From Dawn to Dusk.
August 30, 1998
*blink*
3:59am.
My
eyes pop open exactly one minute before the alarm goes off…as they always do
on race days. I smile at the fact
that I slept the whole night through…and smirk sheepishly as the alarm clock
fulfills it’s part in the Ironman script at 4:00am, thankfully needlessly.
It
feels like Christmas Day, my first date, and Graduation Day all at once.
I
manage to eat a peanut butter bagel, a Power Bar, and a handful of leftover
Pringles while waiting until 4:45am to leave. I’ve been hydrating like a camel
for 4 days…and to be safe(!) I drink another liter during the 2 mile drive to
the transition area.
I
don’t say much, and she doesn’t say anything.
As
we head towards Main Street, we get diverted onto some side streets 1 mile from
the finish. The fences are all set
up to close the finishing corridor off like the last kilometer of a Tour De
France stage. It’s still dark,
but the finish area glows off in the distance.
A part of my mind tells me that I might get to come back here in only 16
more hours…but I politely tell it to shut the hell up. This is no time, and I’m in no mood, to be logical.
Not
surprisingly, our car is only the 4th one to arrive at the few
parking spaces by the Hotel. We’re just behind the final corner…a left hand
turn off of Main onto Lakeshore Drive. As
we walk towards the empty grandstands from behind…I finally see it for the
first time, and stop breathing.
The
finish line.
The
clock.
The
streamers to mark the way home.
It’s
really the 30th of August.
I’m
really here.
I
need to keep breathing, I tell myself.
I
kiss Lynda goodbye, and head over to body marking. Just like at Blackwater, I have an early day brush with
greatness. Then it was Lynn Brooks…today it is Lori Bowden…easy to spot
since her eyes are already glowing in the dark.
I manage to mutter a “Hey, good luck, Lori!”, but she stares right
through me. Woman has her game face
on, and I’m not messing with that. A
volunteer snaps me out of my trance and says “Number?”
I
say “630-38- AGH! No. 633.”
“Are
you sure?” she asks.
I
check my bracelet: Yup. 633.
She
asks me where I want Don Lorimer’s initials…as we’ll all be carrying a
tribute to him today.
She
scribbles a little DL on my right shoulder…as a single tear manages to escape
my calm façade.
I
drop off the special needs bags…with the same items in each so even if I was
nervous and got them backwards, I wouldn’t screw up my day: One peanut butter
bagel, cut in 8 tiny bits; one bag of pringles. 2 GU’s…but I already know
that I’m just packing them to see how far I can throw them when I’m tired.
I
meet Jason and Gerry in the bike racks.
I
borrow Jason’s pump, and get the tires ready.
Bottles
in place.
I
say a quick prayer over the bike.
I
head over to check both gear bags.
Still
there. All set.
In
the racks, I meet Art. I know
he’s gunning for a ticket to Kona, so I keep my remarks short: “I know
you’re ready, go get it man!”. He
grabs my hand and says “Thanks…and no more of this ‘I can’t run’
&%#!, okay? Kick some #%! Out
there!” I smile…Art doesn’t normally curse.
I know he’s pumped…and his energy infuses me.
With
all the checks done, there’s nothing left for me to do.
Hmmm…it’s 5:30am.
Whoops.
Hey…I’d rather be bored than fixing a flat…so I count it as a
blessing. The AllSport tents are
up, so I head over and fill my pre-race bottle with the stuff.
I manage to find a bench looking over the swim course, and sit down next
to two other uber-efficient guys. For
a full hour, we sit…probably looking like 3 TV’s with the cable out.
No talking. No nothing.
I
manage to finish a half of the AllSport, but the stuff is just foul.
Sure, I didn’t train with it…but I only had a little bit.
I put the rest in my dry-strip bag and forget about it.
At
6:40am, I decide to squeeze into my wetsuit…and as I’m leaping about, my Dad
and Lynda happen to walk by on the other side of the fence!
I get to show them that I haven’t melted down yet, and as a bonus I get
to kiss Lynda goodbye a second time…just enough to make the morning a little
less chilly.
The
scene in the start corral at Ironman Canada is a sight that no camera could ever
truly do justice. The swim starts
in a U-shaped cove…with spectators lining every available inch of space.
