June 7, 2003 -- Cambridge, MD
The Blackwater Eagleman Triathlon
June 7, 2003
-- Cambridge, MD
1.2 Mile swim, 56 Mile bike, 13.1 Mile run.
My 5th try at the Blackwater and her 70.3 miles.
Originally Published to TRI-DRS on June 16, 2003.
Not enough time to train.
Too much time at work.
Too much work to do on the house.
The stork that just won't deliver.
The weather that just won't get warm.
The scale that just won't move downward.
With the pages on the calendar flipping faster and faster towards July, I
seriously began to consider the fact that things weren't as simple as they used
to be, and probably wouldn't be ever again. John Lennon once sang that, "Life is
what happens when you're busy making other plans..." It seemed to be perfect:
While I was wondering about the remaining 4 cubic yards of mulch in the
driveway, the choice of color for the basement paint, the light fixtures I have
to fix, the deck to be reboarded...time was whirring past, unabated.
I was working longer hours then ever before, but in a job that I liked. Gone
(for now) was the ever-dangling guillotine of life as a contractor. I have a
gym downstairs at my disposal (for when I could pry away from my desk), and a
campus to squeeze in runs whenever possible. Things were better, but the time
to enjoy them was lessened.
"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." I kept waiting for
things to 'slow down', for work to 'ease up', for the arrival of summer to give
me the moments I needed to find that warm-weather groove. By June, since there
had been no warm weather in these parts and more than 40 straight days of rain
and clouds, I was at a loss.
At Columbia as the cold rain drove through me I thought, "It's gotta' be better
at Eagleman. It's always hot for Eagleman." Three weeks passed. Three
weekends of rain. Three weeks of temperatures 15-20 degrees below normal. "The
coldest, wettest spring the Northeast has seen in 40 years..." crowed the amazed
weather people.
Three weeks passed. It still wasn't warm. Blackwater wasn't going to wait for
me, or anyone else. I loaded up the car and headed down on yet another rainy
Saturday passed flooded fields, mud, and rivers of runoff that made Route 301
disappear ahead of me. My motivation to race was nearly zero. I wasn't fit
enough, I'd been over 60 miles once all year outdoors, and it was freaking
cold. Again.
At least there was the homestay waiting for me. I'd be sharing a house with 3
other guys less than 10 miles from the start (which in Cambridge terms, that's a
stone's throw). When I arrived my hosts told me, "You're in the rancher next
door - you're first! You get the big bed!" I stashed my things, and let some
stress flow out of my body. The house was on the waterfront, my hosts had left
a case of Diet Pepsi in the fridge, a coffee maker, and a TV with a recliner. I
might not be fast, but at least I'd be comfy.
I listened to the rain cascade off the roof for a bit, chilled, and then headed
back into town for the expo, bike check, and pre-race meeting. Leaving the
usual mountain of gear behind, I was keeping the pre-race routine as simple as
possible. No stress. No worries. Just check the bike, meet some friends, then
go home and get to bed. Simple. Stress-free.
"Where's your helmet?" The Tri-Speed tech asked. "Back at my homestay." I
replied. "It's a nice one - I just bought it!" I wasn't lying. Two nights
earlier at my training ride there had been a big crash, so I'd stopped to help.
I took my lid off, and someone - a well-intentioned medic or a less
well-intentioned human - made off with it. I'd just bought a replacement on
Friday night. However, despite my tale, the tech was having none of it. "Well,
without your helmet here, you can't pass inspection." No helmet, no sticker, no
race. End of story.
I knew it. I KNEW this! I've been coming to this race for years. I had no-one
to be mad at but myself, but now my no-stress night was shot to hell. I
listened to the pre-race meeting about the parking field being under 2-3" of
water, and that parking would be limited. In less than 45 minutes I drove back
to my homestay, grabbed the helmet, raced back, and sprinted back into the bike
check line at 6:49pm.
