Philadelphia Marathon 2002. My last PR at any distance.

Could I really have gone two and a half years without getting things right just once? Had I really crashed and burned, bonked, imploded, overheated, hypothermically challenged, and rained myself into defeat after defeat for that long? Ye Gods. No wonder I was racked with doubt - I'd lost confidence a long time ago. I didn't expect things to go well, so now they never did. When I thought I was confident at Boston, ("I BELIEVE!"), that just made the disappointment so much worse.

This time I just made things simple: No watch, no goals, no worries. Wake up, eat, swim, bike, run. All I wanted to do this time was the best that I could do with whatever ability I had; nothing more, nothing less. No pressure. I wouldn't let anything rattle me if I could help it. Failed the bike check because I have a crack in my helmet? No problem (although I still don't know how it racked when I haven't crashed it). "Got the Pneumo in white?" Done.

Realized during check-in that I've got my Seal Mask packed in my swim bag 110 miles north of my race bag? No problem - expo time. I needed a tinted one for the East-facing swim start anyway. Just roll with it - all of it.

Wake-up on race day was 4:30am. Well, that's what I had the alarm set for. Wake-up was actually 4:15am, followed by 14 minutes of staring at the clock and trying to convince a sleepy body that I would forget just how tired I felt right now as soon as I was treading water in the corral.

Pop Tarts, coffee - breakfast of champions. Flip on The Weather Channel. Note that it's raining to the East, raining to the West, and raining to the South. Columbia was nestled right in a 5-hour band of rain-free, clear skies. "Luck! That's lucky!" I thought. Without getting carried away, I couldn't help but smile just a bit: Sometimes catching a little break is all it takes.

I drove to Centennial Park in the dark without getting lost (much), and followed the parade of sleepy triathletes into the gates at 5:50am. Already the parking lot was 2/3rds full, and there was still 90 minutes until my wave started. I had plenty of time to check out the scene, visit the little blue boxes, and uncover Apollo for today's flight. When everything was ready to go I just found a quiet space in the corner of the bike racks, and tuned out everything around me with a little help from the iPod.

The skies were blue. I was ready. Soon enough the daily thoughts of the long march at Boston would become part of the tapestry of memories always playing in my mind. It would no longer be the last race recalled; when I woke up on Monday morning Columbia, and whatever she held for me, would be what I remembered.

After wiggling into the wetsuit and borrowing some Body Glide from a neighbor for the neck (I was SURE I'd packed it...?), I made the walk down to the ramp at 7:00am. My wave was scheduled to start at 7:21am, so there was time to mingle a bit. I managed to run into some of the Guy's guys (from Guy's Multisport, that is - not the Village People), and stay relaxed. When it came time to hit the water, we'd been told the water temperature was 68 degrees F. Despite that, there was a lot of falsetto singing when we hit the water, and then the water made it about 34" up our inseams. It sounded like a Bee Gee's impersonators clinic, but soon enough the men of the 30-34 wave, 156 of us, were treading water looking towards the rising sun, waiting to get the show going.

With goggles and silver caps on everyone pretty much looked like everyone else, which is why when someone is able to recognize you, it's a polite and wonderful shock. "Bob?" "MORGAN!" Just like that, Morgan Dailey appeared in the water next to me. I hadn't seen Morgan in three years, but there he was. "How'd you know it was me? Was it the singing?" I asked. "Nah - I just heard you talking. Knew it was you." We had about 30 seconds to catch up, so we made the most of it: He told me he was moving to Washington State. I told him Lynda was expecting, and I was writing two columns nowadays.

The guy next to us said, "Wait, are you Bob?" I said, "Yes, why?" (while at the same time thinking, "I hope I'm the Bob he thinks he's talking to, since Bob could be his gardener or something...") He smiled and said, "You have to keep running Boston. You have to go back." I laughed and said, "Dude, the race has tried to kill me three times. Why?" He replied, "Because it's hysterical."

Just as I was getting ready to respond a la Joe Pesci in Good Fellas, ("What? Am I a clown? Am I here to amuse you? Does my reporting of pain and humiliation amuse you?"), I remembered that, yes, my pain and humiliation is amusing.

Then they blew the horn. RIGHT! I have a race to start.