Within the corral, 1,791 baby seals are busy trying not to look the
Ironman directly in the eyes just yet. Some
laugh, some joke, some stare at nothing in icy silence.
Others swim to warm up…I just watch all that I can.
I find Eric Weiss, and wish him well.
We’ve got a gentlemen’s agreement that if it comes down to a sprint,
first one to the Hog’s Breath wins…so as not to ruin the finish picture.
In
my heart…I know I won’t be threatening him today.
Tricia
is as brilliant as ever…laughing with Dave and Jason. With Kona in 5
weeks…this is just a long, catered training day for her.
Jason plans his annual pursuit of Cowman…and Dave looks cool…but
ready to light the jets soon enough.
Jane
is quiet…focused.
I
just try to soak in the electricity as much as I can. I’ve worked so hard to get here and hoped so much I could
make it to this start line…and now I have.
I want to go, but just I don’t want this moment to end. The energy is amazing…the people…the helicopters
overhead…the boats…the sun just peeking from behind the East mountains
again. The voice of Steve King brings me back…as I pull my goggles down, the
tears of joy at just being here fill the bottom of each lens.
They won’t fog now.
“….as
the City of Penticton wishes you well…and we’ll look forward to seeing you
complete the swim. We’ll also
look forward to welcoming you back into town tonight at the finish of the 1998
Subaru Ironman Canada….”
It is the last thing I remember hearing.
*BOOM!*
The
cannon goes off, and I start running. I’ve
seeded myself on the right side of the course, about 4 rows back.
I’m hoping to get out of the swim in about 1:10-1:15 today…so I just
settle down as quickly as I can. At
first, the bedlam is unbelievable. Bodies
are bouncing, stroking, flailing and popping up everywhere.
All I can see are bubbles, feet, green caps, and spray.
At 185 pounds, it takes a lot to move me…so during the madness I enjoy
my mass to the fullest. Lighter
swimmers bounce off of either side at every pull…but were all moving pretty
well, so I just flow with it. I
don’t feel like I’m working very hard, but I don’t feel like I need to go
any faster, either. The last time I
felt this relaxed in a swim was at Columbia all the way back in May.
I came out with a 22:50 then for 1500m, so I feel fine just rolling along
with the masses.
I
remember Jason saying last year that he counted the buoys on the way out and
back..and there were about 19 or 22 of them.
I’m passing the 3rd one already…but the field around me is
still positively huge. Everywhere I
look are arms, caps, and spray…backlit by the sun that has come out to see
what all the fuss in the valley is about.
The
first houseboat comes up in 26 minutes. The
turn is smooth. Despite the fact
that I’ve lost count of the buoys…I’m really relaxed and enjoying my
swim…and then it happens. It has
hit Tricia Richter and Eric Weiss before, and now myself. The Ironman swim
curse.
“Don’t
just stand there…Lets get to it…Strike a pose…there’s nothing to
it…Vogue.”
ARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
I
knew I’d read Tricia’s report too many #%(&! times getting ready!
“Ladies
with an attitude…Fellas that were in the mood…”
“Don’t
just stand there lets get to it…Strike a pose there’s nothing to
it…VOGUE!”
I
don’t even know all the bloody words. My
mind loops the only lyrics it can remember…which turns my swim from a pleasant
prologue to an underwater American Bandstand from hell, with all the dancing
kids dressed in Orca wetsuits.
Taking
another tip from Tricia’s report last year, I focus on the feet in front of
me. This guy kicks a lot.
I name him Mr. Bubbles. I
spend the rest of the swim getting tickled by the wake from Mr. Bubbles, whom
I’m sure is leaving his bike leg in this magnificent, underwater rooster tail.
While being hypnotized by the bubbles, I learn something about the IMC
swim course: Those little markers out in the water the day before?
The little orange ones? Plastic
milk containers. I know this
because I nonchalantly swim into one face first when Mr. Bubbles makes a sudden
tack to port to keep from taking us into the 3 foot high buoy that we failed to
notice *BOINK*. I’m laughing
so hard I’m borderline hypoxic…but I keep going.
Shore looks close now…and I can hear Steve King.
When
my fingers touch and I stand up to waddle in on the rocks like every other
disoriented penguins going for shore…my watch gives me the news: 1:03.
