Friday morning dawned too cold to even consider swimming, so we all stood on
the beach for about 10 minutes waiting for someone to be tough enough to get in
the water. When nobody did, we declared the swim a forfeit and celebrated with
another 2 hour breakfast at the Hog. Friday was "Chalking Day" for us
- the day we always drove the 112 miles of the Bike Course and chalked up the
tougher climbs. I needed to be back early, though - I had a Press Conference to
attend!
How in the world did that happen? With the Xtri column gig my editor Rob Docherty had asked me to deliver a hat to none other than the world's toughest nun, 70-year old Sister Madonna Buder. I'd been put on 'The List' to attend the 3:00pm Pro Press Conference, with a quick Hat Present/Photo Op afterwards. I hooked up with the in-laws so that I could make a quick escape from the caravan if time got tight, and everyone else piled into 4-5 cars for the rest of the trip. It usually took about 4-5 hours to drive (almost as long as it would take to ride it!) since the stops take up so much more time then you think they will. 20 minutes here, 15 minutes there, before you know it the whole afternoon is gone and you're dashing off to the carbo-load dinner with minutes to spare like we had in 1998, 1999, and 2000 (not that we ever learned, or anything).
The chalk-army hit all the main points - McLean Creek Road at mile 7; Richter Pass and each of her 6 steps; The Final Insult at Yellow Lake - not the steepest climb of the day (that's McLean Creek, strangely enough), but coming at mile 100, it might as well be L'Alpe D'Huez. I managed to stick around for 2/3rds of the Tour, but then I had to bid adieu to everyone and split for home. Mom and Dad Hennigan dashed off to hit Bear's Fruit Stand (essential!) to pick up some of the Okanagan's finest, and away we went. I sat in the backseat with Lynda and stared at the passing landscape, watching the last 30 miles pass with far more ease then they would on Sunday. Thanks to the driving of Mario Jim Hennigan, I had 15 minutes to spare when I checked in at the Conference Room and took my seat.
Being so close to so many of the best triathletes in the world, all who suddenly seemed really mortal just hanging out on a Friday afternoon, was very surreal: Melissa Spooner was almost shy; Peter Reid was direct and cool; Sister Madonna was just happy to be there; Olivier Bernhard seemed Valedictory - he knew this was his last IM and it showed how much he desperately was marking Reid as they brought each other up in their comments; and then there was Chuckie V.
Chuckie used to race with a gel-styled-and-ironed-Mohawk, and was coming back from a 1-year ban after taking a drink of Steinlager from a spectator at Hawaii in 1999. After finishing the run rather drunk (but in phenomenal spirits, natch), he had lost some (okay, most) of his sponsors because of the incident. While the others at the table were all dressed in the clothing and logos of their sponsors, Chuckie wore a white T-shirt that simply read, "Vacancy." He'd broken his tailbone falling over a wetsuit at Buffalo Springs in June, so he made it clear he was just going to try and get through the day the best that he could, plus or minus a Molson or two.
After it was over I got to go up to Sister M and introduce myself. We walked and talked for about 10 minutes while Photographer Cameron Heyret told us where to go and what to do. We took pictures in the garden behind the Lakeside Hotel, and on Lakeshore Drive right in front of the finish line. The entire time Sister Madonna was very polite, very warm and patient, and she just had this air of peace and calm about her that I tried to soak in the entire time I was with her. She was definitely the coolest customer around, glad to be back racing after her devastating crash at IMH 2000 (where a 50mph gust of wind had thrown her from her bike onto the Queen K Highway, face first).
When it was all over I wished her luck for Sunday, she shook my hand (very firmly, I might add) and said "You too! Thanks!", and that was that. Another few minutes had ticked away from my 15 minutes of fame, but it was still a very neat encounter. (Time-Leap Aside: The emotional payoff came during the Awards Banquet when they showed the final video: The camera captured Sister Madonna praying with another athlete, hugging her as they finished the "Our Father", and as the camera panned in - she was wearing the hat!)
I walked back to the Spanish Villa along Lakeshore, thankful that I hadn't stepped on Sister M's feet, dropped the hat, fallen into the Lake, or otherwise hosed up the photo shoot. As I was strolling along I noticed this beanpole of a guy in a Reebok shirt with a backpack and PowerBar hat was walking the other way, gazing left to right, then back again. Nobody was really paying attention to him, but I couldn't help but smirk. There before me was Peter Reid, 2-time Hawaii champion, and he was camouflaged in plain-sight like everyone else during race week. I said to him, "Shouldn't you be off your feet by now?" He smiled and said "Yeah, but I'm just looking for my wife. She's somewhere on the beach working on her tan."
