Wilkes 2005

When I signed up for Wilkes-Barre in mid-July, I wasn't sure what to expect. Sure I'd been there three times previously, but the most recent visit for me was in 1998 - before I'd even finished my first Ironman. I'd be heading back there two weeks before my "A" race of the season at the Timberman Half-Ironman in New Hampshire, so it was going to be too far away to start a taper; I'd be treating this Olympic Distance romp as a "Train-Through-Dress Rehearsal" with no real taper to speak of.

On Saturday I was up early and rode with some teammates from the Dragon Boat team around Valley Forge Park. I wore my HRM and set a personal limit of 120 on anything flat, and 140 if the road tilted up. I warned them all before we started, "You might drop me, and that's fine. You ride your ride, I've got to ride mine - tomorrow is what counts! Most of all, I'm the only one who knows the route...so circle back for me if you have to." We rode 40 easy miles, keeping the pace around 16-18 most of the way, but there were plenty of grinding steeps in and around the park to keep us from falling asleep on the road.

When I got back to the car I didn't feel like I'd been on the bike for more than 2 hours - a good sign. I was also incredibly hungry immediately - another good sign. When I got home I whipped up a batch of pancakes, and feasted on the back deck with St. Lynda. I'd told her when I'd signed up that I'd entered as a Clydesdale, and maybe, just maybe, if I had a good day like I'd had at Escape from Ft. Delaware in 2002, I might be able to place.

July had been a good month for me. Even though life had really done its best to steal away my training time, I'd gotten as much mileage out of my available time as I could. I was starting to feel 'racy' again in my workouts. I was starting to get that urge to push the throttles up and see what might happen...and it was all coming together at the right time, at the end of the summer when Timberman was just starting to come into sight on the horizon.

When I arrived at check-in late Saturday afternoon, everything felt the same as I remembered. It's a small race (400 total entries), and after 24 years the organizers really have their act together. I racked Apollo down by Harvey's Lake, covered her with a plastic bag, and took a walk down to the beach to check things out. I just put my feet in the water, and it was like standing in soup; it had to be over 80F! I figured there was no way I'd even want to wear a wetsuit the next day, so I took one item off my mental checklist for the morning.

After a quick dinner at the local TGIFriday's and the usual night before shambles of pinning the numbers, laying out the clothes, filling the bottles, and then re-checking everything three times, it was off to some kind of something that resembled sleep, hoping for the best.

The next morning my eyes popped awake at precisely 4:59. It was one of those 'PING!' kind of wakeups where you seem to go from a sound sleep to suddenly awake and alert within seconds - the kind I've had before, but only on the really 'good' days like my first Ironman. Escape in 2002. Columbia in 1999. I turned the alarm off - I wouldn't even need it.

I ate my Dr. Jones inspired (and endorsed) breakfast of Pop Tarts and water, and chased it with some coffee from the local Uni-Mart. The Sunday sky was just starting to glow orange to blue beyond Back Mountain; my day was starting to gain speed whether I was ready or not.

Wilkes-Barre is a two-transition race: You set up your T2 gear at the finish line (The Penn State Campus at WB), and then take a bus to Harvey's Lake and the swim start. As I dropped off my shoes and hat I spotted Shauna Oplinger, a friend from Wyeth's fitness center. She'd been a trainer/spin instructor there for a few years, but had left to finish her PT degree and was now (through the influence of some local runners turned triathletes) plunging headlong into triathlon. Wilkes-Barre would be her first Olympic Distance race.

I think she was worried about her nutrition plan. "Dude! Have you got a gel or something? I'm going to DIE out there." I had a single GU in the bottom of my bag, but I was more than happy to give it up - I wasn't sure I'd even need it anyway. She dashed over to her run stash, then dashed back before I even knew what had happened.

Since I'd been pretty well caffeinated and she was a bit nervous, we pretty much talked a mile a minute the entire bus ride over to the lake (shocking, I know). Before I knew it, it was time to hop out and get ready to get to work. I wished Shauna well, and made my way to Apollo and the Clydesdale racks.