Nice! I glance behind
me…and for the only time today, I have more than 3/4 of the field behind me.
The little wakes stretch out to the turn 1800 meters away…and I savor
this little triumph. I know that in
time, this will change.
Ironman
Canada has the greatest volunteers in the world. The city of Penticton gathers over 4000 angels for race day,
and they proudly (and deservedly) call themselves the “Ironarmy”.
As I run up the beach, it looks like all of them have descended upon the
wetsuit strip area. Everywhere I see volunteer T-shirts running about with
triathletes being knocked down, inverted, stripped, propped back up, and moved
along before they even know what hit them.
As luck would have it, right in front of me is Martha Grant, Bruce’s
wife. I yell “Martha!” as 3
volunteers grab me from 3 different directions.
I shake them off: “I know her! I know her! It’s okay!” Martha spots
me as I drag 2 volunteers up the path; “BOB! Wow! You had a great swim!
*THUD!*
I’m on my back.
“Thanks!”
I grin.
One
woman on each leg…*POP* The suit is
off so fast, my legs suddenly feel jet-lagged.
“Thanks
Martha!” I get yanked up and
before I know it, I’m being pointed down the rack to my bike bag.
A volunteer holds the bag out, and I take it like a running back in
stride…off to the tents.
In
the tent, I finally slow down. I
dump my bag out…and take inventory. I
mop dry with the towel, and pull on Lynda’s sleeveless jersey.
Mine had split a zipper on Friday night…so I get to take a piece of my
honey on the course today. On with the shorts…fill up the pockets…ziploc bag of
pringles…a few gu…harvest bars…2 spare tires…2 stick on patch
kits…helmet…socks…shoes…that’s it.
(editors
note: Jane…I never found that card you said you put in there…but I
appreciate it, even if it was a smart-ass remark that would have made me laugh
out loud.)
As
I clip-clopped out to my bike…I tried not to think about all the mechanical
woes I had dealt with all week. I’d have 6 more hours to do that…and
didn’t want to start worrying before I needed to.
As
I pedaled out of town, the streets were covered from curb to curb with chalk
writings…and I knew my father had written something for me.
As I passed by town hall, I saw “Go Bob 633 – The Hurricane” whiz
below my wheels. It was a nice
touch, and a great start to the day. Some
folks were just FLYING out of town…I was holding 21mph, sitting up, eating
breakfast like I had every morning after my swim…getting passed like I was
nailed to a post. It seemed so silly to go so hard with so many hours yet to
go…but everyone has their own dream to catch, so I just let them go.
Even so..there were so many cyclists leaving at once…it was almost
impossible to stay out of the draft box. When
an official rolled by me, I asked “Am I okay here?”
To my surprise (I figured I’d get a nod) she opened her face-shield up
and took the time to talk to me! “Yeah…you’re
fine. This is tough on all you
guys…so just do the best you can. I
know it ain’t easy!”
A
town with hip draft marshals. I shook my head again…this was just too much
fun.
Feeling
downright giddy, I quickly settled into a rhythm…but I noticed that my stomach
felt a bit odd. Not bad…but a bit
more pained than the normal post-swim queasiness.
I figured it was the first time I’d raced 2.4 in the water…and since
I’d knocked 12 minutes off my fastest practice time, I drank some water and
hoped it would pass. Art Hutchinson
caught me on his smokin’ new Cervelo…with an audible wooshing sound.
Surprised to have beaten him out of the water…I yelled “Go Art!”
He waved, and set about tearing the road up one km at a time. The sun was still low in the sky…so I just started thinking
about what this day would hold for me and all of my friends…
…and
that’s when the noise started.
A
disquieting rattle from the head tube, and my blood instantly froze.
I was 5.2 miles into the bike…this can’t be happening.
Not so soon. Please
God…not so soon.
Whenever
I hit a bump or turned the bike, the whole front end buzzed like something was
cracked…or loose. I spent 3
minutes rolling along at 10-12mph trying to listen.
I’d brake…and listen. The
headset was loose…so I grabbed the locknut and tightened it down again.
Another rolling test…more rattling.
I stop, and shake the aerobars and stem up and down for all they’re
worth. Thankfully, they seem solid.
