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This is my version of the Adventure Race. Excerpts from this are recounted in this article by the Redoubt Reporter:

http://redoubtreporter.wordpress.com/2012/06/27/take-a-whack-at-adventure-backcountry-race-tests-navigation-endurance-teamwork-sanity/#more-8381

Ah, Adventure Racing.

Part Adventure, part Racing.

All Unmitigated Misery.

I’m kidding, of course. Some of it was mitigated. My point is, I had the chance to do some Adventure Racing a while back. And by “had the chance,” I mean my friend Yvonne forced me into it.

“Hey Mike, what are you doing the weekend after next?” She asked.

Before I could answer, she blurted, “That’s right! You’re going adventure racing. Get your stuff ready.”

Yvonne, who does a myriad of painful outdoor activities, such as running marathons and dog mushing, had done an Adventure Race before, but swore she’d never do it again. With that promising statistic, I hesitantly agreed to do it. But Yvonne has the tendency to get her way. I was in, whether I wanted to be or not.

The other member of our team was a very fit fellow with scads of outdoor experience named Clark. Clark climbs the Peninsula mountains with a frequency that would make mountain goats question his sanity. He sets a furious, steady pace, leaving most others in the dust. “Clark,” I believe, is just his civilian name; a far more appropriate moniker is “Quadzilla.”

The week before, the three of us met to go over recommended gear for the race, which would take approximately 12 hours for the fastest teams, and be comprised of mountain biking, hiking, and pack-rafting.

The gear list was intimidating.

The list recommended things like head nets – which I thought must imply there’d be a beekeeping leg of the race. Emergency blankets, flares, bear bells, whistles and glowsticks (obviously for impromptu raves), medical kit, wafflemaker, Space Station, fondue set… I can’t remember exactly what the list detailed, but we were all to provide and carry about the entire list. Luckily, I have experience as a sherpa.

Nearer to the actual race day, we got even better news; the 40 some odd mile race was going to begin AT MIDNIGHT FRIDAY. So, my Excitement Meter, which was already topping out, became absolutely pegged. Since nothing makes stumbling around in the woods more fun than doing it on no sleep and in the dark.

After driving up from the Kenai to a settlement near Palmer called Jonesville, which has the completely untrue distinction of being named after Jim Jones, we tried to get a nap in before the Midnight race start.

That proved impossible, as the Palmer recreationalists (Palmeranians?) enjoyed passing their time by discharging all manner of firearms into the woods. What we had envisioned as a tranquil, restful place turned out to be more like a Bad Day in Bosnia.

We met our fellow competitors and race organizers and received some elucidation regarding the course. People were ubiquitously nice and eager to get going. We apparently missed the memo about mandatory beards for serious adventure racers. Even the men had them. I’m kidding, of course. One interesting and great thing about adventure racing is that the most recognized dynamic is coed three-person teams. Like ours. This encourages strong and amazing women to compete hard, and quite often beat the tar out of those of us with a Y Chromosome.

In our case, Yvonne was our leader, as she was by far the most experienced. This was a perfect arrangement, as both Clark and I are used to taking orders from strong women; Clark having a teenage daughter, and me spending time with a strong-willed lady friend. Yvonne immediately poured over the course map, taking charge.

“We’ll take this road here, then make our way down to the river.” She said, pointing to a bundle of squiggles on the map.

Clark and I made thoughtful “hmmmm” sounds in vague agreement, and concentrated on growing our beards.

Soon, we mounted our bikes and assembled on the top of a hill. Thankfully, even near Midnight, the clear sky and proximity to the Summer Solstice provided decent ambient light, as the sun had set not quite a half hour before.

The start officially underway, we raced down the hill and into the woods. With our bear bells strapped to our bikes, the sound of nearly thirty racers ripping downhill sounded like a team of Christmas reindeer falling down a marble staircase.

Thankfully the woods proved sufficiently tamed, no doubt thanks to the gun-toting Palmeranians.

The trails, however, were a different story. Mostly made by another ubiquitous Palmeranian accessory, the four-wheeler, the trails were muddy, confusing, and everywhere. To add to the near-dark excitement, there were rocks, branches, deadfall trees, and puddles larger than some European countries.

