Getting There is Half the Fun.
August 24, 1998
“How do explain color to a blind man?”
Eric
Weiss – The Great Floridian Race Report, Fall 1997.
Such was the statement I thought summed up all there was in triathlon, but especially what I thought of the Ironman experience. It has been 17 days since I leapt across the finish line, and into the hopelessly unmatched but caring arms of Jean, my finish line attendant. In one second I went from dreamer to doer…my faith became fact…and the Ironman looking glass became a new window for my view of the world. It was so powerful and so deep an experience, I have had to walk away for a bit.
Since
that moment I have had to turn away from everything that had anything to do with
triathlon. I needed to let the
pieces of that day put themselves together in my mind. The best moments came to
the fore from all the emotions I released, and settled themselves into a report
I hope will do justice to all of the people and happenings I found on my way to
Main Street on that day.
I
ask for your forgiveness in being one of the last to come home from B.C. as it
were…but I wanted to do this right.
And don’t feel slighted…my bike is still in pieces, too.
Speaking of my bike…that’s where the story begins.
“Okay…this
is it. We get it this time, right
guys?”
My
eyes are stinging with sweat…my arms are numb with fatigue…and my legs are
shaking from the effort of the last push. I’m
not lifting weights. This is not the run. This isn’t even the ride.
Skaha Lake road is 3,107 miles to my West right now.
It’s Monday, August 24…and I’m in the basement of
a local bike shop with two mechanics, Ford and Mike. Tomorrow morning at
8:05am, I get on a plane for Penticton to start the last week of an epic year. This is supposed to be the fun and easy part.
I’ve swum 204,176 yards, ridden 2,413 miles, and run 494.
I’m as ready as I can be…celebrating the fact that the long days are
over…the taper is coming to a close! Just
6 days to go…and just my bike to pack up. Fun, right?
Just an hour or two? Hah.
After
behaving well for the entire year, my faithful steed has developed a last minute
fear of flight. The stem has mated
to the fork inside the head tube…meaning that Phoenicia is 2 inches too tall
to fit in her case. Since it’s a soft case, there is a work-around…we’ve
decided to leave the stem in, and remove the handlebars. It’ll look goofy, but
I can remove the bars and get it there. The
problem is that bloody stem. In
trying to get it out before, we’ve managed to move it 30 degrees left…but
now its stuck there. The goal at
this point is to just get it straight so I can steer it without going in circles
in the transition area. I am NOT
enjoying my last day in Pennsylvania.
Ford
is holding the mallet between the fork blades at the crown, to keep things
straight. Mike is laying across the workstand as human ballast.
Me? I’m the lucky one…I
get to grab the handlebars and wrench for all I’m worth.
That way if it breaks…I can only yell at myself. This was my
choice…although at this moment, I’d love to fire myself from this job.
“Ready
guys? 1…2…3…” I breathe out, and pull for all I’m worth…. *CRACK!* Once more, the grip of a neglected steerer tube lets
go…and despite my efforts to stop, the stem whips too far. 30 degrees right. We rotate for the 4th time,
wordlessly, neither mechanic mentioning to me how bad the corrosion must be in
there to make this so freakin’ hard. Each
time it moves…I wonder how weak we’re making it in there…it just feels
BAD. 1..2..3…
*CRACK!*.
Too far again…rotate. As a former mechanic I should be embarrassed for
the state of my rig…but right now I’m too pissed off and tired to care.
“Ready
guys? 1…2…3…”
After
2 hours of hoping, weeping inside, and praying…the stem has been centered in
the fork, and all is as it was when the day began. Yet as I walk up the stairs,
I can’t help but think “How much life is left in this thing after all
that?” I try to ignore the images
flooding my mind of a fork failure on the backside of Richter…and the tumble
that would follow. Thoughts of
Thursday in my last training crit leap at me: I was a few bike lengths behind a
skin-suited demon on his Litespeed when his Carbon fork snapped…no warning, no
nothing…just blades into spokes…and 2 broken collarbones. I decide the best
course of action is to quietly turn away the visions in my head, and move on to
the tasks at hand. As Lynda and I
checked into the airport hotel that night…I’m already exhausted mentally and
physically. I feel bad for my sweet saint…I had promised her that I wouldn’t
be too much of a wreck race week…and here I was taking my first trip to the
zoo, and we hadn’t left Pennsylvania yet.
