Core Temperature: Cool
The Core Run-Swim-Run-Swim-Run-Swim-Run
5 miles running, 1 mile swimming, maybe more. Nobody knows for sure.
Santa Cruz, California - Capitola, California
August 5, 2005

I really wanted to do something crazy this season, I just didn't know what it would be. I had eschewed signing up for a really long race, like a half-ironman distance tri or a marathon, because of my relative lack of fitness and profusion of fatness. I thought about a century (100 mile) bike ride, or a metric century (100 km or 62 miles), but I was having a hard time finding the time for the bike in particular with my day job and all. I wanted to throw something different into my mix of training and racing, though, because I was basically planning doing just a few local races that I knew pretty well, kind of a rest year after three straight years of increasing my training, racing, and traveling load.

So when one of our tri-club members announced that "The Core" was seeking entrants for a "run-swim-run-swim-run-swim-run" event, to be held at 6 a.m. on a weekday, I was very intrigued. The idea was that you would start off at the Municipal Pier in Santa Cruz, run down to the end of the beach until you ran into the cliffs, then swim around the headland, then run down the next beach until you ran into the cliffs, then swim around the headland, and repeat until you reached the pier in Capitola - over six miles away. The water would be around 58 degrees, there would be surf, currents, tides, and nasty sharp rocks to contend with, and I would have to get up at 4:45 in the morning on a WORK DAY to do it. This was in-freaking-sane. And what was "The Core" anyway? It sounded like some weird Santa Cruz new age-y cult. Or maybe it was a Pilates studio.

But the event was cheap! Like 30 bucks! and there was breakfast afterwards, and I could register on-line, so that made my decision easy. I signed up the next day. At last I had found my crazy-ass event. I particularly liked the fact that all the running would pretty much require me to swim sans wetsuit, since (a) my wetsuit has become a little snug for me this year and (b) I have always wanted to take advantage of my natural cold water tolerance in a race situation, but I've always been afraid to lose the floatation advantage the wetsuit would give. I'd been running a fair amount; I'd been swimming. I felt I could do this.

The night before the race, I thrashed about in my bed until way, way, too late at night. I was stupid. I was reckless. I was massively unprepared for such an insane event. What if huge waves dashed me onto the rocks? What if I cramped up in the freezing water and sank like a large, fatty stone? What if I couldn't finish? What if I got a blister on my toe from running barefoot on the sand? What if I stepped on a dead fish and got grossed out literally to death? I love how racing makes me confront all my fears. I leaned over onto Tim's chest and cried out, "Aaaaaahhhhhhhh!" with my eyes all big and buggy. "Aaaaaahhhhhh!" he replied. It's a pre-race ritual that has worked for several years now. I see no reason to change it.

It was really, really dark when I got out of bed at 4:45. It seemed very unlikely that the sun would rise in time for the 6 a.m. start. SIX A.M. START! What the blazes was I thinking? But then I often think those kinds of thoughts before I head out for a race. I dressed in my regular tri suit and industrial-strength sports bra, figuring that I had swum and run in that outfit many times before. Race goggles - check. Swim caps (2) - check. (2 swim caps for extra warmth in head region) Warm clothes and towel for afterwards - check. GU for the moment before the race - check. Out the door just after 5 a.m. Still dark. Over the sinuous curves of Highway 17, gateway to truancy in my high school years, and down into Santa Cruz. Still dark. It finally seemed to lighten up a little as I parked the car and grabbed my post-race bag. It being so nice and early, I could park right by the start. Neat! I checked in just in time, as people were starting to meander to the beach. Oh, dang! I forgot my goggles in the car. Pant, pant, pant, I dashed up the hill and grabbed them from the back, dashed back down, hurled my bag into the post-race bag van, and clambered down onto the cold, damp sand of Cowell's Beach.

It wasn't really dark any more, but I couldn't see anything. I thought maybe my goggles had fogged up, but then I realized I didn't have them on yet. It was the air that had fogged up. And how. I couldn't see the end of the beach, the part where we were supposed to jump into the ocean and swim past the harbor mouth (thoughtfully closed for us by the harbor patrol). I could see maybe 150 yards. The good part of the weather was that the windless conditions made for zero swell, almost no surf. It was as calm as that part of the ocean ever is, which was just as well. The organizers had picked a pretty low tide for us to work with, too, so that we'd have room to run along the base of the cliffs before the onrushing waves crushed us like so many sea bugs.

I spotted the instigator of this madness - the dude from SVTC who'd encouraged us to enter the event. He was wearing a wetsuit, as were a few other participants. Figuring, I guess, that they'd rather run five miles in a full-body condom than subject their scrawny frames to the frigid water. No accounting for preference. There were also a bunch of teenagers from the Junior Lifeguards program. Some looked startlingly fit and capable, others a little less so. There were about 60 of us altogether. The race organizer promised that there were lots of safety paddlers out there on surfboards, but I couldn't see them through the fog.