I made sure I went back to the same inspector. He smiled and in perfect
Kiwi-accented spice complimented me; "Nice driving, mate. I didn't think you'd
make it." I got the sticker. I was already wiped out. I called St. Lynda, she
listened to my tale of bad karma, and gave me the perfect solution: "You need
to eat. Find a deli, get a sandwich, and chill out."
One Wawa hoagie and yet another drive back to the homestay later, I was sitting
in 'my' recliner watching the Stanley Cup Finals, sipping on a Diet Pepsi,
savoring a Chicken Ranch sandwich, waiting for the short night to pass. The
rain was quieting on the roof above, and none of my other housemates had
arrived. The weather had probably scared them off, so there I was - alone.
When I turned the TV and the lights off, without another soul for ½ mile in any
direction, at the end of a dark, quiet road?
That was creepy as heck. I set three alarms. There'd be no-one to let me know
I was oversleeping. Had to be safe. I would be up at 4:00am, and I planned to
be at the park at 5:00am to be sure I could get the best parking possible. In
2001, Eric Weiss and I ended up parking nearly ½ mile from the start and
literally running for it. That really started the day badly, so I was NOT going
to repeat it.
I blinked. The night passed. The watch beeped, followed by the travel alarm,
and the clock. Up. Moving. Darkness. No rain. No sounds. I snarfed some
Pop-Tarts, mixed up my bottles, and hit the road at 4:29am. I arrived at Great
Marsh Park at 5:00am straight up, and was the 4th car there. I would be the
only non-4WD car allowed in the park all day, as the officer at the gate told
me, "Go on in, but don't stop - you'll sink." I revved across the marsh, and
parked right next to the transition area. With time to kill as I'd hoped, I
reset my watch alarm for 5:30 and went back to sleep.
5:30am came, and it was go time. I woke up, ate another set of Pop-Tarts, and
started hydrating. The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained. I put the
number on Apollo, taped on the spare tubes, set the start gear (53 x 19), and
rolled in for body marking. I could see people walking in from all directions
outside of the park - they'd already closed off the entrance and were parking
people on the streets. I'd made it!
I had everything set and ready to go at 6:10am, so I had nearly 2 full hours to
wait before my wave would start. For some people this is too much time to
handle. Time better served sleeping. For me, I think I love it. I have time
to walk around, drink, eat, relax, people-watch, and really soak in the vibe of
race morning. I watched Lori Bowden and Tim DeBoom act like every other Age
Grouper: Cool, relaxed, but looking around with unblinking eyes. I found Dave
Decker, Pete Priolo, Greg Sullivan, Ryan Jones, Neil and Julie Cook, John Faith,
and just about everyone I wanted to see. I had time to wait in the little blue
box lines, with no stress. It allowed me the moments I needed to wake up to the
race, and get in character.
For the first time all year, I felt ready. Ready for what, I had no idea. No
watch, no HRM, no worries...or as my brother in law often says, "No brain, no
headache."
I lined up with Pete for my swim wave - #8 on the day. This was the 'new'
Blackwater swim course I'd heard about, now on the other side of the jetty where
we'd supposedly have a more favorable current to deal with. I was expecting the
usual - chaos, mayhem, sandbars, and about 35-40 minutes of saltwater
thrashing. I was just glad that the winds were light, and the rain - for one
day - was up in the clouds.
Another countdown. Another buildup. Another moment where my brain reminds me
in that millisecond before the horn, "In 5 hours, this will all be a memory."
The herd started running, and we were off.
I ran about 200 yards before the water got deep enough to make swimming worth
it, and did my best to settle in. The water was VERY cloudy - I couldn't even
see my hands. My shoulders ached - even though I'd warmed up and the water
wasn't that bad. I wasn't that surrounded, so I was able to swim in my own
space and figure out what the current was doing. As I figured, it was pushing
my widebody from right to left, so I corrected the best that I could and aimed
for the sailboat off in the distance.