By process of elimination, the source of this noise is down to the front
wheel.
I
have been at the roadside for 5 minutes…and counting
I
check each set of Spinergy spokes…looking for but hoping I don’t find the
crack that would end my day. They
all seem tight and together. In
mock frustration, I pat my hand on the wheel…and the wheel rattles a reply
from near the valve stem. I grab
the stem and hit the wheel again…
Silence.
Beautiful, blessed, ‘You’ve found it’ silence.
With
enough relief to bring a second sunrise to Penticton…I screw the loose valve
extender back in…and with my legs shaking with relief climb back aboard.
As I do, Eric Weiss blows by asking “Are you okay?”
Somewhat amused to have lost my lead so quickly…I yell “Yup!” so he
knows it’s true…and noodle along gingerly…hoping that this will be the
only mechanical heart attack I have all day.
I wave to the distant image of Mr. Weiss…who will become a yellow dot
on the horizon before too long. I
won’t catch him today…but it is not a day for me to race anything other than
the course. I smile to myself as he
jets away…thinking of the comments I’ll hear on the run later for setting
such a piano tempo on my strongest leg. Racing
the course…riding within myself…a good plan.
If only this stomach ache would finally die down…
10km
later that nagging stomach pain has now expanded to the point that I can’t
breathe in without pain. This is
another first for me. I have never
had any GI problems all year…and this is a pretty lousy day to have them pop
up. I quickly start going over my
intake for the day…a short list since its only 9:00am.
The food in the hotel…the water driving to the start…the AllSport on
the bench…the AllSport on the bench.
The
#%(* AllSport.
What
was I thinking? In my mind, I
scanned over all the reports I’d read for this race, remembering Bruce Grant
and his stomach of fluid that wouldn’t go anywhere…until he hit the salt in
the chicken soup. It’s early, but
I have nothing to lose…I reach for the Pringles in my pocket and mow through
the entire bag, spraying Pringle crumbs behind me at 30mph.
No more AllSport…I’ll do water the rest of the day.
As I approach the base of Richter Pass 10 miles later, my stomach has settled…and I feel like I’ve dodged a major bullet.
The
climb to Richter is gentle…and I quickly shift all the way down to my 39x23.
Sure, I could ride this in my 21 or 19 if I was racing…but today, I
want to survive. I’ve been talking to anyone who hangs around long enough to
listen. I wave at spectators.
I start waves for people at the roadside.
The view just keeps getting better and better and better. I can’t wipe this damn smirk off of my face…even if its
hotter now…and I’ve got 3 miles of climbing to go…this is why I came here.
As
the chalk messages roll beneath me, I am asked by Eric “Bob, How are u
feeling?” I think “Fine…I’m
riding easy, and having a blast!” I
am told that Jane’s Jinx is dead…think circles…remember Yoda…scrape the
toe…and finally…one down, one to go. This
must be the summit of Richter! On
cue, and per Andrew Murdoch’s request I let out a “WHOOOO-HOOO!” which
elicits a big reaction from the locals at the top.
Man, that was faster than I thought it would be.
As I crest the summit, I tuck in, and get ready for the speed I’ve been
working for….
Instead,
I feel like someone left a hair dryer on full blast, right in my face.
The
wind hits you from the wrong side of Richter…as it finishes its journey up the
valley from the other side. A
valley you know you have to ride through. 60
miles to Yellow Lake. 60 miles of
rollers. Hmmm…now is a good time
to shut up and ride.
With
my arms tucked in, I never once need to touch the brakes dropping down Richter.
Maybe without the wind I might need to, but for now Sir Issac Newton’s laws of
physics have my 185 pounds whooping by little mountain goats at
47mph…wondering if 50 would have been easy without this bloody wind. I look down at the stem once…and close my eyes.
I’m going too fast to worry about it anyway…so I tuck even harder.
The
rollers come too quickly, as hills always do after a hard-earned descent.
Up again, down again. I ride
the downhills as hard as I feel like, and spin the 23 on the uphills.
Up again…down again. The
scenery is utterly storybook: Tall
peaks of shale and sandstone on either side of the road…reaching for the
cloudless sky. Unfortunately for
those of us on bikes, those cliffs of beauty also tend to piss the wind off by
keeping it confined…and pointed in one direction: The one behind you.
