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Not There With Me, But With Me All The Way.

August 24-26, 2001

Click on any picture for a larger version.  I'm not responsible for how scary any morning pictures might be.

Posts? Anchors? 2 of them?

Now THAT'S overkill, but I guess we earned that.

The previous year, it was determined that 37 triathletes could sink the floating platforms anchored near the S.S. Sicamous on Lake Okanagan. With a great cheer we all went down with the ship, then segued directly into the world's first underwater 'King of the Hill' tournament. Perhaps we were seen as an insurance risk, a naval threat to Canada, or just too damn loud at 7:10am for all the resorts to take...but our return to the Sicamous Dips for 2000 was met with a most-unsinkable platform. It was a one-piece plastic deal, anchored to posts in 2 places and completely un-tiltable unless we sent someone underwater with a drilling rig...(which surprisingly, nobody had handy in their transition bag).

The beach by the Sicamous was mobbed, as the case has become in the past 2 years. Faces were matched with ID's, list-chats became real-chats, and a few people actually managed to make it to the water and move around a bit. I swam, shook the unsinkable platform in frustration with everyone else, and then juggled (in that order). It was pretty neat to get back in the morning routine...but I had to keep reminding myself "Thursday. It's Thursday. Breakfast at the Hog's Breath...then registration."

Thankfully, the Breakfast Special at the Hogs Breath was still the same...and the slowly rising, warming sun was still a perfectly legal intoxicant as breakfast stretched into its usual 2-hour self, spread through 2 or 3 cups of coffee, lots of stories, and the occasional phone call to someone not lucky enough to be there in person to let them know that some things were as sweet as they had ever been (including but not limited to the Peach muffins, the cinnamon rolls, the mochas, and Tina Hoeben's early-morning disposition).

Registration for the 2000 race went smoothly - you got the band, the number kit, the bags... but there was some tension in the air. Not for the race in 3 days (understandable), but unbelievably for the race in 2001. The demand for entry into Ironman Canada had exploded since 1998. The race then sold out in 10 days. In 1999, that time was reduced to 2. This year, there was talk that it would close within a single day, and I can admit - I was frantic about how I would get in...and how I would get Mark Markley in, since I'd promised him I would.

The procedure would be this: You would line-up in the morning and then be given a wristband. That would be your place in the sign-up queue. You could sign yourself up, then sign up one other person, but that was it. Soon on the web there was talk of people selling their slots, taking outrageous bribes to sign up someone else, and all sorts of really-bad-karma stuff going on in the name of popular business.

I had this nightmare vision that I had a bad race and finished at midnight...and I would just have to run through the chutes and get in line for the following morning. It was sick, but possible. If everyone in line signed up themselves and one other person, that would mean 850 people would be the most that could get in line and get spots...the rest would be stuck hoping. Did it make sense? Yes. Could that really happen? Considering the amount of people that drove in just to sign up? Sure. Realistically? Who knew. This was the first time they'd be doing this system...and anything was possible.

Eric took great delight in my panic, and reminded me at every chance he could of the qualifying races I could use to get in once the lineup closed. He was Oscar to my Felix - the casual Stimpy to my wired Ren - and it wasn't helping my state of mind at all...even if I hoped under all my panic that he was right, and that I was wound-up like a Swiss watch over nothing. It didn't seem fair to be worrying so much about next year when I (and everyone else) hadn't even raced THIS year, but that's just the way it had to go. Nothing guaranteed...but what in this life really is?

The group ride of the marathon course met up under unusually cloudy skies. Mike Kelly's dad (a longtime resident of the South Okanagan valley) uttered the soon to be notorious quote "No worries. It never rains in the South Okanagan." right before the thunderstorms rolled in before the race start last year...and once again the rain that never falls was speckling the entire group as we rolled through town. The ride itself was a blast - and I mean that literally. I made the mistake of latching myself onto Joe Foster's wheel...and experienced an anaerobic debt so high, it was like trying to slalom water-ski behind the Miss Budweiser Hydroplane. At the 10 mile mark I decided that I'd had enough short-term agony, and peeled off for some welcome soft-pedaling home. Suddenly, it seemed like 10 triathletes all stopped to see what was wrong with me (they were so sweet!), and scattered all over the road in varying states of direction. With one U-Turn I had unwittingly caused a traffic jam on Skaha Lake road...and it was more amazing that nobody managed to get hit (or topple over in their cleats) while we all tried to figure out who would go on and who would head back.

I noodled on back with Dave Schoonmaker, and went out for an easy 20 minute run to loosen up my heavy, toasted, still unrecovered from IM-USA legs...now deep fried to a proper crisp from allowing my testosterone to talk me into hanging with Air Foster. I opened the front window of our room to catch some air...and leaned out like a dog on a roadtrip, letting the cool breeze from the lake blow through the cavernous space between my ears.

