"What do the winners do that in?"

Invariably that's the question I hear when someone comes into my office and looks at the picture of Lynda and I crossing the line at Ironman Canada 2001, with my time something slightly slower than the Mr. Reid's time. "Oh, wow. So you're not ever going to win one, right? That's got to be tough. I mean, all that training and you never win? I don't get it." It is at this point in the introduction that I know I'm talking to someone that hasn't ever tried something for the sake of simply doing it, and probably won't.

For 92% of the triathlon community simply lining up on race-day and giving it a go is a win. You've beaten your doubts, your fears, and your own body's reluctance to improve - the term 'winning' is all relative. It's all based on what you're trying to do - it has nothing to do with what everyone else does.

I have had this mind-set ever since I started racing. It was the reason I struggled mentally at times during my bike racing career. I was always happy enough to be IN races, not necessarily a part of them. I'd make breaks, and just be glad to be there. I lacked the 'killer' instinct most of the time: There were moments where it all came together, but those were the exception and not the norm. I was always happy to finish in the field and eat a pizza, not really caring where I'd placed. Triathlon works well for me in this regard - I could set my goals, make them - miss them, and still feel a sense of accomplishment, regardless of position.

This year has been a season of change for me in many ways. I haven't been able to train as much as previous years. Work is getting in the way; St. Lynda and I are buying a house; We're working on that baby thing; Basically, in the words of John Lennon - "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." May seemed to arrive more quickly then I remember it, and a cold race-day in Columbia showed me just how far I had slipped. A 2:37 personal worst let me know that maybe my racing would be taking a backseat for a bit.

I'd still be there, certainly, but without the expectations of a PR every time out. Heck, after 5 Ironman's in 4 years, I certainly could use some breathing space.

So I wrote a column for Xtri (http://www.xtri.com/article.asp?id=651) about what happens when you slow down, when you take a step back, when you let life step up, and ask racing to step back. It was about balance, finding some center, and doing the best that you could with the change. Writing it helped me find the answers that I was looking for, and I came into The Escape from Ft. Delaware Triathlon as relaxed as I could be. Gone was the weight of expectations I'd carried around for previous Olympic Distance races - this one would be about fun on a new race-course (for me). It would also be about Dave Krieger and his very first triathlon.

We had worked together at McNeil in 1999, and at the age of 30 he'd decided that he wanted to enter and finish a race. He had a background in swimming and running (while in the military), so he'd literally found a bike to ride and started to learn to really 'ride' all over again. The attacks of September 11th denied him his first race when it was cancelled, so I thought the fact that I'd be there for his attempt was pure Kismet - I felt that it was just RIGHT that I'd be there to see it.

I woke up at 6:00am Saturday morning, and had one cup of coffee and some toast before taking the second cup and hitting the road by 7:00am. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the roads South through West Chester into Delaware were completely free of traffic. I was buzzing by myself in the car, and it wasn't from the coffee: I was simply going off to play on a gorgeous, late-Spring day...and unlike Columbia, I wouldn't have to think about hypothermia. Because of the river tides in the Delaware, the start was scheduled for 11:03am. Who could ask for more?

I got there, parked, and pulled Apollo down from the roof. Right away I saw that something was wrong: The glue on the left-armrest on my Syntace bars had peeled completely away, and taken the Velcro with it. I removed the pads so that they wouldn't blow off - I never thought about the glue! The Velcro-hook scars on my left forearm had just finished healing from racing Columbia without a pad (it had dropped in T1), and I didn't really want to go through another race listing slightly to Port for 40K.

Luckily, my father-in-law had supplied me with Velcro strips, "Just in case you need them..." that I always carried in my toolbag. I cut two pieces with my wire cutters, stuck them on, slapped on the pad, and dealt with the first glitch of the day without breaking a sweat. Rare for me, and I even thought to myself, "That didn't even phase me. Excellent." I topped off the Jetstream, made chatter with the arriving folks around me, and soaked in the rising sun. I felt like it was my first race all over again, and I loved it.

I could see that Dave's car was in the first row near the entrance - he was staying only minutes down the road, and had gotten here early. Very early.

When I got to the racks, fate smiled at me once again. There were only 5 athletes expected for our entire row (normally about 20) so I had enough space to build a picnic table if I wanted to. There was also a huge, black diving-bell from the 1800's that was now set up like a statue...right behind my bike in the park. Ray Charles could have found my bike with a landmark like that.

