The
Other Side of the Fence The
Other Side of the Fence
August 15, 1999 -- Lake Placid, New York.
My day on stage crew for triathlon's greatest show of all.
BLAM!!!
I
spun my head around towards the sound...and saw the smoke wafting upwards in the
still morning air. It's 6:20am, and every head in the bike corral has just
popped up like a group of startled prairie dogs.
Where was that? Looks of
panic and glances of relief rush through the racks like a tidal surge...and I
can feel the adrenaline of 1700 nervous dreams pass through me.
I haven't found my captain yet to check in...but suddenly that doesn't
matter. I need to find this wheel
and get to work.
I
start grabbing tires down the rack: No...no...no...no...got it!
The rear on 454. What's odd
is that the pilot of this steed is at the front wheel pumping like mad, with no
clue that his rear has just bit the dust. Since
he's probably got enough to worry about, I get to task opening the skewer and
changing the tire. "Oh my God,
that was me?" he gasps. "I've
got it...don't worry about it. Get
your stuff ready for the swim start and I'll handle this."
I reply. My heart is
racing...I imagine what this has got to feel like for this guy: A blowout before
the biggest race of his year 10 minutes before he was going to leave for the
start? Ouch.
I've got to keep my cool. Working
with no levers, all the bike shop experience comes back in a moment:
Push from the bottom, build up the slack, breathe out and ROLL with the
thumbs...pop! Ouch, that hurt...I
hate Continentals...at least it wasn't a tubular...
I've
got the tire off and the tube out. "Tube?" I ask, almost comedically.
To his credit, he's got a spare unwrapped and in my hand in a flash.
I puff enough air into the valve to make sure it can seat...and work the
new tube into the rim. Knead it in
place, push, push, push...let the air out...just the last little bit to
go...breathe out and PUSH with the thumbs...pop!
3
minutes. The boy still has it!
I make the quick dash to the mechanics van to pump it up (the pump he was
using on the front wheel was borrowed, and the owner has since split for the
beach, I would learn), and send him off to the beach with the words
"That'll be your only glitch for this mission, soldier.
Get out there and make yourself an Ironman, okay?"
His smile of relief and a powerful high-five was reward enough:
"You've got it man!" This
volunteer stuff is cool. I feel
like a million bucks, and the race hasn't even started yet. I strolled around helping a few others before they all left
for the swim...and soon it was just myself, a few other volunteers, and 1700
bikes. With a gentle sun rising
over the Olympic Speed Skating Oval that Eric Heiden used to write himself into
Olympic history, I was smiling so hard it almost hurt.
With IMC in two weeks, I felt like I was getting a preview:
I get to play on this side of the fence now...and with the big kids in a
few days!
BLAM!!!
Another
tire...another change to make. This
one is a little more casual, since the swim starts in 10 minutes, and I figure
I've got 45 minutes until the first pros come onshore. Where... no... no...
no...no...yes! Number 1410. Quick
dash to the mechanics van for a tube, and this fellow won't even know I was
here. As I pump the tire up, I
can't help but grin...I used to wonder where the volunteers in all my races
found the infectious energy to do what they do...and here I am, working on one
bike, ITCHING to do something for someone.
I get it now.
Markley,
Weiss and myself had decided sometime last year that we would drive up and
volunteer during this race. It just
seemed to be the thing to do. I
wanted to do this race in 2000, so what better way to see the course, get first
shot at the applications, and engage in a little karmic payback?
After a 4 year tri-career, I was overdue in that department for sure.
The added bonus was being able to support the immense number of Tri-Deads,
One-listers, and other friends we knew up there.
We had been assigned different areas: Mark had been checking in bikes all
day Saturday while Eric and I were summarily thumped by Cathy Corning on a loop
of the bike course, and while I would be giving out bikes, Eric would be
stripping wetsuits.
I
headed down to the beach for the swim start, and found a rock to stand on.
With the ESPN helicopter overhead, the music, and all those wetsuits
bobbing in the water...I had chills the entire time.
I had warned Alan Sheridan that watching an Ironman in person was like
heroin: There's no way around it,
you WILL want to do one, and this scene was a big part of that feeling.
