I chose to stand on escalators and in elevators, and face the wrong way. Most people get on an escalator and face the direction they're going. Look backwards, and watch people avert their glances. Same with elevators; people walk in, and face the doors. Ever wonder what happens when you walk in and face the back?

In the words of Richard Pryor, "People will get out of your way."

Which is why as I stood on the shores of Tupper Lake in the front-row of my wave, facing backwards so I could see everyone behind me, I didn't mind the initial stares at all. Why was I facing backwards? Because the year before at this very same race, while standing in the front row, waving at my wife...the entire G-d d@mned race snuck past me.

The 2005 Tupper Sneak, brought to you by the Men's 30-34 wave (scroll down a bit):

(Seriously. Not making that part up. Black cat. Crossed Road. Eric was a witness. Ask him.)

It didn't matter that I'd actually gotten into a spat with a volunteer at chip pick-up. I'd been body marked with my race number, and then walked over to get my chip. With my number written on my arm. The lady at the chip table said, "I need to see your bib number." I said, "It's written on my body." She said, "That's not your bib number." I said, "That's my number. It's written on me. Both arms." She said, "I need to see a bib number." I said, "How can this not be my number? It's WRITTEN ON MY ARMS." Finally another volunteer stepped in, handed me my chip, and sanity (if not procedure) prevailed.

Worth noting, Weiss stood behind me the entire time and said nothing. Nada. As soon as the smoke cleared he walked up and said, "Can I have my chip too?" They just gave it to him. Sheesh.

No. Despite all of that, I was going to have a good start and NOT get run over or left behind in the swim. Of course, I would probably be coming unglued later in the day, surely, but not here - not off the line. As my 9th Tupper Lake Tinman Triathlon counted down its last seconds before the start, I grinned and slowly turned to face the right direction, and another 70.3 long opportunity to see what I was made of.

This time around Eric would be racing in my wave - we'd be going head-to-head for the first time in 5 years. We hadn't raced this event at the same time since June of 2002. Since then we'd both been busy with houses, babies, and the usual assortment of things that keep your life motoring along without a break until one day you look up and go, "Holy cow. I've turned into my dad."

In our case that would be fine, if we could do it without slowing down. Much.

The swim for me was a partial shambles right from the gun. Maybe it was because I'd only been in the pool 10 times in 2006, not sure. But on a calm morning with nary a ripple in the lake, or a hint of a breeze, I was constantly pulling to the left. This was something I'd never done in the previous 10 years, so I kept wondering where the hell the buoys went each time I looked up. Must have taken me ½ mile to realize I was navigating in circles like a plane on a string.

I had a decent swim, regardless. Despite much zigging and zagging I managed to catch two different colors of caps, and drag myself to shore in 33:59. The official clock says 34:01 in the results, but that doesn't count the two seconds I spent wobbling over to the fence and giving little Katie and St. Lynda a hello kiss post-swim, so 33:59 it is.

I actually had a good T1 this year; I got to my bike and didn't fall into a hole (with face plant) like last year. I was changed and gone in 1:48, and off to fake it through 56 miles. Why fake it? Because Dr. David Jones (M.D.) had proclaimed that we were to be 'dueling' at Tupper Lake. I took 'dueling' to mean that he (as a Kona-qualifying, sub-11 hour IM finisher, Boston Marathon running, 2:57 PR) would be running me (sleep-deprived, bald, and so-not-going-to-Kona anytime soon) down like a Concorde vs. a C-5 Galaxy. So I'd have a 5-minute headstart. If I could hold him off to the run start, it'd be a good day.

Right away I caught Anik Mercure (who had been kind enough to kiss me hello on both cheeks pre-race); she was here while Tommy and Francois would be spectating mom's day. I knew I'd probably be seeing her later, since she tends to outrun me by, well, lots.

At the top of the first long climb as I teetered towards the summit turning over a 39x23, wondering if gravity just seemed bigger in the Adirondacks, I saw a young woman spinning towards over the ridge. She had white shoes. I only know one person in triathlon with white shoes. "Katie Hobson! Nice shoes!" She smiled that, "Who the @!(#*! is this guy?" smile as I rolled by, and said, "Umm, thanks?"

Gotta' love it when even at six feet tall, dressed like a Sprite Can in the Guy's Club colors, I can be completely unknown. Maybe it was because she thought I'd still be on a Softride. Apollo was retired; this was Hermes first Half Ironman. A Blue Cannondale is definitely not a Black Softride.

So I settled in and rolled on the best that I could. Passed people. Made smalltalk. Tried to ride smartly - even tempo on the climbs, more work on the flats and descents than I used to do. Passed a woman riding with a towel hanging out of her shorts. Asked her if she was a fan of Hitchhikers Guide, and never left home without one. She said, "No - it's for when I pee." Well, sure.