The starter sent the men off, then the boys, then the women and girls together. There weren't so many of us. Maybe 15 altogether? The men ran into the fog and out of my sight pretty fast, as did the boys. I felt the excitement of the start and the fear of being left alone in the mist, and I picked my feet up and laid 'em down pretty quick, for me. But still, after five minutes or so, I was in fact alone in the mist. It wasn't so bad. The historic Boardwalk loomed to the left, incongruously garish amid all the greys of the morning. A few seagulls squabbled over some garbage. I started to find a pace and get comfortable, though the fast start had made me breathe a little heavier than I would have liked.

About a half-mile of running, a splish-splosh fording of the San Lorenzo River, knee deep where it spreads across the beach in August, and then some more running, maybe just under a half-mile. Then I could see the rocks at the end of the beach, and the harbor lights, still lit and glowing green and red. I circled around the cone on the sand that marked the route, and headed out for the water. Cones to the right shoulder, buoys to the left. I decided not to dither around with the whole getting into the water process. I always feel it's better to suffer quickly and get it over with, so I took five big splashy steps and dived into the modest little waves. Gah! Ah! Crap! The cold took my breath away, not too big a task, admittedly, since my breath was already sort of taken away by the running, but this was alarming. It was hard to get a full lung expansion; the cold made my ribs seize up. The contrast of my nicely-warmed-up body and the icy water was especially noticeable. But I persevered, and after 15 or 20 strokes I felt merely chilly. In another life I was the walrus. Goo goo ga choo.

The former walrus plowed toward the first buoy. Even though it was ludicrously small, I ccould see it OK because the water was so still. Once I got to it, I asked the safety paddler (one of a reassuringly large number) where the next one was. He pointed into the fog. "Oh," I said, but after a few minutes of swimming in the general direction I did spot it. Eventually I even swam to it. From there I was pretty sure where the beach was, though I did get kind of disoriented once. I raised my head to get my bearings, and I wasn't sure for a few seconds whether I was looking at the beach or out in the general vicinity of Japan. It was all grey, and now my goggles were fogged up too. Excellent. It really was a vertiginous moment. As it turned out, I was going in the right direction, so I kept doing that, and eventually I felt some sand under my questing feet.

A little dizzy from the cold water, I waved at the volunteer posted at the cone, jogged around the cone and down the beach. Still foggy. I saw that I was close to another racer, a girl in her teens wearing board shorts and a swim top. I had actually gotten out of the water ahead of her, but she moved ahead of me, even though she looked like she was going real slow. Still, it was pretty nice to know I was within contact of another racer. The jaunt down this beach, Twin Lakes and Black's I think, was uneventful, and the plunge into the water the second time was merely refreshing, not paralyzing. I was going well. I thought I'd make the 7:30 cutoff for the end of the last swim - the organizers claimed they'd pull us off the course after that because the tide would be coming in. I found the first buoy with no problem and set off parallel to the shore. And then - OOOWWWWW! My right leg was lashed with a searing, stinging, burning, fiery pain. I knew instantly that I had been stung by a jellyfish. It was like a wasp sting, multiplied by several dozen. It was stunningly unpleasant.

I would like to be able to report that I gasped briefly from the pain and then soldiered on through the chilly brine. In reality, I stopped swimming and screamed like a little girl. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I said. A couple of safety paddlers looked over at me. "Jellyfish!" I sputtered. I trod water for a little bit, waiting to see if I would be able to keep swimming or if my leg would swell up like a massive sausage with little toes on the end. A blonde girl in a wetsuit glided over on the surfboard. "Jellyfish get you?" she inquired, not unkindly. "Yeah!" I blurted. "Hurts like a mofo!" "Yeah, it's a bummer," she replied, as though this were a common occurence in her world. "Will my leg swell up like a balloon?" I asked. "Naah," she said. "OK then," I said bravely, and at that point I did soldier on, though a little nervously, more fearful than I had ever been of the denizens of the deep.

When I got to shore, board-shorts girl was a little behind me. She was running a little funny, holding her right arm awkwardly. She ran beside me. "I got stung by a jellyfish!" she announced. "Yeah, me too," I answered. "It hurts really bad," she commented, trying to sound calm, not totally succeeding. "Yeah it does," I answered. I looked over at her arm. "Whoa, dood," I said, "you got it bad!" I could see the red welts across her forearm. Clearly she got a really nasty dose of venom. We jogged side by side for a while, partners in neurotoxin discomfort. My leg stung and burned and felt weird, like chills were running up it from the ankle.

