With Eyes Wide Open
August 25-27, 1999
Not
good. This is definitely not good.
"You'll
have to send me the original invoice to prove that you own this item, sir.
Without the original invoice, we can't release it from customs unless the
GST is paid." Incredulous, I
white-knuckled the phone as I stared off into the bay..."But ma'am, I'm a
U.S. Citizen, and so is my bike. I
own it. How can you tax me on a
good I already own?"
From
the euphoria of yesterday, I have plummeted into the bureaucracy that runneth
amok today.
I
had UPS'ed my bike to Canada to help make the trip less stressful.
Simple, right? Buy a case.
Put bike in case. Ship from
Bob Mina in United States to Bob Mina in Canada, at the Bike Barn's address.
Looks great on paper, right? Hah.
If I'd had any hair left, I'd have pulled it out on the spot.
Like a CD with a scratch in exactly the wrong place, my counterpart on
the phone repeated her side of the story: "Based on the value of your
shipment, sir...GST must be paid in order to release it from customs..."
Faced with the prospect of a 138.2 mile run, my options were mighty
limited. I whipped out the Visa,
and with no small degree of frustration involved purchased back a bike I'd paid
off just before I'd left home.
With
a promise that the bike would be delivered the next day, I tried to breathe a
sigh of relief. As I laid back down
on the warm sands of Second Beach in Stanley Park, I found myself musing that
maybe Mrs. Cartman was right...humming "Blame Canada...Blame
Canada..." as I tried to not let the small crisis tweak my day too badly.
When you have as much nose as I do...getting it bent out of shape usually
takes weeks to put it right.
With
this small hiccup out of the way, Lynda and I would spend one last day in
Vancouver before heading East on the drive to Camp Penticton.
The last afternoon on the beach was the perfect cure for what ailed me.
Listening to the waves, the birds, and the breeze, I was slowly learning
that the stress that in 1998 had kept me awake at night, shortened my fuse to a
nearly invisible length, and caused me to philosophize why in the world I would
ever want to do something like this again...would not be coming back.
Maybe
it was because it had been the first one, maybe because I had my father and his
girlfriend there, or maybe because of El Nino...the week leading up to IMC 1998
was the most miserable I had ever been in my tri career, and poor
St. Lynda had been a helpless passenger for the entire trip. Unable to say anything to help, unable to do anything other
than pray, the fact that she let me sign up again for 1999 was a gift.
I had promised her all year that I wouldn't allow myself to be the wreck
that I was...and that this time, I would make the Ironman experience a lot
easier for both of us. So far, so good.
Admittedly,
while that little glow on her left hand gave me a veritable deck of "Flaky
Behavior during Race Week" cards, I was determined to not hand any of them
in if I could help it.
The
next morning we loaded up the rental car, and following the directions of the
Noble Bruce Grant pointed our wagon East and set a course for Mecca.
The trip would take about 5 hours, and meander through the Canadian
Rockies all the way to Penticton. I
drove this leg and let Lynda sight-see. She promised me she'd do the driving on
the way home, when I was more likely than not to have my driving ability on-par
with a sweet potato if everything went as planned.
Past the snow-capped peaks, rushing brooks, and at least 31 bike-carrying
cars making the same pilgrimage East, we noodled along just taking in the sights
we'd flown over a few days ago, with everything as beautiful as we had hoped it
would be.
Near
the end of the drive as we turned onto Highway 3A, the hair on the back of my
neck stood up. Like a dog that
knows he's back in his neighborhood, I sat up and stared wide-eyed off into
space: I was back on the road to
Yellow Lake, for the first time since I'd been baked to a well-done crisp out
here one year ago. This time,
I was amused to actually see road signs counting down the KM's to Penticton.
Go figure...I hadn't seen them last year.
Other memories came back...the wind...the heat...wishing I'd had one more
gear at Twin Lakes. I didn't expect
it, but no fear welled up from within. No
deep pit in the stomach...no tightening of the hands on the wheel. This time around, it was all a known quantity.
This was simply the last climb of the day, and I visualized how it would
be to reach the top, with only 12 downhill miles to go to the run.
I quietly hoped for strength...and to Lynda's amusement leaned the car
down the seductive, inviting curves of the plunging downhill into town.