Traded (legal) pulls with a gigantic guy on BMC TT01, a girl in all pink, and some other guy on a Trek. Our little grupetto rode in constant contact for 20 miles, easy. I told the lady in pink that I loved the color, and she just started ahead into space. Later on I told the big guy on the BMC I loved the bike, and he just stared into space. I told the guy on the Trek that everyone must be busy or something since they wouldn't talk, and he just stared into space.

Must be that Sprite can suit. Big and green. Scares people.

We caught and passed two roadies out for a training ride. I just smiled as we rolled past, and one complained, "Hey, we've been out here for 2 hours!" I laughed and said, "We'll be out here for 5. Running later. See you then?" In a mile they were gone, g-o-n-e, gone.

About that time I noticed, so were my legs. As the turnaround loomed I was just starting to feel, well, blah. It wasn't a bonk, I'd been eating. I wasn't sick, my stomach was good. I just felt, blah. Flat. Listless. Like a guy who'd slept through the night 4 times in the previous 284 nights. Maybe that was it. I hear that this phase of parenthood passes. Older parents tell us that all the time. Older parents lie.

I ate an Oatmeal to Go at the turn and started looking up the road...

..."Hi Bob!" In less than a mile. That Canadian chipper-ness. The aero helmet. The Softride. Dr. David Jones (M.D.) was less than a minute back. I was a dead man. Dr. Jones roared past and waved, just like he told me he was going to in January, February, March, May (he took April off to run Boston), and early June. "Hi Bob! Don't forget to drop back!"

Sigh.

After that, the ride became very long. I looked for Lynn Kapusta, Eric, Dave Decker, and missed them all. I looked for mile markers, and missed most of them. When I saw 35, I thought for sure it was 45. I felt like I'd been riding for days. I lost contact with my grupetto. I just tried to ride in as smoothly as I could; with the run to come, this was no time to get stupid (or I should say, become more stupid than usual).

One time I had a car that lost an alternator. The light came on while I was going about 75MPH on the Schuylkill Expressway, 12 miles from home. I knew that I was driving on battery power alone at that point; it was only a matter of time before it died. I put my foot down, and of course, the battery lasted 6 miles. I then heard one of the most graceful sounds a car has ever made: It didn't hop, pop, bang, wiggle, or anything dramatic. The lights did a perfectly paced fade, and then engine wound down in a perfect descending note, just a lovely, "Whiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr....." Then silence.

My ride felt like that. Only without the being stranded 6 miles from home part.

I managed to see Lynda and Katie mid-ride; they'd driven out with Tommy Kapusta to watch the bikes pass by. As I slogged up the final climb before a long (and wonderful) plunge into T2, Lynda's silver Honda went by...with a red Cervelo on the roof.

Eric rides a red Cervelo.

"Dammit. Eric DNF'ed." I thought.

In my head, I started thinking of things I could say to cheer him up. I knew he would be fine, but bummed. It would be his first DNF since IMC 2001, so I didn't want him to get down too much. "You've got two babies! You're building a house! You're working hard!" Then I remembered he was a lawyer, so I took that last part back.

As I descended into T2, I wondered what had happened. I hoped he hadn't crashed after falling asleep on the bars.

As I wobbled into T2 no-handed (and very happy to be off my bike), I was surprised that there weren't more bikes waiting for me. I'd ridden a 2:42; faster than I'd gone at Timberman in 2005, but slower than the 2:37 I'd done here last year, and well off the 2:30 I'd ridden on this course in 1999...but there was no time to compare Pre-Baby vs. Post-Baby speeds now.

I had another fair transition; helmet off, shoes and socks on, and away we go in 1:48 (again). Neil and Julie Cook were eating lunch, drinking beer, and generally enjoying life as one does when their race is Olympic Distance and finished 2 hours sooner than yours. They yelled at me to run faster (out of T2?!), and later Neil would tell me that I was "tip-toeing" out of T2.

Well, Yah. I was trying to wake my dead legs up while eating an Oatmeal to Go, putting on my number belt, straightening my hat, and watching for Bob-eating holes on the field. In other words, about 4 more tasks than my brain could handle at one time.

And I needed to pee. That alone would be cause for twinkle-toes. Or maybe tinkle-toes. Whatever.

Luckily there was this little cement mill just outside of the main drag and the transition; I'd stopped there every year. There were these sandpiles and gravel mounds you could hide behind...perfect. As I shuffled along, a lady ahead of me dove off the road into the mill. I was getting ready to follow suit, when she shrieked. She came back out of hiding way, way too quickly to be finished, and was followed rapidly by a red shirted, USAT official. They spoke. I can only imagine my little pitstop was too popular. He followed her on his bicycle for about 1/4 mile, and by then, my eyeballs were really floating.

The problem was, I was on a long, wide-open highway shoulder. The situation had gone totally Martha and the Vandellas (Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide). I knew I needed to go, but now I knew I'd have to hold for at least 3 miles. What a bummer.

