The Sunrise Within
August 26-28, 1999
*
clik *
"Okay
Mr. Mina, there you go. Athlete
number 245...have a great day Sunday!"
There's
something about that little band. Sure
you've gotten them at amusement parks, bar nights, and the Water Slides (tm),
but the Ironman band is different. It
just *feels* different. You walk in
that room one way, and you come out another.
You stand up a little taller. You
walk a little more briskly. You
stare at your wrist a hell of a lot more. As
I was staring while walking out of the registration area, I strode right past
the stack of applications for Ironman Canada 2000 that I pretended I didn't see.
Nope.
I'm strong.
Not
going there.
LP
for me.
Lynda
was waiting for me outside of the double doors, and like a kid with new sneakers
I waved the band on my hand up and down like I was hailing a taxi to the finish
line. Before I could even say
"I'm in!" she broke into a Cheshire smile...wordlessly took my hand...
...and
gently placed an application for IMC 2000 in my race packet.
"Wait
a minute. You can't do this!"
I protested. She kept on
grinning.
"I'm
being a grown-up!" Her eyes
rolled.
"I'm
trying to be sensible!" Her
eyes rolled twice as fast as before.
"What
about IM-USA?" I asked. She
replied "Look...you're already
going to train for one, so you're booked for the summer.
If you're doing one, you might as well do 10."
CLUNK. My jaw hit the floor.
I held her left hand, and checking to see if the ring was still attached
said, "You've got this! It's
yours! You can keep it! You don't have to do stuff like this anymore...you
know?" She just kept smiling
back at me, rocking to and for on her heels, just enjoying my complete and total
marching-band-with-no- sense-of-coming-or-going confusion.
So much for trying to be reasonable.
With Lynda having turned into a veritable overnight Ironman pusher, there
was no escape. I had started with such good intentions, and now August
2000 will bring me a Double-IM shot. Yikes.
So much for kicking this habit gracefully.
Pass the needle, dear...I need another fix.
Eric
Weiss came out looking at his wrist the same way everyone else does, and stopped
when he saw me with the application. He
looked down and just said "I thought you said...", and I just pointed
at my little Cheshire IM pusher, who was eyeing Eric as a potential sale.
I had to admit, I was proud, confused, but relieved all at the same time.
Once
the smoke from the whirlwind ride that registration had been was cleared, and
now that I didn't have to worry about missing next year, I could focus my
efforts on being in the now. That little bugger of plastic band had been the spark...and
now I had to gently fan my Ironman embers and wake up to the task at hand.
I
still was having a hard time believing that I was going to do an Ironman on
Sunday, but that little orange band was a constant reminder that I was...and I'd
better wake the hell up if I didn't want to find myself in a very bad place on
Sunday. Jason and I had a long talk
over lunch, and he heard, understood, and related to everything I was feeling.
"Number two was the hardest one for me. You don't have that torchlight of 'My First Ironman' to
chase, and you may find yourself having a hard time to get on with it. Just
focus on the now, enjoy the day, but don't let your guard down too much."
His words seemed to be right on the money.
I
never thought it possible, but there it was.
I
was in the throes of an Ironman Sophomore Slump.
"Domo
Arigato, Mr. Roboto!"
"Domo
Arigato, Mr. Roboto!"
"Domo
Arigato, Mr. Roboto!"
The
"Two Clydes and The Athena" Wheeled Choir is at it again.
Same place as last year. After
lumbering up the hills to the marathon turn-around, Sir Isaac Newton has placed
himself in the driver's seat, and Jason, Tricia, and myself are doing the best
that we can to make the ride home a good one, or at least, a musical one...until
we have to climb again. Gravity is
so kind to our lot!
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"...For
helping me escape, when I needed you.."
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"Thaaaaaaaaaannnnnnk
Yooooooooooo..."
This years ride of the marathon course was epic. Not in speed, not in weather, but in size. Last year, we had an impressive group of about 30. This year there had to be over 60 people milling around Lakeshore Drive. We were quite a sight heading out of town past the canal...rolling along like a multi-colored Mardi-Gras parade, without the beads of course. Some folks tore off the front, some noodled in the back, and I just waffled madly between the two. I dropped back to chat with Art, then back up the road to see if I could catch the front. Apollo had felt rock-solid, and I had to temper the urge to hit the button and jump forward in pursuit constantly.
