I have a fundamental rule about traveling to races: Never drive longer then you're going to actually be racing. I've found that to do so on a regular basis pushes the boundaries of human endurance and sanity (give or take a little of each), can lead to excessive snacking, and can really bum you out if things don't go right.

It used to happen to me when I was bike racing almost every other weekend; I'd drive 2-3 hours to some race site, sign up, register, then race for as long as I could hang on to the field*which was sometimes as short as 1 freaking lap if the start was a complete shambles (and in amateur racing when clipless pedals were still new, calling it a complete shambles was an insult to all things shambled). Guys would line up for the start 17-across on a 15-foot wide road, then try and take off all at once: There was usually much swearing, leaning, and that distinctive 'CLACK' - "AUGH!" sound of someone missing the pedal, sitting on the top tube, and landing on their delicates.

After you've missed your pedal and in the worlds of Paul Sherwen, "Damaged your manhood*" on a bike, there was no worse feeling then riding around off the back for 5-6 laps, waiting to get pulled, and knowing that you'd be getting back in the car without even needing a shower*but perhaps an ice pack.

I hated that. Sometimes I'd just ride for the sake of getting in a workout before driving home, just to make all the time, traffic, tolls, and trouble worth it. At least when I got home I wanted to LOOK like I'd raced.

I do make exceptions, however - I drive 8 hours to get to my favorite race of the summer, the Tupper Lake Half Ironman. I sincerely hope to never be out there 8 hours and 1 minute*but to me racing on that scenic course and having all my friends there makes the road trip well worth it.

Late last year, my friend Dave Jones starting asking if I would run the Around The Bay 30KM road race in Hamilton, Ontario. I explained to him my inviolate rule regarding driving insane, multi-country distances for races, and he used a brilliant tactic used by parents all over the world, the double-reverse guilt trip: "Yeah it's a long way, but we've managed to come down to your place twice for the Philadelphia Marathon and had a great time. C'mon. There's better beer up here, too."

I looked at a map; Canada was pretty close. I mean, it was right next-door, right? A mere 566 miles away. One more thing - the race date was set for March 28th, my 33rd birthday. In all the years I've been racing things, I'd never actually raced on my birthday. That settled it - I'd sign up and go for it. I'd race 33KM on my 33rd birthday. Dave said we should race as "Team Jesus and Mozart." I asked him why, and he replied, "Since neither of those guys lived to be 34, of course."

Canadian humo(u)r. That's what 7-month winters and years of waiting for the Leafs to win another Stanley Cup can do to you.

To further take a brilliantly optimistic plan and put it under even more absurd circumstances, one of St. Lynda's Christmas presents was a pair of tickets to see Josh Groban. If I played my cards right and remembered to take out the trash without being reminded, and made sure as to not ride off my rollers on the new basement rug, I figured the odds were good she might even take me. Shame that when I bought them, I failed to put together the date of the concert and the date of Around the Bay.

Concert - Friday, March 26.

Around the Bay - Sunday, March 28.

Did I remember when I wrapped them? No. Did I remember when she opened them? No. I didn't remember, because I'm a guy. If there's not a Post-It note stapled to my limitless forehead, I can forget things.

I sat on the tickets for 2 months. I didn't slip, hint, cheat, or get weak. It was brilliant - she never saw them coming. Christmas morning she opened the little box, looked at the tickets, and ever the manager of everything said, "Oh, WOW! AWESOME! Wait. Isn't this the weekend we're going to Canada for that race?"

How amazing is that? That's when you know you've married a special Ironmate - when she knows your race calendar better than you do. Regrettably, in 3.7 seconds I went from unabashed joy to desperate shame; I'd goofed.

Over the next several weeks many, many plans were hatched to overcome my colossal double booking of the weekend. In the end, we decided that it wouldn't really be worth it for Lynda to have to wake up, ride-along for 9 hours, stand out in the cold for 3 hours waiting for me to come back a Bobsicle, only to turn around and drive back the following day.

This was my mess - I'd go solo to atone.

I looked deeply into the hollow canyons of my mind, recalling times in my past when road trips were made for the sheer thrill of it; driving 200 miles to get good beer from Canada; offering a neighbor a ride to the bus station, then deciding along the way that New York was only 350 miles away*why not save some cash? Each of those times, the mileage added to the story - I just needed to think that way once more.

Loaded up with 27 CD's, a bagful of snacks from my beloved (M&M's, Pop Tarts, water, and gum), I was tackle on my adventure of shortsighted planning. I left Philadelphia at 9:00am on Saturday morning (with a raging opera hangover, I might add), crossed the Canadian border at 4:04pm, and immediately made serious time. Hey, when you see a sign that the speed limit is now "100" and you can play the, "I come from a country that doesn't understand the metric system" card? KM's, MPH's - whatever. I pulled into Dave and Lisa's driveway at 6:20pm that night, chapter one behind me.

