Part VI

OK, headed for home, headed for home, headed for home...my footsteps beat out the tattoo, sing-songing me forward. Each stride propels me closer to the finish line. "Almost there!" I cry out to the racers heading the other way. "Almost to the turnaround! Lookin' good, good job!" Headed for home, headed for home, headed for home. Of course, between here and home there's an awful lot of climbing to do; I have to run back up all that nasty hill I so recently pounded down. And then there's everybody's favorite part of the Alcatraz course, the gruesome, terrifying, strikes-fear-into-the-hearts-of-lions SAND LADDER.

But that's miles away yet. Don't think about it!

Headed for home, headed for home, headed..."Go, Hillary!" My pal approaches, looking strong. "Just another quarter mile to the turnaround." "Go, Trish!" she responds. Trot, trot, trot. "Wow, you two look fantastic!" Two women run past. "Oh, we're not racing, we're just out here as cheerleaders," one replies in friendly tones. "Ah! Well, you *should* be racing, you guys look great." They laugh and one observes, "I don't know about all that biking, though. No way, I couldn't do it." "Well, I'm good on the bike, but I can't run to save my life. I am so jealous of you two! Well, enjoy the run." "You're doin' great, have a good run," they urge as they pull away. Geez, to be able to run like that! *sigh*

I'm nearly at the base of that ornery hill. Ah, look who's here! "Kurian!" "Tricia!" "Just another half mile to the turnaround, do it, son!" Wow, I'm actually ahead of Kurian? I bet he had a tough time with that current on the swim. Who wouldn't? Oh, hell, forget about the swim, deal with this hill...

I remember fighting my bullheaded way up this grade last year. It hurt. Guess what? It hurts now. Plain and simple. At the part where it levels out I breathe deeply and revel in the heady sensation of relative flat. My relief is short-lived; up the steep stretch topping out back on El Camino Del Mar, I grunt and wheeze determinedly. Just 10 more yards---sprint it out! I emerge triumphant on the road, laughing gleefully at the tattooed volunteer. "Yeehaw, this is FUN!" I declare. He regards me with a sidelong glance; Who the hell is this demented woman? he must be wondering. "Yay, more downhill for me! See ya!"

Whew! Stretch those legs, feel that hill, go with it. And take some Gu while you're at it. Rip, squeeze, squirt, glug. Ahhhh! Shout hearty encouragement to the poor tormented souls still outward bound. Wave to the tourists cheering us all on. They're out here for the breathtaking view of the Gate and the Bridge, but they're also being treated to not-so-breathtaking views of out-of-breath triathletes. They appear equally impressed by both.

Meandering through Sea Cliff once more, I spy a fellow racer who passed me ages ago lying on the sidewalk stretching his quads. "Oh, come on, don't give up now!" "Oh, I'm not giving up," he replies. "Just gotta get this cramp out." "OK, I'll be seeing you again soon then." Not 200 yards later he flies by and wishes me luck. Wow, maybe I ought to start getting cramps on the run; everybody who does always ends up passing me. But then, *everybody* always ends up passing me! ;-)

"Thanks for being out here, you guys; we couldn't do it without you!" I holler to the volunteers as I head for the cul de sac leading out to Baker Beach. "Oh, no problem! You guys are awesome! Go!" is their generous response. I have similar exchanges with volunteers throughout the course, and their replies are always equally supportive and enthusiastic. They make me feel really proud to be out here doing this, and genuinely grateful for all their hard work and encouragement.

Through the cul de sac and back to the sand. Ooooh, yum, gotta love that sinking feeling! As I descend the last of the railroad tie steps into the dunes a guy runs by and calls out to me, "Go, Sandgirl!" Hey, he was with me when I hit Baker Beach on the way out and proclaimed my undying devotion to sand running. What's he doing behind me? Well, whatever! "Go, Dude! Get ready for that Sand Ladder!" Yep, it's approaching fast. Gird your loins for battle, kids; here's where the fun *really* begins.

Trudging northward along the surf, I spy the "cheerleaders" stationed on the beach, clapping and shouting to all the runners. "Hey, y'know, this isn't the place you need to be; you KNOW where the suffering is. Get up there!" They laugh and one replies, "It's even tougher up there this year; they took out the railroad ties at the top." "What?? Oh, I know what you mean, I heard that they fixed that steep step where the ties begin." "No, there's a whole section of ties gone." Huh?? They begin loping north, leaving me marvelling at their easy gait. Man oh man, they even run like that in SAND f'gawdsakes! But what's this about the railroad ties? This does not sound encouraging.