"Save
it for Sunday... save it for Sunday..." I kept thinking.
Now, singing along on the way home?
This is just what I need. Fun. I need to make it fun.
If the pressure to finish isn't there, why not make this year an all-day
festival of fitness? That's what
Iron Pete calls this thing, right?
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"...IIII
waanna Thank You...."
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"Please,
Thank You..."
I
don't know how far this ride will be when it ends...I just know that I feel
good. Ever since Apollo was built
and I decided not to use a computer, I've felt liberated.
I'll be taping over the watch on Sunday and going by Heart Rate only.
That way I won't even have to calculate a thing...I can just go for a
swim, ride my bike, and finish up with a lakeside run.
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"Awahhhhhhhhaaahhhhhhhhaaa"
"Thank
You Very Much, Mr. Roboto..."
"Woooooooohooooooooooooooo!"
Rolling
into town past the Hog's Breath Cafe, I'm reminded that only one more Sicamous /
Hog's Breath morning is left before Race Day. The morning swims are one of my
favorite parts of Ironman Week, although it's tough to call them a 'swim' at
all. While getting in enough
aquafied motion to get hungry for another breakfast special and a mocha, I
learned that it takes 44 triathletes to sink the floating dock near the Sicamous.
Once the dock has been sunk, Jane will be the first thing tossed off.
Every time.
Just
remembering that scene makes me smile as I roll into the lobby of the Lakeside,
and it occurs to me that whenever I've let myself be sad about missing the race
next year, it isn't actually the race I think about- It's the other campers I
get to play with while I'm here. The
race will come, the race will go, and I will hopefully have what it takes to
earn a second Maple Leaf Medal in 3 days time...but the people are what I love
about this place, and they are what will bring me back next year.
But
to my counter my warm and content Yin thought of the people, the cold and harsh
Yang aspect of being so at ease before the race still scares me.
I keep trying to make sure I don't fall prey to the mistake of taking my
second go at Ironman too lightly. I
haven't yet, but I keep getting flash, pass-through type thoughts like
"Don't worry about it. You'll
be fine. This one will be easy."
Each time, I just remind myself that nothing about the Ironman is ever
easy...and that the very word "Sophomore" defines everything I am
trying to avoid becoming:
"The
Wise Fool".
3
Days to go.
CARAVAN!
OVERWAITEA! The words that
define Friday at Camp IMC, and this year would be no exception. At noon Lynda
heads for the beach, and I have the luck of being a FOTB&S (Friend of
Tri-Baby and Skippy), so I get to ride in the hippest vehicle in the caravan.
Lee Crumbaugh gets sucked into the giddy vortex, and before he knows it
he's trapped...and is a perfect fit. With
Team Skippy behind the wheel, we charge to the Overwaitea...mothership of all
bulk goods in the universe. After
30 minutes I am a man armed with bagels, peanut butter, Pop Tarts, Pringles,
Bananas, and most of all...a strip of passport pictures from the same photo
machine I used last year for IMC 1999's application.
As I'm walking out, I wave the strip of mini-Mina's in front of Eric
Weiss and say "I'm doing the double, for real. Are you in?"
The
frantic waving, gesturing, and repeated use of the words "No!" and
"Never!" as he danced around in circles led me to believe that he was
stronger than I, but lighting the IMC application on fire and swallowing it
whole left me no doubt about it: He
had kicked his Ironman habit, and there was no way he'd be going back.
I had to admit, I was saddened by his resolve.
Our little 'Duel' has become quite well known to most folks on the lists,
and I was sad to face the fact that it would probably end here.
Well...at
least I would win the final Duel, assuming that I finished intact.
Reminding him of this fact netted me one nasty stare, so maybe his fire
could be stoked with enough prodding? Probably
not...best not to stir up a beehive, especially one that runs faster than I do.
The
drive of the course is very simple: You eat what you just bought at Overwaitea,
and you share with everyone in your car. When
the car stops, you get out. You
write on the road with the chalk you brought, or you borrow some from someone
else. You write silly things to
others. You write song lyrics. You
write Phil Liggett phrases. You cheer for others.
They cheer for you. You take
pictures. Chinese Fire Drills are run.
You get back in the car, and repeat the drill: Eat, laugh, stop, draw.
