The Tupper Lake Tinman

July 2, 2000 - Tupper Lake, New York

1.2 Mile Swim, 56 Mile Bike, 13.1 Mile Run

http://www.tupperlakeinfo.com/tinman 

The annual summer gathering in the Adirondacks, and a tune-up for IM-USA.

8 hours in a car is bad.
8 hours in a car in traffic is worse.
At least it was Markley as a passenger...Eric would have been in the trunk by now.

"Where they heck are these people going?"
"Upstate. It is Saturday on July 4th weekend."
"Couldn't they have gone, like, yesterday?"
"No. That would have been too easy."

"Why do they all have bikes that look like they haven't been ridden, ever, but were important enough to take on vacation?"

"Such is the essence of suburban New Yorkers on a long weekend: Bring everything - it'll shut the kids up."

Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Lurch. Sigh. Mark Markley, Michael Parente, Eric Weiss and myself had decided that this year we'd leave early. On the road at 7:00am for the 8 hour epic drive to Tupper Lake, a drive that we'd seen no traffic on in the previous 3 years. Of course, that drive was also usually done on a Friday morning in mid-July, not on a Saturday morning of a holiday weekend...but such silly little details had slipped through the cracks when we'd hatched the plan.

Surrounded by Minnie-Winnie's, SUV's packed to the hilt, Bike racks held on the backs of cars with Bungee Cords, Duct Tape, Fishing line and hope, we just hoped we'd eventually lope far enough North get to registration some time before sunset.

After the traditional lunch-stop at the Troy Pub & Brewery (Oatmeal Stout...hmmmm), we finished the last bit of the drive in about 3 hours as the roads grew into twisty, narrow ribbons, the towns grew smaller, and the hills slowly grew into green mountains framed by unclouded, blue skies. This is the Adirondack Park in Northern New York... one of the largest, unspoiled places we get to go play in once per summer (or twice if you're foolish enough to have signed up for IM-USA...but that's another sub-plot).

Tupper Lake is a sleepy little town with one Golf Course, one Ski Center, and one main road through the center...like most towns in this part of the State where snow is on the ground more months than it isn't most years.  At the town center lies the Shaheen's Motel, the Unofficial Official race Headquarters for the assembled TRI-DRS members, IM-USA onelisters, and a few rogue IMC onelisters trying to crash a known good time. After checking into all of the rooms, turning the parking lot into a combination Bike Shop and Test Track, and determining that to swim 1.2 miles in the hotel pool would involve approximately 177 flip-turns, we all headed downtown for the pasta party and registration.

In 1998, this race had 174 participants. Last year with the help of nearby Ironman USA that number jumped to 350...and now the 2000 version would have a field of 500 - the first sell-out in 10 years for the Tinman. Fears that this race grew too big, too quickly revealed themselves at check-in, where a total of 11 volunteers (5 of them under the age of 13) were trying to process everyone at once in an un-air-conditioned Knights of Columbus Dance Hall. After standing in line for 45 minutes, you got your number, your T-Shirt, your goodie bag, and then the surprise: "What color swim cap would you like?" asked the little girl (no lie - she was 12) manning the table. Evidently no-one had told her which wave got what color, so she had decided to just let the racers pick. I told her to pick me a lucky color, so she went with blue for good luck.

At the dinner we managed to meet up with essentially everyone: Lynn and Tommy Kapusta, Jim Hutzlemann, Stephen Dragoni, Josh Friedman, Art Hutchinson, and several other Deads that came and went faster than I could remember to remember them.

After the pasta feed (and a quick ice-cream fix across the road), we all retired to the hotel and met up with the remaining cast of characters: Mike Randall and his wife, The Honorable Bryan T. Waid, Lisa Miller and Renee, Cathy and Jim Taylor, Steve and Liza Wyle (plus Walker and...and...and their other dog), and Ian Heffernan, all while we were meeting new folks who had managed to stumble into what seemed to be a spontaneous triathlete convention. The nervous energy the night before always seems to fuel lots of talking, laughing, and riding around in little circles to make sure that everything was working at once on the bike.