When the cannon went off I said a quick little prayer for all my friends
and headed back to the bike corral for the most frantic morning of my summer.
There
was no assignment to racks made for us, so I basically picked an area around the
middle... especially close to Rolf Arands and Ray Britt (Numbers 999 and 1000,
respectively). Hellriegel came flying through the tent and down the main
aisle with a purpose, and I silently hoped that the person down there was
listening yesterday when I mentioned that it wold be best to let the pros get
their own rigs. He just looked
FIERCE.
(BTW,
for those of your curious...Thomas rides a Centurion 52cm frame with Syntace C2
bars and a Selle Italia Flite Saddle. Mavic
Cosmic Rims, 650 in the front, 700 in the rear.
Gearing: 54x46 in the front, 11-18, 8-speed straight block in the back.
Dura Ace all around, and STI Shifters: No bar ends!
Single bottle cage and Jetstream. The
best part? He has stickers on his bike from all the IM's he's done this
year, just like you do it.)
Soon
the pros were coming thick and fast, and a few age-groupers scattered here and
there. From in between the crowd I
spotted a flash of a blonde ponytail looking for daylight, skittering to and fro
like a spider on water. Suddenly,
I'm face to face with a rapidly moving Heather Fuhr, and moving the heck out of
the way seems like a good idea. Paula
Newby-Fraser comes whipping down the other side... and the one thing that comes
to my mind is how SMALL they both are! No
wonder they're so darn quick.
Soon,
it was time to get to work. The
music is blaring, the helicopters are overhead, and reading the numbers on the
legs is impossible as athletes come running down the aisle.
I'm basically handing bikes to people I can read, and asking them for
their numbers as they peel down my aisle. As
I'm dancing about to and fro trying to help, yet stay out of the way, I'm amused
by the fact that some of my friends from home see me and wave on the way out!
Rebecca Taylor yells out "Go Bob!" and I think as I cheer back
"Sheesh, aren't I supposed to be cheering for them?"
Before I can reconcile that in my mind I hear "Hey Bob!", as
Rolf Arands is unracking Sammy Salmon and heading out.
"Rolf! GO man!
How'd you get behind me? Have
a great ride!" There's so much
to see I can't process it all.
The
Japanese competitors are by far the nicest, most polite people on the planet.
Each one I hand a bike to answers with a steady stream of "Thank
you! Thank you so much! Thank you!", and gigantic smiles. Some bow, and most are just so darn happy you can't help but
giggle.
Someone
drops an armrest, and keeps moving on unknowingly.
I've never been to Pamplona, but this feels as close as I'd like to get. I sprint out and grab the armrest...charging forwards keeping
one eye on the bike and it's motoring pilot.
I run up alongside and say "Hey, you'll need this!" and punch
the armrest back in place, while swiveling back and dancing left, right, left,
left, right, to keep out of the way of the stampede. I'll repeat the same drill for 3 bananas, many gu's, one tube
of JogMate, a computer, arm warmers, and many other loosely connected
appliances. I hadn't planned on it,
but it was sort of a 2 hour fartlek drill!
"What's
your number?"
"1000."
I
turn down the racks, and suddenly I hear "Hey, Bobby!"
just as I'm reconciling in my own fuzzy head: 'Hey, that's Ray's number!'
He's tucked in underneath my backpack...and I'm trying to get
his bike and stay out of his way. Of
course...his saddle gets stuck under the rack, the first bike all day I touch
that does that. D'oh!
Sorry Ray! I manage to get
it out and wish him well as he heads off, since this will just be a training
race for IMC in two weeks. Unreal.
Lots
and lots of IM-USA Jerseys are running by now, and I don't know HALF of these
people...I just cheer when I can. The
flow is slowing down a bit, and I can savor the handoffs a bit since these
age-groupers don't seem quite as interested in going fast as they do going out
comfortably...or at least well-stocked. I
hold the bike for one gentleman from Ohio who manages to pack his jersey pockets
with 4 PB&J sandwiches, 2 cans of Boost, a pair of eyeglasses, 4 PowerBars,
many GU's, and a sleeve of Fig Newtons. He
looks like a rolling 7-Eleven on the way out...but he would NOT be bonking on
this day.
