with a Shamal wheel, and I didn't know how well my frame pump would work with the valve extender. No problem. Plus, a couple of really nice race volunteers happened to be at this location, and one of them did the pumping for me; he was able to get that tire much harder than I ever could have. I reckon I lost about 10 minutes altogether. OK, get back on the bike; oh, hold on a minute, here comes a runner, followed by a motorcycle---it's the race leader! I hastily pull back over to the side as Mike Pigg hauls by me. "Go, Mike! Yeah!" Wow, there's no one else in sight behind him, he is moving! So now I get back on the bike and ride down the hill, hollering as I pass the Pigg, "All right, Mike! There's no one near you! Do it!" So now I can rightfully boast that I once passed Mike Pigg in a race. ;-) The bike continued out of the Presidio and up through Sea Cliff on El Camino Del Mar--- more uphill! Through the Lincoln Park golf course. As I started through the course, a golf ball whizzed by just about 15 feet ahead of me. Geez, and they said the swim was the dangerous part! Crest the hill, pass the Palace of the Legion of Honor (currently undergoing seismic retrofitting), then enjoy a brief downhill before more uphills out to Land's End. A really fast descent past the Cliff House and the old Sutro Baths ruins, and finally we're on the Great Highway for 5 miles of flat and fast hammering. The headwind on the way out became a tailwind coming back, allowing me to maintain between 25 and 27 mph for a long stretch. Yow! I took a moment out here to rip the GU from my bars and gulp it down---dang, I taped that on there tighter than I thought! On the way back, the downhills were now uphills, starting with that part past the Cliff House. Ouch! That was the worst. In the middle of that hill there was Skippy, camera in hand, ready to capture the moment (and my grimace of pain). She was holding the bike of another racer who'd fallen prey to those lovely tacks (twice) and who was working frantically to repair the flat. Back through the golf course, and now down the hill to Sea Cliff. Look, there's someone running on the way back in here. Who is it? It's a woman, she's blonde; is it Michellie or.... "Go, Paula! All right! Yeah!" The woman is flying! I see a grin light up her face as I ride by and cheer. It's so cool to be out on the course with these people! Onward, and here's the last hill. Boy, that hurt! Then a short downhill to the bike-run transition area at Fort Winfield-Scott on the Presidio grounds. We had to run our bikes into the rack area, rack 'em up, then run over to where our running bags were lined up. Off go the cleats, on go the running shoes. RST singlet, number belt, cap, and torso pack holding a water bottle, packet of GU, and a Stoker bar. With aid stations only at 3.5 and 7 miles, I was pretty sure this would come in handy... The Run - The First Five Miles They hurt you quick on this one. The run starts uphill, and, speaking metaphorically, it only goes downhill from there. I picked up a healthy shuffle heading out of Fort Winfield-Scott, back out to El Camino Del Mar. The run at the Escape used to be held in the Marin Headlands over 14 miles of incredibly rough, hilly terrain. This year, the run course was rerouted to the SF side of the Golden Gate, taking the athletes back over parts of the bike course as well as onto some incredible trails and beaches. It was supposed to be a bit easier. That scares me. I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that roughly 45% of this run was uphill, either on pavement, dirt, or sand. Even some of the flat parts weren't so easy; we made a total of 3 beach crossings, adding up to about 1.5 miles of slow, sandy going. For me, the run was strictly a question of survival. I felt fine coming off the bike, but I knew the only way I could finish the 10 killer miles before me was by keeping my heart rate fairly low and simply enjoying the scenery. And basically, that's what I did. Besides, my flat on the bike had kicked me so far back that there wasn't much point in killing myself to try to make up the time. We started out on pavement, once again ascending El Camino del Mar through the Presidio. After perhaps a half mile, we turned off the street and descended a dirt fire road to Baker Beach. If you've never run in sand, I highly recommend *not* trying it unless absolutely forced to. At the pre-race meeting, the race director described the sensation as "feeling like you're running in reverse." Yeah, I think that captures the essence of it all right. Well, we crossed