Minute Rice Version:

After 13 attempts spanning 6 years, including my Death-March to a personal worst at Blackwater 4 weeks previous, I finally managed to put together a race fast enough to get under the 5-Hour barrier - 4:51:45! 84th out of 510 in the field, 21/87 in my Age Group. Most of all...Eric and I took The Duel (tm) to new a new level...as he also broke 5 hours for the first time in 4:58.

Seven Course Meal Version:

Without question, Tupper Lake has become one of my favorite races of each season. Since 1998 this early summer test has been the benchmark to check my Summer form - am I improving, am I on pace to my Ironman? Can I get through a long, hilly day without melting down somewhere in the Adirondack Park? Most of all - can I hold off Eric Weiss once more? Lately...that last sentence has been more like "Can I finally catch Eric Weiss fer' chrissakes?" The last time I had finished ahead of him in a multisport event was here in 1999...when as you may recall, faced with stomach cramps and legs that wouldn't go...he talked to a Dog on the course in order to figure out what to do next. The dog told him to quit. He quit. Then he un-quit. Then the dog yelled at him. So he quit again. Then Lynn Kapusta yelled at him, and he un-un-quit...much to the Dog's chagrin, and finished by walking the entire 13.1 miles.

Needless to say, following that disastrous race, Eric transformed himself to something nigh to unstoppable from my point of view, which was usually miles behind. Chambersburg, Pittsburgh, IM-USA, IMC, Blackwater...it was all getting pretty funny (not 'ha-ha' funny) that we called it "The Duel" to me - I was starting to feel like the Washington Generals to his Harlem Globetrotters - his claims of being undertrained, over-tired, nothing more than a footnote in my day...somehow always turning into that "I dunno!" shrug and smirk as he ran off into the distance...again.

You think it bothered me? You're right. It did.

I'm not ashamed to admit that. Yes we're friends (despite what he calls me behind my back). Yes, we trained together more than we saw our significant others between 1998 and 2000...but above all, we are competitors. I hate to lose, and so does he. It stings. It dents your confidence until the next race, and there's no hiding from the fact that I was getting tired of turning into a perennial doormat, whereas Eric was really starting to enjoy these trouncings. Last year between a bad thyroid, an ill-timed bee sting, a cloud of rain and hailstones, plus a coupla extra pounds (see aforementioned thyroid) I wasn't even in his league. It was embarrassing. I tried to smile it all away...but it gnawed at me as winter brought an end to the 2000 season. My confidence had been given a real shaking...and deep down, I wondered if we might be headed down differing paths of ability. He was always a much more natural athlete than I...capable of so much more with seemingly less training...it made me wonder.

It made me doubt.

Life, as it always does, went on.

I married a Saint, and made myself complete.

I found an endocrinologist, and he fixed the thyroid that wouldn't.

I hired a coach, and he started to rebuild me from the ground up.

I re-kindled my desire. I fanned the last flickers of confidence into something once more. I dropped 15 pounds, and came into this season ready to make a run at my nemesis once more and make our Duel interesting, starting at the Blackwater Eagleman. But for a cold that all but leveled me 2 days before the race, it was a perfect plan. Chaos and confusion, as they say, reigned at Cambridge...and I asked more of a sick body than it could possibly give. The resulting crash was so bad and so utterly complete, the NTSB called me on my way home and asked if there were any survivors they could interview for their report.

Even though I was sick and there was nothing I could have done about it, I was crushed, deflated, and defeated. I had expected a Personal Best and come out with a Personal Worst - and not by a little bit. It was like watching a newly christened ship sink beneath the waves at it's launch. Lynda and all of my friends did their best to remind me of the painfully obvious: I was sick. It was nobody's fault. It just happened. Could have been anyone.

All I could see was Eric's back leaving T2...already having run me down in the 100 yards from the bike racks to the run start.

The sting was back, but I knew I could do better. I knew it.

Tupper Lake became the focus of all my efforts. It had been a good race to me before (My 5:08 PR was set there in 1999), and it was one I knew and loved. The course was hilly - rolling hills that favored a momentum-based cycling style: Aggressive riding of the hills - nothing less. Attack the ups, spin the downs, surf the hills. Climb with the little guys, drop 'em like the kites they turned into on the descents...I couldn't wait.

With 2 weeks to go, I told Coach Mike I wanted to try something completely different - I wanted to leave the watch at home and go for broke. I didn't want to know Heart Rate, Splits, or anything. I just wanted to go...and not look back. He agreed, but warned me not to be lulled into slacking on the bike when catching slower riders from earlier waves. With that caveat in mind, I grinned. I felt free - liberated from the math games that always seemed to steal energy late in races.