But we did really well on the bike leg. We missed some of the first checkpoints, and I found I was of absolutely no help in this regard. I lacked the two basic qualities of successful checkpoint finding – knowing what a checkpoint looks like, the ability to see in the dark, good intuition, and I should probably add counting, since this list seems like more than two things.

In an effort to remove myself from any decision-making processes, I cleverly suggested that I carry the map in a waterproof case on my back. That way, when my team members needed to consult the map, all I had to do was get in front of them and make positive noises as they made decisions.

Being pragmatic by nature, Yvonne, more commonly known as the Yvonnergizer, suggested moving on if we couldn’t find the checkpoint in a given amount of time, as a late finish would prove detrimental to our overall point score.

We were the first team to the Transition Area, where we traded our bikes for backpacks filled with pack-rafts, grabbed quick snacks, and started up a mountain on rubbery legs.

Mine were rubbery, anyway, as I struggled to keep up with Quadzilla. Yvonne had an even better idea. She attached a length of shock cord to both Clark and me, thereby gaining some advantage climbing. Add in her years of dog mushing experience, and she was in charge of the dumbest and slowest sled dogs she could ever hope for. It didn’t help at all that we didn’t understand her commands.

“Gee! Haw! HAW! I SAID HAW!”

“Yvonne, is that laughter?”

“TURN LEFT YOU KNUCKLEHEADS.”

We made record time up Bodenburg Butte, found our checkpoint as the sun rose, and jogged down the road, ready for the next leg.

First onto the trails east of the Knik River, we encountered some difficulties, allowing two teams to catch and pass us.

We arrived at Jim Lake, eager to give our legs a respite from the previous 10 hours of abuse. Now, I’m a decent mountain biker, an okay hiker, but I was breathtakingly new to pack rafting. The first time I had EVER SEEN a pack raft was when I pulled it out of the pack.

“Is this it?” I wondered, looking over about a square yard of rubber.

It was.

It turned out to be a brilliant day for a regatta as I inflated the raft, which looked suspiciously like a pool toy. I placed it gingerly into the lake and attempted to get in. It was rather like trying to step on an eel. In all honesty, you could simulate a pack raft perfectly by donning a pair of rubber pants, inflating them to maximum capacity, and simply sitting on the water with a paddle. I pushed my feet forward and fell into the raft’s bottom. I felt my kidneys move at least three inches up. Astonishingly, I had managed already to get a significant amount of water in the bottom of the raft, so perhaps my kidneys were merely trying to avoid drowning.

In my haste to inflate the raft, I had overlooked inflating the raft’s seat, which made me look more or less like a head resting on an inflatable sausage. An added bonus was that my wildly inefficient paddling did less to propel me forward and more to ship water directly into my lap.

Seat inflation corrected at the next portage to the river system, we made our way down the maze of connecting streams toward the Knik River and the finish line.

We had survived the race.

“That was fun. Let’s never do that ever again, ever.” I suggested.

In the off chance that we do, I’ll start growing my beard now.

Ah, Adventure Racing.

Part Adventure, part Racing.

All Unmitigated Misery.

I’m kidding, of course. Some of it was mitigated. My point is, I had the chance to do some Adventure Racing this past weekend. And by “had the chance,” I mean I was roped into it by my friend Yvonne, who had done this sort of race before, but swore she’d never do it again. With that promising statistic, I agreed to do it.

The other member of our team was a very fit fellow with scads of outdoor experience named Clark.

The week before, we met to go over recommended gear for the race, which would take approximately 12 hours for the fastest teams, and be comprised of mountain biking, hiking, and rafting.

The gear list was intimidating.

There were things like head nets recommended – which I thought must imply there’d be a beekeeping leg of the race.

Emergency blankets, flares, glowsticks (since you never know when a rave might break out), all of these things we were supposed to provide and carry about with us. Luckily, I have experience as a sherpa.

Nearer to the actual race day, we got even better news; the 40 some odd mile race was going to begin AT MIDNIGHT FRIDAY. So, my Excitement Meter, which was already topping out, became absolutely pegged. Since nothing makes stumbling around in the woods more fun than doing it on no sleep and in the dark.