Back in the room again as Eric and I taped our numbers on, packed our gear bags, and readied some bottles for the next morning for the 3rd year in a row...it was a neat feeling to reflect on that in 1998, there were 5 of us from the list racing (Art Hutchinson, Marc Harrison, Lynn Kapusta, Mr. Weiss (esq.), and myself), and now there were close to 30 people we'd know by name and sight out there. No matter where we'd be on Sunday...we'd never be too far from a friendly face.

Lights out at 10:30...there's a duel to tend to in just a few hours.

At 5:44, my eyes popped open precisely one minute before the alarm...my traditional pre-race, body clock check working to absurd perfection once more. I flipped the lights on, and a lump on the other side of the room growled in protest, as one arm emerged from beneath the covers in search of things to throw at me. (Eric is always such a ray of sunshine on race day!)

The weather channel said the outside temp was a balmy 48 degrees, the blessing of having air with no humidity. The weather looked perfect: Highs in the 70's-80's with a SW wind...that meant headwind out, tailwind back. Perfect!

Once we got to the race site, the race organization showed once again that it was reeling from the number of athletes as 4 volunteers tried to orchestrate the parking of over 400 cars...without attempting to talk to each other. From above it probably looked like a Non-Contact Demolition Derby as cars with bike racks whizzed in opposing-random directions until they got to a fence, a line of cars, a flag-waving volunteer with a big vocabulary, or the lake.

The bike racks at Tupper Lake aren't racks, but taught steel cables...so that racking your rig too firmly will cause the other bikes to bounce, and the other folks are your wire to become cross. I found my cable (right next to a tree - score!) and gently racked Apollo in the launch position. Since I was racing in my DeSoto Skinsuit transition setup was essentially fool-proof: 2 sets of shoes, a hat, a number belt, a helmet, and 7 packets of Quic Disc.

After a few nervous hellos it was down to the lake...and it was finally near go time.

With so many people this time, I made sure I checked in early. I would be going in wave 2, the blue, green, orange, white and red wave (the Skittles wave), not to be confused with wave 1 (green, blue, white, orange and red), or wave 3 (red, green, white, blue and orange), or wave 4 (white, red, blue, orange and green).

After wave one was set off...I found a good place on the beach. It would be a combination beach and in-water start since the front line suffered a case of the 'creeps' right before the horn...and we all sort of wobbled, walked, and then flat-out ran into the drink right as the horn sounded.

I dove in, and hit the swim hard right away. My goal on the day was to break 5 hours for the 1/2 IM, a time I had been close to my entire career. In 10 previous tries, I have been between 5:28, and 5:08 every time...always within a good run of getting that 4:xx finish, but never sealing the deal. Today I knew I was in form to do it...and I was ready to give it my all to do so. (Not to mention the fact that with Eric currently holding an hour and 6 minute lead in "The Duel" (tm), I'd have to go like #()*$ to get some time back).

Early on the waves on the lake were coming from my left, so I knew I'd have to make time on the way out: As a right-only breather I figured I'd be fighting to keep a smooth rhythm on the way back, so I concentrated on my form all the way out. Soon I was pretty clear of traffic and motoring along by myself (aside from a major collision with Bryan T. Waid that sent shock waves rippling across the Adirondacks, and will soon be the subject of a new Fox special: "When Clydes Collide.")

About 4 miles later (a mild exaggeration...it sure felt that way) I finally neared the turn-around houseboat that I was sure was left in gear and creeping away from us...but my watch said 15:30, so I knew I was close to my goal time. When I hit the buoy...I prepared myself for the always adventurous return leg of the Tupper Lake Tinman.

You see, the swim course is laid out in a West-East fashion...so on a sunny day the last .6 miles are pointed directly into a rising sun. Today was no exception...and to make matters worse, there seemed to be no buoys for the return leg at all. Before me were about 150 Skittles heading in 144 different directions. Behind me a small group made the turn-around...and kept right on going. "Guys? GUYS! YOOO! This way!" I yelled, but they were hell-bent on blazing a new trail across the lake...and with the following waves, who was I to tell them where to go?

With a broad expanse of flailing arms before me, I figured I should play the law of averages: Someone, somewhere in that mess had to be headed the right way...so I picked an orange Skittle in the middle and set out after it.

Then things got REALLY weird.