I'd seeded myself around the middle of everything - front to back, and left to right. Within 20 feet, I remembered why I'd never done that before. I proceeded to get what little common sense was left in my head beaten inwards and back out again as both sides of the field crashed together. I took a kick squarely to the chin (on some guys UP kick, no less!), and I don't know HOW many blows to the head. All through it I just kept swimming, waiting for the orange buoy to show up. Rob Vigorito (race director) had said in his pre-race meeting that the turn buoys would be orange, while the marking buoys would be yellow.

We came to the yellow buoy and I got ready to turn...and those idiots at the front driving our big neoprene, aquatic peloton kept on going. And I thought to myself, "Those idiots! Where are they going?" Then I saw the second yellow buoy about 50 yards away. D'oh! Back to work. Clearly the course-layout guys hadn't gotten the memo...but at least I wasn't getting beaten cross-eyed anymore.

After making the first turn, most of the field disappeared. Really. I have no idea where they went. I looked around, and eeeeeveryone was gone wide. I swam past the next three buoys right on the line without a soul near me, swimming in clear water, wondering a few times if I'd hung another wrong turn in Albuquerque...as I watched the field plow along a good 25 yards to the right. I still have no idea why they were over there - At one point I stopped and took a good, 360 degree, where-the-heck-are-they-going-wait-where-the-heck-am-I-going panorama, and I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, except for another yellow "TURN HERE" buoy mid-way on the backstretch that would have had me plow face-first into an island had I taken Vigo's word for it).

When the swim finish came up I wasn't sure how it had gone. "Maybe a 24? Maybe a 25? Maybe I should check out of the hotel first before coming back to the post-race Guy's Tailgate? Did I take the cookies out of the front seat before coming down here? I don't want them to melt..."

NOTE: Without time and heart rate data to process, my brain just moves on to the next item on the to-do list. Always.

PLOOF. Hand on sand - time to stand! I stood up and glanced at the clock - 1:02 something. Since my wave started at 7:something that meant I'd swam a something, I guessed. While I was trying to figure out that figuring out my swim time would be nearly impossible without pencil and paper (and a clue, as well as some oxygen to my brain), I started running up the hill towards the bike racks, making sure to spot the photographer and make some kind of "Hey!" gesture on the way past.

Funny how it ended up nearly like the image below from the same spot in 2003:

I pedaled out of the park, slowly getting the legs moving and up to speed. The sun was just, just, just peeking over the trees, but it wasn't warm yet. I was in a wet skinsuit, and the air wasn't exactly toasty yet. "Just five minutes - just ride for five minutes!" I knew I just had to get rolling - it'd be fine.

Turning onto Route 108 I blew past four - count 'em, FOUR pedal-stumble-dorks within the first 50 yards, each wrestling with their feet and shoes. The 10 seconds they'd gained not putting their shoes on before running out was now being picked up and claimed as my own as I was in the big ring and getting down to business.

Woosh, woosh, woosh, pass, pass, pass. I settled into the 53 x 16 right away, and started picking people off as quickly as I could. No computer on the bike, no HR on the body, no watch on the wrist - it was a simple ride. At every moment I just asked myself, "Can you go any faster?" Route 108 passed quickly, and the right turn and plunge down Homewood Road roared by.

It was just after the bottom of Homewood Road that I encountered the Dumbest Triathlete in America. Up the road was someone riding in the middle of the lane, blocking a car from passing. I hate that. I sat up and tried to keep distance from the car (knowing 30 meters is the rule, sadly), while waiting for the car to decide what to do. Here, the Dumbest Triathlete in America caught up to me, and proceeded to PASS THE CAR ON THE LEFT WHILE CROSSING THE DOUBLE-YELLOW LINE, by a good 5 feet.

Shocked by this display of brainlessness combined with sheer power (i.e., the male condition from time to time), the driver of the car jumped on the binders. Immediately, I found myself looking at the taillights of a Gold Chevy Impala coming back towards me with alarming speed. I flicked towards the right and passed the car (legally!), passed the blocker to his left (legally!), and then made darn well and sure I dropped the Dumbest Triathlete in America (quickly!), before he got himself killed and ruined my day.

After getting away, I settled back to business. I was moving up through the faster swimmers and the previous waves very well, and having a good time doing it. Miguel Indurain once said that he loved nothing more than catching minuteman after minuteman during the time trials in the Tour. Today was a day where I could pretend, even if I was moving 10mph slower than Big Mig at his best, what that was like. It was a truly delicious feeling - each pass just made me want the next set of wheels up the road that much more.