Hopefully…in the words of Jim Lovell at the start of Apollo 13, I’ve
had my “glitch for the mission early”.
Sleep comes quickly…for it’s too late to worry, now.
The
next day unfolds much more smoothly. Lynda
and I catch every plane we need to during the day (3!), and I amuse myself by
spotting the triathletes along the way in the terminals.
There are always a few of them at the windows…watching the luggage
carriers for any signs of bike case. Or those reading Runner’s World,
Triathlete, or VeloNews by flipping the pages at a speed faster than any human
could read…just enough to idle a nervous mind that suddenly has time and
energy to think about how crazy this Ironman journey really is to ending one way
or another.
Boarding
the last flight of the day, we stroll out to the 18 seat puddle-jumper that will
cart us to Penticton. Lynda has
been telling me that I can expect a slew of obscenities, possible whining, and
denial about getting on a plane this small since we made the reservations in
January. I’m somewhat
disappointed when she looks at it and goes “Hey…I’m okay…this is
fine!” I notice the guy ahead of me turns and smirks a wacky grin.
His legs are shaved, and he’s wearing a Saeco-Cannondale T-Shirt.
I ask out loud “You think you’re bike will make it on this flight?”
He replies “No way. No
bikes on this one…but they’ll truck it to your hotel room. No worries.”
Eric Weiss had warned me about this…so I smile a warm smile, having
been warned about this in the past and comforted by a stranger in the present.
The vibes here are good, I decide…and the stress of yesterday continues
to leave me with each successful leap across the country.
On
the plane, I reach up 3 rows and tap the smirky guy on the shoulder: “So where
you flying from?” I ask.
“Washington D.C.” he says. Suddenly,
alarms go off in my head. I notice
the hair. Very bright, recently
dyed blonde. This guy is about 6
feet. He could survive in the
desert for quite some time. I go
with the flow and say “Hello, Jason Mayfield. I’m Bob Mina.”
His
eyes expand to garbage-can-lid size, and with a roll of both and a cartoon-like
head wobble to clear the stars, he says to no-one in particular “Why do people
keep saying that to me?”
He
introduces me to Eric Austin…a quiet, fast-looking clone to Marco Pantani…complete
with shaved head, earring and goatee. Swamped
with the hopeless task of remembering 35 new names, Lynda will remember his name
for the rest of the week, and affectionately refer to him as “You
know…Jason’s friend, Marco Pantani!”
As
the sun sets below the mountains and we bounce our way on late-day thermals into
Penticton…the plane lands with a steady *thunk*, and Jason smiles. “Not
bad at all.” Lynda and I gather
our bags, pick up the car, and follow the rapidly gathering troops to meet at
Earls for dinner. I don’t know
where anything is, but I’m following a black truck with the license plate
“FE-DUDE”…as I later discover is being driven by IronLegend Bruce
Grant…going after IMC number 10 this year. Once The party arrives at Earls,
the introductions start at a pace impossible to follow. Jason, Art, Bruce, Martha, Wade, Cathy…a group of faces I
don’t know…but names I know so well…and suddenly, it feels right.
I
am finally in Penticton. I am
surrounded by friends. I have a beer. I have food. Lynda is here to share this with me. This is a good start. The
bike? As promised, waiting for me
in the hotel after dinner.
Sweet.
I
settle in bed (the Flamingo is my hotel…2 miles from the start…somewhat
forgettable, but good enough)…and pass out with the thought of how easy
it’ll be to wake up for the Sicamous dip while my jet-lag is still fresh.
I smile…and smile…and smile…
I’m
here.