the beach to the shoreline to run on the (slightly) firmer sand at the water's edge. After about 1/2 mile, we turned inland again, plowing our way up the dunes to something that passed for steps. This brought us to a gate opening onto a residential cul-de-sac in Sea Cliff. Now, back on solid pavement, thank god, but once again we're doing that uphill thing. We would continue the "uphill thing" through this gorgeous neighborhood, then hook up once more with the bike route as we entered the Lincoln Park golf course. No golf balls threatened my well-being this time through. The climb here lasted perhaps 3/4 mile, possibly more, before we headed once more off-road and downhill. As I gratefully began the descent, other racers were churning painfully up the hill towards me. I thought, "My god, you've gotta be kidding me!! We have to run back *UP* this thing?" I felt the strangest sensation, part absolute nausea, part gung-ho relish at the prospect of conquering such a monster. Truly, I must have been delirious. "Well, I'll deal with this noxious climb when I get to it. For now, I'm enjoying going the other way here." Down I go, calling out hearty encouragement to the poor tortured souls grinding their way back up. We passed several bemused golfers who couldn't seem to decide whether to be amused or disgruntled by the spectacle before them. One particularly cheery threesome in a golf cart could only muster a sour look as I chugged on by with a grin on my face. This much exertion was obviously an alien concept. The trail here flattened out a bit before descending what seemed, almost impossibly, an even steeper little hill, ending at a gateway to the dirt trail out to Land's End. This was the most consistently flat part of the course we'd seen yet (aside from the beach, where the sand more than makes up for the flat). However, that's not to say that we didn't encounter a few ups and downs out here. Didn't bother me much, though; I was too busy enjoying the breathtaking views. By now, blue sky was beginning to peek out from the clouds, and the temperature was perfect-- just warm enough, not too hot. At last, the aid station/turnaround at 3.5 miles is in sight! As I approach, I hear a fellow racer hollering good naturedly, "All right, where the hell's the champagne, dammit???!" The volunteers cheerily reply with, "Sorry, nothing but water and HydraFuel!" That's ok, the bubbles would only tickle my nose and probably make me hurl on the run back. I took my time refueling here. I had already drunk about half the bottle I was carrying, but I went ahead and drank 2 cups each of water and HydraFuel, topped off my bottle, and crammed down half a banana and a piece of PowerBar. Ready to roll once more, I headed for home. We now retraced our steps back through the Land's End trail. This gave me the chance to see that there really *were* some people behind me... wow, incredible! I cheered for everybody streaming by. I knew I couldn't run fast, so I figured I could spare some energy to play cheerleader out there. Everybody doing this race deserves lots of cheering, that's for sure. After a quick pit stop in the woods off the trail it was only about 100 yards before I was faced with the first steep climb back up to the golf course. Ouch. 6-inch strides. Just keep breathing. My heart rate began to soar....155...165...170...175....! Ouch. A girl who had passed me near the bottom had started to walk just ahead of me. Uh-uh, no way, I will not walk. I keep shuffling, I shuffle by her...*whew*. 75 yards of torture before it flattens out a bit....ahhhh! It's not flat here, but it sure ain't no 10% grade, either! You can recover a little bit here before the next insidious climb... I pass 2 or 3 more racers reduced to a walk on this "flat" section. Now, here it comes: Ouch! The hill back up to the roadway on El Camino del Mar. Stupidly enough, I can feel my face grinning--- *grinning*! Obviously, this woman needs therapy in a big way. A couple of golfers are walking down the hill towards me; as I pass, I continue to grin and call to them, "Don't you wish you were doing this?" They merely look bewildered; why are they so confused? Finally, I reach the top. A blessed downhill stretches before me...oh, the beauty of it! Stretch out your legs and let gravity do the work; now it's your friend, where a moment ago you were fighting with it for every step you took. You fly now where you trudged on the way out! Back through the golf course, back to Sea Cliff, back to....the sand. Uh oh, here comes Baker Beach again; darn, just as you were starting to