At
about 1:30 into the swim, I head down towards Lynn Kapusta's rack spot so I can
hand off her bike and send her off as promised.
Of course, Lynn has nonchalantly gone 10 minutes faster than any of us
expected...and I'm left staring at an empty rack, grinning like a fool. Soon, the unmistakable form of Eric Bruce comes strutting out
of the changing tents, very thankful to have gotten out of the water.
"Damn, that was COLD!" he says in his Charlotte drawl, and I
manage a high-five as he heads out of the transition area.
Soon,
there are only a few bikes left...and it's time to start thinking about the
cutoff. One of the last women to
make it is a very thin woman, number 1621.
When I see her emerge from the tent, Cathy Corning has attached herself
around her and soon I see why: She's
shivering uncontrollably...and can't even hold food to her mouth.
I unrack her bike and I notice it has coaster brake handles: The kind that extend inward along the tops of the handlebars.
There's a fanny pack attached to the bars, so I unlock it and get ready
to hand it to her...wrong move. She
suddenly yelps out "What are you doing?
That was supposed to stay there!"
It's the only major mistake I would make all day.
Quickly, I re-wrap and attach the bag where it was.
She hands me a Power Bar and says "Can you please open this?
I can't make my fingers work."
Cathy is still trying to warm her up...and I'm cold just looking at the
scene. She'll be riding this bike
in sneakers and toe straps. I can't
help but think "Wow. No way.
God Bless." as she
rolls out, still shivering. Having
ridden the course yesterday, I know that after 4 miles of hills there's a 6 mile
stretch of downhill where I'd hit 53mph. I
had been cold, and I hadn't swam first. Yikes.
The
cutoff comes, and only 2 bikes remain.
I'm
sweaty, tired, and my legs are as wobbly as they've been all year.
What a rush! Mark and Eric
manage to find me, and we set off on a loop of the run course to pass the time. It's a great course but it's very hilly, and in an unkind
manner. The steepest hill on the
course is a 10% downhill out of T2 which will need to be climbed and descended
TWICE during the marathon. I find
my thoughts going out to Lynn, ITG, Rolf, Ray, Lee Rudin, John Keenan, and all
the other friends I have out there...many of whom are faces I saw for the first
time on their way out the gate this morning.
All of their stories will be told in the passing of the day, and I wonder
who will have the happy endings...and who will not. After we finish the loop, we
spot ITG himself...and as he finishes his first loop, he doesn't look to be
having an easy day. Hellriegel is
less than a minute back, and the big guy is on the gas.
He will NOT be lapped, no matter what.
Lynn? Oh yes,
Lynn...doubting Lynn. Tommy
mentioned that she'd already come through.
Flying. She had flatted, and
was riding with her typical zeal to the second loop.
After
a shower and some lunch (thanks to Lynn and Tommy Kapusta for letting us use
their room!), we headed to the Bike Finish to start taking machines from tired
bodies. One after the other, most
came in relieved...some came in shattered from the hills and the wind.
Some toss their bikes in despair, others smile gigantic, relieved smiles. Around 4:00pm, I began to wonder about Lynn and ITG.
There was an hour and a half to the cutoff...plenty of time for sure, but
I wanted to know they were on the way. Bike
after bike, face after face. Grab
and rack, grab and rack. "I'll take your bike, and they'll take your helmet
and shoes..." Some mention
that they'd never like to see their bikes again, and we oblige as they trot to
the change tents for the second and final time of the day.
Some
quit on the spot...no fight left in their legs or their hearts.
I want to say something, but I know I shouldn't interfere.
As
the cutoff draws near, I wander over to Lynn's rack...just to make sure that she
hasn't come in. Sure enough, I've missed the New Jersey Express again...and
she's racked and running at this point. I've
been taking bikes without a break since 2:45pm, and somehow she handed off when
I wasn't looking (which was easy to do with 30 or so takers at the finish).
