I close my eyes. I'm tired. Not the tired you usually feel at the end of a 1/2 Ironman, but that awful, heavy tired you get when you're sick. I want to lay down and sleep...or at least wait a moment until I'm not so dizzy...but I know either of those choices will be permanent day-ending maneuvers - and fatal to what little hope I have left of getting this stupid race overwith. Somewhere off in the distance, and aid station radio blares into space. I hear a low hum, then a whistle - I know this song. "Lunatic Fringe...I know you're out there..." For the first time in 2 hours, I grin. Lunatic Fringe, indeed. Most sane people with a cold would be home sipping orange juice, nursing some soup, and watching Oprah. Me? Seemed to make perfect sense that a race would be the best medicine, and for 2/3rds of this day it was...it's just the 13.1 miles of this run leg are about 12.1 miles more than my body could handle. Not far now, though. Not far at all.

A step, another step, and I shuffle on towards the unseen radio around the corner.

"We can hear you coming..."

"We know what you're after..."

This year, the thyroid that held me back all of the 2000 season had been fixed. This year, I wasn't thinking about training at all - I hired a coach to do all that for me. Starting in October of 2000, Mike Plumb (the brain behind the athletes of www.tripower.org) set about building a better Bob from the misshapen lump of humanity I handed him. There were 2 hour rides on the rollers in the basement in December, January, February... Long, solo runs starting the week after the Philadelphia Marathon in November... 8 mile tempo runs in January, February, March... Track workouts in April and May. My weight was dropping. My confidence was growing. I broke my 1/2 Marathon PR in March - a 4 year old mark that I hadn't even been close to since that day in 1997. I knew I was getting faster, and I couldn't wait to do more.

I was different. I knew it. I didn't look at my upcoming races with fear - I looked at them with pure anticipation. Hills? Bring them on. Heat? The hotter the better. Rain? Well, I hate rain - so lets skip that one (you can't coach anyone out of clammy shorts, c'mon people). After seemingly racing all over the bloody continent in 2000, my 2001 race calendar was substantially reduced. I'd miss the Columbia Triathlon for the first time since 1996...so by the time June rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to see what I could do at my first real test: The Blackwater Eagleman Half-Ironman in Cambridge, Maryland.

I've done this race 3 times previously, finishing each with some degree of disaster. In 1997 I broke a rear derailleur and rode 48 of the 56 miles stuck in my 12-tooth (averaging 22.7mph on the way...but leaving nothing in the legs for the run). In 1998, we swam into a 4mph current. "Oops!" went the Race Director...and 47:14 in the swim put me 17 minutes behind my goal...and behind more than that for the rest of the day. 1999? Swim was still slow, bike was a PR of 2:25, and then Eric Weiss made "The Pass" at mile 6 on the run. Angry at having lost my lead on a windless day, I went after him. I turned off the alarm on my Heart Rate Monitor, and 3 miles later, found out why they put alarms on the things in the first place as I emptied my stomach in spectacular fashion in full view of some unfortunate volunteers.

After a break in 2000 I would return to Cambridge in 2001 to finally have the race that has been waiting for me. No more mechanicals, uphill swims, or doubts. I was primed, tapered, rested, and ready. So when my throat was sore after my Wednesday tune-up run, I was a bit nervous. Nervous proceeded to perturbed when I got the chills an hour later, and perturbed yielded to panic-stricken when the sneezing and shivering began less than 2 hours after that. In the span of a single evening I went from the most confident and ready I had ever been for any race into 3-dwarf mode: I was sneezy, sleepy, and grumpy all at once.

Thursday I went home from work at 4:00pm, and was in bed by 7:30pm. I slept for 12 hours, and on Friday I began the bargaining phase of being sick. "Lord, if you can just make me well enough to start...I'll take the rest from there." I was still stuffy and dizzy most of the day, but I managed to swim an easy 1000 yards at the YMCA as a 'test drive' of how I might feel. By now I was so desperate, I was counting hours to my wave start to improve the odds that I might get rid of this thing. "Yeah, I can't breathe too well, flip turns make me dizzy, and I'm not sure I can run at all...but with 38 hours until I start? Hey...a lot can happen."