Plod, plod, plod. Man, am I beat! Three miles left, though, hang in there. All you have to do is get over that Sand Ladder and then it's all downhill and flat from there. I trudge by a runner and eye him tentatively before offering my usual encouragement. "Oh, I'm not racing, I'm just out for a run!" "Oh, well, then have a good run, anyway!" "Thanks! And good luck to you." "Thanks, I'm gonna need it; I know what's coming next...."

A volunteer stationed where outward-bound runners first hit Baker Beach calls out to those of us going the other way, "Turn inland at the orange ribbons! Run back up the sand!" Yeah, yeah, yeah, you don't need to remind me, I have anticipated this moment with fear, loathing, and trepidation from the moment I began this run. Allow me these last few moments of denial! Trudge, trudge, trudge, don't look up yet, don't look up...maybe if you don't see it in all its gory glory, it won't hurt quite so much. Almost there, take a few good deep breaths, shake the legs a little bit, Here we go!

For those not familiar with it, the Sand Ladder is a diabolical feature of the Alcatraz run course that stretches up the steep, sandy bluff ascending from the beach to the roadbed of El Camino Del Mar roughly 200 feet above. A series of stout poles about 5" in diameter and perhaps 7 or 8 feet long comprise the rungs of the ladder, joined by two long steel cables. This contraption covers a distance of roughly 350 linear feet as it climbs the hill. I think. It's pretty damned hard to tell when your legs feel like two pieces of overcooked spaghetti when you *start* this climb, and it seems that it will never end. It's not so steep that you have to use your hands, but imagine a very long set of stadium steps and you've got the idea. Oh, but not including any of the steps at the *bottom* of the stadium. More like the last 20 rows at the top. See? And sometimes the steps are a little off camber. And covered with sand. Get the picture? Can you say, "Aaaaaagony!!"?

Yeah, well, the spectators staked out at a few spots on the ladder obviously had the idea, and were more than happy to bear witness to the grief this "feature" was inflicting upon us. Oh, they provided a cheering section, but they obviously were getting a vicarious kick out of our lactic-acid-flooded, anaerobic, new-HR-max-inducing sufferings. Boy, they sure knew where the action was!

10 steps up and already I say "Uncle" and forget jogging. Just survive it! Even walking these steps sends my heart rate and my breathing to places I'm afraid to contemplate. Just---wheeze----keep----gasp----focussing. Huff puff. Focus----wheeze----on the-----wheeze----very next-------huff puff---- step. One step---gasp---at a----wheeze----time.

I hear spectators calling out encouragement, and all I can do is wave weakly in response. Focus, focus, step, step, keep moving, forward, up, keep breathing....wheeze....swing the arms, use them to propel and lift you-----gasp---up. Next step, next step, next ste----- Hey, wait a second, where have all the--wheeze--poles gone? I cease my shoe-gazing for a moment and look upward in a state of disoriented confusion. What's happened to the top section of poles?? There's supposed to be another 20 yards of poles before it flattens out a bit and we hit the railroad ties. What the...? Guess what: the Ladder's disappeared, leaving just the Sand. And at least another 20 yards of steep hillside. Aaaaaaaargh!

This is not funny. Help. This hurts. Think "Pain" and you have the general idea. Trudge. Struggle awkwardly. Move slowly. Breathe hard. Harder. Don't look up, there's more left than you want to know about. Gasp. Wheeze. Yipe!

I've never been so happy to see a 2-foot high step to a railroad tie in my life. Obviously I was misinformed about that particular step being "fixed", but at the moment all I can think of is how beautiful it looks, because it signals the end of pure sand and the beginning of the end of this bloody climb.

Up the ties, across the slatted walkway, and finally, gasping but triumphant, I emerge upon the dirt trail alongside El Camino Del Mar. I'd give a whoop but have nothing left to whoop with. I settle for understatement, telling the volunteer at the top "I hate that thing." He just grins impassively. He's obviously been seeing a lot of this.

I recover gradually, jogging up the considerably less steep trail here, incredible relief flooding over me as I realize that this is the last uphill; once this trail tops out, it'll be all downhill. Trot, trot, trot, just another 100 yards or so, trot, trot, trot, almost there, trot, trot, trot. Bingo! No more climbing today, let's go home!

I'm so fatigued it's hard even to enjoy the downward tilt of the trail. Wow, was I this wiped out here last year? Boy, it's been such a tough race today. And look at your time! Unless you can pull off a couple of 7 minute miles (ha ha ha ha!) there is no way in heaven or hell you're going under 4 hours today, TriBaby. Oh, who cares? At this point all I want to do is finish, and, now that the hills are all done, I know I can. Whew! All ya gotta do now is keep moving, keep moving. You'll get there. Enjoy the view, just keep moving.