Feeling relieved, my thoughts turn out there:
Who else? Of course, ITG! he comes barreling in after 8 hours on his bike, a mere 17
minutes ahead of the cutoff. I take
his rig, and he heads off for the tents. As
I'm walking his bike to the racks, I notice that somehow the men's changing tent
wall has been peeled backwards. Maybe
to move gear bags, maybe to get some fresh air...but there is now an open space
where there used to be some privacy. Without really knowing it (or perhaps DESPITE knowing it),
ITG gets himself an entry in the Guiness Book of World Records for largest
"Mass Mooning" of all time, before about 1200 spectators on the hill.
With
3 minutes to go, a slight blonde woman struggles into view.
Sneakers and all, 1621 has made the distance.
Still intense and taking everything she can from her fanny-pack on the
bars, she jogs off to transition...and I stare in awe, humbled that I thought
she had no chance. This race
respects and honors heart...and she was proof of that.
The lesson was a good dose of humility: Respect the engine above all
else!
Mark
mentions that Randy Kadell, the wheelchair athlete, is trying to finish his
fourth IM race of the year. He'd missed the cutoff by 30 seconds at New Zealand, a few
minutes at Lanzarote, and Vineman. Word
on the course was that he was close...and he was still moving.
As the sun slowly turned everything golden on the transition area...time
grew short. I didn't want to watch,
but I felt that I had to...as the race clock tipped over 10:30, and the course
was closed. Randy didn't show, but
three others did.
One
argued about the unfairness of the rule, and surrendered grumbling.
One knew he had missed it, and just shrugged as he walked off, eerily
quiet about his fate. The final
woman to arrive at 7 minutes past was the killer.
Sobbing out loud as she sprinted up the last rise to the finish line, it
was obvious she knew that she'd be close. She
pleaded out "Did I miss it?" as
the official softly said "I'm sorry, you did."
Whatever energy she had left simply left her body, and she slumped into
the nearest catcher, sobbing uncontrollably as the timer tore the velcro chip
from her ankle. Mark said if there
was ever a tougher sounds to hear, it was that tearing with those tears.
We all applauded for her...but there was nothing to do but stay clear as
she softly walked her bike into the rack area, still sobbing to herself.
Hellriegel
would win easily in 8:36.
Heather
Fuhr would mow down all before her from 8th to 1st, as she clocked a 9:54.
According
to the books, they were the winners on the day, but I know differently now.
Watching
the faces enter the Olympic Oval as darkness fell was magic.
At one point I found myself in the far end of the oval, behind a now
empty, silent changing tent. There
was no-one near me as athlete after athlete came by, just seconds now from the
end of a long day. I savored those
moments, as I was able to be the one to say "You've got 50 meters to the
crowd, you'd better look good!" and get the smile, the tear, or the high
five that I loved so much last year when it was me closing in on the line.
After
giving us all time to worry and start looking at the clock, Lynn would persevere
and come in at 16:02.
ITG
would finish in 16:30, with Lee Rudin right behind him.
Chandra (Dave Cotting's sweetie) would finish her first IM, and Rebecca
Taylor would find redemption on the roads of Lake Placid.
Female
Athlete (who's name I never got) 1621 did make it in before midnight, around
16:44. Again...it's the engine,
isn't it?
Rolf
ran by us on the way to a sub-12, but was pretty darn focused and didn't react
when we were all screaming.
It
was impossible to see and cheer for everyone...but we did what we could.
At
the finish, there were no fireworks, and no rush down Main Street for the last
finisher...but they may grow with time. I
had to keep reminding myself that this was a first year event in this town, and
that IMC was 15 years old. New or
not, I feel lucky to have been a part of it.
My voice is still gone after 2 days, but that will come back in time...as
will Peter Zein, now sure that he has to try IMFL in 3 months.
Alan Sheridan said on Saturday "I don't know if I can do one of
these...it's a lot of time to prepare...", was now saying to me "My
God, this is like heroin. 2 years.
I have to do this in 2 years...."
Me? I couldn't wait that
long. I put my application in at
9:30am on Monday morning.
It's what being on the other side of the fence can do to you.