The Battle of Seattle.
August 22, 2000
There are few people in this world that actually enjoy being angry, but there are some that have mastered that negative energy and learned to channel it in a positive direction. Kimberly Heytota is one of those women, and she's currently calling her best combination of Long Island-bred attitude, Women's Rugby sympathy (ergo, none), combined with a subtle hint of enough femininity to make the counter clerk somehow scared of her... yet sympathetic at the same time. "So where is it?" she asks. Mike stands back, wondering the same... but knowing that Kimbo is much better at getting her point across at times like these. "Ma'am... we're not sure. We're looking for it, and as soon as we have any information, we'll be sure to let you know." Missing in action is Mike's beloved Red Barchetta... his Kestrel of 3 years, now located somewhere between San Diego and Seattle, and the problem is that despite the lack of peanuts and great fares, Southwest Airlines isn't exactly sure where.
Kim has taken on not only making sure they know where, but at this rate she'll probably have them repainting their entire fleet before Friday.
Mike is somehow worried about his rig, angry about the delay, yet simultaneously beaming as he watches his beloved take care of business in a style he's very happy not to be on the receiving end of this time around.
In precisely 17 minutes, mission accomplished. "Okay, so we've got meal vouchers for 5 people. 2 hotel rooms for all of us if the bike doesn't get here, and a refund on the bike shipment fee... alright?" Kim is beaming. Mike is worried, but proud (and Southwest planes will still be that odd color mix of red and sandstorm). Eric Weiss, Jane Fratesi, and myself are completely unaware of the unfolding drama as we all head West to meet up with the future Team Kelly...but the story of Mike's missing bike brings the entire trip to a screeching halt before it has even taken a step North.
The plan had been to meet up at Seattle and drive the 5 or so hours North to Penticton in one swell foop that night. We'd be arriving pretty late, but for those of us from the East, jet-lagged enough in the right direction to still make the morning swim on Wednesday. We had done everything right - we'd all be arriving within 57 minutes of each other, and hopefully be on the road by 4:00pm...but without Mike's Red Machine? Having been faced with a missing Apollo the year before, I knew the option of asking him to run 138.2 miles wasn't really a good one. We were stuck waiting in Seattle until Red Barchetta came home.
At 5:30pm, we finally found out what had happened. The bike had been carted to the baggage area and parked there...and that was that. An employee spotted it resting comfortably, and had put it on a flight that would get it in by 10:30pm that night. It was tough to delay things for a whole day, but faced with doing a mountainous drive at night on very little sleep and some frayed nerves? We cashed in the hard-fought vouchers Kim had won in the Battle of Seattle and after a quick dinner at Denny's, crashed at the Econo Lodge of Seattle airport for the night.
(I know what you're thinking: For the record I shared a room with Team Kelly, and Eric and Shadetree Fratesi took the other room. Jane took one bed, and Eric hid in a closet).
it would be a long drive tomorrow...another long drive on the pile of a summer of long drives for Eric and I. We had already run 2 marathons side-by-side, shared a house in Lake Placid for a week, and covered more distance together training and racing for our insane, inspired, insipid Ironman Double than we had with our SO's all summer. Eventually even the best of friendships hits its limit of proximity... and IMC was just one more challenge to deal with.
Without the use of heavy explosives, buckets of ice water, and calls to the local SWAT team, we all managed to wake up and pile into the specially rented Alamo-mobile; a GMC Safari van that just about held all of our gear (which was 3 bikes, our luggage, and Jane Fratesi's collection of feather boa's, pumps, hair gel, and one pair of Reeboks for her 'long run' before volunteering later that week). We hit the road at 7:30am, hoping to make Penticton a little after lunchtime.