"What the hell was I thinking signing up for two of these things...so close!" The wind howled in one ear and out the other, and I didn't need to think about it too long to find the answer. In discovering that my over-estimation of ability was being compounded by my over-estimated sense of recovery, I was at peace knowing that there would be few times in my life I would ever do something as foolish as this...and I shook my head. It was nice to screw up so big BEFORE I got married - maybe I was working that one last dumb-guy-thing out of my system for St. Lynda's benefit? There had to be a reason...but I didn't need to find it now. I just let the wind go...and watched the whitecaps on the lake crash against the shore. Again, and again, and again...

I had talked Eric into this mess (although all I said was "I'm in for the double, are you?" so it wasn't really a long talk) and he was faring in his own special way. After smoking his way to an 'under-trained' 11:44 at IM-USA (compared to my bee-stung, imploded, 13:55 sleepwalk) he hadn't done much training at all, and was about as excited to race again as one would be heading for a Root Canal. With 3 days to go, it wasn't so much that we were getting psyched the way we had for Lake Placid; We were getting ready to simply survive one more day...and that was the shame of it. IMC is a magical event that most people get to do once, maybe twice in a lifetime...and here we were staring at our third attempt...not really caring one way or the other how it went, just so long as it did (and in my case, I was still simultaneously wrapped up in the constant panic of getting into number 4).

In hindsight, I can see where all my energy was going. I was so wrapped up in so many negative thoughts, how could I have allowed myself to enjoy anything? In the poem Desiderata, Max Ehrmann penned the line "Do not distress yourself with dark imaginings, for many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness." Such words were never closer to the truth for me at that moment. Why is it that the big mistakes always so clear once they've been made, and not ever during?

Friday seemed to spin by in less than a blink. The swim, another Underpants Run with Huddle (who stared incredulously at Eric and I: "You guys? AGAIN?" There's something amusing, yet disturbing about being recognized while wearing tidy-whities...but I quickly dismissed the possible repercussions of that thought as soon as it formed), and a great Breakfast at the Hogs Breath. Friday of IMC week also holds the longest, most entertaining side-trip of the pre-race festivities: The Bike Course Caravan and Rolling Buffet, sponsored by your local Overwaitea. It's not an official event...but one that most of the people from this list know about, have heard of, or get sucked into. It's simple: We meet at the Lakeshore. People with large-capacity vehicles for the week do their best impression of the clowns at Ringling Brothers and pile as many bodies as they can in their car, and take off.

One stop at the Overwaitea (the Home Depot of grocery stores) to fuel up with snacks, drinks, and enough chalk to color the Northwest Territories...and that's it! Off we'd go to drive, gawk, stop, scribble, eat, scribble, sing, eat, scribble, eat, scribble, eat, and eat. By now, I could ride this course in my head. I had survived 1998, and ridden more confidently in the calm weather of 1999, so I was really hoping to salvage a disaster of a season with a good ride here.

I was quietly thinking about how I would attack the last roller at Richter, staring at the rocky cliffs near the last peak. The gateway to the rollers, and the often wild, unpredictable winds of the backside of the course. I was in my own little space, when Eliza Wyle waved to me, and pointed proudly at the road. She had written the word "BEES", and then drawn a big, red, circle and slash through it - 'NO BEES.' It was just what I needed to lighten my mood...then Kim and Mike waved me up to the top, where Kim had written "Go Bob Go! St. Lynda is watching you!" The garden of my friends was coming through, and suddenly I was stuck there, speechless. My bad mood took a welcome hiatus, and the rest of the afternoon was just as silly as I needed it to be.

That night was the Pre-Race carbo load, usually the scene of some great one-liners by Steve King (the voice of Ironman Canada) and John Prowse, a former local resident, head wrench at the Bike Barn, and now actor...who would come back every year for Ironman Week. This time, John was alone...and for whatever reason, the poor guy was getting tossed completely off his game.

Jokes were falling flat, the videos didn't work when they were supposed to, and when they did they were nothing more than tributes to the sponsors of the race...and things that just didn't matter to the athletes. Pete Priolo and I sought refuge in some table-level engineering, building pyramids out of cups, bottles, baskets, cookies, and whatever else we could find. I guess other tables were as bored as we were, since they started shooting napkin artillery at the Leaning tower of Goombas, but it survived - we were so proud.

But when Graham Fraser got on stage and started making jokes about "Well, we'll see all you guys on Monday, IV bags in hand, probably still dressed in race togs, lined up all day. But don't worry, we'll have a doctor in line with you guys. Have fun Sunday!" I just about imploded...as well as about 1000 other people thinking the same thing: "You smug son of a #()$!" Eric got a big laugh out of knowing that I wasn't the only lunatic panicked about 2001, but this was hardly the rousing boost I was hoping for. Now I was tired, pissed, cranky, lonely, and completely miffed at Graham and his race losing touch and mocking the people that made it so big. Was I overreacting? Maybe. But I needed an escape - again. Eric headed to the beach for some quiet time with my walkman CD player, so I ran up the stairs to the tavern in the Slumber Lodge for another emergency Kokanee. The place was closing...but I told them I was racing the Ironman on Sunday, and that when I said 'a' beer, I really meant 'A - single - one' beer...so they let me in and locked the door behind me.