As I look over…the grass at the side of the road is always
leaning…pointing back the way we came. The wind is huffing and puffing, but it
can’t blow this Bob down. Problem
is that when the wind does let up for even a second, the sun takes over.
It is higher in the sky now…and it makes me think:
Hey…Did
I get any sunblock when I left transition?
Whoopsie.
Well…I always wanted race number tans that lasted until Christmas
anyway.
As
I carry on through the rollers, I have managed to stick to my eating plan pretty
well. Every 30 minutes, I nibble on
a harvest bar and finish another bottle of water…and so far I’ve needed to
heed the call of nature 3 times. By the time the bike leg is over, I will have
consumed 13 bottles of water, and been reminded that I was well hydrated 5
separate times. Excessive? Uh-huh.
But as a rookie, this is the kind of mistake I can live with.
For
now I need to focus…the Black Hole known as the Cawston out and back sucks me
in. This section looks so small on
the map…and seems to never end on the bike.
At least the first 7 miles are done with a tailwind…but watching the
endless stream of people ahead of me is a bit demoralizing.
I see Wade roll by, head down and motoring.
Bruce Grant is in the same zone…and Art is still chewing on pavement
for lunch. Dave Barclay rolls by on a mission…but despite my looking,
I miss Eric. I know he’s up
there…he must be flying!
Ahhh…special
needs. 76 down, 36 to go. Once
again, the Ironarmy comes through flawlessly.
One volunteer calls the numbers, 4 more hand out the bags…no need to
stop. Of course, just about
everyone stops to reload pockets and have lunch only a few feet after they get
their stash…but it just makes you feel so special!
In the bag…a card from Lynda. Bart
Simpson is on the cover yelling “Ay Carumba!”.
She says yelling it’ll help me get through the hills.
I smile, and tuck it into my jersey. As I roll away, the peanut butter
bagel tastes as good as I’d hoped it would.
I eat the whole thing, and start munching on my Pringles to clean the
palette afterwards. I ponder if
anyone ever gained weight DURING the race…but keep eating anyway.
As
I trudge back along into the wind (again) I figure I’m about 25 minutes behind
the Art and Dave party. Not bad at
all…as I roll towards the final test that is Yellow Lake.
Once more, I drop to the 23, and spin like a Maytag. On one of the first
rises, I see a guy off the side changing a flat tire.
It’s really hot now, and on the lee side of the Mountain…the wind is
gone. It’s turning into an EZ-Bake
oven out here…so I shout the same thing I’ve said to about 10 other flat
victims today: “Hey…don’t worry! Enjoy
the rest in the shade…you’ve got a long day ahead…long day!”
I get a wave…and at the same time, someone behind me says “Hey…you
told me that back at OK Falls…I remember you!
Thanks, man.” His name is
George, and he’s from Iowa. Just
to know I helped someone a little bit makes me feel a bit lighter…and I try to
think light as I grind my way up the final insult this bike course has to offer
me.
For
the entire grind up the last 6 miles, cyclists in Ironman Canada get a full
lane. This means that all the
traffic coming to and going over Yellow Lake has to share one lane over the top.
The cars waiting are still miles from the top…and when I start to see
them, I expect to get some serious grief. In
Philadelphia, this sort of thing would be resolved by shooting all the cyclists
until the road was clear…but in Penticton on race weekend?
Road Rage? Hah.
These folks are ON their cars, waving, cheering, and beeping.
I just let myself believe I was in the Tour de France…and this was the
finish to Plateau de Beille. Even
with the support I was hurting now…but so was everyone near me.
I just hoped would all be over soon…and that I could recover to run
well in about an hour’s time. As
I finally saw the blue sky that marked the top of the Twim Lakes climb…I felt
a wave of relief wash over me. Even
if something broke now…I could coast into town.
My computer clicked over 100.2 miles at the top…only 11 to go…and
going down!
However,
that bloody wind raged right into my face as soon as I dared to peek beyond
Yellow Lake. I just tucked in and
got ready for one more windy plunge…but this one was much worse than Richter.
The wind here was coming off of Skaha and Okanagan Lakes…and was much,
much stronger. More than once,
leaned over in a corner…a gust would just rock the bike and make it dance a
bit. At 45mph, this was a bit
unnerving…but I knew that if I could dance all the way down…the run was
calling me.