It was a beautiful drive through some of the most majestic scenery one could ask for...and it was once more sobering to me to watch the lush greenery of the Pacific Northwest slowly surrender to the desert of Central B.C. as we went farther and farther inland. We talked between us the entire way, rarely pausing to swap CD's in the van just to keep something in the background. Occasionally there would be a 'thunk' in the seat behind me...but that was just Kim. "She can't stay awake in the car, unless she's driving." said Mike. Eric looked over at me...I looked over at him...both wondering (no doubt) "Why can't you have that problem?"
Jane took all the banter in stride, pretty happy with her choice of racing Ironman New Zealand in May as opposed to having dragged her training out all summer "Like you two fools up there..." I couldn't have agreed more - I was certainly ready to get this race over with and get home. I had a wedding to think about in 2 weeks time...and compared to that? IMC was having a hard time measuring up.
We rolled in along the flat shores of Lake Okanagan in early afternoon under the brilliant, warm sunshine that I remembered from my previous years. It was a huge relief to finally get there (albeit a day later than we'd hoped) and be where we needed to be after 24 hours of wondering if we would EVER get there. We dropped Mike and Kim off at the Sandman, wheeled the Astromobile around to the Lakeside to drop off Jane, leaving Eric and I to check into the Spanish Villa. I was pretty excited to finally be down the street with all of the 'cool kids' for a change. Lynda and I had stayed at the Flamingo in 1998 (quaint, but too far out of town), the Lakeside in 1999 (gorgeous, but pricey for no kitchen), but this time without my beloved Saint in tow...Eric and I decided to share our misery of stag-ness and split a suite at the Villa.
Or, so we thought.
"Mr. Weiss...ahh, yes. That was your room." Said the clerk.
"My room...my room that what?" Asked a nervously curious Eric...
"Well, we've had a bit of a problem with your room. You see, it had a flood, and you won't be able to stay there this week."
Flood? A flood? Floods usually wipe out things on the scale of townships, farms, and roadways. I was unaware that natural disasters could be so picky as to say "Hmmm...Room 326 is looking a bit arid! *FWOOOOSH*", but such was life. I hate mold spores, anyway.
"We've got a room for you down the street at our sister property 'The Slumber Lodge', so you can go on down and check in right now if you'd like." I was crestfallen, and so was Eric. There wasn't much said to this sudden and remarkably bumming detour beyond a cursory "Well THAT sucks." from Mr. Weiss. I couldn't have agreed more. We rolled into the Slumber Lodge, and went through the surreal motions of checking into a hotel that wasn't the Spanish Villa...surrounded by people we'd never met. It felt like a bad joke - like a moment from the Twilight Zone. In my head for a year it had been the Villa. I would be tuning up my bike with Bruce Grant, shouting "YO!" to Pete Priolo, and talking in ze Teutonic vay viss Mr. Joe Foster...not anymore. In hindsight was it all that big a deal? No...but during Ironman week? During taper? Heck - I think you could break a shoelace on your running shoes and need to call suicide prevention at times - so this felt positively HUGE.
The room was thankfully unflooded, had not been branded a fire hazard, and still contained the critical 4 walls and a ceiling...but it hadn't been cleaned yet. So Eric and I headed to the little restaurant located conveniently in the middle of the Slumber Lodge to drown our sorrows. After what we'd just been through, a Kokanee could do wonders for my mood.
As we lunched, toasted, and let the sun soak away our dismay, I couldn't help but notice a young man across from us eating by himself. He was a young guy, Teva sandals, short haircut, bottle of Cytomax at his side...and the final giveaway that he had to be a triathlete - he was dead asleep, face down on the table, snoring in the shade next to a huge plate of scrambled eggs and toast.
When he awoke, he looked up and smiled - Eric and I were both kind of amused. "You here for the race, hmm?" I asked. "Yeah, yeah. I didn't even know I'd be doing it until last month." He said. "Oh, did you qualify late?" Eric piqued. "No, no...just signed up after the trials."
My brain did the logic: Signed up late = Pro. 'After the trials' = Canadian Olympic Trials. Wow.
