Imagine you’re running in a desert and you’re not carrying any food nor water. You’re dehydrated and there is zero cell reception, not that you have your cell phone on you anyway – in fact, all of your personal belongings are 5 miles away, the closest house is 10 miles away, and the only living thing you are likely to see in the next several minutes is a snake. It’s 80 degrees, it feels like not even water could moisten your mouth, and the last shade you got was earlier that morning when you asked if you really had to tattoo your race number in four places on your body.
This was not some kind of punishment nor an attempt to escape a drug cartel. This was, actually, my state several times during the run leg of the Wildflower Triathlon (dubbed just “Wildflower”) last weekend in Bradley, CA, a three hour drive south of San Francisco. It was the 35th running of the race and is one of the first established triathlons in the world. It was also my hardest, slowest, and best triathlon ever.
I traveled with Cecilia Thursday morning before the Saturday race. We flew to San Francisco and picked up a rental car to drive to the race site. We stopped at Trader Joe’s to stock up on mostly prepared food because we knew the race directors provided us accommodations, but whether it was in an RV, a tent, or a lodge (all potential and popular options for athletes in this race, since there are no hotels within an hour of the site!), we had no idea.
We arrived at the race site and I did a run on the first two miles of the course. I thought it was some kind of omen that I saw a four foot, chunky snake on the road on my way back from my run! But then two minutes later, I saw 6x reigning Wildflower champ Jesse Thomas doing his run! While I really wanted to scream “Jesse, thank you for the Picky Bars! I love Smooth Caffeinator!” I instead screamed “watch out for the snake!” (He later told me he saw nothing). If I were to interpret anything from that interaction, it’s that my race would be full of scares and delights.
I cannot say enough about how well the pros were treated at this race. From Thursday night dinner through Saturday (race day) lunch, all of our meals and accommodations were provided. Cecilia and I had some dinner –tacos! – and headed to our housing. We stayed in a lake house rental about 6 miles from the race site. The house was charming during the day and I-Know-What-You-Did-Last-Summer at night. The alphabetized TV-recorded VHS tapes, tape player/CD-stereo, and “Girl Talk” board game gave me feelings of nostalgia and creeped out-ness. We were later joined by two other pro triathlete women I hadn’t met but knew of – Leslie Miller since we share an alma mater (Bucknell!) and Kelly O’Mara, whose podcast, writing, and attitude I admire. It was really fun to meet them and chat about triathlon hot topics, as it was the nexus of pro triathletes from DC, NYC, and SF all being placed under one outdated roof!
After 10.5 hours of sleep, Cecilia and I headed to the race site again on Friday to do a pre-race swim and bike. The swim was in Lake San Antonio, and it was optimal wetsuit temperature (65 degrees), pristine but not transparent (clear water creeps me out!), and calm and glassy. We swam the entire race course but stopped to appreciate the utterly majestic mountain backdrop that looks like magnified ant hills. Only triathlon could bring you to such a gorgeous environment in the middle of a desert.
Between the live bands, laid-back expo, lack of cell service, and optimal outdoor hangout weather, the vibe was relaxed and bond-inducing all weekend. I met some folks from Picky Bars and Tribike Transport with whom I’d spoken on the phone with but never met in person. I also met most of the pro field; the chill environment was conducive to genuinely enjoying meeting your competition but seeing them more as colleagues than rivals. Cecilia and I finished our race prep and went to the athlete meeting, pasta dinner, and back to our horror movie house for a good sleep.
The Morning Of
Cecilia and I headed to the race and parked right by transition – our parking pass meant that we didn’t need to get on any shuttles – wooh! I noticed my set screws were uneven on my bike, so I spent 15 minutes taking care of that, which meant I only had time for a single French braid instead of my usual two. I already had the pale, northeastern winter skin, so all I needed was a petticoat and I could time warp back to 1700 colonial New England.
The Race
The women’s race went off at 8:05am. I was feeling realistic, so I sheepishly lined up behind the row of about 15 women that spanned the width of the blow-up arch under which we started. The run-in start on the concrete boat ramp that only spanned 10 feet before hitting the water’s edge seemed like a lot of hullabaloo that I really didn’t want to be a part of. Even writing this, it’s hard to believe I’d shy away from an aggressive start not much unlike a cramped cross country running race. But I distinctly recall in the moment feeling very confident about being in that back row, happy to settle in behind some fast feet and establishing myself once the nuttiness of the start died down.
The race went off, and I ran in behind the row of women. I did what felt like a graceful swan dive but was likely a belly flop – thankfully my TYR Hurricane 3 wetsuit dampens bellyflop noise, a huge selling point I’m sure. I swam as calmly as possible behind a flurry of feet and settled into a group about my pace after a few minutes. Then, my group almost exited where we entered, which probably cost me 20-30 seconds. This was 100% my fault for following the group and not being sure about where the swim exited. Once out of the water, I gingerly ran up the 20% grade boat ramp. I had been dealing with some tendonitis in my foot, so T1 was not the place I was trying to save time.