I also loved the "All or Nothing" approach...and knowing that this time I might have enough engine to make it stick.

In previous years I had caravanned up with others to Tupper Lake to break up the long hike - This time I would make the 8 hour drive alone, and I was looking forward to it. I could just relax and focus the entire way up, clearing my head for the effort to come. For an added treat, I went into my old tape trunk and grabbed 12 or so cassettes that I hadn't ever labeled, so I got a surprise every time I popped one into the dash. Some sent me back in time - most of them were from grad school or before...and a few really sent me back even farther. It was a very meditative, reflective trip - and exactly what I needed. I arrived at Shaheen's motel that night feeling cleansed, at peace, and just ready to go and tear the legs off the Half Ironman Distance for once and for all. 13 tries at going sub-5 on the line, and a Duel to re-kindle? It was all perfect fuel.

Eric and I were sharing a room, but when I got there he was nowhere to be found. We had missed one another - he was off at the expo looking for me. While I waited, Renee and Lisa told me that he'd spent most of the afternoon cleaning his bike...and sure enough it was in the room, gleaming like I'd never seen it. All I needed to see was the moon turning blood red, and I knew I'd be seeing signs of the apocalypse.

Eric never cleaned his bike. Never. He waited until it rained, added some tri-flow to the chain, and called it officially clean. A shiny, purple bike was a sign that he was on form for sure - I knew he'd be ready to ride come the morning. His 2:35 split on a windy day at Cambridge told me he had the legs...and nothing goes faster than a clean bike. "This is going to be good..." I grinned.

I went out for a short ride to make sure Apollo was all ready to go, and even followed it up with a 10-minute run(!). I had nervous energy to burn. I knew that sub-5 might be possible, but I tried not to think about it. Lynda had told me before I left "You're going to PR - I just have this feeling..." but I tried to deflect it. How better to deflect thinking about my race than by talking to Eric about his race? I told him "You're going to go sub-5 tomorrow. I don't want to hear it." Of course he offered his traditional polite protests; "My calf is sore..."., "I haven't run that much..", "I've only been swimming once per week..." and as I listened I could hear a sound of sand being poured out of a bag...but I couldn't figure out from where. This time I didn't care what he said - I could tell he was ready.

Shallow, nervous sleep would be the order for both beds in room 3...race morning seemed to come around faster than either of us wanted it to.

As I put the bikes on the roof, there were nervous "Good Mornings!" from all of the fellow TRI-DRS list-folks staying at Shaheen's: Lynn and Tommy Kapusta, Cathy and Bill Taylor, Lisa Miller, Renee Kase, Neil Cook and Sweet Julie, Alain Bienvenue....you couldn't look anywhere without seeing a friendly face. There was a chance of rain later in the day, but for now there was a beautiful orange sky greeting us from the East, and a cool, sharp taste to the Adirondack air that just added to the Tupper flavor I loved.

As I walked into transition, my first lucky break of the day came in the form of a Pine Tree. With assigned rack positions, my number had the fate to be next to a giant Pine that; (1) Gave me a super-deluxe 6 foot wide space in transition; (2) Produced a "can't miss" landmark to atone for my up-down-up-down chicken run around the transition area of my nightmares at Blackwater. There was NO way I could get lost here.

However, I could knock myself out cold on a low branch as I found out during my run-through for T1...so I put my helmet on the ground (instead of on the bike) to force me to duck. That way if I forgot about the big branch right in front of me, I would be protected from my own stupidity with one of Giro's finest.

Pre-race at Blackwater was rushed - harried - I did everything wrong. This time, it was all right. Everything was in place. I had time to walk to the swim start and get in a warm-up. I could find my center - clear my head - visualize starting strong and staying there. Eric was in the same place - he was being quiet. Too quiet. No smack-talk? No trash-talk? This wasn't like him to be so nice pre-race, so I knew he was focused. As I jumped into the rust-colored water of Raquette Pond, I couldn't wait to get going and allow the thinking to finally turn into doing...and see what the day would have for us.

The first wave went off at 8:00am...and it was just about go time. As I waited, Gordo Byrn stepped into the front row and spotted me right away. "Bob! How are you?" He was radiating a combination of quiet intensity, positive energy, and Canadian cool all at once, and I couldn't help but feel energized in his presence. We talked about Blackwater, his plans to run the relay and ride home later on, and then he looked at me and said "Man, you've lost a ton of weight!" I said "Thanks for noticing! I've got a working thyroid and a great coach...this is the result. Thanks for the compliment, dude."