There were only 11 men entered in the Clydesdale wave, but it was hard to tell where they were - we were mixed into the Athena's, the Male and Female 30-34 waves...and Lord knows who else. I did my best to look around and see who might be where, but I really had no idea. I knew I'd just have to put my head down and hit it when the time came, and hope to be the fastest I could be on the day.

I would be in wave 5, so there was some time to watch the Pro wave and a few others head off before me. Amazingly, I could see that wetsuits were legal - I have no idea how. According to the head ref report the water temperature was 76 degrees, but only a few people actually bothered with one. I knew there was no way I could have even considered it. I would have made it 400, maybe 450 yards, then blown apart like that internet video of the exploding whale from Washington State in the early 70's. The lifeguards would all cry, "Clydesdale down!" There would have been bits of Neoprene and skinsuit all over the Wyoming Valley. It wouldn't have been pretty.

"TWO MINUTES!" I followed the herd of orange caps lined up on the beach. Orange caps. Orange buoys. What were the odds? I reminded myself to swim for the orange dots that didn't appear to be moving. At least the sun was now hidden behind the clouds, and the course was easy-peasy: straight out, left turn, left turn, straight back. I'd been here before. I knew the way.

"ONE MINUTE!" I hate this moment. I love this moment. In 60 seconds I won't have to worry anymore. Soon I won't have to think. Soon I can just go, and not have to think about what I might have forgotten. Or what I might not remember to do. Or if Bruschetta Chicken was good race fuel. Or if maybe I should have peed one more time. Or if I should have warmed up more. Or, or, or...

We dashed off the beach and into the soup, and I managed to find some great open water immediately. My arms settled immediately - I felt good within my first 10 pulls. I was pointed right on the line towards the first buoy, but then the first strand of seaweed tickled my face. Then another. Then bunches. None of us could see it from shore, but the warm summer had given the seaweed enough help to grow all the way to the surface. I couldn't see more than a foot ahead of me, and now there were hundreds of little green fingers dragging from my head, down my body, brushing both legs, and unfortunately, also tickling me REALLY badly since there was no wetsuit to cover me.

I was trying hard to not breathe in any salad and not laugh, while swimming as much on the top of the water as I could in order to plane out of the garden from hell as soon as was possible. It was just GROSS, and my imagination was playing tricks on me. With the long tendrils of green reaching just inches below my face in places, my arms were plunging down into the grass - into an area I couldn't see at all. I kept waiting for a Moray Eel, or Jaws, or Bigfoot with an aqualung to just reach up and go, "Bwaah."

After about 300 yards the seaweed finally dropped away as the lake deepened, and I could relax a bit. As an added, panic-fueled benefit I was already catching caps from the previous wave (who'd started three minutes up). The skeevies made me get out to a GREAT start - I could tell I was moving well, and now I focused on catching as many yellow caps as I could.

At the turn, I started catching the pink caps from the wave six minutes up. I wasn't too hot, and I wasn't afraid of Nessie now. I managed to hold my pace together as I worked through the pink caps, but soon it was back into the seaweed salad...and more top-of-water-please-God-don't- let-me-get-eaten-by-an-ill-tempered-sea-bass-with-a-frickin-laser-beam-on-its-head sprinting to get through it all.

In T1 I grabbed a towel and took some extra time getting all of the sand and silt off my feet before putting the shoes on and getting on with it. My T1 time was a somewhat slow 2:02, but that was okay - I would make up time now: I pointed Apollo down the road, clipped in, and roared away from Harvey's Lake.

I'd remembered that the first miles of the bike course were flat to slightly downhill, so I was working the 15 and 14, passing people, booming and zooming, taking as much as gravity was willing to give me. What I did *not* remember was the 90-degree left-hander away from the lake around mile 2. When my brain finally asked, "So why are those State Troopers standing there like that, waving at me?" I seriously considered taking a hard right into the lake to avoid going to jail. Thankfully, Mission Control calmly said "Full brakes - front and rear. Lean back. LEAN BACK."