Eric beat me back to the room, and when I came back...he was sitting on the couch and had a look that told me he had bad news. "I don't want you to panic, but..." and he pointed at my bike. While Apollo slept in the corner...a single bee had flown in through the window, and was buzzing curiously around the JetStream, seeking a bee-size sugar fix.

I froze like Lot's wife where I stood.

It might as well have been a dragon, snake, or IRS auditor. After losing my race at Lake Placid to one of those things...my internal "Ability to Cope" system shorted out (once more, with feeling). My body's defenses upgraded themselves to 'DEFCON 3', and I just stood there unsure if I should waste the energy being upset, or just skip the process and go to bed. Eric, sensing that I had gone catatonic, grabbed a dishtowel. He pivoted me politely out of the way so I could stare at the walls in peace, and set about beating the shit out of the entire room, chasing the bee hither and yon until it finally flew out the window.

"After I paid that one to ruin your race at USA, they keep coming around to see if I want them again. Silly things." Muttered my nemesis...now my hero for vanquishing the room of bees. A new 'last-nerve' (my 3rd of the week) popped into place, and I came back to the world of the living. "Uhh, thanks." I squeaked, and headed for bed.

The next day, another bee tried to take me on while I was in the shower. With a war cry that woke up most of the South Okanagan I grabbed a previously unimportant (to me) shampoo bottle and made it into a de facto cruise missile, blasting the bejeezus out of said bee whilst giving him a final conditioning rinse before going off to meet his maker.

Saturday was cold and windy, and the weather forecast was uncertain for Sunday. Wearing a jacket, pants, and hat to ward off the mid-summer wind-chill, I checked Apollo in before the traditional athlete's meeting. I brought John Prowse a latte to help me in the mechanical karma department (and since he asked the entire crowd for one during the banquet on Friday), and had an early supper with Mike, Kim, Jason, and Mike's parents before we lined up for the athletes parade. Time was seemingly flying by now...tomorrow would finally be race day, and no matter what happened, I was looking forward to being free of all the thinking and worry when it finally got under way.

At the parade, Jason Mayfield has this tradition - whatever country has no participants marching, he 'adopts' the flag so it doesn't get left behind. 2 years ago, he and Gerry Kuse marched as Monaco. Last year, Mike Kelly and Mr. Mayfield were the proud reps for the Northwest Territories. This time? Jason, Mike and I were from the tropical island of: BERMUDA. Of course, we had no idea what the state animal, flower, or anthem was...so when people asked, we let Jason make it all up. I felt weird when some folks cheered for Bermuda, and I'd look around before I remembered "Oh, right. That's us." and wave back. I wondered from time to time if we were stealing flag-karma from someone, but since my worry-department was already pretty much swamped, I let it go.

That night, I called Lynda from the shore of the lake. The wind was whipping up the whitecaps once more, and in the middle of things she even said "Wow. It sounds like you're at the beach - like, on the Atlantic." I knew it would be the last time I would talk to her until the race itself was all over, and once we'd said our final goodbyes...I suddenly felt alone. Not the solitude of a man ready to strike out with the confidence of having finished 3 Ironman races, but that of a man who just wanted to pack up and go home. I had a life waiting for me - a woman I loved, a wedding 2 weeks away, and nothing but potential great things ahead of me...but there I was. Willing to risk all that for what suddenly seemed like just another race. Why? What did I have left to prove to myself? To anyone?

My perspective had kicked into overdrive, and while a thought like that might seem sobering at first...I knew right then that I had my head and my heart in the right place. In 1998 I used the Ironman to help me find out who I was - to help me define character within me that I didn't know I had. I had grown along the way, and after my second finish, and then after the third less than a month earlier at Lake Placid...I began to realize that it isn't what the *Ironman* does to make you who you are - it's what *you* do with the Ironman to discover who you are. Like a mentor that knows his time is finished, I could see the Ironman in my mind smirking with this epiphany, nodding at what it knew would be coming all along, and rising from a position on the bench next to me...and walking down the road, out of sight.

I'd be getting in this surfable lake with 1700 other hopeful souls, riding 112 miles over mountains, and hopefully covering all 26.2 miles to the finish...and while I wanted to have a good race and rid myself of the shortfall that was IM-USA, I knew that if things didn't go well or I didn't finish for whatever reason...I would be fine. I would live to race another day, and with complete understanding of where I really stood came the peace I had been looking for all week. Warm, quiet, soothing, true peace. I found it ironic that I had gotten all the pieces together to see this only after I'd found myself away from the most important piece of my life's puzzle.

She wasn't there with me, but she was suddenly with me all the way - and I knew I couldn't lose, no matter how the next day played out.

Calm at last, I watched the sun set until the twilight grew cold.

I had one more Kokanee.

I prayed for safety for Eric and I.

I prayed I would return home as I promised.

I closed my eyes, and slept.

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