Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon

A fugitive Harry Skinner recounts his tale of one of the most colourful and unique triathlon races.

The Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon is one of the USA’s high profile events and always attracts a good list of entrants, so in December last year it seemed a like good idea to apply for an entry and thus single-handedly drastically reduce the quality of the field. However, as expected, the likes of me don’t qualify for a direct entry, and my name was placed in a ballot, of several thousand, and I didn’t think any more of it. Then in February I received an e-mail congratulating me on my success, my name had been pulled out of the hat and the organisers were delighted to inform me that I’d won a place. I suspected that I’d “won” a place in pretty much the same way that Jeffrey Archer had “won” a stint in Belmarsh.

            

Fast forward to Friday 12 June and I’m fresh off an eighteen hour journey standing on a pier in San Francisco with a beer in my hand looking out across the bay to Alcatraz and wondering if perhaps I’d been a little hasty. It’s a unique and unusual event, so maybe worth a report…

The Escape starts with a two mile swim from Alcatraz Island, in what the event website helpfully calls “frigid and treacherous waters”, followed by a ¾ mile run to the transition area, then 18 miles on the bike through the legendary Streets of San Francisco followed by an 8½ mile run along coastal trails and under the Golden Gate Bridge. Encouragingly, the website describes the final parts as only “gruelling and demanding”, so that should be alright then. It goes on to mention five different species of shark and three escaped convicts whose bodies were never found. I’m not really sure what they’re trying to do by providing this sort of information, apart from maybe succeed where several good laxatives have failed.

Still, training had gone ok, I was feeling as confident as I thought reasonable, and was happy to just wait and see what Sunday had in store. I’d be lying though if I didn’t admit that my first view of the island from the pier hadn’t moved my eyebrows a tad further up my forehead, - it didn’t look great, the water was choppy and dark, and I could see a line of surf about a half mile out where different bands of currents were cutting up the water. The swim is usually my strongest section of a race, and I wanted to make it count, but the conditions didn’t look much like my cup of tea, I’d done no rough water training, and the last time I was able to swim in water this cold was way back at Easter. Anyway, it’s the same for everyone, so I decided not to dwell on it and to find a good Italian somewhere where I could get some pasta and a nice drop of red. Experience and extensive testing has shown this usually improves things.

Saturday was registration and briefing, it lasted a couple of hours - it seemed everything was awesome, - someone had done a test swim that morning (presumably he’d also “won” this) and we were good to go in the morning.

The alarm’s off at 4:00am, no breakfast at the hotel, so it’s four Clif bars and a coffee. A chilly cycle in the dark through the empty streets of San Francisco has me looking and feeling more like Karl Malden than Dirty Harry by the time I arrive at Transition for 5:00. It was already pretty packed but the Marina Green was well lit by temporary floodlights and I get set up pretty sharpish and then onto one of the courtesy coaches for the ride to catch the ferry. It’s not called The Rock for nothing and there’s not really anywhere to jump off Alcatraz Island (although I’d bet that if some sadist with a uniform and a rifle was chasing you, you’d find somewhere soon enough), so the start is from a ferry which parks up just offshore from the island. It’s a big boat, with all the furniture taken out for the trip, and it’s packed with 2,000 competitors (I’m on there too, so unlike the organisers, I hesitate to use the word “athletes”). The plan is to get everyone off the boat, pros and elites first and then working up through the AGs, jumping from the lower deck, in five minutes flat. It all has that sort of cliff and lemming feel to it, - and that’s just what it’s like. In the 50-54 AG, I was near the back of the queue and ready to strut my funky lemming stuff. Squeaking, I hit the water at 8:06…

