Somewhere back in December, Boots and I hatched a plan to compete together in Baja's 70.3 triathlon, possibly influenced by hearsay that the race had a generous roll-down. This would be Boots's first half ironman, and I was hoping to use it to spur some actual training this year, to redeem my lackluster 2006, when I just couldn't get excited about training. ("Lackluster" refers primarily to my attitude; as a middle-of-the-pack person, results are kind of secondary for me. If I'm going to have such a time-consuming hobby, I want to be excited about it.) Boots and KK (who were both going to do Wildflower as well) and I started circulating our training plans over e-mail back near the beginning of January, and boy were we hot to trot! We were cracking the whip on ourselves every week; Boots and KK were busting out half-marathons, ocean swims and sprint tris it seemed like every weekend.
Somehow our enthusiasm petered out as the year progressed. There must be a reason why training plans are so often right around twelve weeks long. It's just hard to stay focused for more than three months. Anyway, Boots and KK raced WF, and I was on a high from Boston and the crazy way Auburn turned out, so the importance of Baja to me faded a little before it even happened. I went with a sense of adventure and holiday and a "girls' weekend" attitude because it was in Mexico; the race was secondary. Boots talked a modest game, but there was no doubt she was going to become an IM 70.3; she'd already signed up for another half in July. So thank goodness we weren't hanging everything on our performance here; we might have found ourselves at the finish line in tears like some other competitors.
I flew down to San Diego, and Boots took me to a Tri Club of San Diego "splash n dash" - an aquathlon of a mile or so swim and a three mile run in the sand followed by free food! Nice bunch of pizza people. As the sun set over the water, a pair of dolphins leapt and dove in the soft waves.
The next morning Boots and I ran for the border. Traffic was moving, the sun was shining, the breeze was blowing - I was ready for an adventure! (I'd never been to Mexico save for a weekend in Cancun about ten years ago that was more about the "all inclusive" constant flow of pina coladas and an obligatory stop at Senor Frog's than anything else.)
One great source of cross-cultural amusement on our drive South was the square, blue "amenities" signs on the side of the road. In this country, we have a symbol for gas, one for food, one for lodging. That's about it. In Mexico, each exit had a menu of six or so much more specific symbols covering a much wider variety of needs and interests. A lot of us are familiar with the classic "family running across the road" symbol. But what about the exit that listed, "Food, lodging, information, shrimp."
Wait, shrimp? "It really looked like a shrimp." There were any number of impenetrable symbols. A big question mark, I have to assume, was information. (But couldn't they have used an "i"?) And what about the symbol of a man working at a desk? "Dead end jobs?" Why wasn't there a symbol for tamales?
About six miles from Ensenada, traffic came to a sudden halt. Cars were making U-turns right in front of us on the highway, or rolling out into the dirt on the side of the road, a police car or two squeezed past us. We inched forward, to find emergency vehicles still arriving to attend to this, which had happened just minutes before.
Boots noted that this was part of the bike course.
Once through, we were minutes away from the town of Ensenada. As you drive into town you are confronted by a Mexican flag the size of a football field - possibly larger. I tried to take a picture of it, but nothing captures the scale. It was made of a very lightweight material, too, so that it constantly rippled in slow motion with every puff of sea breeze. You could see it from all over town, too, even from the inside courtyard of our motel. Boots finally got fed up with my constant swooning over it, and started calling me a "flag hag."
Our motel was adequate. Hotel Flori-, Flori- something. It doesn't matter. I wouldn't go out of my way to stay there. The windows don't open so it was extremely stuffy; I could only guess it was for reasons of safety. For reasons of bearability, however, we were forced to leave our door wide open.
We asked whether we could change rooms (there's a courtyard surrounding a small, hot, crowded parking lot, and a courtyard surrounding the pool - we were in the former), and the guy at reception was a real jerk about it and suggested we cancel our reservation and go somewhere else. So we stomped out onto the street and made like we were considering our options (I don't think we were that believable - not that there weren't alternatives, just that we had already lugged our stuff up a couple flights of stairs). We mostly agreed that it wasn't the room that was pissing us off now, but the dude's attitude.