"Yeah! I mean...it's like Night and Day from Canada." he beamed.

Night and Day.

Night and Day.

I started repeating that mantra in my head. It was perfect.

Night and Day.

Night and Day.

Gordo had one last thing to tell me: "Hey Bob! I hear they've got some really nice mugs for us at the finish today!" Smartass.

"ARGH! No mugs! No mu-"

** BLLAAARRRREEEEEEEEEE! **

Caught in mid-rant, the race tackled me from behind and scooped me away from my thoughts. I was free. Finally.

I settled into my own little space right away, and tacked over to the buoy line. There was the usual shambles on the lay line - guys coming in and heading out every time one of those bright orange balloons appeared, so I just dealt with the presto-agitato cycle every 100 yards and relaxed, concentrating on finishing my strokes cleanly. Without a current to fight and only a little bit of chop, I felt very comfortable. It was one of those swims where my hands felt like oar-blades...and by the time I got to the turn-around in the middle of the lake, they weren't fading.

Normally the turn at Tupper leads into the sun- Literally. The return leg is set in a Due-East fashion that has even the most mirrored, darkened goggle-wearer squinting and cursing all the way back...assuming you ever actually GET back. People have been reported to have come ashore in Long Lake, surfed the St. Lawrence Seaway, and even been turned away from the Panama Canal following the far-point at Tupper Lake...so I was ready and psyched for dealing with it...

...when a well-placed cloud moved in as soon as I turned, and before me lay the straightest, neatest, most beautiful line of orange buoys I'd ever seen at Tupper Lake.

Truthfully, these were the first buoys I'd ever seen on the return at Tupper Lake, period. I always thought it was an urban legend or something...but there they were. I didn't wait - I tore off before the sun came back out and washed the whole scene out. I bridged up to a small group of caps from my wave...and as the sun returned, trusted their navigation to get me home. We seemed to be headed pretty straight, so I didn't think about it much. I thought about Eric - I was sure he'd beat me out of the water, but that was fine. I was already looking forward to the chase on the bike...and it would be nice to pass him so soon to set the tone for the day. Only time would tell if I could hold it there...but the day had far more time and distance ahead of me, so I brought myself back to center and locked in on the approaching shore. I knew I'd had a good swim, but without a watch I had no idea how good.

As I hit the shallows and stood up, the news on the shore-clock was good: 31:20. 2nd fastest 1/2 IM swim - ever. Only the current-assisted Fairmount Park swim from 1996 was faster...this was a good start. I went to take my wetsuit off in the shallow water, figuring it would be easier - and it was. I even had a chance to chat with some spectators real fast.

"Wow. Does that help? Is it faster?" Someone asked.

"A bit. It also doesn't hurt as much when I fall over." I grunted as I popped my ankle free.

I noticed that someone's Quic Discs were floating away...and then I realized that I was the only someone near me...DUH. I grabbed the vagabond QD's out of the drink (NOTE: They float nicely!) and tore off for the steed Apollo waiting in her space, crossing the timing mat in 31:36. Left turn at row 5, left at the tree: Toss the wetsuit on the ground, shoes on; "Where's my - Oh, right..." Duck. Helmet on ground. Buckle in - Stand u- *KLONK* "Good thing I've got the helmet on..." Unrack. GO.

In and out in under a minute...I think. No official transition splits are in the race results...but it finally felt right - not the awkward, time-spinning-by-while-I-stand-still-transitions I'd always had. I clipped in - I was gone.

The course at Tupper Lake is brainless - 28 miles out / 28 miles back. No thinking - just ride until they tell you to turn around, then ride back...like Forrest Gump on a bike. The first climb out of town is the worst one on the course, so as usual I sat and spun up it, giving my body a chance to warm to the ride. Once up on the plateau headed towards Cranberry Lake, I started riding carrot-style: Each rider ahead of me was a carrot...and I just set about picking them off one after the other. Actually - I don't call this 'Carrot Style' when I'm riding, since I hate carrots...but you get the idea.

While I was picking off riders, surfing the rollers the best that I could...I noticed we were all riding into a pretty decent headwind. What was odd was that I could feel it, I could see the backside of the leaves in the trees fluttering...but I didn't feel like it was slowing me down. I kept hearing the words of Mark Allen talking about his mental state when he was 'on' in my head: "The heat is there, but you don't feel it. There is a feeling of calm, of ease, of grace, of strength." As I passed another cyclist, the 10 mile marker whisked beneath my wheels - I felt like I'd been on the bike for 10 minutes.