There were swimmers coming at me, being chased by kayakers to try and herd them back where they should be going. There were swimmers headed for a water tower...taking them about 1/2 mile from where they needed to go. It looked like the final battle from Return of the Jedi in neoprene – swimmers headed in all directions, with wildly gesturing kayaks in hot pursuit. All we needed was some guy on a Jet Ski telling me that he was our father...but there wasn't enough time for that.

As I neared the shore I could tell that I had gambled and won - I was somehow on course and I could see bodies on the beach headed for the racks. I hit the shore in 35:05, somewhat disappointed at the time but still feeling pretty good physically. As I looked back at the water, it looked like the only thing that would bring the entire scattered field in at one time would be a fishing trawler: There were Skittles all over the
place...and nobody seemingly near the buoys that I hadn't seen all the way in.

I trotted to my cable, and I was pleased to see that most of the bikes were still there - yahoo! Off with the wetsuit, on with the lid, fill the pockets with some QD's, and away we go.

I love the bike course at Tupper Lake. It's flat as you roll out of town so you can gather your wits, settle your heart, and get comfy for the saddle-time to come...and then you hit the biggest climb of the day. It hurts, but it hurts for everyone...and then you're done with the big stuff. The course then just rolls, rolls, rolls, all day long. As I popped my 23-tooth and spun up the early wall like a Maytag...the sun on my back was
starting to feel really good, my legs were waking up, and I was already thinking of dinner back at the hotel later on: I knew it was going to be a good day.

Down the first roll, picking riders off like candy. "Next. Next. Next!" I had loaded up on enough Quic Disc to be able to skip the first aid station...a station that I'd been asking the race director to move for 2 years. As I rolled down the backside of another ridge, I could see that my request went ignored yet again. At 41mph, I was in a small group of 3 as we closed in. I just shook my head...it was suicidal to have this here, and I moved left to let them know I had no interest in taking a feed at all. A woman to my right slowed down and reached for a bottle...and out of the corner of my eye I watched her arm whipsaw back: The volunteer was watching me, and didn't let go of the bottle.

Her bike snapped right, and started a sickeningly slow slide to the left. With the bottle in her right hand she started to scream, knowing that she was out of control with only one hand on left the bars. I pulled hard left to make sure we wouldn't touch, and then her front tire caught the pavement and launched the bike into a savage tumbling sequence. I counted 2 complete flips on the pavement...breaking the number one rule of accident avoidance: I was looking back to watch as she tumbled.

I knew this would happen.
I told them this would happen.

"God Dammit!" I screamed. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" As the adrenaline of a near-miss raced through my veins, all I could do was talk out loud...and get the fear and shock out of my body. "I can't believe that! I told them to move that #($*ing aid station in 1998, I told them last year, and they've probably just broken someone's neck. Why does that have to be there?"

The rider with me turned around and said "Eyee don't knooow. Eyee guess they arre jest stooopeed, non?"  Suddenly I remembered my "Le stem du Cleef Bar?" question of a French Canadian last year, and my state of mind, teetering on boiling anger and panic...suddenly took a left turn and went directly to hysteria. I laughed out loud. "I guess so...I guess so my friend."

His name is Sylvaine. He lives in Montreal. He qualified for Ironman Hawaii at Florida last fall. He told me that "You climb veeery weeel for a beeeeg man, yes?" as I wheeled by him on the hills...and then he'd motor by me on the flats. "I looove my  Computraaainer!" he'd sing. We rotated back and forth (legally, of course) for about 12 miles before I pulled away for good. It was fun to have a target on each roll, and I didn't even really notice that we were riding into a headwind the entire time.

As I noodled over the 20 mile mark, my watch read 54:20...and I was smiling. My HRM was giving me good feedback, and I was feeling within myself. I knew I would have to feel this way in order to have the strength needed for a good run, and I was really looking forward to hitting the turn-around and really lighting up the road with the tailwind. There was no-one in sight ahead of me, so I knew I'd ridden into a virtual "No-Mans-Land" between the waves...meaning I was closing in near the top 10 in my Age Group.  My grin got bigger.