"My name is Jasper. Jasper Blake. This'll be my first Ironman...you guys done this before?"
And just like that there we were, shooting the breeze with a man that had gone toe to toe for a spot at Sydney, a man who lost his spot to some smart-alecky redhead named Simon Whitfield, and an Ironvirgin that would go on to finish the race in 4th place overall, less than an minute behind Shingo Tani. A man Peter Reid would applaud at the awards banquet as "The real deal for Canada's triathlon future.", asking Eric and I what to expect from Richter, how tough Yellow Lake really was, and what the worst part of the run course might be.
God, I love this sport.
After lunch, Eric and I settled into our room. A little small - one kitchenette, a baby living room suddenly dominated by 2 bike cases, and one small room with 2 twin beds. Waiting for Eric was a big bouquet of balloons from his sweetie (Amy) back in New York, and a bottle of Champagne from the Spanish Villa to apologize for Noah-izing our room unexpectedly. Eric decided he needed some beach time to handle all this...and he split. I needed to do something, so I grabbed my tools, opened the cases, and assembled and cleaned both bikes in 37 minutes flat.
Upon returning from the beach to see his Purple Steed ready to go, Eric smiled his first smile of the day and said "You'll make Lynda a fine wife someday." I noticed that Eric had a number conspicuously scribbled on his arms. "What's that about?" I asked. "Oh, I ran into Tina out there, and she signed me up for the Hogman Dash." I squinted, and the sounds of a calendar page being flipped in my head echoed across the room. "Isn't that tomorrow?" I asked...then I remembered - it was tomorrow. In my head it was Tuesday, but it was really Wednesday.
"I don't think I'll be racing it, then. I'm just not in the mood." I glummed. Eric co-glummed, and between the two of us we had the positive energy of Eeyore after a speedball; We would have brought Mother Theresa down in 7 minutes flat. All from Mike's bike, the late roadtrip start, and the room change - little things by themselves, but again - under the glass of Ironman Week? I was totally out of synch, and Eric didn't even know where synch was supposed to be anymore.
We spectated the Splash and Dash (and were summarily splashed by and dashed away from by Sandra Smith), and met up with the new and improved Jason Mayfield - he was skinny this time around! After his DNF at South Africa, he was a man looking for redemption. Mike Bundy strolled by, Jane soon followed...and soon plans were made for a cozy dinner for 12 that night at Earls - a cure for what ailed us. There's nothing so bad that a table full of food and a few pitchers of beer couldn't make it go away, at least for a little while. Between the Wyle's (Steve and Eliza), Gerry, Jason, Pete, Bundy, Jane, and God knows who else (I should have written the roll call down!) we all had a great time...but there was still something missing.
I got back to the room, and called that something. 3200 miles East, St. Lynda was home, finishing touches for the wedding, and missing her first IMC - ever. I think I would have been out of synch even with her there, but without my rock to lean on? I was definitely missing the better part of me, and my ability to roll with it. Listening to me yammer on about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune (according to me), she finally summed it all up in a way I knew I could count on: "You're there. Your bike made it. You've got a room. The race is in 4 days...you'll be fine by then. Now, go have a Kokanee...and get some sleep, Cranky Pants."
*sigh* SO true. SO right. Tomorrow would be the first AM swim of the week for Eric and I, the group ride of the marathon course...perhaps it would be just enough to get us adjusted. My mom has a saying: "The antidote to sadness is the garden you keep. Your friends are the flowers that bloom when you need them, so whenever life gets too rough, you just have to head to the garden for a bit."
Penticton was the best place I could imagine my garden of assembled friends, so with thoughts of the sunrise, sinking the diving platform, and looking down 40 feet at the bottom of the lake as I followed the strokes of everyone else...I drifted off, and hoped for a new day tomorrow. It would get better - how could it not? Between Eric and I and the people we knew, we didn't just have a garden of friends...
...we had the makings for our own Palace at Versailles.