"My arm's starting to swell up, I think," Board-shorts said. She flexed it gingerly a few times. The offending limb was getting puffy, right enough, and it was red from wrist to above the elbow. Not good. "I'm not going back in the water," she said, and I couldn't say as I blamed her. I wasn't that keen either. "OK, when we get to the next cone there'll be a volunteer," I said. "You can drop out there and the fire department will take you to the finish." "OK," she said. She was bummed but relieved. But there was no volunteer. Just a cone, startlinly orange in the swirling fog. We looked around a bit, to no avail. I offered to send one of the safety paddlers in once I swam to the next buoy. "Hang in there!" I called back as I plunged into the suddenly threatening water again.

I swam with trepidation, but the water didn't get me again, and when I reached the buoy I explained the plight of Board-shorts's nasty sting. He set off for the sand, and I turned for the next leg of the swim. My leg was hurting, but it was manageable. I just didn't want to be touched by anything for the rest of the swim. Hah, said the ocean gods. Check this out - and suddenly I was being clutched at by the uppermost fronds of a massive kelp forest. It was like swimming through a thousand tentacles, but fortunately without the sting. The next buoy was about 200 yards away, and there was nothing but kelp between me and it. This sucked. I tried to knife my way through the leaves and stems, but it was slow. Then I tried just crawling over it. That was slow too. I complained to the paddler near me that this was nasty, and he agreed, but pointed out that the only kelp-free paths were dangerously close to the rocks or way out to sea. I sighed. After a good-sized eternity, I passed the buoy, got out of the kelp, and swam like crazy for the beach. This time, there was a volunteer. "You did it!" he yelled. "That was the last swim!" Cool. But would I make the cutoff? It was 7:32 by my watch.

The volunteers at the end of that beach (I had now lost track of the beach names) were looking at their watches. "Did I make it?" I panted. "Yeah, go ahead," they said, "the tide's coming in slow cause there's no wind." I scrambled over some very slippery rocks and onto the next stretch of sand. Now the beach, such as it was, was very narrow indeed, and there were lots of rocks and shells and other pitfalls for the unwary foot. I jogged on. I noticed that, for perhaps the second time ever in a race, I didn't feel hot. I liked that. My legs were moving rhythmically. All I had to do now was beat the tide.

I saw clumps of surfers bobbing in the tiny waves. Some of them were just walking down the stairs from their cliffside homes. That seemed like a pretty nice setup. I nodded to the surfers and to the few dog-walkers, but mostly I jogged. I tried to keep my pace fairly high, because I was very aware of the tide, but I was still slow. I reached one obstacle course of seaweed, tidepools, and carved rock at the base of a cliff point, and had to inch my way across it. Volunteers said lots of folks had gone down there; I had no desire to follow suit.

I ran on; the beach got narrower, on average. Finally I could see Capitola pier through the fog, a very welcome sight indeed. But before I could reach my goal, I had to attempt a rock scramble that proved too challenging, then climb back the way I came and go back in the water for a last, unofficial swim leg of 25 yards or so. Kind of exciting, but that was the end of the big adventure part. It was a straight shot to the pier now, and I could see volunteers waving me in. In a fit of sadistic pique, the organizers had put the finish line at least 100 yards past the pier, in the softest sand on the beach. I lurched and gasped my way to the end. One volunteer was overcome by my performance, "You go! You rock!! You are such an athlete! You're my hero!" she hollered until she was hoarse. It was very gratifying. I stumbled across the line in about 1 hour 48 minutes, the last person to finish. Quite a few folks had dropped out though, what with the cold and the jellyfish and all.

Everyone was very nice at the finish, but they had run out of hot coffee, hot chocolate, hot water, muffins, croissants, donuts and, in fact, every last element of the promised "breakfast." To my surprise, I remained equanimous. I felt pretty darn gleeful overall, and I wasn't even that cold or hungry. I saw Board-shorts, with her arm red and swollen and covered in a white powder. "Meat tenderizer," she explained. I nodded and smiled. (Meat tenderizer?) I stood around in my wet tri suit for a while, trying to figure out how to get back to Santa Cruz. There was no race shuttle, and most racers had already left, seeing as I was so much slower and all. Eventually I begged a ride with the water safety coordinator (thanks, dude) and went off to change into my sweats. I was covered with a fine layer of grey sand in the most unlikely places, a bonus gift from swimming through the mild surf. Santa Cruz sand is sticky, too, so I had a hard time drying it off. It had also contributed to a nasty chafe rash on the inside of each upper arm. And I could see some welts forming on my leg from the jellyfish encounter. Otherwise, though, I was pretty much ok.

The water safety dude said that rubbing meat tenderizer or vinegar on the sting would help it. I couldn't imagine how, but I smiled and nodded. He was the one who had treated Board-shorts in the same mysterious way. On the way back to Santa Cruz, I started to shiver, finally, but once I was back in my car with the heater blasting, all was well. About half a mile from the beach, the fog cleared like magic and everything was bright and Californian. Life was good, even if I did have to drive 70 miles to work now.

Oh, and The Core is a non-profit providing recreation programs for Santa Cruz kids. Can't wait for next year!