"I can't believe this...I'm on! I'm on when I needed to be on! I can't believe how fast this ride is going by. No leaders yet, so maybe I can hold them off until after Cranberry Lake? Just keep it up...keep it up...I wonder if we'll get pizza again tonight, that's going to be such a good ti-"

*BLAM!* FwapfwapFwapfwapFwapfwapFwapfwapFwapfwap.

"Shit."

1:07 into the ride, 4 miles from the turn-around, the Bob Mina that would be breaking 5 hours on this day rolled up the road without me for the 11th time in a row, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head... again. A bad valve-stem on the front tire, and that was that. I waved him goodbye in my mind...and thought that maybe on attempt #12...perhaps I'd stay with him.

I pulled off to one side and got to work. I was somewhat surprised – this was my first flat during a race in 6 years, so it took me a second to settle down and get the wheel off. I had the tire off and the cause figured in under 2 minutes. New tube in and seated in 4 minutes. All I had to do was pump it up, and I'd be on my way. I'd always figured that my little Blackburn Mini-Pump would be up to the task should I need it...and this would be my lesson in the appreciation of CO2 cylinders.

15 awful, pump-sweat-pumpumpumpumpumpumpumpump-gasp-pumpumppump minutes later, I had the tire inflated to the point where it was above a marshmallow but below a hot dog in relative pressure. My fingers were cramped, I was covered in sweat, and I'd been passed by 2,392 people, the entire town of Tupper Lake, Two 4th of July Parades (complete with floats), and one errant bottle rocket.

However I have to say that I was amazed at the politeness of the others. Not one person rolled by without asking "Are you okay?" to me. Even the top 10 riders going the other way. Of course, the neutral support van stopped and asked me "You need anything?" in the middle of my 938th stroke. I asked "Yeah - you got a floor pump?" He said "No, I've got one of them mini-pumps like you. You want a ride back to town?"

Wow. This guy is as sharp as a can of paint, isn't he? "No way, dude! I'm in this for the duration. Thanks."

As I re-mounted Apollo somewhere near 3,489th place...my evil Nemesis (tm) rolled up beside me: Eric Weiss. It was perfect scripting, really. "Mr. Mina, I presume?" he asked. I growled back "20 #$*&ing minutes lost to a flat front tire." "Ouch. That sucks." He replied. I just didn't feel like talking...as I rolled up to the turn around in 1:39, about 20 minutes late.

I grabbed a bottle.
I shifted to the 12-tooth.
I took a breath.
I took all my anger from the flat, and gave it a place to go.

All the way home, I didn't look around at all. I focused on getting myself down the road as fast as I could go. Since breaking 5 hours was hopeless, I could still have a solid training day and race as hard as I could against what was left of the course. Trying not to use the little-ring at all, I stood up for most of the rises and just rode as if I was in a relay.

Passing Art Hutchinson, I said the only thing I said to anyone all the way home: "You have no idea how pissed I am right now."  As I rolled into town, my watch told me that I covered the 28 mile return leg in 1:12, at an average speed of 23.3 mph (Total time of 2:51 with the flat stoppage time). I was spent emotionally and physically as I downshifted for the transition area and tried to ready myself for the run...when suddenly I heard some voices yell out "Alright Bob! Hey!"

It was Dave Cotting and Chandra Mason, having made the drive down to spectate! It was a wonderful surprise, and a great morale boost for me after such a rough ride.

I toddled towards my tree and cable, and Dave came over to the fence to chat. Just then, due to a combination of endorphins, lactic acid, and a plummeting heart rate...my brain pretty much rebooted as soon as I racked Apollo, and I completely forgot what to do next. Simple transition setup or not, my brain went off-line...and I was stuck  between thoughts.

"Hey Bob, you look salty!" said Dave.  I looked at my suit, and he was right - I looked like a Hostess Sno-Ball. Memo to myself: Quic Discs are fine for sodium intake by themselves.

I looked down at my shoes.
I kept looking at my shoes.
I decided that it was all too confusing, and a chat with Dave would be a great idea.

"So, how was you drive down here?" I asked, leaning on my bike, still wearing my helmet...really in no particular hurry to go anywhere. "Oh, it was fun. You know...you should start your transition, eh? Do you want to run a little?" asked Dave. I paused to reflect on his wisdom, and just then my brain finished rebooting. "Ummm, yeah... you're...you're right!" I managed to undo the helmet, change my shoes (I even remembered socks), and grabbing my number and hat, I waved goodbye and cantered across the lawn to the run-out.