I remember the silly words rattling around in my brain over this section last year: "MOPper or BOPper? MOPper or BOPper?" Well, I'm pretty sure I'm a BOPper once again, but y'know what? There ain't a thing wrong with being a BOPper at Alcatraz. This course can spank anybody. So, instead of my MOPper-BOPper jingle, I've got a Beatles song stuck in my head: "We're on our way home, we're on our way home; We're goin' home! You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead..." Yeah, this course is full of memories for me, and full of magic and challenge and pain and joy. It's a pretty complete package.

Back down the steep wooden steps, back through the final aid station, thank yous to the volunteers, back under the Bridge, beautiful and inspiring as ever, back through the low tunnel, down the curved concrete ramp, down the steep rock-strewn dirt trails which I had labored up so intensely some 90 minutes before. Just about an hour and a half ago! It feels like a lifetime. Down those painful railroad ties, willing my uncooperative quadriceps to keep me upright as I weave my way through tourists and walkers scattered along the way. At last, I leap from the last step to the level earth. Only one more mile! Just one, beautiful, simple, undemandingly flat mile! I have nothing left with which to hammer that mile, but I have plenty left with which to complete it. "We're on our way home! We're on our way home! We're goin' home...."

A late-morning crowd of walkers and joggers populates Crissy Field, enjoying a glorious day in the City. They urge me (and the scattered athletes around me) onward with, "You're almost there! Less than a mile to go! Keep it up, you're doin' great!" A weak smile and a thumbs up are my thanks. Of course, I'd forgotten about the cruel jest of the last beach crossing in that final mile. Oh, god, that's right, we have a little more sand left. Groan. Aw, heck, at this point, what difference does it make? You're in survival mode, girl, just do it.

Plod, plod, plod. I focus on the guy running about 15 yards ahead of me. Keep focussing on him, try not to let him pull away, try to stay in touch. I actually gain a few yards on him, but the effort wearies me and I ease up. Just keep moving, just keep moving. I see him turn away from the Bay, back toward the solid land above the beach. Whew, almost there, almost there!

I've reached the final stretch, the trail returning to the transition/finish area. Only about a quarter mile to go! Hang on, hang on. The runner ahead pulls away. He's beginning his kick. I'd love to go with him, but know there is no way. Just hang on, save a little something and you can finish the last 75 yards or so with a sprint. I hear the crowd now, and I can see the transition area. People lining the course are clapping, cheering, urging. "You're almost there! You got it! Go!" Patient, patient, patient, don't start winding it up or you'll die before you hit the finish line. Where IS that finish line?? I can see the crowd and the transition area, but where the hell is the line?? I have never wanted anything so badly in my life as that finish line!

I'm pretty sure it's close now, so I think I'll turn it up just a notch....the adrenaline kicks something into my exhausted legs. I pick it up. I can see the final turn ahead and I turn on even more juice. Hang on, hang on, hold this as far as you can. "Go, Mud!" I hear someone hollering. God, how funny! Must be the people who cheered me on my way out on the run. "Go Tricia!" That's Elaine! "Go, TriBaby!" That's Skippy! I manage a delirious grin as their cameras whir and click and I enter the final finishing straightaway, determined to finish with nothing but fumes left in the tank. It's even harder than I expect, 'cause the grass is disconcertingly lumpy and divotted. I'm amazed I didn't finish with a face plant! Instead, I power over the line, gasping and utterly exhausted, but ecstatic to have finished. I was even more ecstatic to be able to stop running!

Whew! All done, at last! Final time: 4:17:47. Boy, 12 minutes slower than last year, and I don't even have the excuse of a flat tire this time. However, the swim sure did a number on me, as did the extra mile of running to the transition area, and that new uphill section at the beginning of the run made an enormous difference. Surprisingly, despite a much tougher course, my run split was just 2 minutes slower this year. Hey, that's not too bad!

Alcatraz was a heckuva lot tougher this year than I anticipated. Boy, I'll never underestimate that race again. I finished feeling far more exhausted than I did after the Wildflower Long Course. No doubt about it, Alcatraz is a race to be reckoned with.

I met up with several RSTers post-race, including Kurian, Randy, Scott Hoeschen, and Frank "TriPunk" whose last name I never got. Seems that everybody had a helluva time battling that current on the swim. When I spoke with race director Dave Horning a few days after the race, he told me that they picked up a record number of swimmers caught in the current and pulled beyond the Mason Street pier. Somewhere between 80 and 90! Kurian was among the unfortunate souls swept beyond the entrance to Aquatic Park and ended up hitching a kayak ride back into the cove. When we found each other after the race, I think the first thing he said to me was, "Man, Tricia, why didn't you warn us about those hills???" I could only laugh. As you can see, words don't do justice to this course. Come out and try it sometime; Alcatraz is a race you'll never forget!

Finis.