Kaput. Over. Finito. Done.
My relationship with the Danskin triathlon, that is. Yes, after six races in two cities over eight years, I'm making the split.
Danskin was not my first triathlon, but for years it was my favorite. My first tri, a small all-women's race in Oregon, was fun but challenging. I breast-stroked the entire swim, slogged through the bike course on my clunky mountain bike, and walked away ambivalent about the sport. But Danskin Seattle, in August '97, hooked me for good (and remains my best time ever at 1:22 and change, but I'm sure the run course was 1/2 mile short). Upon moving to Denver, I promptly entered myself in the local version, and I've done the race almost every year since (injuries and social obligations interfered in 1999 and 2001).
Despite the huge crowds and the consistent organizational incompetence that marred my annual Danskin experience, I remained addicted to the incredible spirit and energy it generated among thousands of women of all sizes, ages, and fitness levels. I loved getting first-timers involved, helping them train, and above all seeing their glowing smiles as they crossed the finish line. While other races boasted faster fields, better logistical support, and more challenging courses, something about Danskin kept me coming back year after year.
In 2002, the long lines at packet-pickup, the on-course congestion, and assorted other race-day annoyances left me questioning whether to make the break. But the following year, I found myself with a terrific group of training buddies and couldn't resist Danskin's allure. As it turned out, aside from a dumb-ass bike course with FOUR tight turnarounds, the 2003 race was the smoothest-run ever, from a line-free packet-pickup to intelligently laid-out transitions to ample on-course support. So when the 2004 race opened (in JANUARY, no less), I was among the first to register.
The first sign that things might be different this year came when the new, earlier date and new, farther-out location were announced. Supposedly, the Aurora Reservoir site was much larger and would alleviate the congestion that has consistently plagued this race, one of the nation's largest. Then came the e-mails about registration categories, parking rules, spectator restrictions and more. A tiny spark of worry ignited in my brain, a spark that would grow into a five-alarm fire of displeasure by the end of the race.
Here's the blow-by-blow:
Saturday
11:00 a.m.: My friends and I arrive at The High School That Looks Like A Prison, smack in the middle of nowhere, to fetch our race packets. We see a long, long, long line outside the school. We stand in it. After 45 minutes, we reach the front, where we discover that we were waiting only for parking permits (that's right, they made us PAY to park at a race for which we'd already shelled out $75). We open our wallets, then grumble our way inside and over to the actual packet pick-up tables. These lines move reasonably fast, but then the chaos begins. We are told to get our wave-specific swim caps. We stand on several long lines before finally finding the one leading to caps. All around us, we see women carrying goodie bags, but it takes us half an hour to find the spot to obtain our own. T-shirts somehow make their way into our hands amidst the teeming throngs. No one knows what is going on, where anything can be found, or why we are putting ourselves through this torture. Somehow, eventually, we obtain all the pieces of our triathlon puzzle.
1:00 p.m.: Exhausted, we drive back to civilization for our long-delayed lunch.
Sunday
4:00 a.m.: My alarm goes off. For a minute or two, I think it's joking.
4:45 a.m.: My friend N. arrives to pick me up. I'm finally excited about this race. At least, I will be when my eyes open.
5:25 a.m.: N. and I reach the edge of the Aurora Reservoir complex. Simultaneously, so do 2,500 other cars.
5:45 a.m.: We make it into the parking lot and find a spot. We are lucky. Friend S. is 10 minutes behind us and will spend 25 minutes sitting in her car waiting for some sign of movement into the parking area. Fearing that she will miss the race, she will park 6 miles from the race site and bike in carrying all of her gear.
5:50 a.m.: Bikes and bags in hand, we begin the 2 mile walk to the race site. Two uphill miles.
6:15 a.m.: We arrive at the transition area. Though the parking lot was nearly full when we arrived, the bike racks are surprisingly, almost disturbingly bare.
6:50 a.m.: I walk down to check out the swim course and discover that it is marked with only three buoys, two of which are dark blue and difficult to see against the water. I contemplate dropping out of the race, but convince myself that there will be enough people in the water to keep me on course. I curse the idiots who dreamed up these course markings, wondering aloud why they abandoned the numerous, large, fluorescent buoys used in years past.
6:55 a.m.: The race organizers announce that lots and lots and lots of people are stuck in their cars out on the road. The race cannot begin until they are all parked, both because many of those cars contain racers and because the bike course will be traveling the very road on which those cars are stuck. Start time is pushed back from 7:00 to 7:30.
7:10 a.m.: I return to my spot, only to discover that my carefully laid-out stuff is now crowded so severely that I can't reach my bike shoes. The bike next to me is taking up a space roughly the size of Delaware. I look around for its owner, then manage to move it just enough to create access to my gear. I curse rack hogs.
7:20 a.m.: The announcement goes out that the race will now begin "hopefully before 8:00." It is getting very warm. I eat a banana and refill my water bottle.
7:30 a.m.: I go to the bathroom for the 43rd time that morning. Amazingly, the portapotty lines are pretty short.
8:10 a.m.: The first wave finally - FINALLY - hits the water. I am starting to sweat. I refill my water bottle again.
8:20 a.m.: It is really hot. I am too annoyed to watch the pros coming out of the water.
8:30 a.m.: I go to the bathroom. Again.
8:40 a.m.: I put on my wetsuit. I have to go to the bathroom again.