This
year, we were staying at the Penticton Lakeside, right in the heart of
everything. While the Flamingo
Hotel on Main Street had been quaint the year before, it was certainly easier to
know that I wasn't too far from anything during race week...including 99% of the
Tri-Deads, IMC'ers, and anyone else from the net.
If they weren't in the Lakeside, they'd be down the road in the Spanish
Villa, Shoreline Condos, or any one of the tri-dorms on the road to the Sicamous.
When Lynda and I got up to the room, the lakeside view was just
incredible. It was perfect.
I looked out over the swim course, then looked up and around at the bikes
starting to gather on other balconies, and just started grinning like a fool.
So far, so good. No
nerves...just sheer joy at being back to give it another go, and coming into a
life-changing experience with my eyes wide open.
"This time..." I said to myself, "I'm going to do it
right."
"We'll
need a table for 12...at least." I
grinned to the now worried-looking hostess, who scribbled down some notes and
headed off. So far the 7:00pm
Tuesday gathering at Earl's was a low key affair, but it wouldn't stay that way
for long. Jane "Shadetree"
Fratesi showed up with Robert, and soon Mike Kelly came strolling in. Out on Main Street a group of cyclists came to a sudden halt.
It looked like they'd all gotten flats at the same time.
"Must be some glass out there..." Jane mused.
Next came Samuel Barnes, his sweetie and Mom. We upped the table to 16.
Vicki and Jeff Owens. Sandra
Smith (complete with mini good-luck frogs from Japan for us all).
Wonder Woman herself, Kathy Majteka and Lori. We
upped the table to 20.
The
hostess asked us to move outside, and started wrapping the table down Main
Street.
The
Evil Eric Weiss, Adventure Queen Tina Hoeben, IronVolunteer Czar Jeannine.
D.B. Cooper, Don Corleone, Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, and 4 out of 5
dentists are soon sitting at a table longer than an aircraft carrier...and
Earl's kicks everyone else out to make room for the Tri-geek party that has now
ballooned to 40. Bruce and Martha
Grant, Iron Pete, Eric, Christine, the newly discovered Baby Austin, and Jason
Mayfield show up, and the table is now out to the turnaround
point on the swim course. We eat,
drink, eat, drink, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, drink, talk, talk, talk, and
talk.
3
Hours later, there's no traffic moving on Main Street.
Earl's turns it's lights out. We
take the hint...and move en masse to the parking lot.
We talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, and soon it's 11:00pm.
We have to be up in 7 hours to swim.
We're all smiling. We're
kids with no parents at home. It's
the playground with no-one to tell you that you're swinging too high.
Welcome to Camp IMC. Start
smiling, and don't ever stop.
The
party has just begun.
5
Days to go.
"Who's
got the radio?" asked the
Cowboy.
"Bob's
got it!" answered the Indian.
"Working
on it!" added the ham-handed soldier, trying to find the PLAY button.
With
a quick THWACK of her hammer, the Construction Worker motivated the Soldier to
find the buttons a little faster, while the Policeman just looked on and
laughed...shooting everyone in sight with his water pistol, including his
Tri-Fed Referee prisoner. With Tarzan nowhere nearby, Jane pulled a camera out of her
tunic and captured the whole scene so that she wouldn't have to explain it
later, while the Pirate, the surgeon, and one confused and wily Scot in his kilt
looked on at the rapidly expanding madness.
Nearby, one of the lifeguards picked up the wayward, ummm, balloons from
his suit, and posed for the cameras.
If
your mother had wandered into this scene on some idle Wednesday, chances are she
would have called the Police, the Fire Department, and Jerry Springer.
But in Penticton the Wednesday before Ironman?
The wilder the better...as costumes take over from the Speedos in the 4th
Annual Hogman's Splash and Dash. The
strictly non-competitive race always is good for blowing off some steam, and
this year was no exception. With
the careful planning of Eric Austin, we had fielded the largest team in the
race: The Village Hogs.
Eric
Austin was the gunslinging Cowboy, and Mike Kelly was the Indian (complete with
custom made, somewhat water proof Head Dress).