It was a good thing I was running slowly. Didn't hurt that much.

Around mile 3 we finally turned off the God-forsaken highway, and headed down a much narrower, local road. With trees. It was beautiful. I ran so fast turning the corner towards the woods, I'm pretty sure I was in two places at one time for a moment. I had my skinsuit undone and was just relaxing when I heard a car turn the corner.

Bad: It was a State Trooper.

Worse: Red Shirt Guy was riding next to him.

Worstest: I'd already started to go.

I had no choice. I crossed my eyes and clamped down the waterworks. I zipped up the suit, and pretended to be stretching out a hamstring cramp, which wasn't too hard to do because I was in so much pain, being doubled-over came pretty naturally.

As the rolled past, I was thankful neither of them asked if I was okay (for once), and took the step. I'm calling it "the" step as opposed to "a" step, because it was the moment in my triathlon life where I could no longer say, "I could never pee on myself in a race." Oh, yes I can. Good Lord, yes I can.

Luckily there was an aid station less than 100 yards away. I headed towards the first volunteer I saw with water and held out both hands. "Water!" She handed me a cup. She was holding three more. "Can I have all of them, please?" I asked. She tilted her head, and then got really confused when I took all 4 cups and dumped them on my groin at once.

Pity about the hard work of this volunteer who had put ice in all the cups. For once, warm, sun-baked water would have been okay with me. This was definitely not that.

I'm pretty sure I did something resembling The Humpty Dance for a few steps, might have said a "Whoot!" or two, then grabbed a Powerade and moved on. At least I didn't need to go anymore. As I splish-splashed my way back towards town, Eric came running the other way. Yes, Eric. The same Eric who DNF'ed and was driven home by Lynda, right? Well, no.

Only later would I learn that the red Cervelo belonged to a woman named Katie who had flatted out near Cranberry Lake, without a spare. She was walking back to town (a very long walk), when Lynda offered her a ride. As they drove back, Katie (my baby) woke up and got cranky so Katie (the racer) reached into the baby seat from the front seat and fed Katie (the baby) a bottle while Lynda drove past me with Katie's (the racer) bike on the roof (not Eric's). It's no wonder I was confused. I took back my cheer-up speech, since it was obvious that Eric was fine.

I passed mile 5; just 8 miles to go. Argh. I started the, "just run this mile..." game early. I just tried to run one mile at a time. I took my gels. I drank the Powerade. I wished for a Coke. I enjoyed the sunshine, blue skies, and no humidity. I tried to make the best of a very long day, and thought about just how good dinner was going to taste later on.

I passed Francois (Anik's husband) at least 3 times on the run course. The guy was just everywhere. Who knew folks from Montreal could time-travel? He cheered for me every single time, spotting me well before I could figure out who he was.

I saw Eric again coming back the other way, when I was so tired I couldn't even form words. He had no such trouble, rattling off, "There's water up ahead. Help yourself, and put it on my tab." All I could do was go, "...okay..." in response. I was impressed; Eric was doing great. Dave Decker spotted me and yelled out his traditional, "Bob-aaaayy!" I waved. I think I tried to smile but my cheeks cramped.

As I shuffled up the long final mile towards the end, someone on a bike came up alongside me. I asked him, "What time is it?" I didn't have a watch, but I knew we'd started at 8:15. If it was before 1:40, maybe I could still break 5:30?

In the third most killer French-Canadian accent I'd heard all day (behind Anik and Francois) he said, "Eet's 1:39. You look greeeeaat!" I slogged up the last grade, and started running down towards the finish...finally. I turned onto the field, and this time, did not tip-toe. Once I had the line in sight, I went thundering across the field like an elephant on Rollerblades. Heading downhill. Towards pizza.

I did, however, stop mid-way. Lynda was off to one side with the stroller, top-up. I asked, "How'd the little lady do today?" This was my first race with mom and baby in tow, and they had been on my mind all day - every stroke, every step. It's a long way to drive, and a long day to wait through - I'd hoped there hadn't been much drama.

St. Lynda waved me on, "No worries - she's been fine. She's actually napping. Go finish!" I was relieved, but worried. She never naps. If she only naps when I race, clearly I'm going to have to work on my endurance.

I crossed the line to finish in 5:28:58 - surprisingly, my best Half Ironman since 2003. It wasn't easy, but it was steady. I did the best that I could with the fitness that I had, and for that I was thankful. It was a nice way to start the "Post-Baby" era, and from what I hear, Katie likes this whole scene, especially the bikes. Lynda said she just bounced up and down, giggled, and clapped as bike after bike passed on the course.

Maybe next time, Daddy can just go a little bit faster. I just need to make a deal with her about sleeping, and maybe we'll be onto something.

Hurricane Bob
* Baby steps, baby steps. *

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