*TWANNNG!*
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
Stop. Look at rear wheel. Spin rear wheel. Note gigantic hop in wheel and dangling spoke, now separated at the hub. I'm 6 miles from home on a bike path as smooth as a billiard table and as straight as a Montana highway, chosen for my final ride before I packed the bike BECAUSE it was so very boring and low risk to Apollo and myself. As I've now got a square wheel to deal with, I reckon that choice was pretty much moot.
I've been through bike drama before - this is nothing new. This is just a test before I break the bike down and leave for Ironman Canada in two days. In my past travels I've had a bike that wouldn't come apart, a bike that was too big for a case, a bike that UPS lost, found, then lost again, and then there was the time that Canadian Customs charged me GST for a bike I owned. There was the wheel that wobbled all over it's axle 3 days pre-race in 1998...
Needless to say, I could handle this. As I hip-hop-hippy-hopped at 7 miles per hour along the path home, I already had a plan in mind: I'd call HED. They'd send spokes to the Bike Barn. The wheel would be fixed, and all would be well. Watching the world go by slowly, I was caught by a fellow on a recumbent merrily grinding along. I wasn't in the mood to chat, so he pulled alongside and proceeded to started making notes about my situation.
"Got a busted wheel, huh?" He noticed.
"Yep. Rear. Drive-side." I replied.
"That stinks. Looks like an expensive wheel." He pointed out, while reaching for a handful of Fritos. He had a bag of open Fritos stashed in his aero-fairing, and was snacking away as he talked to me. They actually made me hungry - I couldn't remember the last time I'd had Fritos.
Clearly, this was to be my cycling penance before I left, so I figured it was in my best Karmic Interest to stay civil with Frito Fred and limp for home with some company.
"Welp, I hope you fix it! See ya'!" And with that parting shot, I was dropped by Frito Fred like third period French. I was dropped on my sleek, black, Batmobile of a bike by a fellow cyclist with a gut, a bag of Fritos, and a recumbent that weighed as much as a Buick Park Avenue. Humility, thy message is delivered. As I watched the Frito Bandito spin away at attack speed (~11 mph), I had to laugh at the lesson: 8 months of training, careful detail to equipment paid, but in a flash a guy with a bag of snacks can make you feel just HOW quickly things can change.
I got home, I called HED, and they bent over backwards as they always do for customers - the spokes I needed would be sent to Eric Weiss (who'd already grabbed a few for his own issues), and we'd both get our wheels fixed in Penticton. Aside from the fact that I'd made a last-minute dash to REI to buy a bigger pedal wrench (and slip the mechanic there $20 to drop what he was doing and help me unstick an insolent pedal), Apollo made it in the case with relative ease, ready for her last journey to Penticton for at least a year or two.
St. Lynda had been putting up with Ironman summers since 1998 when I promised her, "Just one, and then I'll take a year off." One turned into two, into three, into 5. All the while, she let me run after my own selfish wants - my need to try again, and again, the mystical 140.6. This time, however, I had NO intentions of coming back in 2002. I knew it - I meant it. IMC 2001 would be my last dance at the Canadian Summer Ball for the time being, and I was looking forward to one more good effort before stepping back and letting life, shorter races, and weekends without 5 hour rides return to us.
The season had been the best I'd ever had: Coach Mike Plumb had set me up with a plan that resulted in a sub-5 hour PR at the Half Ironman distance, strong long runs, even stronger long rides, and my best form since 1996 had me confident that I'd done everything that I could to be ready. I was hoping for a sub-12 race, and at the very least, a daylight finish. A REAL daylight finish, with lots of light in the picture.
We flew out to Seattle on Monday, albeit after a three-hour delay while US Airways tried to find the right widget to take care of the plane that wouldn't start. We managed to arrive with no troubles, we picked up the rental car, and we were off. I had reserved a room at a "Quaint Victorian" hotel (at least, that's what Expedia.com told me) on Queen Anne hill in Seattle proper, with the hopes of enjoying the 'adjustment day' by taking in the sights and sounds of downtown Seattle.
Of course, sometimes Expedia tends to exaggerate things a bit. Just a bit. Maybe when I wasn't tapering for an IM it wouldn't have bugged me so much, but after lugging my bike case up 2 floors with no elevator, finding out that there was NO parking except on the street at another hotel 3 blocks away, and that the view of the hill I'd been told about was over the back alley of the hotel...my rather generously sized nose was decidedly out of joint.
Despite this, Lynda did what she always does: She took it in stride, and just did her best to soothe my rather 'antsy' state of mind. As a veteran of each of my IM tapers, she had become quite used to my propensity to let little things send me spinning off. We strolled on down to the waterfront, and took a harbor cruise to see the sights and learn a bit about the Seattle Harbor. We could even see part of a Mariners game going on from the water, and the Olympic Mountains off in the distance.
Despite the calming effect of being on the water I was still fretting a bit about the 'dive' I'd gotten us into, and I was trying to come up with some way of putting things "right" in my book, when Lynda just stepped onto the tracks, and stopped my taper-fueled runaway train of thought with one hand and a focused pair of eyes.
"Listen - Stop worrying about it, okay? If you keep this up you'll drive us both nuts. Look, lets get dinner - I'm in the mood for Fish and Chips. You know, sometimes you just need to slow down and stop thinking about everything. I mean, I don't need the fancy hotel and the big meal. Sometimes, all you need are fish and chips."
It's at moment like that where think if Lynda had never met me, she would make one kick-ass Lion Tamer.
We sat, we ate Fish and Chips, we watched the sun set. I cooled down and returned to center, again. While the IM taper always made me a little edgy, I was somewhat bemused that although I'd gotten better each year (compared to the one-way, continuous car-wreck I was in 1998), I never really have been able to stay completely cool in those last days. However, I now had a mantra for when the going got absurd:
"Sometimes all you need are fish and chips."
Of course, having a spouse that somehow puts up with your idiosyncratic trips off the handle really helps, too...but you probably already knew that. The next day would bring the road-trip to Penticton and a reunion with friends all gathering for Ironman week in the magic city, so there was plenty of time and plenty of things to look forward to.