feel good again. Oh, well. Here we go, down that short, steep dune and back across the sand that seems to want to suck your shoes right off your feet. I don't know exactly how a wounded elephant feels, but I've a fair idea that I must have looked pretty similar. OK, here we are, back at the shoreline, slightly better footing, slightly more elegant form regained (!). I have to duck the lines of several shore fisherman as I run by their poles. At this point, it's almost more than I can manage, sighting those lines and navigating underneath. Wow, it's a victory just getting through such an obstacle course! After retracing that 1/2 mile we'd crossed earlier, we continued along the shoreline an additional 50 yards or so before turning back inland. At the pre-race meeting, the race director had described what now faced us. He made it sound really awful. He did not do it any sort of justice. At all. Before me now loomed the dreaded SAND LADDER.... All right, I think I've earned it now: I want to *see* how the pros handled this thing. That part had better make it into the broadcast, that's all I can say. I hereby christen race director Dave Horning the Marquis de Sade of Triathlon. I'm sorry, this is sick. 5 miles into a run that's already had its share of uphills and sand, and he throws this thing at us. I love it! OK, folks, picture this: You've just trudged up the beach from the shoreline, struggling to avoid twisting an ankle or filling a shoe with sand. You look up; what do you see? An enormous sand dune ascending roughly 200 vertical feet to the level of the road back up there on El Camino del Mar. Stretching up the face of the dune and covering a total of perhaps 350 linear feet is the "sand ladder". Resembling a railroad track, it consists of a pair of wire cables connecting a series of heavy poles, each about 5" in diameter and about 7-8 feet long. Sounds harmless enough in words; not so in fact. I approached the base of this monster with trepidation; once more I was assailed by that unique sensation of dread mixed with relish. All right, lemme at it! I'm ready, I'll tear it up! No problem, the sand ladder hasn't been built that can defeat me! I'm breathing fire! But first perhaps I'd better walk just a little bit and catch my breath. A-hem. I walk the final 30 feet to the bottom of the ladder. My quads are grateful for the respite. OK, one last deep breath; now, UP! I try to jog the first 15-20 steps, then return to my senses and proceed at a dignified walk. Ok, so the guys just ahead of me are pulling away; Ha! The fools, this evil device will bring them to their knees! I know better, I'll conquer it with diabolical patience and determination, not with speed. Anyway, I have no choice in the matter. About halfway up, I pause and look behind me; hey, at least I've gained a bit of ground on the two racers behind me. Or were they just beachgoers returning to their cars? I prefer the former scenario. Whoops, whoa! I return my attention to the task at hand and find that the "steps" are starting to twist off camber here. Oh, swell. Hard enough negotiating these things as it is, now I have to *think* as I place each foot on each step. Will the torture never cease? About 3/4 of the way up, the dune levels off a bit, the logs resume a more normal lateral orientation, and I succeed in picking up the pace by some ridiculously infinitesimal amount. Yeah, I'm jogging! Then the "ladder" disappears, and I'm slogging through plain old sand for a short stretch. Then come the railroad ties. No problem. Except that the first one is about two feet high. This is *not* funny. I am fortunate here in that I am tall and have long legs. I get one foot up there and can cheat by putting both hands on that knee and heaving myself upward. Not graceful, but it works. I heard that several lesser-limbed folk were forced to employ even more undignified methods here; I cannot complain (though I'm quite sure I did at the time). OK, now just a couple more sets of railroad ties to go. I manage to maintain a steady jog for the last of this sandy climb, and, finally, I emerge at the top of the dune. I grin at the volunteer cheering everyone on at the top. "If I ever get my hands on that guy Horning, I'm gonna kill him," I gasp good-naturedly. The volunteer laughs back at me, "You're about the 30th person who's said that right here." The worst is over, yes! But hang on a minute, that doesn't mean you get to stop running uphill--- oh, no, not yet! Now we're running on the dirt trail paralleling El Camino del Mar, and there's still a couple hundred yards