As I pulled the binders and slowed Apollo hard enough to splash Gatorade out of the Jetstream, I felt my cheeks pucker so tightly I was sure I'd be running out of T2 with the saddle permanently attached to me. I managed to get whoa'ed down and make the turn, just barely. Somewhat overgeared and pretty much tasting adrenaline, I crawled away from Harvey's Lake at 40RPM, trying to remember what other corners there might be in the next 23 miles before I launched myself somewhere else.

The next few miles were an absolute blast. The Wilkes-Barre bike course is a very technical, winding, pure cyclists course. Made up of steep uphills and steep, winding downhills (often with heavy brake zones and 90-degree turns at the bottoms) it's a course that favors skills, and at least until the run would start I knew that this was MY time to fly.

I was down in the bars as low as I could get, riding in the left lane, passing everyone I could see. The road was winding left, right, left, left, right, weaving this fantastic, snaky trail before me that just beckoned me to go faster. There were times I felt like I was skiing the Giant Slalom - hands tight , tucked in, linking the curves one after the other as the wind rushed through my helmet. It had been years since I'd felt this strong, but I was having my first "no chain" ride since Ironman Canada in 2001. I felt so strong, so sure - so utterly alive, I couldn't stop smiling.

After about 9 miles I rounded the first tight switchback, I'd remembered this climb - a long series of faux planes that lasted about 3 - 4 miles. Sadly before me were two guys that clearly hadn't. As the road slowly steepened to meet us, I watched them both stand up in their big rings and start to paperboy across the road while I spun by on the left in my little ring with a tongue-wagging, "Waaaazzzzuuuupp!"

In my head each pass sounded a cash register in my head as I moved up. Ring 'em up. Cha-ching! Next! I made passes on corners whenever I could. I'd watch the rider ahead of me sit up, move right, and drag the brakes early, early, early. I'd tuck in left, brake late, lean hard, and just ski through the wide-open inside lane, both wheels just dancing on the edge of the pavement at exit. Getting a corner pass right is a sensuous, delicious feeling that borders on euphoric...and I couldn't get enough of it.

I spun my way through the climbs, taking each one as quickly as I could remembering Andy Hampsten's rule for facing a long, stepped climb. "Don't worry about what's coming. Ride the climb you're on, and focus on the now. The strength you need will be there when the others come to you." I kept working up and making passes, save one woman. Number 91.

She would become my White Whale for the rest of the ride. Each time I would roll by her on a downhill, she would climb past me on the next rise. But she wasn't spinning - she was clearly a study of Jan Ullrich's, but WORSE. She never left her 56. At one point when I was in 39x23, she grunted past me in her 53x15 at about 25RPM. Seriously. With each leg press she had her heels turned out so far, I could read the "SIDI" on the strap on the inside of her shoe. I turned to another guy near us and said, "Can you believe that? How's she riding like that?" He replied, "Dude, tell me about it. I can hear her knees from here!"

As we watched her grind away from us, body rocking left-right-left in cover-your-eyes-painful-to-watch sways at about 35RPM, I had to say, "Yeah, but she is dropping us, isn't she?"

At least, until the next downhill when I caught her AND a USAT moto on the inside of a downhill curve as they matched her speed in a safe position. Of course, they both went by again on the next grind, but the guys on the moto were great. As they idled past during the climb I asked, "Hey - How fast was that?" The driver yelled out, "We were going 35!"

It was so much fun, we just kept on playing. On the next two ascents and descent they did the same thing behind Gear Girl, so I can now say that I've passed a motorcycle in a race...THREE TIMES. Whoo! It was an awesome feeling to start to close the gap and slip out to the left and catch the drivers eyes in his mirror; he'd wave with his left hand - I'd roll on past, grinning like an idiot, spinning out the 14.