Lynda had rolled up her sleeves and grabbed her "#*@&ing
tool belt" to be the construction worker, and I had dressed up like
something out of the rejects from Hogan's Heroes to be the soldier.
Eric Weiss was the cop complete with Helmet, shield, water gun, badge,
and our own Kathy Majteka...dressed in her USA Triathlon officials gear, as his
handcuffed prisoner. Samuel Barnes
was the escaped surgeon, and Steve Wyle was the perfect pirate.
Mike Plumb put a kilt over his suit, and there we were: Freaks on Parade,
complete with bagpipe accompaniment. Jane
was dressed like, well...Jane (minus Tarzan).
We
were supposed to swim 500 meters and run 3K, but I don't think we quite did
that. The waves were too high, so
we waited (waded) in the water until the 'leaders' came by, then turned around
and 'ran' out. With Kathy's radio
among us, strutting to the tune of 'YMCA' we
bounced down the road, essentially causing everyone we passed along the way to
break into dance...including the lovely Martha "the Marshall" Grant as
we neared the finish of another silly day at camp.
To
be living and savoring each moment was the way I had hoped things would go this
time. After all the drama with
Customs, Apollo had arrived and been assembled by the Bike Barn in under an
hour, and everything on her appeared to be working at once.
The weather for the weekend was looking good.
Over dinner Wednesday night on the Lakeside patio amongst another party
of umpteen, a quiet sentimentality began to creep in the back of my mind. Certainly, I was enjoying every present moment the best that
I could, but I was beginning to think about next year...or more to the point,
where I wouldn't be in a year. As
much as I was trying to enjoy my time, I knew that each passing day brought me
closer to race day...and closer to the end of another IMC journey; My last one
for quite some time.
Two
weeks ago, I had signed up for IM-USA 2000.
With a fiancée in the picture now, I'd have enough wedding planning to
do to make racing one Ironman a challenge, with two out of the question. Canada
would just be too difficult to fit in, and to ask to come back here again would
just be too selfish. Not to mention that IM-USA won't involve a plane
flight...no more lost bikes...yep. As
hard as it was, I knew I was making the right decision.
However, on the balcony before dinner...I was kicking back with a book
looking out over the lake, and I just started sighing. Couldn't help it. Didn't know I was doing it.
*page
flip* Sigh.
*page
flip* Sigh.
*flip*
Glance at Lake.
Sigh.
Lynda
asked "What's wrong?"
I had to face it; "I'm just bummed. I know it's silly...but I'm already thinking about next year, and how hard it'll be to not be here..."
She
listened, and understood. Mentioned that I might be worrying a bit ahead of schedule
(Me? Really?), but she understood.
As a return guest to Camp Penticton, she was kinda' finding herself
hooked too.
But
why worry about that? I had this years Ironman Canada in 4 more days...and
strangely, I wasn't thinking about it at all.
As a matter of fact, I found myself so not-worried about the race, I
began to worry (Boy don't you just want to lob that one at a therapist and watch
his head explode?). Where last year
there was panic and fear, this year there was almost nothing to speak of.
Of course, I knew that the engagement had given my emotions an E-Ticket
ride somewhere between panic, passion and all stops in-between, so feeling a bit
out of sorts was no surprise. But
to be here with the race looming large before me, feeling no sense of purpose?
No sense of urgency? Almost
(but not quite) daring to say "It's just another race?"
There
was no need to panic yet...but I was definitely surprised at myself for being so
together.
Art
Hutchinson had warned me that I might want to wait until after the race to pop
the question, since I might be too emotionally spent to be able to recover,
focus, and have the race I was capable of. I began to think he was right.
If I could only put the race off another week, maybe I'd be more
focused...or maybe I'd turn into the wreck I was trying not to be.
Perhaps I'm feeling the way I'm supposed to feel, and I'm just not ready
to be so together? No, no...this is
getting out of hand. I'm nervous
because I'm not nervous? I can't
think about this year, but I'm depressed about not coming back next year?
Write them down on a job application, and I'll be sent straight to the
U.S. Postal Service.
"Sheesh,
Bob: Get a grip, will ya'?" I said to myself.
"Will you stop thinking and just be for once?"
Fair enough.
Well,
there are 4 days to go. Maybe it'll all hit me later.
I
hope. 4 Days to go.