Nearing the end of the "out" section of the course I crossed paths with Steve Smith as he headed back the other way with the Pro's. I knew it wouldn't take much to find him - I counted bikes, "1...2...3...4...STEVE!" Even at 30mph headed the other way he managed to reply, "Bob-AY!" So cool, that guy.

I rolled into the section I call "Farm Loop" in my head - the triangle through the farmland in Howard County, Maryland. By now the sun was out, I was glad I'd left the arm warmers back in T1, and I chuckled to myself, "Not too sleepy now, are we?" I was riding as fast as I could, and it was a beautiful day. What more could I ask for?

That was when #402 passed me. Black Cervelo. Yellow lettering. I HATE being passed. Hate it like Brussel Sprouts. Hate it like all-day meetings. Hate it like when the shake machine is broken at McDonalds coming home from a long run.

In 1999 I'd come within 100 yards of T2 and a shutout and was passed - here I was about to lose it again. I tried to fight back, but the gap opened, opened, opened...and away he went. I shifted up a gear, and stayed out of the saddle over the next rise, angry...but in a controlled way. I kept that anger focused and used it to keep the speed up to finish the loop and head back towards the return leg.

As I headed back to Homewood Road, I had my head down. I had ridden the course 8 times previously - I could almost do it with my eyes shut by now. Almost is the key phrase there, and is really a shame since the recorded version of the course in my mind doesn't have the roundabout they'd installed in 2004.

As I looked up to take the right line through the intersection past the aid station (I wasn't taking), imagine my surprise to note that there was no longer an intersection there, but a circle. Traffic furniture. Low curbs. And a cop. Even stranger - I'd ridden around it on the way out, and completely forgotten it was there.

My brain knowing there was no time to think of what to do just went, "No worries - I saw Robbie McEwen do this in the Tour once." I popped out of the aerobars and grabbed the drops, bunny-hopped both wheels over the low curb onto the bricks, skittered across the faux-pave, and hopped again off the other side with a "Whoo-HOOOOO!" landing right in the lane of travel.

I heard a volunteer yell out, "WHOA! THAT WAS SO COOL!" as I headed down the road, grinning like an idiot (which I was, but it was pretty cool to have pulled it off).

With my eyes open fully the rest of the way, I managed to get blocked not once but TWICE on the only long downhills remaining - blocked by cars who were being blocked by riders in the middle of the lane. Twice I found myself going about 15mph at the bottom of what should have been 30mph descents, and starting climbs completely devoid of momentum...thanks to people who have clearly attended the Dumbest Triathlete in America academy. (GRRRRR!)

As I finished climbing Homewood Road to Route 108, I made the turn and savored the last two miles in the sunshine, still working the last 4 passes I would make before the park. The last was one guy who'd really fought me for a mile, but then got into a fight with his own shoes while trying to get his feet out before T2, and ended up slipping so that his shoe hit he road and started spinning demonically at around 50rpm on the crankarm. He was going "Owowowowowowowowowow!" as he pedaled with one leg, while the other was stuck out in space attempting to avoid the demonic shoe. I was actually amazed his shoe stayed clipped in and didn't come flying back towards me...but I was having a lucky day this time.

I turned into the park having pitched a one-hitter. Just #402 went by me. Rats. So close!

I soft-pedaled down to the dismount, and hopped off. For the first time since 1999, I wasn't cold and wet here - and I didn't go sliding on frozen cleats. I went sliding on perfectly dry cleats, patently unable to run on pavement in my Sidi's. It was here that demonic shoe man FLEW past me running downhill, barefoot, bike on shoulder, but at least I, um, oh, nevermind.

Bike Split - 1:12:27 (21.0 mph). 91st out of 856 males, but well off my PR here of 1:06:12 in 1999.

T2 was a quicker affair, almost. Helmet off, shoes off, shoes on. Careful readers will recall that before the race started I couldn't find my Body Glide. As I stepped into my right shoe, I found my Body Glide! I kicked it well and truly into the toe box, wedging it up there like a Hyundai in a revolving door. I tried to get my hand in there, but the "Getthehellmovinggethehellmovingthisisaracegogogogogogogogogo" reaction/response of T2 made such a coordinated gesture impossible.