But even as I passed things with motors. Even as I rode Apollo like the rocket she was - all that time, Gear Girl stayed just ahead of me. It was pure illusion - she was pedaling in slow-motion, but riding away from me when I felt like I could do nothing wrong. Inconceivable!

Back and forth, climb and descend, we worked our way through the previous waves. Rider after rider, hill after hill. I could drop her on the descents, but she'd just grind right by on the next climb. Once again, my bid for a no-hitter would be foiled by just one.

As we left-right-left-rhumba'd through the chicanes in the last 2 miles of the course, I knew I wouldn't shake her...but I knew I'd also done all that I could. No sense in attacking someone now - I'd just blow up and get cooked out of T2. "Be ready - run strong." I started to mentally walk through transition - I wanted a good one. Under a minute would be great. Mission Control also reminded me, "You finished a bottle of Gatorade on the ride, and by the way you did have to pee when the swim started. You're going to have to do something about that. Rapidly."

I racked, I changed shoes, I left the shades. It was cloudy, and I wanted as much air as I could get. Carrying my hat and number belt on the way for the gate, I knew immediately that my legs were ready. No deadness - no fried quads. "Alright - let's go - LET'S GO!" Maybe I had the lead, maybe the lead was up the road - it didn't matter. By running as hard as I could manage, I would either take the win or come undone trying.

Right out of T2 I knew I was having the best race I'd had in three years. Not since Escape from Fort Delaware in 2002 had I felt this good off the bike. Of course, if my eyeballs weren't floating, I'd probably have been even faster. Thankfully the crowds waiting at the finish didn't stretch too far onto the course; I managed to find a tree around ½ mile into the run...and after what seemed like a seriously long pitstop, I was an even happier Bob.

I settled into whatever pace my legs could hold. I didn't have a watch, a heart rate monitor, or anything to tell me how the day was going. With no computer on the bike, I had no idea what my ride had been - only the empty racks gave me a hint. I knew the course was hilly - I knew it was up and down the entire way, with little relief to be found. That was okay - I would just run whatever pace I could at that moment, all the way home.

And then my brain did something totally unexpected. Out of nowhere came a song I didn't overhear from someone driving by, or from anywhere in the previous months. A perfect, driving, powerful song kicked in as I found my rhythm: "Distant Early Warning" by Rush. The lyrics didn't apply, but the music was just perfect for the moment. I smiled more.

Miles 1, 2, and 3 rolled by while I managed to keep it steady and strong. I just focused on rolling through the countryside, letting my eyes take in the Pocono Mountains off in the distance. The cloud cover that had sheltered us through the morning was starting to fade - I could see hints of my shadow for the first time all morning, but it wasn't hot. Even if it DID get hot I kept reminding myself, "Let it get hot. You've been running in the parking lot at lunch for two months. You can handle hot. Even Africa hot. Tarzan couldn't take this kinda' hot, but you can!"

Past mile 3 I started to get passed by the faster runner behind me. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold my position the entire way, but on one stretch when nobody was nearby I could hear the 'thump, thump, thump' of my heartbeat...in my ears. My breathing was deep and steady, so I knew there was no way I could ask my legs for more. "Just hold here - just stay on it." I told myself. I could do no more at that moment - I had just under 4 miles to go.

The hills got worse. Long rise, steep descent, long rise. I could feel my legs getting shaky with each steep downhill, but that was okay. I'd been racing hard for almost 2 hours - I was supposed to feel a little used up, wasn't I? As my legs started to feel the weight of the day for the first time, I plotted the last miles of the course. I remembered the run was 6.8 miles, and pretty much uphill from mile 6 to the end. I'd just try and hold together a this pace to the last hill, then do whatever I could to the end. As my friend James used to say when we were bike racing together, "Get psyched to suffer, man. Don't fear your pain - take your pain."

Mile 5. Downhill. Each step starting to sting. My muscles snapping with each footfall, but the driving chorus of 'Distant Early Warning' driving me on.