At some points I was swimming with what felt like a 20 degree yaw, but so was
everyone else. Typical Eagleman swim. I made the turn at the sailboat, and
sighted the boat ramps 0.6 miles away. The wind wasn't too bad, the chop was
less than 1 foot, so this was about as good as I'd ever seen things. Now that I
had the current 'pushing' me towards the ramp things were going to improve...
...but I kept moving from right to left. I'd correct, take 10 strokes, look up,
and be a full buoy off-course. I'd correct, take 10 strokes, and be off to the
left, again. "Well, it's not the current. You're just driving down the road
like someone who's had their left blinker on since 1985, going around the world
slowly, to the left." Swim, correct, swim, correct. There were a bunch of caps
off to my right, but they seemed to be as much off-line as I was. We started
catching earlier waves - they'd started 8 and 16 minutes ahead! When I finally
got inside the confines of the boat ramps, I could finally relax a bit. My
guess was about a 40-minute swim, right in line with all my other Eagleman swim
experiences - slow, long, but nobody ever said it would be easy. As I trotted
out across the mud, the music was perfect - "Ballroom Blitz", perhaps the
greatest transition song ever written. I air-drummed through the racks, and I
guess it was this that Aaron Schwartzbard spotted - he cheered, I waved, and I
was off.
Swim Split - 34:30, 47th in AG (out of 290). How about that? Of course, I had
no idea. I was off and running through the muck to the waiting Apollo, glad to
not have a watch since I was sure it was a 'bad' swim.
On the bike, pockets full of food, and away we go. The only course with no need
for a Front Derailleur I've ever raced on. I settled down into the bars, and
got to work. I knew my legs were under-trained, so riding this course as
smartly as I could would be the order of the day. No big-gear heroics - nothing
above the 16 unless the wind allowed it. I rode out and down the left gutter 53
x 17, spinning it, passing everyone I could.
I wasn't breathing hard, and my legs weren't complaining. Maybe today would be
lucky? Then again, there's no luck involved in 56 miles. You either have it,
or you don't. I'd ride as hard as I could this way, and find my answers in the
fields like everyone else.
Time at Blackwater is elastic. If you have a watch, it's all you can do to NOT
look at it. The scenery doesn't change. There are no hills to break it up.
I've always taken the ride 10 miles at a time, since there are mileposts every
10 miles. Pass 5 of those, then spin down the last 6 miles. The first one went
by faster then I expected. The second one came by just as quickly. I was
riding little gears, moving up past the earlier waves, only getting passed every
10-15 minutes (as far as I could guess). I made sure I was drinking, eating,
and staying aero.
The people that passed me were all doing the same things - riding way down their
clusters, grinding. I'd made that mistake before - I had a history here of good
bike splits, and biblical collapses on the run. Without the confidence of
milage in my legs, I was racing smartly (for once). I let them go, shaking my
head.
I passed the time by chatting with the people I was catching. A quick, "Good
job!" or, "Nice suit!" was all it took to get a smile. Everyone seemed to be
pleasant for once - I think it was the cool weather, minus the rain. Who could
have expected that?
Around mile 40, I finally started to REALLY catch the early waves. Big blocks
of people that took planning to pass, I'd have to wind up, upshift, and power by
8-10 people at a time...when I could. There was lots of blocking going on, so I
tried to be as polite (yet firm) as possible. "Please move RIGHT! Please?"
That usually did it.
However, there's always the exception. I came along a column of 4 riders all in
the LEFT lane, with the two up front riding double-wide. I waited, and waited,
but no-one was moving. There wasn't room to pass on the left, so after a few
seconds I got out my 'Moviefone' voice and piped up: "Bob says, please complete
your pass, or move to the right! Thank you!" Amazingly, in formation, three
out of four riders moved to the right in one brilliant shift. Of course, the
one I NEEDED to move was still camped out. Sheesh.