I will fill you in on the gory details at a later date. Suffice it to say that the Beekeeping Rave was amazing.

I could see my nearest competitors in front of me. The ones behind, I couldn’t see, but I could sense them. If I slipped up at all, they would seek to gain from it. Right on the heels of those in front, I saw an opportunity.

I took it, and in the process, made myself one step closer to finishing.

I had finally gotten my bib and race day packet for Tri the Kenai.

The next day, of course, was the actual 3rd Annual Tri the Kenai Triathlon. This was my first real triathlon. Pink Cheeks in Seward not being sanctioned by the USAT because of its out-of-order disciplines (Swim, then run-bike, instead of Swim-Bike-Run like nature intended.)

I had been training a good deal in the months prior to the event. In under three months, I had undergone a complete transformation. From never having swum competitively since high school, never ridden a road bike, and a terrible runner who hadn’t competed in nearly two decades; to a good swimmer, a diligent, aggressive biker, and a terrible runner. In all honesty, my run time had decreased a bit, but it was still nothing to write home about.

So I had some confidence leading up to the race, and I hoped all my hours of hard training would pay off.

Months ago, when I signed up for Tri the Kenai, I had wildly guessed at my estimated swim time. Apparently, I suggested an estimated time of 6:00. I’m not sure what prompted this confidence, perhaps someone had stipulated that they allowed speedboats or jetpacks for the event. With that time, I was seeded second overall in the men, which meant that I got to share a lane with Alaska’s fasted triathlete.

Shockingly, he was far faster than I was.

Perhaps more shockingly, I was only a minute behind him leaving the pool.

500 yards (and probably a similar number of grey hairs) later, I had recorded a swim time of 6:54 and ran out of the pool to my bike stand and transition zone. I was in fourth place.

My transition went flawless to begin. Heart rate monitor, bike shoes, and that’s where the problems began. I struggled getting into my shirt. I know this is a fairly pedestrian activity for most, but for some reason this proved remarkably difficult for me. With the crowd cheering me on, I flailed and struggled to don my shirt. I just could not figure out what the problem was. A too small shirt on a too wet torso. I should really stop wardrobe shopping at Baby Gap.

Several minutes later, I emerged from the transition zone, bike helmet on, and bib, which was once fastened to my shirt with four sturdy safety pins, flapping uselessly in the breeze, attached with but one lonely pin.

Luckily, my bike ride was far better than the events leading to it.

Celeste felt lively and wonderful under me, and we blasted out of the school parking lot. On the highway, I monitored my heart rate, got passed by one perennial triathlete with a bike that I imagined weighed less than my water bottle, and passed one of the few bikers ahead of me.

Soon I had company, as another fellow with a lovely all-carbon aero bike passed me on Echo Lake Road. I kept a reasonable distance from him, acutely aware of the no drafting rules of triathlons, and made my move, passing him on an uphill. We went back and forth for the remainder of the ride – him passing me on the flats and me passing him on the uphills.

Fortunately for Celeste and I, the route back to Skyview consisted of a hill. A big one. A big, very inclined uphill one.

I arrived into the run transition zone nearly a minute in front.

Whereas my first transition was a crucible of what not to do with a transition, this one was the opposite. I left my bike shoes clipped into the pedals, dismounted, and sprinted in bare feet to my area. Bike in rack, helmet off, shoes on, I was off on the trails.

That’s when everything went pear-shaped.

I’m not a natural runner, as you might have guessed if you’ve read this blog before.

Race day was a great example of this. My legs felt wrecked on the run, and I couldn’t get up to speed. Lamentably, some of those behind me eventually caught and passed me. My run time was a disappointing 23 minutes.

The good thing is that I know I can do better, and I have put into sharp relief what my problems areas are.

Running.

So, my overall time was good enough for Tenth place in the men’s category.

I was hoping for a top ten finish, but I somehow feel like I could have done much better if I had been able to run to my potential.

But, it’s useless to dwell on what could have been, and now I am saddled with the task of figuring out what to do next.

Fortunately, this has already been decided, as I am doing an adventure race near Palmer tomorrow.

Oh, and the best part? It’s at least a 12 hour race, and it starts at midnight…

If anyone needs me, I’ll be fighting with my shirt.