You sometimes drive me crazy, But I worry about you"
"I know it makes no difference, To what you're going through..."
"But I see the tip of the iceberg, And I worry about you..."

It won't be long now. Not too much more pain to take. I've come this far, I've taken so much - I won't crack now. I WANT to stop - I want to slow down, and jog it in easy, but after all that I've taken today, it would be a sin against me to back off now.

No moment of any race is as hard as the point where you're starting to run out of room for pain, but you're also running out of road. It becomes a race within a race - you against the road, and you against yourself. It's the moment you seek - it's the reason you get out there at 5:00AM on a Sunday morning and line up at the edge of some distant lake. If you are willing to ask the question, "What am I made of?" then it is now - at this moment, you find the answer.

My breathing isn't so smooth anymore - it's rougher. I can feel my legs starting to drag, but there's not far to go now. My skinsuit is wide open - I don't remember when I unzipped it, but the sun is out now. Heat. Fatigue. Hills. All at once, all in the last miles.

The sign at the side of the road says, "Mile 6." Only 6 minutes of pain left. Mostly uphill. I've made it this far, and now it's time to bring it home. I don't want to get passed now, so I tell myself I'm not getting passed now. I don't care what it takes. If I hear footsteps, I'm not letting them catch me.

My stride gets longer. My arms start swinging. My breathing is louder now, and I can feel my heart pounding in my neck. Everything hurts, but I know it won't last much longer. Around the last right-hand bend I can see the tents near the finish line - I can hear the music. This day is nearly over, and even in the pain of the now, I try and savor it. Good days like this are so rare - so hard to find, I know that someday this moment will be a story told to someone. A tale of my younger days - a story of one moment when it all went right. Someday this feeling will be a memory, but right now - it is real, it is now, and it is all of me.

"Don't look back - No looking back!" I don't hear anything. I'm not looking back. Please, Lord, don't let me hear footsteps. Don't look back - don't look back!

I take the left-hand bend onto the grass and like a Tour de France rider winning a stage, I reach down and zip up the skinsuit. My right fist heads up to the sky, and I just keep pumping it, over and over. I asked myself the question, and I got the answer I wanted. Today, I was the best Bob I could be - there was nothing left to give.

A cold, wet towel goes over my neck from a volunteer, and it feels fantastic. Someone takes my timing chip, and someone else hands me a medal. It's over, just like that. A moment that during the run seems to last forever, gone in two blinks. As I wander over towards the tennis courts to pick up my swim gear, I'm quietly content. I know that no matter what happens today - no matter what the results say, I have done all I could.

After a shower and about 10 mini-muffins (Blueberry), I wander over to the results printout. First page? Nope. Second page? There. Me! Cool. My right eye darts across the column to the placings...

For the first time in three years, I won. I'm the fastest fat guy! I stand there, and still can't believe it. Charlie Brown kicked the football, again! I play it cool and walk out of the gym, and find a bench under a small tree out front...and call St. Lynda.

"Way. Way! I was 9 minutes ahead of second, and 18 minutes ahead of third." Even as I tell her, I can't believe it. When I had to walk up to get the glass trophy, I couldn't stop smiling. I watched all the Pro's and Age Group winners walk up and just act cool, simply shaking hands and walking away from the Race Director...but when I got there?

"Ma'am, I haven't won anything in three years, and might never again. You're getting a hug!" Thankfully, Joanne Gensel is a great sport and loves the athletes, so she hugged me back, laughing. I laughed too. All the way to my seat. I smiled all the way back to my car. All the way home. All day yesterday. All day today.

My life is going to change in three months. A lot. To have a race like that one as the curtain on my life-as-I've-known-it comes to a close, I could ask for no more. I'll race Timberman as a Clydesdale in two weeks, against a very fast field. On a hard course. I don't know if I'll be on the kind of form I just had, but who knows. I'll line up on the shore of some lake at 7:00AM on a Sunday, and ask myself the question once again. Can I win? Can I take my pain? Can I put it all together one more time?