My friend Robin Jefferis came by, and introduced me to one of her friends while I was setting up. "This is Hurricane Bob on Xtri? He writes really funny stuff. So, Bob? What kind of disaster will you have today? See, something always happens to him. Whenever I race with Bob, something just happens to him and nobody can explain it, but it's really funny." All I could do was smile and say, "I have no idea! I hope nothing! Maybe a meteor strike or something, but I hope nothing."

I quietly set up my toys, double-checked everything, and then with a slight grin, removed my watch and tucked it away in my backpack.

As I finished, I heard Dave's voice. He was one rack away, and all ready to go. "I've been here since 7:30am. I think I was like, first." I had to appreciate that - I was the first car in the parking lot at Columbia in 1996, too. Dave was calm, as always. I mean, the guy was in the National Guard. He's been to Somalia. He's been shot at, struck by lightning (twice), had a tree fall on him, fallen both up AND down a mountain (a nifty feat of Newtonian Physics running amok), so swimming, cycling, and running without having to declare war on anything? That's just fun training, baby.

Alain Bienvenue showed up at the same time, and Stacy Hills made a quick appearance...followed by an equally fast disappearance: There would be no race for him. Why? Bike. Hotel Roof. Crunch. He headed off to enjoy a day at the shore with his wife and children, who were blissfully unaware just why Daddy was going to get to play with them now, but thrilled just the same. He'd later tell me that the bike would be mercifully undamaged, but it just wasn't worth the risk of racing on a possibly cracked fork - better safe then sorry.

Following the pre-race meeting, Dave and I rolled across on one of the first ferry's of the day to Pea Patch Island, home of Fort Delaware - a historic Civil War Prison that served as the starting point for our 'Escape'. We had to be there by 9:30am, so we had nearly 90 minutes to sit, hydrate, stretch, and just chill. It was like racing Italian style - the sun was out, and nobody seemed to be in a hurry. Joe Hellenbrand grabbed some nearby shade, and we all just had a pre-race chill-out on the grass.

When the time came to wriggle into our wetsuits and walk down to the start Dave was a bit nervous, but not bad at all. "I've never been able to float in my life. Are you sure this wetsuit will do the trick?" I had borrowed a wetsuit from my friend Bill Hauser for Dave to use, so I knew he was in for a surprise when we hit the water. "You'll be fine. It's like wearing a life-preserver - you'll be on top of the water all the time. Just watch!"

Wave one went off, we crept closer to the dock.

Wave two went off, and we stepped onto the pier. This was it!

I looked back to Dave and said, "No matter how long you're out there, this is the last minute of you're life where you won't be a triathlete." I wished him luck, and we wobbled down to the edge. Linda Toretsky from Lin-Mark timing was booming directions like an air-traffic controller on her 29th espresso. "Get down there! Hurry! We've only got 90 seconds! C'mon! C'mon! Get down there! Go! Now! Not later - NOOOW! Move, move, move, move!"

I had received a bullhorn blast to my right ear from her in 2000 when I showed up at the start of the Chesapeake Bay Swim without an ID (http://www.bobmina.com/2000_Reports/Chesapeake_2000.htm), so I listened to make sure I didn't get in the water until she told us to. No sir-ee, I was going to pay attention and get it right this time...

"Okay people, LETS GO!" She boomed. I whooped out a "Whoo-hoo!" and leapt off the pier into the river, first in. The water was cool, but nice. As I surfaced, 70-some triathletes were still on the pier, looking down at me. A USAT official strode over and stared down at me with a gaze that Charlie Crawford would be proud of, and I watched the bullhorn swivel around like a Tank Turret pointed right at my bobbing head.

Linda boomed, "I DIDN'T SAY GET IN THE WATER YET! SHEESH!" (Check off for Robin's prediction). Thank God I looked like everyone else there (like a baby-seal with a yellow cap). Becoming a 2-time Toretsky target isn't something I'm proud of...but all was forgiven about 5 seconds later. "Okay, NOW - Everyone in the water. You have 30 seconds." Dave jumped in, and bobbed to the surface. He looked over at me and with no lack of delight in his voice beamed, "Bob - I can float! I'm really floating!"

It was the last thing I heard as I focused on the countdown: "5, 4, 3, 2, 1....GO!"

I had started to the right side of the course relatively alone, while everyone seemed to be piling to the left side. There was a current working from left-to-right, but the course had been laid out with the buoys in a diagonal line from left-to-right as well so that we could actually take advantage of it. I simply pointed my bow slightly to the left, and swam in a straight line, letting the current do the steering for me. I felt good immediately - my stroke was long and relaxed, and there was no chop at all - the river was as calm as a lake.