So I did the next thing that occurred to me: I stood there and whanged my shoe four or five times on the bike rack, and shook the offending Body Glide out while making a percussion sound from the 50 bikes on the rack that probably confused the heck out of some seismologist, somewhere, who assumed there was an earthquake taking place in a China shop.

None the worse for the drum break mid-race, I headed out to start the last 10K of my day. T2 - 1:59.

I plunged down the trail along the lake, and tried to get my legs to work with me. As usual at Columbia, they were having none of it. At least I was holding my position among those who had left T2 with me. Without a watch I had no idea how the race was going, and I had no idea how fast I was running. I just settled into whatever pace I could run, trying to drive with my knees on every stride and keep my turnover fast.

Over the beast (the 12% grade, double-switchback climb at the ½ mile mark), I felt like my legs had been filled with Jell-O pudding (and not the low-fat kind - the fully leaded). I plodded up, up, up, and just kept my feet moving. I was actually getting nice and warm, but not in that 'hot' way. The sun was strong, but the air was staying cool - perfect, perfect weather. I knew I could keep running and not worry about overheating, or freezing. What a wonderful change!

Amazingly for me, the run proceeded with little drama. I managed to hold pace together (except when I was headed up the really steep stuff, which at Columbia it should be noted, is everywhere), and keep my turnover fast, fast, fast. I knew I wasn't going to be on a PR day (it just didn't feel fast enough), but I wanted to know. I didn't want to know, but I wanted to know all at once.

As someone passed me with number 419 and a "33" on his calf, I knew he was in my wave. He had a watch. As we passed the mile 4 marker, I couldn't resist. "Hey, 419 - is that Aretha Franklin?" He said, "What?" I realized that I'd started channeling Steely Dan - an interesting side effect to a sunny day, so I re-phrased the question. "Hey 419, what's the race time?" He looked and said, "2:15 so far." I was right - my PR of 2:22 wouldn't fall today, but would 2:30? If I ran 8:00 pace from here, 8:00 X 2 is 1,483, which divided by 60 is ginormous...

...I hate that I can't do math when I'm tired. "Shut up and run, Bob." I reminded myself.

I just ran on and entered the park, savoring the last mile and the wide-open finishing stretch across the Centennial Lake Dam for the 8th time. As I picked things up and endured the last little sting in the course - a small rise at the 6-mile mark, I took a quick look over my shoulder - I was clear. No-one would be sneaking up on me, so I could just enjoy the last 300 yards on my own terms.

I let the smile take over as I came into sight of the finish line. Finally, finally, I could answer the question differently. "When was the last time I had a race go right? Today! TODAY! WHOOO-HOOO!" Waving with both arms I carried myself to the line, crossing it in 2:32:24. Not a PR, not even a top-3 Columbia for me, but a solid day. A day where the heat didn't cook me. Mother Nature didn't freeze me. The bike didn't fill up with water.

Thoughts of crying on Boylston Street slowly closed behind the curtain, as thoughts of standing in the sunshine outside of the finish line at Columbia, medal on my neck, salt on my skin, and no watch to tell me how I did - just there knowing I had done my best on a beautiful day filled my mind, and let me know that waking up on Monday would me a much better set of memories.

I would end up in 28th place out of 156 in the Male 30-34 age group - 159 out of 856 males overall. Good enough to qualify me for Nationals for the first time since 2000 - something I hadn't really expected at all, and just felt great to have accomplished. It was the perfect coda to the day...

...but even that ending wasn't the end. As I packed up and got ready to leave the park, there he was. Walking his black Cervelo with yellow letters, number 402. Possessed by the same feeling I had when he dropped me, I drove across two rows of the parking field diagonally, and pulled up behind him. Rolling down the window like I was getting ready for a drive-by shooting I called out, "Hey - 402. What's your name?"

Somewhat slightly stunned, he stopped and turned around. "Eric." Why was I not surprised that my tormentor would share that name?

I had to say something; "I just wanted to tell you that you were the only bike to pass me today. Good ride, man." He grinned. "I hate being passed on the bike." He stared at me. I stared at him. I couldn't help but smile.

"Me too." I replied. "I just saw you and had to give you props. Good ride, see you next time."

Thinking about the next time made me smile. It was nice to be heading for home carrying hopes of what was to come, and not picking up the pieces of what should have been. It felt good. Really good. Maybe I can keep that feeling going now? I don't hope so.

I BELIEVE.

Hurricane Bob
* Tupper Lake - 34 Days *

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