Shortly after, the guy called to us from reception and said he was sorry he didn't have any other rooms, but perhaps we could check back the next day. All of a sudden, with that little apology, we felt fine. (The room was still eh, but it was clean, no bugs - that's really the most I had hoped for from a run-down beach town.) They still had "Days Inn" door plates on each door, but I do not believe it was (any longer) affiliated.
Oh - this was a treat. For at least the first couple of days, we made a point of using the spare roll so we didn't muss up their efforts.
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And hey - at least we didn't stay here:
"At the Colon Motel, there are no windows, and there's only one exit."
A major highlight of this race was the Pre Race Pasta Party. It was held at a vineyard a couple of hours out of town by bus. Absolutely gorgeous views, very restful. Breezes. Waiters served the vineyard's wine, plus sangria and horchata. A really classy affair - I chowed mightily; the food was good. Sometimes they have cultural performances of some kind at these international races; we were a little trepidatious because there was a bullfighting ring just below the dinner seating (it was all kind of on a hillside). Fortunately, there was no big show, but there was a guy playing guitar through dinner - English and Spanish songs, very enjoyable. They appeared to be set up for dancing, but with the long bus rides, not too many people were inclined to linger.
Saturday morning I dyed my hair Ironman red, just because. I always see dudes shaving their heads or bleaching it or cutting mohawks for big events; I wanted to infuse some of that crazy spirit into our weekend.
We built our bikes but opted against riding any of the course; the road seemed a little hairy, and we didn't want to play with flats - or our lives. (A lot of getting around in this town consisted of making U-turns in heavy traffic. Freaky enough in a two-ton car, but on a twenty pound bicycle?? No thanks.)
So we checked in our bikes, and checked out the expo - it was teeny tiny. Profile Design had a booth, and this peanut manufacturer, and the local triathlon store - which was selling exorbitantly priced mementos. (I shelled out $2 for a sticker for my bike box.) That's it.
The Swim
There was no option for a preparatory ocean swim, at least not along the race course. The course was in and near an in-use marina. (Lots of people who dropped by on their boats or even lived on their boats in the marina availed themselves of the host hotel's hot tub and were very friendly. There's a whole culture of boat people that has fascinated me for some time - like people who leave everything behind and become permanent RVers.)
There was also the opportunity to do a warm up swim on race morning for only about five minutes before the first wave went off - didn't affect me; I never do that; but some athletes were grumping about it. The swim was uneventful; it tasted like diesel. I felt my swim was suspiciously fast.
Ace thinks it's funny that I look like a pinhead in my wetsuit.
The Bike
We drove the bike course Saturday, and I was concerned. A section along the coast, which would be a closed half of the highway, was fairly flat. (They promised to clean that bridge up in time and they absolutely did.) But as soon as you turned inland, you started climbing. Hills followed by rollers, followed by hills. We could hear Boots's car engine working; we saw guys out riding the course grunting their way up the hills. But even more concerning, the roads were two lane roads winding around the side of hills, with sheer dropoffs to the outside. Knowing we were in the second-last wave to start, I was very worried about speedy people coming whipping down the hills on their way back as we were on our way up, running out of control and over the center line, and forcing me off into a crevasse. I was concerned about descending myself, especially when the descent was on the outside (no guardrails save one, and it was low) - I pictured somebody barrelling down to pass me on the left, and forcing me off into a crevasse.
As it turned out, the bike course wasn't bad at all. The hills were not as steep as they seemed. I have no shame about clicking into my granny gears, but I simply never felt the need to get out of my middle ring. And the downhills, though nervewracking with gusty crosswinds, were manageable - only one person sought to pass me on a downhill, and he waited for a safe part.
I enjoyed cheering people on; I particularly like it when people have their names on their shorts. I kept trading back and forth with some guy whose shorts said "Rivera;" later that evening the gentleman who won the 60 or so age group came up (probably recognizing my red hair) and said, "Hey! Remember yelling 'Go Rivera'? I'm Rivera!" I also traded encouragement with a guy in a CAF outfit who I think in transition said his name was Carlos, and said he'd just done Alcatraz the week before. He didn't look particularly C to me; so unless there are non-C posers who get to wear the outfit, I could only conclude that he was one of the dudes who got on stage at Alcatraz who had MS. Not something I know anything about; I can only say, he was light on his feet and a hell of a runner. I saw him in T2 and never caught him.