The first buoy went by - quickly. Quickly enough to make me go, "Whoa!" to myself. I knew I could swim well, but that thing was FLYING past. I knew now that the current was really pushing us along and like cycling with a tailwind, I could push harder with less fatigue heading into the bike. I focused on taking long and complete pulls with my head down, trusting that I was going straight more than usual. This approach worked - When I popped up to sight the second buoy it was precisely 6" in front of my face.

BOINK.

I slid underneath and carried on. I was able to keep my head down the rest of the way, bouncing off of 3 more buoys along the way. When we hit the channel leading to the finish, I knew I was on a good run. I had caught most of the red-capped wave before us, and was in the thick of the first wave of green caps as I stood up for the run out. Of course, without the watch I had no idea HOW good - I just had that feeling of, "That was solid. A good start."

The 'how' good was 21:26 (38th out of 291), only 11 seconds slower then my lifetime best 1650 Freestyle in 1993 while still a collegiate swimmer, and 1:30 better then my best open-water 1500. On the run out I remember running though the showers, peeling down my wetsuit, and focusing on getting to the bike. I never heard Stacy Hills and family standing outside of T1 - Stacy tells me that I ran right by as if in a trance. (Sorry, guys!)

At my bike, the wetsuit popped off easily for once. Shoes on, but there was a hiccup - I had filled a flask of Hammer Gel to eat pre-race, and I left it in my right shoe so I wouldn't forget it. I forgot it. One shake of a surprisingly heavy shoe, and out it came. Helmet on, and I was gone. T1 time of 2:01, still one of the better T1's I've ever had.

As soon as I took my first cranks of the bike, I knew I had happy legs. As some women from the early waves wobbled a bit getting clipped in, I boomed down the right gutter and found empty road immediately. As I looked over my left shoulder to move left, I could see bikes. Lots of them. Most of them. Still racked. This was good.

The course at the Escape was technically easy, and essentially flat. There would be one long climb over the Route 9 Bridge over the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal (about 1 mile up), and it would come quickly. At mile 1, there it was. Coach Mike had told me once that he'd ridden the entire bike route at Columbia in his big ring (Nationals 1997), and I was determined to try that one of these days. Today would be one of these days - I hit the bridge, stood up in my 53x19, and had at it.

Folks were in the right lane sitting and spinning in their lower gears, and I just rolled right on past. It made no sense - the grade wasn't that bad. I sat down about halfway up and just turned the gear over nice and steady, picking off one rider after another. At the top of the bridge I looked around, and the view was spectacular. Off to the right was the St. Georges Bridge that Lynda and I have taken to head down to Bethany Beach for R&R, our honeymoon...ahh, happy thoughts!

*SLAP* My brain slapped itself back into reality. "Right. Time to go." I got back down in the bars, and shifted up through the cassette as the descent picked up. 16, 15, 14, 13, 12. I came off the bottom of the bridge near 40mph, spinning out the 12. There was no wind, the road before me was flat and wide open. I had watched "Apollo 13" earlier in the week, and I visualized myself from above with a huge contrail of flames and smoke coming off the back of the bike, tearing down the road.

The visualization worked. I smiled. "Liftoff! We have liftoff!", indeed. I pulled up on the bars to scoot up the saddle, and really give it everything I had. Free from worry about goals, pace calculations, placings, splits, others, and most of all, my own doubts, my body was doing something it rarely did while I've been living in it: It began to work in beautiful rhythm, with power and speed I'd rarely tasted before. It was like a warm glow from within - pure joy was pure fuel, and it fed on itself.

I started picking off riders a little more slowly as they spaced out more and more. I would set my sights on someone, and close up. As I did, my wheels (HED Deeps) would rumble along the road...announcing to the rider ahead that they had company. I never had to open my mouth once - I would close in, they would move over, and I'd roll right on past, looking up the road to the next target. This process repeated itself every mile and without a watch or computer to tell me where I was, time meant nothing to me. I was present in the moment and aware of nothing else but the pass I was going to make next. There was just one problem - I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I was breathing hard, I was working, but I was SMILING like a fool.

I hoped it looked like a grimace to anyone I passed...

Most of the corners along the ride were the 90-degree left/right variety, and I'd dive into them without touching the binders at all so I could carry as much momentum to the next stretch as possible. I've learned that most triathletes don't do this, and I use it to my advantage whenever I can. I'd roll into a corner, and see the rider ahead stop pedaling, sit up, brake, and sloooooowwwwly get ready to turn in, and that was my cue to pounce. I'd roll in from the left side, draw up alongside and say, "I've got your inside here..." and dive for the apex.