In the words of Conan O'Brian: When all else fails, there's always delusion.

Eric and I made the drive down to Cambridge on Saturday morning, dodging the rainstorms that magically appear whenever I put a bike on the roof of my car. I swear - Ethiopia has a drought? No problem. I'll clean my rig, mount it on the car, and I'll have a hurricane delivered in under 14 minutes. After surviving the 3-hour deluge, we made the usual rounds of checking in, bike inspection, and making sure our homestay host knew we were coming later that night. Luckily, our host Mr. Luke Finlay had room for us...and about 12 others. "Yeah, I've got a 10 bedroom vacation house, and you and all your triathlete friends are welcome all weekend!" The homestay is the best part of Blackwater - I've never had a bad experience. The little town of Cambridge seems to turn itself inside-out to the athletes, and with the volunteer count over 600 (up from 200 the year before) it was nice to feel welcome.

I was pretty tired from the drive, so I sat most of the night...hydrating and praying...checking my watch ("I've still got 14 hours...") and repeatedly convincing myself that this was a good idea. Somewhere in my mind there was this one brain cell (not to be confused with the other one I have) that kept trying to convince me that tomorrow it would all be okay. As if by pulling on the wetsuit, toeing the line and going for it, I would be healed and set that PR I've been after forever. The other brain cell just crossed it's arms and stared into space - it seemed to know better. This would be my 14th attempt at the 1/2 Ironman Distance (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run) and my 14th try at breaking the 5-Hour mark. I have clocked 5:28, 5:25, 5:19, 5:15, 5:12, 5:10, and 5:08 in my better tries - This time, it was going to be a 5:50 or less...and I had spent 4 months preparing for what that would be like. None of my visualizations had included carrying around tissues, counting down the hours, and hoping that my NyQuil hangover would wear out before the swim start.

I managed to meet lots of other Tri-Deads from the list during dinner, and that helped my mood a bit...but I was so out of it, it was hard to make too much conversation. In no particular order there was Eric Austin, Dave Wiesenhahn, Mark Markley, Stephen Dragoni, Morgan Dailey (and the soon-to-be Mrs. Dailey), Pam Zawada, and several others who's names and faces have clouded in my shallow memory since it's been nearly 3 weeks since the darn race. Sorry!

Mark, Dave, Eric, and myself caravanned out to Luke's house, and grabbed some upstairs bedrooms. I chatted with Luke for a bit, as well as some of the other athletes in the homestay...then went about the usual night-before drill: Pinning my number to the race belt, the sticker on the helmet, counting GU's for the bike and run...but it all seemed so, hopeless. There wouldn't be a miracle last-minute healing, and the race I'd looked forward to tearing to pieces for so long suddenly seemed to be turning the tables on me with nowhere for me to hide.

What little sleep I found that night was fitful, short, and anxious. When dawn came, there was relief in that no matter what happened on this day, I would go home in a matter of hours and pick up the pieces. Over a small breakfast of coffee and 2 Harvest Bars, I wondered what lesson I was supposed to learn here. I had worked so hard to beat back my doubts - I had come so far - I had developed so much potential and so much confidence for the first time in my racing career, and a stupid cold had undermined 6 months of work in 3 days. There was no justice - no great lesson - no silver lining. I came to the conclusion that sometimes shit just happens, and there wasn't anything more cosmic about it to be found.

It wasn't very comforting, but life isn't a Hallmark ad. It's not supposed to rhyme all the time, and end happily, is it? I'd gone 39 races without starting one sick - that streak would end in less than 2 hours. At least there would be one thing accomplished today...

The drive to the race site was easy and quiet between Eric and I. The skies were clearing from a shower at daybreak, and the roads looked to be drying. The winds were already turning the leaves over in most of the trees, so I knew it wouldn't be a calm day. In a way, I was glad - Cambridge is so flat, a cyclist needs the wind to make a real difference. Eric ran me down in 1999 because there was virtually no wind, and I couldn't get enough of a cushion. Based on the pasting I had taken in our "Duel" in 2000 (I had lost every race we entered as a pair) and still thinking like someone that had a body ready for battle, I made a note to use the wind like a hill...