The Around The Bay Road Race is a 30KM jaunt in Hamilton, Ontario. Like the name suggests you simply run, well, around the bay. The race was in its 110th year, which means that in 109 previous runnings, nobody had really stopped to think that running a race in late March in Canada might not be the best idea. Again - I remind you about 8-month winters and their effect on the human mind. I brought everything I owned - hats (okay, toques), gloves, tights, long-sleeves, short-sleeves, just in case. This was going to be my last long run before Boston, so being warm took precedent over all else. I didn't care if I looked like the Michelin man headed down the road - I would be ready!

Race day dawned cool and gray - the essential Canadian springtime day. After a seemingly fast 2-hour drive to the start, I decided to forego the tights after much thought and looking around at everyone else; they were all dressed in thin layers, some in shorts. I had 10-times the body fat of some of the anorexic, short-wearing crowd, so I just went for it.

May I again remind you of what the 10-month Canadian winter does to people? They're different. Really different. Dave's friend Mike Peerless was dressed in shorts and short-sleeves, and I swear to God I think both he and his wife April put on sunscreen.

I should point out that the start temperature was 4°C. To my fellow Americans, that's like 14 below zero, I think.

Dave and Lisa were going to be running Boston in a matter of three weeks as well. This would be a sensible run - no pushing the pace, no heroics, no beeping HRM's marking the flirtation and passage of one's AT, nada. Dave loaded up the MP3 player, strapped on his waist-mounted speakers and double-bottle carrier, and voila: We had a party.

After a quick 1km warmup (well, technically it was a 1km run-and-stay-really-really-cold), we lined up and waited for the horn to get things going. Dave said that we'd be aiming to hold a pace of 5:27 per KM, and that was fine with me: I can only do mathematical computation to 2 significant digits when I'm not running, so converting KM's to miles always produced the result of somewhere between a 7 and 10 minute mile. Whatever.

The horn sounded, and off we all went. As we huddled in the pack like a group of Emperor Penguins headed down the street, it occurred to me that I was pretty darn tired already. It probably had something to do with staying out past midnight, driving across three states and one province, and now starting off on a three-hour run fueled by Pop Tarts, Tim Horton's coffee, Dave's MP3 player, Lisa's even pace, and lots of hope that I could pull this thing off without coming apart like the car at the end of the Blues Brothers.

Dave kept the music coming, kept reminding me to eat, and kept the pace right at 5:something per kilometer. Lisa hung in there right beside him, and I just sat in the slot behind them like a 200-pound chase plane. I was cold, but I was racing in Canada, in March. I didn't expect any less.

After the first 10km, my brain reminded me, "Ooh! Oooh! I know this! That's 6.2 miles!" then went back to sleep. My Hammer Gel was starting to get as thick as maple syrup on a cold day, since Hammer Gel basically IS maple syrup on a cold day.

The route turned out towards Lake Ontario, running along a narrow piece of land with Hamilton Harbo(u)r to the left, and the endless cold depths of a Great Lake to the right. I thought to myself, "Someone first ran this in 1894. In March. In Canada. How tough WERE those guys?" I reminded myself about that whole 14-month long winter thing, and ran on.

The wind whipped across the road, and basically froze my contact lenses in such a state that my eyes were stuck wide open. I looked down at my legs, which by now looked like two pink stilts. Should have worn the tights - I'd failed to take into account that the skinny people not wearing tights could probably produce enough speed to stay warm on a day like this, and would be done about 1 hour faster. Bastards.

Dave and Lisa kept telling me to hang in there - that the hills were coming; once we got away from the lakeside/bayside stretch, the hills would be somewhat sheltered and warmer. Of course, they'd still be hills, but under the circumstances I'd be pretty happy to be anywhere without a crosswind that was beginning to make me wonder just how far up my body certain male bits would go in an attempt to survive the day. I was well beyond shrinkage now - I was bordering on a change of religion.

As we plodded along past the 15km mark and the drawbridge that marked halfway, I could see thousands of little steam clouds coming from thousands of breaths, all blowing quickly from right to left. Everyone ahead of me looked like a little locomotive just puff-puffing away. I turned to the woman on my right and said, "I came all the way from Philly to freeze my butt off up here - ouch!"

In typical Canuck fashion, she looked over me and said, "Sorry to tell you, it's not that cold. C'mon - this is way better then last year!" She had a jacket tied around her waist, and was running in shorts and short sleeves, working on her tan despite the clouds. Amazing how 19-month winters can toughen a person up.