Eat, laugh, stop, draw. Ice
Cream at the Husky Station. Scribble
on Richter Pass. Count the Rollers.
Curse the Out and Back. Scribble on
Yellow Lake. Praise the final
Downhill...dream of being there. The
112 miles take as long to drive as it will to ride (for the pros, anyway), but
we laugh a lot more this way.
The
caravan is the best way to learn the course and make mental notes...but as we go
along, I'm finding that a lot of my notes from last year have been mysteriously
re-arranged in my head. Not once but *twice* I advise Skippy to make wrong turns, but
Tricia is there to put us back on course. It's
almost like another warning shot from the heavens:
"You don't know it all yet...so be sure you keep your eyes open on
Sunday."
Eyes
wide open. It is another reminder
that I wouldn't forget.
The
carbo load dinner is Friday night, and there's the usual assortment of speakers,
applause for the tireless staff that puts the greatest show in triathlon on, and
nervous speeches by nervous people. Near
the end of the night, I'm sitting near Mike Kelly and Kim, his sweetie.
He's finally starting to show signs of nerves...and this is usually the
place that brings them out. When
you sit in this room with about 3,000 people...all 1,770 athletes and families,
it's very clear for you to see: It's
almost go time. I remembered all
too well the panic attack that had me near tears last year...so a part of me is
there watching Mike, hoping he's holding together well enough.
It's
his first Ironman, and in a way...I've kind of taken him on as a mentor (the
best that I can, anyway). He really
hasn't needed any help at all, but training and racing with him this summer has
made him a close, treasured friend. He
can make me laugh almost anytime, and we share the same appreciation for classic
bicycle races...so we've never been at a loss for conversation.
I've been making sure that I keep my worries to myself this week; I find
it so odd that I'm trying to be there to help him get through an Ironman, when
I've needed a fair amount of veteran advice this week to get myself into the
game. Perhaps the learning never
stops with this game, but for now, it's an ironically tricky balance.
At
the end of the night the lights dim...and they roll "The Video" as
it's called. I recognize the
opening music instantly- it's the short post race video from the awards banquet
last year. I own it.
I've watched it at least 87 times. Without
fail, every time, the ending nails me. If
anyone here is going to lose it, it'll be now.
A quick glance at Mike...and he looks to be doing better than I am. So
much for being a role model.
"So
They Say...that you can't make it...so they say...so they say..."
"But
I Say...that they mistaketh...but I say....but I say..."
-Soul
Attorneys, "So They Say"
The
faces on film told the story- no dialogue was needed.
The bodies were all weary, but their eyes were more alive than they had
ever been before.
As
I looked up at the image of the line I crossed last year...I thought again of
the final leap on that longest of days that changed me to the core of my
being...and it quietly started coming back.
The passion within myself I had so desperately sought began to slowly
return, and I quietly became very present and at peace:
I started to feel like I belonged here, and that I had come with a
purpose. I was no longer lost, no longer seeking a purpose or a focus.
I knew what I wanted to do.
I
wanted the chance to do it all over again...
...This
time with my eyes wide open.
I
wanted to see everything.
I
would not be blinded by the fear of failure that I had burdened myself with last
year.
I
wanted to be there when my friends came home.
I
wanted to shout, cry, and hug them all when they got there.
In
the darkness, behind the tears that most of us shed, I found the sunrise within
that I needed to go on.
2
Days to go.
Saturday.
Breakfast.
Gear
Bag check in.
Bike
Inspection.
Bike
Check-In.
"Goodnight,
Apollo....tomorrow, we fly."
Pre-Race
Meeting. Final Questions.
Nerves.
Hydrate.
Eat. Hydrate.
Watch
Kim Parasail. Chat With Sister
Madonna.
Sea-Doo.
Laugh. Sea-Doo More. Laugh More.
Dinner
At The Pasta Factory. Hydrate.
Parade.
Juggle. Laugh.
Smile. Wave.
Pray.
Back
To Hotel. Stare At Ceiling.
Pack
Special Needs Bags. Count Quic-Discs.
Re-Pack
Special Needs Bags. Count Pringles.
Re-Re-Pack
Special Needs Bags. Count Bagels.
Close
Damn Special Needs Bags.
One
Final Kokanee. One Final Toast.
Close
Curtain.
Turn
Off TV.
Kiss
Lynda Goodnight.
Sleep.
Dream.
No
Days to go.