On right-hand turns it works even better as it forces the rider on the inside to *stay* inside, riding the tighter (slower) line. Every time I'd hit a corner, it was like a free pass: I'd roll through then sprint out the other side, leaving them behind. I was in full-on roadie mode, and I was pitching a no-hitter to boot. I came close once before - at Columbia in 1999 I rode a 1:06 41K, and was passed by ONE rider with 200m to go to T2. I wanted it today - I wanted to finish this ride with no passes made...

...then I saw the shadow over my left shoulder. Dammit. #491, pushing a 53x12. "You! You ruined my no-hitter!" I let him know, and he smiled at me just like I'd been smiling all day. Such is life. As it turned out he was riding in a relay, and wouldn't need to run off the bike. Drat.

I got back in character, and rolled on. We circled back onto the only overlapping part of the course, and I guessed that we had about 8 miles to go. I was REALLY guessing, but there were still people coming out. I started looking just in case I saw...

"GO DAVE!" There he was, rolling along on his 49-pound rig, Samsara (which I think is Japanese for, "Bike that rides like a Winnebago"). He was smiling too, and I hoped he was having a good time. I also thought, "If he's still on the way out, how far up the field am I?"

I was racing Clydesdale this time, and a thought that had been in saved in storage like the Ark in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" was wheeled to the front of my consciousness. Dusty, neglected, never needed before but kept in the back just in case, the wooden boards on the crate were pried open, and the thought finally dared to show itself:

"I think I can win today. Ride hard all the way in, run hard, and I might just win it today." What was strange was that I recall no emotion with this decision. No panic, no fear, no surge. It was matter-of-fact, and business-like. I had an opportunity, and I was going for it, end of story.

One left turn, and the bridge over the C & D loomed before me: 2 miles to go: It was time to seal the deal. I rolled up to the approach of the bridge following a truck, trying to stay back and legal. Unfortunately a rider ahead of the truck was riding in the center of the lane, the truck bottled up behind him...and I got boxed in by the back of this Suburban. I yelled up the road, "MOVE RIGHT! LET THIS GUY BY!" but my cries were in vain - the rider stayed in the middle, not moving an inch.

I had to do something, and there was about 1 foot of room to the right of the truck. I could see the shoulder was decent, so I swerved to the left side of the truck and got in position to see the drivers face in the mirror. He glanced back just at the right moment, and I pointed back to the right side of the road making the universal gesture of, "Give me about THIS much room, please?" with my fingers.

He got it. I jumped right, he moved a few inches left, and I boomed down the gutter. I got out of the saddle and made sure center-lane-Fred heard me coming, because when you stand up on the HED's they REALLY roar. I rode right at him, on purpose. NOW I was pissed. He looked over his shoulder, and just about drove his rig off the bridge to get out of my way. As I rolled by out of the saddle I thought, "Damn right." I had one more mile of hard pain, and I was going to take it head on.

Out of the saddle again in 53x19, I cranked all the way up to the top one final time. As I caught one last rider at the top, he looked over at me and went, "DAMN. Nice ride." I muttered a quick, "Thanks..." and got back down into the bars. 1 downhill mile to go, and I could gain more time so long as I kept the pressure on. 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, Liftoff. The pavement got a bit washboard at the bottom, and my vision blurred. I focused down the road to the final right hand turn into T2, and breezed through it knowing that I'd gotten every bit out of my body for all 40k.

With 200 yards to go I downshifted and did I quick mini-spindown before the dismount. When I got there, my instincts took over: I jumped off the bike and started running. With my left hand I grabbed my shades and put them in my mouth, unclipped my helmet, and tilted my head forward. The helmet spilled off into my free hand, and I ran to the racks without missing a step. I dropped the helmet, changed the shoes, grabbed the hat and took off, putting my shades on along the way out. T2 time - 1:06, the best second transition I've had at any race.

My bike split for the 40K had been 1:04:56. 9th out of 291, and a personal best for the distance by 1:30. I had averaged just under 23mph - a best at any distance...any time.

Running out, I couldn't help but notice that the racks had only a few scattered bikes. Maybe 15. Damn. That's good news. As I jumped the curb and hit the road I had one thought; "Make it stick. Make it stick." Unaware of the race time to this point, I looked back at the finish line clock - 1:35:00. "Not bad at all. That means with a sub 50-minute 10K, I can come in under 2:25. Great!" What I had failed to remember was that I'd started in the third wave, 6 minutes after the clock started.