of uphill slogging to be done. Somewhere along here I hear a man and a woman coming up behind me. "How far to the next water station?" she's asking. "It's at the 7-mile mark; not too much farther." "God, I'm so thirsty!" At this point they're right on my heels. I turn part way 'round as I continue my steady jog and offer my water bottle. "Oh, gosh, thank you! But I'll be ok, I can wait." Two seconds later, "Oh, to heck with it! Yes, please, I'll take some water." She takes a swig and hands the bottle back. "God, you were smart to bring your own water. Thanks!" They speed on ahead; I continue my own plodding pace, happy to have been some help to a fellow sufferer. Slowly, slowly, the trail starts to level out, and then, thank god, it's starting to go *downhill*. Away from the road, back into the woods. I'm beginning to feel slightly more human, though a bit lightheaded. Somewhere along the beach I'd consumed another packet of GU, but I definitely was feeling the need for another energy boost. I found myself pondering the heavy question, "Am I still a MOPper, or do I now qualify as a BOPper?" In other words, Am I somewhere in the middle of the pack still, or am I now a bona fide Back-of-the-Packer? Not that it mattered or anything; it's just indicative of the state of what was left of my mind at this point. Here I am, running along half-delirious and sing-songing happily through the fog in my head, "A MOPper or a BOPper? MOPper or BOPper?" Dave Horning, you did this to me! Fortunately, help was just around the bend in the form of the last aid station. A couple of bananas, some Hydrafuel, some great volunteers, and I was good as new. I refuelled a bit faster here than at the first aid station, but did take the time to mug happily for a cameraman and declare, "Hey, *this* is where the real fun is, at the back of the pack!" I guess I'd decided that I was, indeed, a full-fledged BOPper. What the hell. All downhill from here--- oh, too good to be true! But it is true. Now I'm on trails I've never seen before in the Presidio, and I'm still sufficiently cognizant to appreciate the beauty of the area through which I'm running. The Presidio possesses both natural and historic beauty, and now I'm seeing a part of it I've never experienced before. We pass an abandoned Spanish-style building that appears to have been either a bunker or a barracks at one time. "I've got to remember to come back here when I can spare a bit more time," I tell myself. Can't quite spare a few minutes now. Now I approach the low brick tunnel they'd mentioned at the pre-race meeting. They said it was quite low, and one would be wise to duck. Personally, I felt rather like Quasimodo as I hunched over and shuffled through. I'd love to see how Simon Lessing maneuvered his way through this thing; the guy's gotta be at least 6'2", and that's probably a foot taller than this tunnel allowed! Onward, past Fort Point and down a steep section with more railroad tie steps. Not much easier descending those things than it is going the other way. Here, too, we encounter a new obstacle--- it's high tourist season in San Francisco, and we poor BOPpers find ourselves dodging a confused crowd of sight-seers wondering what the hell they've stumbled into -- Look at all these lunatics charging down the trails! I sped through a group of Japanese tourists who appeared at once both amazed and amused by my frenzy. Finally, the descent finishes at Crissy Field, and we have less than two flat miles to go. There's one last "treat" before the end, however--- one more half-mile stretch of beach. *sigh* More sand. But what the hell! So what if you're already having a little trouble staying upright; at least if you face-plant in sand, it won't hurt much. Finally, we leave the sand behind. Just at this point, I catch up to the guy just ahead of me, who has slowed to a determined walk. It's none other than Tony, the fellow who demanded champagne at the first aid station. I jog past him and tap him on the shoulder. "Come on, Tony! Not much more left!" He groans at me. "Oh, the peer pressure! You're gonna make me run again." "Naw, not me!" "Well, I certainly can't let you go by me. Come on, let's go." We pace each other really well for another mile or so. With only about 1/2 mile left, I start to fade back a bit. "Come on, Trish! Don't fail me now! You got me going again, come on!" "No," I reply, "I haven't got enough left to push that hard. Do your own race, Tony! Go get 'em!" He surges ahead. After the race, he told me that he would have just walked the whole last mile if I hadn't