The Run
The run was a little confusing. Boots described it aptly as kind of a paperclip - a big loop with a smaller loop within, both of which would be repeated. Unfortunately, the big and small loops shared the same streets, and the system for marking where you were in your progress was one of getting a splotch of colored paint as you passed by a check-point volunteer. Also unfortunately, the check-point volunteers weren't particularly engaged; one had to grab a bored, spaced-out girl with a paintbrush and practically do it oneself. But you never knew whether you were doing it right. Moreover, the loops were supposed to be run in alternating directions, but there was absolutely zero signage. No arrows, no cones, no numbers, no sequence direction, no people with big foam fingers. I correctly (flukeishly) completed my first paperclip, and the race director was standing at the apex, which was also, ultimately, near the finish line.
"Go in," he directed.
"What?"
"Go to the finish."
I looked at my watch - 48 minutes. "I've only done one loop."
"Well," he said, "You can run more if you want, but we're not going to count it, so you might as well finish."
I considered heading back out on principle, but then it occurred to me I could stick better with the Girls' Weekend and low-keyness and having fun of it all if I just wrapped it up. So I finished. 6.5 mile run. Yay.
But I made my way up to transition to get Rad's inflatable alien for cheering purposes, and who should be coming off the bike but BOOTS!!! So I grabbed the alien, and followed her out for one loop of the run (at least I got my miles in). She was running very strong and I frequently couldn't keep up and chatted with people instead. One guy was standing at the "checkpoint" trying to tell people where to go and as I started asking questions about how they'd count the run (it turned out everybody was confused and ran something a little different) he interrupted me - "hey, I'm just an athlete. I'm just trying to help. I know the course only because I was following the motorcycle."
I realized that he was a pro, and thanked him profusely for being so nice. He was totally cool about it. I must say, that throughout, I was delighted to find that everyone affiliated with the race was very friendly. As we were looking for food before the awards ceremony, we ran into some other nice guys - also competitors - who helped us order seafood from a roadside stand. And of course Luis Alvarez, the ubiquitous race promoter, was his usual flirtatious and ubercompetent self. And that guy Don, who does all the announcing, was terribly warm and enthusiastic. (His only misstep was blaming the athletes for not "knowing" the run course. "How many of you went to the pre-race meeting?" he asked. I did, and it made not a whit of difference.)
Anyway, it turned out that runners ran many variants of the paperclip - some people ran less than 6; some claimed to have run 15 miles. Since there was no way of verifying, all they could do was not count the run, for timing and awards purposes. Obviously, people who are strong runners were upset (I'm marginally better on the run - I passed a couple of women in my age group. At least, I think I did. Who knows what loops we were on!), and I was even a little put out, thinking they would just double my quarter-marathon time - since I had been running at half marathon pace, not 10K pace. It doesn't matter, I was in the middle regardless. But it was a shame for people in contention for podium spots - the awards were pretty fantastic, these huge, metal M-dots to the winners.
Conclusion
Would I do this race again? Not sure. I do belive the race directors did everything they should have done, with the possible exception of more signage on the run course. They were handicapped by "being in Mexico," i.e., by having the police in one town decide at the last minute to not let us in, forcing an early turnaround on the bike (the bike was short by about 4 miles, depending whose computer you use); by having the town of Ensenada refuse us entry (forcing the paperclip); by having a dearth of volunteers to point the way (it seems like a poor town, and frankly I'm impressed there were as many voluteers as there were). But I also believe the problems of this year are fixable, and they should have more contingency plans ready for stuff like this to happen next year.
They had most of the other elements in place: as Luis said, when I was asking about whether it would be a closed bike course, "Of course it will be a closed course! We have everything! We have Powerbar, we have Gatorade, we have safety!" (This became a running joke all weekend, as Boots and I reminded each other that "Safety is Number Three!")
If I lived in San Diego, I would totally do it again.
Since I live way far away, I probably won't. I think traveling for races is a huge hassle and incredibly expensive with airline bike box fees, and can't really see doing it for less than an Ironman or some kind of championship event. If USAT or WTG could get airlines to reduce fees or provide coupons, I'd love to do a lot more events. But as it is now, I'm happy to drive to local races and sleep in my own bed. Or tent. Whatever.
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