As I was leaving a woman to my right cheered out "Alright Bob, whoohoo!" Thrilled at the attention, I waved, and then blew her a kiss. As I trotted on I thought "Wow...that was cool, and what a sweet gesture that was! Now...who the hell was that woman, and what am I doing blowing kisses to strangers? Ahh, whatever...I hope she didn't mind. I'll file that one under the 'things I do when I'm totally spent' file."

I trotted on, finding a rhythm just about a 9mpm pace. The wind from the bike felt cooling now, and it really was a fine day to be out here, despite the setback on the bike. I figured with my slow chat-n-change-T2, Eric would be on me by mile 5 or so...and I was 2 miles late with that. At mile 3, there he was...big grin and big stride. Caught again...more time lost in The Duel (tm). I guess this really is his year!

I settled in next to him and tried to hang on. He's far too strong a runner for me to do anything *but* hang on, but since this was a training day for me...why not try? "I'm going to try and stay with you as long as I can, so we'll see what happens." He turned and said "Okay. I'm taking this mile easy, and I'm going hard again at mile 4."

Jerk.

With my HRM already telling me that this might be a *very* bad idea, there wouldn't be a whole lot of room to go any faster...but such is life. Heading uphill we came around a corner...to a dog standing on a lawn watching us run by.

I asked Eric "Is that THE dog you talked to last year?" (The one that told him he couldn't quit the race - twice) He replied "It is. That's him. HEY - YOU GOT ANYTHING TO SAY TO ME THIS YEAR?" asked Eric of 'The Dog'.

The dog said "Grrf."

"That's what I thought!" replied Gumby...as he prepared to go to warp speed.

The next thing I knew, I was alone again...and Eric was a white-shirt, heading up the hill, into the woods...not to be seen until it was all over. I returned to my plod, and started dreaming of pizza, beer, Pringles, and a nap when it was all over.

I carried on this food-based dream until mile 10...when a woman came by me covered in bandages, road rash, and iodine. It couldn't be - it had to be a ghost, so I asked: "Hey...was that you, the stuntwoman at the first aid station?" She turned and said "Yep! I spent 20 minutes on the ground and when the medics turned around, I took off and rode 50 miles on a broken frame...and I'm not quitting now!"  And just like that...she dropped me, too. "Huh. And I think *I* had a rough day?" I thought to myself...that's guts for sure.

Near the finish, the figure of Art Hutchinson came into view (well, after he'd passed me and I said "Hi Art!" I think he felt bad for smoking me and pulled back)...and we settled into a finishing rhythm together. For the last 2 miles we ran a little, walked a little, and talked a little...and it was nice to have the company (just like Mike Plumb last year) for the last stretch of a long day - it's always great to share the turn for home with someone you know who gets it.

As 1/2 Ironman #11 went into the books, we hit the line together in 5:35...a new personal worst for me, but I was still proud to have kept the time under 6 hours despite the mechanical. I was tired, sore, but as proud as ever...and despite being my slowest half it had been a fun, beautiful training day.

I could tell too that seeing the 'ghost' from that first crash run by me so well had been a weight on my shoulders relieved...I felt just so much lighter knowing that she was okay and very much not dead.  I soon found out that on my run-out I had blown a kiss to Melanie, the girlfriend of Greg Sullivan, a Pennsylvania-based triathlete I've trained with who had an outstanding day to finish 10th Overall. Thankfully she thought the whole was funny, and Greg didn't seem too phased by it mainly since I'm sure he understood that I wasn't really home at the time, and that blowing kisses to complete strangers isn't a normal habit of mine.

Back at the hotel we all showered, brought our own chairs, and proceeded to consume 2 cases of beer, 2 bags of chips, 12 pizzas, a few orders of Grilled Chicken, Garlic Bread, 1/2 gallon of ice cream, and 1 case of Pepsi (in order to stay awake to keep eating).

Just another year at Tupper Lake.
So who's coming next year?

Hurricane Bob
* 23 more days until what? *

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