Denial: It's not just a river in Egypt.

When I raced here in 1997, there were 360 people. 1998, it was about 600. In 1999, almost 950...and now? Blackwater had 1500 people entered, so you can imagine how shocked I was when it seemed that 1495 of them had showed up before 6:00am. Eric and I ended up parking a good 1/2 mile from the race site, so we'd be carrying our gear like a pack of triathlon sherpas. Before we left I took off my wedding band and hid it in the same place I always do, kissing it goodbye and tucking it away so there's no chance I'll lose it during the swim. I asked newlywed Eric "You want to hide your ring here?" After some quick thinking he decided "Nah, I always swim with it. It'll be okay." We set off, and I tried to get myself in a mentally good place before the start.

After a rushed port-o-potty stop (35 minutes in line!) Eric and I had 30 minutes to get marked, set up, and make our wave start. We managed to wheedle some rack space on the packed 30-34 bike racks, and we literally ran for it from there through the marshy transition area (remember all that rain yesterday?) to the swim start. There wasn't time to worry...but we were both way off of our normal pre-race routines - too many people - too much to deal with. He had forgotten his usual pre-race Ensure, and I had forgotten...well...I can't remember. I just felt rushed and all over the place. When it came time to hit the water, I welcomed it. I didn't have to think anymore - I could finally focus on whatever race I was going to have today.

There were 276 men starting in our wave - There were 3 spots for Hawaii up for grabs. That meant 273 sets of arms would be pounding the hell out of everything nearby for no reason, so I took a step back and seeded myself in the rear of the pack for the scrum, unwilling to add a black eye to my red nose. I was trying to find a space to close my eyes, take that last breath...when the horn sounded and we were off. I hadn't even set my goggles yet...but we were running. The water at the start was shallow, and I remembered from previous years that it could be a long, long run-out to the deeps. I managed to set my goggles, de-fog them a bit (ptui!), and stretch my arms while running the first 200 yards...and the water was still only thigh-deep. Eventually I just got tired of running and dove in with the rest of the dolphins, ready to settle in for whatever this day had waiting for me.

I could see the madness ahead of me - arms flailing, bodies bouncing, guys somehow face-planting into the buoys - it was like rush-hour in Philly, but wetter. I stayed about 10 yards off the short line, quite by myself, having a fine time of things. The water was nice and cool, I was thinking "Long and Strong...Long and Strong..." and maintaining the best stroke that I could. Around the first buoy in about 8 minutes I felt decent - better than I'd hoped I wou- ** KA-THUD! **

Sandbar! We'd hit it in 1997 - and here it was again! Some of the guys ahead of me had suffered a sudden brain-fade when faced with an unplanned-run in the middle of the swim, but I knew what to do and took off waddling at full-plod for the next buoy. I must have picked off 20 positions while some of these guys decided to yell at the officials because there was nothing better they could think of. Whatever. As I was running, I noticed that my legs had that 'Standing at the beach' feeling of surf - like water rushing by and past me. It was pretty clear that the current was against us, yet again. Doesn't anybody in this darn town have a tide chart? I dove back in, and knew I was in for a long haul to the second turn.

It was long, lonely, but I felt alright. I was swimming my own race, catching caps from the previous waves, waiting for the end to come...and trying to breathe without opening my mouth. I kept bouncing into these little plastic bags filled with water, and then that one brain cell (the one with it's arms crossed) realized what they were: Jellyfish. It's not supposed to be warm enough - it's too early in the year - but here they were. Lots of them. Off my face, my arms, my goggles - everywhere. I kept waiting for the stings to come...and if I could, I would have leapt out of the water and run for shore - it felt AWFUL. When the boat ramp finally came into view I couldn't get out of the water fast enough. Literally. I stood up with about 10 yards to go to the ramps...and promptly sank knee deep into a major hole of cold muck. I was stuck. Neither leg would move, so I waved my arms forward and thought "What would Chubby Checker do now?" Right - I began to twist like mad...and came triumphantly unstuck for a 37 minute swim split. I had hoped for 30 minutes, but with the current like that...anything under 40 made me happy.