My race time was 1:29, and I was on PR pace...completely unaware.

The run was as simple as could be, a straight out - straight back affair with no shade. As I ran out, Jackie Gallagher (a local elite runner) cheered for me, "Go Bob. It's totally flat - you can do it." I CAN do this. I will do this. I knew it was hot, but the heat felt good. I unzipped my skinsuit and let the warm air surround me. Looking up the road I could see the heatwaves shimmering off the pavement, and I welcomed the roast. I hoped there wouldn't be mile markers along the way, and my wish was granted. I made it to the first aid station, and it seemed like longer then a mile. I grabbed a cup of water (no Gatorade), and pinched that sucker. Unlike the Philly Marathon, I could now do this without drowning - every time.

I was running more aggressively then usual, but I felt calm - almost serene. I thought of Mark Allen's description in 1995 of when he was on a good day... "The heat is there, but you don't feel it. There is a sense of serenity. There is a feeling of grace, of calm, of strength." My turnover was fast, and light. I wasn't getting passed by people - I was holding my position. I could feel that it was all coming together, and all I had to do was keep it that way for less than 5 miles.

I passed the second aid station and began to look for the turn-around. Time was still nothing to me - I couldn't tell you if I'd been running for 10 minutes or 30. I was already thinking about picking it up after the turn-around to make it stick, and then I started seeing people coming back. They were spaced out quite a bit at first, so I started counting: 1..2..3...and so on. As I came around a bend, I saw cones and flashing lights about 300 yards up the road - there it was! ALREADY! I hadn't been counting all that long!

7...8...9...

13...14...15...

50 yards to go...

17...18...19...

...Bob.

Oh, my. I am in 20th place. On the run. And I'm STAYING there. For a few seconds, I mentally lost it. My focus faded, and I thought, "So what do we do now?" My mind replied in a loud, clear shout: "RUN FOOL! RUUUUUUUNN!" Click - I got right back into character and started looking for who was chasing me. Sure enough, about 2 minutes from the turn-around a tall guy (about 6'5") looked at me and said out of nowhere, "Nice Job! Keep it up!" I had no idea why he'd single me out - he'd said nothing to the runners ahead of me...but then I got it: That's a Clyde, marking me.

Huh. Cool.

As the footfalls ticked off, Robin caught me. She's a strong runner, and was on her way to recording the best female run split of the day (41:19). I had passed her on the bike, and I knew she'd be back. Robin hates to be passed, especially on the bike. She's one of those people that keeps a mental checklist of who passed her on the bike JUST so she can run them back down. "Good job, Robin!" I managed to squeak, and she replied with, "You too. Keep going."

I tried to hang onto her pace - I lifted just a bit, but I was already pretty much on the rivet: There was nothing left to pick it up. She crept away, but I was still holding my place amongst the men around me. I knew now I probably had less then 2 miles to go, and it was all systems go. I was probably winning the Clydesdale - I was really WINNING something, and I wanted to remember it. While each step brought me one step closer to the line, it was one step less to savor what was turning into the race of my life. "No footsteps...no footsteps..." became my mantra all the way in. I didn't want to get caught now, so I just ran as hard as I could to keep anyone from catching me.

I never looked back - I didn't want to know.

As the form of Main Street appeared out of the heat shimmer, I knew it was mine. I knew I'd done it all the best that I could, and I had nothing to regret at all. I had left my worries in the car, and the Bob that hit the road today had finally left behind 31 years of doubts, the lack of self-confidence that was as much my shadow as anything else, and everyone else in my class.

The line and the clock loomed ahead, and suddenly I heard footsteps closing. I refused to look back, and I strained to find more speed from my already maxed legs. The footsteps faded, then said something to someone else: "Hang in there - we're almost there." It was a female voice. Whew!

Of course, she was talking to a guy, and my relief was short-lived as he pulled up to my right shoulder. "Let's sprint this in, right?" He asked. "Sure. Give the crowd a show." I managed to reply. He opened it up, and I...I...I watched him go. There was nothing more - I was full-tilt-Lambada for home like a horse that could see the stable, and that was all I could do.

I lifted my arms to the heavens, and whooped it up the last 50 meters like Simon Whitfield at the Olympics. I think I looked just as surprised, because I finally remembered that I could knock 6 minutes off the clock...