The water was cold enough to take my breath away, but I got to the surface as soon as possible and started getting into a rhythm. My plan was to start off strongly and then settle into a more comfortable pace after 15 minutes or so. We’ve been given a couple of landmarks to aim for, sticking to these should steer our swim round to the swim exit point, - simply swimming straight for the exit would allow the current to take us out of the bay and under the bridge. I believe the next stop’s Japan. Not surprisingly, I decided that this seemed like advice worth following. In practice though I found it very difficult, even looking up to take a sight every ten strokes the horizon had changed from my previous sight and I had to make big corrections every time, the current pushing me around in the water. Five minutes into the swim and it’s into some rougher water and stronger current. It’s about now that it all goes wrong and for some reason, I stopped dead in my tracks and couldn’t get going again. It’s two strokes, stop, tread water, repeat and then stop a bit longer, I looked at my watch and fairly soon I’d been dead in the water for almost 10 minutes, unable to work out what was going on, and I was seriously considering packing in. Another attempt felt better, then it was 10, then 20 strokes and I was off again and swimming comfortably. I’d no idea what had gone wrong, maybe I’d cooked it at the start, but didn’t think so. I’d swallowed a fair bit of sea water but didn’t feel bothered about it, either way it wasn’t a great start to the day and I wasn’t feeling too awesome about things now, and sympathising somewhat for lemmings. The remainder of the swim went well and seemed to get better as it went on, and I was passing people all the way to the exit, and finished very strongly, there was no way I was going to find ten minutes anywhere though. My son tells me that the first swimmer home completed the last 200m doing butterfly, - so when I say I thought I finished strongly, - I don’t mean that strongly. I’d taken about 48 minutes including my stop.

A short run then onto the bike, thank the Lord and sweet Mary and Joseph! The course is hilly, with a couple of Crocknorthesque grades (but not as long). There are virtually no flat bits apart from the start and finish so I’d decided to forego the tri-bars. Unlike most of the people around me, - everyone seemed to be riding a $10,000 bike with full aero kit, powertaps and pointy helmets. I’m sure that in the UK you might get a bit of stick from your mates if you were seen riding this sort of kit at 9mph up the hills, and then sitting on the brakes coming down them. Bike handling skills weren’t that great and a few corners had piles of bikes and riders at them. Had I got out of the water earlier I’m sure I’d have been among better riders, so my fault really. I did a lot of shouting, and got round in just over an hour. I was happy enough with that. In hindsight, I should have attacked the hills more, - I’d gone for an ‘alpine grind’ approach as suggested in the briefing, but the uphill sections weren’t really long enough to warrant it. The bike ended far too soon, and before I knew it I was back in transition looking for my spot in the same way you look for an old friend in a bar, when it’s his round.

My contribution to the running world is pretty much the same as Winnie the Pooh’s contribution to the field of quantum mechanics, and it’s usually a case of damage limitation for me. This run is seriously spectacular, hilly and hard work. From the marina it’s out along the bay to the bottom of the bluff that the Golden Gate bridge elegantly rests on, and past the spot where James Stewart jumped in to save Kim Novac from drowning in Vertigo. Not even a young, wet Kim Novac would get me back in there though. Well, maybe just quickly. Then it was a hard climb up to the top of the bluff, at one point it was so steep that I considered going on all fours, although I’d agree this is not really seen as good form. Then it was steps cut into the hillside to get us over the top, these were most unpleasant, and I think they should consider installing a stairlift. Once past the bridge the trail descended onto the beach and it was a marvellous run along the sand with the Pacific waves breaking on the shoreline. More stunning backdrops and then a climb up the famous sand ladder. I’d been really looking forward to this, in the same way as I look forward to optic nerve surgery without anaesthetic. During the briefing, it had been referred to as “a highlight”. The sand ladder is a set of steps, formed by chunky bits of rope, cut into the sandy hillside, - it’s a 200 foot climb in a fairly short length up to the highway, and I’d thoroughly recommend it to my local tax inspector, traffic warden and any estate agents. Particularly those with any heart problems or breathing difficulties. After grovelling around in the cave of pain looking for the torch, it’s one final climb back up to the bridge and then back the way we came along the bay to the finish and the usual humiliation.

I’d gone there hoping to make the top ten in my AG, but my poor efforts in the water had put paid to that. The standard was also pretty good, 75% of the competitors have to qualify for this event, so even allowing for my catnap in the water I was never going to make the top ten. I think I finished about 40th out of a hundred or so in my AG, and surprisingly still managed to get in the top half of all finishers. I’m still disappointed and angry with myself though.

It’s an absolutely cracking event, and is organised with a slickness and a smile that should be the ambition of anyone staging a race. A village to accommodate 20,000 spectators was built (and dismantled) overnight, the good humour of the local people was infectious and a credit to the City.

Mind you, I still find it hard to believe that Clint escaped from Alcatraz, and kept his cigar dry.