come by and picked him up. That made me feel great. Now, I'm almost there! I can hear the low murmur of the crowd at the finish area. I'm running along Marina Boulevard, and people are starting to shout encouragement. I pick up the pace just a bit. I hear someone holler, "Come on, you WANT it!" and I think, "Yeah, you're right, I DO want it!" I can make it hurt, I can do it, go on. A little faster, a little more... I hear Skippy cheering for me. I smile weakly. All I can focus on is that arch of balloons--- the finish line. One last hairpin left turn onto the grass, and now it's a 50 yard dash to the end. I start to grin as I put the hammer down, and, as I hit the line, I do a perfect Greg Welch imitation, leaping sideways, arms outstretched and tongue sticking defiantly out. YES! I DID IT!! I ESCAPED! I duck my head to receive the finisher's medal a little girl holds out for me. "Thank you! I earned this one!" Final time: 4:05:07. I'd reckoned on taking 4 hours. Subtracting the 10 minutes or so wasted on that flat tire, I did a little better than expected, so I was very happy. I came in 324th place out of approximately 525 athletes. Subtract 10 minutes, and that put me at 300th place. Not bad at all, especially in a race where the ratio of men to women was roughly 9 to 1. And for the record, here are the Pro results: Men: 1. Simon Lessing 2:14:32 2. Mike Pigg 2:14:59 3. Greg Welch 2:15:25 4. Wes Hobson 2:20:25 5. Andy Kelsey 2:21:31 6. Bill Magagna 2:26:06 7. Scott Tinley 2:27:57 Women: 1. Michellie Jones 2:32:35 2. Paula Newby-Fraser 2:38:00 3. Holly Nybo 2:42:13 4. Jill Newman 2:45:33 5. Fernanda Keller 2:46:03 6. Heather Fuhr 2:47:32 7. Krista Whelan 2:49:32 After Alcatraz After my leap over the line, a volunteer wrapped my in a space blanket to block that stiff ocean breeze from my sweat-soaked carcass. I have a photograph of this which I have entitled, "Tricia, the Human Burrito." I tell ya, I'm the happiest looking burrito you've ever seen! Skippy gave me a big hug and told me she was very proud of me. Thanks, Skip! Couldn't have done it without you. Lots of water and Hydrafuel at the end, but where was the fruit? My dazed search throughout the Expo area at the finish was fruitless--- no fruit, no bagels, no muffins, and you could only get water and Hydrafuel in cups immediately at the finish area. I don't know if I just missed it all, or if there really wasn't much food there; all I found was the booth with the "Gourmet Chili" for the athletes. I'm sorry, but at that point, chili did not sound like a good idea! Near as I could tell, though, this is all the food there was for the racers; everything else you had to pay for. Did I miss something? If not, I'd say this is definitely the biggest flaw in the event. All that hard work for a bowl of chili? Ugh! What really griped me was an area at the Expo fenced off for a "private party". It was apparently something for 24-Hour Nautilus people. It was an enormous chunk of the lawn, but I swear I saw only maybe 12 or 15 people in there. And the spread of catered food was unbelievable! And here we were, the athletes who actually DID the damned race, and all we got was a chili booth. I'm sorry, but that struck me as a slap in the face. (NOTE: IF YOU DO THE "24-HOUR- NAUTILUS ESCAPE FROM ALCATRAZ TRIATHLON, YOU'LL DEFINITELY EXPERIENCE THE SAME THING. This is part of the reason Envirosports is no longer affiliated with them). Well, at the time, I really didn't care much--- I was just so happy to have Escaped successfully. No matter how lousy the post-race amenities, the race itself was worth it. Anyway, Skippy bought me a fruit smoothie, and it tasted wonderful! We hung around at the finish for maybe 30 minutes. I found Ken and Ed and Tony, and we exchanged race reports. All agreed that the event was spectacular, and that Dave Horning should be strung up by his thumbs for inflicting that #$&*! sand-ladder upon us. ;-) After finding my final time and place (4:05:07, 324th place) in the results posting, Skippy and I headed for the car and the drive back to Fort Winfield-Scott to retrieve my equipment. We parked directly in front of the Port-a-Potties at the transition area at Fort W-S. I collected my bike and full complement of gear bags (let's see, T1, T2, T3...), and stumbled to the car trying not to drop anything. I'd already nearly run into somebody exiting the transition area with his bike over his shoulder just as I was coming in. A second after he went by me with a friendly "Whoa!" it occurred to me, "That was Scott Tinley." Duh! I threw the bags in the trunk and