As
I cruised down one of the longer straights, I remembered Tri-Baby’s remark
about the marathon runners…and looked to the other side of the lake.
I’m sure they were there…but since my shades were under a good
coating of salt by now…I couldn’t see that far. Hell…I couldn’t read my
own computer anymore…so I figured that maybe I’d see the leaders coming in
when I was going out…at best.
Outside
of town…the wind was doing its best to wring every last drop of energy out of
us before we started the run. My
speed on flat ground was now 14mph…and that was as fast as I could go.
It was just past the beach at Skaha Lake that I caught Dave Barclay.
Consideri
ng the 25 minute margin at Cawston, this was a surprise. After
such an evil ride, I was happy to see my comrade in goofdom, and asked him the
most inane thing I could think of at that moment: “Hey Dave?
How do you spell RST?” As
I rolled past, I didn’t hear anything in response…so I looked back. In
one
gesture, his body language told me all I needed to know…but didn’t want to
hear. I could tell by the effort to
lift up the helmet that this was not a good moment. He waved to me…but his head dropped down again.
I knew that there was nothing I could say to him to make it better…and
talking would just waste his strength. I
said a quick prayer for him and rolled on.
As
I noodled down Main Street, I spotted my Dad 2 miles from T2.
He was waiting for me…dressed to ride.
He had rented a mountain bike…and was planning on leap-frogging me on
the run until I finished, or was so mentally fried I asked him to meet me at the
finish. I waved, and I could tell
he was relieved to see me coming in. Very
relieved.
When
I saw Lynda as I turned onto Lakeshore…I could hear she was relieved to.
The bike hadn’t burned to the ground…and I had made it.
It was 2:40pm. I could walk
the marathon…and still make it. For just one moment, it seemed to get easier.
I
had no idea what I was heading into.
In
the transition area, I hopped off my bike and ran to get my bag. My legs
didn’t feel too bad at all…which was a heck of a surprise to me. As I walked
to the tent, I noticed a lot of men and women just sitting on the grass…or
laying down in what little shade there was.
The transition area looked more like a triage unit…but I just kept on
going…trying not to see what I saw.
Inside
the tent, there were more guys just sitting and staring into space. I knew my
transitions would be slow…but I hadn’t planned on seeing this from so many
people. Clearly, the course was
taking its toll on everyone…and survival was becoming the goal of the day.
For me, since that was my goal from the start…this was no big change.
I had planned on starting my run slow, and then backing off…and from
what I was seeing, there would be no lost pride in that.
On
with the dry sleveless…the socks…the shoes…more GU to not eat…the
Pringles…number belt..and here we go. As
I shuffle from the tent…I pass the sunblock people, and pull an instant u-turn
right into another RST’er…I think it was Ray Britt?
I apologized, and said “OH…put these fires out goddesses of sunblock!”
Just like the rest of the Ironarmy…I was covered from head to toe in
under 8 seconds…and still smiling as I left for a little jog after my ride.
When
I saw Lynda…she was with Jenn (Gerry Kuse’s wife) and Theresa (Mike
Randall’s SO). All of them were
hanging together on what must have been a pretty stressful day so far…and I
suddenly felt really bad for all of them. I
needed to show Lynda I was alright…and maybe quell any worries Jenn and
Theresa might have had. As I
rounded the corner heading Back up Main for the 2nd time today, I
waved and hopped into the air saying “I feel giddy! I’m fine for now…but I
know the crash is coming!”
"D’oh!
Nice job!" I thought. "Could
have stopped at being giddy but nooooo…had to be honest and predict the bonk
with your name on it?" Oh well….What was that about the road to
hell and good intentions? To hell
with that.
I
would find out that the road to hell goes right to OK Falls.
At
first, I ran a 10:30.
Then
an 11:05…
Then
a 12:04.
Then
a 12:49.
I
stopped looking at the watch after mile 4.
Just after that, Christian Bustos cruised by heading in the other
direction, only 18 miles ahead of me. I
was psyched to see him getting the job done…he was my inspiration for starting
triathlon after I was hit by a car in 1995…and I knew this was his biggest win
to date since his brush with death. I
remember waiting a long time to see 2nd, 3rd and 4th
come by…each successive elite male looking worse than the one before him.