As I trotted through the hoses for a quick de-mucking-and-jellyfishing, I remembered what I had forgotten before the race: Where did I park my bike? I hadn't done a walk-through to get a landmark, and now I was in deep-poop. Being in the second wave of the day, there were still close to 1400 bikes parked, and I had NO idea where Apollo was waiting. I asked of no-one in particular "Man...where did I put all my toys?" and Trevor Shand (officiating for the day) heard me - answering "Go Bob! I don't know." Hey - that makes two of us. I ran towards where I thought our racks were, and started running up and down the aisles like I was looking for Froot Loops in the grocery. On the 3rd pass - THERE! I spotted my helmet and got ready to ride. I have no idea what my T1 split was, but I can say I lost nearly 2 minutes just doing the seek-and-go-ride shuffle, and that out-of-sorts feeling was there once more as I rolled out of town.

The wind made itself known immediately, and I hid deeply in the bars to fight it. I tried to figure out which way it was coming from based on the layout of the course so I'd know where I was fighting, and where I could set sail and make up some time. Of course, the wind knew I would do this and proceeded to shift from right, to left, to right, back around once more...the Blackwater Winds were living up to their reputation once more. I was glad. If it was hard for me, it was hard for everyone else. With 5 miles covered, I knew it would be a long day.

I have no computer on my race bike. I don't want to know how fast, I don't want to know how far. I just want to go as fast as I can right now...and faster than the next bike ahead of me on the road. My only sense of speed comes from my Heart Rate Monitor...and that was stuck firmly at 148. I couldn't make it go any higher. Uh-oh. That would be that cold thing, wouldn't it? *sigh* I had visualized myself cruising at speed, spinning the gears, oblivious to the wind - aware of my limits, but riding right on them. Here I was on the road, barely able to get my heart to wake up and go...and my body felt the same. Maybe it would just be a long training day? I didn't want to think that way, but it didn't look that bad to me.

If you're looking for a scenic bike, don't come to Blackwater. Sure, there are some pretty places within the refuge...but for the most part? Long straight - turn. Long straight, turn. Long straight - turn, turn (whoo!). The monotony of the unchanging road is a good test of focus, and the wind made it all that much harder. I focused on staying on top of the gear I was riding in, chasing my HR, and playing 'catch-up' with whomever was near me. I managed to see Trevor again as he moto'ed by me doing his Marshalling best out there, but I never saw anyone I could really talk to. My head wasn't in the game, and I was seeking distraction to make the time pass more quickly.

10 miles. 20 miles. 30 miles. 40 miles. 50 miles. There were these little red signs with the mileage along the way, and between them...bikes I would pass, and few that would pass me. I was riding a decent split, but I knew if I was 100% I could be doing do much more.

I did the best that I could with what I had, but soon I just couldn't wait to get off the bike. I was tired, frustrated, and sick of feeling sick. My nose had been running really badly, and by it was starting to blister from being blown so many times. I usually have a hundred little details for my race reports on the things I saw and did on the bike...but this ride is like my own personal Watergate: There was just nothing there where you would expect it. 2 hours and 35 minutes of endless pedaling, and it was now finally time to run.

I hit the dismount line and started to stride towards the racks once more...and already - instantly - I felt it. My legs had all but gone lifeless. I hadn't ridden a single hill all day, but I felt like I'd just climbed the Col D'Aubisque. I hadn't even made it to my rack yet, and all I could think about was "Uh oh. Not good. This is so very much bad, I can't even think of a good word for how bad this is." Of course, I had more pressing matters to deal with. Once more - I had no idea where I was supposed to park. There weren't too many bikes in my age group racks, so there I was again - running up and down the aisles of the Blackwater Supermarket with cleats full of mud, a bike slipping all over the slick grass with every stride...and no freakin' clue where I'd left my shoes. Next year, I'm going to hire a bloody hot air balloon...

This time it took 4 passes, but I found my stuff and thankfully racked Apollo. I wiggled into my socks and run shoes, grabbed a GU, and headed for the run-out. My legs were in serious disarray...but maybe the first mile would sort them out? I grabbed a cup of Gatorade and walked a moment - "Where is Eric? How'd I do feeling that bad? maybe I can hold him off to the turnaround agai-

Tap. Tap. Tap. Right shoulder. "You need to use a port-o-potty?" Dammit. How does he do that? At least that drama is over now. Eric peeled off to heed the call of nature, and I headed out to the first mile. I glanced down at my watch: 3:20 into the race. I'd need to run a 1:40 1/2 Marathon to get under 5 hours now...my personal best when I'm just running is 1:43. That's that. That's two less things to worry about, eh?