Without the watch, time had become irrelevant to me. I had no frame of reference to anything but the next target up the road. I was present of where I was, and where I was going - but nothing else. Well - almost nothing. As the 15 and then the 20 mile markers rolled by...I kind of made a note to myself that Eric was probably behind me on the road, and that the pass I had thought about wouldn't come on the bike. I started to think about the run, and in a first for me - looking forward to it. Still...with 30-some miles left to ride, there was almost too much time to think about it.

Up one roller, down the next. I was trying to ride hard enough to hear my own breathing - that was my only indication of effort as I cranked along. I knew Eric would be riding well, so I tried to use the wind and the hills to make time whenever possible. Whenever I'd be faced with a large gap to the next rider, the temptation to back off for a moment was right there - but all I'd have to do was think of Eric making time on me, and I'd stay right on top of the gear and close down the gap. It was a mental game - and as the field thinned out I found myself using it more and more. While I was glad to see larger and larger gaps to riders now (it meant I was moving up well), it was harder to bridge each gap. Finally with 3 miles to go to Cranberry Lake, I saw the first cyclist. It turned out to be Greg Sullivan - a friend of mine who had gone off-course while in the lead pack at Eagleman, also on the road to redemption. Of course, I didn't know this until he told me after the race. To me - he was just "#1." The next rider was "#2..." and so on until the turnaround.

"#29..." read the tally as I rolled through the halfway point. There were 116 starters in my wave, and 96 in the first wave. Between the swim and the ride so far, I had managed to put 183 of them behind me...and there were still 28 miles left to go.

And now I had a tailwind.

I was a happy Bob. :)

As I soft-pedaled a bit coming down from Cranberry Lake, I started to look down the field. Eric would be coming, it was only a question of when. I was hoping to see at least a 6 minute lead - more if I had ridden well. The race was going according to my plans, and I was really starting to enjoy the rhythm of the day...when there he was. It had been maybe 2 minutes - and there he was. (NOTE: I didn't have a watch, so it could have been 2 days. How could I have known? The truth was, it was about 4 minutes...and closing).

I was surprised. Shocked. And before another emotion tried to tell me what to make of this development -

He waved at me. It was a simple wave - accompanied by the usual smirk.

I smiled. I waved back.

All unsure emotions left at that second, and were replaced by one: Anger. Pure testosterone, adrenaline, and ego...combining into a combination Molotov Cocktail and Solid Rocket Booster. The son of a bitch was closer than he should have been - and he knew it. That little wave wasn't a "Hey!", it was a tease. It was a taunt. He was riding well, once again, and with the run coming? He had every reason to wave: I was now HIS carrot.

The race was suddenly in his favor in the space of 17 yards. I flashbacks of being run down at Blackwater. I remembered Amy telling me "Oh he's like half an hour ahead..." in front of Lynda, mom, and in-laws at IM-USA. I saw his back going over the horizon at IMC on the bike. I felt the humiliation - I got cold. I shivered with a sudden chill...and every cell in my body - even the bald hairs on my head - reacted immediately.

"Oh yeah? F*ck this. F*ck that waving at ME." I slammed the button down 2 cogs on the back, smashed out of my little break, and set sail down the road like a man with nothing left to do but ride. I started standing on the hills - I wouldn't use the little ring unless I was almost stopped. I knew with the tailwind it would be difficult to make a difference since tailwinds are the great equalizer...so I knew the uphills would have to be where I could make any difference at all.

I was panting on each roller now, but I was still picking off riders - even past mile 40. I found myself in a group of 4 cyclists with the letter "E" on their legs - Relay riders. They were riding as desperately as I was, and we leapfrogged each other all the way to mile 50. It was here I was amazed at how clean the whole ride had been. I never saw anyone drafting, and none of the guys in this grupetto were even hesitating on a wheel. It was attack / pass / attack/ pass. We were taking turns - almost "Indian Running" like a group on a track...and as a collective we were flying. One of them noticed I had a "D" on my leg, and during a pass he just said "Dude. We're not running. You go." I smiled - Damn right. I had to ride like my life depended on it - there was no other way but on the rivet, all the way back. If I fell of my bike a dizzy heap in T2, so be it. I didn't care.

I was so busy trying to get back to T2, I only drank one bottle on the return as opposed to the two on the way out. That was okay - the sun was hiding behind the clouds so I could get away with it. I still had one packet of Quic Disc left, and at about 52 miles I tore it open, stuffed all three discs in my mouth, and washed them down without even stopping to chew more than twice. It had been almost 25 miles since the wave...and I hadn't forgotten what it looked like.