I began to wonder just how terrible this race was for them to have to go
from the gun…and then Lori Bowden came by.
Ponytail swaying in the wind…game face still on…same glow in the dark
eyes I had seen 11 hours ago. Unreal.
Girl is from another planet…I saw it. I know it. Almost took the whole
thing…amazing stuff.
By
mile 5, Dad was out and I now had company.
He was leapfrogging away…taping me with the handicam…passing me
again…taping some more. I was
still running…but my plan was changing minute to minute. First…run between the aid stations, and walk through them.
Then, by mile 7 walk the uphills, and the aid stations, run the rest.
By mile 9, it was walk the uphills, the downhills, the aid stations, and
run if only if I really need to.
At
mile 9, I saw Art Hutchinson…meaning I had missed Bruce and Wade heading the
other way. He yelled out “Looking good! Way
to run!” and I yelled the same back to him.
Lucky for me…he caught me during one of my brief ‘running
interludes’, which ended about a ½ mile later.
I kept my eyes peeled for any other Deads or RST’ers…but I was
definitely mentally starting to check out.
It was getting hard to run straight…and at times, I felt that my
sleeveless jersey was just too heavy…probably from all the water (sponges,
hose-downs). I knew I just had to
keep moving, no matter how slowly…and I would beat this thing.
The
one thing that was helping me were the spectators. It seemed that each house had a little cheering squad,
complete with programs in hand. Now,
the nice thing about being a professional shuffler like me? When spectators would see me I could hear them go
“633…Hmmm….” Flipflipflip (as pages turn) flipflipflip “Hey! Go Bob from Pennsylvania!”
During which time I may have travelled 20 feet…almost every house for
all 13 miles out to the turnaround. You
can’t ask for anything more after 11 hours of moving right along.
At
mile 10, I noticed the marker had been knocked over. Instinctively, I jumped off the road into the ditch, picked
it up, and got it back where it should have been…to the applause of those
behind me. I still don’t know why
I did it…but I think it had something to do with that nightmare about moving
race numbers last month.
I
wasn’t letting that sucker get away from me.
At
mile 11…more and more people were coming the other way.
Only 2 miles to the turnaround…and I’m beginning to believe…just a
bit. I’ve been looking for
Eric…but I haven’t seen him. Mile
12…but this is where it gets all uphill. I walk most of the way to the turnaround at 13.1…and even
in the hazy stupor I’m in, I buttonhook the turn for Andy Murdock. As I come
back around, one of the women working the turnaround asks “Can I have this
dance?” Never being one to pass
up a chance to groove, I hold my arms out and she steps in.
I wheel her around once, and manage a semi-decent dip before thinking
“Ummm…what if I can’t get back up?”
Much to the applause of the volunteers at this…the most remote outpost
for the Ironarmy on the run…I get my special needs bag.
In it, a pair of dry socks that make me feel like a new man…and another
2 GU packets to drop. This time,
the bagel with PB and the Pringles are like a gourmet feast…and I savor the
dinner break as I walk down the hill from 13 to 14 miles.
Dad
is still here, and providing key moral support. I feel okay…but I’m pretty darn tired. Conversation isn’t easy to hold anymore…but he just rides
along…watching the race unfold around him.
He’s seen marathons get ugly before, but the complete and total
meltdown of the field has surprised him quite a bit.
The handicam doesn’t come out as much anymore…the race is turning
into a war zone.
At
mile 15…I find Dave Barclay. He’s
parked in a chair at mile 9, and isn’t going anywhere.
I walk over to him and say “Dave…you can make it…just walk it in
man…just walk…”
The
eyes looked up at me…but my heart broke as soon as I saw them.
There was nothing behind them.
I
patted him on the shoulder, and shuffled on.
Dad
asked me if he would be okay…and I said I think so. The ambulance headed up that way soon after I left…but to
be honest, in the past hour I’d seen more ambulances pass than I could ever
hope to remember…so I knew he wasn’t alone in having his day end in an
unplanned way.