Then, my stomach cramped. I was less than a 1/2 mile into the run, and now I guess I would need that port-o-loo after all. Being sick in any race is bad. Being behind PR pace and being sick is worse. Getting caught by your arch nemesis while being sick and behind PR pace? AGH! Even worse. But diving into a port-o-potty that's been sitting in the sun all day (and been used a bit)...and spending the next 14 minutes in there? My friends - THAT will leave a mark on my Personal Ugliness-O-Meter for a long time to come.

By the time I got back on the road I was no longer sweating and Eric was a good 2 miles ahead, but it was nice to be able to breathe fresh air (even if it was through one nostril) again. I plodded down the road in search of my legs...hoping they might come back as the miles went on. At the 2 mile mark, I checked "Return of Legs" off my list of things to think about - they were permanently gone. I was running/shuffling 10 minute miles, and I felt totally lifeless. For all the wind that still blew over and around me, none of it seemed to be finding my sails.

Most of all, I was mentally crushed. I was on-stage, the audience was waiting, but I had no idea what my next line was. There would be no PR - no win in the "Duel" - no confident and strong run off the bike. This would be a Death March to the end...and after having such high expectations of myself this time around, the sting of failure was twice as cruel. I stopped my watch somewhere after mile 2, and cleared it. I didn't want to know what it was telling me.

I kept moving, and started making a list of friends I would see on the run. Greg Sullivan, Bill Hauser, Steve Durant, Jerome....Robin Jefferis, other faces I had trained with. The Tri-Deads - Austin, Markley, Weiss (Argh!), Wiesenhahn, Zawada, Sean Gallagher, and many others that spotted me first. I kept a tally in my head of who I had seen and who was coming next. It was the only thing I could do to keep me moving. There was even one guy who asked from behind "Hey - are you a Mike Plumb disciple?" seeing my skinsuit. "Yes, but today is hardly a day to advertise his coachcraft..." I replied. Somehow, such whacked-out prose struck a chord with him: "Hey! You're Hurricane Bob!"

That was pretty cool. :)

Of course, I have no idea who that was since he wouldn't give me his name ("I'm a lurker. You don't need to know.") but it was nice talking to you.

I spoke with everyone I could - a quick wave, a shrug; "It's not my day..." Each time, I'd get a little positive energy - some reason to keep moving. After the turn-around, I hit the darkest patch of the day. It had taken me nearly 1:15 to get to the halfway mark, and to think it would be at least that long to get to the finish? For the first time in a 1/2 Ironman, I thought long and hard about quitting. It was as if I had the Devil on my shoulder, whispering in my ear...

"C'mon...no more pain! You quit Chesapeake last year, and look! You lived! You were fine! Take the easy road, Bob. No more pain. No more feeling tired. No more runny nose, no more fighting the dizziness, no more waiting for the sun to hide behind a cloud - you can stop now and it'll all be over." I was afraid this might happen to me. Since quitting the Bay Swim last summer for my first DNF ever, my internal 'ABORT' lever seems to always be too close for comfort - especially when the going gets ugly.

"I want the medal." I said it to no-one, but I said it out loud. A voice behind me chimed in "We'll get there. Keep moving." as another kindred soul on the road - a nameless face but a convict of the road like me, patted me on the back and moved on.

I walked. It was all I had left.

Mile 7. I shuffled, I walked.

Mile 8. I shuffled, I walked.

Mile 9. I walked.

Mile 10. I walked.

"I want the medal." I'd close my eyes, and I'd see the ribbon going over my head. It was my focus. It was my lifeline to the finish.

Mile 11.