Knowing I was suffering, Dave turned up the music to the emergency portion of his program: He hit the "Meatloaf" button, and let it blast. There's nothing that "Bat out of Hell" can't fix, and soon I was staring at the 20km mark and the start of the last leg.

Dave, Lisa, and I stuck together and entered the rolling hills headed back towards Hamilton. Past Golf Courses, amazing waterfront homes, and towering woods, the wind finally starting coming from our backs*and an amazing thing happened - I started to sweat. Each hill made me a little warmer, and even though gravity was now taking its chance to pound me into submission, at least I was finally beginning to thaw.

My energy started coming back - soon I was singing along with Dave's running music! It never occurred to me that singing along to "It's Raining Men" might give people the wrong idea about me, but I was just happy to be WARM enough to dance and not give a !@#. about what anyone thought. I'm sure putting my hands to the sky on the thunderclaps didn't help*but hey. It's raining men, Hallelujah, it's raining men, Amen.

All along the way, Dave and Lisa had been warning me about "The BIG Hill" that would be coming. Sure enough at 27km, there it was: This evil, switch backed, ribbon of pavement that descended all the way down to a pond, then climbed right back as high as the eye could see. I thought about the first guys to get here in 1894 after surviving their first 37-month winter, having run 27km, and full of confidence, barefoot, and eating only nails and coffee made from ground up rocks, decided, "YES! We'll climb THAT."

Canadians are just tough people. Really tough.

We started grinding our way up, up, up, and even though the grade was totally unforgiving, it wasn't too bad - I was really starting to feel hot. Blood was flowing out of my frozen legs and back to my brain, and between breaths I started thinking about everything: Did I really drive 9 hours yesterday? Have I really almost finished this race, and my last long run? Am I really 33 today? Do I really have Boston in 3 weeks? Was I really singing "It's Raining Men" all by myself 2km ago complete with hands-to-the-sky gestures in the appropriate places, including the little wrist flip at the top that makes Lynda wonder where I learned that?

My weekend adventure had been all that, and more. Suffering, panting, sweating, and nearing the top, I felt the best I'd felt all weekend. With friends, music, and just the right touch of hypothermia, my final Boston training weekend had been as much fun as one could have running long. I had 2km to go to the finish, and then it would be time to feast, rest, and be ready.

At 29km, Dave turned to me and said, "There's the reaper! He's always here!" At the side of the road, dressed in black, was the grim reaper*the toughest Canadian alive. Dave yelled out to him, "It's his birthday today! Give him a hug!" Smiling, the Reaper opened his arms - and I hit the gas and ran for my life.

I yelled to Dave, "Are you KIDDING? It's my B-Day. No way I'm checking out today. I'm not getting NEAR that guy! He doesn't get a chance at all to take me."

Dave, Lisa, and I have run three races together before, but we'd never managed to get together at the finish. This time, we didn't let the chance pass by. Arm in arm, arms raised, we ran down the final straight, crossing the line in 2:52. Since 30km is 18.6 miles, all I have to do is sit down with a calculator, a slide-rule, some ball bearings, and perhaps a flint, and I'll figure out what that pace per mile is.

Post-race, I just wanted to get warm. We headed inside the convention center near the finish, and I put on every bit of clothing I'd brought along with me. I knew I needed to drink, since I'd stopped drinking at 15km - it was too cold. I asked Dave for water, and he looked aghast. "Water? No way - this is Canada. Beer." I'd never had a beer post-race. I was always worried what might happen, considering that I have the tolerance of a 15-year-old ballerina. Despite this, I didn't have time to argue. "Here. It's your birthday. You have to drink it."

I took two sips.

I was instantly better.

I took two more sips.

I was instantly warmer.

I chugged the rest of that thing in 11 seconds.

I broke out into an uncontrolled perma-grin, and suddenly understood WHY a post-race beer is so very good for you. I would have had another, but I think Dave was afraid I'd ask him to put on something else I could dance to*

The next morning, the final day of my non-stop weekend brought the long journey home. After a stop at Tim Horton's for Timbits, and the Duty-Free for 2 cases of Canada's finest (after all, a country with a permanent winter makes FINE beer, I learned), I crossed the border back to the US. Medal in pocket, beer in trunk, 30 really freaking cold KM's in my legs, and a lot of living in the space of 72 hours.

1132 miles of driving for 18.6 miles of running may not seem like the brightest of ideas on paper, but with the right ingredients (music, snacks, beer, and friends), it's a recipe I'd gladly cook up again...I think I'll just need a few days to catch up on sleep.

See you after Boston! Here's hoping it's warm(er).
Hurricane Bob

* It was just one lap. How hard could it have been? *