I entered transition, grabbed my bike, and stuffed a Pickybar into my kit’s pocket. (There wasn’t enough room in my top tube case). I set out on the bike and got through the roller coaster first mile. I climbed the first hill – 0.68 miles at a 9% grade – and saw Kelly on it as Cecilia was passing us. (Kelly later said – and I must quote her since her views are always charmingly frank – “I saw you pass by, and I thought ‘this is either going to end really well or really poorly for her.’”) and she was right! After my aforementioned foot funny games, I intended to bike pretty aggressively since my run fitness had regressed a little bit. The prior four weeks had just 5 runs, and 3 of them were at 70-75% of my body weight on the Alter-G, however, I headed into the race with no pain. Cecilia passed me, and it was so cool to see her ahead for the next two miles.
There is a net elevation loss until mile 35, and then I hit the 3 categorized climbs – the category 3 climb called “Nasty Grade,” a 2.3 mile climb of 730 feet with an average of 6%. I kept a hard effort here but was more concerned about my attitude towards “not wanting to be bothered with taking a gel” because I was always either audibly mouthbreathing or descending on California’s roughest roads. I was SO happy I pumped my tires to 90 and 95 in the front and rear, respectively, because there were times during the bike course that I wondered if my eyes would ever stop rattling, if my tattoos would shake right off of my skin. The only thing that didn’t seem to shake off was a single drop of sweat cascading from my eyebrow, under my helmet’s visor, and down the inside of my nose. I wondered if my brain was shaking so much inside that I would forget to take my next drink of water.
I got through the next two categorized climbs and couldn’t recognize during the race if I was even on them. At mile 49, I saw Cecilia again, but not for the reasons I wanted. She was on the side of the road after she double flatted, her rear tire irreparable with sidewall damage. My heart went out to her but there was nothing I could do for her – even if I had given her my entire rear wheel with a 10-speed cassette, it would not have fit her 11-speed bike! Five miles later, I descended the screaming hill to the transition area, relieved that I had made it through.
I had a solid T2 and headed out for the run. It was energizing to have my name announced along with “from New York City” as I climbed the stairway of champions, a flight of stairs with plaques of every Wildflower Champion. A few people were amazed that I had made it all the way from NYC, but there were over 14 countries represented! That mile would turn out to be my fastest. After mile 2, I hit the trail portion of the race. What I had envisioned when I signed up for Wildflower was a soft, scenic trail with some undulations. Well, the course was exactly that…times 10. The soft was really soft, like running on a lumpy, old pillow. The undulations were mountains, so steep that I was walking by mile 4. With each desperate grab of water, which I did at every aid station, I adjusted my expectations. Aside from passing one woman within the first mile who later dropped out, I passed zero women and three age group men (one of which told me to “send it” and that I was “crushin iiiiit.” Thank you. I love you.). Other than that, it was lonelier than right field in teeball during the entire run. I started making more and more compromises with myself. What started out as “you can walk up the really steep hills” turned into “you can walk through the aid stations so you can grab 14 water cups.” I stopped looking at my splits (which were in the high 7’s). I didn’t feel like I was racing, I felt like I was managing. And I was pretty sure I was in the bottom 25% of the women’s pro field.
Until mile 7 happened. I finally finished the trail section and was on the roads for the remainder of the race. I saw Alyssa Godesky spectating just before the trail was over, and she said “Almost to the roads.” Knowing there was some relief from the trail coming was a huge mental lift. Then I saw a man in his 50s in a white t-shirt with the Grateful Dead lightning skull logo on it. He held up 7 fingers and said “7th woman.” Now, this man had no company with him and no apparent association with the race. But my dad is a Grateful Dead fan and loves to watch me race, so I pretended he was my dad.
I told myself to keep managing for three more miles, then I would only have three miles to go. At mile 10, there is a long descent, a U-turn at the bottom, and then you go right back up. This gave me a chance to clock the woman ahead of me (1:54) and the woman behind me (2:00). I did the math and figured it would require one of us to get in the HyperLoop to make any passes. I maintained the effort through mile 12 and tried not to trash my quads too much on the steep descent into the finish.
I never did see Grateful Dad after the race, but he, the aid station volunteers, and all 8 spectators on the course (I’m not surprised nor disappointed there weren’t more – the race is not easy to spectate!) really made my race finishable. Upon crossing the finish line, I let out a sound I hadn’t heard from me before. It was a squawk, a sound a deflating balloon makes when you pinch the latex. I was so happy to be done, well, traversing a desert for the past five hours!
I had a sandwich from the pro athlete tent – did I mention how well they took care of us?! – and met up with Cecilia. I dropped my bike off at Tribike Transport and we spent the next two hours under the shade of some nice gentlemen’s RV disassembling and repacking her bike until we were permitted to exit the campground. We had a red eye back to NYC, so I sadly had to miss awards, which didn’t begin until 5pm. We drove the 3 hours back to San Francisco and returned to our humid, pollen-filled, East Coast apartments!
Wildflower, it was a wild ride indeed. Below is a video compilation of the trip!