The image of that wave was all I thought about as I approached the last long descent into town. It was still windy...but the descent was straight and steep for 3/4 of a mile. Last year I had been scared into selling my Spinergies because of this downhill...so I was hesitant to think about taking it in the aerobars. I had even chided a member of the list for taking the "unnecessary risk" of descending in their bars and not near the brakes...but all I could see was that smug, smirking wave...

Over the last ridge, I grabbed the extensions on the Syntace's, and held on.

Like a skier, I tucked all the way in - head down, elbows together. I blew by 3 other riders, feeling the bike dance ever so slightly in the wind...but never really doing much more than a little bobble here and there. When I tried to pedal the 12-tooth, I couldn't even touch it - that meant at least 45mph coming off the bottom and leaning into the curve into town.

Coming into T2 I could see I had done well - the racks were empty - VERY empty. There was no-one on my wire at all, and as I dismounted I said to no-one in particular "GOD, I love empty racks in the morning!" Gordo, standing in wait for his relay-cyclist, heard me. Suddenly I heard this familiar voice go "Bob! Holy Crap - you're having a great race!" Coming from Gordo, I knew that meant something. When someone who can go 9:24 at IM tells you you're having a good race - believe it. It works wonders for your motivation.

"Yeah - I am. Now I just need to bury Eric for good on this run." I said it. I wasn't lying to myself. It was as if all the emotion I had felt on the bike - all that anger - all that fear, frustration, piss and vinegar was gone once I dismounted. It was time to re-center, focus, and get ready to run the best that I was capable of and seal the deal. As I got to my tree, I was ready for a lightning transition again - a perfect launch into the run, just like I'd had on the swim.

I racked the bike. I pulled off the helmet. I grabbed a sock - on. Right shoe - on. Left sock - on: DRAT! upside down. Turn sock. Lose balance. Grab tree. One hand on tree. One hand turning sock. Can't turn sock over. Move hand from tree duty to sock turning duty. Lose balance. Try to help with sock and catch self on tree. Miss. Repeat. Miss. Repeat. Left leg cramps from being held flamingo-style for 3 days. Put leg down. Sock still upside down. Screwit. Standing on 2 feet, use both hands - force belligerent sock to upright position. Left shoe on. Grab hat - GO. Transition time - 2 minutes? 2 Days? Too long...too long.

Right before the timing mats, I called time-out and completely stopped. I opened a GU and shot it. I grabbed a cup of water to wash it down, and I cleared my head. "Ready?" Breathe. "Go." I don't know why I stopped, but those 6 or so seconds were all I needed to clear my head from the sock-stumble and re-focus. As soon as I crossed the timing mats, it was in the past and done - no stress, no worries. As I settled into my stride on the grassy run-out, I came to peace with the day and how it was playing out: "I may not beat Eric today, but all I can do now is run the best run I can. Even if he does close in - all I can do is run. It is all I have left to do."

In a few strides, all thoughts of Eric left my mind - The focus came totally back within me, dedicated to running each second as fast as possible. My heart was pounding in my ears; my breathing was deep and steady, and my feet were tapping out a cadence I rarely heard - quick and smooth. I knew right away the legs that had cried for surrender at Blackwater as soon as I asked them to go...they were now saying one thing to me: "We're Here." Across the road and up the hill - here we go.

The run at Tupper Lake is a cruel mistress. It climbs out of town - climbs through town - climbs to a trail-point in the woods - climbs to a state highway - climbs back into town, then somehow gets you back where you've started with only one downhill mile - mile 13. I knew this. I knew I could expect feeling bad early, so when my legs were a bit heavy coming out of town...there was no panic. I just shortened my stride and kept on chugging. Up past the houses, out to Main Street. As I crossed a "1 Mile" painted on the road, a guy ahead of me went "What the #($!?" I asked him "What's your split?" Strangely enough - we had run together all the way out. My mind noted this calmly going "Yep. We're running with a fast guy. Cool."

"7:11?" He piped. There was no way. No chance. The mile markers were off. Now I was VERY glad not to have a watch. The mis-marked miles would drive my pace calculations off the charts, and be a distraction I didn't need. I knew the course in my mind, and I would use that as my map from now on. The sun was fighting to stay ahead of the clouds, so the temperature was still tolerable as I ran across the faux plane of Main Street...and past the hotel pool.. The cool, blue, sparkly hotel pool...