started rigging up my trunk-rack, chatting with Skippy and other racers as I fumbled with the hooks and straps. Mike Pigg and Greg Welch were just walking their bikes out of the transition area, pretty cool! OK, I've got all the straps tightened down. Wow, look--- I'm glad I used the Port-a-Pottie when we first got here; there's a bit of a line now. Here, Skip, put my front wheel in the back seat, will ya? Out of the corner of my eye I notice somebody approaching the Portajohns. The last person in line had just gone in, so this fella was gonna have to wait a minute. As he walks by me, once again I feel like, Duh!! Guess who? Greg Welch. "Greg," I say casually, "How did it go? How did Mike and Simon get by you?" "Ah, y'know what happened," he replies, "I dropped my chain about 5 miles out on the bike, and it jammed up on the frame and I had to try to reach down and fix it on the fly. Then, y'know how the links get sticky? I couldn't shift very well after that and my whole drive train kept jamming up." "Oh, Bummer!" I sympathize. "At least you didn't pick up one of those bloody tacks; I sure did!" It was his turn to be sympathetic: "Oh, gawd, did you get a flat? That is so sick; why would anybody do that?" (throw tacks on the road, that is). At this point somebody comes by and begs Greg to pose with him for a photo. I turn back to my bike, flushed and excited by my brush with triathlon greatness. Greg chats with the guy for a minute or two; as he's finishing up, a girl approaches the Portajohns. Greg, of course, is still next in line, but he graciously waves her ahead when the next door opens. He then turns around and affects a pose of acute bladder distress--- fortunately, by now Skippy has gotten the camera out...Click! Greg was more than willing to ham it up, and thus a classic moment was preserved for triathletic posterity! I decided to take advantage of the moment and begged, "OK, Greg, can I have a photo op as well?" "Oh, sure!" Cool! Me an' Greg, yeah, we're tight. That photo is pretty comical, the Amazon Woman from Hell and the Australian Elf! I swear the man comes up to my collarbone and that's about it. Greg chatted with us for a few more minutes. I asked about the screwup on the swim start. He told me that a couple of screwy things happened. First of all, the first people out to the "starting line" (i.e., the pros) were starting to be pulled out by the current as they bobbed around waiting for the rest of the field to get out there. Then, some of them actually did just start going! With the current moving, it was impossible to try to round eveyone up again, so the race director decided to just start it. Hmmmph, sounds pretty hosed to me; Greg didn't sound too thrilled either, but he seemed to just take it in stride, wasn't a bit surprised. Eventually Greg made it into a Portajohn, and along came Mike Pigg to take his place. "Mike, what happened? When I saw you out on the run course you were WAY out front, there was nobody near you! How did Simon catch you?" "Well, Simon was ahead on the bike, but he crashed--" "Oh, you're kidding! I hadn't even heard that!" "Yeah, so I picked up a couple of minutes on him, but he came back and just ran me down on the run." "Did he pick up one of those tacks? Is that what made him crash?" "I don't know, I don't think so." "Boy, I sure did! I had just finished fixing it when you ran by." "Oh, yeah, that's right! That was you out there, I remember you cheering. That's a drag you got a flat." Greg comes out, Mike goes in. Poor Greg, never a moment's peace-- still another fan begs for a picture. Oh, sure, no problem! "Geez, Greg, you're so nice," I tell him. "You're so cool with everybody wanting your picture and everything; you must get really tired of it all the time." "Naw," he grins good naturedly, "Y'know, when I think of *really* famous people who I'd like to get my picture taken with, I just figure it's not that big a deal." Yes, the man is genuinely that nice. A very cool guy, and a credit to the sport, no doubt of it. I asked him how Sian did, and he told us that she DNF'ed, problems with a foot injury. Bummer! By now, I finally had my bike securely fastened on the rack. I thank Greg once more and offer both congratulations and good luck for the remainder of the season. He grins and waves as he heads back to his van. Now that's what I call a cool end to my adventure. To sum it all up: Alcatraz truly is an adventure. I would strongly encourage anyone who is considering entering the race to do so, despite the hefty entry fee ($150). It's truly a unique event with a