"Not yous guys! I meant HIM!" I cleared as I rolled past - they all seemed to
be fine with it, and amused. When I caught up to Romeo, I could see the
problem: It was about 5' 6", blonde, and curvy. I sat on his wheel and
chirped, "Please? Pretty please? Move right?" He did, and as he dropped to
the right I said, "Dude, I know she's cute but c'mon! We've got places to go!"
He grinned(!) at me, and apologized!
I'd never seen people in a good mood this late into the ride at Eagleman. Cool.
Approaching mile 50, I knew this ride was going pretty well. I'd stayed within
my gearing-limit, but moved up and held pace better than I'd hoped I would.
However, I couldn't get clear of the increasing traffic. I passed this one
group twice, but I couldn't get away. They were drafting - shamelessly. They
weren't even TRYING to stay clear. It looked like a Team Time Trial. I'd sit
back, surge by, but then take 1 minute to recover, and they'd catch me again.
I'd have to drop off...repeat.
Imagine my joy when I heard the moto come up.
Imagine my joy to be riding 7 meters back.
Imagine my joy when the red shirt on the moto pulled out his notepad.
He started writing, and writing, and writing. He wrote out penaltuies for at
least 2 miles.
I rested, waiting for them all to be rung up and dinged. When he was done, I
put in my biggest surge of the day and dropped them for good. With less than 5
miles to go, I was still feeling strong. I caught Pete on the bike (something
I've never done before), but I knew he was just getting through the day as part
of his training for the off-road IM in September. I knew he'd run me down, so I
made a note to say something funny when he caught me.
As I approached the park, I started to feel REALLY good. I didn't think I'd
have a good ride at all, but there it was - done, and good. My legs were there,
the sun was still above the clouds, and I was READY to run. That had never
happened before at Eagleman. 4 tries, 4 heartbreaks. Would number 5 be the
charm? I rode into T2 waving my arms to the crowd, surfing the noise in -
energy is fuel, and they were giving it to me.
Bike Split - 2:32:33, 22.0mph. 258th out of 979 males.
"Here's Robby Mina! Nice ride, Robby!" Said RD Rob Vigorito as I skittered by
him. I couldn't remember the last time someone called me 'Robby' - that was
pretty neat. I tip-sploshed through the mud once more, and got to my rack. My
legs were a little wobbly now, but that was okay. I changed shoes, put on the
socks, filled the pockets once more, and made doubly sure everything was right.
Pete came in, whipped through his usual T2 flair, and was gone. Damn. No time
for jokes.
I splish-splashed to the exit, and saw the clock on the way out - 4:06:20. That
was since the Pro's started, so I knew my wave was ~55 minutes behind them. I
tried to do the math, but I couldn't. Just as well - I knew it was good
enough. A solid run here (under 2 hours) would probably put me in the 5:0x
bracket. My best ever Eagleman was my first - 5:12 in 1997. Could I beat that
one? How? "Shut up and RUN fool!" How many times as my brain been told that
by my legs?
On the out-and-back run course it would be easy to see the state of the race.
The pro's came by one at a time, but I'd missed Luke Bell and Tim Deboom.
However, I saw the entire female field one at a time in their last 2 miles:
Lori was flying, Lauren was in pain. Fiona was completely stoic, but clocking.
When I crossed paths with Andrea Fisher, I was taking a hard-left as she was
coming the other way. I jumped one step to the right and waved with my hand to
say, "Your corner." At the speed she was coming at me, I didn't dare stay in
the way. Amazingly, calmly, on her way to 5th and a 1:36 run, she looked up and
said, "Hey, thanks!"
Sweet. Pro love.
I chugged out of town, along the waterfront. The wind was still light, and the
sun was nowhere. For the first time in my memory, Eagleman was NOT going to be
an EZ-Bake oven. I focused on keeping my posture upright, my hands and
shoulders relaxed, and my feet ticking over the cadence. I wasn't going
backwards - I was holding my position.