At mile 2, I felt stable enough to drink so I snagged a cup. Coach Mike had told me "You're strong enough now to not walk - run the whole thing." I had no idea if that meant the aid stations as well...so I decided to play it fast and run through. Having watched Ironman pro's for all these years I knew exactly what to do: I grabbed the first cup I saw, pinched it off, and poured the spout into my mouth as I ran...and successfully poured 3/4ths of the cup down my unzipped skinsuit, missing my mouth on nearly every stride.

"That ain't as easy as it looks..." I noted.

I grabbed a second cup and did the same thing...this time only dumping about 1/3rd. That made almost one cup in me...it was enough.

As I moved a bit to the left side of the road to find the good crown for my legs, I noticed that the same 4 guys I had in sight leaving T2 were still right ahead of me. My usual backwards-plummet off the bike wasn't happening - and even though this was the first time that had ever happened, I didn't react at all. It was as if my mind was aware this was different, but not allowing my emotions to get in the way and muck up a solid run. I was running hard, steady, and within myself. I was right at that edge of wondering if I could hold the pace I was on...but willing to take my pain and find out.

The transition Into the woods at Mile 4 is a Tupper Lake trademark. You run to a Dead End and pass through a rusted Armco guardrail, entering an abandoned highway that used to connect Waubeck Road and Route 30. Nature has started to take back the swath that man carved more than 50 years ago, so the trail is one of crumbling pavement, mud, rocks, sticks, trees in the middle of the trail, and more zigs and zags than you can count. The edges of the woods are 2 feet to either side, so there is a sudden sensation of speed - even if it's only imagined. You start focusing on every single footfall, and with the price of such concentration...all thoughts of time leaves your senses behind - you just run. You breathe. You hop. It's almost fun - a welcome break from what so many races have as a 'normal' run.

As I was focusing on finding the good line through the woods, I passed over the 5 mile mark without catching or being caught by anyone. Still in solitude, the 6 mile mark came and went almost as quickly. I have no idea how my pace was - I just remembered being taken aback when running over an aged, spray painted "6" on a surprisingly together slab of macadam. From it's silent trance, my brain simply said "You have less than one hour remaining in this race." It was an odd way to think about it, but it seemed easy to accept - and to know that I had already put something near 4 hours behind me already? To know that I was in the middle of something special - to feel this strong all the way - to know all the cold runs in January, the roller rides in the basement in February, the endless laps in the pool...they were all lining up and paying me back at the same time - there was a quiet sense of melancholy: It would be over very soon.

At mile 7, I passed through an aid station...and with the pavement still broken I finally caved in and walked while I drank - no sense in risking it here. As I dumped a cup of Powerade completely in my mouth for once, I heard a female behind me scream for Gatorade...and then miss the handoff right behind me. Without time to react, the cold contents of the cup landed all over the back of my legs...and ran down my socks, all the way to my heels. I felt like I'd jumped in a lake. I didn't relish running the next 6 miles in wet socks...and I let her know. "Thanks a lot!"

No reply. She just kept running.

"At least you could say 'I'm sorry', eh?" I tossed the 'eh' in there since Canadians seem nicer...I thought it might help.

A shrug. "I didn't mean it. Deal." She ran out of sight. Turns out she was the lead female. Must have gotten rid of her politeness to save weight.

"That wasn't very nice at all, was it?" I asked the volunteers. "No, no sir...she's in a hurry. No time for manners." said one as he smiled back at me. I set back into stride...and was still somewhat tweaked as my shoes went 'squishsquishsquish' as I headed to the far side of the woods - the entry to highway 30. For all the shelter and escape the woods bring - the highway is the slap in the face that has always been the 'gut check' for me at Tupper. You exit the woods and are dumped out onto a wide open shoulder. 8 feet wide, totally exposed, running on the same side as the traffic. Oh - and it's uphill as far as you can see.

Nobody I have known to do this race has ever come back and said "I felt great there!" It just doesn't happen. As the opening loomed before me, I started to psych myself up for what was coming: "It will be hot. It will hurt. My legs will feel heavy. I will feel like quitting. So f#($*ing what? I'll just keep on moving." I smirked. Experience was my trump card here - I knew I could get through it...no matter how ugly it got.

Entering the shoulder, a camper whizzed by from behind and nearly blew my hat off my head. I had forgotten about the dancing with semi's and weekenders part.

I was still hanging tough with the runners around me. I passed over the mile "8" on the side of the road, and I decided to ask this guy near me (apropos of nothing) "Hey - What's the race clock at?" I don't know why I needed to know - I just wanted to.