...which read 2:21:29 as I took the last step. I had finished an Olympic Distance race in 2:15:29, nearly 7 minutes off my PR from Columbia in 1999. 2:15. Two-Friggin-Fifteen. What I didn't know at that time was that I'd also run a 46:05 10K - 1:05 faster then anything I'd ever done off the bike, and only 90 seconds slower then my standalone 10K PR.

I had achieved the PR-Trifecta: Swim, Bike, Run - all the best I'd ever done, all in the same race. As I stood in the shade and looked back up the road, I just bent over at the waist, put my hands on my thighs, and shook my head. How could this be? How could this happen? Where did that come from? Lost in my own thoughts, more friends came across the line: Peter Novelli, Jim Sherry, Michelle Parsons - all people that traditionally mop the floor with me. Their faces upon seeing me waiting were worth it, and let me know I wasn't the only one a bit surprised.

Pete looked at me and asked, "Big Bob! Where the hell did you get that from?"

Just then, I saw him. A lone figure leaving transition - Dave. Still going forward, 10K to leaving behind life as a non-triathlete. People were all over the road, and he needed a lane - NOW. I took the last bit of energy I had and boomed, "RUNNER ON THE COURSE!" The crowd parted, and Dave rolled right on through.

I walked back to my car, and got changed. I was still in a state of shock - 2:15? That's 22 minutes better then Columbia 3 weeks ago. I now had to do something that I'd never done before - I actually had to hang around for an awards ceremony to see if I'd placed. I desperately didn't want to get my hopes up - but I couldn't help it. None of the guys ahead of me were big - and the winning time at Columbia was 2:17. I knew I had a shot. I called St. Lynda and told her I was going to be late today. She asked me, "Did you win something?"

"I think so! I really think so!" I always wanted to tell her that, and it felt every bit as good as I thought it would.

As I got back to the finish area, there were a few volunteers milling about. I asked someone, "How many are left out there?" She told me three people were still moving; Two women and one man, and I knew that man was Dave. I knew he was desperately buggered about finishing last, and I started to think about what I could say to help him see the positive side if he did. I waited, and I waited. If there was nobody else there, I was going to be there for his finish.

Then some guy crossed the line, and it wasn't Dave. After he'd come through the chute I asked him, "Is there someone behind you? Another guy?" He mumbled, "I think. Maybe." and shuffled off...one tired puppy. I knew short of falling into the center of the Earth, Dave would finish. I just hoped he was alright out there.

"Okay, lets get this award ceremony going..." I heard over the PA...barely. Actually, it came across as, "Ohh-Heeey. Mets net ward pony boing." I kept trying to listen, but I couldn't understand too many words, and I was caught in a dilemma: Hang out for Dave and miss getting hardware? Or try and grab the hardware and come back? I gambled and went for "B". It was selfish - yes, but I thought I could get away with it if they were fast enough.

I learned that the Clydesdale awards aren't announced until the other 15 categories have been done. I kept looking up the road, and waiting, and willing the Race Director to pick it up...

..I heard a voice at the food table behind me. "Can I have a Coke, please?" Covered in salt, sunburned, a sweaty, smelly, smiling mess...I saw Dave Krieger, the triathlete. I had missed his finish - I had lost my gamble. "Dude, that really hurt." He said as I shook his hand and said, "Welcome to the club." To make the situation weirder, the RD suddenly called out, "In the men's Clydesdale 39 and under, third place...(some guy not me), second place...(some guy also not me), and in first place, Robert Mina..."

I couldn't hear anything after that. I won. I really won. I went up to the stage, I got a plaque. Someone took my picture. I held my plaque. It said "FIRST PLACE" on it.

It also said, "Men's 40 and Over."

I had to give that one back, and I got to go up to the stage again. They gave me the right one that time. If I never did something this well again, I could say that I actually won something. That on one day, in one place, I was faster then everyone else. It was something I'd never really thought about - I never thought I could ever put a 'FIRST' after my name in anything. I'm here for the fun! For the food! For the friends! This whole bit - this is just an amazing bonus.

Of course, I had a scary thought: "Nobody is going to believe me ever again when I try and tell them to go slow and have fun, will they?" I still don't know how I'll explain it in Xtri next month, but I've got a few days to deadline still.

One thing is clear - I'm not wearing a watch in any tri, ever again. Time, worry, doubt - It seems that the more I leave them behind, the faster I get. People have told me that for years, but I never really believed it. I just wanted to know...now I know I don't want to know, you know?

Whatever. All I know now is that I need to find a place to put this thing up. Finally.

Hurricane Bob

* Don't look back, you'll see what's chasing you. *

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