8:45 a.m.: It is a loooong way from my bike rack to the swim start. As I make my way through the transition area, I pass several men. Some of them are pushing strollers. This is a delightful, heartwarming sight. Wait a minute. Those men are INSIDE THE TRANSITION AREA. I curse the idiots who have utterly failed to maintain t-area safety and security.
8:55 a.m.: I find my wave. It is really, really hot. I feel like a sweaty sausage in my wetsuit.
9:03 a.m.: My wave steps into the reservoir to await our start. My entire overheated body goes numb upon contact with the 68-degree water. I say a quick thank-you to my sausage casing.
9:05 a.m.: We're off! I can't see the buoys, but manage to follow the bobbing heads around me. My swim goes uneventfully, save for a hard blow to the head I sustain in the final stretch.
9:23 a.m.: I exit the water, only to find myself on a ridged, slippery boat ramp that inflicts irreparable damage to the bottoms of my feet as I struggle up it. I curse the morons who forgot to put down the astroturf-like carpet that protected against similar discomfort at last year's race.
9:26 a.m.: I have minor wetsuit-removal issues, but am soon powering away on my bike. Now I'm having fun!
9:45 a.m.: I ride strong on the hilly course. I curse the hundreds women on mountain bikes who appear unfamiliar with whole stay right/pass left concept.
10:09 a.m.: I learn that elastic shoelaces are a terrific time-saving gadget, except when you jam your foot into your running shoe so fast that the tongue ends up under your toes. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. I curse myself. I also forget to wear socks.
10:11 a.m.: I see a volunteer handing out water at the run start.
10:11:05 a.m.: I see that there is only one volunteer handing out water at the run start, and she has just given both of the cups she is holding to the woman in front of me.
10:16 a.m.: I realize that I forgot to drink during the bike leg. Through a fog of dehydration, I curse myself, the race organizers, and the sun.
10:20 a.m.: Where the @(*%$*& is the *(#!&^$*! water station on this !@*($&!@(* run course?
10:23 a.m.: I grab two water cups from a volunteer, nearly taking his fingers off in the process. I pour one cup over my burning body while chugging the other. However, since both cups inexplicably have been filled with less than one ounce of water, I am neither cooled nor hydrated.
10:27 a.m.: I begin to hallucinate. I daydream about tying the race organizers to a stake in the middle of Death Valley in August.
10:30 a.m.: I reach the second water station. There is no Gatorade. Again, I take two cups of water. They are both less than a third full. My brain begins to sizzle like bacon in a frying pan.
10:33 a.m.: I take some small comfort in the fact that no one has passed me on the run. I will myself to maintain my already-marginal pace.
10:34 a.m.: I begin to suspect that no one is passing me because no one can get past the throngs of "runners" who are actually walking, three or more abreast and apparently oblivious to the runners behind them. I curse walkers but manage to pass them without throwing an elbow.
10:35 a.m.: I pass a friend who started the race three waves before me. I can barely croak out a greeting, and feebly raise my arm to wave at her as I pass. I feel my head spinning and will myself to keep running.
10:36 a.m.: I can see the finish. I can see the finish. I can see the water bottles being handed out at the finish.
10:37 a.m.: I attempt to begin my sprint to the finish. My body has other plans.
10:38 a.m.: I cross the finish line reeling. I am barely coherent enough to stop the volunteer who tries to clip my (self-owned) timing chip from my ankle. I nearly scream at the hapless volunteer who drops a medal over my neck. Finally, someone sticks a bottle of water in my hand. I stand frozen for a moment trying to decide whether to pour it over my body or drink it. I settle for halfsies.
10:40 a.m.: As feelings other than heat and thirst return to my body, I realize that running without socks in blistering heat leads to just that - blisters. I yank off my shoes and hobble around barefoot on the hot pavement. The transition area is so far from the finish as to make sandals-retrieval impractical. I repeat some previously uttered curses.
12:10 p.m.: Somewhat hydrated, somewhat cooled, somewhat satisfied with our performance, N. and I begin the two mile trek back to the parking lot. We offer to give S., the friend who parked halfway back to Denver, a ride to her car.
12:40 p.m.: We put two bikes on the roof of the car and one in the back seat. S. sits on my lap in front. She is very small and a tad bony. Her butt-bone slowly cuts off bloodflow to my right quadriceps.
12:45 p.m.: We take our place in the endless line of cars. Fortunately, N.'s car has air-conditioning.
1:30 p.m.: S. shifts her weight, allowing feeling to return to my right thigh.
1:50 p.m.: We reach S.'s car, four miles from the parking lot.
2:30 p.m.: Home. Water. Shower. Nap. Never. Doing. Danskin. Again.
Ugh. Speaking as the official male cheerleader for Wife during several triathlons, I say with confidence that this one would definitely rank at the very bottom of the pile. Good riddance!
Posted by: UCL | July 19, 2004 at 05:21 PM
Heh. It probably wasn't even as bad as it seemed to me, but by 7:30 or so on Sunday my annoyance level was so high pretty much everything served to exacerbate it. Plus, neither I nor most of my friends even had our official male cheerleaders in the crowd because of the insane parking and spectator restrictions announced a few days pre-race. Argh.
Posted by: mad | July 20, 2004 at 09:58 AM
Organization is probably one of the most important factors for a triathlon event to be considered successful. Without organization, even if the course is fun, the overall experience will not be fun.
Posted by: UCL | July 20, 2004 at 01:54 PM