"4:05." He answered.

"4:05?" I asked again. Did he really say that?

"Yep - 4:05."

It was simple math: I had 5 miles to go. I had 55 minutes to get there. Unless I had a horrible fall, the bonk of my lifetime, or got lost on the way back...5 hours would appear on the finish clock well after I had passed the line for the first time in my life. Strangely, there was no overflow of emotion - there was no quoting of Shakespeare - there were no fireworks in my head - no prayers to the almighty. I simply thought "Excellent..." and that was it.

I was totally out of character for me - I was focused, emotionless, and thinking of only one thing: Getting up the stupid, endless hill of Route 30. Then I heard the thunderclap and went "What the #($? was that?" Somehow in my state of climbing (and I think from looking down), I hadn't noticed a big, black, towering thundercloud moving in from my right. Whoops.

"I wonder if I'll beat the storm back to town?" I thought. Then I saw the wall of water coming at me in a BIG hurry. "Umm - NOPE." I scanned left to right, trying to find a gap (!) in the rain...but it was like watching a wave come into the beach - and only 4 or 5 seconds after I saw it coming, I was in it. The guy ahead of me that had given me the split report was still there - maybe 10 feet ahead, but I couldn't see him. I turned my hat around, and tucked my head to shield my eyes from the pounding rain. As I looked down...I could see the river forming at the side of the road as the water drained to the shoulder...and quickly overrunning my shoes. Each step produced a huge splash...and with the water running downhill I actually got dizzy: It looked like I was running at 25mph. The rain was pounding my skinsuit so hard, it sounded like someone was clapping in my ears.

"Damn. At least I don't have to worry about wet socks anymore..." I noted to nobody but me. In my mind, I let Ms. Meany-Hurry off the hook.

In less than 5 minutes, it passed. The deluge moved on, and left us all soaked to the bone. I zipped up my suit to try and stay warm...and fought to keep my legs moving. Normally I don't notice wet shoes...but this was bad timing. With 66 miles in the books already, my legs were in no mood for such a change...and it felt like I had slipped ankle weights on. I was shuffling. I was starting to struggle. "Here it is." I thought - the bad patch I knew would be coming.

There was no panic - again. Emotions - gone. I just started talking to my legs like Han Solo to the Millenium Falcon: "Hold together, guys. Just hold it together a little bit more." The hill would be over in less than 1/2 a mile...then 2 miles flat...then downhill from there. With each step the water squished out, and my stride started to come back to me.

As I turned right off the Highway past mile 9...I came upon another aid station: None of the volunteers had left. Most of them were between 10 and 15 years old. They were soaked to the bone...and while I'd be finishing in less than 30 minutes, I knew they'd be out there a long, long time...and I thanked each one for hanging in there as I ran through...taking my last drink of the day. "I couldn't do it without you guys...thanks so much...!" Unsung heroes...one and all.

I hit the section I called 'The Plateau' - usually it reveals a view of the distant High Peaks, the woods, and town. It means the race is almost over - and I was still holding together. As a check I asked another guy "What's the clock at?" He turned his watch over and said "4:27." I cringed. Had I lost that much time on the hill and with the rain? 33 minutes to go...but I was surprised to be losing time - then I saw his leg. "What wave were you in?"

"First." A-ha! I had 5 minutes on him - I was at 4:22. A little over 3 miles to go. Plenty of time. I knew I would make it.

As I ran past the 2 miles to go marker, I trudged up the last hill...knowing that really at mile 12, the race was over. The downhill last mile would be the best one of the day...and I only had to really work these last steps. I could tell I was starting to really fall apart - my strides were shorter, my legs - heavier...but the timing was right. I could fake it for a mile. I could fake it even if....

Eric.

I hadn't even thought about him since T2. That was 12 miles ago. He could be right behind me. He could be stalking me. I was so close -- I wasn't going to blow it now. I didn't turn around - I didn't dare. I concentrated on getting to the downhill. I knew with gravity, I might be able to really crank and hang on for the sprint...I wanted to look...I had to know...I had to hang on...hang on...no looking. No peeking. Don't cave in...he's got to be close...don't let him see you looking...

As the "1 Mile to GO!" sign marked the hard right turn onto the downhill, I turned, and whipped my head back over my shoulder:

There was no-one near me. The next runner was just coming over the hill...and it wasn't tall enough to be him. I tossed my hands in the air and let out a "YES!"