great deal to recommend it. The Best Stuff: The setting. You can't beat it! San Francisco, the Bay, the bridges, the skyline. The swim is positively legendary; how many people in the world can claim to have survived a swim from Alcatraz, "the Rock"? You've got the history and the legends of the island and the prison, but there's even more out on the bike and run courses. The Presidio and its beautiful, historic buildings and grounds, Fort Point, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Cliff House, Land's End, the Palace of the Legion of Honor, Seal Rock---all offer pieces of San Francisco history and make the course truly special. The challenge. The swim has got all the elements: cold, currents, rough surf, and the difficulty of navigating a mile and a half point-to-point under those conditions. Not to mention the (miniscule!) possibility of a close encounter with a denizen of the Deep. The bike, while short, is no tool-around-the-park. Just ask Ken Shelton about those hills. You get 'em going both ways, and, except for the stretch out on the Great Highway, those hills never stop coming at you. And need I say more about the run and that device from Cardinal Richelieu's torture chamber? The pros. This is the only race I've been to where I've seen that many pros of that caliber all together. I'm sure there are many other races (besides Ironman) where you can see all the Big Guns, but this one is the only opportunity for us here in Northern California to see this kind of Pro field. I just ate it up. The volunteers. They were GREAT. There was always someone to help stuff my gear in the bags at the transitions, and they were all so friendly and encouraging out on the course. A *lot* of enthusiasm and cheering, and there were lots of 'em (except on that weird first run). One interesting thing I noticed: There were a lot of black volunteers at this race, but I saw only two black triathletes out there. Those volunteers were so great! We need to get more black triathletes *racing* out there! The Not-So-Good Stuff: The T-Shirt. I'm sorry, but for such a spectacular race, the T-Shirts were LOUSY this year. I swear, I'm almost embarrassed to wear mine 'cause it looks like one of those cheesy "I Visited Alcatraz" shirts a tourist picks up at Fisherman's Wharf. You'd never know it was for the ESCAPE FROM Alcatraz TRIATHLON unless you look very closely. It isn't even plastered with sponsor logos to distinguish it as a race t-shirt. Frankly, I thought the volunteers' shirt was much better; I almost offered to trade with one of the volunteers. It was a swell bright yellow with a nifty ball-and-chain logo. Sure beats our boring grey ones. The post-race food. Honest, did I just miss it? Or was that chili booth really all we got? Was it just that I finished so late that all the good stuff was gone? Geez, I didn't think I was that slow! I also found that "private party" jazz really offensive--- all that food laid out for a handful of people who didn't even take part in the main event. I felt like a poor starving kid pressing my nose up against the window of a bakery on a frosty winter night! The hosed swim start. That was really unfair. My "official" swim time was 44:51, but I shall continue to think of my Alcatraz swim as taking me just 44:00. I'm not sure how they could have fixed it, but I don't think they've had that problem in the past. I'm just grateful I was actually *in* the water when the horn sounded; I pity the poor guys still back on the dock! The confusion on the first run. What in the hell...?? I still have no idea how we were supposed to go out there. Also, it seemed that later on out on the run course, the volunteers were sort of thinning out. The slower racers, who probably needed the most support of all, found fewer volunteers at various corners. I noticed this on the way back on the run; at places where there had been a volunteer on my way out, there sometimes would no longer be one on the way back in. OVERALL: Overall, the good definitely outweighed the bad at this one. As one of the pros put it, "This race is raw." It has rough edges, both on the course and here and there in the organization, but that's part of what makes it so special. Not a lot of frills, just lots of honest, tough racing in a spectacular setting. And at the end, you get to puff out your chest and proclaim with pride, "I Escaped from Alcatraz!" Thanks to Dave Horning, Summer the Wonder Dog, Greg Welch, Mike Pigg, Ken Shelton, Ed King, all the volunteers, and my faithful Tri-Crew, Skippy. Finis. (and you thought it would NEVER end! :-)