"Just 4 miles to go..." I thought as I passed the 2 mile marker. Easy run -
6.55 out, then get home. I'd done it before. It had killed me every time. I
knew were to go, and that there was nowhere to hide. "Pace 6, race 6." I bided
my time looking for friends in earlier waves. Where was Dave? Where was
Sully? Where was Ryan? Where was Pete? Where was Trevor? What about Neil?
Julie? The miles ticked by, smooth as could be. The faces came by, every few
minutes. Time passed. The day was mostly a memory now - rushing by faster with
each stride. The confidence of today replacing the doubts of failures on this
road before. A creeping smile was coming to my face - today was going to be
different.
Entering Horn Point Road was always like entering "The Pit." 1.55 miles in, then
out. Straight. No shade. Usually, the heat waves shimmering off the road
obscured the turnaround until you got there. Today, I could see the brilliant
colors of hundreds of singlets, DeSotos, and race suits coming and going.
Against the grey sky, the flood of colors was beautiful. I'd never really been
able to look up and see that before - and I was still running the way I was when
I'd left T2. "10 minutes to the turnaround...."
I chugged down to the turn, and there it was - just 6.55 miles to go. I hadn't
visualized this. I wasn't ready for it. I was sure I'd be struggling at this
point. I was 'psyched to suffer' as my cycling teammates used to say. I was
ready to fall apart, and get through it - nothing more.
Here I was. Less than an hour to a great day. "Shut up and RUN, fool!" Oh,
yeah. Gotta' go.
On the way out of Horn Point Road, I crossed paths with Dave; "There you are!
I've been looking for you!" He had started in the wave behind me, and was
coming on strong. I started knocking down the remaining miles - one at a time.
Past where I'd lost it in 1999 trying to run down Weiss. Past where I'd burst
into tears of frustration in 2001 trying to race with a cold and having nothing
left. Past where I'd come apart after riding the entire day on a broken
derailleur in 1997, pushing the 12-tooth and frying my quads. Past where the
winds of 1998 had left me with an entire day to think about a 47-minute swim
into an endless tide.
The day was nothing like I'd imagined - a good day, there to be taken. I just
had to bring it home. As I crossed over the 11 mile mark, I knew I was going to
have a great day. The 'easy' ride had saved me for the run, and I was taking
what little I had and giving it everything I could. From scraps of fitness came
a feast - and the fact that I didn't expect it at all made it almost euphoric.
At mile 12 I turned back along the waterfront and let my eyes feast on the
distant pier across Hambrooks Bay. I could see the flags, hear the music, and
know that the day was almost over. I could feel my legs galloping faster with
the adrenaline of a finish-line drawing nearer, but I took the time to make sure
I savored this one. "Is this the greatest feeling in the world?" I asked
myself. "Is this the greatest feeling? Is this why you train? Is this why you
race? To feel this?" I gazed across the bay. "Was this why you came here
today?"
Yes, it is.
As I turned onto the pier, I high-stepped like Deion headed for the end-zone. I
was waving my arms in the air, and soaking up every last second I could. Good
races are so few and far between for me now, I wasn't going to be shy about how
good it felt. I crossed the line, the last step went behind me, and finally...6
years after I'd first come to Great Marsh Park on the first Sunday in June, I
had a good Blackwater Eagleman in my history book.
Run Split: 1:55:21, 596th out of 980 males. Hey, it was good for me.
Total Time: 5:08:44, my third-best ½ IM ever out of 15 tries at the distance.
Undertrained. Overweight. Over-stressed.
Maybe I should just have a singlet printed out with the words, "Shut up and RUN,
fool!" printed upside down on the front so that when I drop my head I can read
it? Whatever it takes, I guess. I've got 6 weeks to Lake Placid now, and just
enough confidence to know that perhaps my legs know more than I do about what
I've got inside. My friend Art always used to say to me when I was doubting,
"Bob, the fitness is within you."
6 weeks to Lake Placid. If it's within me, here's hoping I can keep it until
then!
Hurricane Bob
* Once I get out of my own way, I'm not too slow. *