I had finally done it. Now - with less than a mile to go, I was finally free to savor every last drop of pain, of fatigue, of drying rain...and of joy. I would break 5 hours. I would PR. I would finally be back on terms with Eric - and that meant I was really back to being healthy in body, and more importantly, in mind. I could stop beating myself up for the things I could not control - all the things that had been holding me back.

I took one last peek over my shoulder as I crossed into the park...and headed for home.

The official clock was started at the first wave...and when I could finally focus on it, I saw that *it* hadn't broken 5 hours yet! It was at 4:56...so that meant I had gone...I had gone...I...uh....(my math department had long since split for the bar after mile 12)...whatever. I couldn't speak; All I could do was point at the clock as if trying to convince my eyes that it was all real. I pointed, and pointed, and pointed...I wanted those last 50 yards to last forever. All of the tries before...lucky #13 would be the one to turn the trick.

Fairmount 1996 - 5:28

Sunapee 1996 - Short Course

Blackwater 1997 - 5:12

Catskills 1997 - 5:10

Sunapee 1997 - Short Course

Blackwater 1998 - 5:15

Tupper Lake 1998 - 5:12

Wilkes-Barre 1998 - Cancelled Swim: 4:35

Blackwater 1999 - 5:22

Tupper Lake 1999 - 5:08

Tupper Lake 2000 - (Flat Tire): 5:25

Blackwater 2001 - (Sick): 6:09

Tupper Lake 2001 - 4:51:45.

I crossed the line. It was over. I stopped running...and there before my eyes was a 10 year old girl, with two beautiful handfuls of medals. She held one out for me, and I grabbed that sucker like it was an Olympic Gold. "You have no idea what this means to me. I don't have time to explain...." I said as I hugged her...and she went "EEEEWWW!!"

Oh yeah - I forgot I was probably kind of gross at the moment. Whoops.

I walked out of the chute...and Greg Sullivan was there. Training for IM-USA, he had won his age-group for the second year in a row (I had thought he had DNF'ed not having seen him on the bike)...and he knew what breaking 5 would mean to me (mainly since he'd heard me whining and moaning about it for 4 years). He looked over my shoulder at the clock and asked "Did you do it?" "Four-Fifty-(bleep)ing One Baby." I wobbled, and leaned on his shoulder. "I need to be sick." He congratulated me...and I turned around to look. He had to be coming soon - I knew it.

Sure enough - there he was. The clock was at 5:03, so that meant he would be under 5 hours as well for the first time since Blackwater 1999 where he'd clocked the cruelest of times: 5:00:03. He crossed the line in 4:58, and looked at me with that same God darn look he always has - shrugging with his eyes WIDE open. I didn't even need to hear him speak. "Don't even ask how you did that! I told you - you'd break 5! I told you!" I had swam 31:36 to his 34. I had ridden a 2:33 to his 2:39. He had come back as always to run a 1:44 to my 1:47...but with another 13 more miles to run? Ironman Canada - August 26. Stay Tuned. Rumor has it that the newlywed Amy Kriegsman-Weiss has hired herself as coach to the newlywed Mr. Eric Kriegsman-Weiss...and I expect his revenge to HURT.

We normally would stick around to see everyone finish...but I was soaked...and so was he. Our transition bags were filled with water, so we made the decision to head back to the hotel and get dry clothes. We managed to see Lynn Kapusta, Cathy Taylor, and Lisa Miller on the run...but as we drove by and honked in the car? I felt like a wanker...but it was the best we could do. We eventually made it back to the park to see the final finishers...as well as the awards ceremony. Gordo was there in his usual Hawaiian Print, chilling post-relay. "Yeah...I ran a 1:15. I was happy. I think it's the fastest in the field...whatever." Whatever, indeed. Always nice to hang with the G-Man - so fast, so cool, so willing to talk shop and share stories.

Neil Cook was the only DNF in the group...his race had come to a cruel and early finish at Cranberry Lake with stomach woes that wouldn't let him keep any food down...or let him stay in the aerobars for more than 1 minute. He made the wise choice and called it a day...even though it sure stung. His beloved Sweet Julie would finish the sprint in fine style. Steve Wyle would overcome a flat tire on the bike...and then another flat 1 minute later...and still finish. Cathy, Bill, Renee, Lisa, Lynn, Peter, Alain, Scott - everyone made it home, and made it back to the hotel for the highlight of the TRI-DRS Saturday in Tupper Lake: War stories over 5 pizzas and beer...starting at sunset, and lasting well past dark...into dessert...into breakfast...

The time goes by so fast, it just makes me want to go back. Every time.

I've already got my room booked for 2002. See you there?