I
saw Shadetree heading the other way…and yelled hello…
I
saw TriBaby, Gerry, Ron, Mike R. caught and passed me, Mike, T., and tried my
best to say hi to everyone…but my brain was slowly turning to mush…and
sometimes all I could do was wave…
At
17 miles, Eric Austin caught me. He looked great! I asked him how he had found the strength to run so well so
late and he said “I stopped for a massage at the turnaround!
It was great!” Memo to myself – massage, next year. We ran together for a bit…and saw Cowman shuffling along on
the outbound side of the road. Jason
came by 4 minutes later…walking. I
looked at my watch. Eric looked at
his watch. We looked at each
other…and just shared a look.
It
was clear Jason was dancing with Cinderella…and midnight was going to be a
close call for both of them.
As
Eric moved on he said “Be sure you get some soup…the stuff really is great
right about now.” I said “But
they aren’t serving that until 6pm, right?”
He looked back and smiled “Dude…it’s
7:10.”
Whoa.
So much for my body clock.
By
18, I was done running…and it seemed that so was everybody else.
By now, the sun was gone…and I was focused on my new goal…I wanted a
glow stick. It was dark…and I
wanted a souvenir of my finish after dark.
Dad was still right by my side…and some of my walking buddies had taken
to calling him “Hey…Bob’s Dad!” as he’d been out there as long as we
were. At mile 19, I felt a tug on
my shorts…as Steve ‘Gibbo’ Gibson and his Aussie buddy Keith caught up to
me.
Gibbo
and Keith were great company…and made those last dark miles a lot easier to
take. At each aid station, we took
the soup, and it was definitely a gift from above.
I began to feel so much better…I hoped to be able to run the last
mile…maybe even the last 2. As we
walked and talked…I waved Dad ahead at 23 miles. It was dark now…and I didn’t want to see him get hurt.
I patted him on the butt and said “See you at the finish.” And with a
tear in his eye he just looked back and said “I know it!”
and rode off.
At
mile 24…I knew it was time for me to go.
I had walked and refueled…and it was time to take whatever I had left
and bring it home. Gibbo looked
over at me and said “Well…you’re just itching to go aren’t yah? Good on
yer’ then, Bob…see you later.” At
first, the shuffle hurt a bit…but as I turned onto Main Street…I knew I
could keep this up. I had to.
If I stopped, I sure as hell wouldn’t be starting again.
My
contacts were frozen to my eyeballs…so everything looked really close and
fuzzy. I really couldn’t remember
where things were in town…so I just kept looking for the Hogs Breath Café and
the Lakeside at the end of the block. I
crested the last little hill, and felt the terrain start to go gently downhil…so
there was less than 1.5 miles to go. Once in awhile, someone would applaud…and I would
wave…but my feet never stopped. My
legs were on autopilot now…and the lights at the end of the street were
getting brighter and brighter.
I
passed the 25 mile mark, but never saw it.
Rolf
Arands and his group come by…and I manage a weak cheer for them…
I
just watched the end of the street, willing it to get bigger and bigger.
I
knew there was a banner in front of the Hogs Breath…and I just kept waiting
for it.
I
can almost read the sign on the Lakeshore…it has to be getting close…
As
I strain to see the Lakeshore…the banner suddenly appears…this is mile 26.
The
crowd is bigger now…and they’re all yelling…and clapping…and I’m
running faster now.
The
pain is leaving my legs…I can feel the goose bumps all over …people are
high-five’ing me as I run down this last corridor to Lakeshore drive.
It’s
just a canyon of people…and me.
…and
just like they did for Christian Bustos…
…just
like they did for Lori Bowden…
..and
just like they did for 1068 that have come before and the 400 yet to come…
…they
will carry me home.
I
cry out: “Am I going to be an Ironman?!”
They
yell: “You got it! You got it! It’s all you!!”
And
as I turn the final corner…the line that seemed so far away this morning…
…it
is here again…and it is here for me.
I
can’t hear the people….
I
can’t hear myself.
But
I can see it.
3
years of dreaming.
11
months of training
14
hours, 7 minutes, 53 seconds of pain…
1
moment of perfection.
And
as I throw my hands in the air and make the final leap for the finish line…
…I
leave the ground and let my dream go free…
…For
I will land as an Ironman.
Hurricane
Bob
IMC ’98 – 14:07:53