Mile 12...I can see the ocean. As I walk along, I am alone. I started this run in 238th place overall...and I've been passed by over 1000 people. I am almost finished, but the depression on how this day has played out is still there. I stop walking, and put my hands on my thighs...and stare at the ground. There is no-one ahead of me that I can see, and nobody behind me for about 1/4 mile. I should have been finished over an hour ago. Even though I have made it this far and have so very little to go, a crushing wave of depression grabs me and won't let me go. I had seen myself on my training runs here on this curve towards the shore...rounding with strength...seeing the finish line off in the distance with time to spare...and now I have to face the fact that this story won't end the way I'd scripted it. Not even close. It will be the worse 1/2 Ironman I have ever completed by over 40 minutes. Between the fatigue and illness of the body, the spirit finally breaks. I allow myself tears of frustration - "It wasn't supposed to be this way...it just wasn't supposed to be like this..."

As quickly as it comes - it goes. I suddenly feel stupid for being so weak. What the hell am I doing feeling sorry for myself like this? It was as if Cher's character from the movie "Moonstruck" reached out and slapped me across my face, yelling "Hey! Snap out of it!"

The radio at the aid station - I hear a low hum, then a whistle - I know this song. "Lunatic Fringe...I know you're out there..." For the first time in 2 hours, I grin. Lunatic Fringe, indeed. Most sane people with a cold would be home sipping orange juice, nursing some soup, and watching Oprah. Me? Seemed to make perfect sense that a race would be the best medicine, and for 2/3rds of this day it was...it's just the 13.1 miles of this run leg are about 12.1 miles more than my body could handle. Not far now, though. Not far at all. I'll finish, I'll go home, and just like I thought...I'll pick up the pieces and try again.

As I turn onto the pier for the finish, someone goes "200 yards to go!" I weakly answer "199 too many. Try again."

He counters "Okay! 150 yards to go!"

I smile again. "149 too many..."

As I run down the finish straight, I can't run that well...and I feel like everyone is staring at me. There isn't anyone near me - I'm the only athlete trudging to the line for the moment...and there is lots of applause. As the recipient of last-place sympathy applause in college during my early years of swim meets...it's a sound I hate to hear, but am thankful for all at once. I wave and mouth the words "Thank You..." when I can, and slowly make my way towards the line.

The medal is almost mine...almost mine...they've had them here since 1999. I can't wait...

I cross the tape in 6 hours, 9 minutes, and 47 seconds.

'Thank God that's over." I say to no-one...and as I look for the medal person, someone hands me a coffee mug.

"Is this for water?" I ask, rather non-connected to reality.

"No, no...that's your finishing mug! Congratulations!"

Finishing mug?

Finishing Mug.

I think about how I can fit my head through the handle, but it just won't compute. This can't be right.

I have been handed a coffee mug for finishing a half-ironman. For nearly 2 hours I have thought only of the medal at the end of this line, and now there won't be one. I feel like a little child who has been told that Christmas has been cancelled, the Easter Bunny has been shot, and the Tooth Fairy has been arrested for embezzlement all at once. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, so I do neither. I stand in the sun, covered with salt, waiting for someone to hang over my head, the medal that won't be coming. I shake. I don't know if it's dehydration, low sodium, or numbness...but it seems like a cruel joke.

All in all, it was a very appropriate ending to my day through the looking glass. Nothing went as it should have, and it ended in a way I couldn't (and still don't) understand. I tucked my mug into my back pocket, and set off to find Eric and start the trip for home. It couldn't start soon enough.

After a whole lot of aimless walking about I found Eric, and we made for the exits. He had finished in 5:30 - a personal worst for him as well. Then we found out that a close buddy of ours - Greg Sullivan - Long Course Age-Group National Champion in 2000...had gone off-course and been DQ'ed with most of the mens leaders. Clearly there had been a lot of bad karma in the water...

Once in the car and safely on the way home...just like in the morning...there wasn't a lot of talking.

Then Eric looked at his hand. "My ring....!"

There were five fingers. There was a tan-line.

There was no longer a ring.

Suddenly, our frustration and empty feelings about the race seemed to be the smallest thing to worry about.

We rolled on for home, sure that after this day...there will be better ones ahead.

There just HAVE to be.

See you at Tupper Lake, June 30th, 2001.

Hurricane Bob

* Without the bad, how would we know when it's good? *