Back at the Villa, Lynda, Mark, Beth, and Tricia met up with Mike and Kim to walk over to the Convention Center and Carbo Dinner. I knew this is where the butterflies would start to fly in V-Formation for both Mark and Kim. It wasn't Mark's first IM (but it was his first Canada), while it was Kim's first triathlon - period. Mike had been training with her all summer while they planned their wedding, but we all knew that it was going to be a very nervous time for both of them.
The dinner itself was a mellow affair: There was the usual assortment of videos, presentations, speeches, and VIP's being introduced, but you could feel the undercurrent starting to pull at everyone with one of those little plastic bands: After tonight, there would only be one more sleep to go before D-Day. Eyes blinked a little less. Stares into space lingered a little longer. Hurry up and wait - Sunday is not just yet.
Mark (to no surprise) was as cool as he's ever been. Kim was okay, but you could feel that Sunday loomed large for her - and Mike knew it. He'd been there twice before, and knew what she was going through. There was little we could say - just joking from friends, reassurance, and the steady passage of time would get her through those last hours until the Cannon named Maranatha ("Our Lord has Come" in Aramaic) set us all free from thinking at 7:00am on Sunday.
Saturday is always the hardest day of the week - you're taper is now at it's end (and so are your wits). Your body is virtually starving for a long day of work after months of nothing but, and you know it's almost time. Sleeping late does little to help, because you know as soon as you wake up - that's the end of good sleeping until it's all over - for better or worse. You check, then re-check, then re-re-check your bags. You check, re-check, then re-re-check your bike.
Then you go to the athlete's meeting. You hear everything you already knew, all over again. Some yahoo asks about drafting, again. You groan. You sit. You wait. You check your watch. "How soon until I should eat dinner?" You check your bike in. You tell Apollo, "Tomorrow, we fly." You stroll by the bike lot later on and look at all of the bikes lined up. 2,000 bicycles racked on top of one another is an amazing sight. One of them is yours. You know some of these bikes will fly tomorrow, you know that some won't. Some will have flats - some will break. Some will get peed on (yeck). All of them stare forwards like soldiers awaiting orders into battle. You wonder if the bikes are as nervous as their pilots.
You wonder if wondering about bikes being nervous is a sign that you should walk back to your room and eat something. You walk back to your room and eat something. Your wife hugs you and asks, "How you doing, Babe?" and you reply, "FINE!" and smile a smile that she knows and has seen before. It's the smile that says, "Help!" but still conveys a thin sense of humor about the whole adventure. You are fine, in an Andy Kaufman kind of way.
You go to the Athlete's Parade and walk as little as possible. You feel like a celebrity, but you wish you didn't have to walk anymore. People clap for you, and you wave back. You're walking on mile 24-25 of the run course, and you wonder how it's going to feel if and when you get there 24, 25, or 26 hours from now.
You walk down to the swim start and look at the buoys headed out to the other side of the lake. 2.4 miles always looks so LONG when it's laid out like that. There are families playing in the lagoon, just below the 400-foot string of flags that will be used to hold back the front row. To them they're just neat pennants - to you they're the gateway to whatever will be.
You walk back to your room and watch A NASCAR race with Mark. You think how weird it feels to watch a night-race on the East Coast while the sun hasn't yet set on the West Coast. Your legs are twitching from all the walking today, so you decide to soak them in the lake - ice them one last time before tomorrow. You walk across the road with your friend Tricia, and stand thigh-deep in the water, while Tricia heads out for a quick swim. Your mother-in-law sees you walking into the water, and notes to your wife, "Look. Been married less then a year and he's already cheating with someone else." Mother-in-law yells at you that you've been caught, and you wave back, 'busted' as it were.
You head back to your room. Your wife gives you another hug and doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. The sun sets. You eat one more time. You know it's time to go to bed even if you aren't even close to being tired.
Your wife and mother and father-in-law and Amy and Tricia and Bruce and Martha all sneak onto Lakeshore Drive with buckets of chalk and write messages to their Ironmen and Ironwomen. You stare at the ceiling, wishing the night would just rush by...but only if you manage to fall asleep. You think about finishing in daylight. You think about what it must be like to win. You think about what it must be like to be last, and marvel at how the cheers are the same.
You hope that broken wheel holds together.
You hope that you eat enough.
You hope that God Damned bee from Lake Placid doesn't have relatives out here.
You hope that you make it. Again.
You thank God that you made it this far, and pray for one more good day.
You close your eyes. You listen to the lake.
You know that the dawn will bring the stage to you, and all you must do is deliver the performance. Again.
For the first time. For the last time.